Seven months today.
Well, folks, it's been a hell of a ride. Seven months ago today, I didn't think I'd be where I am. I didn't think I'd be anywhere other than a wooden box, to tell you the truth. Fucking look at me now.
I'd have missed out on a hell of a lot if things had gone according to plan. In the past seven months alone, I have gotten promoted, discovered the sound of my own voice, and fallen more deeply in love than I could have ever imagined (hey, you knew this was coming...I am a girl, after all). I started a blog and actually kept up with it, I saw my natural hair color for the first time in 9 years, made lots of new friends, beat a few demons, drank too much, stayed up too late a thousand times, smoked way too many cigarettes, made some kick-ass muffins, said 'fuck' in front of my mother (it's the little things...), hit a very high F, fixed my car, built shelves, painted walls, wrote music, adopted a kitten, put down my first dog, butchered a cow, threw up in a fire station parking lot, learned how to kiss properly, sang in Italian, and finally told my story.
Life is what you make it. Mine's still a little convoluted, a little reckless, and a little short. It's definitely worth the ride, though.
Hang on,
Ness
Thursday, 20 October 2011
Thursday, 6 October 2011
Teeth
Today, I'm going to the dentist.
I. Hate. Dentists.
I hate them as much as I hate church. And shopping for jeans. And car problems. And bitches. And the inability to hit that elusive high G.
But I have finally accepted defeat. Today, I ate a sandwich. And my broken molar hurt so bad, I almost punched a baby in the face. The only thing that stopped me was the lack of a baby to punch. So, I set up a dentist appointment, and at 2:30 today, some bitch-ass dentist is going to look inside my mouth, exclaim, "Good God, how long has it been since you've been here!?" and proceed to cause me excruciating pain by ripping out my tooth. Or send me home with an, "I'm sorry. There is nothing we can do. I hope you have a good life insurance policy and are at peace with your Maker."
I'm going to need a stiff drink and a gallon of morphine to get through this.
Hang on,
Ness
I. Hate. Dentists.
I hate them as much as I hate church. And shopping for jeans. And car problems. And bitches. And the inability to hit that elusive high G.
But I have finally accepted defeat. Today, I ate a sandwich. And my broken molar hurt so bad, I almost punched a baby in the face. The only thing that stopped me was the lack of a baby to punch. So, I set up a dentist appointment, and at 2:30 today, some bitch-ass dentist is going to look inside my mouth, exclaim, "Good God, how long has it been since you've been here!?" and proceed to cause me excruciating pain by ripping out my tooth. Or send me home with an, "I'm sorry. There is nothing we can do. I hope you have a good life insurance policy and are at peace with your Maker."
I'm going to need a stiff drink and a gallon of morphine to get through this.
Hang on,
Ness
Monday, 3 October 2011
Any Way You Slice It...
Today, I butchered a cow.
For the realz. There was a dead cow and I cut it up. I came across my first fresh bones, and to my surprise, they are a perfect, shiny white. I always thought they looked like they did in my steak...marinade brown and marrow-holed. I took a kneecap home. I'm going to carve it into something.
I loved seeing where the muscles and tendons came together. I played with the joints, checked out the tendons and ligaments came out. Saw the layers of fat and muscle, fat and muscle. I saw the kidneys. Beautiful, perfect cow-kidneys. Mine don't work...they're all covered with cysts and I can't get them to go away. I can't get the ugly out of me. Ugly, ugly cysts on ugly, ugly kidneys. I am jealous of the cow.
The body--animal or human--is an amazing thing. Absolutely stunning. And (animal) bodies taste GREAT.
Anyway, I need to go clean the dead cow out from under my nails and get some sleep. I just wanted to write down my thoughts on chopping the shit out of a cow.
Hang on,
Ness
For the realz. There was a dead cow and I cut it up. I came across my first fresh bones, and to my surprise, they are a perfect, shiny white. I always thought they looked like they did in my steak...marinade brown and marrow-holed. I took a kneecap home. I'm going to carve it into something.
I loved seeing where the muscles and tendons came together. I played with the joints, checked out the tendons and ligaments came out. Saw the layers of fat and muscle, fat and muscle. I saw the kidneys. Beautiful, perfect cow-kidneys. Mine don't work...they're all covered with cysts and I can't get them to go away. I can't get the ugly out of me. Ugly, ugly cysts on ugly, ugly kidneys. I am jealous of the cow.
