The Politics of a Break Up on Social Media

Hey guess what I don't feel like doing near 10pm at night?  If you were thinking along the lines of cleaning the cat litter box and perhaps taking a late shower, you win nothing but you are correct.

I am currently listening to Walk the Moon, "Shiver".  But it's making me work for a good flow of the video.  I had to caress F5 in order to bust the stutter. 

So I previously spoke of the blahness of break ups.  It's pretty sucky to be the executioner.  You know you don't want to be in it anymore and that it was really stressing you out to be in something that made you feel like running outside for air. Only you were outside and there were no more portals to escape to.

I think this one was handled gently.  Sweetly, for an ice pick if you will.  I will say that the two parties involved are both over 40 years old.  So today, regardless of the subdued and normal text message from the ex reminding me that one of my shows was on last night (I saw it this morning so I'm going to sweet talk On Demand and hope that it is there) and a benign Grumpy Cat posting on my Facebook Wall, there was a group session on his.  Mind you we have some mutual friends.  His mother is also my "friend", as my oldest daughter and my mother is his. 

IMHO, how not to handle break ups ever on social media.  Bringing them up in any sort of detail.  I chose to hide my relationship status for now hoping to avoid drama or a sudden small number of emails from men who suddenly realize that I'm single.  Because it happens.  Guys you never hear from Suddenly think to ask you how you are doing once they smell the L'homme cologne has worn off.  So for a number of reasons, I prefer to go the candle fade out route instead of the instant snuff when it comes to the public.  

I give everyone their need to express grief and receive comfort.  But as half of this former relationship, have I grown a sac, cut it off and handed it over?  Don't I have some right to privacy here?

My ex decided to grief quite publicly, in a thank you post to All who had called him to check on him.  After he posted three 80's metal break up songs - Love Stinks (Adam Sandler), Bringing on the Heartbreak and Cinderella - Don't Know What You Got Til It's Gone.  I mean really. Was this necessary?  Why not just send a skinned piglet with a lit M-80 in it's mouth to my job?

So after all the sympathy and helpful friend things that people say, all that I could think was....I'M STILL HERE.  It's like I'm IN THE ROOM.  He didn't unfriend me and well, I can SEE that shit.  So I mentioned this to him - that maybe he should consider just unfriending me if he would like to feel free to post these things.   He said no.  He said he would just stop.  And.  Sorry.  

Well after someone burns your house down and turns to you and says "Sorry." it doesn't un-ash the place. What's done is done.

I also know that if I have something really personal to say to my mom, I would private message her. Except that she doesn't know how to get to it on Facebook still.  She still posts things that people would prefer that she didn't directly on YOUR wall.  Or someone else's wall while trying to get to you.  It's cute because she's my mom.  But no one wants that. My brother has messaged me asking questions about her strange postings...."Is mom okay?  Maybe she hit the wine early?"  So then I am forced to email my mother or call her.

The ex directly posted onto his mother's wall that she may not see him smiling for a bit but it was better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.  Ugh.  He is being a bad version (and not the Christmas specials version that I was addicted to for a moment last year) of Hallmark for today and I know I sound like the Grinch -  if he had to break it off with someone - but I'm not even famous and I can't deal with that sort of attention.  

It makes me just want to clean a litterbox.  So I am going to act on that impulse.

Lord of the Ringless

A quiet evening, listening to The Big Broadcast.  With the TV on, set to Lord of the Rings.  The fight scene is so loud in this movie that I'm sure I'll have to unplug the set in order not to hear it at all.

So not that I really mentioned in in the last two months but I had been dating Someone.  He was pretty nice to me...bent over backwards many times to try and make me happy with him.  It was reminiscent of Eddie Murphy's "Coming to America".  The scene where his parental chosen bride to be tells him that she likes whatever he likes.  Whatever makes him happy makes her happy.  Until at last he strolls out of the room post command issuing her to hop on one foot and bark like a dog.  The image haunts me.  I think I've seen it in dude form.  

While I completely appreciate the sentiment in this, I also recall a guy that I was with who was quite agreeable, but always had his own ideas.  When I'd show up to visit him he would have the plans loosely laid out.  And they were always perfect.  

