A Petulant Pimple and a Middle Finger Salute


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Awful things have a tendency of popping up into my life like petulant pimples.

Car accidents, stress, sickness, sadness, you name it.

I’ve been through six car accidents of some kind. From hydroplaning, being t-boned, rear-ending someone, a stupid old woman cutting me off and meeting the side of her car head on, to me just being idiotic. One of the worst of these left me with a concussion so bad that I couldn’t see out of my left eye, couldn’t walk on my leg, and slept through an entire week. The next time I messed up my back. I was thrown off a horse onto my already damaged back. Nice. To be honest, the accidents I’ve been in could have been a lot worse than as they did. I never had any blood or cool scars to show for myself, but did have some wicked bruises that decorated my body. Coming close with death a couple of times doesn’t even come close to what I consider my biggest bullet dodged.

The pale horse of Pestilence has plagued my throughout my life. I see he couldn’t wait until the End of the World for me. Seriously though, I’ve been a sickly person. From strep affecting my internal organs, shingles, kidney disease, herniated discs, chronic inexplicable bladder pain, cervical problems, as the story in my usually goes; you name it. I’ve spent the majority of my life battling some pain or another, to the point where I just accept that as my quality of life. Still, the sicknesses I’ve suffered and overcome are nothing to the tragedy that would have been my life if I hadn’t escaped his tyrannous grasp.

Allow me to introduce you to the biggest “bullet dodged” of my life: Nero. Yes, I did anonymously name him after the despotic and cruel 5th Emperor of the Roman Empire. [I can really drag this story out, so I’ll briefly recount this for you guys]

I met Nero through one of my first jobs at the late and great, Food Lion. I was sixteen and a cashier, or “Sales Associate”. He had a long blond mop of a hair cut; looking back I still cringe. I was entranced with him at my young age, and he was interested right back. He kissed me in the parking lot after work one night. That was my first real kiss. His breath stank; it usually always did.

From that moment a tumultuous relationship began. After a month, he broke up with me. I was devastated. We had started arguing very often, and he said he “couldn’t see us ending up together in the long run.” We kept talking and he asked me for a second chance. I was so excited but calmly and demurely [he hadn’t ruined me just yet and I still had personality and was pretty brave] said, “Maybe.” Things then got progressively worse. His family was always against me because I was Catholic, outspoken, opinionated, intelligent [more so than their golden boy-Barf], and shone brilliantly. They were of the Pentecostal religion, spoiled their children [literally…Nero would cry to me if he didn’t get his way at home or with me], believed the woman should be subservient [uh…fuck that], and were just so standoff-ish and snobby [for white trash]. He so subtly started breaking down my personality, morals, and courage and started instilling in me weakness, dependency, and fear. I feared that I would mess up and he would leave me.

This is how he broke me. He broke up with me probably [on the low side] six or seven times during our two-year escapade. For seven months, actually, he would have sex with me, I would celebrate holidays with him and visa versa, we would go out on dates, he would call me “his girl”, all the good stuff. When we were out in public and asked if we were a couple  he would deny it. He refused to call me his girlfriend because he “didn’t know” if he wanted be with me, all the while, leading me along so he could fumble around on my body pleasuring only himself. It got to the point where I kid you not, we argued every day, and I would cry myself to sleep. My family was so worried about me, and hated the mere mention of his name. They had so many “interventions” with me it’s not even funny. He had won, though, at that point. I believed it was my own fault, and that they just didn’t like him, or seeing me in love.

I lost literally all of my friends. I shunned them for Nero, so I was majorly to blame, but let’s be honest if the friends I had at the time were really friends they wouldn’t have left so easily. I didn’t care about college, or work, I just wanted and needed to be with him all the time to be happy. He cheated on me. I would find out about it, and catch him, and then run right back to him. He somehow would turn it around to “how dare I accuse him of cheating”, and “he can’t be with me if I’ll never trust him”, and “if I really loved him I would stop acting this way”. I bought it; hook, line, and sinker. The sadistic bastard asked me to marry him on a promise ring he had bought me, while screwing around with girls at his school the whole time. Since I went to a different high-school, I didn’t find out just how bad he was until I worked and became best friends with two girls that had went to school with him…and may I add…hated him already.

I would grovel for him to stay. I’m not saying that metaphorically either, guys. I would literally beg for more of his shit. He had me right where he wanted me. I would plan all kinds of elaborate treats for him to show him how much I cared. Did he ever return the sentiment? Ha, that’s funny. I once set up a romantic night to show him how much I loved him. I bought, on my limited salary, over 50 candles [to arrange in a heart around me], sunflowers [his nickname for me], pizza, cake, and of course sexy attire. I was sitting in the middle of the floor, encased in the light of candlelight, with rose petals leading his way to me….and he ended up screwing me and leaving. Oh, and I still wasn’t good enough to be “his girlfriend”. I’m telling you guys honestly, I hated looking at myself in the mirror. I abhorred who I had become. I would cry all of the time. He had won. He had broken me verbally, psychologically, and sometimes physically.

We had the cops called on us a couple of times because of the way he would make a scene, and scream his head off at me. I bought right into it. I took it for “passionate love”. I thought that no one could tell me how “our love” was supposed to be. The only people who could know what worked for us was ourselves. One of the final straws was when he actually kidnapped me. Yep, he was that kind of special. Whenever I finally, after a long night of intervention from my family, ended our relationship once and for all he said, “Whatever.” That was his response to two years. Of course, once he realized his little broken bird had wings and was flying away, he panicked and tried to make contact with me and reconcile. I thought back to how much I had given him; my life, my heart, my virginity, my soul, my fucking everything. I thought about how he had stomped on the fire I had, and laughed as he did it. I very kindly told him to go fuck himself.