The body--animal or human--is an amazing thing. Absolutely stunning. And (animal) bodies taste GREAT.
Anyway, I need to go clean the dead cow out from under my nails and get some sleep. I just wanted to write down my thoughts on chopping the shit out of a cow.
Hang on,
Ness
Wednesday, 28 September 2011
Lolwut?
Life is fucking hilarious.
No, really. Think about it. Almost every part of everyday life can be thought of as funny.
Let's start with food. Like a pop tart. You unwrap it, stick it in your mouth, and chew the shit out of it like it's the soul of your mortal enemy. From there, your conquered sustenance rumbles and gurgles through your slimy insides in a masticated mess until it comes out. Through your ass. I find this HILARIOUS. You put things in your mouth so that they will come out of your ass. And if they don't, you get all worried and make haste to the nearest physician. All because something doesn't come out of your butt.
You don't think that's funny? Well, then, as Kurt Kobain said, you must be a closet pedophile. No, really. He said it. Look up the history of the baby on the cover of Nevermind.
On to the next one: sex.
There's a small animal attached to your man. If you touch it, or take off your clothes, or bend over, or walk three steps, or cock your head, or raise an eyebrow, or touch your hair, or eat a Popsicle, or dance, or cook, or clean or have a PHD or go to the bathroom or drive a car or have a job or like The Band Perry or watch tv or do ANYTHING, it gets hard.
Then, between your legs, those two tree-trunks of flesh and bone and hair that we hate so much, there's a hole. This small animal wants to go in the hole because it is dark and warm and small animal can hide in it. And if you move around enough, weird noises are made, and small animal named Penis throws up all over.
Think about it, but not too much. This is pure comedic gold. Sex is the funniest thing on the whole damn planet, when it doesn't make you sick. Buttsex is even funnier, but we'll save that for another time because I don't know anything about it other than what my gay friends tell me.
Sex is also a great way to make money: all you gotta do is find some rich old bastard who will do anything to make his small animal throw up. He'll pay whatever you want, because guys can't survive without that shit. That's the funniest part!
How about coffee? That's a riot.
You arrive at Scarfucks during Morning Rush. You're in a hurry to get to work, because you forgot for a second that billions of other people want their coffee too, and you--yes, the Almighty You--must wait in line. Damn it. Damn it all to hell. These fuckholes are going to ruin your day. You wait, and wait, and wait in the crush of business-clad bodies reeking of last night's beer until (FINALLY) it's your turn at the register. You order a mochaccino machinati with extra vanilla, three pumps of espresso, no foam, light foam, whipped cream, skim, soy, and toasted almond.
Holy shit. This upstart barista says no such drink exists. You were SURE it did, you saw it on The Colbert Report. And she has the balls to ask you what SIZE. The fuck. You say your order again. You scream it. YOU'VE GOT A FUCKING GOLD CARD! DOESN'T THAT MEAN ANYTHING!? You bellow, you put up your dukes, you demand to speak with the manager. Of course. She is the manager.
Enraged, you order a small coffee instead. Holy shit, it's a dollar and a half. Don't these assholes know that you need the Nectar of the Gods to function?! The nerve. Think about it: 97.666% of the world can't function without a cup of brown water. Or brown water thrown into half a gallon of milk and syrup. I think it's funny.
Boobs! Breasts are two big bags of fat welded to your chest. Fat! We hate fat! But guys love them! Why? We'll never know, but it sure is funny! I made good use of mine by paying somebody to put metal bars into them. Now they're pierced and I am cool.
Asses! There's a song that my boyfriend's friend made up to remind herself what guys like. It goes like this: "ass and titties, ass ass and titties!" Guys like ass, and it's yet another Mystery Of The Universe that we will never figure out. An ass is another bag of fat, with a crack down the middle. It's also the location of the Ass-Hole (see my second paragraph).
Dentists! They make money by sticking their hands in your mouth and causing you pain! I think it's funny!
Oatmeal! Who eats that shit!?
Nudists! Hilarious!
Dictators! They think they're the shit, we think they're humorous!
Testicles! WHAT THE FUCK!?
Ok, so do you see my point now? Life is funny. Everything in life is funny. Especially YouTube. But also things like sex and food and oatmeal.
Hang on,
Ness
No, really. Think about it. Almost every part of everyday life can be thought of as funny.
