Pork Chops and Applesauce

Here’s the chase, and I’m going to cut to it:  as most of you know, I’ve finally published a book, which is currently available to purchase on Amazon and Barnes & Noble.   A few years ago, I decided to write the book to dispel some of the hatred I had for my sociopathic ex-husband, who took great delight in tormenting not only myself but several other women with physical and mental abuse.   Therefore, under the guise of a fictional work, I kill the son of a bitch.   He and other like minded individuals.  What better way to get even, I ask?   Course there are hints of truth intertwined about our past, throughout this macabre maze of fiction.

It’s a hoot, that is, if you’re into this kind of thing.   Serial killers and such, that brand of thang.   Well, I welcome you to check out the links to purchase your copy, and what’s new… That is, I’ve already begun to write  a sequel, so if you’re so inclined check it out below;  share, comment, or not OR completely ignore all of this and go eat a burrito.   Have a good day, my friends… Hope you enjoy.  Be well. ~B

PS: the book links, and new chapter to follow:

Amazon Paperback Book and Ebook

Barnes & Noble Paperback Book

 

Pork Chops & Applesauce

If I had but the time and you had but the brain.”

Lewis Carroll, The Hunting of the Snark

     Bonteville Springs trailer park situated just outside the littered shores of Revere Beach was replete with a treasure trove of the Devil’s royalties. The recompense for his bountiful gifts of crackheads and whores who roamed the city streets; his faithful servants who were hyper-vigilant in selling loathsome misery shrouded with a deceptive sheen of promise. They flocked here, they were home, comforted by the relatable mediocrity of their neighbors, and Friday night never mattered; because every night was a party.

     The park’s welcome sign swung from two rusty bolts and dangled upside down with a giant dick spray painted across the front; a true guidepost to Hades.  Refreshments weren’t free here, but an old Coca-Cola vending machine sat near the recreation center, which was an amusing time capsule to the 1980’s when this place was inviting; and the vendors weren’t afraid to come. The light would occasionally blink on the front panel, as though it would eerily come to life, which would light a nearby path to a passerby.

     The very path which led to the community fire pit behind unit 23, where an entourage of greasy occupants would flock almost nightly. Smokes, jokes and the hissing pop of a beer can would fill the night air with the daily gossip of Bonteville Springs. Bonteville’s barefoot toddlers would bound through that same dirty trail until midnight yapped at their heels, and their giggles clung to grey smoke which smeared the night air.  Their parents oblivious to the time and their nightly sugar intake, with heaps of candy and soda to be had.

     That night, at the Bonteville fire, Ed Tousley, with the snap of his fingers he playfully commanded his girlfriend, Maria, when he called out, “Hey, snap out of it!!” He continued to snap his fingers in front of her vapid expressionless eyes.

     Quickly she brushed his hand out of her view when she replied, “Leave me alone, Eddie. I told you I’d come to the fire tonight, that doesn’t mean I gotta put up with your shit. I’ll just go home if you’re gonna keep this up all night. So fuckin’ cut the shit!”

    Everyone at the fire stopped to await Ed’s response which was more often than not, violent past ten p.m.; all depending on how many beers he had torn through. Eddie didn’t heed her warning and playfully pulled her closer while everyone looked on as the tension slowly grew. He lowered his body as he stumbled forward and ribbed her side when he prodded her incessantly.

     Adam Philips, with his Red Sox ball cap dangling over both eyes, called over to Eddie hoping to avert disaster, “Hey man, we are all just trying to have a good time here. Just let her relax, ok?”

     Eddie curtly replied, “Yo man, I’m not doing anything wrong! She’s just being a bitch as usual. Always a damn buzzkill, every damn night, ain’t nothing new. Nothing to see here! Nothing to see!”

      Eddie stood to his feet and dramatically swung his arms when he screamed at the top of his lungs, “Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Maria Scarpetti is in a bitchy fucking mood!”

      His drunken showmanship ended with a hearty laugh to which no one joined, and as he continued to bellow out hysterical laughter he planted himself on a nearby tree stump; only to fall forward moments later when a tree branch abruptly gouged his left eye.

      Eddie stood to his feet holding his eye as he screamed, “Awwwwe man!!! FFFFFF…uuuuucccck!! Maria, go get me some ice!”

     Maria replied, “Naw, I’m good, I’m gonna finish this Spiked lemonade and then make my way to bed. You wanna give me a hard time all night?  That’s karma right there, dirty rotten son of a bitch.”

     After Maria’s last word she swiftly brought the bottle to her lips and triumphantly sucked another sip with a resounding pop. She and everyone at the fire laughed at Eddie as he continued to stumble forward cupping his eye, cussing at everyone who joined in.

        “Fuck you guys, man, this shit hurts, damn it! It’s not funny! Zach, man could you go get me some ice? I can’t see, man!!”, Eddie pleaded with Zach who had coincidentally passed out a half an hour before.

     Tom Belanger, one of Eddie’s long time friends, attempted to lead Eddie home by the arm when he said, “Hey come with me dude, maybe time to call it a night, I’ll get you some ice at your house.”

    Only he abruptly thrashed his arm from Tom’s affable touch and scolded him, “Don’t fucking tell me what to do mother fucker!”

     Suddenly, Ed’s eye had miraculously healed when he realized that the sympathy wasn’t as forthcoming as he’d hoped. He released the once tenacious and rather theatrical grasp he had on his left eye and shuffled over to the cooler from which he plucked a fresh Coors Light. He stood near the fire, with a sweaty beer in hand, the orangish sparkling hue illuminated his face to reveal his slightly reddened and puffy eye, when he began to stammer another resounding speech.

     “HA! You…You…th..think all ya’ll mother fuckers got the last laugh on me! Nawww! I got the last fuckin’ laugh!” Eddie bellowed with an abridged burp that reverberated through those last few words.

     “Hey Lisa, you asshole, wanna hear something funny?! I got a real funny joke for you,” he taunted her as he stood near the fire and it eerily lit his evil sneer.

   Lisa shot him a disinterested look over the glare of her smartphone when she replied, “No one cares, Eddie.”

     He growled back, “Shut the hell up, no you’ll care about this, Lisa! Trust me, you’ll..you’ll care!”

     She scoffed, “Pffft ! Yeah ok, whatever Ed.”

         “Oh yeah, hey Adam, remember last week when Lisa was supposed to be visiting her cousin Kristin? Yeah she wasn’t visiting her cousin, she was fuckin’ her old high school flame, Kurt. Don’t believe me? Ask Maria, she told me alllll about it,” Ed finished his story with a haughty scoff of derision, as though he was taunting school girl.

    Maria stammered as she stood to her feet and tried to pull Ed from his soapbox, “Hey, hey… Ed, what the hell is up with tonight?”

    Adam instantly turned to Lisa and her once indifferent expression was now consumed with shock. Maria continued to incessantly tug on Ed’s shirt sleeve to somehow blockade the wreckage spilling from his mouth; only to no avail, it kept coming.

     He continued to stare down Adam and imitated monkey sounds while scratching his head as he continued to mock him, “Yeah you know, Kurt?! Her old boyfriend, man are you gullible, you’ll believe anything! Shit, man.”

     Adam said nothing but hung his head in shame, but the torture had only just begun. Eddie extended his arm over the rising flames and pointed toward Tom, his flannel shirt almost impervious to the scorching embers; all while his grin consumed his face with a visceral kind of evil joy as it was brightly lit with the flickering flame.

     His fingered wavered toward Tom as he lurched his head backward and he laughed as he exclaimed, “You! Tom, such a nice guy! Always doing the right thing!”

     Tom attempted to plead with him, “Eddie, c’mon man, let’s not do this. Let’s just call it a night, huh? You’ve already pissed everyone off, why not just quit while you’re ahead? You know..”

     Eddie cut him off before he could finish as he turned from him waving his  arms dismissively, “Yeah, yeah you’d like that, you’d like that wouldn’t you? To look like the hero for the night? Yeah well fuck you, man!”

    He turned around and spit on the ground quickly swiping white froth from his bottom lip as he continued, “Naw, man, Naw, not tonight.”

     Tom replied as he attempted to sit up from his seat, “Well, I’m done. I’m going…”

    Only before he was on his feet, Eddie shoved him back into the chair which crumbled beneath him when one of the back legs snapped; and he paced back triumphantly to his center stage in front of the slowly dwindling crowd. A friend who sat nearby Tom, Rocco, tried to help Tom up but he reassured him he was ‘ok’ as he slowly stood to his feet and somberly stared down Ed across the fire.

    “You,” again Eddie insisted while pointing his finger at Tom, “You! You wanna know something?! You might wanna listen, because this is FUNNY!” He added extra emphasis on the last word as he yelled it toward his face and a froth of hops sprayed from his lips and hissed as it flung forward into the fire.

    Tom crossed his arms and replied while shaking his head, “Sure Eddie, what have you got for me now?”

   Ed turned around and paced a little ways up the dirt path while he tugged on his drooping pants to cover the exposed boxer shorts which peeked through the brim of his tattered jeans. He then thrashed his arms overhead to dismiss every word Tom had thrown his way. Quickly he paced back and came as close as he could to the fire, where he would ensure he could be seen and heard by all.