Over the passing years, I know that I’ve learned about life and love from him but majorly I thank God for giving me the strength to finally break that cycle. I still find myself finding more and more areas within myself that he had broken. Now that Matt has come into my life and started piecing me back together, I realize just what love means. Sure, we certainly have had our ups and downs but damn it if I haven’t found the love of my life. I literally thank God for Matt; our relationship is night and day compared to the era of Nero. I would have married Nero and had kids with him. My life would be the life of a sheltered, broken, and battered woman. That’s without a doubt. Instead of crying every day, I wake up smiling at my man and we take on the world together. Importantly as well, I am closer with my family now then I ever was allowed to be with Nero. That means everything to me.

So there you have it. The short version of the biggest bullet I dodged in my past. I had to leap of the train set full speed ahead for a cliff. I remained broken for a long time until someone with the right equipment and patience found me and loved me for who I am. I can’t begin to express to you all out there, that if you have a relationship with someone they way I did with Nero, how much I know what you’re going through and am willing to help. I know the pain and desolation, but you can get over it. Time helps, but it’s a day by day kind of healing. I had to teach myself, before Matt and I found each other, how to live again on my own and be happy. It is possible.


I love you all, seriously, unless you are a Patriots fan. [Just kidding…but seriously] I am still recovering from my devastation over Manning and the Broncos’ loss to Pansy-Ass Brady last night. I swear he gets his panties in more of a wad than any girl I’ve ever known. To all of you Patriots fans, here is a nice smile and a [slightly cold…because it’s freezing out there] middle finger salute. It’s okay that I say this….I have Patriots lovers in my own family. Traitors.

Ya’ll [and in the spirit of ladylike manners, I am including New England fans] have a great day out there, and stay warm!




God, Witch, or Whore


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Daily Prompt: A Bird, a Plane, You!

You get to choose one superpower. Pick one of these, and explain your choice:

Oh this is so easy.

My superpower would undoubtedly be the ability to travel through time. It is the best of the other two crappy choices, and I think I would choose this over any choice presented to me.

I’m a history geek. I love it, and am obsessed with ancient cultures and civilizations. I named my car Dienekes, after the bravest of Spartan Warriors from the battle of Thermopylae. That is a testament to how much I adore mythology. The predominately interesting ones for me are Ancient Greeks, Ancient Egyptians, Ancient Mayans/Aztecs, and Ancient Romans. My favorite more recent time would be during the Revolutionary War. I would not hesitate to be able to meet or even see firsthand the bravest leaders the world has ever known. I also love reading about the era of King Henry VIII, and that revolution, and how “court” worked.

Mythology and history is beyond fascinating and interesting to me. I could learn about these cultures all day, every day and still not be bored or uninterested. If I could choose one career that would be my dream job, it would definitely have something to do with history and historical items; an archaeologist, professor, archivist, whatever.

I love to watch documentaries on these times, but it would be nothing compared to being able to see it, feel it, touch it, and smell it for yourself.

Unless I learned the behavior and dress for each time period, and the proper manners for a woman at the time, I would probably be hailed as a god, burned at a stake for witchcraft, or stoned to death for being a whore. In the present day I am none of these, but times have changed. Wearing pants used to be unheard of, never mind spaghetti straps, or the kinds of dresses we consider modest today. The way women have been taught to be independent and outspoken would horrify most in ancient times.

Urgh!!! I really wish all the scientists out there could just come together and figure out time travel…if they haven’t already. Until then, I’ll have to be content with watching National Geographic.

A Confession From the Back Seat of a Van


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This story, among a list of others, is legendary in my family. Each of us six siblings have quite a bit of “epic” tales of our misfortunes or victories. When you have six kids and raise them the way we were you are bound to have stories coming out of your ears. Matt has learned this from his time in my family. When we all gather for family dinner, or what have you, we all go back and forth with funny stories about one another. Most of the time our cackles and screeching laughs will echo late into the night.

This particular story is one from my childhood. This tells a tale of greed, crime, remorse, and fright. I was quite young; my teeth were still being bought from the tooth fairy, and Santa still came to bring me presents. I still remember exactly what I was wearing: jeans, and a red hoodie/sweater. I remember the sweater because it was my accessory to the crime.

Six kids all piled into a black minivan. People around town would affectionately call it “The Bus.” I still have people tell me they were astounded by well-behaved we all were. I just smile and think inwardly about how rambunctious we are now. That’s the thing about being one of six. You don’t think so much in the “I” tense, but more often as “we”. Our parents nurtured our individuality, but that is what happens when you have six people so close to each other in age, as well as, in spirit. The years have torn us apart, and we have stitched ourselves back together.

Anyways, as I was saying, six kids piled into a black minivan on the way back from our Grandmother’s house. I believe Atticus was driving his truck back. I just remember he wasn’t in the van with us. Meryl had to stop to get gas, and I had to pee.

While I was in the small little country gas station, walking back to the confines of the minivan, my eye was caught by a shiny reflection. I looked in the direction from the light and my childlike eyes grew with anticipation, my mouth watered, and I heard my little belly protesting with hunger. I found myself in the candy isle. Candy, as many people are aware, are children’s kryptonite.

I, the ever behaved child, asked Meryl for a piece of candy, turning my big green eyes framed with black lush lashes upon her mercy.

“No.” She said to me with the firm tone a veteran mother acquires over time. What else she said to me, time has made less certain. What I remember distinctly was wanting candy, and being told no.