Let's start with food. Like a pop tart. You unwrap it, stick it in your mouth, and chew the shit out of it like it's the soul of your mortal enemy. From there, your conquered sustenance rumbles and gurgles through your slimy insides in a masticated mess until it comes out. Through your ass. I find this HILARIOUS. You put things in your mouth so that they will come out of your ass. And if they don't, you get all worried and make haste to the nearest physician. All because something doesn't come out of your butt.
You don't think that's funny? Well, then, as Kurt Kobain said, you must be a closet pedophile. No, really. He said it. Look up the history of the baby on the cover of Nevermind.
On to the next one: sex.
There's a small animal attached to your man. If you touch it, or take off your clothes, or bend over, or walk three steps, or cock your head, or raise an eyebrow, or touch your hair, or eat a Popsicle, or dance, or cook, or clean or have a PHD or go to the bathroom or drive a car or have a job or like The Band Perry or watch tv or do ANYTHING, it gets hard.
Then, between your legs, those two tree-trunks of flesh and bone and hair that we hate so much, there's a hole. This small animal wants to go in the hole because it is dark and warm and small animal can hide in it. And if you move around enough, weird noises are made, and small animal named Penis throws up all over.
Think about it, but not too much. This is pure comedic gold. Sex is the funniest thing on the whole damn planet, when it doesn't make you sick. Buttsex is even funnier, but we'll save that for another time because I don't know anything about it other than what my gay friends tell me.
Sex is also a great way to make money: all you gotta do is find some rich old bastard who will do anything to make his small animal throw up. He'll pay whatever you want, because guys can't survive without that shit. That's the funniest part!
How about coffee? That's a riot.
You arrive at Scarfucks during Morning Rush. You're in a hurry to get to work, because you forgot for a second that billions of other people want their coffee too, and you--yes, the Almighty You--must wait in line. Damn it. Damn it all to hell. These fuckholes are going to ruin your day. You wait, and wait, and wait in the crush of business-clad bodies reeking of last night's beer until (FINALLY) it's your turn at the register. You order a mochaccino machinati with extra vanilla, three pumps of espresso, no foam, light foam, whipped cream, skim, soy, and toasted almond.
Holy shit. This upstart barista says no such drink exists. You were SURE it did, you saw it on The Colbert Report. And she has the balls to ask you what SIZE. The fuck. You say your order again. You scream it. YOU'VE GOT A FUCKING GOLD CARD! DOESN'T THAT MEAN ANYTHING!? You bellow, you put up your dukes, you demand to speak with the manager. Of course. She is the manager.
Enraged, you order a small coffee instead. Holy shit, it's a dollar and a half. Don't these assholes know that you need the Nectar of the Gods to function?! The nerve. Think about it: 97.666% of the world can't function without a cup of brown water. Or brown water thrown into half a gallon of milk and syrup. I think it's funny.
Boobs! Breasts are two big bags of fat welded to your chest. Fat! We hate fat! But guys love them! Why? We'll never know, but it sure is funny! I made good use of mine by paying somebody to put metal bars into them. Now they're pierced and I am cool.
Asses! There's a song that my boyfriend's friend made up to remind herself what guys like. It goes like this: "ass and titties, ass ass and titties!" Guys like ass, and it's yet another Mystery Of The Universe that we will never figure out. An ass is another bag of fat, with a crack down the middle. It's also the location of the Ass-Hole (see my second paragraph).
Dentists! They make money by sticking their hands in your mouth and causing you pain! I think it's funny!
Oatmeal! Who eats that shit!?
Nudists! Hilarious!
Dictators! They think they're the shit, we think they're humorous!
Testicles! WHAT THE FUCK!?
Ok, so do you see my point now? Life is funny. Everything in life is funny. Especially YouTube. But also things like sex and food and oatmeal.
Hang on,
Ness
Tuesday, 20 September 2011
Artificial Sunshine
Well, here I am, six months later.
It's been six months to the day. I'm still here and much the better for it.
My six-month anniversary of life is heralded by iron skies and dubious weather. The clouds can't hold it in, so my hair's a wreck. I have a voice lesson today. I spent all last night getting drunk off my ass and trolling around Allentown looking for Starbucks and lost cigarettes.
Nobody knows what day it is, except me. But that's enough.