    Ed brought his finger to his lips when he excitedly replied, “Shhhh! Shhhhh, Tom! Shhhhh! You, time for YOU to listen.  Time for you to shut up and listen!”

      He continued with a laugh, “You didn’t think I saw you that day, Tom. But I saw you. I saw you! That day at your mom’s funeral, before we went to the cemetery, you snuck back in to say goodbye one last time,” he held one finger up and continued, “That ONE last goodbye, Tom. You thought the room was empty and by all accounts it shoulda been. But it wasn’t bud, IT wasn’t! I walked in to grab a lighter that fell outta my pocket, and I saw you!! I SAW you taking jewelry from your mama’s wrist and fingers! Stealing from your dead mom, worthless son of a bitch!”

     Everyone now awkwardly silent turned to await a response from Tom, only he just shook his head and sneered softly chuckling. The confidence of his stance didn’t break an ounce when he replied, “And you think people are going to believe that bullshit, Eddie? Coming from you? Look at you, everyone here can’t stand to be around you half the time.  While half the time you can’t even stand…Pffft! You’re nothing but a worthless drunk, and me? Me? Well, I’m a good guy, Eddie.”

    Tom began to walk toward Ed and needled him in the chest with his finger as he continued, “I’m the guy people call when they need a ride or a twenty spot till payday,” he laughed when drew closer to Ed’s face as he emphatically spoke his final words, “YOU?! They call you when they wanna get high and stupid for a night. No one will ever believe you, Eddie. Your word ain’t worth the shit my dog took this mornin’, and you know it.”

    Maria tugged at Ed’s arm as he looked up and just stared into Tom’s eyes, frozen still with either fear for retaliation or a brief moment of sobriety which struck. Ed finally replied as he averted his eyes, “Pfffft! I don’t need your shit! Like you’re somebody, Tom. You’re a nobody too, man.”

    Ed stumbled back from Tom’s awkward closeness as he sucked the last few sips from his beer, and just shook his head, as if in disbelief of Tom’s alleged betrayal.

   Hastily he turned his back toward Tom when he started down the dirt path, and called out to Maria, “Come on’ let’s go home now, I’m done with all these dickheads for the night.”

     Tom taunted him when he called out, “Yeah that’s right go home, Ed! No one wants to play ball anymore. Wahhhh! Wahhh!”

    Ed ignored him as walked away seething with rage, and Maria followed closely behind; struggling, her arms brimming with lawn chairs and a cooler. Once they arrived home, he quickly slapped the thin screen door open and flung his body across the squalid bare mattress which laid on their living room floor.  Maria entered soon thereafter, and began to empty the cooler into their fridge merely feet away.

    While she was organizing the sparse contents of their fridge, Eddie sat up and called out to her, “Hey Maria! Maria!”

    She hesitantly asked, “Yeah, what is it? I’m tired, I just wanna go to sleep, can’t we just talk about all this tomorrow, huh?”

    He lurched forward from where he sat and pulled Maria close to his body and attempted to kiss her ear as he caressed her hips and tugged at button on the front of her jeans. Instantly, she defiantly pushed his arms away from her body and grabbed a water from the fridge before she sat down at the kitchen table which overflowed with junk mail and several empty pizza boxes.

    She reached over toward a pile of crusty magazines and selected the top issue of Vogue. The very same issue she had read a dozen times, which had hard water rings across the front, bleeding the model’s face into adjacent black letters. She had no real intention to read, this was yet another staged distraction.

   Eddie leaned back onto his hands against the counter directly across from Maria when he looked at her and asked, “Really, Maria? Really, you can’t cheer me up a little?”

   Maria responded indifferently, “Nope, just sleep it off and leave me alone, Ed.”

    He scoffed at her when he said, “Really that’s what you think,” as he pulled a .22 caliber pistol from his back pocket and placed it against her head.

   Maria instantly reeled back from the end of the gun; only Ed jutted forward and rammed the cool end against her right temple as he slammed her head against the window pane just above their table. Her body pinned beneath his, and his chest heaved against her partially exposed breasts with each excitable breath. He said nothing for several minutes, he just continued to push the gun deep into her skin, which left a deep red impression on the side of her face.

    Finally, Ed stumbled back and away from Maria, only he kept the gun pointed in her direction when he demanded she get up from where she sat. Visibly shaken, Maria got up from her seat, when a narrow stream of piss had saturated her left pant leg while her legs uncontrollably trembled.

   Tears began to flow when she nervously asked, “Just what do you want from me? What is up with you tonight?”

   He barked a command before another word could be spewed from her lips, “Shutup Maria, go get that left over pork chop in the fridge. Make yourself fucking useful and at least cook me something. Don’t be a baby, and stop cryin’ already!”

   “Fine, fine, fine Eddie,” she replied as she knelt down to rummage through a cabinet for the one skillet they owned.

    Maria stood over the black skillet staring at the butter oozing around the thick pork chop as it sizzled and seared through the silence of the room. Merely a foot away Eddie lounged back on the dilapidated kitchen bench, only with the gun still pointed directly toward the back of her head.

     He tried to tell a joke, ironically hoping to lighten the mood, “Hey did I tell you about the joke Gus told me at work yesterday? It’s a good one, let me see if I can remember,” he paused when she interrupted, “It’s Ok, Ed let me just finish this…”

    “Oh now I remember!”, he excitedly exclaimed as he waved his gun through the air in a aimless pattern, and he continued, “So there’s this guy, he walks into a bar with a giant dildo under his arm, right? And the bartender asks…”

    Eddie continued with the joke but the words began to dissipate into nothing as each syllable which surrounded Maria melded with the deafening heartbeats that pulsed from the center of her chest and reverberated through her addled brain. She then slowly tightened both her hands around the handle of the pan, because unbeknownst to Ed, her next move was to splash hot butter clear across his face.

    Only then, when he belted out a robust obnoxious kind of howl, delighted with his own punchline, he had applied just enough pressure to the trigger, ‘Baaammmmm!’, a bullet whacked clean through the front of Maria’s skull and splattered skull and brain matter into the screaming hot frying pan below. Bloodied squiggles of brain matter danced amongst oregano and popping pork fat, when Maria’s body slumped backward and flopped near Ed’s feet.

     Anxiously he shoved the gun into his back pocket and stood to his feet grappling with locks of his thinning hair as he howled a desperate cry, “No!!! Oh man!! What the fuck! NOOOOOO!”

    Only it was real, a sobering dinner date for one had made a tragically horrific turn for the worst, without a even side dish or dessert. He panicked, he had nothing but for the 1999 Chevy Corsica that sat in his driveway with half a tank of gas and $50.00 in his wallet. That wouldn’t stop him from running though, hell, with his record he was sure to spend a lifetime in prison. So run he did, but rest assured… not far.

   The billowing smoke from the charred flesh searing in the blackened frying pan spilled from their wide open front door, which alerted their neighbor Frank who came rushing in to find the horrific scene which Ed had left behind. When the police descended with their notepads, cameras, and questions, the occupants of Bonteville Springs did not disappoint with a virtual torrent of bad tales to tell about Ed Tousley.

    Inside that stank filled home, with a thick smoke that still lingered from the seared remains of Maria’s brain, her former friends had played the judge and juror that evening and had already convicted Eddie for a crime they weren’t certain he had even committed.

    Truth be told, who could blame them? Really. After the countless “shows” he had put on at the fire pit and the many bruises and bumps Maria would futilely attempt to cover with sunglasses or makeup.  Well, he had it coming, didn’t he?

    The police were on the lookout, but I was determined, I was going to find them before they would. His Corsica was found three days later at a park and ride just outside Cranston, Rhode Island. I planned to start there, and rest assured, I will find that son of a bitch. But not to worry, I’m not horrifically unkind, I’ll make sure he gets his pork chop before I blow his brains straight through the back of his thick skull. Stay tuned, my friends, we are in for a fun ride.

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Chapters 16 & 17 – The Dead Beats, the beginning.

As many of you know, I’ve been writing a book for four long years.   On and off, between projects I’ve revisited its contents.   As a matter of fact, I’ve rewritten the first six chapters half a dozen times;  I’m not even lying about that, it’s sickening actually.

So when am I going to publish?  Soon.  Very soon.   I have people who ask to read it, well… um, no.   Because then you won’t buy it, silly fool.   Anyway,   here’s a couple chapters.   You’ll likely be partially lost.   But here’s a peek into my two most recent chapters.   The main character is very loosely based on my past life when I was a victim of domestic violence.   Some of the tales being true, others embellished to contribute to the fun that is fiction.

Top that all off…she becomes a serial murderer, a delightful journey I promise you.  Nearing 100,000 words and currently working on Chapter 18.   My outline has me going upwards around 20 chapters, and I’m conflicted.  Per usual.  Ahhhhh, never mind, just read it and share your thoughts if you like.    -B

PS.  the formatting is off.  not to worry my book will have paragraph breaks and they will not be quite so long.  meh… just fucking read it.