I had never in my young years attempted anything so daring as stealing candy from a store. I waged an internal war within myself of what to do, and what consequences could I suffer? The rumblings in my stomach added protestations to leaving empty-handed. My mother was checking out and I had to act quickly. I thought no more. I put my hood up, or maybe I was already wearing it, dipped down and grabbed a handful of the first thing I could.

I walked out to the car. Blood pumping furiously. Excitement and fear rushed through my veins. I hopped into the very back seat and gobbled down the mint chocolate. I am laughing now as I type this because I remember just how fast my satisfaction turned into fear and regret.

Instead of adrenaline, I was awash with shame and remorse. I knew I had done something very bad, even though I didn’t know just how bad. I sat in the back row tucked low with the evidence of my grab balled up in my pockets. My mother was able to drive a couple of miles before she heard my young voice addressing her from the back seat. Turning down the radio everyone was listening to, she asked me to repeat myself.

I asked her what would happen if someone stole from a store…what would happen to them? Effortlessly she told me of how they would be arrested by the police and thrown into jail.

I sank back into my seat trembling with fear. My stomach, which had been party to making me steal, was turning on me. It was as if it wanted to upturn the evidence of my sins from its depths, and be party to the crime no more. When she asked me why I asked, I started to cry.

From the back seat of the van I confessed my sin to her, as I would to a priest. I remember her being very angry with me, and my other siblings reveling in the fact that I had committed a crime and was the one who was in trouble. In particular my oldest sister, Kate, took particular joy in my predicament. Our relationship was very tenuous and we each loved to watch as the other was in trouble. I remember her taunting me that night, as I climbed in my bunk bed in my pajamas, that the cops would be coming for me and I would be locked away in jail.

I lay in bed that night waiting for the sounds of stomping booted feet, the barking of dogs on my trail, and my parents coming to get me telling me I had to go to jail. I felt as unsafe as a child criminal could. Any time we visited my Grandmother after that for years to come, I would wonder if the police were still looking for me.

Obviously, nothing ever happened. The police, even in such a small town, have much bigger things to worry about than a young hungry girl pocketing some candy. I tortured myself for a long time after that anyways. I did the crime, and trust me I did the time. I was harder with myself than any cop probably would have been. They probably would have scolded me, at my parents bidding, and my parents would’ve paid for the candy, and then they would have walked back to their car hiding the smiles.

I vowed to myself that night, as I lay in wait, that I would never again steal from an establishment.

That, however, as a daughter of a lawyer after all, left plenty of wiggle room for the toys of my siblings.



Absolutely Bonkers


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Perspective; a particular attitude toward or way of regarding something; a point of view.

Strangely enough today is a great example of how my perspective of the day can be affected by one thing that drives me crazy, I mean absolutely bonkers, and one thing that makes me happy.

If you are a frequent reader of ‘sayanything’ you have a bit of an idea of what drives me crazy. One thing that makes my job, and relationship with Atticus, somewhat difficult is his temper. I love the man to death. He is my father; I literally wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him [and my mom]. I take a lot after him, as it happens. I get my love for the law [who knew], reserved personality, strategic thinking, studiousness, and brown hair from him. [I get my sense of humor, affinity for rock music, love of traveling, skill for card games, and most of my looks from my mother, Meryl.] I don’t know who I got my level-headedness from. Seriously, I love both of my parents, and at times I am stubborn and do have quite the temper, but for the majority of the time I am easy-going and hard to rattle. Atticus gets rattled at the smallest of things. He is a very A-type personality. Everything must be just so, or the world is falling down. I can relate to that in a small sense, but the majority of the time I have to hide the rolling of my eyes when he gets set off.

Maybe it’s older age, maybe it’s his control-freak personality. What it is, is a thorn in my side. The morning could be going perfectly; the office is filled with compatible laughter and the smell of roasted coffee, and then BAM….something is wrong. He’s cursing, stomping around, breathing fire out of his nose; acting very similar to a child if they don’t get their way. Usually it is because of some small detail, and I walk away under the guise of doing something else so I can roll my eyes, and sigh. I’m used to his behavior, but it irritates me at a fundamental level. Since I am his daughter, it is easy to be his punching bag. I’m not the usual, unrelated employee where you just can’t talk to them or make an exhibit of yourself the way he does with me. So, he takes advantage of that fact.

As I said, I’m used to that kind of behavior. I’m also used him backtracking and sometimes I get a rare apology, once he collects himself. I deal with it as best as I can. What do you do if a child is retaliating or throwing a temper tantrum? Do you retaliate and start yelling and smarting back? No, you pretend as if it isn’t happening [unless you discipline your child-which I support and applaud] and let them work it out themselves. I use that way of thinking with him, even though he is not a child. It works. Plus, I don’t want the drama of fighting. I’m easy to verbally injure, and would probably spend the day sniffling tears. That is not an ideal day for me.

His temper-tantrums are not few and far between, so I am not surprised today when he flares up. I roll my eyes and walk away. He tries to engage me, but I deny him the satisfaction, and continue on with my work. That is one half of my morning.

thomas kinkade little mermaidChex Mix; one of my favorite foods ever. I’m snacking on this as I decide what the best part of my morning has been. It’s not just one thing though. Snacking on Chex Mix makes me happy. My Classic Rock Pandora station makes me happy. The brisk sunny day shining in through the blinds of my office makes me happy. My sister Kate had an important and good night last night; that makes me ecstatic. I saw my present from Matt this morning, which finally arrived last night. It’s a painting of Thomas Kinkade’s; one of his Disney collections. When Matt and I went to Savannah, GA for our trip this year we were at Thomas Kinkade’s gallery and I fell in love with his Disney Collection paintings. They were too expensive so I couldn’t get any, but Matt completely surprised me last night with the painting of ‘The Little Mermaid’. You should have heard my squeals and gasps of delight. That definitely made me happy. My Mocha Swirl coffee delights me as much as it does my taste buds. Waking up to Matt and kissing him makes me happy. My littlest sister, Abigail, turns 15 tomorrow. This makes me equally happy as it does astonished at how fast time flies.