The two month man of late is someone that I knew about twenty years ago and had issued a respectable No Thank You to back then after one date.  On the first date this time, he counter issued the same request.  Would I, could I act too quick?  Would I, could I get in thick?  Well, I said no again.  Clearly though, he had the instructions to the manual that gives away the shortcuts.  His response got under my skin and although I said that I wasn't ready, I gave in.  

I don't know about any of you guys but there isn't anything hotter than someone agreeing to be with you with the following words - "I'll try."

I woke up the very next morning with a Costco sized vat of dread and anxiety.  What had I done?  I wasn't ready for this.  Or maybe Cinderella just tried to squeeze into a slightly smaller shoe, being told that it is supposed to fit that way.  It took about a week for the dread feeling to go away - that's a shitload of self pep talks and convincing myself that now I was with a good person and that I shouldn't push someone away out of fear.  

But how does a person know when it is fear and when it is intuition based?  I think it is obvious that if I woke up with dread and not a refreshed sense of Spring blooming in my veins, then that was clearly a red flag.  So instead I rebelled against my own self, deciding that I don't know what's best, I will just go with this.

Until I start cringing every time the phone rings.  Until I don't want to hear certain phrases because it requires a response that I do not own.

Let's be real though.  This Someone wasn't perfect.  And I'm aware that Yours Truly is missing that gene as well.   These are a couple of nitpicky things that are easily gotten past really.  I walked into his house once to find a used Crisco slathered TEFLON frying pan just sitting there on the stove.  TEFLON?????  He isn't just a bachelor, he has produced his very own offspring.  He's a dad and he should know better.   When he answered that his daughter drinks 2-4 cans of Arizona iced tea a day, I looked at the ingredients.  High fructose corn syrup.  File under Swiss Chard, because he didn't know what that was either.

These are things he was willing to learn about though, I'm fairly certain.  It doesn't make *my* way better.  Although I do think being health conscientious is a plus.  

There were other things, major red flags, and eventually they got to me.  I started to dread weekends or the other two days of the week that I would have to make plans to spend time together.  Some things were just not on par.  Including conversation.  But if I wanted a nice touch, rubbing my back, playing with my hair or caressing my face, he definitely was awarded a blue ribbon there.

Random:  Having cats means never being able to relax when you have an open drink sitting next to you.  

And so, the time had come to take the yellow brick road backward.  He is still there if I want him to be, which is commendable.  But my earlier statement of not being ready holds.  Again - or he just wasn't the right one.  

So for now, I will leave the social media status as is.  No need to rush out and put it in his face.  

I will now go back to contemplating if I should turn up the television or continue to read lips, while wishing that I had a remote control for my living room door so that I wouldn't have to get up to close it.

I will also try to chip down this newspaper pile by reading.  When not riddled with guilt induced feelings for possibly chipping someone's heart.  

This is Not How to Spring Forward

Oh how I've missed starting my mornings being afraid to get out of bed to see how I *really* feel.  After stepping away from the bourbon for about six days, I decided to rejoice in the Saturdayness that was, and brought out Mr. Meet your Makers.  The end result being me feeling somewhat like garbage this morning.  Not a NYC corner pile on pick up day....just a small office waste bucket really.  But even feeling like a few crumpled pieces of paper or an empty egg and cheese container is still dabbling in the Crap Arts.  It'll be a few hours of self nurture and it will dissipate.  We finally made it to the berry applesauce and I did manage a piece of toast. Right now I'm doing what all folks on Sunday morning who over imbibed would love to do....cook and fill the house with the scent of vanilla pancakes!

My coffee has barely been touched, my water bottle bears a sash that says "How you like me NOW?"

A couple more hours and this will be a funny memory - can't wait!  

In the throes of trying to stomach making my coffee this morning, I stepped on the tiniest chip of glass.  The kind that is disproportionately painful to its actual size.  It was so small that I couldn't grip my fingernails around it to pull it out.  But I noticed something.  Remember when we were kids and would hear people say something to the effect of "How about I stomp on your foot to make you forget your headache"?  There's something to that.  The entire time I worked on getting this tiny piece of Satan out of my foot, I forgot completely about moaning and whining from the hangover.  But as you can tell, it is out now.  

So I am listening to some archived Big Broadcast from WFUV, sitting on a stool and sipping what I hope will be motivation.  Our trip to San Diego and Mesa is in three weeks.  The kid is getting her wicked cough on now, so that should be settled before we go.  We will see one of my very best friends get married and now that I think of it, an alcohol free wedding may not be so bad after all.  