Chapter 16 – Glass of Whiskey.

“Nothing was ever so unfamiliar and startling to a man as his own thoughts.” – Henry David Thoreau

When I arrived home as I ascended my front staircase, the ominous clang of my grandfather clock rang as heat hissed from the old steel radiators and both sounded in unison through my eerily still home. In my living room I found Nikki, my nanny, asleep on the couch with Anthony nestled near her feet. The DVD played the opening menu of an animated movie on a continuous loop, and despite the flickering incessant glare which blasted from the screen across the dark room, they slept so deep and peacefully. I tiptoed across the room in my muddy blood slicked boots to turn off the television and covered them both with a blanket.

When I looked down to release my backpack onto the kitchen table, I watched my hands shake for several minutes until I was completely unnerved. I grasped them and pulled them close to my chest in an attempt to ease the panic that seemed to grasp my mind and body. Peering down at the specks of blood that covered my fingers and knuckles, I then noticed the deep maroon blotches that seeped into the crevices of my dry, and badly cracked skin.

I had desperately scrubbed my hands for days thereafter, yet his blood remained for one very long week and had eventually turned a gruesome dark brown. Inside my palms the cracks formed a macabre maze of blackened gore with a subtle purplish hue. This was a reminder of the indescribable horror that glared from behind that boy’s thin yellow eyes. Then there was the grief when I remembered the shame that consumed that pitifully curled up young man. That young man who cried like a baby on the slick blood drenched sidewalk.

The blood that remained for days reminded me of my fleeting sanity, how he made me feel in that moment; as though I had completely lost all reason. Despite my having soothed myself that evening with those two remaining glasses of wine, my sleep was consistently disrupted with those prickling thoughts. That night I sat in my large plush armchair, with my wet blood speckled boots propped atop my fluffy ottoman. It was there I fell asleep as I was hypnotized by the glow of the moon. I remember the moon reminded me of a large bowl of glowing milk, and with each sip of wine it grew and appeared as though it had spilled into my room.

Only I didn’t realize my eyes had slowly begun to close, but was very aware once the glass I held tipped and spilled a healthy dose of wine onto my lap. Originally I had planned to fall asleep with the day’s clothes still covering my back, only I had to shower since the wine now gradually funnelled into my crotch and soaked me down to the skin.

That night I slid into my shower as a dense mushroom cloud of steam billowed around me, and I was comfortably cradled by its warmth as I watched its thin streaks slink out my slightly cracked bathroom window. I could feel the cool of the night air tickle the back of my neck with its fingers through warm steam. I remember stubbornly sitting beneath the shower until it eventually felt like marble sized balls of ice bombarding my skull. Then the pervasive chill made me move quicker than normal, as I hurriedly made my way to the comfort of my warm bed in my loosely tightened housecoat.
I laid there shivering as I pulled the thick comforter and allowed it to twist erratically through my limbs. It would always give me great pleasure when I lunged my body wildly across the bed, the very bed that was once “ours”. It was truly an exquisite sensation to kick my legs beneath the covers like a giant pair of scissors, and to hear the sheet’s melodic swishes which served to remind me that Alex was forever gone. As the subtle haze of wine slowly waned I feverishly brushed my feet together to warm them and it was then I noticed my teeth chattered so much that my temples seemed to swell, and my body ached from shaking.

A luscious wave of Egyptian cotton thrust a sweet smell of lilac toward my face and I smiled. I smiled because I was free. I was free to enjoy the simple pleasure of fabric softener without having to listen to that prick complain about how it irritated his skin. Take that, shithead…

Only I was so restless that night, and with the wine wearing off the reality of my day had begun to again creep in and left me feeling sullen. Those moments of unadulterated bliss seemed to dissipate when visions haunted me of that boy’s trembling pimple laden chin as he fought back tears from his sorrowful eyes. I laid there and stared at the ceiling, there was a large crack that ran down its center. The very crack that had been there since I can remember. The one I would stare at until sleep found me on those nights I nursed the fresh wounds Alex had inflicted.

The peace I had ironically found in the cracked ceiling stucco. It was a focal point that had zero meaning but by staring deep into its abstract blackness it would sometimes lift me to a plane of lucid dreaming; so strange, yet so peaceful. I knew it was silly but in my mind, it was that place I could go to and think of absolutely nothing. Not even the pain that plucked my nerves on those evenings which were dominated with Alex’s drunken rants. Only that night it had not worked the way I had planned, and I had apparently “outgrown” the crack.
I needed something else, and before I had another moment to dwell on the seemingly drab crack above me I leapt to my feet and carelessly flung my blankets toward the foot of my bed. Once I grabbed my laptop from my office space, I went toward the kitchen and scoured the cabinets for a more potent night cap. One that would hopefully linger a bit longer than the wine had. Behind a bag of hardened brown sugar was a bottle of whiskey covered with a dishrag, with only a few shots that remained.
I remember it was the same bottle Alex came home with one night, long ago, the one he had boasted for weeks on how expensive and smooth it was. It’s funny because I don’t remember the price, but I remember so clearly that evening he came home with it, as though it were yesterday.

‘Honey, you’ll never believe who I ran into today!’, that night he called from the front doorway as he hurriedly stomped his way through the house, with the bottle of scotch in hand. Only I didn’t hear him at the moment, as I was in the basement with the dryer which ironically thudded to the rhythm of wet towels and Billy Joel; who serenaded me from my radio with New York State of Mind. I am not sure how long he called and searched for me, but I was certain it was longer than his patience had allowed. One thing I will never forget was his face when he entered the room and shoved himself between my body and that rickety pine table which held stacks of our neatly folded clothes.

His face was as red as the label on the bottle of booze he clasped in his unrelenting fist. When he shoved his face directly in front of mine, not only could I see how fiercely he clenched his teeth but I felt the caustic sound of grinding teeth run shivers down my spine. At that moment he made certain I could no longer focus my attention on anything but him. With a few swift breaths he exhaled, each bombarded my face with the familiar smell of an early afternoon buzz he had cultivated with that whisky. It was an all too familiar prelude to a perfectly destroyed day.

Coincidentally, on a small shelf which was adjacent to where we stood, there rested a small ceramic figurine of a dog and kitten frolicking in a washtub. He once told me it was one of the very few personal items his mother left behind for he and his siblings to pick from when she passed away; years before I had the chance to meet her. It was clear he cared for it as much as he cared for me, as he hastily lunged for the figurine and lifted it above his head and violently plunged it against my right eye.

Everything faded to black for what seemed like only minutes, but it was four long hours later, in our bedroom, where I had finally awoke.
He stood over me that day as I awoke and caressed my face when he asked, “Oh, you’re awake, how are you feeling sweetheart? Gosh, I never thought you were going to wake up.”
I just stared at him in disbelief when I had only partially digested my shock and disbelief and I stammered a reply, “Are you fucking serious? What were you thinking hitting me like that?”

His demeanor instantly revealed a kind of fiery indignation, one that seemed to relay that it was me who had smashed him across the face with a fucking figurine. When his eyebrows turned angry and his complexion flourished to the likes of a boiled lobster, I would ordinarily walk out of the room and ignore him. Only I was injured, and I was paralyzed from the surging pain that raced through my throbbing face. Luckily, I was able to tune out his drunken ramblings as I slapped and swooshed a melting bag of ice with my hands, the one he had placed on my swollen face while I slept.
While I vaguely recall his extensive tirade as to how I rudely dismissed him that afternoon, I do recall what happened next. I watched him as he paced erratically, and waved his hands as though he was the lone conductor to an invisible orchestra comprised entirely of bullshit. I sat silently and listened, but rather unexpectedly… I sighed. I had sighed a long exhausted sigh. One that I had not fully thought on the second before I released it from my lungs. The sigh that surely relayed my disgust with every syllable he spewed from his wretched lips.

My body tensed up the moment I had finally expelled that very long, very disinterested sigh, and I expected another attack the moment it had ceased. When I looked up he had stood positively still, frozen in his last footstep with his back faced toward me. It was as though someone doused him with ice, as he stood paused with one heel slightly raised. His stature relayed complete disgust with my indifference.

Before he had the chance to turn his body to face me, I pulled myself upwards and leaned against my headboard and awaited the inevitable recoil. It was then he spun his diminutive like stature to face me and for a few moments he stared maniacally with his heaving chest, just moments before he lunged forward ferociously screaming his angry words into my face , ‘You see, Mira, this is exactly what I’m talking about! You have no respect for me ever! This is why I get angry and I hate it when you make me like this.’

With every word he drew closer to me until he stood near the edge of the bed and he only grew louder until everything he said became an inaudible deafening growl. I remember staring, stunned with a staggering fruition of fear, utterly terrified for what was to come. Then suddenly a sharp tear of pain electrified the entire right side of my face, and it was then the flip was switched. Unexpectedly my left arm simultaneously went numb, which today I can only describe as an abrupt surge of adrenaline.
When he drew even closer toward me, not another caustic sound was uttered from his foul lips when I heaved my knee up toward my chest, and with every ounce of strength which remained in my shattered spirit I lunged my foot dead center into his sickening face. Surprisingly, there wasn’t much blood but I had launched that angry fucker clear across the room where he bumped his head on the corner of my thick oak vanity. I anxiously leapt to my feet and stood over him to watch as he struggled with labored gasps.