So my internal dilemma is which feeling do I let control how the rest of my day will occur. The answer is obvious. Look at all that is good with my day. To let someone else’s temper affect the good I have going for me is absurd. It’s easy to let someone else’s actions mess with your mood; I’m guilty of this one as well. I might not have piles of green in my bank, and birds singing “Zip-a-dee-doo-dah” as they perch on my shoulder, but I do have a lot in my favor. Before I wrote this I might have focused more on being yelled at by Atticus, than by the blessings I have this morning, and the rest of the day would have fallen in accordingly. Not today. It’s a good way to go about it, I think. Let the majority of good shine over the small bit of bad.

I hope the rest of you fine people choose the same perspective this morning. Find your ‘happy’ and just sink right in.

‘Til tomorrow!

Maybe If You Paid Me


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Daily Prompt: Fright Night

What’s the thing you’re most scared to do? What would it take to get you to do it?

Well, I am deathly afraid of sharks. It’s not like I can say I’m most scared to swim with This is my worst nightmare. F***k that!the sharks because I live at the beach; I swim with the sharks [or in close quarters with them] every summer. Would I jump into a tank of sharks if I got the option? Not even if you paid me.

Well…maybe if you paid me. I’m poor.

I’m afraid of pain. I’m scared to get my tongue pierced. Just imagining it sends creepy crawlers up my skin, and I find myself shaking the thoughts away, and dismissing them 
tongue piercingas preposterous and unfathomable.

I’m weird about pain. I can sit through four excruciating tattoos, get my belly button and nose pierced, but can’t think about my tongue. I might take into consideration getting my tongue pierced, if Matt wanted me too. I highly doubt he could convince me to do it.

As a kid I had a fear of heights. I don’t think that’s very unreasonable. I remember [from a sketchy memory] getting on a roller coaster [don’t ask me where] and making the whole ride stop because of my screams of terror and pleas for mercy. The worker of the ride was dressed as an elf, although he was not very jolly. Perhaps it was around Christmastime? Anyways, My fear of roller coasters extended farther and I was in Disney World with roller coaster2my family. They had bought tickets for Space Mountain, and we were almost to the front of the line. Typical me; I chickened out. My grandmother went in my place.

Humiliation station.

 I would get on a roller coaster now to conquer those fears. My only qualm is how many accidents happen on rides. I really want to keep my head and body parts intact. If I were to go to an amusement park or carnival, however, I would get on the rides anyways just to have some terrifying fun and keep smart-mouths from taunting me.

But what’s the thing I’m most scared to do?

I would definitely say that bungee-jumping or skydiving is, if not the very first, on the top of my not-to-do-lists. What reasonable, forward-thinking person would voluntarily jump out of a plane [not included are those in the airborne services] unless it was on fire and they are about to crash and die? Similarly, why would you strap yourself to a freaking rubber-band and jump off a bridge or cliff? Are people really that bored that they come up with these ideas? It sounds like a joke of an idea that someone took seriously.

Idiot 1: Dude, I’m so bored. What should we do?

Idiot 2: Man I know. None of my favorite TV shows are on, and my phone is dead. Sad face.

Idiot 1: Let’s think of something fun to do!

Idiot 2: Alright. Cool. Let’s dress up in camo and hide behind bushes and throw fireworks at people.

Idiot 1: Dude, you’re retarded. Someone could get hurt.

Idiot 2: Well then you think of something!

Idiot 1: I mean that would be like, “Hey, why don’t you go jump off a bridge but it’s okay because I’ll have elastic rubber bands so you bounce before you hit the bottom.” Ha. Stupid.

Idiot 2: Wait….Oh my God…that is GENIUS!!

Idiot 1: ……..*Blink, blink*………

Idiot 2: Dude, I’m gonna go call Mom and tell her to pick up a shit ton of rubber bands. You go get some pads, and we’ll get started.

Idiot 1: Uh…

Idiot 2: No, seriously….we are going to be famous! Who wouldn’t want to do this???

Idiot 1: Me????

So, you get my point. Stupid. My point is reinforced when bungee-jumping lines actually break, or parachutes don’t open. I value life WAY too much to risk it like that. I mean there now is a fine line between suicide and “exhilarating fun’.

bungee jumping

Literally. Look at that.

Could anyone convince me to do that? 

Maybe, if I was really intoxicated [which intoxicated person + any kind of sports = not a freaking good idea] or had nothing to lose. That’ll never happen though, so I’ll keep my distance and keep my cheap thrills to “thrifting”, conquering my fear of roller coasters, and driving 10 over the speed limit on the highway. 

Land of the Creepers


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Daily Prompt: Land of Confusion


I’m suffocating. The pungent aromas of smoke, body odor, sweat, and lust clog my nose and throat.

I’m melting. I’m melting into the tangle of limbs that sway, thrust, and grind in all directions that surround me. The sweat pours down these bodies and pools in the floor beneath our feet.

I’m desolate. I’m extremely uncomfortable as I stand in the middle of this lustful and boastful crowd.

I glance around the dance floor and see the comfortable faces of those I came with. I use them as an anchor so I don’t get lost in the swarm of people. I came here because my girl friends told me it was exhilarating and unlike any other experience. They were right, it is like any other experience. Unfortunately, it is an experience I would rather not repeat. I’ve never had the personality to throw away all my inhibitions and partner with some stranger, or multiple strangers, to dance the night away. I lack the “self-esteem” or wantonness my fellow female peers exhibit.

