So I don’t actually know any REAL famous people. I met Tony Hawk once in like 98 or 99 but he wasn’t cool yet. I also saw Luke Wilson once in a bar in Austin that’s about it. But my cousin (Chase Ryan Jeffery) is apparently going to be famous sooner or later. I think thats sweet because I want to eventually end up on an episode of TMZ because we leave some L.A. area bar and I punch some paparazzi in the face! How awesome would that be!!! Here is Chase’s most recent project American Virgin!

Chase plays Chuck!

He is the person on the far right in the coat! I am stoked cause as soon as he has a giant mansion in the hollywood hills I can sleep on his couch and hit up the local skate parks!

Last night I played a blank CD at full blast. The mime next door went nuts.

Okay I know the world is hung up on Miley fever and I’m no exception to this rule. Sometimes in life, it’s necessary to sing “Party in the USA” at the top of your lungs but honey, lets get something straight.

Miley was quoted in Seventeen Magazine as saying the following about her new fashion line,

“We look into fashion designs very much in advance. We started the plaid shirts and the cheetah pants before people started seeing it [on runways]. When you first look at it as a designer, you think Okay, this is going to be a little crazy. But you don’t know what’s going to be in in a year like Max [Azria] does. Max looks at other designers, and you know it’s very advanced. He’s got the inside scoop.“

Miley…really?

You are not a designer, you did not invent the plaid shirt or cheetah print pants, and you should really consider listening to a Jay-Z song before you start name dropping.

And now, for another installment of “Steph’s How To Not Stay Married 101.”

Or, as it is also known, “How I Drive My Otherwise Completely Sane Husband Absolutely Bonkershit.”

Last night was a pretty normal night for us thirty-something marrieds with two children. We had the great joy of showing The Fifth Element to the awesome spawns of my uterus (who now walk around saying “muuuuuuuulti-pass” at every given opportunity) and enjoying their reactions to one of our favorite movies.

After that, my husband and I watched The Chumscrubber which was an excellent movie that I must recommend yet warn at the same time that while it is very well-written, it deals with a hard subject for most to deal with (suicide) and I bawled my eyes out watching it. Disregarding that, however, it was still an outstanding movie.

Anyway, so by all accounts we had a fairly normal, uneventful evening. It in no way foreshadowed the dooooooom that was to occur later.

That’s right. Doom.

This guy was totally cackling in the background.

So, eventually, as most of us old thirty-something marrieds do, we made our way to bed around 11 or so, he to sleep, I to read a selection from my never-ending stack of “To be reads.”

And that’s where the night went straight into the pooper.

We were having a simple conversation about my book, that reasonably tangent-ed off into the ridiculousness of the Twilight series (of course) to which I made the comment that I wanted to tell all of my single lady friends that are FREAKING the shit out over this Twilight CRAP that it may be the sole reason as to WHY they are still single. Because they believe the crap in that book/movie.

Right?! I know, I’m SUCH a bitch.

So he responds, “Uh, you know my sister (who is single) loves it and is waiting in line all night to get tickets for it. Why would you say that? It’s not like everything YOU like is completely and totally awesome. As a matter of fact, some of it is pretty damn lame, just so you know. Jeeesh.”

Shit.

I forgot.

So, instead of just being a normal person and apologizing for my dick comment, I decided to ask him why every time I say something about anything, he HAS to immediately turn around and point out something equally annoying/stupid/silly/mean/pick your adjective, etc. that *I* do?

Like I don’t know these things about myself, or something.

So, I laid into how he does this all of the time and it drove me crazy and how even the kids have picked up this behavior and blah blah blah until I sounded like Charlie Brown’s teacher even to my own self…

Now, any normal self-respecting man who hasn’t known me since the beginning of time would have looked for the nearest window to jump out of just to get away from my crazy.

But, oh no, not my husband.

He sat up in the bed, looked at me with the widest eyes, and said, “Are you serious??? You just spent almost an entire half an hour reaming me a new asshole about how I do EXACTLY WHAT YOU ARE DOING RIGHT NOW?!?!”

So, that is when I completely lost my mind and became just irrational.

“Yeah, but why do you do that? Is it some kind of defense mechanism? Do you not realize you are doing it? What is it? WHY WHY WHY DO YOU DO THAT?!?!”

I know, you are totally surprised. Me? Irrational?

Yes.

We argued about that for a bit until finally he stopped and said, “Wait a second. This doesn’t make any sense. You are bringing up all of this different stuff so what is it that is really bothering you?”

So, I replied that a few weeks ago when he lied to me that he had brought my books that I needed to send out for Paperback Swap to the Post Office and sent them out but 2 days later, I found them in the back seat of his truck, I knew that he only told me that he had done what I asked just to shut me up and not have an argument so we were having that argument we should have had weeks ago, tonight.

All because he got defensive of his sister over a stupid comment I had about the Twilight zealotry of late.

All is insane in love and war, my friends. All is insane.

And, I love every minute of it.

I am a volunteer, intern, student, employee, daughter, sister, friend, supporter, writer and more.  I live a life on the go and prefer it that way.

Lately I have been contemplating the simple word no. Every time I mention to an acquaintance what things I am working on in my life they just stare blankly at me, my friends tell me I am crazy and I need to stop the madness, but I won’t. I love what I am doing in my life right now, the progress I am making and how much I am learning. Why on earth would I turn down an excellent opportunity to take on something new. For one it might be my 8 am to 7 pm work schedule I am on (that isn’t including time set aside for homework. I am a bit surprised that I’m passing any classes at all). Another may be the fact I don’t have the energy or time to run anymore, and this is coming from a avid runner and life long athlete. The things that make me sane and give me that break from work unfortunately I am not making time for anymore.

It seems these days the only time I ever catch myself uttering the word “no” is when I speak sternly to my dog. Yes it is true, I am one of those people, the ones who can’t turn away requests, people, or what ever might come bobbing by. Is it worth the extra long hours and stress of trying to please a co-worker or friend, to me yes it is. Sometimes I secretly hate myself for being a ‘giver’ but I don’t regret the way I am. But I do understand there is a time to speak that awful word, not only for my health but my happiness too. For those others out there like me who can’t seem to turn down even the most random of people I suggest practicing putting yourself first for a day and see how you like it. I am taking a bit of my own advice and putting this last thought into practice for this week. Word of the week: NO.

