It was March of 1999 and we were 19 years old. I was a blond haired, blue eyed college freshman. She was an olive toned, dark haired whore. And we were headed to Cancun, Mexico for Spring Break.

I told her I was certain we’d both be able to get across the border on our way down, but made no promises about being able to bring her home. Because when you’re a 19 year old girl from the Midwest, everyone knows that if you have dark hair and a deep tan you look just like a Mexican.

We stuffed our suitcases with tiny bits of cloth made to look like underwear and even tinier bits of cloth we had designated as “swim wear”. The only thing in that bag bigger than my hand was the push up bras designed to lure frat boys into my bosom with the promise that I actually had one. Well, that and the lacy slings she called bras, which were engineered to keep her oompa loompas mildly at bay and upright.

Not just a whore - but a whore with big knockers. I mainly brought her with me as bait.

The first thing we learned when we landed in Mexico was that you could smoke anywhere. I had one cigarette in baggage claim, another one in customs and two more in the cab. Just because I could.

The next thing we learned upon our arrival at the resort was that you can drink 24 hours a day without having to sneak it past your RA. For the next seven days, we resolved to take full advantage of our new found liberties with a liquid breakfast, lunch and dinner. And snack. And nightcap. And drinks. And did I mention we stayed at an all-inclusive resort? And that that included booze?

Moral of the story: we were shamefully drunk for about 7 days straight.

But of course, booze and cigarettes were not the focus of the week. In fact, the other lessons I learned during that week with my college roommate are ones that have stuck with me to this day.

Especially the one she taught me the third night we were there. Which is, basically, this:

If a Mexican police officer catches you having sex on the beach with a guy you met on the way home from the bar, the easiest way to ensure you don’t spend the night in jail is to flash him a $20. Flashing him your oompa loompas doesn’t hurt either.

See? What’d I tell you? The more you know, people. The more you know.

I just hope she is as generous with that wisdom today as she was with me back then. I’m sure her three children would appreciate it.

Happy Birthday, Sister Christian. Love ya still. ;-)

Today, in case you missed it, is Easter.

Christians all over the world are at Church. Catholics have been in Church almost none stop since Friday. Families will be gathering together over ham and potatoes and some uniquely traditional-to-them-and-theirs staple like pecan pie or egg casserole.

And me?

I’m spending the day at Universal Studios.

(Again.)

And it bothers the hell out of me.

I know there are those who say that nothing good can come from organized religion. I understand the sentiment that participation in “church” is not nearly as important as a personal relationship with God. I get that for a lot of people, not going to Church is no big deal.

But for me…

it is everything.

It is a mountain of guilt that I am too tired to come face to face with right now.

It is a longing and an emptiness that I am too overwhelmed to fill at the moment.

I’m not where I’m supposed to be today. And it is my fault and mine alone. The emptiness, the hypocrisy, the sense that I am avoiding myself - it is heavier today than it has been for the past three months, since the last time I was in Church. And for all my sadness and whining, the solution is simple. The path is clear.

I’m just too tired to walk it today.

Is there any better follow up to a Friday post about the sanctity of life than a Monday post about your elaborate plans to get away with murder?

I think not.

And whose demise are we fantasizing about today?

Well, in honor of the return of the work week, it seems only fitting to share with you my scheme to off my boss.

Here’s how it’s going to it would hypothetically go down…
(allegedly)

I’ve learned recently that my boss is allergic to a certain medication. After doing a little research on the issue, it seems this allergy is potentially fatal. Of course, the fatal nature is directly related to how long he would go untreated - which makes things a little tricky.

As luck would have it, this medication is very easy to obtain. In some cases, it’s even free. Although if you’re going to get it for free, you have to be willing to get a prescription from a doctor. Prescription = paper trail = much too messy for My Fool Proof Plan.

Thank God for Mexico. You can get your hands on just about anything in Mexico. And while it’s not free, it’s not uncommon to have a small bottle of Tequila thrown in with the antibio…uh… common medication.

Once I figured out the supply and demand issue, I had to turn my attention to the biggest obstacle: the allergic reaction, if treated in time, is unlikely to kill him and more likely to really piss him off. He’s no good to me pissed off.