There is no sunshine today unless I make it. Whether or not a smile still holds power when it's forced remains to be seen. But I'm feeling ok today, and I wonder what the next six months will be like. The next six years. Will I buy a new car? Will I get married? Will I write the song that's going to make me famous? Or will I still be fucking around at Starbucks? Will I ever move out of my parents' house (please, please, please)? Will I go somewhere really neat on vacation? Will I hit that fucking jump on my snowboard and actually land it? Will I feel pretty? Will I take dance classes? Will anybody dance with ME? Will I start drawing again? Will I hit a high A without sounding like a drowning cat in a toaster being steamrolled by a hippopotamus?
I have gained 20lbs since January...taking me from 98 to 118. I have a BMI of 15. My hair isn't blonde anymore...it's the sub-standard shit-brown I was born with. I have changed.
My kidneys are still fucked. My legs are still shot. I still like tshirts with pictures of food on them. I am the same.
No matter what happens, though, I'm still Ness. And I'm still alive.
Hang on,
Ness
It's been six months to the day. I'm still here and much the better for it.
My six-month anniversary of life is heralded by iron skies and dubious weather. The clouds can't hold it in, so my hair's a wreck. I have a voice lesson today. I spent all last night getting drunk off my ass and trolling around Allentown looking for Starbucks and lost cigarettes.
Nobody knows what day it is, except me. But that's enough.
There is no sunshine today unless I make it. Whether or not a smile still holds power when it's forced remains to be seen. But I'm feeling ok today, and I wonder what the next six months will be like. The next six years. Will I buy a new car? Will I get married? Will I write the song that's going to make me famous? Or will I still be fucking around at Starbucks? Will I ever move out of my parents' house (please, please, please)? Will I go somewhere really neat on vacation? Will I hit that fucking jump on my snowboard and actually land it? Will I feel pretty? Will I take dance classes? Will anybody dance with ME? Will I start drawing again? Will I hit a high A without sounding like a drowning cat in a toaster being steamrolled by a hippopotamus?
I have gained 20lbs since January...taking me from 98 to 118. I have a BMI of 15. My hair isn't blonde anymore...it's the sub-standard shit-brown I was born with. I have changed.
My kidneys are still fucked. My legs are still shot. I still like tshirts with pictures of food on them. I am the same.
No matter what happens, though, I'm still Ness. And I'm still alive.
Hang on,
Ness
Saturday, 17 September 2011
For No Reason At All.
They say everything happens for a reason. I don't believe them anymore.
That's a load of bullshit. Everything happens and we find reasons for it. "I lost my job, but I had to in order to get a better one." Lies. A better job can be found by looking. "My car died...but I think this is God's way of showing me to save for the future." Lies. God doesn't need to kill your car for you...cars die on their own (at least mine do).
The truth is, stuff happens and if we're optimists, we look for ways to learn from it or grow from it. If we're pessimists, we decide that life just wants to shit on us.
My question is, which one am I?
Hang on,
Ness
That's a load of bullshit. Everything happens and we find reasons for it. "I lost my job, but I had to in order to get a better one." Lies. A better job can be found by looking. "My car died...but I think this is God's way of showing me to save for the future." Lies. God doesn't need to kill your car for you...cars die on their own (at least mine do).
The truth is, stuff happens and if we're optimists, we look for ways to learn from it or grow from it. If we're pessimists, we decide that life just wants to shit on us.
My question is, which one am I?
Hang on,
Ness
Tuesday, 9 August 2011
Stupid, Girly Post
A wise man once said never to trust anything that bleeds for a whole week every month and doesn't die.
I'm a girl. It is as much a curse as anything I know. Why?
•I'm not pretty, but somehow I find myself as the everlasting gobstopper of eye-candy for the sick fucks who come into my store. They think that just because I was born with a pair of tits and an ass that I'm not smart enough to realize that they're staring, or simply that I'm too vain to care.
•Everybody thinks I'm automatically a feminist. Ok, so I can handle myself in a fair fight, I can argue circles around most people, I can drink with the best of them and I can make an asshole feel like complete shit when I want to. But just because I'm not a typical damsel in distress doesn't mean I don't want to be rescued.
•I have the misfortune to bleed out for a whole week every single month of my life and not die.
•I inherently feel too much.
This last one is what gets me. It would be nice (who am I kidding...it would be fucking superb) if I could take note of what I feel and put it into a little box to save for later, and then decide never to open the box because what's in there might hurt me and other people will see me being hurt and might hurt me more because of it. But when I'm sad, or I'm happy, or I feel special, or loved, or scared, or ugly, or stupid, or protective, or infuriated, everyone in the whole world immediately knows it. Whether it's in my words, or the way I slam the steaming pitchers down on the counter, or the way I get that stupid fucking grin on my face, or the way I curl up as small as I can and hide my face, everyone knows what I'm feeling.