Entering the club the loud music surrounded me as stroking lights attacked my eyes. Scantily clad girls ran past me, enjoying how the men lining the walls would undress them with their eyes as they flounce by. I was able to pass undressed, I think, as I shrank in behind my companions. I tried to muster up the excitement they wanted from me. Here I was, finally participating in one of the hobbies most people my age enjoy. We entered the main room, and I gulped with fear. Sweat was already prickling the edges of my hair and beading on my forehead.

My companions threw their arms up in excitement, scanning the room with their eyes, trying to decide which part of the floor they would claim as their stomping ground. This is an important decision in the “clubbing” world, I learned. You want to make sure you are around attractive males that you wouldn’t mind dancing with, and stray away from the ironically more available creepy strangers that circle the floors like vultures looking for prey. They sit on the sidelines watching as girls who they normally wouldn’t have a chance with down enough alcohol to be almost completely debilitated. When the girls almost fall down in their drunken state, there are the vultures to hold them up by their breasts or buttocks.

So, once the perfect spot is chosen we congregate in a circle and my friends go to work. Bodies swaying, eyes suggestively but not aggressively searching the surrounding area for potential partners. I stand there awkwardly moving and trying to get into it so I’m not the butt of a joke from the ones who see me. People do make fun of other people at dance clubs. I’ve seen it. People point, laugh, snicker, and taunt. That’s not for me. As I move and get a little bit into the dancing, I get groped from behind. Turning I see it is an older Hispanic man.  I politely say no thank you, declining his forward invitation to dance with him. As I turn back to the music, face hot and blood pumping, his hands find my hips again as he tries to sway behind me. I turn around more ferociously and put my hand in his face, proclaiming loudly, “No!” He finally leaves. If only that was the only awkward encounter I have stumbled through on the floor.

After the song is over, the emotions all begin to choke me. I see my companions being snatched up by attractive men, although some aren’t, and I watch as my friends close their eyes with half smiles as the men travel their hands across the plains of their bodies. I stand there alone and glance around me. The only thing I see is bodies. The only thing I feel is sweat and heat. The only thing I smell is perfume and sex. I can’t breathe. My blood is throbbing so loudly I feel like it has become one with the bass system the club has bouncing off its’ walls and reverberating through the floors. I have to get out. I have to be able to breathe anything other than the people around me.

Before my companions know I’m gone, I have pushed with more intensity than I ever put into dancing, out onto the back deck. This is where most come to get air and smoke. I try to covertly mask my feelings and emerging tears. I fumble for a cigarette and choose a spot that I will occupy. Either one of my closest friends or, more probably, my male cousin would come and comfort me. My cousin, Bruce, would come down from Lejeune and accompany us out to rustle up some entertainment for the night or weekend. Usually, but not always, sacrificing a night of short pleasure for himself, it would be him that would talk me down and boost my spirits through buying me tequila to sharing a cigarette with me. He would make me feel better by talking about how stupid the girls were at that particular joint. I miss my cousin. He was and still is much like an older brother to me. After he got out of the Marines, he went back home up north. Once my female companions would find me, they would try to get me back out onto the floor. Usually Bruce would help them, once he knew I was okay, and corral me to the floor. He would then dance with our group, making up ridiculous dances to just have fun instead of dancing for attention. That is what I enjoyed, if anything, at the clubs.

Towards the end of the night I would either be tipsy with the tequila Bruce had slipped to me, or exhausted with the roller-coaster of emotional turmoil. Eventually, I did get a little more comfortable going out dancing. Attractive men would want to dance, as would the never-ending “creepers”. I never have been able to get over the feeling of not belonging there. I know I don’t. I look around, sometimes with envy, more times with disgust, at the girls that flaunt themselves. And for what? For being the object of a guy’s attention and lust for one night? No, thank you. I’m good.

It’s amazing to me that I can feel so utterly asphyxiated by crowds and smells at clubs, but can feel absolutely at ease in the midst of the pressing throngs at concerts. I’m reluctant to say I lose all of my claustrophobia entirely, but most of it is gone. Maybe because I know most of the people around me are there for the same reasons as I; to enjoy the music and atmosphere. As with any grouping of adult males with females, adding the lubricant of alcohol, there are the females on display, and the men enjoying the view.

I will never desire to go clubbing again. The experiences, as I said, are not worth repeating. In the times that I visited the clubs, I never had such a good time that I would forego any of the worlds other pleasures, to be grinded on like a stripper pole by intoxicated men with sweaty hungry hands and hot stinky breath.

I am so content in Matt’s company and arms. Yesterday, we indulged in a guilty pleasure of our own. We laid in bed and watched football, and documentaries on ancient Egyptians, all day. I watched as my Giants won their fourth game in a row. About time, I know. They still have a long way to go. I also watched as my main man, Peyton Manning, led the Broncos to a huge victory over the previously undefeated Kansas City Chiefs. Next Sunday is my dream game. My most beloved football team, the Denver Broncos, versus my most hated team, the New England Patriots. Manning versus Brady. If that doesn’t get your panties twisted, I don’t know what will. It was a perfect day. I’ll trade getting dry-humped by strangers to a day in bed with my man, making love, watching football and historical documentaries, eating junk food, slurping on coffee with a cigarette, and washing the days’ laziness off with a late shower, any day.

Any damn day.



Which Wolf Will You Feed?


