Camp Out

The suggestion of any overnight venture with a bunch of insane (and gay) Girl Scouts was stomach-churning to me in the extreme, but me and my mom had already committed to being there, so we wanted to see it through. I was at the end of my rope with this clique, in the same way I practically decided overnight (to my rather detached and then suddenly overly-aggressive parents) that I would not pursue anorexia nervosa with a bitchy all-girl ballet troupe for a living, like, after the very first lesson, but they needed years to work out their overreaction to kids in tutus, which I understood, to a point. I'm really cute! This felt like that: I knew what was going on, but they needed "time to process it", which was our family's go-to phrase for mental disabilities and serious learning impairments.

Such is the way of life for the healthy children of sick parents, and, besides visits from my grandparents, I didn't know any other types of experiences at home, because all of my classmates and friends growing up had similar stories (or worse) to add as fuel to our group's fire. We hated our home lives, but children can only do so much, not that it stopped our parents from using us however they saw fit, which was poorly and often. My mom's neighbors in her current senior neighborhood are the exact same way: crazy angry city parents suffering from serious disorders who back up one another over, say, the health of any other type of human being on the planet, give or take a few acceptable life forms like their plants, because in "DivaLand", they must always come first, or abuse will surely follow.

"Yeah, Diane!" Ruth calls out to me working for my mother, like I always do. "That's what children are for!" And that's how they see it: they're sick (and now old, too) and we're not, so they will tap us until we crack, if we stick around, in between hours of free labor. Then, you co-dependently cycle through your circle to bleed other people dry, which doesn't work, because they're sick, too. So, it's back to me? NO! I'm so shocked! It's like a really bad play that's repeated over and over again, and any events or activities attached to them as a generation played out more or less the same, which made us tired of parenting them as children, which, as far as I can tell, is unique to Generation X. Nonetheless, they we were: at a horrible overnight with a fucked-up troop of gay Girl Scouts and their crazy butch "leader".

It was to be borne with as little drama as possible, but with manic depression flowing as freely as the soda that sustained these raging bitches, we were kinda doomed from the beginning. Not that I needed anymore confirmation about these types of things. Sigh...parenting is really hard in childhood, you know? I felt like I needed coffee with my mom and the other parents just to get through the night, and I don't need caffeine to remain aware mentally, which means I'm forced to undergo rigorous feats of endurance, yet again, that I did not need to repeat. My ethnic background and my home tribe of Acadian boys had pretty much set me up for country life, anyway. I didn't need these fucking chicks, and they hated that, too. Becoming overly attached is a sign of involvement in the "Mental Patient" world, and we knew how that play ended, too: badly. For you.

With this mindset of gritted teeth backed by true grit, it was simply a situation made to be borne out by me, however it happened, and I just hoped none of the country queers (and their pampered city parents) died or tried to kill each other throughout the madness that would surely ensue, because that's what madness does to people and their children, gay or not. The mothers were set up in a cabin, and my mom had already bitched about that to the Nth degree with her own act that spanned three curtain calls, because before she had MS as a convenient excuse to freak out, she used a hypothetical "bad back" and "pre-arthritic condition" that was possibly osteoarthritis (so interesting!) that she could deliver expertly when it was needed for her comfort, like sleeping on the wood floor of an old tent in a sleeping bag, like I did with the other children in the troop. But, not her. Oh, no.

She explained in great detail how she had several unique conditions that required special treatment, like a pad to sleep on and her own bed, which she got, while I wondered who would try to kill a girl first in the big tent at the camp. It wasn't long before I found out. There was movement along one side of the tent that sent the already-hysterical girls screaming like it was their big scene in a "Jason" movie, except it wasn't. It was probably a snake attracted to the lights they insisted in shining after "lights out", because of their night terrors, also a greatly understood part of the their tribal culture that was easily assimilated by their types of brains. Yes! Had to be it! I sighed, took a look, decided (what I already knew) that they weren't worth talking to, and then went to find my mom at her continued coffee klatch that was "hardship" in Diane-speak.

She decided that it was worth checking out, after she had abandoned me to sleep there on my own with those crazy bitches because the floor was "too hard", even though she had a stiff wood board installed beneath her mattress for firmness at home, with a gay little step-stool on her side of the bed, so she could get into her prized "antique" bed. I knew about it from every angle, because all of my young life I was forced to help her with everything, included flipping her orthopedic mattress, adjusting the wood slats under the bed, changing the sheets (of course), and adjusting the wood board. She had to have light-proof shades, the birds were also too noisy by her window, and she had a bevy of water-bottles, cold compresses, pills, special pillows, and other accoutrements attached to her bed-rest days that included hoarding piles of papers on my father's side of the bed that she would then dump onto the floor at night, until he finally forced her to go through it.

I didn't expect much courage from her, is what I mean to write to y'all. And she didn't disappoint me, as she played the "city mouse" frightened by the woods at night to a hilt. We talked it over as a group (sort of), and after my mom was also similarly reassured that they were bat-shit and overreacting to normal nighttime stimuli (like noises and movement) as a means of entertainment, she left after finally suggesting that maybe the boys from an overnighting Boy Scout troop were pranking them by pulling on the tent flaps, and that was it. Boys?! NOOO!!! "My mother specifically said I was not to interact with boys!" It sent a shiver of terror through the group that was way worse than a snake sighting, but I was psyched. I could use my flashlight to signal for help! Heck, it was better than having to go through the torture of picking an "outhouse buddy" with some chick in a full-on house bathrobe, metal mouth retainer, and bunny slippers. Fuck, man...where's my badge for that? None was forthcoming.

But, I'd made my point with Diane, and the next morning's pancake breakfast cinched the deal for me, forever. We were done, and my mom had a tale of torture and abuse that included severe back pain with lots of <insert her brand of medicine here>, and a total lack of sleep because the mattress was "lumpy". I got closure, and an end to enforced gay girl groups for me, for the rest of my childhood. It was quiet, I cried a lot in my room from the sheer loneliness and isolation of it, but at least I could read, and since that was considered an "educational pursuit" by my upwardly-mobile parents, they couldn't be seen as ripping that away from me, under my grandparents watch. All I had to do now was make it into college. And wait. There was always a lot of that to spare. Just hunker down, and wait it out.