And then it came to me, like a beautiful epiphany. The clouds parted, angels sang, and I knew exactly how to avoid the intervention of life saving measures.

He needs to ingest the Penici- medication at night.

Thankfully, my boss suffers from sleep apnea so it is completely believable that he would stop breathing in his sleep. But more importantly, his wife has grown very accustomed to his erratic breathing and restless sleep. It is highly unlikely she would wake up to the sounds of him gasping for air as his throat was swelling shut!

Especially… and here is the real genius of the plan… if he was sleeping in the next room.

Ah, you see, there are many nights when the boss and his wife sleep in separate bedrooms. If one of them is sick, or if one has trouble sleeping for some reason, they will kiss good night and go off to separate bedrooms to as to ensure that at least one of them gets a good night’s sleep. (oh this is brilliant! brilliant!)

And there are numerous ways to ensure that the boss is sleeping in the guest bedroom on The Night When It All Goes Would Hypothetically Go Down. (allegedly) The easiest would be to pet his dog and hug him or something, since he refuses to acknowledge that he is allergic to his own dog but invariably stuffs up with too much exposure to dog hair.

Of course, I could also email his wife some photoshopped pictures of him naked and tell her he sent them too me. Bet that’d get him in the overflow bed pretty quickly too.

Oh! Yes! Yes that is it EXACTLY! It’s all come together PERFECTLY now…

Adam and his wife get in a little squabble about his perceived bad husbandry. To console himself and ease his stress, he consumes a double bacon cheeseburger, large milkshake, fries with mayo, and two cans of Diet Coke…. all laced with *ahem* an extra ingredient. After comforting himself with food (that his friend so generously offered to bring over to him), he sulks off to bed in the spare room…

The attack is long and agonizing, and he wonders why no one is coming to help. His last thought is a vague memory of a conversation he had recently had with an employee about….

And do you know who they’ll investigate??

NOT the kind friend who consoled him and stood by him when his wife clearly overreacted. Oh no.

The PISSED OFF spouse who was sleeping just FEET away and strangely DIDN’T HEAR A THING!

Ah yes, it’s genius. Masterful even. Possibly tops the Nicotine In The Contacts Plan.

Really, if there is an award for such a thing - I should win it. Don’t you think?

I mean, you know, allegedly.

(psst… call me a fucking pig… bastard.)

There can never be enough said about Domestic Violence. Ever.

And we have all seen the movies. And read the email forwards. And seen the afternoon TV specials.

And many of us, most of us probably, have or will at some point come face to face with Domestic Violence.

Maybe as an abuser, maybe as the abused - although chances are you won’t recognize yourself in either of those roles for a very, very long time. If ever.

And then there is the rest of us.

The watchers.

As men, we are repulsed and angry. We cannot understand the cowardliness that would allow you to hit a woman. We cannot fathom bullying. We simply cannot imagine how you cannot look at her and want to protect her, not only because it is right but because that is your job.

As women, we cannot understand what the hell could make you so blind. We cannot fathom why you would try to make excuses. We simply cannot imagine ever walking in your shoes, and not walking away.

I have been among The Watchers more than once in my life. I have watched as someone I love was broken down either emotionally or physically. I have clung to them when they called for me, desperately reaching for a way out. I have conspired and plotted and planned and organized with them.

And I have stood by helplessly when they went back.

I’ve listened to the explanations. About how there isn’t another way. About how they really aren’t that bad. About how, “I really brought it on myself in the first place.” About how, if you care about me you will support me no matter what.

Rinse, repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

The thing is, something inside of you dies after awhile. Or at least, it did for me. I could only stand to be The Watcher for so long before I had to shut myself off from it.

I wanted so desperately to help. And I did, I did help!

And it didn’t matter. And it wasn’t enough.

And it would never, ever be enough.

Somewhere along the way, my compassion was replaced with anger. And resentment. And bitterness. My pity and fear and sympathy and worry were replaced with contempt. The helplessness I felt from not being able to help was too much, and I had to turn my focus toward the fact that they didn’t want to help themselves anyway. I could no longer offer understanding, because it was safer for me to think of them as weak.