The life I have been describing I know isn’t too far off from many other college students. A lot of pressure is put upon students to receive fabulous grades on top of being actively involved on campus, interning and work. Oh and you can’t forget the wonderful social life you have to keep up on too. This has always been described as the time to be meeting new people and developing great relationships you will carry with you for the rest of your life. When does the break come in? I have been asking myself that same question this past year, and I really believe it is up to ourselves to find that balance within all the craziness. Pick and choose, say no to a few requests and find time to set aside for YOU.

Cute deer accessories from Cobrahive <3

The picture is taken at Bentham Forest

• Deer accessories: Deer Antlers, Hooves and Tail – Cobrahive
• Skin: Skye (Chai) Electrocute – Pink Fuel
• Hair: Green II (pitch) – Maitreya
• Dress:  Mys Dress (black) – *Crazy*
• Pan Flute: Skream  
• Fingertape: Luck inc

I moved to San Francisco from NYC about 9 months ago. I’m really still not over how many crazy people there are in this city, and the depth of the crazy that is so omnipresent. When I rant about the wackos spilling over on every sidewalk, people are shocked. “You’re from NYC, aren’t you used to it?” No, no I’m not. For those of you unaware, Giuliani shipped off all the crazy homeless people many years ago, and NYC is now a yuppie-filled Pleasantville with nary a crackhead in site. Union Square street performance in NYC consists of 15 year old hip-hop artists reenacting America’s Next Dance Crew. Union Square street performance in SF consists of a man stacking a dog, a cat and a rat on top of one another like Jenga pieces. Shit is weird out here.
I digress. I have started this blog to vent about the crazy things I see on my morning and evening bus ride on the #19 Muni, a delightful and colorful bus ride that takes me from Russian Hill (land of Starbucks & Lulu Lemon), through the Tenderloin (reminiscent of The Wire’s Hamsterdam), and finally through SOMA where I depart (healthy mix of sex stores and meth clinics). Instead of bothering my coworkers every morning with “Oh my god you will not believe what happened on my bus ride today” I figured this would be a good forum for my tales of crazy.
I’ll christen my blog with one of my very first bus ride stories:
Hopped on the bus a bit late, probably around 8:30ish. Bus was looking a bit packed for a Monday morning, so I was forced to go stand in the back. The stench of urine and trash in my 1 foot radius was a bit overpowering, so when I spotted a free seat I immediately lunged for it, likely knocking a small Asian woman out of the way George Castanza style. Alas, this seat was no refuge. Turning to my right, I noticed a kid about 21 or so in dirt covered skater clothes, the missing junkie member of Blink 182 perhaps. Face covered in blood! Dear god. No one else on the bus seems to notice or care. Unfortunately there is no room to get up, so I vow to get off at the next stop. Feel like I’m going to gag, but turn to my left hoping to escape with a more pleasant visual. There is an older man talking to himself, which I’ll take any day over a blood covered drug addict. Looking a bit closer I realize he is not alone, as there is a giant white rat in his coat pocket. He is about a half an inch away from the rat’s twitching nose, passionately engaged in conversation, occasionally calling the rat “sister.” Our eyes meet, he does not look pleased to have an onlooker observing. Vision of the rat lunging at me to defend his companion, little claws ready to be imbedded in my cheek, thrusting me back into the bloody arms of the junkie. It’s too much! The $5 cab is worth the preservation of my life. I immediately leap out at Polk and O’Farrell.

I am not a super hero. I am not a journalist. I am not an idiot, nor someone of high intelligence. I am just another simple american teenage girl. Caught in the hell that is the monster of an economic slump in America. My name is Erin Clark, I am fourteen, and I am homeless. Your search for me will be futile, simply because Erin Clark is such a common name. I’ve been homeless for little over two months now. I can’t say it’s been an easy road. I mean, I’m sure there have been times when many teens have said “I hate my life!” Or “A text message ruined my life.” Well my life as I knew it ended with a text message. I was attending my high school, as I regularly do, and  as I waiting, laughing and such I received a text message from my mom saying “We’re kicked out, find a place to stay.” At that point I did not realize the severity of the situation.

Now, this did not come as a complete surprise to me, seeing as my mother and grand father had been having a long time battle over who should live in the house. Though it was his house, to my defense he had given us right to live in it, and no notice of his sudden need to live in it again. Especially since his wife was receive top care at what I thought was the best care facility in state. But this was not good enough for him, he had to degrade us with awful names, kick us out into the street, and use any method possible to make out life a living hell. Bad went to worst when my mom put us up in a shelter. Sure, it was better than sleeping in out car, which we never had to deal with seeing as we always had a friend extending a short-term hand to help us for a night or two, but it was still pretty terrible. The first night was the worst, I wasn’t exactly used to those kind of people. Even though ‘kind’ isn’t the right thing to say. I am one of those ‘kind’ of people. I don’t really know how I feel about being homeless. Sometimes I cry…sometimes I don’t mind it. It’s just rough now that we’re in a different shelter, hundreds of miles away from all my closest friends.

I guess what’s been the roughest is no one really knows what I’m going through. And they won’t until, and hopefully they wont have to have, being homeless as a memory of theirs. I wouldn’t wish that upon any of my friends though. No one really deserves this unique kind of torture. Everyday I pray Mommy gets a job, and we can afford an apartment, even if we have no furniture to put up in it. Seeing as my ‘Grandfather’ threw out every last one of our belongings. I don’t know about you, but that’s pretty heartless. He threw out all my mother photos, furniture, plates, TVs, personal records, clothes. All of mine…and he tried to pay the movers to burn it all to. As if he was burning us as well.