His widened eyes fluttered in shock as he gazed back into mine, finding no remorse in their void, and without much warning to either of us, for that matter… I craned my arm back and punched him with my clenched fist so hard I could feel the crunch of his nose against my bones. I made certain he was unconscious as I stood there for several minutes before I left him pathetically slouched over in the corner for the night.
Thankfully, when he finally awoke the following morning surely feeling as though a rhinoceros sat on his face, but hadn’t remembered what exactly happened the night before. Rest assured, I would not be the one to remind him how I had launched him across the room when I shoved my foot into his filthy rotten pig face.

It’s funny, because I never really cared for whisky, although Alex never invited me to share his personal stash. But then there was this night, the night I found his whisky hiding behind that inedible brown sugar. The very whisky that caused that awful fight. While Alex lay cold in his grave, the same night I watched the milk laden moon spill into my room, the whiskey tasted like pure unadulterated bliss. Every last sip.

Chapter 17 – Scarlett.

“Virtue is beauty, but the beauteous evil. Are empty trunks o’erflourished by the devil.” – William Shakespeare, Antonio, in Twelfth Night, act 3, sc. 4, l.

As I sat in my kitchen that night, I sipped the oak scented whisky while I waited for my computer screen to flicker the prompt for a password. Until the cursor invited me to enter an uninhibited void of web cruising, I took solace in the peaceful quiet hum which resonated through my home. The quiet hum I would pause to appreciate on occasion while I sipped my morning coffee, only this time it was late night whiskey with some slightly slanted intentions of what I was about to do.

I know what you’re thinking, I was up to no good. Though this night I was merely feeling very human. Very vulnerable and I hated that more than anything, though it reminded me that being very human is hard. It was times like this that made me reflect on my motives for revenge. Something which overwhelmed me more often than not, something which seemed an almost insatiable desire; which left me feeling conflicted after each killing. Was this last one enough? Should I stop after this? Except every time I could only answer myself with ‘No’.

Because of the “What if?”, the what if I stop and one of my dead beats kills before I had the chance to kill them? This is the chance I could not abide. But on that night, I just remember feeling more alone than anything. Sometimes I would dream about a good man in my life, if there were in fact any left. Would the affections of a lover eventually force me out of this lifestyle I’d created? Would the distraction cool my heels for a bit and let me focus on the positives life may offer?
Selfish as it was, sometimes I wanted to turn my back and run for the hills; to a place where I was allowed to be almost entirely self absorbed. Though I wasn’t sure how solid a foundation I had created for any relationship after all the secretive murderous plots in which I had become entwined. Plots which had come to full fruition and ones which were still in development. I had come full circle that night with a glass of well deserved whiskey in hand, as the notion of a semi soft romantic had overwhelmed my rational thoughts.

I was resolute in my decision, but before I had begun to type I took one last swig of the whiskey and deeply drew in the earthy scent of oak with my eyes clasped tight. It was invigorating to feel as though I was slightly spiralling out of control, because that night I had let go and felt so exquisitely flawed and human.

I looked down at my hands which trembled ever so slightly even as I typed, which combined with that and the effect of the whiskey it took me several backspaces to get things right. Of course once I found what I was looking for I was almost immediately disappointed, and that was a virtual sea of single Boston male selfies. That’s right, I had taken the tenuous plunge into online dating where the lies seemed as abundant as the photoshopped curves and blemishes.

Age refinement: 26-45? Height: hell, it didn’t matter. Well, kind of..::ahem:: Religion: No thanks. What followed was a questionnaire that left me briefly questioning my sanity. That is until I pressed return and discovered my best matches, and thereafter I descended into what seemed like a hysterical house of mirrors parked just outside the ninth circle of hell. For hours I was mesmerised by the abundance of stoically belaboured lists as I poured over bulleted personal requirements mentioned in the most detached regard.
Some sad, some funny, others disturbing: ‘must not be over 125 pounds’ , ‘must enjoy bathroom humor’, ‘must not be political in any way’, ‘must not have ugly feet’; and my favorite ‘must like cats, I own sixteen. Must also be able to tolerate a strong urine odor while visiting our home.’

Briefly, I glanced away from the hypnotizing glow of my laptop’s screen and squinted to see the fuzzy aqua numbers of my microwave’s clock. Only I had to stand and lean forward on my sore thighs which burned from the adrenaline of that evening’s prior events. Once I realized it was already 1 a.m. I sat back and rubbed my eyes which burned from the strain as I had struggled to read the literary genius of all my local singles. As I shook my head, I tried to release the insomnia that gripped my mind only to no avail.

The insomnia that was likely due to the heaping dose of fury I had shovelled out of my soul earlier, onto that unsuspecting kid on the street. Also, the curious world of online singles that left me wanting to binge on their ridiculousness for an endless night. I remember thinking, ‘just a few more, only a few more then I’m off to bed’. I had promised myself I would limit my newly discovered “crack”, and we all know how that goes.

I gave myself another neat pour of whiskey in my #1 mom mug then settled back into that uncomfortable oak seat that slightly wobbled to the left. I had expected the pain in my rump to tingle and annoy me before too long, due to the lack of much needed ass pads. Only what happened next, I hadn’t expected…

Once I clicked ‘next page’, there he was, there was that arrogant prick smiling at someone who once stood to his left. Someone who was no longer in the picture, but who had intentionally been cropped out; who was in all likelihood his wife. I had found him, I accidentally stumbled upon Charles Nagle though he called himself “Maximus Berger”. But I knew it was him the moment his image flashed across my screen and a hot anxious rush constricted my chest. Though I was happy to know I would not longer need Violet Bendergreen’s stolen library card.

It was funny how his eyes had even averted mine in his online dating profile. His boyish skin peeked from behind the pink collared shirt and his perfectly straight teeth snuck through his thin smirk. The kind of half hearted smirk you’d expect from that high school boy you didn’t think knew your name. He was the kind of boy who made you shiver with anticipation when he gave you even the slightest acknowledgment when he passed you in the hall; and he knew it. Hence his efforts were always phoney and forced, as they were still today.

You remember the kind of boy he was? The kind who always had the coolest shoes and clothes. The kind whose lightweight lemmings hung near his heels, but never quite met his match. He was the boy whose name flung from the tongues of girls and boys alike, almost like sticky caramel oozing from loosened teeth; he was somehow too much of a decadent and coveted thing. The detached and aloof girls pretended not to care until he also tossed them aside. The awkward girls in the hand me downs, wearing braces and corduroy pants …well, to them he was a God. Charles Nagle, he was the typical dickhead popular kid; and everyone wanted a five second disinterested glance.

The one everyone wanted so badly to emulate, only once we allowed a few years to come between us and graduation, it was then we realized that he was never much to be considered. In fact, people like Charlie blend in rather quickly with all the standard assholes who surround us on the daily. Unfortunately, for some the false glow around him was all too inviting and they fell through the looking glass; mesmerized much like Alice was taken in by her Wonderland.

We are all guilty of this at times. We find beauty in the superficial and cling to notions which have little to no merit, because sometimes it’s fun but more importantly it’s exciting. I could see how someone like April Nagle, a delicate lovely woman, could fall under the spell of Charlie’s evil yet whimsical charm. If one were naive enough, he could easily convince them he’s actually good, beneath his personality’s shallow surface there may have been a human occasionally lurking. April’s sheltered upbringing had perfectly primed her to fall into the clutches of someone like Charlie and become entranced until it was likely too late.

April’s religious upbringing kicked up a ferocious dust cloud of guilt when the notion of divorce cropped up in her mind, and her mother, Mrs. Clarkson, would call every Wednesday from Little Rock, Arkansas, to remind her of just that. Aside from the weekly phone calls to remind her of the righteous path, April would read the daily scripture her mother sent to her email. She would occasionally humour her as she’d reply with a bit of saintly scripture for her and her teetotaling crew.

Mrs. Jane Clarkson was a shrewd woman and you would surely know when she disapproved as she’d pursed her lips so taught while her eyes squinted so tightly you’d swear they may have slunk to the back of her brain. The behaviours she would not abide seemed countless, but simply put it was even a scintilla of mindless apathy for all things Christianly. In today’s modern world, many were outdated notions as you may well imagine.

I sat back and filtered through Charlie’s carefully compiled profile and laughed to myself when I thought, ‘There’s no way it could be this easy’, but there he was and just like that my search was over. I sent him a “wink” from Scarlett who liked red wine, good books and Indian food. I had expected to hear back quickly concerning the lack of any photos on my profile, which would include his terse request for some; as Charlie certainly wouldn’t waste his time on an ugly mistress. I had some time to figure out how I’d get around such a request, only to leave less of a trail.

It was bad enough I had left history of my contacting him on my personal computer. But for now I clasped my laptop shut, outstretched my arms with a belaboured yawn as I curled my toes along my laminate floor and my eyes ached heavy with sleep. Despite the unanswered questions that plagued me, I forced myself to bed for some rest.