When I hear about your common place, garden variety Domestic Violence now (you know, the stuff that doesn’t make the news, or the court papers, but that any rational person knows shouldn’t happen), my whole face gets hot. I can feel the anger and the bitterness rising from the pit of my stomach up through the back of my throat.

I want to scream at society for letting this crap happen. I want to close my eyes tight enough that I can pretend that things are not still this way. I want to push it all away, far away from me so that I can no longer be touched by that world.

I want to shake the shit out of the woman who stays. I want to shake her so hard that she hears me, that she sees how much pain this causes everyone!

I want to shut off the part of me that hurts.

I know it’s not the expected response. I know it’s selfish. And unfair. And unkind. I know I’m supposed to run to the aid of The Victim.

But what I see is The Watchers. The Rescuers. The White Knights who are running so boldly into the fray, smack dab into the middle of a battle that I already know will wound them.

It’s them that I want to hold. It’s them that I want to warn. I want to tell them to run away. To give up now before their hearts are permanently hardened. I want to tell them to guard their compassion, to save up their sympathy, because it will leave them feeling empty and defeated and helpless.

And I want so badly to be able to tell them how to help.

I know the numbers for the Domestic Violence hotlines. I know the classic signs and patterns: isolation, belittling, erosion of self esteem, abuse, remorse, forgiveness.

But there is no number for the watchers. There is no Guide For Helping Those That Do Not Want To Be Helped. There is no healing potion for Granting Sight To Those Who Cannot See. There is no network to heal the failed healers.

And Oh God, there should be.

My mind cannot allow more than a fleeting fantasy of the abused finally breaking free. That is a disappointment I simply cannot survive again. But my heart still allows itself to ache for those I see just beginning on the path of supporter. My instinct is to warn them, to caution them that their efforts will be futile. The overwhelming urge now is no longer to create an escape for the victim, but to shield the rescuer from the cycle. The same cycle that they’re trying to fight, that sucks them in just the same.

That’s the thing about Domestic Abuse. It’s a cycle and it spins in an ever widening circle, sucking more and more victims into the spiral.

The abuser.

The abused.

The child who survives fear with contempt.

The friend who internalizes the inability to help.

The onlooker who cannot understand why you continue to “bother”.

And once you’re in the spiral, it seems like it is impossible to reverse the direction of the spin. The only way to save yourself is to get out. To stay out. To put distance between yourself and the life threatening suction that threatens to swallow you whole. Again.

All I can say is to the abused, get out. It will never get better. It will get worse. And I hope and pray that someday you see that.

But to the others, to The Watchers, I offer you my utmost respect. And compassion. And a secret desire that you will be able to do what I never could.

—————————————————————-

* There are actually tips for helping someone here.

*And The Number For The National Domestic Violence Helpline is:

1-800-799-SAFE

Just, you know, in case…

Or is it, 102?

What do you call it when you’ve taken the beginner’s course and our moving on in difficulty?

ANYway, I should just call it “Part 3987 in Britt’s Quest To Not Be An Asshole.”

Oh. Heh. Sorry. I’ll explain…

It seems that I am, by nature, a judgey person. It is my natural inclination to look at a person/situation/decision and instantly be able to stick it in a box of Good, Bad, or Completely Fucked Up. For the first twenty some years of my life, a healthy majority of people/situations/decisions found themselves in one of the last two.

I was basically convinced that if you did something “wrong” or “stupid”, it was your fault and therefore you deserved no compassion or empathy. Suck it up, take responsibility and don’t do that shit again.

I know, I know.

Enter… Life. And my own fuck up’s. And bad decisions. And glaring personality flaws that created my very own messes. And a ginormous lesson in humility served with a steaming side of Bite Your Tongue and Eat Your Words, Bitch.

Over the last year or two, I think - or I hope - I’ve gotten a lot better with the “well, you’re a fuck up” mentality. I’ve learned to see people as a compilation of their experiences and decisions - good, bad, or otherwise - and that most importantly, not everything fits into one of the Three Boxes. Some things - most things, I think - end up in a ginormous canyon called Doing The Very Best I Can With What I’ve Got. (I’ve also discovered a new box called Meh, Whatever, Not My Problem So I Just Don’t Give A Shit One Way Or The Other. This box, however, is slower to fill.)