Then we moved. Actually we moved after we tried to salvage some of our clothes, and items. How he’d originally gotten us out, was he had put a restraining order against my mom, and she called him, not knowing this was breaking the rules, asking him what it was for. He said ‘Elder abuse.’ but, how do you abuse someone a hundred miles away? Sounds pretty fishy to me. Well, not to the judge who didn’t realize that he wasn’t just signing another piece of paper, but signing away rights to make our life as horrible as possible. You’d think people would make sure all restraining orders we’re legit, right? But I guess not. Maybe judges don’t care who they’re giving this or that too. I know I no longer feel safe.

Well, after that trick we were on the streets, because my mom couldn’t attend the eviction hearing, the next day. So we couldn’t even retrieve our things. Not long after he tried get me taken away from my mom by saying she was unfit, and having my aunt try and groom me into living with her. When that fell through he told the police he found meth in and amongst my mothers things. This was completely the last straw, because he’d THROWN ALL HER SHIT OUT. So…we left. Told no one and were gone in a matter of days.

Wasn’t hard seeing as all of our worldly possessions fit in the back of our car. But then again, it wasn’t easy seeing as I was leaving behind the only people who ever loved me.

I should have never whined that things were “too quiet” yesterday. Afterwards I went through hours of apartment drama that I cannot put online. It involves money and drugs and a psychiatric patient, a frightened old lady and a WHOLE lot more. Waaaaaaaaaay too much excitement and drama. When things get scary, the stress goes right to my guts. I was up most of the night in the bathroom.

Zeke was in my bed when I came back from one of my trips. He looked so cute! I got in the other side of the bed and was totally amazed that he stayed. Zeke does not like to cuddle in bed. He thinks people are too hot. When I got in bed it was 7:15 and when I woke up it was 7:15. No more Dollar Store batteries! It was really after noon

I am sad that I missed church, but am also glad. I really was in no shape to drive. In the night I was sooooo sick. I still am, but feel a heck of a lot better than last night

This was one of my first ever spoken word pieces….enjoy

I vibe off a thought try to write a little poetry
Wont put my name on it but still you know it’s me
Subject, flow, timing, vocabulary
Hints of emotion, lo and behold you know it’s me

The plain and simple
The unspectacular
Till I fight into your senses
With adjectives to back me up
Against a wall of truth
I survive on the unseen eternal fruits

You see I have an underground vineyard
Everything I produce connoisseurs wanna sample the
Laboured for fruits of my youth
In a quake off the Richter scale my roots wouldn’t move
And I have nothing to prove for I’m that deep

Reluctantly fashionable I only work for big companies yet its not big company I keep
And I hold real not prototyped hyped new age beliefs

I am the topside of a chocolate digestive
Provoking gluttonous lusts yet the most resisted
So I take calculated risks if victory exists
And at the site of beauty I just lick my lips
For its just its…
The don king of moments
The little bit of crazy that everyone goes with

The versatile black that flows with any outfit
Make gold look good
Softly spoken realist
Spiritual apprentice
I was bought by love
Will never be rented
I AM

In my fifteen years of marriage, I have managed to do remarkable job of staying out of serious trouble.

Generally speaking, things around the this household only become unhinged when I neglect to remember that the four words  “I told you so” are better left unsaid.

Until now.

I have discovered a new method of getting into trouble.

Not having to buy an expensive jewelery for her kind of trouble… (See Kobe Bryant below…)

Not even sleeping on the couch kind of trouble…

It all started last Wednesday when I dropped my wife off at the airport leaving me alone with the children during the beginning of one of the nastiest storms this region has seen in years.

She left me a list for everything.

A list for breakfasts.

A list for home schooling the youngest.

A list for lunches.

A list for home schooling the oldest.

A list for dinners.

A list for things for me to do if I have “extra time.”

A list of acceptable snacks for the kids.

A list of what to feed the turtles, hermit crabs, crickets and frogs.

(BTW…Frogs eat the crickets.)

A list of unacceptable snacks for the kids…and pets.

A list of places I can take the kids to eat…with gift cards attached.

A list of what to use to care for my daughters hair…and the specified order for its’ application.

Before the storm would complete its’ path of destruction and leave 12″ of rain on the ground and blow tidal waters back through the cities storm drainage system, an estimated 75,000 homes were left without power.

My house was one of those 75,000.

We went black on Thursday at about 6:15 pm.

Three seconds after the lights went out, the sounds of a five-year old girl shrieking while she was trapped in a dark room pierced my ears.

I grabbed my flashlight…

As the responsible adult…remember that my wife was gone for the week…I was left to restore order to this chaotic situation.

First on the list was going to be getting some light throughout the house.

Easy.

There are candles EVERYWHERE…kitchen, living room, dining room, home school room, all three bathrooms and every bedroom.   I think we even have candles on the porch.

We have more candles here that at any Michael Jackson vigil…

This was going to be simple…we had enough candles to both light the house and provide enough heat to keep us warm.

Problem solved.

After grabbing one of the long fireplace matches, I started lighting.

Although the five minutes I spent lighting the 30 candles in the house that would bring peace to the house for the three days we were powerless, it would turn out to be an act that I would soon regret.

Due to the remote area my wife was traveling, phone access was limited and we didn’t communicate for the three days the Burgess were living like cave-dwellers…with windows and carpet.

Maybe high-class cave-dwellers.

Jump to Sunday morning…

*ring*

*ring*

ME: Hello.

WIFE: Hey.  It’s me…how’s everything going there?

ME:  You wouldn’t believe it.  That storm that started on Wednesday when you were leaving is still here and we lost power for three days.

WIFE: I’ll bet Haylee was terrified.

ME:  It wasn’t too bad.  It’s a good thing  we had so many candles in the house.

WIFE:  You DIDN’T use all of my expensive Yankee Candles I have out for display only, did you?   I keep candles on the top shelf of the hall closet in case of an emergency.

ME:  Uh… was that on a list?

I am in trouble now for my actions during the storm, but, for those three days, I had the nicest smelling house in Virginia Beach.

Me as a Scottish Whore

So, though I dealt with steaming piles of nasty shit from old men, I also got to hit on a lot of girls, and I loved it. But one chick in particular taught me a valuable life lesson: women are manipulative and emotional and out of their Goddamn minds.