I laid in bed for what seemed like hours and tried to squelch my racing thoughts. I finally relented to the battle I had lost, and sat up to watch the melting moon which now seemed to pour across the horizon and washed the street with a shimmering milk. I cracked my bedroom window enough to let in the crisp air which carried with it the smell of fried Chinese food from Hun Lee’s just a few streets over.

It’s funny how sometimes smells bring us on a trip through our past, and Chinese food had me remembering my clubbing days when three a.m. egg rolls and Lo mein were a good idea. That night those memories somehow led me to my attic where boxes had overflowed with knick knacks and clothes I had no practical use for, but I couldn’t bring myself to throw away.

I flopped two large boxes from the attic onto my bedroom floor, two boxes which had the years 1988-1989 inscribed on their sides. Till the sun came up that morning I thumbed through old pictures as I wore a thick red belt complete with a geometric patterned power suit jacket. An old bottle of Liz Claiborne had fallen beneath one of the bottom cardboard flaps, and when I rescued it I noticed a few sparse drops wallowed in the bottle. I had forgotten how much I enjoyed that scent until I sprayed what remained on my wrists and neck; right after I had flung my hair up in a messy plume with a banana clip.

I stood before my mirror amused but also impressed how things still fit without too much bulging. Though I’m still unsure of what inspired that night’s fashion show, I just kept going and began to fish through my closet for a matching skirt and scarf. At the bottom of the second box were chunky plastic bracelets and tarnished clip on earrings that had been splattered with hot pink and white paint. Amongst the treasure trove I also found thick heels with buckles across the front, which I immediately threw on my feet. Only it didn’t end there, then came the thick makeup and curling iron; by dawn I looked like a bad replica of Jem.
When I curled my eyelashes in the mirror I could see the red spider webs which had intricately laced themselves throughout my glazed eyes. I lounged back in my bed and stared at my ridiculous image for a moment and thought, ‘What have I done? I’ll never make it through the day on no sleep’. Well, that was just it you see? As it turned out I would make it through that day, only Scarlett had other plans.

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Inside the warped male mind.

Oh hey,  haven’t seen you in a while.   how are things?   That’s swell.   Anywhoo,  I’ve no idea what inspired me to write this, but for my desire to dispel the “myth” that men are far more simpler than us women believe.

You know the typical conjecture that women simply “read into things too much”.   Ahhhhh,  definitely not always the case,  sometimes they are not so simple.    Allow me to explain here.    Let’s begin.   You ready?   beware.  there’s simply no turning back.

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1.   Wife becomes ill.   Husband is concerned, so he kindly offers:  “You go lie down,  I will take care of the kids and dinner.”

Translation: You go lie down and rest.   A giant fucking mess will be waiting for you in the morning.

2.  Husband makes dinner.   He announces: “I made dinner for you tonight!”

Translation:  Call the noble peace prize committee, I’ve just discovered the cure for world hunger.   I will sporadically remind you of this glorious moment when I warmed up food for you.

3.  Wife:  “I’d really like it if we could visit my Aunt Claire for her birthday this Sunday.”  Husband:  ::silence::   ::more silence::  ::mind numbing silence::

Translation:  I am going to pretend you didn’t just say that, and hope you completely forget about said visit; and NEVER  EVER mention it ever again.  ever.

4.  Wife:  “So I was thinking.”  Husband:  “What now?”

Translation:  How much is this going to cost me?

5.  Husband:  “That’s a nice top.”

Translation:  Nice boobs.

6.  Husband:  “Yes, I was planning to fix that.   Don’t worry about it.”

Translation: Please be patient with me,  and kindly ignore my not fixing that for the next six months.  give or take.

7.  Wife: “My friend Susan invited us to her daughter’s third birthday party for this coming Sunday afternoon.   It’s going to be a “Frozen”  theme.   So cute.”

Husband:  “In the afternoon?   You know football starts at four, right?”

Translation:  I’d prefer to stick my head up a horse’s ass and slowly rotate it, in a very slow gyrating deliberate fashion, than attend that party while the game is on. 

Kind of like this:   Peek-a-boo!

funny_animated_gifs18.  Husband:  “Your friend,  Jill, is really sweet.   I like her, you should invite her over more often.”

Translation:  I’m open to a threesome.    I am disinclined to mention it, as I am fond of my face not being punched.

9.  Husband:  “Do what?  Where?  Huh, I just cleaned that last week!”

Translation:  What swill?   I see nothing.

10.   Husband:  “Who farted?”

Translation:  I just farted.  Laugh for I am funny. 

In my own husband’s defense.   I too am truly warped.   One sunny afternoon, quite recently,  I was discussing my husband with an old dear friend.    I cannot recall exactly what I was carrying on about, but it was an instance I mentioned where my husband had “annoyed” me.   Billy retorted: “Have you met you?”    Touché.  Touché.

Following that same logic.    I randomly text my husband with images I find along with my take on them…. It’s a wonder he remains in the throngs of marital bliss to date; as I am truly tapped.

Here’s some examples.   Enjoy.   I’m currently working toward building a thirty day collection of texts to the h-bee.   Stay tuned.

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10564809_10204607448574524_91331158_n 10566356_10204607450694577_309532072_n

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National Honesty Day – Ok, here goes…

Yesterday this happened:

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So I’m a day late, shut up.    I figured now is the perfect time to disclose a few of my innermost thoughts/secrets without consequence.   Since well, it’s now a quasi holiday of sorts.    Twenty things you never really wanted to know about me in three….two….one:

1.  I have an older child with autism,  and one of my youngest has a severe developmental delay.   I am afraid to take the younger one to the doctors because I don’t want to hear that he is also on the spectrum.   I hate autism.   I want to punch autism in the face.

I get angry when I hear other parents bitch about  their three year old who talks too much, and I cannot even carry on  a simple conversation with my own.    I am jealous when I see other parents watch their children at team sport activities,  knowing that mine will likely never participate in a normal sport environment.

Sometimes I want to cry at night when I hear my youngest singing garbled words to himself, and I think that he’s trying so damn hard to say something that’s merely trapped inside of his beautiful mind because of his disability.

I feel an indescribable pain inside my heart when I see pictures of other people’s kids at prom on Facebook;   because my 14 year old asks me on the regular if he can have a girlfriend for his birthday or Christmas.   Which is mildly hilarious, but also hurts me hard.    I love my children,  I hate the shit out of autism.

2.   I married a man  just to help fund my way through law school,  and he wanted a child.   It was quid pro quo.    We both essentially used one another.  meh… I passed the bar, became a lawyer and now I hate lawyers.

I don’t necessarily perceive that as “karma”,  I see it as we both got what we needed out of one another then moved on.     On the upside we have both have an awesome kid and co-parent splendidly.   Weird, huh?  I don’t see it as a negative.

3.  I don’t believe in God because I think far too many bad things happen to good people for some imaginary force in the sky to be at work protecting us all.   Why does God give cancer to children or adults for that matter?  Explain his “mysterious ways” to me, again?   There are soooo many things I could go off on right now, I literally just deleted a paragraph.   I promised myself I wouldn’t make this about religion.

But I believe in spirits and ghosts because there are far too many people who have reported to have seen them.   I cannot be convinced of people who have allegedly seen Jesus in a slice of toast.   Also, I believe there are people out there who are inherently evil.   So I’m not precisely sure how to square with all this?

4.   I do not believe in unconditional love.   Not for humans at least.  Your dog?  sure.    The way I see it… If a wife were to cheat on her husband she would  have broken a “condition” to their love, and in all likelihood husband is hitting the road.

For those who believe in God, they must live by his commandments in order to fulfill the role of a “Christian” otherwise you are not accepted into his kingdom.   Hence there are conditions upon your acceptance into the kingdom (this is merely based on my understanding of the bible, you may have a different interpretation).

I think the only exception to the rule as relates to humans, would be parent to child… that love knows almost no bounds. almost.    I don’t think that’s deep,  just truth.

5.  I don’t feel pity for the homeless.    I feel like this is wrong because what if it was out of their control?   So sometimes I make myself give a few bucks just to feel better about myself, and I think: “that’s someone’s kid”.

6.  My good friend of fifteen years, we have a child by the same man.  Not a lot to digest there, most people know that.   Albeit a tad strange.

7.  There is a person alive right now because I do not want to go to prison.   But if there were no consequences, I would not hesitate for a second to kill that son of a bitch.   I know some people say this jokingly,   I mean it.  really.

8.  I consider myself to be fairly liberal.  I believe gays have a right to marry,  I believe a woman has the right to choose  and I believe in stricter gun control laws as well as criminal sanctions for said violations.   However,  I am a registered republican because I don’t believe in wealth distribution.   I may hate lawyers, but I have earned my right to charge someone $150.00 an hour if I so choose;  and I don’t want to be forced to share it with anyone….

9.  In March, I greeted two Jehovah Witnesses at my door,  they tried to hand me literature and invited me to an Easter brunch.   I told them I worship Satan then slammed the door in their faces,  and giggled for at least a half an hour after they left.   That wasn’t very nice…. (ok, I don’t worship satan, people.)