I have been feeling pretty happy with my progress in Judging 101. Thou shalt not judge fuck ups as “fuck ups”. Check.

Enter… that dirty whore, again. Life.

Recently, I have found myself meeting a whole new group of people that I am having a very, very hard time NOT judging. They are the anti-fuck ups. The people who planned their lives, jumped on the track, and began steadily checking off goals and accomplishments in a timely manner.

They are accomplished. And refined. And… fuck I’m running out of nice words. Boring as fuck is what I really want to say. And, honestly, a little fucking spoiled. Imagining a conversation with a group of them makes my upper lip hurt just thinking about it.

These are the people who have never had anything go wrong. Ever. The biggest thing they have to worry about is… well… I really can’t think of a single nice way to end that sentence. They are the people you imagine have never shopped at a Wal-Mart, or a Target, or an Old Navy. They’ve never been embarrassed or a disappointment. They don’t even know government cheese exists.

They are, ironically, living the life that I so desperately imagined for myself when I was eating government cheese. I was absolutely sure this is what I wanted for myself when I grew up.

But that’s not my life. I got pregnant early, I had disappointments, I had businesses go bust and jobs vanish over night. I’ve fallen in a hole and dug myself out - twice. I’ve had fights with my husband, vowed to never speak to my mother, and lost more fathers than I care to think about. I’ve been to a funeral where the immediate family was escorted in through the back in handcuffs.

Granted, these are not all great tragedies or traumas in my life, and I have had AMAZING things happen to me over the last *grumpletwentysomethinggrumble* years. Please do not mistake this for “Oh mah GOD my life has been so HARD but look at me I have GROWN!” Because it’s not. My life is no better or worse than what I have always assumed was pretty much everyone else’s average life. Shit happens. Good, bad, whatever.

But my point is that THAT… all of that… has helped make me into who I am. Shit, no, it’s not even anything as airy-fairy as that. It’s just… it’s LIFE. REAL fucking life. It gives me a personality, stories to tell, a sense of humor, a heart. It makes me HUMAN for God’s sake.

But these people? Well… I’m having trouble seeing them as real, fleshed out people. They just look like flat caricatures, like those life-sized decals you can stick to your wall. I see people walking around living in a fantasy world, where nothing is every messy or inconvenient. You get up, you do the right thing, you enjoy the nice benefits, you move up the ladder and that’s it. Everything just so.

They’re like… drone people. Or something.

See? Judgey. Horrible, horrible judginess.

*sigh*

The thing is, they AREN’T living in a fantasy. I know this, logically. They really and truly are living THEIR lives, just the same as I’m living mine. It’s just… different… right?

And what’s the alternative? To wish character building hardships on someone so they are more interesting at parties? That doesn’t seem right either, does it? Why can’t I just say “oh wow, that is awesome! Yay for YOU!” without attaching all kinds of sentiments like “boring” and “shallow” and “pretentious”?

*sigh*

My mom sent me a text message yesterday. Actually, a series of them. Her motherly advice was:

“u just have to let other people be their own queer selves. Think of them like transvestites or nascar freaks or something. U don’t mind having flaming gay friends so be like that about pretentious kid hater friends. U just have an eclectic collection.”

(Seriously, the woman will spell out eclectic collection but not “you”. WTF?)

I think, maybe, she’s got a point.

I also think, maybe, this could be the post that finally incites hate mail.

Before I starting throwing a fit, I should tell you that I am light and funny today over at The ‘Stache.  And whether you stick around to read this shit or not, you should definitely go over there to comment.

Now, the shit…

You know how people say you shouldn’t talk about politics or religion on your blog? (Unless, of course, you are a political or religious blogger, in which case you should not talk about your vagina I think)

Well today I break that rule. Because I’m a rebel.

Today I also break another rule - linking to a post that pissed me off and not just keeping my damn mouth shut in an effort to avoid finding myself in the middle of blog drama. Whether or not this lands me in the middle of some deep shit remains to be seen, but I am sooooo tired of keeping my mouth shut about shit like this.