There was a girl who was absolutely stunning-  smoking-fucking-hot. She had legs for days and a very sexy, dark European look. Her name was Katia and she came in to see me fairly often. She would come in and the male bartenders would get boners underneath their kilts looking at her, never missing an opportunity to throw about lewd comments about how bad they wanted to bang her.

Katia always sat in my section. She would strut in, sit down at one of my tables, and flirt with me for hours. I really enjoyed when she came in- this girl was confident and fun loving. We were always super fliratious and animated when we talked with each other. But, she had a boyfriend, who she would sometimes bring with her, who would linger awkwardly on the side-lines as me and Katia talked. My instincts told me they were probably interested in a threesome, so I never really pursued her, and kept the relationship at a friendly, interested, but unobtainable level. Katia eventually got my number, I had given it to her not ever expecting her to really call or try to hang out.

A few weeks later, on a Tuesday night, I was getting off of work around midnight when Katia started blowing up my phone. I ignored the first call, but after she sent a text message that said “Please answer me, I need your help!” and another phone call, I picked up- warily.

Me: Hey, Katia! How are you girly.. what’s going on?

Katia:  EVVVVVAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Ah shitttttt… Katia was bawling. I had been hoping that her persistant phone calls and text message for assistance would be to help her solve a lighthearted dispute about some trivial question that she knew I’d have the answer to. But no. She was wailing on the other end of the line, and I had no idea how to react.

Me: Katia, are you okay?

Katia (in hysterics): Noooooooooooooooo…. Eva!  Eva my boyfriend and I are fighting and he’s threatening me and he just kicked me out of the house and I have nothing, no keys, no money, nothing and none of my fucking friends are answering their phones.. (sniff.. sniff.. sniff..) Oh my GODDDDDDD, I don’t know what to do. I can’t be by myself right now, I can’t, I want to go run into traffic. I don’t want to be alive right now.. Oh my GOOODDDDDDDDDDD.

Me (barely knowing this girl, and only knowing her as a fun flirt, not wanting to get involved): Umm.. well.. what do you want me to do Katia?

Katia: I only live a block away from your work, please, please just come and pick me up and sit with me until I can get a hold of SOMEBODY, ANYBODY! Eva, I feel so bad doing this to you, I know we don’t know each other very well I just don’t know what to dooooooo….”

Me: Okay.. okay.. I can come pick you up and we can go hang out for a while.. I have to get up at 5 a.m. and go do a promotion for work though- so I obviously want to help you but I really need you to try and figure out some kind of plan okay hon?”

Katia: (sniff.. sniff..) “Okaaaay. Thank you Eva! This means a lot to me, you are such a nice girl..”

So, she gave me directions to her house and I drove to go get her. When I pulled into her apartment complex, I was stunned. This girl was rolling around on the cement ground of the parking lot, wailing and screaming. I slowly pulled up next to her and got out of my car..

“Evvaaaaa I’m so glad you’re here I can’t stand him, he is evil and he’s in my house and I don’t know what to dooooo…” she cried.

I leaned down and pulled her up from the ground…

“We’ll figure it out Katia.. You need pull yourself together, gorgeous. We’ll figure something out,” I tried consoling her.

I packed her flailing, lithe body into my car and hopped back into the driver’s seat. Even though it was now apparent that Katia was mildly intoxicated, we decided we would go to the bar down the street until she figured out where she was going to stay and what she was going to do and if she could get a hold of anybody.

As I drove, she explained what had happened between her and her boyfriend that night, and I absorbed what I could through the sniffs and sobs. I tried to avoid looking at her face because at this point I just felt embarrassed for her. Her make-up was smeared all over, her cheeks were tear stained, and she had to keep wiping her nose because it was running from crying too hard. The sexy, confident, woman who always looked so collected was crumbling before me. I reached a hand out and rubbed her back as I drove, anxious to sit this girl down, wipe her face off, get a beer, and help her get her shit together.

Too bad it was 1 a.m. on a Tuesday. As I pulled into the parking lot of the nearest bar, the chances of the place being open looked dismal. The lights were off and there were no cars anywhere to be found. I slowed my car in front of the door and was about to ask Katia for any other ideas when she brightened up and declared, “It’s okay, I know the owners! I’m sure we can just go in there anyway!” and proceeded to hop out of the car and go and yank on the door as hard as she could.

The alarm started going off immediately. Looking like a scolded puppy, she ran back towards me..

“Oh my god, Oh my god, Oh my god..  I’m so sorry! I thought I’d be able to go in! I know the owner!”

I wasn’t aware if she realized that “knowing somebody” to get drinks at a bar was different than being given the divine power of opening the locked doors when the place was closed. Needless to say, I sped out of the parking lot to avoid any questioning by the cops who would be showing up shortly, who would have made the night all the more uncomfortable.

At this point, I was tired. Tired from working a double that day, emotionally exhausted from trying to console the disaster in my passenger seat, and not looking forward to waking up in T-minus 4 hours to go get my pictures taken for advertisements for the Tilted Kilt. We drove around for thirty more minutes as she continued to suck out all of my energy with her crying and blatant inability to regain composure. All I wanted was solace. I wanted to drop this girl off somewhere so I could crawl into my bed at home and burrow into my blankets and not have to worry about what I was going to do with her. I kept holding out hope that she would get in touch with somebody and find a place to stay. But, eventually I decided that if I had to continue to deal with an unstable, emotional Katia, I’d rather be doing it from the comfort of my home. So, I gave in.

“Katia.. I have a spare bedroom at my house. You can crash in it if you’d like, but I really just need to get home. I can give you a ride back to your place at 5 a.m. cuz that’s when I have to be at work.. is that okay?”

She whimpered and nodded. The rest of the twenty minute drive to my house was filled with her crying about her relationship and me silently nodding and inserting the concerned “Mmhmmm’s” when necessary. When we pulled into my apartment complex at 2 a.m., my ears were ringing from her sobbing.  I was so happy to be home as we dragged our sorry asses up the stairs to my place. Then, as soon as I inserted my keys and jiggled my front door open, Katia was in my house and bee-lining towards the kitchen. Once there, she opened my refrigerator and pulled out a can of beer- which she then proceeded to stab a hole in the side of and shotgun. When she finished, she spiked the can onto the ground, and pulled out another. She repeated the process three times as I stood there watching, speechless.