Bullshit.
Yesterday, I felt loved. And it was, without a doubt, one of the best moments of my life. And I loved back: and at that moment, I knew it could destroy me. I stood there with my hands open and empty, eyes wide and inside I'm as vulnerable as I've ever been. Because that's what happens when you love: you drop all of your weapons and your armor and you can't see the thousands dying on your battlefield because you're focusing on something you don't recognize. And you can't tell if it's going to heal you or kill you, but either way you know that whatever happens is going to change everything. It's either going to be exactly what you need to fill the bleeding hole under your chain mail, or it's going to rip you a new one in the most painful way possible. But to find out, you have to take off your mail and stand there and let it get close enough to kill you.
And after all this revelation, I got in my car and cried all the way home.
And this is why I should have been a boy. Or something without a gender. Or a three-toed sloth. My point is, I wish things were different. But they're not. I'm going to be female for the rest of my life. I'm going to be stuck like this...seemingly strong and fierce and lethal and impenetrable and I-will-slaughter-you-if-you-touch-me, but really I'm just a soft, confused, vulnerable mess with a tendency for self-hatred. I have made myself into someone you don't want to mess with, but I can't change who I am at my core: Ness. Small and weak and looking for what scares me the most: love.
Boy, do I feel stupid as fuck after writing this. I should go break a chicken's neck or shoot holes in a cow or beat the shit out of someone to offset the insane girliness that just happened.
Instead, I'm just gonna finish this post.
Hang on,
Ness
I'm a girl. It is as much a curse as anything I know. Why?
•I'm not pretty, but somehow I find myself as the everlasting gobstopper of eye-candy for the sick fucks who come into my store. They think that just because I was born with a pair of tits and an ass that I'm not smart enough to realize that they're staring, or simply that I'm too vain to care.
•Everybody thinks I'm automatically a feminist. Ok, so I can handle myself in a fair fight, I can argue circles around most people, I can drink with the best of them and I can make an asshole feel like complete shit when I want to. But just because I'm not a typical damsel in distress doesn't mean I don't want to be rescued.
•I have the misfortune to bleed out for a whole week every single month of my life and not die.
•I inherently feel too much.
This last one is what gets me. It would be nice (who am I kidding...it would be fucking superb) if I could take note of what I feel and put it into a little box to save for later, and then decide never to open the box because what's in there might hurt me and other people will see me being hurt and might hurt me more because of it. But when I'm sad, or I'm happy, or I feel special, or loved, or scared, or ugly, or stupid, or protective, or infuriated, everyone in the whole world immediately knows it. Whether it's in my words, or the way I slam the steaming pitchers down on the counter, or the way I get that stupid fucking grin on my face, or the way I curl up as small as I can and hide my face, everyone knows what I'm feeling.
Bullshit.
Yesterday, I felt loved. And it was, without a doubt, one of the best moments of my life. And I loved back: and at that moment, I knew it could destroy me. I stood there with my hands open and empty, eyes wide and inside I'm as vulnerable as I've ever been. Because that's what happens when you love: you drop all of your weapons and your armor and you can't see the thousands dying on your battlefield because you're focusing on something you don't recognize. And you can't tell if it's going to heal you or kill you, but either way you know that whatever happens is going to change everything. It's either going to be exactly what you need to fill the bleeding hole under your chain mail, or it's going to rip you a new one in the most painful way possible. But to find out, you have to take off your mail and stand there and let it get close enough to kill you.
And after all this revelation, I got in my car and cried all the way home.
And this is why I should have been a boy. Or something without a gender. Or a three-toed sloth. My point is, I wish things were different. But they're not. I'm going to be female for the rest of my life. I'm going to be stuck like this...seemingly strong and fierce and lethal and impenetrable and I-will-slaughter-you-if-you-touch-me, but really I'm just a soft, confused, vulnerable mess with a tendency for self-hatred. I have made myself into someone you don't want to mess with, but I can't change who I am at my core: Ness. Small and weak and looking for what scares me the most: love.
Boy, do I feel stupid as fuck after writing this. I should go break a chicken's neck or shoot holes in a cow or beat the shit out of someone to offset the insane girliness that just happened.
Instead, I'm just gonna finish this post.
Hang on,
Ness
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