Talent Show

By now, you should know as my frequent readers that my parents hit "The Village" and Broadway in the city for many years before me and my brothers were even born, so if you think you can top them in "art fag", don't. Don't even try it with them, or with me, for that matter. They were wayyy gayer with it, first. Trust, on that. I should know, because they bought the soundtrack albums with overly histrionic solos more fit for bad vocal stylings on pop culture "talent" shows than real singers with authentic chops. We've been over this before: it's that aggressive up-and-down warbling that goes "ohahoohhhoonnnannndohhhahhhon" long after it should have ended, popping "pop tart" vocal chords to give us instant headaches, but my parents are suckers for it, just like y'all with poorer musical tastes than me.

I should know, because I took serious music classes in college that developed my innately good interest in real sound by authentic musicians, and then I worked in a professional setting with it, which meant I took my act on the road and then walked it around town for many years. I know "good" from "bad" on an expert level, and that's that. I also know totally bullshit "diva" attitudes, because my version of the manic-depressive bulimic bipolar bisexual cheerleader stereotype was my ballet teacher in New City growing up, and she never failed to remind us to diet as children until it hurt, so we could have the dubious privilege of spending our formative years training among other gay kids with body image issues who wanted purely homocentric bitchiness in their social circles for many years, ones that self-patrolled one another by over-scrutinizing their bodies for overtly heterosexual body traits (like fully-developed breast tissue brought about by years of healthy eating combined with a great attitude), which meant, just like with the gay girl scouts, that I was utterly excluded from it as a peer group. Forever.

And just like I wrote before, I was totally fucking fine with that. Not my scene. And so, when those trite bitches in the gay troop decided that our horrible camp out should include gay skits, I knew it would suck, because none of them had the actual chops to go with artistry that mark the master's mindset from the amateur, even in childhood. Like the rest of my time with them, I knew beforehand that each and every thing they would do would suck badly, combined with my lack of control as a child with the brain of a ferociously bright werewolf who just knows exactly what will happen beforehand, and then it does, and I have to watch you do it. And then it happens. 

This skit bullshit with the gay troop was like that. I was so horrified by the idea, that I had to walk around crying in the dark for awhile before I could even contemplate telling my mom what I already knew: these bitches are crazy. It was, again, one of the worst experiences of my life and my childhood. As I walked around dark woods that are native to me, I had never felt so out of my skin among nature in my entire life, and I knew that could only mean one thing: a really bad ending. Not for me, but for all of you, and I was powerless to stop it. I knew it was motivated by their bad taste, and I knew it was just another way to exclude me from it. I finally worked up the nerve to interrupt my mom having a bitchy coffee klatch with the other moms over-nighting at the campsite, and just like I predicted, she sucked, too.

She pushed me away, telling me that I had to do it for some stupid fucking badge I didn't need for me and my life, and that I had to seek out a group, ask if I could join them, and then do their stupid fucking skit poorly. If you're not a master artist, it's hard to explain how bad hiding your skills hurt, because you can physically feel it in your body, forced to imitate other brains that are much worse than yours, like pretending to be dumb, deaf, sick, and blind. I was, quite simply, stuck on a sinking ship, and I was the only one aware of what was actually happening. I took my time walking around the campsite again, to put off talking to some crazy fucking butch who would either die early or kill herself, and every nerve-ending in my body was attuned to it.

Finally, after lurking around the edges of one group, letting them gossip about me and my presence at the edges of their exclusionary circle, I made an approach upon a group of girls I'd spent some time observing from a safe distance. It hurt all over, but I'm forced into abusive situations all the time, and for me, it wasn't even the first few times, nor the last. I went up to a nasty-tempered, chubby, moon-faced girl with short hair, and made a move at her, by way of making conversation. They were already in stupid stage outfits, and she'd pushed a pillow and a pan under her flannel shirt, giving herself freckles and blacked-out teeth, presumably to play a male redneck role in some skit that both degraded the country and herself, while we were in the wilderness showcasing our outdoors skills. It was bafflingly bad.

"Hey!" I mustered up as much false confidence as I could muster, by pushing my way through the group to join their conversation made into a tight circle. "What's this?" I knocked on her padded stomach area to hear the hollow sound of a cooking pan, and she immediately bristled by jumping down my throat too quickly, which gave away her hand to the rest of the group gathered around. "G-d, Marie!" She whined, way too loudly. "How would you like someone coming up to you and punching you in the stomach?" Uh, good point, toothless queer kid. I guess I wouldn't like it, so fair enough. Anyway, I told them I was being forced by the parents to join their skit by reason of insanity, and it won enough support among them as a group that I was allowed to join, by the other girls. But I'd made my point, and for that reason alone, the rest of the night passed in a blur that I could now tolerate. 

It sent them a very clear and distinct message in "healthy hetero female", which is my primary language: mess with me, queer kid, and I can hit harder than any girl you've never met before, gay, straight, or otherwise. In my culture, we are that brave and strong as a tribe, and the very first people to hit me were my own adult parents, and in the "right" mood that was way wrong, they may or may not pull their punches directed at me, even as a child. After them? My bigger, stronger brothers hurt me next. Around the fire, as I sat on a log watching the other kids perform, I distinctly remember flashing white teeth all around the fire, because in my heart, I knew I just won the biggest bravery award we have as a tribe, bitch or no butch. It didn't matter. I won. The rest of the night passed by smoothly for me, and I went to sleep in a group tent without further incident, because those bitches chose another target to prank during their manic night, fueled on sugar snacks they hid away in their camping gear. But, not me. No, not me. I actually slept a rather decent night's sleep, in comparison. Smoke that, c#nt.

http://nativequotesandbrilliance.ning.com/profiles/blogs/a-test-of-bravery

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vision_quest

Jailbreak

 

After I went bust during the last big economic recession, I was forced to undergo severe deprivation, like Americans do in times of war. I didn't have any luxuries to begin with, which meant that I almost immediately lost a lot of weight, and fast, too. I spent a few weeks light-headed and slightly dizzy, especially when my family chose to reenact their rather ritualized behavior called "kicking people who are down" by pretending that my living expenses were the result of laziness (ha!), ineptitude (how?), incompetence (oh, no) or an inability to work, which is, unfortunately for them, not backed up anywhere by any type of actual legal documentation, like, say, my complete work history through Social Security and the IRS. Hard to beat, but true.