So - post in question: Taking The Christ Out Of Christian

Now, initially this post seems to be a commentary on a recent report released by the Vatican, and the fact that the current Pope can be a little… ahem… “exclusive”. Fine. Whatever. Don’t agree with the Pope, think he’s being an ass, whatever. When that man opens his mouth someone is bound to get pissed off and I can think of very few instances where I would take that personally.

However (and I cannot believe I am getting ready to actually quote another blogger, I feel like a 12 year old, seriously) what has inspired this post is this specific paragraph:

“This shit just makes me sad. People really believe that old dude has some kind of up close and personal with God. People really believe that only they are true believers and only they will go to heaven, be saved wtfever. ‘Course, Catholics™ also think that saying 100 Hail Marys (because a priest-in-a-box told them to) will absolve them of that extra-marital affair. Fucking morons. Don’t forget the crucifixes and statues…they don’t fall under that silly graven image thing.”

For those of you keeping track, I am Catholic. Therefore, by definition apparently, I’m a “fucking moron”.

And you know what? Even THAT doesn’t piss me off. If you are honestly so baffled or disgusted by a school of thought that you can reduce your opinion of an entire faith and all of it’s followers to being “fucking morons” - yay for you. I don’t need you to pat me on the head and tell me how smart I am and how much you agree with me - especially when it comes to matters of personal belief. You have your views, I’ll have mine - and we can both think the other is retarded. Hell, we don’t even have to be nice about it or quietly agree to disagree over martinis. People disagree, sometimes passionately.

But… BUT… if you are going to personally insult me based on my beliefs, at least take the fucking TIME to understand exactly what it is you are bashing, lest you grossly misrepresent what the hell it is you are opposing in the first place.

I am so, so, SO tired of hearing Catholics slammed based on FALSE information and assumptions. So, please, allow me to fucking edumacate you on WHAT exactly it is you profess to have so much disdain for

*disclaimer - this is, obviously, Catholicism according to Miss Britt. I may not have the credibility of the Pope, but as an actual practicing Catholic I would like to think I have more credibility than your average dimwit hate monger. Also, this is not directed at only Miss Ann & her post, but at the constant shit I hear being spouted as “what Catholics believe” all the damn time.

Anyway. Let’s start with the common misconceptions, shall we?

“People really believe that old dude has some kind of up close and personal with God.” Um, yeah. Catholics do believe that the Pope has an up close and personal relationship with God. We also believe that you, me, and that guy who picks his nose in his car have an up close and personal relationship with God.

What? You thought because we have things like Apostolic succession and priests and OMG rules! and authority! that that means that we don’t personally have a relationship with God?

That’s crap. We believe that for The Church - an organization that spans 2,000 years and millions of members across the world - that leadership and authority is important. We believe that a hierarchy from Big Guy In Rome to Little Priest In Small Town Iowa is important, for very practical reasons.

Oh, and we do not believe that everything the Pope says is infallible. This is a pretty common misconception. The Pope is still human - to be revered, but not worshipped. We DO believe that God has his hand on The Church, guiding the leadership process, etc. And there are certain things that the Pope will say came - basically - right from God (and btw, this is MUCH more rare than people seem to realize. In fact, I dare say more rare than the US President claiming infallibility via God). I can see how some people would have a problem with that concept. Although I don’t think it should be a stretch for Christians who believe that Bible is God’s Word - inspired text. Infallible statements from the Pope? Same thing, basically. Messages from God - not a uniquely Catholic conept.

ANYway, moving on.

“People really believe that only they are true believers and only they will go to heaven, be saved wtfever.” Um, no. This is so NOT Catholic it’s not even funny.

We don’t go to Mass to get to heaven. We don’t receive the Eucharist (aka Communion) to go to Heaven. We don’t even go to confession to get to heaven. These things are designed either because it was a specific request from Jesus (Commnion: “do this in memory of me”) or because it enhances our relationship with God and with the Church. You don’t obey your parents to get their love, or to be allowed in the house. You do it out of love and respect.