“Oh my GODDDDD I needed that,” she said when beer number four was gone, and shrugged.

I decided not to comment, because all I wanted to do was sleep, so I showed her back to the spare bedroom and went to grab her pair of pajamas. As I walked into the spare room to hand her the clothes, Katia knocked them out of my hands,  grabbed the collar of my shirt, threw me onto the extra bed, crawled on top of me, and started kissing me. The pathetic looking tear stained girl who I had been trying to piece together for the last 3 hours had suddenly transformed into a devious vixen. I was so tired, and confused, and completely clueless as to what this girl needed- I just went with it.

She wanted to be in control, and I let her be. She stopped and told me she had never been with a woman before but had always fantasized about it. I let her keep going. I was so defeated by how crazy this girl was, and so bewildered at how premeditated this entire night had been to get to this point. She kept going for a while, then she suddenly became unsure and awkward, and asked me to take over. I did, and after we finished I was drained of every ounce of energy in my body. I rolled onto my back and looked over at her, and as I did, she sat bolt upright, suddenly, like some kind of timer had just gone off.

She looked at me over her shoulder, now looking very perky and victorious, and said, “Okay! I’ll let myself out.. I’ll get a cab home.”

And she got up and walked out of my room, completely composed, as if nothing had just happened.

I didn’t know what to think and I was too tired to try and make any sense of what I had just been through. I just laid in my bed enjoying the coziness as she left.. and though I felt like I had lead blocks for feet, when I heard the door slam, I ran into the living room and locked the door behind her as fast as I could.

Skin : *League* Skin Deeptan -Kate- Cry
Dress : *Crazy* Ball Dress
Jacket : *Crazy* Zang Jacket
Boots : (Shiny Things) Old Boots wide
Hair added in PS

by Tamoha Siddique

I welcome you to my mind.

I have tightly shut both doors leading to it, locking each door thrice. No one can find us here, so you may relax. Let me show you around…

As you can see, there is nothing much here—just a dimly lit space. No high voltage stadium lights as you might have found in Einstein’s mind—just a few flickers of light here and there. The walls used to be painted bright red, but turned grey gradually. The large bed you see over there—that’s where I spend most of my time. It’s very messy and strewn over with dreams. Sometimes the dreams take so much space I have to sleep on the floor…

You hear that voice? It’s coming from that tape recorder over there.  It never stops. The voice keeps talking, sometimes there are more than one. They drive me crazy…

This, here, is the largest bookshelf in the world, but as you can see, there are no books in it. I plan to fill it up with hard bounds from all over the world. That rack over there in the corner is full of DVDs. Some of the best horror flicks ever. I am the lead actress in all of them…

Do you see that empty photoframe? It contains the picture of the person I love…

Look at this! This is my most favourite doll from my childhood. But someone stole her clothes and painted her face black…

Hey! Watch out! You almost stepped on this caterpillar on the floor. It’s been here for as long as I can remember. I’m hoping it would turn into a butterfly and fly away, but it’s taking too long…

I don’t know if you can see it from here, but there is a tunnel at that dark corner. The tunnel seems to be very deep, but I am too scared to explore it, so I just leave it alone…

And here is the grandest mirror of all times, but it doesn’t work properly. When I stand before it, I only see the background behind me, but no me! It’s as if I am invisible, or as if I don’t exist…

Knock! Knock!

Oh! No! They found us! We have to get out of here right now! I hope you will come see me here some other time! Bye!

</

*Crazy* Store

Marty cradled the Ruger Sportsman lovingly, Circassian walnut cool against his cheek. In the lush park below, a puff of earth appeared beside the carved fairy tree.

Deidre gathered his grimy jacket around her knees. ‘Jesus Marty, can we go now? You said “one shot” – that’s three! I’m cold, and we’re going to get caught if we stay any longer!’

Counting to ten in Latin, Marty lay his weapon with exaggerated care on its carry sheath and faced his girlfriend. She looked away as he stroked her bra strap, then put her hand over his. Marty slid his fingers around her throat, his voice quiet and measured.

‘You insisted on coming, remember? I explained to you in detail the importance of today’s exercise. You said you understood my pain and would support me during this difficult time. I’m almost finished. You can either stand by me…’

‘Or what?’ Deidre plucked at his iron grip, tears welling.

Marty stilled and his eyes clouded.

She shuddered. ‘OK baby, I’ll support you. I’ll wait. I’m sorry.’

He endorsed her capitulation with one look and returned to the business of the day. Taking a cloth from his bag, he carefully wiped his hands then pressed them to his face, exhaling slowly.

New laws would soon separate him from his beautiful machine. After agonising deliberation, he’d decided not to seal it in his bedroom wall. Though the risk was slim, discovery would mean jail and he wasn’t going back there for anything.

Settling face down into the travel rug, Marty clutched his rifle and peered past the air conditioning units. The barren roof of the office tower was deserted, as it had been since dawn. Deidre curled into a ball between his splayed legs, warming them pleasantly.

He breathed carefully: in while looking away and out with each return to the sight. Gradually his concentration returned, along with the sense of solemnity he desired.

**********

The Fitzroy Gardens are a paradise for brides: rolling meadows, mighty avenues, follies and ponds. Dozens marry there each year. Hundreds more come for photographs. As a consequence, the gardens have become Melbourne’s premier bride sniping ground.

It began during the recession. Intersections filled with menacing youths, smearing car windscreens with jagged rubber devices. Oblivious to protest, they extracted change from red-light maroons, then fled before two-minute tides.

With the traffic-light market quickly cornered, the poor had to seek alternatives. One Saturday, a dishevelled woman approached a regal bride at the end of her photo session.

‘I’ve just taken two dozen behind-the-scenes shots of your lovely party.’ The dishevelled woman produced a film from her battered Pentax.

The bride regarded her sternly. ‘Yes, I saw you. I wondered why you were creeping around in the bushes like that.’