As I freefalled expertly into poverty like I always do (because I've compensated for familial inadequacies all of my life), I met the typical lifelong poor who live in the 'hood, and who've never accurately reflected me or my reality. "Everybody's 'crazy' in the hood!", my friend Cotto explained to me, as my so-called expert on ghetto fabulosity, not expecting a "white" girl (uh, oh) like me to come from the projects in Queens (also documented), or having parents from Bed-Stuy and the Bronx. Real but true, as our native stories from around the way. He got angry and aggressive at my "street creds" (like I planned it), tensely inquiring about street names and directions to my parent's so-called neighborhoods that were immediately under suspicion, because he lies almost every time he opens his mouth.

And that's true about critically impoverished project people who are on their 7th or 8th generation of the American Experience; they don't actually solve problems. Other people do that for them! Cotto had an arrogant sense of entitlement about his welfare the same way a wealthy white man expects "his" table to always be ready for him at his favorite restaurant, as part of his price for eating at the establishment. "It's not a law, but that's the way it works in the world, Marie", typically accompanied by a pitying gesture like the sideways head tilt and a condescending tone. Right...I'm the poor muthafucka who doesn't know what time it is. I keep forgetting that!

In truth, after my family forced me into "Public Assistance" by turning their backs on me (I got some MetroCards for hours and hours of waiting and form-filling), I needed a sit-down with Cotto so I could take notes on his lifestyle. It was fascinating. There were unwritten rules about everything that you'd never find in print, which would legitimize an already-shady situation. He had to tell me what time to get there so the lines wouldn't be painful to wait on, and after I did that successfully, he told me I forgot to go to this particular window on this floor to ask for MetroCards because "they're supposed to do that for you!" Huh. Uh, homeboy, nobody told me that. It was so fucking crazy and half-ass that I immediately knew it was designed for him and his mentality.

Nothing made sense about their process. Not one single fucking thing, and I can write books on any subject matter there is. There were secret rules about special windows, lines, locations....it went on and on and on. After his bad Alfredo dinner, I finally told him the truth. "it sounds like this is a full-time job!" He agreed. "Yep. Being on welfare is like having a full-time job, because to get benefits, that's how much time you need. You have to think of it as your job." What the...? A job? But, like, I've been working since I was a minor. Where do healthy brilliant female publishers go? Of course, the answer for me was as simple as the local library (duh), but for unskilled generational poverty on a continual course, I was stumped. I still have no idea how anyone could live within a system as fucked up as that and survive, but as I found out through Cotto, it's made to foil criminals, not law-abiding citizens rocked by changes in the economy as old as the hills, like highly-skilled managers dumped for their pricey salaries.

As I fought the final battles with my disordered family on an empty stomach, I found a temporary cover design gig, then more "Unemployment Benefits" that I paid for in full (like all of my single-girl health plans), then another design gig that was deliberately cut-off to intentionally suck cover designs out of me for catalog season before my six-month kicked in that would give me full health benefits, as they cheated me out of them for the first few months that I worked longer and harder than around me, and then a final round of Unemployment Benefits that I lived off of for months, at my mom's place. Being healthy didn't pay off for me, yet again. But, how to fake being sick? If I had to bend myself into that contorted a shape, I might as well go into the movies and acting! Who can do that? It hurt me to even try to be in a sick world for too long, like one big held-breath underwater.

Into this scary mix of crazy systemic incompetence came the necessary delve into tenement housing and shady subletting situations, like the weird OCD guy with a rental listing service who made me stand behind painted lines and follow his posted instructions written out in his tensely scrawled handwriting from behind a long counter, because he'd been beaten up too many times for taking poor people's money and then giving them bad information. Huh...so, not like my Park Slope real estate agent taking pictures of available brownstones for me to peruse while I corresponded via email in Denver? Uh, no. Not at all like that, or like me. The place on 9th Street that Cotto rocked like it was his personal prison cell gave me the creeps, but I survived. The guy who sometimes lived next to us on the top floor had invented a pseudonym named "Rex", which his friend told him to do if he dared to rent a shady sublet, as another critical piece of "hood rat" info that I didn't know. Ah.

Advice like that also originated from the same bodega that had attracted a drunk and high Cotto like a magnet, where he bought his "loosies" (didn't know that, either), and received such sage wisdom as "Don't let me hear that you actually paid Jose for that place!", which is so illegal, I can't even touch it from this angle. Do your thang, hood rat. What could I say? He wouldn't have listened to me anyway. Our neighbor Rex was deeply saddened and shocked by my "phoneless" state, which he telegraphed to me as this, "Oh, you should let me 'jack' your phone! I worked for a Verizon store." Uh, excuse me? "Yeah! You 'jailbreak' your phone from your carrier so you can get another plan!" Okay...I actually tried looking it up on the Park Slope library's public access computer, but it was so fucking convoluted and fraught with technical difficulties that once again I thought to myself, well, shit; if he can do that, why is he here in a tenement with us, you know?

I'd adjusted to having no phone the good old fashioned way: I used payphones on the corner, and the library's WiFi to access the Internet through my old iPhone. Still do. In time, I bought a cheap drugstore cell-phone, and my mom's broke-ass cousin had to tell us how to do that, too. I simply didn't know you could buy a phone for, like, $10 and then load it with phone minutes. I always paid for all of my expenses. Sure enough, the next time I walked down Fifth Avenue towards the Hispanic neighborhood of Sunset Park, there it was, advertised on a placard in Cotto's special bodega: WE JAILBREAK iPHONES HERE. Great. Yet another piece of criminal knowledge that I didn't want or need. I just wanted to live life for another day.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/IOS_jailbreaking

TMI "Poopypants"

As the bargain program I packaged for the largest U.S. book retailer in the country wound down (after years of brutally hard work and unusually long hours), I finally found myself enjoying some free time during the day, even contemplating trips to the beach over long three-day weekends like any other publishing employee accustomed to summer hours. It became, dare I say it, a  more genteel and congenial place to work, much more like my way of doing business, with organization and efficiency built right into the workflow, which increased the mental static of the severely disordered around me in almost direct proportion as a contrast, because now I had time to explore the neighborhood at lunchtime and walk around the office. Oops.