Catholics believe, basically, the same thing most Christians do regarding “salvation” and “Heaven”. You have to believe in Jesus as the Messiah - and being baptized is kind of a big deal in showing that belief. And even THAT has a little grey area because - well, ultimately, it’s up to GOD.

And furthermore, what I have always been told is that the official Church stance on heaven and hell - and who is or is not there or will or will not be there - is that the Church is not the official word on that. God is.

To be clear: you do not have to be Catholic to go to Heaven. Nor is being Catholic a Get Into Heaven Free Card.

‘Course, Catholics™ also think that saying 100 Hail Marys (because a priest-in-a-box told them to) will absolve them of that extra-marital affair. Again, no. A common misconception - but a gross misunderstanding none the less.

Catholics believe you are absolved of your sin because Jesus died on the cross in order for you to be forgiven. We go to Confession because it is incredibly healing to have someone - a real, live, talking person - verbalize that for you. It’s an act of accountability - to say out loud that you have sinned, and say that you’re sorry, and that you want to be forgiven. It is a way to actively receive the forgiveness we are taught about in the Bible. The priest delivers absolution because of what the scripture says to Peter (the first Pope/priest basically) about “whatever you loose on Earth shall be loosed in Heaven.”

Hail Mary’s and what not? Not part of the absolution, for the record. Those are actually called “penance” - a way for you to avoid going “um, shit, yeah, I know, I’m sorry - but whatever, you’re going to forgive me not matter what anyway, right?” It’s a way to show true remorse and regret and a genuine desire to do better. Your forgiveness is not contingent on your penance.

Don’t forget the crucifixes and statues…they don’t fall under that silly graven image thing. Well, shit, if they do then I strongly suggest anyone trying to be a “good Commandment following, Bible quoting Christian” take down any pictures they have in their house of loved ones. It better be All God, All The Time. Seriously.

Why is it so fucking hard for people to understand the difference between reverence and love and WORSHIP?? I love my mother, adore her even. Same with my dead grandmother. And you know what? I have mementos reminding me of those relationships all over my damn house! I feel the same way about The Virgin Mary - I have a serious affection for the woman who carried, birthed and raised a man I consider to be Divinity Incarnate. I figure if she’s good enough for Jesus to love as a mother, she’s good enough for me to show a little respect for.

The thing is, Catholicism is really not that different from other forms of Christianity. And do you know WHY?? Because that’s where they all fucking CAME FROM!

I know, I know. It’s not cool to be all superior and “we came first” and blah blah blah. But that’s not arrogance people, that’s history. When shit went down during The Reformation and there was corruption and discent and disagreement (as you will have in ANY human institution), some people decided they could go their own way, start their own groups, and do it better.

And some of us? Decided that while the people may being screwing things up and the practices and traditions might have gone wayyyyyy off course - the ideas and principles and FAITH that the Church was founded on were still valid. And worth sticking with and fighting for.

It’s the same decision many of us make today - whether we disagree with the current Pope, or the Church’s stance on abortion, or gay marriage, or treatment of women or whatEVER… we are still a family. With roots we can trace all the way back to Peter and Jesus himself. The building blocks of the faith have not changed. Like any family, we will fight and bicker and continue to try to hammer things out amongst ourselves. But we remain united in the constants, the core principles that are sadly misconstrued but that ultimately define who we are and what we believe.

In summary (because I was told I should summarize this long ass, rambling post) - I am Catholic. I sin all the damn time and I am still very, very Catholic. I disagree with things the Pope says, I understand that Priests Are People Too and I don’t worship statues of Mary or Joseph or Nana. Confession is something I do to soothe my own soul and draw me closer to God, not to bribe my way into Heaven. I pray with beads because I want to, not because I think not using them will cause eternal damnation. I hate broad sweeping statements borne of ignorance and arrogance. Especially when those statements are supposed to be a representation of what I believe and fall so far off base it’s down right insulting.

And also, I drink a little. Sometimes.

Now, if you’d like to slam THAT… be my guest.

OK, so I’m feeling a little guilty this morning.

Contrary to Sunday’s elaborate web of posts here, here, here and here… Avitable is NOT having a baby.  Nor is his wife.  Right now.