‘They’re yours for twenty bucks.’

An excited bridesmaid scampered up. ‘What’d you get?’

‘Oh, the best man tripping over the Esky; you pinning the broken strap; the chauffeur pinching a champagne. That sort of thing.’

‘And you want twenty?’

‘Yeah.’

The bridesmaid fished a note from her purse and traded it for the roll, which she pressed into her sister’s gloved hand.

‘Present, babe; from me. Who knows? Some of them might be ace. And what’s twenty bucks on your wedding day?’

‘Too right,’ beamed Melbourne’s first bride sniper, before darting away.

The craze spread like wildfire. From Collins Place to the steps of Parliament, photo sessions were plagued. Canny snipers raided opportunity shops for frocks and morning coats. Thus camouflaged, they became the bane of professional photographers.

Police were disempowered after early arrests led to lawsuits from snap-happy relatives (whose only crime was poor dress). Composition went out the window, ruined by strangers in frayed formal clothing – leaping, grinning and holding ancient cameras aloft to capture every Special Moment.

**********

Martin Banff had been a bride sniper. An honours degree in arts had earned him only a brutal factory job. Desperate for a better life, he took a redundancy package and failed miserably in a lawn mowing franchise – flogging his recalcitrant ride-on to death in a hailstorm.

He next tried pizza delivery, only to be savaged by the wolfhound of an incautious pensioner.

Too proud for the dole, Martin decided to use his expensive Canon rather than pawn it. He targeted an early morning wedding in his best suit and was immediately arrested. He was the first victim of bridal party fight-back, in which family friends pointed out unfamiliar faces to hired guards (who checked identities before calling police).

Martin was given the option of prison or a fine. Too ashamed to contact anyone, he chose incarceration.

On his last morning, four assemblies of sweat, tattoos and missing teeth held him down while a fifth went sloppily last. Marty’s atrophied personality shattered. He returned to society with only mismatched shards. And the human immunovirus.

He secured a cleaning job and a paper round. He rented the cheapest flat. He saved. A disinterested member of his father’s shooting club for years, he started honing his skills with the weapon he’d received for his eighteenth birthday.

He grew to understand and respect it. Then he fell in love with its latent power and began polishing it behind bent venetians in a nightly ritual of obeisance.

He picked up a girl at an early opener pub and told her he was infected. She didn’t care. A fragment of his former self insisted on condoms. Each night Marty sat smoking in the shadow of his rusty balcony – watching tar-bound trees and car parts and vowing revenge on those responsible for his heinous prison experience.

But before his ideas could crystallise, Tasmania’s Port Arthur massacre triggered a revolution in gun laws.

Marty had neither the time nor the resources to identify his targets. Morose and irritable, he spent hours with his rifle, bitter that their brief affair was almost over. Like meeting the perfect girl on school holidays and knowing he’d never see her again, Marty decided to make the most of his remaining time.

The Ruger was beautiful. Sleek and compact, its oil sheen was a potent pheromone to the fluttering thing in Marty’s brain. Cool even in summer, the blued steel clove to his face whenever he sighted: at the television, the toaster, a neighbour’s silhouette or the pulsing temple of his sleeping girlfriend.

Each leapt large in the powerful scope, free from fetter and his to dandle without interference.

He did not want to hand in his gun.

**********

Marty took a sick day on the last Friday of the amnesty. Restless and depressed, he hired ‘Lawrence of Arabia’, again. For the seventh time he watched Peter O’Toole stagger from Turkish headquarters, beaten and raped almost to death.

Later came Marty’s favourite scene. Mounted on a white stallion, beneath the disapproving glare of Omar Sheriff, Lawrence regarded a fleeing enemy column and screamed with spittle-flecked mouth and wild eyes, ‘No prisoners! No prisoners!’ Unable to resist his passion and conviction, his entire army joined him in massacre.

Marty brooded in the gathering darkness. Lawrence’s tormentors hadn’t been part of the column. Yet his revenge had been absolute. Perhaps the death of any bride would grant Marty the catharsis he craved. One shot, one life – and goodbye to his lovely, lovely Ruger.

The following day was Saturday; the office building he cleaned nightly would be deserted. The roof overlooked the place where he’d been arrested.

**********

Marty pocketed his jeweller’s screwdriver. The scope had taken a knock during the fifteen-flight ascent. Nerves were doubtless interfering as well. After this last adjustment, however, he was confident of accuracy.

He panned to a grove of elms, far from grey suits and gay dresses. Pale leaflets trembled in a gentle breeze.

The possums lay curled together like caterpillars. Marty selected an old, grey male. With a harsh PFFFTT! the bullet rocketed from the Ruger’s silencer. Marty observed the distant impact and the insane scramble of bloodied, sunblind animals. The sight was fine.

The bride was tall with sharp cheekbones and almost horsy teeth. She was handsome rather than beautiful; features to last long after pretty faces had gone to pot. Marty watched her laugh and converse with her entourage.

The rotunda ceremony had been brief; now champagne sparkled. The solid groom stood next to his wife, arm round her waist as if to stop her growing any taller.

Licking his lips, Marty settled his crosshairs over the woman’s heart. Her décolletage rose and fell. Abruptly, she stooped to kiss an elderly man – the father-in-law, if size ran. Marty switched aim to the back of her head. Annoyingly, she then left the rotunda to embrace a knot of friends.

Marty regarded his gun and suppressed a choke of sorrow. Behind him, Deidre snored softly. Sunshine streamed onto his unruly hair, the effect mildly intoxicating. First it heightened his sense of loss. Then, as he basked, it made him feel light-headed; even reckless.

The week had been serious and depressing. Now he was safe in his hiding place. His would be the first crime of its kind in Australia. Surprise guaranteed escape. Could he not have a little fun before consigning the Sportsman to destruction?

With mounting excitement, Marty targeted the groom’s champagne glass. How tempting to take it out first, just to spice things up. He grinned, then gasped as the flute exploded into a cloud of particles. His mouth fell open.

‘What the F*CK?’