I began surfing the web for longer and longer intervals, even becoming a "starred" commenter on a trendy media site geared towards the workaday lesbo, which was tremendous fun for me. As the assholes at work became increasingly rabid amid the next economic crash, killing each other off in violent work conflicts that matched their growing unease, I simply put on my headphones and went to work on another site. I'd put up "Illuminations" over one slow summer hour day before the weekend started, as a way to keep a focus on my personal work and achieving my artistic goals. 

At first, I established myself artistically through posting my photographic and design works to advertise my credentials, with a link to my extensive online portfolio to seal the deal as your new publisher, and it worked. In my business, when you don't receive a lot of negative criticism, you know it's time to go ahead at full speed, which I did. But, the rabid "Politically Correct Police" at this newsy dyke site hated me so fucking much, I immediately knew that I had struck online gold. Every single comment I posted, even the most harmlessly obvious observations, were vehemently denied and attacked in a way that meant those boy/girls knew I didn't strap on a fake plastic penis after office hours. No, it was far worse than that. I preferred the real kind, the fleshy one that comes attached to a man. Ew!

They must have sensed a beautiful hetero woman attracted to males in their midst by my writing alone, but because my comments were so good at generating buzz on the site and drawing attention to their shitty pieces (plus, I helpfully followed the site's rules by not answering their hysterics in "Common Cave Troll"), I was allowed this free pass through online lesbianism, with some temporary restrictions applied. They were boring, in their own bitchy out-of-towner type of way. Do you know the country queer moving to the city looking for an exotic good time but hopelessly inept? That! That was the annoyingly whiny tone of every overly emotional crybaby who went "wahwah" about New York City and its inhabitants; how unfair and cruel the city was to them and their "poopypants" interests.

I'm not joking, either. One of their biggest features was written by this bland WASPY bitch from the 'burbs who decided to unleash her inner "alternative" goth lesbian on all of us unsuspecting readers by publishing photos of her dirty vibrator covered in old period blood stains as it compared to her new one of the exact same model. So fucking interesting, troll. Here's my mucus in a tissue! Get a life, bitch. Every weird hick who has ever tortured me on the job came bubbling to the surface through these inane puff pieces designed to attract dykes in such a brutally obvious way, I found my smarter commentary striking lightning quick responses to their fucking bullshit as fast as I could type it, edit it, and post it, and guess who won? 

I did! It spurred me to write a lot more during the day, which was part of the point for me, and in the process, I pulled into the fray the unsuspecting crazy dykes who worked with me (or around me) to stop their work and read my posts. It became such a huge distraction in an office that conspired almost daily against me, that their publisher was forced to ask me to stop writing during the day (over his bullshit editorial staff), which I duly ignored. You can't legally censor creative output at a publishing company. It's that tricky "Freedom of the Press" and/or "Freedom of Speech" thingy we have in the Constitution. Duh. And so I typed on, in response to an injustice present in an unfairly skewed media world that sought to push me out, when they actually lived and breathed on my fucking land, on my fucking turf, earning on my fucking say-so through my design works that actually earned a lot of money for the house. If you don't like it, get the fuck out!

And so, out of those excruciatingly irritating tourist bitches with a zest to treat our fair city like a lesbian cruise ship on their "vacay", arose my desire to write more and more about my interests, which are a lot like yours, right? "Outsider" culture became no longer hip to practice, because how fun is it to read about changing a baby's shitty diapers? You know, the ADHD couple with the already fucked-up kid dancing around your cocktail party bare-ass with a stained diaper in their hands to show off? You crazy fucking bitches were that for me: so egregiously wrong in your hatred for us as a society (and your complete inability to adapt to normal human life) that I found it easy to despise a group of supposedly "marginalized" minority voices who used media to get attention, like any other spoiled football star overdosing on hookers, booze, and blow, except without the talent.

I took away their privileges at hating us for nothing more than simply being here and being healthily normal, but more importantly, for loving our lives and daring to love the city that gave rise to us. I stood fast in front of their searingly misdirected anger at me, and through the power of my words, I channeled them back into their backwater channels where they belong. And do you know why? Because this is my real prime time, bitch. I am your fucking "Major League" woman-in-action, dyke. You just didn't know it, yet. And now you do. You can thank this here mama the next time a woman gets voted into an important office, pigs. I probably voted in their primary election while you were too busy online "roasting" some plebe you wrongly perceived to be more powerless than you, and isn't that like every single prejudiced dyke who secretly hates women that you've ever met? It sure is! Who's the traitor now, bitch? Yeah, that's what I thought. Go fuck yourself. Without airbrushing, losers.

https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/TMI

Stigma

Having been the target of significant harassment all of my life, it's no surprise to me when I encounter it out in the larger world. Towards the end of my public service in other people's privately-held companies, I came to expect a certain timeline that I folded into my performance as I went about my day. During my time at one large textbook publisher, the very hallway in front of my office space became known as The Illuminator's Hallway, as employee after employee recognized that the letters "Master Illuminator" might as well be engraved above the doorway leading to it. And, no, " La Lohard" celeb who likes to stalk chicks: that was not a holy fountain to bless yourself with, at the company entrance. Dumb bitch. Nice act, though. You play a drunk wandering into the wrong building while "vaping" really well!

After awhile, it became a rather quiet, and (dare I say it?) quite pleasant place to work towards the end of my tenure there, in sharp contrast to before, like I was being used as a dishwasher for the insane. It forever secured my fame with the native English-speaking crowd, both here and "across the pond", which was part of the point: letting the Brits overseas know that we still have a solidly strong foot in the game. Nothing to front about here. I've also worked in some of the most illegally toxic office environments that a modern city like New York has to offer, without being fully prosecuted right underneath my nose (avoiding my participation in your affairs, eh?), although I expect the dust from those lawsuits to have been settled by now. 

I considered it my patriotic duty to monitor adherence to the law by whistle-blowing in the most intelligent manner that's ever been recorded in those offices, by which I mean this: evil don't win ever against me, ever. I might let a bitch hiss under her breath in my direction—if I'm really busy—but rest assured, retribution will always be mine, as the fate of His Most Righteous in gloriously-done battle. I don't lose fights either unless, of course, you rigged it by cheating (like a punk-ass beyotch), in which case any match you thought you won is null-and-void in my record book and everyone else's. 