After the wedding, we'll head to Mesa, Arizona to go be with Miz Eye, my oldest and my awesome Grandwolfie.  I made a date last night with the closest thing that I'll have to a son, Grandwolfie's dad, so we can go play DDR and get our Cheers on.  I can't wait.  Because I'm horrible at DDR.  

Humanling and I are so psyched about every aspect of this trip that we're even looking forward to the layover in Chicago for eight hours.  

And so, I must now bribe the Gods to light a good enough fire under my ass so that I may carry on this beautiful Sunday as previously planned, before that 3rd glass of bourbon last night.

Productive in the Eleventh Hour

I'm being a YouTube music whore and thinking about taking this bra off soon.  It's past 9pm and I can tell....the bra and the boobs would like to clock out from each other and take a breather.  

I have 1930s big band playing to my left so that the sickety sick child can sleep to it.  My earbuds are in and attempting to block out the jazz so I can listen to the Moondoggies.  Some sort of evilish cough, wearing a seasonal fever and heavy dose of sleep has decided that my daughter makes for good lodging.   I am hoping when it decides to head back on the road that I won't be a pit stop.  

It snowed all day. From about 6:45am til now.  And it is still going.  Not a flake stuck to the ground.  But at some point by 8:30pm, it started to coat the roads.  Ah.  This is like.  This means I shall work from home tomorrow most likely. I ran out at lunch to buy some throat friendly items for the Humanling. 

Our local grocery store is pretty clean.  I've rarely seen anything there that grossed me out as far as upkeep.  Today I was bitch slapped and then punched up the nose walking past the rest rooms.  I was a good five to six feet away from the doorway that even lead to the bathrooms.  All I know is that I felt violated.  I was breathing in the output of a stranger.  And it was truly vile.

It was so vile that a store employee was even standing outside of the bathrooms....much in the way that the person who heard the screams and called 911 is waiting outside for the cops to arrive.

So as the snow falls, I will continue to catch up on some reading.  There can never be enough reading ever Still taking applications for vampires who are willing to turn me so that I can read for eternity.  

Almost a Post

And so it has been, hasn't it?  A great long while for someone who enjoys her keyboard so very much.  

I am completely uncertain as to where I left off....bidding Dracula adieu, I bid Flip firmly adieu...and am these days with a little less writing time than I'd had.  Not by a lot, but any minus is felt like an avalanche to me.   I've completed Hemingway.  I enjoyed Raisin in the Sun after that.  I picked up A Room of One's Own by Virginia Woolf but haven't gotten past the first chapter as of yet.  

I can say that I had plenty to write about today.  Only my laptop was not in on the play date so it has all been filed in the depths of my mind for now.  This piece exists now just to get the fingers going again instead of copy, paste, reference.  

I had quite the loverly day enjoying delicious food at the Culinary Institute of America.  It was really Humanling's field trip for school but I was lucky enough to accompany her like a body guard to deliver her safe and sound.  She joined her class, I disappeared. Or so I thought.  She did tell me later that she saw me lurking through the halls and hanging out by gazebo taking pictures.  So yeah. She saw me.  

And I saw many desserts.  And cookbooks.  And wished for about ten minutes that my parents were Chef Gorden Ramsey.  

Tonight though, the restless and aggressive wind.  The cat wanting to brush up against my water bottle, no matter what side of the laptop it is on.  And then wishing evil on me because I haven't sprouted that third hand to pet her with as I type.  

The Rogue 3rd Experiment

Writing Experiment #3 from the inspirational notes of Dead Can Dance - "Agape".  

For Jeff's version, go Here.  