He checked the safety, which he’d applied automatically on taking out the possum. He looked at the crowd. There was consternation, but not panic; the groom was uninjured. Had he gripped the glass that tightly? Marty shook his head at the coincidence then rose to his knees and stretched – scanning the horizon to refresh his eye.

Deidre murmured a sleepy protest and pulled a corner of the rug over herself. To his right, Marty noticed a breath of steam drifting from a pipe in the neighbouring roof’s air conditioner. Eyes wide with disbelief, he crouched back into cover and levelled his binoculars at the pipe, just in time to see it withdraw.

He wrenched his gaze back to the wedding party. The bride lay among bent heads, carmine blooming rapidly on her breast.

Stunned, Marty turned to see a dark figure sprinting to the stairwell. Through blinding rage he brought his weapon to bear on the fleeing assassin who had stolen his idea and ruined his revenge. Leading slightly and allowing for the breeze, Marty fired.

And missed.

The round smashed into a louvered window, echoing loudly. The figure dropped, rolled and came up scanning for the source of attack. Marty froze, monitoring his target’s fervent search. From St Vincent’s Hospital came the wail of ambulances.

Concentrating on his opponent’s next move, Marty tried to ignore a strange flicker of light playing over the opposite roof. Then the sun dazzled him and the penny dropped. The scope! Its caps were off! Marty lowered his weapon in panic and the reflection flicked over the face of Bruno De Souza, who immediately fired at the sparkling source.

The bullet slammed into Marty’s cover, releasing a vicious jet of coolant. Deidre sprang in terror from the screaming plume. Bruno saw her vault and was surprised at her sex. Without hesitation he drilled three rounds into her body, cocked his head toward the sirens and reached for the door to safety.

Marty stared aghast at Deidre’s broken form, then took fresh aim. Bruno’s headless corpse tumbled heavily down two flights before slithering to a halt.

The police helicopter descended, wheeling angrily at Marty’s pot shots. Marty knew that Special Operations would be along shortly. He snapped in a fresh clip of ammunition and looked back at the gardens.

A brace of gleaming limousines had just arrived for a shoot.

Perhaps the most stunning song ever. And that’s saying something. Beautiful, emotional, catchy, drama-filled… has it all. Especially love her vocals at the end when she does that lovely scream type thing.

Björk - Jóga (Strings & Vocals)

Yeah, so, there I was.  Anyway, this blog was going to be all about schizophrenia and being crazy and stuff, but I think I’ll just write some other stuff here, too.  Just whatever comes to mind.  Not much on my mind now, though, so I’ll just write and see what it ends up being.  Today was a lazy day after a hectic week at work.  It was a good week, just really busy.  I actually like it that way.  A slow day here and there is nice, but I live for the fast paced days and weeks.  I felt pretty good, too.  The anxiety wasn’t too bad, the craziness was nill.  The anxiety is much harder to live with than just being crazy.  It pisses me off sometimes that I can’t sit through a meeting without having a damn anxiety attack, but I guess that’s just part of life now and something I need to deal with.  Have you ever had an anxiety attack?  They suck.  Like, really suck.  If that’s what I’m having anyway.  I’ve been trying to describe what I go through for years and have never really been able to nail it down.  Part of it is that it’s just really difficult to analyze what I’m experiencing while it’s happening, and once it’s over it’s hard to remember what it felt like.  I’ll try, though.  I get really light-headed – it feels like I’m hyperventilating, but I’m not breathing deeply.  I feel like if I don’t hang on to something I’ll fall out of the chair I’m sitting in.  Of course, I’ve never fallen out a chair due to an anxiety attack, but that fact doesn’t usually do much to help.  I get really cold and clammy, my hands get all sweaty and I feel like I’m going to faint.  My heart-rate sometimes speeds up, but not always (that’s what the beta-blocker I take is for).  Psychologically I feel like I’m about to freak out and run screaming from the room.  It takes all my effort to sit there and appear normal.  It’s a very uncomfortable experience, and it pretty much negates whatever the meeting is supposed to accomplish because I’m so focused on fighting what’s going on inside that I can’t pay attention to what everyone is saying.  Thankfully my job requires only the occasional meeting.  Though I often wonder if I went to more meetings, would the symptoms diminish?  I’m not sure.  Sometimes by facing your fears and subjecting yourself to a situation repeatedly will help you overcome them, but that doesn’t always work.  I have to walk around all day at work, pretty much every day, and my balance/equilibrium problems haven’t gone anywhere.  I still feel like I’m walking around on a boat all the time.  Ah well.  I’ll live.

Hey, are there any schizo’s reading this?  I thought of something that happened to me one time that was pretty funny.  Let me give a little background first.  When it all began for me I had a ton of voices in my head.  There were usually a minimum of about 70 people in my head at all times, typically more, and all those people were real to me.  They had personalities, emotions, thoughts, opinions, etc.  After much medicine and willpower I’ve brought it down to just one.  Her name is Lisa.  She’s actually pretty cool.  She’s got a great personality, great sense of humor, she’s a trip.  I know on an intellectual level that she’s nothing more than excess dopamine zapping away in my brain, but she’s fun so I haven’t really tried to get rid of her.  We’ll chat about stuff, joke about things and she’s great to bounce ideas off of.  Sometimes when I get pissed about something I just rant and rave to her – she’s a great way of blowing off steam.  I can silence her when I want to, but usually I don’t.  Anyway, Lisa’s been around for several years and we get along well.  Well, there’s this drinking game that my friends and I play sometimes called “bullmoose”.  It’s really easy.  Basically, if you are holding a drink in your right hand and somebody sees it, they can call “bullmoose” on you and you have to chug whatever the drink is.  It doesn’t matter if it’s almost empty or full, or what it is.  Beer, liquor, whatever.  Well, we can go months without “bullmoose” being called.  Most of the time nobody even thinks about it, and we all have to drive home at some point unless we’re all crashing at somebody’s house, so we keep that in mind.  Really the only time it gets called is if everyone is drinking for real and planning on getting trashed and crashing wherever we are.  Well, one night I was sitting on my back porch, just after taking my crazy-pills, having a smoke before bed.  “Bullmoose” was the farthest thing from my mind.  I was sitting out there, smoking my cigarette, drinking a Gatorade.  I was holding my cigarette in my left hand and picked up my drink with my right hand.  As I was about to take a sip, out of nowhere came “Bullmoose!”  I laughed my ass off.  I could honestly say that I was the only one in the world who’d had bullmoose called by the voice in their head.  So, of course, I chugged my Gatorade.  Hell, I had to.  Moral of the story?  Have fun with the voices in your head.  If they’re gonna hang around, you might as well enjoy it.