I was dropped into disordered, predominantly homosexual offices so I could fight my way through them, which I did, with every single facet of my existence coming under fire. The crazy bitch who lead that charge? Yeah, you should know that Diana cried "Foul!" like a bitch on Day One, after stealing a glance at my very first rough layouts over the company server, and that was some small-time German publisher of common ephemera. Feel me? I hurt her so fucking bad, that she used as excuses: 1) her mental illnesses 2) the fact that her tiny little "bi" bitch (who cheated on her husband with her, while still married) needed the money from her job for law school, so they could strong-arm us into accepting legal deals that do not benefit the majority of our population, 3) that her daddy was an abusive drunk who left her and her mom early on, hence the damage (boohoo: her mom is a Methodist minister somewhere in Dallas), and finally, 4) the "poor dyke" card. 

She threatened lawsuits towards the middle and end of my tenure, too, because she just couldn't hang in there with it, and once again, one very fucked-up small family business that's an exercise in pride and the human ego fired an employee quickly on the heels of my departure, in case I cooked up any winning employment lawsuits that they rightly deserved, and got served with in my absence. I ain't got time for no court, y'all. I got work to do. And so, when I was dropped into another fucked-up small family business (this time, Jews from New York), I expected the teeth and claws of the insane to come out quickly. 

By now, I'd rightly earned a reputation as a woman not to be trifled with, so it was mostly pissant shit I could ignore in the face of my bigger workflow that earns. It took a few years for them to run the clock with me, thinking that they were sucking me dry of my "good" designs that were deliberately rejected by their Observant manager that they placed at B&N to do so, so they could milk my brilliant cover designs in my absence from their company hard drive (Hi, there!). It didn't work, because I was already famous, but it was a nice try. Nice try! 

After that, they let their rabid Israeli bitch of a secretary loose on me (so they thought), and I took her down, too (after also embarrassing her at MMA, because the bitch tapped out on a bland white belt for rank-ass beginners at a bullshit school for office tools), while using her bad shit to fuel the anger that put my work over-the-top, because no one uses me without my approval. Ever. Feeling "randy" now, boys? No?! Huh...silence finally reigns. Again.

So, when I hear bullshit justifications about undoing the "stigma" associated with mental illness, I know that the perpetrator of such a farce is also mentally ill (and afraid of exposure), because healthy people know the real cost of untreated psychosis in this society and worldwide. It doesn't wash with us, anymore, because we know better. But, we will take your Hollywood money and funnel it through special "committees" designed to bilk you out of your ill-gotten gains by using your immorally psychotic power to bankrupt the rest of us.

If you think this mama is dumb enough to accept your sob stories after my history of abuse at the hands of the chronically sick, as wars beaten and won by me (and publicly witnessed), you are worse off than you originally thought. Go back to your doctor, stat! We will protect our land, we will protect our children, and we will protect this land that is built of the "pursuit of happiness"; not your vanity, nor your ego, or your pride, and certainly not your cowardice, or your fears about your diseases. It ends today, because the rights of the healthy take precedence over the rights of the chronically-ill abuser. Together we rise, not fall. Your fears, my dear public, are well-justified. Drunks kill people. Guns kill people. And crazy people kill people. You will solve brain disorders, and you start will start that process today. Go!

http://www.nimh.nih.gov/news/science-news/2008/mental-disorders-cost-society-billions-in-unearned-income.shtml

Cry Wolf

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Boy_Who_Cried_Wolf

During my last full-time gig working for other people's families before my own, I knew in my gut that the term to my lasting apprenticeship was finally waning to its rightful conclusion. I'd made bargain books for the premier English-language retailer of the world resemble its fuller priced editions for richer whiter companies, which was my mission. The best of us then graduate to "Publisher" after many years of service given to others (and their pockets), but it's never an easy graduation.

I'd made the break real during the height of my MMA/BJJ training, and like co-founder Dana White of the UFC, the best fight league in the world , I found myself in the unenviable position of couch-surfing at 40+, which is the true sign that you're actually doing it: you're making the break from the system that held you down to make a run for it, and it is ugly. I couldn't have done it with kids, dogs, and households in tow, dependent on me as they typically are, because temporarily-had crack shacks in the 'hood ain't no child's game. You have to be free, angry, and loose to do it and survive with your sanity intact, which (luckily for me), is not the problem. It's never been the problem.

So, what was? Can't you tell by now? Other people's problems, and working them out for them for free (without getting any accolades for it), just to get my job done for some old rich white dude. Same shit, different day. I knew I'd be sweatin' it hard, and I knew they'd be gunning after me just as hard, because that's the price true talent pays when you fly from the system reliant on people like you, or they all fail. A freakish silence was all the recognition I needed to recognize my power, through that circle of their fears surrounding me. You can do that and not die?! Geez.....it blows them away, know what I'm sayin'?

The small Jewish family business I worked for trained their rabid dog to attack people, and then when she went full-on loco (aided by a cult for wellness operating a seriously illegal pyramid scheme, and a lack of properly administered pharmaceuticals supervised by a serious medical professional), she turned on them, too. I think they mistakenly thought a fucked-up Israeli girl from Long Island wasn't a match for their monied control, but they were wrong. This wasn't some neurotic crisis. She was a full-blown suicidal psychotic, which they had glimpses of through her failed relationships, like the death-threat text made to our cell phones in the middle of a work day by a fired employee (her former "bestie"), and they cut loose people wholly dependent on them.

Not only did Becky threaten suicide after her firing to me, Ayelet, and some other employees, but my friend Jimmy OD'ed after hooking up with them as a freelancer, too. They kept sick people on the payroll only if they sucked their dicks, then cut them off knowing they'd be vulnerable. I blamed them for each former staffer's mental health issues and subsequent deaths just as much as any "feelgood doc" who over-prescribes Oxycontin to create a drug addict for their heroin hook-up later on down the line. I knew my rigorous comebacks from serious bone breaks and DVT on their salary without any support from them knocked them ajar, and that's what I needed to do to take them out of the business for good: prove them wrong on each and every level they'd ever had, as seriously deluded pseudo-intellectuals.