Her ~  whirls her hips in motions only when the soul abandons ego

smooth wooden train tracks with extra curve segments in which to keep the maze continuous

kinetic between offerings of potential

incense picks up every note from the floor up, carrying all for the offering 

as high as a stream may go before splitting off into ribbons of goulash

Eyes shining with an impenetrable completeness, thereby confiding a steely nothing

while she pulled the translucent scarf delicately and deliberately

over her lips

He ~  has a mind only for the table at this moment

sweat decorates his forehead, receiving the gift of color 

from the enchanted lights and reflecting it back

in a million tiny hairpin fractures of illuminance

a weakness for the color of the Rocky Mountain sky

causes his gaze to flinch - split a second into 50 - unnoticed by other

minds of the table, those who not so much shake hands 

but hold them to keep occupation

for idle hands may change feet into the wings of Icarus

in case of a synapse gone glorified

A plummage of smoke exits, orderly from his lips

drifting to mingle with the incense; an odiferous union

He won’t be enraptured by this boiling, fierce scarf;

so tender, a butterfly would hold it prisoner to the ground

But he is.

Her ~ whispers and the heat of breath are close

would she acquiesce?

She sees him in the most undisclosed hamlets of her mind

for months, her breast rises and falls quickly, sudden inhalations

deep, her mind eventually fading off to a calm, light rest before awakening

and then she remembers

Yes

Him ~ The tinkling of beads as they fall into one another, strung from the ceiling

applauds behind him as he is led to her delicious prophecy

the buttons glide slowly, coaxed by gentle, warm fingertips

Rocky Mountain Skies lean above him, as he lies down

his breath, long and deep, reeks of dishonor and weakness

Her ~ standing behind his pillow cradled head

flexibly bends forward, tiny thin medallions moving in unison

calm as her hands remove the scarf, languidly grazing his skin with it

her lips, proximal, without touching, pass over his

she uses two soft hands to control flow

silk wraps around him, a lifetime in every skilled motion

medallions frantic, curves and ampleness obeying

gravitational precept

He ~  silk pulls the lifeforce from every pore

her blue accouterment shivered onto the floor

her drowsy deliberate touch

and he bursts into flames from the inside, 

the howl of all that has ever been pulled

from the absolute core

Her ~ Sobs moisten the shadows of ecstasy

open mouths begin the parting process

she removes his hand from her hip

and fills it with blue silk

***

He ~ can no longer live without

but must endure the time

takes the plate handed to him 

and then the extended hand, as the clock turns on itself

 modestly hiding all numbers

SHE ~  secretly savors that 

impressions are more than the table

more than the agreements for the means

more than those ghastly silent signatures for

paper gains and games

SHE ~ lies him down

a primitive detection, a pheromone she wordlessly demands to absorb

her working hands slip deep, deep into his pocket

holding his stare, slowly pulls out rapturous 

blue silk

He ~ cannot read her 

and lies on his back, mutely anticipatory

SHE~ inhales the distinct scent between his neck and shoulder

pressing closer to him they slowly writhe

Releasing him from the confinement of zippers and buttons

she delights in the feel of him wrapped in the scarf

indulges in his loss of advantage, control, soul

she knows he soon is about to betroth her supernovas, comets

falling stars

rhythmically... lightly, she traces the sides of his body

arms lovingly slide above his head

and down

SHE ~ hears the beginning of a promise

tightens blue silk around his neck

clenching for every last drop

as the clock tips sideways

sprinkling numbers all over the floor

Apparat - Ash/Black Veil

I have no idea what this song is about.  Jeff chose it and as with every song we use, it becomes a part of me.  When the active inspiration is complete, the song still hits on a cellular level, like an old lover you knew inside and out.  

As soon as Jeff puts his up, it will be Here.

The idea for this one was a little different.  I was to try and write how I thought that my writing partner wrote.  He was to try to emulate me.  This was by far, the toughest one yet for me.  I find Jeff to be a molecular mass of information.  A breathing Google.  I realized how much I appreciate the instantaneous availability of the internet when working on this one.  And as always, play the song when reading.  

Apparat - Black/Veil

Golden fibers stood motionless;  a barely enduring still life surrounding the dry river bed, smoldering with heat.  The sun diffused definitive boundaries between objects, blinding edges together in the fading light.  The hollowed fluted notes of an emerald spotted wood dove gently coaxed the sleepy sun to begin its descent.  

Adanya had been bred for what lie ahead.  It hadn’t been foreseen that she would need to step into her power at the age of eight and a half.  It hadn’t been foreseen by anyone except Masha as Adanya took her first breath.  It was the duty of a formidable nganga, unparalleled in the fickle art of spiritual aptitude, to indicate a royal child’s duty in the first 30 minutes of life.  Masha had seen many an atrocity, and alternately, many a grace.  All were accurately pre-told within moments of the newborn’s uncontaminated and fresh life.  The old woman stood by, a light squall lifted the feathers attached to her beaded necklace as Khaliqui touched sticks to burst the combustion of alchemy into it’s first sporadic breaths.