So, this brings up a bit of serious note.  Is it ok to drink while being schizophrenic and on medication?  Beats me.  I’m not a doctor.  I don’t recall ever reading anything about my medication that says not to mix it with alcohol.  And when I did a lot of research on schizophrenia when I first realized I had it, there wasn’t much about drinking.  Of course the usual don’t drink heavily or to excess or whatever.  But I drink.  Not a whole lot, but I do drink.  I’ll have a beer or two here and there, and on occasion when I don’t have to drive anywhere I’ll get good and torn up.  Not often, but every once in awhile.  The way I look at it, a few drinks here and there won’t kill you.  I wouldn’t advise getting drunk off your ass every night, mixing it with anti-psychotics, anti-depressants, anti-anxiety drugs and the like, but nothing in moderation will kill you.  Except maybe a bullet, but I wouldn’t recommend that, either.  Life’s too much fun to end it early.

Ah well, that’s enough for now.  I’ll post something else again soon.  Until then, have a good night and don’t go crazy!

CrazyTalk PRO wajah interface revolusioner animasi dengan real-time kontrol puppeteering memberdayakan Anda dengan kinerja perintah ekspresi wajah karakter. Program ini menyediakan fungsi-fungsi lanjutan dan produktivitas dengan yang paling inovatif dan dapat diakses fitur yang memungkinkan Anda untuk komando dan kontrol pertunjukan wajah yang belum pernah ada sebelumnya.

SEDOT

I’ve been reading this book, Out Of The Shadows,  which I picked up at a recent AASW conference I attended. This post is a bit of a review of the book, but is also liberally peppered  with my own experiences and thoughts both as a social worker and as a woman who has grown up with a mother who, I now recognize, had mental health issues.

Firstly, Catherine’s book (and research) is primarily based on the experiences of 11 women who are all 40-ish or so. This places these stories in a particular period of time, generally speaking the 60’s-70’s. The research is Australian and reflects Australian practices around mental health and institutional care of women/mothers who were diagnosed with significant mental health problems. It serves a reflection of the mental health system as seen through the personal narratives of the women who participated in the study.

The book addresses the stigma associated with having a ‘mad mother’ – and the isolation, shame and fear that these women experienced as children, the impact on their everyday lives – and the ongoing effect it has had on their adult lives, relationships etc. As a collection of lived experiences, the book certainly highlights the resilience of children and families. The criteria that the mothers must have been institutionalized was frustrating for me. I would have liked the broader inclusion of women who had experienced growing up with ‘mad moms’ who were not medicated or institutionalized but still left their daughters with a legacy of ‘wtf’.

I grew up with the peripheral understanding that my mother was an alcoholic. I say I have ‘peripheral’ awareness as there are many things, which are not openly addressed in my family and I left home at the age of 15 and have had, all in all, minimal contact with my mother or my extended family. Many of the situations which were a part of my growing up, I attributed to having a very young (she was 16 when I was born) mother who struggled with alcohol addiction. I saw her emotional estrangement and violence in this context and it was not until I was an adult that the story shifted to include a diagnosis of depression, which had gone undiagnosed and untreated (as far as I am aware) while I was growing up. As an adult I am aware of my mother’s ongoing relationship with mental health professionals, drug therapies and hospitalizations, which include electroshock therapy. I have been peripherally aware of the fact that her mental health issues have prevented her from working, or using the social work degree she earned in her mid 30’s. I am also deeply aware of how unhappy she has been most of her life, and the impact that has had upon me, my life choices, my relationships and my parenting.

This is not about ‘mommy blame’, as I sometimes felt while I read Catherine’s book. For me, the book lacks a clearly articulated social justice framework, and a gendered analysis which may have allowed for more of a compassionate view of the mothers than that which I found while reading this book. And tho I found the stories of the daughters highly compelling, I would have found the book more balanced if the mothers stories, the social construction of mothering and mental health, and the relationship and responsibility of the wider family and community had been considered in far more depth.

I imagine the context of the book was to give each of the women an opportunity to be central in their own story. So often when someone in your family is ill, they become the ’star’ and everyone else becomes a shadow – hence the book title. However, I believe the possibilities for healing would have been greater, again, if the stories of the mothers and the social construction of mothering and mental health, and the relationship and responsibility of the wider family and community had been more fleshed out.

For instance, a daughter may view their mother’s ‘crazy’ behavior in relation to the impact it has on her thoughts, feelings and physical reality – but would that reality change with an appreciation of how the mother was experiencing that same moment? Also, again, would there not be greater capacity to be gentle and generous with our own struggles to maintain relationships and raise children, if we could understand where personal issues begin and end?

It is not the ‘fault’ of the mothers that they had mental health problems. It is not the fault of the mothers that mental health problems carried/s such social stigma. It is not the fault of the mothers that there were/are very poor supports, services or resources for themselves or their families. It is not the mothers fault that the institutional care provided to them was so very often the best of a worst solution. It is not the fault of the mothers that the fathers and wider family and community were not there to offset and support the mothers or their children. Yes the mental health of their mothers created a legacy of issues for each woman, but locating the responsibility of those issues with the mother, who was ill,and also suffering, seems to me, to grotesquely miss the mark.

We don’t talk much about my mother’s mental health problems. Actually, we don’t talk. Estrangement is part of the legacy of the mental health problems in my family, as is the inability of individual family members to locate themselves in those issues. My mother’s mental health problems are one variable in a complex tapestry of family dynamics. What I can say is, I have come to see my mother’s story in a gendered, socially conscious manner – and that allows me compassion – even tho, it does not allow me a relationship.

[Cross posted @ E-Strange]