You see, Amy and I have been the victim of a few Avitable pranks in the past.  And after one such prank that involved questioning the sexual activity of Amy’s oldest child… well… we decided it was time for a little tit for tat revenge.  (And by “we”, I’m pretty sure I mean to imply that the idea was all Amy’s initially.  Which totally has to count for something, right?)

Avitable does not have kids.  Avitable does not, currently, have any desire to have kids.  Amy and I?  Think that everyone should know the horrors share in the joy of parenthood.  Especially that little bastard.  So you could say we’ve been giving him a bit of a hard time about his DINK status lately (that’s dual-income-no-kids).  You know, because people who have kids are automatically older and wiser and “get” life so much better than people who don’t.  Right?

ANYway.  At one point we thought it would be the ultimate payback if somehow we could get Avitable’s wife knocked up.  Unfortunately, his wife is careful about what she drinks and despite numerous slips of the roofies, our operatives were not able to carry that plan out.

Next best thing - attack his blog.  I mean shit, being pregnant on the Internet is pretty much the same thing, right??

So.  We planned.  We plotted.  We studied his sentence structure and the casual way in which he and his wife communicated with one another.  We took note of what time he normally posted and when he went to bed… leaving his blog ungaurded and vulnerible.  It was the perfect plan…

And on Sunday at about 1:30 in the morning, all that planning finally came to a head!  Wonderfully!  Masterfully!  We hooted and hollered and e-slapped each other on the back for a job well done!

And then YOU people ran over there and gushed your support.

Damn.  You were all so encouraging.  And heart warming.  And… fuck… sincere.

Suddenly the ultimate prank on Avitable started to feel like this cruel scheme against you all, the kind, loving and INNOCENT people of the Internet.  We were toying with your emotions.  We were playing too close to home.  We were setting you up for a rollercoaster ride we knew would end badly.

It was like that guy I dated during Prom Season all over again.

So, um, sorry.  I completely underestimated 1) how believable our little prank would end up being (genius!!  genius!!) and 2) your amazing capacity for awesomeness.

Shame on me.  Bad, bad, Britt.

If only I could figure out how to use my powers for profit.  Er, good.  I meant good, I swear.

Because evil or not… that son of a bitch was a logistical MASTERPIECE!!!!

Dear God,

Uncle.

Seriously.

The last few months?  Have really kind of sucked.  And yesterday?  Between the car dying, the drain backing up, and someone eating my left over stir fry… well, I just don’t have it left in me to get up early enough to fix my blog.

Listen Lord, I know I’ve got some bad karma coming my way.  I know.  But isn’t the whole point of me, and you, and me and you talking and stuff supposed to be that I don’t get what I deserve?  Please GOD tell me that’s how this ends or I am so, so, screwed.

ANYway.  God?  I need a miracle.  Well, not even a miracle.  Something wonderful.  Something big and great and a hell of a break and just gooood.  Ya know?  And not like “oooh, 50 cents off coffee today” good.

Let’s be honest God, I’d really appreciate if you could sell my house. Like… now.  Please.

And also?  Fix my blog.

xoxoxo,

Britt

P.S. Actually God, this is more to the Readers than to you.  I know you already know about this being All Knowing and what-not.  Anyhoo - readers - Amy and I faceoff.  Check it out.

I’m not doing this as private because I need to say this and somehow by having it off of my chest and out there where anyone can read it, it will lighten my load just a bit. For some of you men boys, this might be TMI. Tough shit. Man up and grow a pair, or go away and come back tomorrow.

ANYway… most people don’t realize that in the midwest, there can sometimes be very little to do here. You can drink, grow pot, smoke, have sex, and knit. That’s about it. And when you’re a young teenage girl with a raging libido, a cheerleader, a “hottie” (as declared by others, not self proclaimed thankyouverymuch), you get bored. Really. Easily.

When I was 13, I discovered masturbation. It wasn’t like a big deal or something that was monumentous or anything, just a realization that certain motions felt really goooood. And so (sigh) it became a bit of a ritual that when the boredom became too much, too soul-crushing, too oppressive, I would masturbate.