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Daily Prompt: Wicked Witch

Write about evil: how you understand it (or don’t), what you think it means, or a way it’s manifested, either in the world at large or in your life.

I am not afraid of the dark anymore. I used to be, and I’m not ashamed in saying so, but it wasn’t too long ago that I would need a night-light to go to sleep. It was disorienting to me to wake up, entombed in darkness, with the cold sweat of nightmares on my skin. As a child, and young adult, nightmares plagued my resting hours and I dreaded going to sleep. Being in the presence of evil is much like waking up from a nightmare with the pressure of darkness weighing you down. There is a numbness and feeling of fear that is untouchable. I’ve never watched a horror movie that could scare up enough emotions to compare. As a child, after waking up from a nightmare, I would lay in my bed undecided of whether to coward under my covers or not, itchy with the feeling of eyes watching me, and feeling the throbbing silence of the dark weighing on my soul and exciting my fear. As a young girl that was the extent of “evil” I knew about in this world, besides the lessons I would learn from my Catholic teaching, or religious relatives, about the evilness of Satan and his works in this world. I learned how to conquer that fear by leaving a light on in my bedroom. It wouldn’t stop my nightmares from visiting me, but this way if I awoke from a horrible dream, I would be able to instantly know the moment I was awake that I was safe. I would slow my breathing and heartbeat, let the comforting sights of my childhood room lull me back to sleep, and know that it was just a dream.

I wish, sometimes, I could go back to where nightmares were the only thing that plagued me. Now, as an adult and a budding one at that, I have had the unpleasant experience of looking into the face of evil. I work in a job where “evil” is manifested in many different ways; rape, murder, assault, etc. I have never been so physically close to what most people consider evil as I am on a daily basis here. In truth, it is rare that I actually see and feel the pressing darkness coming from the eyes of the clients we represent. I don’t think people should classify all people who commit mistakes as “evil”. Many rape cases we are appointed to are nothing more than a girl lying about her age and then somebody finding out or her using her lie to ruin the man’s life, or a man/woman having a weak moment and having sex with someone who is voluntary but younger than the age law deemed consensual. I don’t want to misconstrue it, we do represent clients who should never be allowed to be around children again [and they aren’t], and men who really deserve the charges they are being prosecuted of. This does not mean they are all evil. Sick or screwed up, yes. Evil is the few and far between clients we get appointed or retained to represent. The gruesome and cold-blooded multiple homicides, or the actual rape [by actual I mean it was NOT voluntary] of children/women. This is when our job gets difficult to a level most people could never begin to understand. We still have a duty, even when representing someone guilty as sin, of standing up for their rights and giving them a fair trial. If there weren’t people like my father, many innocent people would be convicted of crimes they never committed [happens more often than you think], or guilty people would be charged with an excess of crimes and sentenced to extraordinary sentences that don’t fit the crime, in the name of “justice”.

As a daughter of a criminal defense attorney, now a secretary for the same attorney, and a Catholic, I am a huge protester of Capital Punishment; ” The Death Penalty.” I see this as committing an evil act in retribution for an evil act, and more surprisingly to people, I see it as too easy a sentence for some offenders. This is killing in the name of justice and society. This is not war-time, or an extreme case where the defendant is loose on the streets and about to commit another atrocity. Instead, the defendant is caught; locked up; stopped in his/her tracks. The killing of that defendant is back woods justice, uncivilized, and wrong. That is justifying an evil with laws, much like abortion. Abortion is one of the most evil acts I can think of in this generation.

Let’s back up for a second.

I watched a documentary last night called, “Hitler’s Medicine.” It was a look into what part medicine had to play in the genocide, and attempted extermination, of multiple races; most noted the Jewish. I bet most people didn’t know that the Nazi party got most of their ideas for sterilizing Germany, and creating a superior race from the great old US of A. The United States and other country’s were participating in “Eugenics” which was the science of instituting the animal kingdom mentality of killing off the “undesirables” to make a better race. I never knew that. 23 states had passed laws making it mandatory for people who had history of illnesses or “feeble-mindedness” to be sterilized. After using this to fuel their propaganda against the Jewish and Gypsies, the Nazi’s and their doctors took it up a notch to implement euthanasia and then finally the death camps. Whenever I saw the old footage they had compiled and saw pictures of these men, I felt like I was looking at evil. The look in their eyes was like a black fathomless pit, full of hate and devoid of humanity.

When I think about the greatest evil I’ve ever known, I think of World War II and the genocide. I also think of the genocide happening in my own day in age; the genocide of unborn babies. There are so many debates and flared tempers over this subject, and there really shouldn’t be any. It SHOULD be unquestionable; abortion is an abomination and stain on humanity and this world. Such unbridled hatred must be stamped out. The number of babies killed through justification is astounding, horrifying, and tragic. There is no reason, no excuse, no justification for murdering innocent life. Because I know most of those who feel differently than I, usually always feel like they have to retort with some comment. Let me just tell you to not waste your time. If you feel differently, don’t pollute my page with hateful comments; I’m not interested. I don’t care when you think life starts; last time I checked none of you are God and you don’t make that decision. I don’t care to hear any of your other justifications; I’ve heard them all. I’m a pretty open-minded person, but on this subject I will not bend.

Evilness is hiding wherever it can to steal and extinguish as many lights as possible. It takes form in leaders, doctors, singers, politicians, military figures; wherever power is important. With Hitler it was power over a people and nation, with doctors its power over the body, with religious leaders its power over the soul, with singers and role models its power over the mind. The list goes on and on. Where you find positions of power, you find evil struggling, sometimes not so hard, to wind it’s weeds around purity and suffocate it until it is used as a weapon against all else pure and innocent.