The puerile soon to be queen stood by the exhausted river bed.  She spotted somewhat recent confirmation that a group of wolves had explored these grounds. .But any such evidence was dehydrated and near nothing more than dust.  Adanya squat down with the curious nature of a child to grasp what she could of the hardened, chalky earth.  Considering this unceasing and relentless condition, her face quizzically transmuted into the expression of a determined yet disheartened adult.  A wildebeest lay on its side, breathing labored, ribs prominent.  The fledgling's lamenting mother moaned slightly off concert from the droughty herd.  This was to be Adanya’s stewardship.  These groaning, despondent beings would be her responsibility.  Even the lions could barely summon strength to locate their own prey as this current dearth of aliment cycled along.

Two miles to the east, preparations were being made. The Chokwe would only pass leadership while the moon stood high.   The village was famished and in the early stages of dying without enough rain. The elders had come to Masha, requesting guidance, bringing twelve eggs and one runt of a piglet.  Masha steeped Rooibos for twelve minutes, creating a bitter but fragrant tea.  She took a swill from the tiny clay cup without giving in to any note of aversion and read the leaves. She pulled twelve tiny wooden bowls filled with various powders, herbs and oils down from a slightly unstable mantelpiece.  She closed her eyes, chanting before using charcoal to mark the heads of those before her as witnesses. All held hands.  King Machupa must be delivered to Kalunga the Almighty God.  Upon his noble sacrifice, Adanya would reign, the new energy creating a change in weather and fortune events.  Adanya was young, they knew, but the village could suffer no longer.

King Machupa was a man for his people and had lived a long favorable and accomplished life.  However, the past few seasons were scarce of good harvests and his people knew that they could trust in him to put their goodwill before his own life. Upon being advised, King Machupa solemnly accepted his sacred duty.   As soon as the cherished king’s heart stopped, it was to be removed and placed on a smaller, sacred hearth. The villagers would pray that the Almighty Kalunga would deem this sacrifice adequate.  Masha would then place the still warm heart into a heavy iron cauldron, filled with the herbs, the bitter leaves and stems of the Sycamore Fig and the blood of a lamb, slaughtered within the last three hours.

The moon peered down from the voluminous skies. The fire snapped, hungrily consuming  all in its contained space. The stars sparkled like rhinestones.  King Machupa, adorned in his sacred robes and adornments, proceeded to join his people. Slowly, he walked around the circle of his people,  looking deep into their eyes, and locking souls before embracing each one, with few words.  As he moved from loved one to loved one, he would remove a piece of jewelry, bequeathing them to his tribe family standing here in the circle.  He was not afraid.  King Machupa loved his people, his land and the animals that roamed there.  Two females wearing impressively large and vibrant lip plates, clad in layers of beads and saris, moved to each side of the King.  After bowing, they removed his robes, kissed each hand and helped him onto the altar.  King Machupa lie on his back,  eyes closed and began his prayer for a swift and effortless transition to the Otherworld.  

A golden cock was held over the King.  Deftly, cleanly, his throat was lacerated. The rooster’s startled cry ebbed within seconds.  Blood drained downward onto the King’s chest, narrow, impatient paths deviating and creating multiple paths, then alternate paths.  The blood formed ribbons down his sides as it seeped downward. The King’s passion and love for Kalunga swelled  with each repetition of prayer.  

Faraj, the eldest of the younger warriors,  gave an impassioned howl.  It was time for the ceremonial dance before King Machupa would be offered, neck broken and body warm.

The dance began.  The women sang fervently.  . Hands clapped in rhythm to the slapping of the djembe.  The men leapt and swayed with precision and control, embellishments slapping against their taut, bare chests.  

Half a mile down the road, Adanya headed toward the village.  An audible change came into her surroundings as the drums rhythmically aroused the mercy of the heavens.  The scent of the fire stirred her indigenous sensibility and her stride quickened. She knew she would be saying goodbye to King Machupa, who had raised her from the moment Masha had appointed her the aspiring new queen.  Adanya stopped for a moment, feeling a drop of perspiration on her forehead.  She looked up at the dark and scopious sky.  The stars were obscured. She had felt rain on her face.  Adyana lightly dabbed her finger in the tiny driblet and brought it to her lips.  