10.  In the sixth grade, during a study break,  I placed my thick winter jacket on my chair to muffle a fart.   That fart ricocheted like a tommy gun against my chair and the entire.class.heard.   I was horrified.

11.  Coincidentally,   I don’t just find farts funny.   I find almost anything that pertains to the ass to be hilarious.    I blame my parents.

Also, I taught my nephews how to make armpit farts, and my sister-in-law gets pissed when I encourage this.   I do it on purpose, because I don’t like her much.

12.   I think my husband is really the best thing for me.  He keeps me grounded, because I am a scatter brained eccentric;  and he is ironically normal.   He is not perfect but he really is perfect for me.   I’ve been married more than a few times thus far… but this is my final stop.    If this one doesn’t pan out ::knocks on wood:: then I’m hanging up my hat as a serial monogamist.

13.  I once went on a date with someone for New Years Eve.   I threw up in his shoes after midnight.   His three hundred dollar wing tipped fancy pants shoes.   He called me the next day.   wtf?

14.  During our formative years…. my sibling irritated me consistently, so I once made him lemonade with toilet water and served it with a smile.

15.  As a child while out walking with my cousin, on North Main in Salem NH,  a car drove by us at a fast rate of speed.  A man leaned out the window and slapped her on the bare arm, left the perfect impression of a red palm on her arm for hours.  My first reaction was to laugh.   I just laughed typing this.   what the fuck is wrong with me?

16.  Again, as a child… I shoved my fingers inside my brother’s Teddy Rupxin doll’s mouth, till the mechanism inside its face malfunctioned and broke within hours of his receiving it…on Christmas morning.   That was payback for the time he ripped my Ken doll’s limbs out of their sockets rendering him useless.

17.  In high school, I dated a boy just because I liked his motorcycle.  It’s all good… he dumped me for the girlfriend he’d been dating for years.   So I got payback, trust.   Stupid teenaged drama.

18.   I still think it would be real fun to be an astronaut.   I wish I became an astronaut instead of lawyer.  booooooring. seriously, astronauts are cool, who didn’t like that dried ice cream as a kid?

19.  I’ve been writing a book for three years this August.  I hope to publish by the fall, because I struggle to find the time and I have re-written the first half of the book about half a dozen times ::ugh::.   Also, I write suspense/horror despite my inclination for humor.   Mostly because I enjoy writing about murder.  I don’t know why….

20.  I deleted three things from this list because I thought…. ‘woah that’s bad’.

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The Saint Patrick’s Day Parade “Council” – Now steeping with Dicks.

So as most of you know, every year in several United States cities across our nation, there is an annual Saint Patrick’s Day parade on March 17th.  This tradition in Massachusetts goes as far back as the year 1737, and its main purpose is to celebrate the Irish culture and to pay homage to our brave veterans.  In Massachusetts we have a council called, The South Boston Allied War Veterans Council, and they are the group which is responsible for setting the standards of procedure for various groups who seek to join the parade.   They are the ultimate “powers” that be, and they have the power to deny or approve a group’s application to join and march in the parade. 

This year the MassEquality.org group represented LGBT Veterans in the hopes that a group of 20 veterans would be allowed to march in this past weekend’s parade.   As you surely know the application was denied and several business pulled out their sponsorship of the parade, and even Boston’s Mayor Walsh sat out on the parade as promised.  The Council claimed that they would allow the group to march in the parade, however, they would not allow them to display any flags which relayed their sexual orientation.   They claimed that they could not display such items due to the fact that it contradicted their “code of conduct”.    My question is this, Why is this your “code of conduct”? 

In the Press Release below, issued on March 6th 2014,  it is mentioned that they denied the application for the following reasons: “the good of the parade”, “this is an historic event”, “to celebrate the love of friends and family”,  and “to insure the enjoyment and public safety of our spectators”.

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Let’s circle back to that.  Shall we?  Oddly, everyone was all aroused with their panties in a twist by the fact that Heineken, Sam Adams and Guiness pulled sponsorship from the parade.   Really, are you butt fucking serious?  No pun intended ::ahem:: I digress.   Let’s look at the facts here, the parade is sponsored by local and national sponsors as well as private citizens.   Also, for those of you that live in the area, well how do I put it?  Boston, yeah….it’s like wicked gay,  kid.

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These results are from a Gallup Political Survey. These results are based on responses to the question, “Do you, personally, identify as lesbian, gay, bisexual, or transgender?” included in 206,186 Gallup Daily tracking interviews conducted between June 1 and Dec. 30, 2012. This is the largest single study of the distribution of the LGBT population in the U.S. on record, and the first time a study has had large enough sample sizes to provide estimates of the LGBT population by state.

The 6th highest on the list, people.  Hmm….. Let’s really mull this one over.  This council receives it donations/sponsorship from local businesses where these gay people shop,  frequent and live.  Then this council publicly announces that they aren’t allowing LGBT veterans to march in their parade because they aren’t a part of their “family” and “history”.   I’m sorry, this is a serious question but are every single one of you fucking retarded?   No shit they are going to pull sponsorship, this is about business too.  Let’s not be fooled. 

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You know it’s funny,  I’m certain I may lose some friends who read this, because I laughed at the ones on my social media news feeds who were angered by LGBT Veterans and their demands to march in the parade.   After I sat back and read some of these reports and researched a bit further,  I thought who wants to march with a bunch of drunk old bigoted fucks anyway?   But then that’s me, it shouldn’t mean they be denied due to another person’s bigotry.  

Some of my friends updated their statuses on social networks with such ideas: “What’s the point of allowing them to march in the parade?  I’m straight and you don’t see me wanting to march in the parade.”    Two reasons:  In all likelihood, you lack adversity in any form, especially if you are white, and if you are not a veteran a special fuck you is in store for you.  These people were veterans and they could not wear a rainbow or the like on their shirt, in fear that it may “offend someone”.  give.me.a.fucking.break.   Are we not more progressive than this?

The other concern, of course, was safety…. but if I were a betting gal, and I am on occasion, if the police were able to keep the LGBT picketers subdued they could reciprocate in kind for the idiotic fundamentalist types who may have shown up.   Just tossing that out there, and also how about our odds?  Remember that poll I told you about?  I’d say there’s a chance they would have had more support than a lack thereof.   Also, that parade would have been FABULOUS!

ImageOn the Official St. Patrick’s Day Parade Website (as seen below), the very first home page is their claim to fame for their “Historic Event”.  Well, lookie there a click-able button to bring up a page for all the best bars.  Neat!!  This is a surefire way not to ruin the INTEGRITY of an event.

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Next on the list of usual “suspects”.  Religion.   What a fucking surprise..  As they wrote at the bottom of their letter,  “God Bless”, hence their reasoning is very suspect.  You know, I wouldn’t normally complain about this,but I’m getting real tired of people like that Phil Robertson from the Duck Dildo show, oops I mean Duck Dynasty show.   Those people who say: “Love the sinner, Hate the Sin.”   Getting real tired of your shit, Lucy.   Real tired.  You know,  I’m sure Jesus was a swell guy and for people who believe in his teachings that’s great for you,  I mean it.  Seriously,  Jesus hung out with lepers and healed them, which I’m sure that group was comprised of some very nice folk… but I’m staying as far away as possible from those creepy melting bastards.  So props to Jesus for being a far better person than I.

So how about that elephant in the room?   How do we square with this whole:  “love the sinner, hate the sin mentality”?   Let’s crack open that bible and take a look at a few areas of concern, shall we?  First up at bat, the real kill joy of the bunch:

Leviticus 18:22 :  King James Bible
Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is abomination.

Well, how do we square with such things.   I have to say, I don’t rightly know.  But here’s a few other choice passages from scripture that Christians conveniently IGNORE.   My vote:  All Christians MUST strictly follow all passages/commandments from scripture for an entire YEAR then report back to us about how awesome being “saved” is.   Let’s begin with some of my favorites.  Shall we?

 

Leviticus 15:19-30 English Standard Version (ESV) – (essentially this passage outlines why a woman should not be touched while she is menstruating, and every thing she touches is unclean. Oh and if you touch her you have to bathe yourself till evening?  Uhh, I’m sorry but  what the fuck does that even mean?  Oh and btw where are we supposed to sleep if our husbands can’t sleep with us?)

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Leviticus 15:19-30 “When a woman has a discharge, and the discharge in her body is blood, she shall be in her menstrual impurity for seven days, and whoever touches her shall be unclean until the evening. 20 And everything on which she lies during her menstrual impurity shall be unclean. Everything also on which she sits shall be unclean. 21 And whoever touches her bed shall wash his clothes and bathe himself in water and be unclean until the evening. 22 And whoever touches anything on which she sits shall wash his clothes and bathe himself in water and be unclean until the evening. 23 Whether it is the bed or anything on which she sits, when he touches it he shall be unclean until the evening. 24 And if any man lies with her and her menstrual impurity comes upon him, he shall be unclean seven days, and every bed on which he lies shall be unclean.