Evil is as hard to find as a penny on the ground. It’s everywhere, and in everything. I believe the roots lie in people’s belief today that they can do whatever they want, however they want, whatever the consequences. People sure don’t hold themselves accountable for anything anymore; anytime they do something wrong it was someone else’s fault.

It is and has always been the great fight between good and evil. I believe, in the end, it will come down to one huge war between Heaven and Hell. That’s my belief as a Catholic. I also believe that the war is within each one of us, and it is up to us to decide which will win. It is within our own power to decide whether we will be good or evil. An old Cherokee proverb says there are two wolves fighting inside each of us; one good, one bad. When asked which one wins, the answer is: whichever you feed the most.

Which one will you choose to feed?


Three Sheets to the Wind


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Daily Prompt: Non-Regional Diction

Write about whatever you’d like, but write using regional slang, your dialect, or in your accent.

So I turned twenty one yesterday. I have to admit that it was a bit anticlimactic as holiday’s usually are. I have been waitin’ as long as I have been drinkin’ for this birthday, and it finally has arrived and passed just as quickly as a car speeding down the highway. Unfortunately, my birthday decided it would come on a work day this year, so I wasn’t able to celebrate as most people would. Although, that doesn’t really bother me too much. I’ve never been one for gettin’ shit faced and drinkin’ myself to oblivion. It sucks too much the next day. So, my very calm birthday celebration was for Matt to take me out to dinner where I ordered my first drink as a legal adult.


I’ll tell ya what…the waitress didn’t even card me. Of course, I told her that it was my twenty-first birthday and that I was tryin’ to decide what to order for my first legal drink, so I suppose that was prolly why she didn’t ask for my ID. I should have thought, durin’ the course of my day, what I would order. Needless to say, I didn’t and couldn’t think of anything fun off the top of my head. So, I ordered a Tequila Sunrise Margarita. It was pretty dang delicious. I drank it all until I heard slurpin’ from my straw. Did I get a buzz? Nope, but it still felt nice to be part of the “older crowd.” Tequila is my choice of drink whenever I choose to feel a little bolder, and decide to let go of my inhibitions.

I have a feelin’ my younger siblings will do what I did to my older siblings, and wheedle me into buying them alcohol. Fair is fair. Anyways, my birthday was as special as it could have been. Matt got me a sweet card that melted my heart as he usually finds a way to do. Work, on the other hand was a bitch, but I’ll leave that alone.

Ya’ll might be thinkin’, “That is a piss poor way to celebrate your twenty-first birthday! Where is all the partying and going buck wild?” Well I already told ya’ll I’m not much of a party person, but I will be having a actual birthday party this Friday, and Josh will be taking me out to celebrate “the proper way.” This entails pregaming with three shots of Bacardi 151, or whatever it’s called, and then drinking everythin’ he buys and puts in front of me. Ya’ll don’t know my older brother, and ya’ll sure don’t know how much of a lightweight I am. A Marine who can drink and hold more liquor than anyone I’ve ever seen bein’ in control of a girl who can’t drink three beers without slurrin’ is a recipe for disaster and humiliation. Apparently, one of his rules is that it must be video recorded. I decline. Nope, I pass on that one. I hardly let myself end up in front of a camera, let alone a recorder when I’m three sheets to the wind.

Negative, Ghost Rider.

I’d be lyin’ if I said I wasn’t excited to see what presents I’ll be gettin’ on Friday. Hey, I may be technically an adult now, but I’m still a kid at heart when it comes to presents. I think just about everyone who breathes is. What I really want for my birthday is someone to be hired here to take some of the pressure off me, for it to be the weekend, and then fast forward until Thanksgivin’. That way I will be on a small vacation, and then will finally be moving’ into a new place. Nobody I knows is a time bender, however, so I will settle [gratefully and happily] for whatever they choose to bless me with.

[[Note for the reader: That was so painful to write. All of the misspellings and grammar errors!! Hope you enjoyed my slightly southern drawl. I really don’t have a huge country accent, just a slight one that comes out when I’m relaxed or angry. ‘Til the next time, guys!]]

Tell Me All of the Joys and Sorrows


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Daily Prompt: Inside the Actor’s Studio


Well I hope everyone had a wonderful and long weekend. I would love to thank all those beautiful souls who serve and have served in the military for doing what they do: not only keeping my ass safe in a democratic country, but also giving me the means to have a day off from work. Also, of course, I would like to say a belated happy birthday to any marine out there! To those who remain ignorant, the Marine Corps Birthday was November 10th.

So, Daily Prompt would like me to answer the following questions, then I have to get back to my 7 to 530 job.

Oh, and by the way, my 21st birthday is tomorrow for any of those who don’t know. Tell me, in the comments below, what you did for your 21st birthday. I’d love to hear the crazy stories.

  1. What is your favorite word?

Hmmm, my favorite word would be mantequilla de cacahuetes. I know it’s more than one word, but I love the way this rolls off your tongue. In English it means, Peanut Butter

2. What is your least favorite word?

I know it’s a crude word, but ‘tits’. I just hate that word. It sounds so ugly and crass. Makes my skin crawl.

3. What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?

Music and Nature. Expressions of love and kindness. Examples of humanity and bravery.

4. What turns you off?

Arrogance, lies, bad breath, bad hygiene, ignorant, pious, liberals, close-minded, rap, saggy pants, guys wearing girls pants, guys with trucks so big they are compensating for something, drugs, alcoholics, immaturity, snobbish, rude, bullies, the “I only date supermodels/ male models” mentality, obesity, etc. You get the picture.

5. What is your favorite curse word?

“Holy Santa Claus Shit”- Stepbrothers

Bitch. I love drawing it out like, “Biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitch!”