Rain.  

Adanya could hear the drums quickening and knew she had very little time before her power would be instated.  She was ready for it.  But it wasn’t time.  

Adanya thundered at the pitch of her own breath with joy as she thrust herself past the Bushwillows, satiated with Warblers and Thrushes who would sleep until dawn.  

Faraj put the ceremonial blade into the fire that would be used to remove the King’s heart.. King Machupa continued to pray as Abrafo, the tribesman with the most physical strength, stood behind him, readying himself for the necessary but somber duty that lie ahead.  Abrafo bent down over King Machupa’s forehead, kissing him gently.  

A howling burst befuddled the drummers and set Abrafo off of his direction.  The ceremony paused at Adanya’s insistent presence.  Breathlessly, she delivered news about the rain she had felt.  Her people went from wary to inspirited as a few more drops fell. It started to pour, cleansing the blood from King Marchupa, reversing his departure..  

Adanya looked at her beloved King, putting out her open and expectant hand to the nearest villager.  The recently inherited adornment was released to Adanya’s tiny hands which shook ever so slightly.  She reached her arms over his head, placing the royal endowment around King Machupa’s neck, kissing his cheek with exaltation.

Rodrigo Y Gabriela, Diablo Rojo, Experiment #4

I am about to test my strength against OCD.  I am going to post writing experiment #4, totally bypassing #3.  This has not been done on purpose, but I have two Google accounts and am now signed out of the one that holds the key to Three.  So I will need to post out of order (deep breaths...).   

For this one we chose Rodrigo Y Gabriela - Diablo Rojo. What a great piece of music.

For Jeff's interpretation go Here.

Play the song and read.....

The Last One

After clicking the toaster handle down, Elsie jogged upstairs and tore off her sneakers, grabbing her high heeled leather boots.  They were worn and came just below the knee.  Elsie had been meaning for the last two years to get some really mean thigh highs that she could roll down a little for the Corporate Tame Factor.  Throwing them on she ducked quickly as a book came flying toward her head.  Seeing that he missed, Dominic stormed out of the room in his raging frustration.

Elsie moved quickly.  Shit, of course it was her Diane DiPrima book.  Damn!  Signed too.  Any book but that one.  Or those other thirty books.  She didn’t discriminate.  You just didn’t fuck with books.  She ran past, swooping it up deftly and tossing it on the nightstand.  Then looked down to see her Anne Rice, Witching Hour book on the floor.  Gah!  She was definitely going to dye his prided red dog black after this act of blasphemy.  As she lifted it off the floor she felt the air condense around her and immediately stuck the book in front of her face.  Dominic’s saliva sprayed all over the cover, grossing her out and at the same time making her thankful that this was a pretty good sized book.  Too good.  She smashed him in the face with it without letting go of it and tore off to the car outside to throw it in the backseat to bring to the coffee shop later.  

Efficiently, Elsie opened the back door to her Saturn and tossed the book in.  Her OCD got the best of her as she picked it back up and wiped the spit off onto the grey interior.  Before she could turn around, there was a hand in her hair.  She took a deep breath, elbowing Dominic in his six pack, despite the nightly twelve packs.  His long fingers felt tangled in her hair and he yanked her head back once just before ramming it into the door frame.  Elsie slumped obediently.  

Dominic reached down to collect her body in his arms.  Elsie’s eyes jerked open, and she palmed him up-nosed, flustering him with an unforeseen injury.  She jumped up and slammed her heel into the side of his shoulder, sending his crouch into a roll over, like a dumb animal.  Running back into the kitchen, she heard the door slam against the side of the house and turned around as Dominic leapt toward her.  His shirt rose and Elsie felt a mild satisfaction at the healing bite mark on his side that she had put there recently.  She grabbed a frying pan off the wall and swung it like a tennis racket toward his solar plexus.  Dominic dropped to the floor heaving and gasping.  Elsie stepped over him, opening the refrigerator door.  Gathering the maple syrup from the inside of the door, she licked a drop off her finger and stood over him.  


“Next time let go of my fucking Eggo.  Bitch.”