Okay, I know it was as corney as a laughy taffy joke, but I didn’t want my gross post to be the last thing I put on my blog, so deal with it.
You just couldn’t help yourself? Fine, but don’t whine and cry and call me nasty or anything like that. I warned you.
I’m a woman. As a woman I have a monthly subscription to Satan’s river. Through the miracle of modern science and engineering, we women have a selective array of products to facilitate or rather hide the rivers’ flow when it comes.
Okay, last chance guys. Believe me, you don’t want to read more.
One of these ingenious products is a plug, otherwise known as a tampon.
Now, I’ve been off my period for a week or so, but several days ago I became disturbed by a rather offensive odor which seemed to be coming from my lady parts. I did what I could, frequent showers, etc, but the odor persisted and seemed to be getting worse.
I assumed I was dying of some horrible and humiliating disease or something, and began preparing my last will and testament, when I thought “maybe it’s a yeast infection”, so I put some ointment on my finger and it began its trek into the depths of my…well, me.
Suddenly I felt something that didn’t feel like me, and I realized “ahhhhh!!! it’s a tampon! Gross! Gross! Gross! Etc.” for about 10 minutes as I fished the disgusting thing out. It was horrible. Traumatizing. Nasty.
So I looked it up and apparently it happens a lot. Women see their doctor and stuff to have it taken out, so I didn’t feel like as much of a sicko. So that’s it. Told you it was gross.
I’m smelling better now, and it can actually be dangerous to leave a tampon in, so I guess I’m fortunate in that regard that it wasn’t life threatening.
In the future, I’m going to have to make tally marks for tampon insertion and retrieval or something, because this was one experience I don’t want a repeat of.
There simply is a time and place
To show the sides of your writer’s face.
I tend to post it all too quick
From beautiful to really sick
But sometimes I need a gentle remind
That some of it should be held behind
The doors that only a few people see
Some might be better only for me.
That doesn’t mean I’m being fake
There’s only so much the world can take.
So I will try to keep a lid
On the writings that are better hid
Behind the public social wall
The view available to all.
Self-censorship is something I can do
Whether the piece is fake or true.
I’ll have a secret writing mind
And leave the controversy behind.
I promise that I really tried
To take my readers on a ride.
To keep them spellbound with suspense
To write in conflict and keep it tense.
I tried to write some sad stuff too
Make them believe it could be true.
Tried to write some witty verse
But I must be under some sort of curse
Because each time I start to write,
The words refuse to come into site.
I’m left staring at a blank page
More annoyed than full of rage.
I simply want to write a bit.
This feeling makes me want to quit.
So instead of trying to get it done.
I’ll write a poem just for fun.
So there! You mental blocking jerk!
Writing shouldn’t be so much work.
You stopped my world.
In a crowded room, there was only you,
And we both knew it.
At least I fantasize that you knew too.
Life was life.
I had a boyfriend and told you he might answer the phone, but I still gave you my number, because I knew it was you.
Not sure what would have happened if you called, but I’ve always wondered what life would have been.
I’ll forgive you because of tonight.
We are meant to be together.
I knew it then.
I’ve never forgotten it.
Never forgotten you.
Did that really happen?
Are you real?
The touch of your skin,
The taste of your lips,
Your mouth on my breast,
Was that real?
It can’t be.
People don’t make out with strangers.
People don’t mysteriously connect on the side of the road, after a brief meeting which might have been a dream 12 or 13 years ago.
People don’t have soul mates, or soul-friends-with-benefits, or soul strangers.
There’s no such thing as meant to be.
But I’ll tell you this,
Will never leave me.
Just like those few minutes so many years ago.
Whether that was the same you,
Or merely the you of that moment.
Whether then or tonight really even happened,
Or they were drug induced dreams.
You, are the one I’ve been hoping to find.
Thank you for being real.
I make about $560 a month through SSDI. I can’t get a regular job because I smoke weed, which saves me at least $200/month in medication costs and helps with my dance disposition. I live in my ex-husband’s house for free with my kids, but believe me, I pay for that in other ways.
I DONT WANT YOUR MONEY!
I want you to help me with ideas for how to make money. I dance around town, have ad space available, which can go freely in and out of stores or anything. People consistently tell me they see me everywhere, my ad space is valuable, but so far no one has taken advantage of that fact, by paying me to wear their brand name or drink their soda in public or whatever.
I could be a very useful marketing tool, and that’s what I want to get paid for.
Now, there will be critics who say the companies that sponser me are exploiting my disability. I want to say very clearly right now that:
I AM ALREADY EXPLOITING MY DISABILITY!
I’m a cripple. Before the acceptance and recognition of the beauty of it, people stared at or avoided me or seemed to feel sorry for me because I’m in a wheelchair. Now people definitely stare, but it is not out of pity. I love it, and want people to stare and smile and laugh and talk to me.
When I actually accepted all of this, I recognized the privileges of being who I am.
I am fortunate to be able to change the world by being myself, just sitting in a chair and dancing and making people smile. It is an honor.
I am taking advantage of my position by dancing around town with positive signs on my chair and making people smile.
Unfortunately that part doesn’t pay the bills.
I need help to get some form of either sponsorship, or advertising revenue, or something.
If you see me somewhere dancing, please help by dancing. I’ve started giving my cards to construction workers and mail people and asking them and everyone else to dance when they see me dancing; but soon I will have to make money while doing this, or I’m going to have to stop.
I know you’re scared,
You don’t know what to think.
What to do.
I don’t either.
I do know it will be okay.
You are strong.
The only thing that is real
This moment where we are traveling through cyberspace.
I’ve traveled the dimensions of time and space.
To meet you.
To hug you in a weird way
And to tell you
It will be okay.
There is no past. My heart was ripped from me in a rush of flashing lights and sticky yellow tape. There is no future. Vision would require hope, and that stealthy whore eludes me at every turn. So I float in the ether, pasty skin crawling with regret, eyes gouged out by my own shaking hands.
Richard Thomas, author, editor, and friend who is legally obligated not to sue me if I run his foot over with my wheelchair, chose the lines above from his book for you, my readers.
This book is going to be good. Buy it here:
If you have the audacity to not take my word for it, read reviews here:
If I were you, right after I bought the book, I’d go to the following link and follow Richard’s blog:
Stop playing me.
Stop using me.
Stop toying with me.
Stop taking advantage of me.
Stop hurting me.
Stop destroying me and then reviving me so you can destroy me again.
I’m so tired of it.
Tired of hoping.
Tired of caring.
Tired of thinking.
Tired of you.
So stop. Go away or come back so I can pretend I don’t want you to leave.
Maybe I don’t.
Maybe all I want is for you to stop.
Two years ago today a tornado ripped through my town Moore, Ok. It resulted in 24 deaths, 377 injuries, countless homes and business destroyed, etc. This video is personal footage from that day, and the recovery after.