Don’t Get too Close! She’s Bitey

This week has been particularly difficult.

The nicotine patches have been greatly missed, to the point where I can’t leave the house for fear of strangling some random idiot who’s riding their fucking bike on the sidewalk.  That’s just an example; I can’t deal with people doing anything even remotely people-like.

Sigh, I also can’t stay at home because it’s boring me to tears, even with all the pot I’ve been smoking.

I’ve taken to hand-sewing things just to have something to do.  I sewed some circles onto some patches that are becoming a patchwork skirt.  Ugly hippie crap, but it’s something that I can do with my hands that doesn’t include eating.

Which I’ve also been doing excessively.  I went away to visit my family last week, and when I came back, I could no longer fit into any of my pants.  I’ve spent the past five days either muffin-topping or wearing dresses, which are far more merciful to my current predicament.

And today I woke up to a bleeding nose.

And a bleeding uterus, which came complete with some badass cramps who refuse to give in to painkillers, even though I’ve ingested enough to kill a small village of elephants.  Or at least enough to make writing extremely difficult and time consuming.

I hate this week!

Fucking nicotine addiction and subsequent withdrawal.

Fucking fertility and ensuing physical pain.

Do I ever need a hug and a punching bag.  Preferably from someone who knows how to shut up and take a hit.

Body Works

Today is the day that I stop using a nicotine patch.

It was supposed to be last week, but I wanted to put some distance between my withdrawal and the brunch eaters of Toronto.

As it stands, I don’t have very much planned for today, other than to avoid the public at all costs.  The public will just fuel my rage, as they are wont to do.

So screw you General Public, and screw you nicotine.  In a few days, I’ll be finally and fully rid of that pesky addiction and will only have to worry about my weight, my dietary needs vs.wants, my love life, my income, my outlook, my new bonsai plant (Manley the Plant), my productivity, my exercise regime, my graying hair, my wrinkling face, my celluliting thighs, my worsening bunion, my busted mattress, my waning dreams and the general public.

Tuning Forks

Isn’t it strange to look frankly at oneself and to realize that this is life?

It never becomes anything, it just is.  Circumstances and environment will change, but I will always be me and this life will always be mine, until I die.  There is no more “when I grow up,” no more big life changes until menopause or the death(s) of loved ones.

In the mean time, I wonder if I should have made different decisions along the way.  School, workforce, love, travel, art – were there any right or wrong choices, or were they all merely choices?  Indiscriminate forks in the road, none of which pointed to a gilded castle?  Or maybe all of the paths pointed to wealth and love and diligent housekeepers, except for the one I chose?

Am I doing right by myself?

Are you?

Earl of Delicious

I really want a sandwich.  I haven’t had one in such a long time, I can’t even remember the last time I had one.

Oh, it was Thursday.

Still, I really want a sandwich.  They keep eating them on Six Feet Under, which I’ve been watching endlessly.  Deli turkey, deli sliced cheese, both mustard and mayonnaise (I don’t even like mayonnaise, but I want it on this sandwich), and some lettuce, too.  The bread isn’t toasted, just soft and whole wheat.

Or maybe roast beef.  On a soft kaiser, with cheese and gravy melted all over everything.  A dollop of horseradish on the side.  I’d totally eat that one with a knife and fork.

Hell, I’ll take anything.  So long as it’s something homemade.

With a pickle.

And a can of really cold rootbeer.

WTF?!?

Great. 

Some twit in Michigan with MY FUCKING NAME just got arrested for diddling a teenage boy.

Jesus, you dumb cow, there are adult men who will fuck a tree stump.  Stick with them (whoops, no pun intended), and stop besmirching my name and business.

And to all the other Amie Scotts out there: Please try to keep it together.  Sex with consenting adults only, pay your traffic tickets and don’t go on a shooting spree.

Charles Ingalls the Plant

This morning, I found a bonsai tree on my desk.  A Miniature Jade, to be precise.

I have just now read its instructions, watered it and put it on top of the television, where the cats don’t tread.  I will think of a name later.

In the past, we always named our plants after action movie heroes.  Kurt Russell the Plant, Jean Claude Van Damme the Plant, and obviously, Chuck Norris the Plant.  None of these action packed flora were able to survive our two ill mannered cats, who can’t seem to control themselves around fresh greenery.

I hope that a better fate will be granted to this newest member of the Oakley/Scott residence.

Maybe I just won’t name it after an action hero.

Shake Hands with the Devil and Pick his Pocket, Too

There comes a time in every artist’s career where they have to make a decision that involves personal aesthetic vs. money.

I made mine: fucking cold hard cash.  Without even blinking an eye.

It was an easier decision for me than it would be for others; fashion design isn’t exactly an outlet for my deepest passions or anything like that.  And if I get the opportunity to make ugly shit for cash, then I’ll do it.

Truth be told, fashion design is, in and of itself, a sell-out decision on my part.  I used to paint, and wanted to do something practical that would theoretically make money.  Which it does.  Theoretically.

Anyway, what I’m getting at is that I have no qualms whatsoever making horrible 80s inspired remade vintage so long as it brings in money.  Which it should.  Theoretically.

Fingers crossed.

Are There Pills for This Kind of Thing?

Sometimes I still dream about the last two men I dated.

Reconciliatory dreams, where the old hurts are forgotten, and we’ve started anew.

These dreams suck.  I wake up feeling like I’ve been held hostage by my malicious subconscious.

Maybe they occur because I haven’t met anyone who I’ve liked nearly as much as the last two men I dated (I stopped making any kind of effort months ago).  Or maybe it’s because my brain is not satisfied with how things ended with either of these men.  Hell, maybe it’s just my mind telling me to lay off the sewing for a couple hours and at least pretend to try to get laid.

Whatever the reason, these dreams are nothing more than torture for the lonely lady.

Taking Donations

I need a new mattress for my bed.

I’ve had this one for about ten years now. It has seen me through three different apartments.

It has hosted countless drunk and/or stoned friends, only nine lovers, a bout of basement mold and my own restless ass.

It makes my back ache and my heart, too, when I lay too long on it alone.

It is torn in a couple of spots, and still warped in others from my ex-boyfriend’s body.

It is stained with semen, blood, sweat, tears and old nightmares that I cannot forget.

Don’t get me wrong, body fluids aside, I have no emotional attachment to this mattress.  I’d love to replace it, if only I had the funds available to do so.  Do you think I enjoy sleeping night after night with the ghosts of my romantic failures?  Not to mention the ghosts of my ex-boyfriend’s old farts?

I need a new mattress; I think it would make my back hurt less.

Quilts n’ Crevices n’ Cussin’ Galore

Fine lines.

It seems like every time I look in the mirror, there are even more fine lines on my face than before.  They are now spreading beyond the boundaries of my eyelids, and heading out to god knows where.  Mexico maybe?

Argh.  How am I ever going to get laid again with these fuckers clogging up my grill?

On an evidently unrelated note, I started making my first quilt yesterday.  I’ve been tossing the quilting idea around in my head for a few months now, and last night I finally decided to just fucking giver.  And giver I did.  It’s a complicated pattern for a beginner, and of course I screwed it up, but that’s okay because it’s still a kickass quilt.  Or it’s going to be kickass, once I finish it.

They’re time consuming as hell.  Which I kind of like.