Or this one Leviticus 11:7 – I’m going to summarize, No pig, hence no bacon.  You wanted an invitation to the “no sinners” party.  You’re welcome.   No bacon for you for a year.  Have fun douchebags.

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Leviticus 11:7 And the swine, though he divide the hoof, and be clovenfooted, yet he cheweth not the cud; he is unclean to you.

Next up: Leviticus 19:19 –  No more blended cloth for you… That’s right no “wool blends” or “cotton blends”, god forbid if you put on polyester!  Only the purest of cloth from now on.   Helloowww itchy balls and legs, also mini sized pants after only one wash…you’re soooo lucky.  Quick tip: Just dump fire ants in your britches now and cut to the chase. 

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Leviticus 19:19 “You must obey all my decrees. “Do not mate two different kinds of animals. Do not plant your field with two different kinds of seed. Do not wear clothing woven from two different kinds of thread.”

The next story is interesting and because of it I researched various scholars on whether God “condones” infidelity, because all signs thus far have pointed me toward “No”.   Well shucks, that’s no fun at all.   Well according to scripture (Genesis 16:2), Abram could not conceive with his wife ,Sarai, so she suggested that he go sleep with Hagar (the maid), in order to have children.   Now from what I understand, God did not condone infidelity but according to scripture he approved of their decision because he respected what was “marital law” at the time.   Although I still can’t square with how Lamech just blatantly got away with taking two wives  Genesis 4:19 (19 And Lamech took two wives. The name of the one was Adah, and the name of the other Zillah)??  Poor bastard, you know those women were bitchy as shit.  Just look at the picture.  That picture totally says:  “I will cut you bitch, right after I rip out his hair.”

ImageAlong that same line of thought, here’s how fucking your neighbor or the maid would play out these days.   Go to the IVF clinic? Nah, just go shag the neighbor…. Go ahead, suggest it to your wife.  It’ll be fun.

ImageLast but certainly not least, for all you ladies,  SHHHHH!  No wait, shout and praise hallelujah, but just do it quietly so as not to offend your husband.  Pfffffttttt!

1 Timothy 2:11-12

11 Let a woman learn quietly with all submissiveness. 12 I do not permit a woman to teach or to exercise authority over a man; rather, she is to remain quiet.

OHHHHH, NO HE DIDN’T!!!!

 

ImageHow about that parade, huh?  Not just for classy sophisticates like us anymore… enjoy.

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Feel the culture seep into your pores. feel it.

 

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Random Encounters & Shit

So sorry I haven’t posted in a bit.  I had someone ask me the other day, “what’s up with the fuzzy peanut, haven’t seen much over there lately?” , to which I replied, “It’s the furry peanut, now that’s ten points awarded to Griffyndor because you’re a fucking jerk.”

1.  Last week sometime, my mother was over for a visit.   I was eating turkey on whole wheat for lunch.  She ate nothing because she neurotically diets.  I decided on Cheez-its to accompany my sandwich.    A small amount of cheez-its tragically missed my lip and fell to the floor…. without skipping a beat I picked up those sommah bitches and stowed them away on my plate.    She then asked with a gasp, “Are you actually going to eat those?!”… to which I replied, “Mom, I’m a huge supporter of oral sex.  I figure if I’m going to put my husband’s ding-a-ling in my mouth, I am going to eat that pile of cheez-its.”

damn the 15 second rule.  I make my own rules, bitches.

2.  Day before yesterday, I was shopping at Shaw’s supermarket, in Windham, NH.   Have you ever been to this place?  If not, you’re certainly not missing much.  In fact, you may still have your nuts, boobs and/or random limbs intact.  Because if they notice you have any “spare parts”, they may just take those for safe keeping.  Just in case you secretly ate a fucking grape.

As the story goes,  I am checking out, the woman who’s ringing me up looks like a reject monkey from the zoo.   The kind of monkey that ingests a whole bag of meth, then gives you the finger.   The vapid facial expression was a surefire indicator of drug abuse, and also what came next… She’s allowing all my food to ram together at the end of the conveyor belt, neglecting to shut off the moving belt…. I pipe up with, “You’re smashing all my food, could you turn that off?”

“Oh yes, sorry,”  she says.  Ok, so we get over that hurdle…. Only there’s no one there to bag my shit.  They expect YOU to bag the groceries.  Or perhaps she’s just daydreaming about her lost comb and toothbrush?  She goes on to ring up the next customer.

ME: “Uh, what the fuck? I hope you don’t expect me to bag this shit?”

Her: ::stammering::

ME:  “Because every one of you in this store can eat my ass, before I bag this overpriced shit.”

Her: ::bagging my groceries::

Woman behind me: ::gasping while holding her chest::

Me: ::checking facebook notifications & instagram like a total asshole::

3. Random confession:  Have you ever visited someone’s home, and their bathroom is oddly placed inside their home?  Like it’s REALLY close to the kitchen?  Or nearby the living room area where every one happens to be hanging out or even worst they are in the process of eating?   You go to the bathroom, where it’s OK to fart.   Only, you still don’t want anyone to hear.   Being as smart as I am,  I thought quickly, and decided to muffle the ass thunder with a fresh towel from the linen closet.  Problem solved.  The fart was muffled AND I was able to laugh at their expense by the thought of their drying off with my fart towel….

4. Yesterday,  I decided it’s time to for an oil change.  Also, I wanted to have my car inspected, only OF COURSE, no car inspections were offered at this place.   When I arrived I discovered this when I asked, “Do you folks do inspections?”

Man replies, “No, just oil changes.  Did you come here just for an inspection?”

Me: ::insert discontented sigh::  “No, I need an oil change too.”

Man: “Ok, So are you sure you’re ok with no inspection?”

Me: “Uh, well since you don’t do them, I guess I’m going to HAVE to be?  Unless I’m entitled to lodge a complaint with the flying spaghetti monster?”

Man: “Huh?”

Me: “Just the oil change, please.”

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believe in his noodly goodness.

5.  Then I found this picture, and thought…..well, heck that sounds way easier and a lot less gross than blatantly scratching the butthole.  Immediately went on list of things “to try”:

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6. Last night I had a very realistic dream about a large jar of sliced pickles in my fridge.  It was so real that I’m still pissed about no pickles in my fridge this morning.  There’s zero significance to this fact, just felt like sharing. 

7.  Then I found this picture, which I shared with a friend and then left me reflecting about something that happened just last month:

ImageSo what happened last month?  I have a dog, Bandit,  and one evening company asked, “What’s he chewing”?   Only to discover, it was a dried up tootsie roll granola looking turd from the cat’s litter box.   A delightful ice breaker.  We’ve tried to stop him several times, but then I figured…. it helps with cat box sanitation.  look at the positives, right?

8.  Also, I found this gem:

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Inappropriate? yes… BUTT I found it funny. No one likes a long ass day.

Till we meet again fellow fucktards.

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Jack’s Story

Hello friends. Well, the holiday season is upon us and for all of us that means different things. How we celebrate, who we celebrate with, what exactly we are celebrating..

Whether you are observing a religious holiday or you’re simply reflecting on how thankful you are for life; it’s a time to reflect, to be thankful and to give when we are able. Because giving feels good. I don’t care if you are a Christian, a Buddhist, a Muslim or if you are a staunch atheist… I believe the spirit of human kindness is the reason we should celebrate. That collective sense of kinship that has shone through during times of national tragedy. These same events that have shattered indifference toward our neighbors, co-workers and the everyday stranger who passes by.

Events that have served to remind us, that despite our differences, the spirit of human kindness crosses boundaries notwithstanding our politics, sexual orientation, or religion. That very human tie that binds us all in a very inexplicable yet amazing way. Now that’s a reason to celebrate life, my friends.

Now as some of you know, I entered a short story holiday writing contest. The contest had five winners, top prize being $1,000.00. Sadly, I did not win, but I very much enjoyed writing this story and I plan to participate next year, should SDL have another contest. I was grateful for the opportunity and it was enjoyable to write. The winning entries were amazing, and full of talent. Alas, because I did not win… I share my story here with my friends and I hope you enjoy.

This story was required to be under 2,000 words and that I did, and because of this I know my characters were fatally underdeveloped. (in my opinion)…. That being said, I know the story leaves you wondering, so what about Jack? I think the beauty/flaw of my story is that Jack could be anyone. Jack could be the person you don’t speak to at work, the neighbor you’ve never met, or the man who sits next to you on the train. It doesn’t really matter “who” Jack is… the point is everyone has a story and we should all try a little harder to understand, to be more compassionate.  To just listen, because everyone has a story.

I would like to dedicate my holiday story to the brave men who have fought and continue to fight for our freedom. A special thank you to, Martin J. Poulin, for devoting eight years of his life serving in the U.S.A.F. A man I am proud to call Dad.