They played G-d with their sick staff in codependent plays for leverage, power, and domination, which means nothing to me. I knew my real howls at the moon beat their "Crazy Jew" schtick any day of the week, and I was right, because here I am on a Monday writing for you instead of working for them, which is proof positive in the game of publishing. One of the last times I had a verbal exchange in "human" with their disordered receptionist, she was talking at me as soon as I walked through the front door, which was odd, because she took pride in ignoring company staff as they came into the office at the beginning of every workday. She thought being a bitch was some sort of superpower, but to this New York girl, she was just another fake blonde out-of-towner drowning in her own incompetence, unfit for the game.

She forced me to take off my headphones to hear her speak to me, without waiting for a proper conversation cues to be established at my convenience, as the first stab in a series of dully petty power plays of controlling manipulations done spitefully, writ upon me first thing in the morning to catch me off guard, except for this: I use music to work with and train by, plus I've Art Directed musicians professionally, so...yeah, no go. I asked her to start over, and she did. Did I know today was the anniversary of her famous Central Park rape? Sigh....here we go. Uh, no. How would I know that? I gave her a tired look to let her know that her simplistic, childish shock tactics failed with me (yet again), because I don't have time for bullshit in my day.

She tried to make a Broadway play out of her madness anyway, by describing her annual ritual call to the detective who supposedly handled her case back in the day. Yeah....what did he say? Let's move this scene along, okay? It was one of her last attempts at yanking my chain before she curdled into a rather typical manic/depressive hatred that she controlled manipulatively, like the fucking psycho she is. At this point in my employment, I knew she screwed half the ugly staff and got "dirt" on the rest, or so she thought. She had nothing on me.

I have no idea to this day if she lied about her Puerto Rican rapist because she seemed to have a "thing" for dark guys, or whoever paid any kind of attention to her, male or female. I noticed she'd vacillate between attractions as personality/identity disordered to center around the stronger core personality of the key people in power, like me. If she sensed I liked a man, so would she, and then she'd start some weirdly secretive contest that only she knew about. But, back to her bitch post at the reception desk. So, what is this really about, Ayelet?

Well, she just happened to have a picture of the suspect who she thought was still at-large, because she just felt it in her gut, drama queens, like a pit in her stomach, you know? Like, right here <press fist to stomach to represent a knot>....NO! Not her anxiety disorder. Not that! Conversation over! Whenever she got hip (and it was hard with someone as dumb and impaired as her) that you knew she was lying to you, she'd turn on you, in the same pattern over and over again. OK, I'll bite. What the fuck....I'm waiting for the office coffee you don't make anyway. What else?

Oh! Her carefully crafted mis-en-scene was back on! We could pretend to role-play with our famous Art Director again! Great! She immediately brightened up, to produce a grainy police sketch of this:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ted_Kaczynski

That crazy bitch was so far gone, she thought a brilliantly educated Maestro (who reads practically every fucking day of her life) didn't know a picture of the fucking "Unibomber". Their crazy-ass bitch showed me, someone who worked at a newspaper during 9/11 to tell the tale to all of you, a picture that was in every fucking newspaper and media outlet for years, as the centerpiece of her madness gone murderously bad. Just like the brother of such a sick murderer, guess what I did? I turned her ass in to the authorities, friends of Earth. No one (NO ONE) fools this New York mama, fake rape victim or not. Take that to the bank, and show it to them as evidence that I'm solid for it. Ya here me?


Read it and weep. I took this info to staff meetings over their madwoman: https://www.osha.gov/

I also want healthcare for the mentally ill made mandatory for employment and ongoing health benefits through insurance carriers: http://www.nolo.com/legal-encyclopedia/workplace-testing-employer-requirements-29496.html

For the record, I've taken lie detector tests on job sites (as a teen for a mall retailer at an afterschool job, because Donnel used me to try stealing some clothes, and girl, you know you do that), random piss tests, voluntarily submitted blood-work, psych screenings (as written tests and other), along with everything else that goes along with being me. Now you know.


P.S. - That bitch also told me she jogged through the park after midnight alone because, you know, she's manic and stuff, and she HAD TO lose weight. Sound native to you?

Skeleteon in the Closet

Pour vous, Isabelle.

Summertime is a big deal for a lot of women, and not just because school is out, and the kids are home ALL DAY LONG. I never really thought adversely about going to the beach or the pool, because I've been a swimmer for as long as I can remember. What's not to like? But, like any other social situation filled with strangers and new people comes the attitude that many women and girls have about their bodies. I don't have any issues about mine, because I do the right things: I eat clean, good food that I enjoy cooking and eating, I walk every day, I do yoga or swim or practice martial arts...something happens in my life to keep me on track, because I am motivated to have the best life ever. 
I want to have fun and enjoy myself.

Don't get me wrong; I smoked and drank my way through the SUNY school system like any other college kid on a strict budget, but I never got it twisted. I actually wanted to show off my bikini body every year, and why wouldn't I? I work hard at it, and I want to stay beautiful for as long as I can for my partner, because I care about how he feels. I know he thinks the same way about himself towards me, too. Not that MMA is the sport for "working out", because it is extremely intense training (like my childhood ballet lessons that could have been a really serious career), but I have had points in my life when I gained unwanted weight from neglect, typically because I was working a job so stressful, most people take some sort of drug (or cocktail) to get through it. 

And so, try as I might, I no longer feel any pressures to conform to any standard other than the one I set for myself, because childhood was my time for insecurities. I survived my time in grade school, with mean bullies and schoolyard taunts. That doesn't mean today's "PSA" is a joke; far from it. Every day in my happy little home here in the Hudson Valley I see my beautiful people out in public, mixing it up in our common community spaces with people far less fortunate than us. They say the Irish are blessed with luck, charm, and good looks, and that's true, though I think it's more than a fair trade off for centuries of brutal oppression, military occupation, and countrywide starvation. 
We earned it proper. 

Yet, many cultures still demonize their women for their looks (or lack thereof), which leaves one to wonder why a woman with a serious brain disorder would dare hope to have a happy, healthy, attractive child. From what?! Thin air? It takes a lot more than running around a track like a lunatic because your mom committed suicide, and 30 years later you still can't talk about it until you are gaunt and winded. The work that I do (physical stuff included) is a lot more demanding than me running away from my problems and the world, just as starvation and hunger will not bring you the peace you seek. You need help, and I'll be here for you, girl, but first ya gotta eat something. I mean it.