“C U Next Tuesday” (Use the first letters of all words to spell one very naughty word)

Fuck. I’m sorry but this word is so diverse. 

I’m trying to get better at cursing…….


Nope….Never gonna happen.


6. What sound or noise do you love?

The obvious answer of course is music, or more specifically electric guitars or drums.

The less obvious answer would be rain, how Matt breathes when he’s asleep, the sound of Katie and James’s laughter, the successful start of my car, “Thank you, come again” instead of “I’m sorry, your card was declined,” accents, the rustling of the leaves in the wind, seagulls at the beach, etc.

7. What sound or noise do you hate?

Smacking your gum, chomping on your food like a cow with your mouth open, slurping your drink or food, just hearing people eat or drink in general. When I say it sounds like nails on a chalkboard to me, I’m 100% serious. I’ve yelled at Meryl, my mom, for eating Milk Duds while we watched a movie, because I could hear as she tried to eat each of those sticky candies and the saliva rolling around in her mouth. Come to think of it, I’ve yelled and lectured just about everyone close to me for eating obnoxiously loud. Not my proudest of moments, but I literally HATE it.

8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?

I wish I could travel on a travel TV show and get paid to explore the corners of this huge world. I mean seriously, you get paid to eat exotic food and experience all of the different cultures. I’m seething in jealousy as I ruminate about how vastly different their jobs are from mine. 

9. What profession would you not like to do?

Act. Sing (unless I was talented, then Hell Yeah!). Podiatrist (Foot doctor). Gynecologist (We all know this one). Dentist-No thanks. Construction worker, landscaper, plumber, computer technician, engineer, garbage man, maid, waitress, mechanic, or Disney world worker.

10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?

Hello Savannah/ My Child. Let me take you to your family and loved ones, and you can tell me all about the joys and sorrows of your life. Here; hold my hand, and let’s walk.

Now, seriously, if you can remember, what did you do for your twenty-first birthday? Leave your answers in the comments below.


A Birthday and a Dead Nazi Criminal


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Daily Prompt: Connect the Dots

Scour the news for an entirely uninteresting story. Consider how it connects to your life. Write about that.

Today is Hutch’s birthday; he’s 17. *Sniff* Since I am watching him and Abigail for Atticus he was at my house this morning when he woke up. I did what any older sister would do, and tackled him onto the couch screeching “Happy Birthday” until Abigail came out of the bathroom and we serenaded him together. Do I want to take a whole day and acknowledge that my little brother is about to be 18, that my little brother is coming closer and closer to being a ‘man’? No, I don’t. I want to live in ignorant bliss where I grow older but he stays the way he is now; young, innocent, and sprinkled with freckles with the biggest blue eyes you’ve ever seen. When I see little hairs popping up on his chin, I make fun of him of course, but it also hits me that soon he will have the stubble of a man, much like our older brother, Josh. We will celebrate his birthday, as only a close-knit family can; his choice of dinner, competitive games, and cake. It’s a weird feeling being so happy and thankful because 17 years ago he was born, but also being sad because he’s growing older. To make today even more blah, I’ve spilled some mystery drink on my nice new shirt and it’s not even 9:00 yet. Sigh.

Well, Happy Birthday little brother. I love you more than words can describe, and I can’t wait to continue watching you grow up.

Does this have anything to do with the prompt? Nope. So, I’ll get on with the piece of news I’ve decided to write about.

Do you know, without Googling for the answer, who Erich Priebke is? I didn’t either, until this prompt instructed me to scour the news for a story this morning. Erich Priebke, who died last month at 100 years old, was a former Nazi SS officer who was living the rest of his life under house arrest because of war crimes from World War II. To be honest, I had no idea who this man was or even that he existed. As much as I am an advocate for the extermination of Capital punishment, [defense attorney’s daughter/catholic…hello?] I am surprised he didn’t receive the death penalty as much of his ‘Nazi brothers’ in the greatest trial in history; The Nuremberg Trials.

54 years after a confessed Preibke helped in the killing of 335 civilians at the Ardeatine Caves in Rome, he was finally definitively convicted in 1998. He also admitted to drawing up a list of civilians names and checking them off as the victims received execution shots to the back of the head and neck. He admitted to shooting two of those victims personally. According to the news Preibke and fellow Nazi’s carried out these orders in answer to a bomb the day before which had taken the lives of 33 German soldiers.

Also, according to the news, the Catholic Church denied him a public funeral mass and Italy didn’t want his body to be buried in their country. Germany, his “motherland” also rejected his corpse; their reason for doing so being they didn’t want it to be a congregation site for “Neo-Nazi’s”. Priebke ended up being buried in an overgrown cemetery marked by a single wooden cross. There was no name, only a number engraved into the wood so that family could know where to visit him. priebke

You may be asking, “But how does the death of some 100-year-old, old man relate to you?” His death may not directly affect my life or those around me, but his life helped affect the entire world’s history. Each one of those soldiers’ participation, whether it was docile or passionate, helped fuel the raging beast of Nazi Germany. Each pair of boots, each helmet, each swastika accounted for one of the greatest wars and atrocities humanity has ever been witness to. No one can utter the words, “One man can not change history”. Hitler proved that theory wrong. Priebke may not have been as impactful as other SS officers, but to at least two innocent lives, he was literally the judge, jury, and most importantly the executioner.

I hope for the sake of his soul, he repented for all the years of his life. By the Catholic Church’s public condemnation, I assume he did not. As the world can breathe a collective sigh of relief with the passing of one of the last “prisoner’s of war”, we can continue to get on with our lives.