Christmas Tree And Menorah Placed At Vietnam Veterans Memorial

Jack’s Story

By: Bridgett L. Nicolace-Bird

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Everyone has a story. Our own unique tale, the one we naturally author through the weeks, days and minutes that pass. Each filled with the characters we meet, the ones who enrich fleeting moments of infectious laughter as well as the sad souls we console, but for the simple desire to nurture our own humanity. But whether our truths are filled with great joy or sadness, I am thankful for the peculiar, the gloomy, the seemingly content as well as the yawn inducing hum drum tales. I am thankful for our individual peculiarities, otherwise what a very boring world this would be.

One day, that seems so long ago now, as a young boy I learned never to pretend to know another man’s story without first listening; if for no other reason but for my curious mind to peer into another world for a brief moment in time. I learned on that day, twenty-nine years ago, that certain people, no matter how different they may act or look, they sometimes mend our lives in a very inexplicable way. That day for me was December 25, 1984, and the man I met was Jack Stubbs. He is dearly missed and will forever be in my heart. My name is Joe Miller, and this is the story about how my friend, Jack, forever changed my Christmas.

That morning I remember peering into my dimly lit room, and saw a light dusting of snow that gathered in the frosted corners of my dormer window. The prickling bite of the December air caused me to quickly retreat beneath my G.I. Joe covers leaving nothing but a very calculated breathing hole, and just enough space to call out to my brother Thomas, who slept across the room.

I called over to the heaving mass shrouded with Optimus Prime, “Hey Thomas, you awake? Wanna go check out our stockings?”

“Yeah, of course I’m awake, but you know Dad will be ticked if we get outta bed now,” he replied.

With my heart heavy I replied, “Ahhhhh, you’re probably right, let’s give it a couple more hours.”

Somehow my young restless mind allowed my body to fall back to sleep; that is until I was awoke by the distinct scent of hazelnut coffee brewing downstairs. I leapt to my feet so quickly, my slippery cotton socks careened my ninety-eight pound body clear across my cool wooden floor. Despite my body slamming against our bookcase causing what seemed like our heaviest encyclopedia to land on my shoulder, I quickly recovered as I excitedly bounded across the room.

“Hey, dummy! Hey, wake up, mom and dad are up! I can smell the coffee,” I insisted as I shook my brother awake.

Within moments we were racing downstairs, clasping the edge of our bannister and swiftly sailing across a matted rug toward our living room where our little sister, Renee, already sat elbow deep in a mass of discarded gold foil that once covered her chocolate coins. Where both our mother and father sat on our flowered love seat, with sleep still heavy in their eyes and a mug of coffee clasped in their hands.

Coincidentally, my boyish senses would reel when the crisp bite of whisky wafted from my father’s coffee mug on Thanksgiving and Christmas morning. In fact, our unfortunate curiosity had got the best of my brother and I one fateful vomit inducing night. Although, we were thankful our father only seldom drank, because to this day I believe two of his single malt scotches are still half iced tea.

Our father looked at us that morning, smiled and said as he laughed, “Well, come on these presents aren’t going to open themselves!”

Naturally, we dispensed with the formalities, and dove in wildly thrashing a cyclone of paper from our presents. I remember it was a wonderful Christmas morning. Our parents traditionally provided us with the most magical memories, when our most coveted treasures would await us under our tree; but for one year I begged and pleaded for a snake, of which was conspicuously absent. But I remember that morning, my brother and I played with my Castle of Greyskull and He-man figurines, despite his claiming, ‘he’s too old to play with that crap’. My sister dressed her Teddy Ruxpin in her favorite doll clothes and neatly propped him in Barbie’s dream house, where he enjoyed imaginary tea.

Although, every year we knew the time with our beloved Christmas toys was short lived, as our father insisted every year we volunteer at the Saint Matthew’s Parish soup kitchen. As a ten year old boy, I could have dreamed up a thousand other possibilities in my pajamas. My father, Francis Miller, has never been a shrewd business man, but has managed to successfully run Miller Auto Parts in the city of Manchester, New Hampshire, for a little over forty years now. Annually, Miller Parts holds a toy drive, and then as a matter of tradition he delivers the donated toys dressed as Santa for the children.

Every Christmas morning, we endured the painstaking drive with our father dressed in the big red outfit, complete with goofy hat and black pleather boots. With mounting angst, my brother and I sat and rolled our eyes toward one another as we slumped in the plush maroon cushions of our father’s Monte Carlo. He and my mother encouraged their ‘little elves’ to sing along to the Christmas carols that played on the public radio station. Then our little sister, Renee, would happily engage, and even wore the matching elf hat and shoes, of which my brother and I refused to wear.

When we arrived, hastily I sat on one of the unforgiving metal chairs that was propped against the bleak grey colored basement walls, and prominently displayed my utter disgust. As our father walked through the crowd of children they would outstretch their tiny hands, and all the while he bellowed his animated, ‘Ho-Ho-Hos’. What great joy I saw in my father as he handed each child a small toy from his large green velvet satchel. Only then, my brother and I sat and watched as we muttered random sarcastic comments to another.

I am embarrassed to admit today that I remember watching those children’s parents in disgust. I wished I could rip the bread from their lips. Foolishly, I believed it was all their fault, that their children were suffering due to their parent’s poor choices alone. That day, for those few fleeting moments I could feel my heart harden with contempt, a sense of disdain I am glad to say was short lived.

That afternoon, I carefully watched my father’s every move and the moment he walked toward the bathroom I closely followed, where I planned to harass him to leave immediately.

I propped myself on top of one of the bathroom sinks and began to plead, “Dad, can we leave soon? This is wicked boring.”

“You can help out a little, I’m sure your mother could use the help in the kitchen,” he replied from inside his bathroom stall.

I released all the breath out of my lungs in one long pathetic sigh then asked, “What the heck, Dad, you know Thomas and I hate this! Why do you make us come every year?”

A few moments passed and I received no response. But suddenly, my father’s clunky pleather boots thrashed wildly from beneath his bathroom stall, and having known him for the perpetual joker he was, I thought he was putting me on.

I called out to him, “Come on Dad, that’s not funny.”

Only he didn’t reply, and I called out again, “Dad, come on what are you doing? That crap is not funny.”

I watched his left boot slowly and methodically thud against the stall’s steel beam and then I screamed, “Dad, are you OK! Dad! Dad?!!!”

With my heart racing, I quickly walked over to the door and slammed it open, smashing the awkward plastic toilet paper dispenser. There I discovered my father laying on the filthy tile floor, clasping his chest with his mouth agape and his eyes frantically fluttering. I didn’t know what was happening, but I knew something was wrong. Something was horribly wrong. I leapt back from where I stood and simply stared in disbelief, as the fear struck me so harshly and seemed to constrict every muscle in my tiny body.

With the paucity of air that remained in my distressed wheezing lungs I stammered my plea, “H..he.. hel…help! Help! Somebody help!”

Suddenly, a rather disheveled man with filthy fingers and clothes, shoved me aside as he rushed into the stall where my father laid. He pulled my father from his boots into the middle of the men’s room and knelt down beside him and began to attempt chest compressions. I watched in disbelief as my father began to gasp, and then felt an indescribable mind numbing horror when I heard his labored breaths. Abruptly, I began to worry the man would hurt my father more than he could help. Frantically, I lunged over toward the man and attempted to pull him away with my wimpy tugs on his grungy coat tails.

I began to yell at the man, as I continued to try and pull him away, “Hey man, you’re gonna hurt him! Knock it off! You’re not a doctor, you could hurt him! Stop already!”

Without even looking away from my father he calmly replied, “I’m a nurse, son. Now stop it and let me do my job. I’m trying to help him.”

I stammered an unintelligible reply as I backed away and leaned against the stall to steady my shaking legs. When I finally caught my breath, I expelled the last shred of air in my small aching lungs, and shouted for my mother and Thomas. I couldn’t walk or even run to them because I was sure my legs would give beneath me at any moment.

It’s strange how the human brain processes tragic events. I remember once the EMT’s were called the minutes passed like hours. The hysterical whimpers my mother hailed amongst those bathroom walls were muffled by the sounds of blood rushing through my ears; and I felt the hot rush fill my cheeks and face. Coincidentally, there was an obnoxious orange air freshener that accosted my olfactory senses, and to this day I still hate oranges.

Once the EMT’s arrived, the man had already revived my father, and later that evening at the hospital, the doctors told us we were lucky the man was there to help our father. That man was Jack Stubbs, and he saved my father’s life that day. Jack was a veteran, and learned his trade while serving in the military during the Vietnam War. Only when he returned to his country, he was rejected as his post traumatic stress symptoms sadly and slowly deteriorated the remnants of normalcy that remained for Jack. He was a simple man, a very happy and hard working man, only with random spells of confusion and pain; at least that’s the way we saw him, as he became a very dear friend to our family over the years.

My father gave Jack a job as a driver for Miller Auto Parts, where Jack worked until May of 2012 when he passed away in his sleep for unknown causes. The month prior Jack handed me his old dog tags as a memento, and today they are my most treasured possession. When he gave them to me, he told me that sometimes just giving a little bit of your time, is the greatest sacrifice a person can make. Jack was a humble man, and I don’t believe he was being boastful; but for me those tags remind me to be thankful for those who sacrificed everything for my freedom.

Thank You, Jack.

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