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/12/31/world/europe/31caro.html?_r=0

 

Into Great Silence

A beacon of light in the early morning.

I knew before I saw this documentary that it would blow me away, and it did. I've always been deeply envious of the monastic life that my Catholic brothers and sisters live in Christ, because I know I am capable of such discipline, as it is evidenced in almost facet of my daily life: the ability to hone in on difficult concepts and easily grasp them (in any language I find them in), my superior (and manifold) modes of communication, and my vastly rich interior spiritual life (that exists beneath the surface of the human eye, mostly); such is my innate understanding of complex material. I just get it. And so, my mission has not been to a beautiful mountain retreat, but rather to master the arts of walking among humankind without being unduly hurt by them, which I have so far succeeded in doing, clad as I am in a sort of natural protection that is also heightened by the martial arts of self defense I have learned along the way thus far.

But that doesn't mean I don't still long for it, especially after particularly challenging days as a lay person out among so many troubled, average people. Get me off this planet! G-d hears me, and knows that my task is to talk with you, sometimes at you, in the hopes that even through your incomprehension, you gain something through the repetition, just like any master teacher would do in any field of study.

And so I watched the DVD walking step by step with them but also apart from my brothers, and felt much frustration from the distance, even as we have an intimacy through our worship that is so acute, you may not ever feel it, though I am forever grateful for this expression of our shared faith. They are some of my best friends that I have never met in person, separated as we are by time and space, close as that gap is dissolved through our One True and Only Begotten Son, our Savior Jesus Christ. Through Him, we have become One, a manifestation of the divine that is as unique as an individual, and also as close together as The Holy Trinity exists in perfect union, permeable as these states of being are spiritually.

As I watched them in the dark early morning hours, so the film opened with early morning vespers, our common calls to prayer bathed in the same fragile, dawning blue light, and even as I was sometimes moved by tears of joy about this shared connection and experience, while also feeling frustration and some anger at our physical distance, I know am never alone. Tucked away in a remote corner of this good green earth are a group of devoutly beautiful humans who know exactly how I feel, without me laboring to speak it to them, nor sign it to them, nor repeat it over and over like some brute form of water torture, like I am speaking to a dumb, mute beast stricken with ignorance. 

That is the perfection of our shared understanding and knowledge. Come see it for yourself, and find that you will never have a more beautiful art experience than this in a movie, for it is done. You will not top this, as so many of you are incapable of achieving this glory that is G-d in the Highest, even as my life as a prayer will ever be devoted to igniting that flame of passion within the heart of each and every one of you, in fellowship and kindness.

Live, my friends. Live it, and then maybe you will be some form of it some day, but most importantly....just live. Live and love life, a precious gift. See it, and know it, and be still. Live.

Times Square

After I graduated mid-session from art school, a few of my friends made their way to my aunts' apartment in Kensington for cheap rent, some sanity, and a crash pad while they began their own art and design careers. It served us well. I began my apprenticeship in publishing for an annual salary of just $11,500 in 1993, and rates have not gone up much. A recent stint in an lowbrow indie house had interns who began full-time work at a wage of just $20,000, doing just what we did back then: sharing small apartments in the city by tripling and quadrupling up, such is the way of our chosen vocation.

We split the monthly maintenance fee of just $400.00 because if we didn't, we wouldn't be able to eat food or pursue our various vocations. There was Lisa, an old housemate from RISD who worked at a sweater manufacturer, Ed, who worked for MTV studios, and then, after he left, an old friend from Oneonta who was in love with me stayed and wouldn't leave, working first as a waiter before beginning his carpentry apprenticeship under my support.

Lisa and Ed were both terrified and enthralled with New York City. At first, neither had understood my time at their tony white tower design school. Ed came from a wealthy family who catered to his every need, and Lisa learned to sew and make clothes under her mothers' wing. They both had it much, much easier than me, so my slow start fooled them into thinking they had a superiority that quickly evaporated in the Big Apple. Oh. Tough city kid from the craziest, hardest place on the planet. Yep, kids. Welcome to the Capital of the World! They started connecting with exactly where my true grit came from, and it greatly discomfited them. My seemingly junior status as a student began to cast itself into what it actually was: a working class kid who attended an upstate New York teacher's college for basic liberal arts studies at the age of 17, per my parent's orders.

Nowadays, students can co-jointly enroll at Brown and RISD for liberal arts and specialized design studies, which is basically what I did on my own back then, anyway. If I hadn't diverged paths to their white castle, I would have gone on to F.I.T. in the city for my senior year, after spending three at Oneonta. It was called a "3:1 Program", meaning I would have earned two degrees in just four quick years: a Bachelor's in studio arts and an Associate's degree in Advertising Design, but my dad's business sprouted and profited, thus allowing me to change tracks with his approval, which I did, because that was the deal we struck up, one dark, lonely, rainy upstate night in the rain, a young me talking to him on a payphone. Oh. It was really like that. I simply hadn't had money at the time.

In my hometown they began rapidly putting the pieces of my puzzle together, and they didn't like. Not one bit. There was no "spoiled rich girl" routine, no bullshit phony act, no pouty foot-stomping that needed appeasing, just the brutal reality of my daily work and commuting grind on a shoestring salary, though in true competitive envy, they did try to sabotage me still, even after school, which exactly what my mentor at RISD told me would happen with supposed "art school stars". I began disappearing with grace into my habitat, and they couldn't swim on their own in my environment, and I knew it. School begins now, kids!

They had toted along all of their false preconceived ideas about my town, too, mostly petty generic stuff like tourist traps and bad food. I gave them the real deal every day, served up warm, and they hated it, choosing time and again for the phony thing over authenticity. Kids love dream worlds and fake fantasies, and this was no different. Ed drew other people's ideas during the day, and Lisa ran errands for other designers. She never successfully drew a single sketch that was approved or made on the production floor. She learned to get out sooner rather than later, which she did. They both did, running to points out west in sunny Southern Cali, a fool's paradise if ever there was, which they pitched and promoted to the hilt, just like they had bragged about "making it" in New York City on me and my father's dime with money, rent, and resources that they have never paid me for in full, to this very day that I write to you on a humble public library computer.

