Prove Me Wrong


Pretty fuckin’ hard to deal when you open up your email, see 113 messages, and only 2 end up actually being for you. The rest is all notifications: you missed this, don’t forget that, check over here, loads of activity there.

Yeah, well fuck you too, world.

My mood continues to be in the fucking toilet and you’re not fucking helping.

The only thing that helps is smoking and Ativan, two no-nos. Or probably both are no-nos; why should anyone want me to have relief from my fucking pain? Isn’t that the fucking point of life: pain? Oh, fuck you. Come over here and deal from MY fucking shoes. I don’t tell you to put down that ice cream or stop drinking every fucking night or cease fucking your partner because ALL OF THAT can be used as avoidance methods and MOST people DO use them to avoid – yet that’s fine. Oh. So I should become an ice cream eating, scotch drinking, fucking machine and all will be well? I believe I’ve said this before, but if you haven’t caught it yet: FUUUUUUUUUCK YOOOOOOOOU!

“You just need to get laid”, “Sex is such a great natural stress reliever”, “Eating ice cream doesn’t compare to your smoking a joint”, “I only drink to be social” – Go on, motherfuckers. Throw a few more inane statements my way. I fucking need some batting practice. Let me just line up here and – BOOM! Gee, your head makes a great fucking baseball. Let’s do that again. BASH. I’m feeling better, are you? BOP. Why don’t you have any more witty things to say to me?


Oh, I see. The silent treatment. I’ve got that before. Know what? I talk to myself all the fucking time. Silent treatments don’t scare me or irritate me, they give me a chance to finally say everything on my fucking mind. Hope you’re not one of those pansy assed mothers who can’t stand to hear the word ‘fuck’, because fuck is said a fucking lot. And even if you are, I really don’t give a fuck.

To myself: I know we’re angry to prevent us from being sad. I get that. Thank you. Thank you for doing everything we can to prevent depression again. Thank you for protecting us. Thank you for standing up for us. I’m not even gonna suggest anything different, ’cause we’re doing the best we can right now.

πŸ˜‘πŸ˜ πŸ˜ŸπŸ˜žπŸ˜’πŸ˜–πŸ˜­

I’m still thankful for this blog. It really does sort out of my head before the day begins. Even if I’m in a shit mood, I can now COMMUNICATE that clearly to the only person in my life who matters – my bro. Much less friction in the house. Much less second hand blame thrown around. I’ll take it. I’ll take that one positive point – can’t think of any other right now.

My bro used my list of things to do as target practice yesterday. He saw I was pressuring myself and feeling like that turd stuck on your shoe, so he held up my list and gave me all the reasons why none of it was important. In the end, only two things remained: buy my lotto card and go and see George. I was really hoping for some ducky medicine, some disaster proof good feeling to brighten my day.

George is gone. I think a new group of ducks – clutch of ducks? what do you call a bunch of ducks? – has moved in. And I think – I THINK – that George and his buddies moved one canal over. He’s easy to spot; he’s a small mallard, smaller than usual. And then there’s his bag of tricks: no other duck does what he does. On my way home I noticed a small mallard swimming in another canal, so I’m hoping it’s him. Bad weather has closed in again this morning. Rotterdam is getting battered with it. I’ll wait for the next break in the weather and go out to see. I really hope it’s him. Kind of silly to miss a wild animal so much. But I do. I miss George.

My leg is still sore from the cramp I experienced in the pool on Thursday. That was a bad motherfucker of a cramp. Trying to ease it out, lots of massage and gentle stretches. Really feel like I got a valuable lesson on too much swimming. Well, I was asking for it. I gotta start to think more carefully about what I ask from the Universe. It has a funny way of giving me precisely what I ask for in an unexpected manner.


Let’s see…Universe, I’d really like to know about the problems of having too much money. ‘Cause I don’t think there really ARE any problems connected to having too much money. All I can foresee would be easing of my stress. I wouldn’t need to worry about my ability to financially take care of myself. When the apartment gets to feeling too small I can take a holiday somewhere. I could fly to London and Paris and Berlin. I could seek out other artists and people I want to work with. I could get a group of workers in to hang up the rest of the shelves we need here and move stuff around so we don’t hurt ourselves. See? There’s no down side to it.

Prove me wrong.

Lotto draw tonight. I’m ready for lightening to strike.


12 thoughts on “Prove Me Wrong

  1. I’m falling asleep as I read and type, but I needed to say I know I’ve been quieter than usual. But I’m still here with you. And the part of this post that struck me the most was when you talked about being angry on purpose, as defense. I’ve had a draft going for about three days now, about that very thing. I’ve just had trouble articulating it. I feel you, and I’m here… Even when I have trouble reaching out… 🌸

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I know, Stephellaneous (read your comment about hating ‘Steph’; you should have said something!). And thank you. It helps to know I’ve got some hard core friends out here, people who muddle thru my words and spend a few minutes thinking about me. That helps; to know that people spend a little bit of their time thinking about me and being concerned about how I feel. I’m having trouble reaching out right now, too. ❀

      Liked by 1 person

      1. I do think about you – off and on a lot, actually. This community – some of you in particular – have really gotten to me.

        And about the steph thing – I knew I was inviting it by titling the blog such. I promise it’s okay. I can be an asshole about it sometimes. I think.. I think I associate it with… Them. They all called me steph. And I remember the first time someone called me Stephanie… It was weird. I sorta felt as though I’d finally been seen.

        I need to hit it, because I’m rambling sleepy nonsense. Please feel free to call me steph. I promise it’s okay. 🌸🌸

        Liked by 1 person

      2. Wish your name wasn’t screwed up by bad memories, but a version of my real name does the same to me so I get it.

        Get some sleep, sleepy-head. ❀ I know whatever name I call you, it all means one thing: friend.

        Liked by 1 person

      3. Night night, Beeps. And I just told Andrew it’s okay to call me Steph, too. I need to take it back and make it something new and better. Hell, y’all are already doing it. πŸ™‚

        I hope today is…at least okay. Better is better, but okay will do. πŸ™‚

        Liked by 1 person

  2. You always make me smile. It is such a relief to just read your endless flow of assertive words. Fuck is the best word of all and you have such a terrific way of placing it just so that the mother fucking word sounds poetic. I delight in your writing. Hope you find George. Really hope you win the lotto. I agree there are no problems with too much money. People who say there are don’t have any money.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Hey Sandra – Thanks for reading and commenting. Btw, I’ve been wanting to comment on your posts but your blog always wants my email, which I’m reluctant to give out. I do enjoy reading your words, just wanted to let you know.

      I’m glad you enjoy my unloads on the world. Fuck is that perfect combination of sounds; it’s so crisp and final. It will probably never go out of fashion. Have you noticed that? Cool words, like cool or wicked or bad or sick or ape – change all the time. But swear words? Still the same.

      I really hope to find George, too. He’s one of a kind. πŸ™‚


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s