At first it was the basics - sitting on the dryer, riding horses, sitting on the edge of the couch. But pretty soon, it became an obsession. I was humping anything and everything I could find.

I know, this is horrifying shit. But it gets worse, and this is why I have to share it. Adn you don’t judge me and I won’t judge you.

I wasn’t ready to have real sex yet because I’m Catholic and did not want to go to hell. But I needed a release - something to keep me from exploding with what I thought was something amazing and now just know it was hormones. So I started experimenting with vegetables and toothbrushes and plunger handles and showerheads. Everything seemed to push off the urge for abit longer, but it got harder to deal with. I needed to move on from vegetables, and not just because my famliy was trying to figure out why the carrots were disappearing.

So… and this is harder for me to write than anything else I’ve ever written. I swear to GOD that if you or you pull any of your typical shit I wll never speak to you. Ever. Again.

So… one night, alone in my bedroom, feeling the waves of heat over me because I could not handle this fucking feeling any longer, I got out of bed, opened the door and whistled. And our dog, a black Labrador named Labby, came into my room. And I closed my eyes, spread my legs and had sex with him. It was the only time it happened, and it has hung like a shadow over my head ever since.

While cleaning out my house, I found my old diary (which is why I had to dredge up this old shit on top of everything else I’ve been thinking about), and the page from the morning after I did this, speaks more volumes than I could do right now. I’m going to share it here, and I hope that it helps me lift this weight. Doesn’t feel that way, though…

When I was in high school my dad used to preach at me about not letting my gas tank run completely out.  And I always did.  I always pushed it wayyy to close to the line and coasted into the station on fumes.

And then one day, on the side of the road, the car just refused to go.  No fumes.  No nothing.  Done.  I had to call my dad and while he bitched at me for the entire half hour it took to come get me, he came, filled me up and thank God my fuel pump was OK.  Because apparently, I could have “ruined the entire fucking engine!! and do you have any IDEA how lucky you are!?!?!”

I’m on the side of the road again.  On empty.  Beyond E, actually.

Except now I don’t know who to call.  And if they came, I’m not sure the fuel pump wouldn’t be broken.  I’m afraid I just may be “ruining the entire fucking thing” because I just. can’t. go.  I’ve got no more gas left to give.

I used to get run down and need a little break.  I used to come home from work and need an hour - maybe even two - of quiet time and veg time in front of the TV.  I used to go outside and have a cigarette when I needed to decompress for a minute or two.  I used to, once in a while, have a girl’s night out to just “get away” and “recharge”.

I used to coast in on fumes just in time for a fill up, and that used to work.

But I am so empty now it hurts.  I am too empty to make it to the station.  I cannot give anymore.  I just. can’t.

And my poor husband.  I don’t have it in me right now to nurture him.  I don’t have it in me to comfort him and reassure him and explain to him that I’m not leaving… for good.  It’s like an out of body experience where I can SEE what he needs from me… bu I just. can’t.  I don’t want to.  I don’t want to try and work and save my marriage right now.  I just don’t want to try that hard on anyone else but me.

Me.  Just me.  That’s all I want to handle.  My needs.  My wants.  My whims and urges and fantasies.  What do I want to do?  Where do I want to go?  What do I want to spend the rest of MY life doing?  Or just, for the love of God, the rest of MY night?

Me.

No doctor’s or dentist’s or lunch money or pictures.  No conferences or training wheels or potty training or speech therapists.  No chore lists or bed time stories or bath times or teeth brushing.  Unless, you know, I want to… for a bit.

No cat vomit.  No laundry.  No dishes or counters or floors.  No pee on the foot of the toilet.  No linens that haven’t been changed.  No storage room that needs to be organized or taxes that need to be filed.  No budgets to write, no bills to pay, no deposits to make or registers to balance.

Just. no.

No. more.

I’m sitting here, on the side of the road, at that space behind the E.  And I’m scared to death that I may ruin everything - my marriage, my family, my life… because I can’t see past a primal instinct to cut and run and leave the fucker sit on the side of the road while I sprint to an oasis.  I have this overwhelming urge to leave them all behind while I try desperately to satisfy my own immediate wants and needs.

Me. me. me. Just….. me….