It was a huge slice of humble pie for them. No one cared about their fancy degrees! And why would they? At my publishing house, Yalies and Harvard grads were everywhere, littering each floor of the Flatiron with trust funds in their back pockets, in case they failed. And then, the truth finally struck them, because I read it all over their faces: I played the game hard, with no safety net. It was just me, running on my juice. Oh. Another bad realization for them, again, like <ooooff> a soft punch to the gut. Yep, they are indeed catching onto to our fair Gotham. That's the level, yo. Cue song, begin scene: "This is how we do it!"

And so, like every other "idea" they had about my town, they brought New Year's Eve to the table for me to enlighten them about, and I tried, dear readers, I really did, but like most disillusioned kids, they insisted on seeing it for themselves. Sigh. Oh, good, just what every tired and broke single "parent" like me needs: Times Square on New Year's Eve! And, just like I spelled it out for them, like I type it out word for word for you to recount with me, each and every scary bad thing that could happen did. You know, because I can read minds and shit, like some fucking t.v. psychic. It's magic!

We climbed the subway stars to a smoky Hell right out of any Hollywood movie, complete with terrifying cops in full riot gear, with battle regalia like huge Uzi guns, weapons Ed drew in his boyish cartoons but had never seen in person, because people like me shield him from it. Tear gas completed the hellish effect, casting a greenish haze everywhere that made shapes appear suddenly out of nowhere, drunk people careening and screaming and puking and stumbling, packing themselves into the square like rats. They clung to me, shaky and almost in tears, as I guided them through the insanely packed streets, delivering them safely to a party with, yep, more out-of-touch RISD kids. Wow! "Guys, it was just like Marie said!" My words spoken to them in the warmth and safety of my family's Brooklyn apartment were now finally made real to them through the conjuring that every good parents already knows; that of experience.

They cut ties with me eventually by turning on me, in recognition of my greater gifts that they could no longer pretend did not exist like they had done back at school, and like any embarrassed kid always does, they did it by withholding "thank you" to my face, knowing that I deserved for it my many services and kindnesses, instead choosing to hurt me with their feigned indifference, but isn't that always the way it is with children? They were beautiful and very young to me, then; spoiled and ungrateful, yes, as they lashed out at me in fright and anger because my ferocious home town was ill-suited to them like I knew it would be, but if you could see my face as I write this right now, you parents in my audience already know what you'd see: a softness that comes from empathy, compassion, understanding, and a mother's undying devotion to the very people she gave shelter to, and I wouldn't change a thing.

Amen to you, during this holiday week. Beware the many bugaboos that may be lurking behind a darkened street corner.   

'Tis the season for such things, my dears.

Christmas Movie

Two little Christmas trees: one for Bernard, and one for me (2014).

After my father left his family for points west, seeking fame and fortune with a new model wife that was (and is) his secretary, we were left to our own devices, and we knew that, because our mom repeatedly told us so. Mommie Dearest wasn't just some histrionic soap opera of a movie that appealed to gay men; we lived its' truth each and every day. Not long after my father left with his money, borrowing against the home we lived in, we almost immediately fell onto hard times financially, which was the exact revenge he was looking to put upon our heads, as a price for his supposed long term suffering. It was cruel, childish, spiteful, and mean, which was exactly what he wanted, because he wanted us to feel the same hurt he felt as the child of alcoholics, except this hurt he would deliver by alternating giving and then withdrawing money from us, giving him the power to hurt us and then publicly pretend to heal us whole with his generosity, as he saw fit: a cheap phony publicity stunt that fooled no one, and it still doesn't.

Suffice to say, my mother began having nervous breakdowns, which was the burden he wanted to fall on us, like reigning blows down upon our young heads, except this wasn't something he and my mom could get caught for by the local child protective services. It was cleverly vicious, secretive, and mean, which again, was the whole point: to make us feel that, whenever he wanted to, he could bring a sharp blade down upon our necks to hurt us from afar, if he so choose, for whatever reasons he saw fit, so that we could never win and "beat" him, sick as that is. And so began his pattern of control with money as a resource, always keeping us needy and afraid, the exact opposite of the comfort a father is supposed to provide for his children, so that we would forever relive the horrors of his childhood over and over again, using my mother's mental illness as the delivery mechanism he employed through covert manipulation. It became a simple equation: squeeze her = hurt us. Easy. He would continue to do that forever until his death that would reach to extend long after he was gone, until I finally put a stop to it, but more on that story some other day. His sneaky nasty behavior would be done quickly, shakily, and hastily, like that of a furtive sidelong glance over the shoulder, looking for witnesses to his crimes. He refused health care for his mental problems, again, to cause suffering through his arrogance and spite, like the mean drunks who so harassed and terrified him in his youth.

And so, my mother told us during one very histrionic episode, when my young teenage brother and I tried in vain to console her, we said we would chip in for all our household expenses by financially carrying our own weight, which we already did through household chores in excess, supposedly to "earn" our "allowance", but really, we kept the entire house going through our continued labors. In retaliation for the gift of offering her our services readily, (My brother: "Come on, Mom. It won't be that bad. We'll get jobs and chip in. It'll be okay."), my mother burst into childish angry tears, turning bright red, bringing forth the veins on her forehead, horribly contorting her features into a wrathful mask of hate, and spitting out curses at me when I backed him up. "YOU STUPID BITCH!" she screamed as she turned on me, "You don't get it!! We're broke!", slamming her bedroom door in both of our freshly frightened faces. My brother and I stood in mute horror for a moment, in the hallway outside her shut door, before slowly and quietly walking back to our rooms alone, to sit in quiet contemplation of our lives and this new found responsibility as heads of household. I was just 14 years old, and my brother 15. "What are we going to do?" I softly asked him. "I don't know. I guess we have to find jobs this weekend." I wearily sat down on my small twin bed, keeping my door slightly ajar so my Irish twin could see me and come talk to me, if he so chose. Oh. Yes. That. Work.

We had worked on and off since childhood, with our kiddie elementary school work permits for paper routes, but this was different. If we didn't figure it out, we could die, and neither of us really wanted that. We wanted to live. I began my official work history with Social Security services at age 15, as did my brother, which found me and my mother alone one Christmas day, because he had to go to work. You see, for many Jews in New York, Christmas is just another inconvenience of closed shopping malls and restaurants. Their holiday fare eventually became Chinese food, after discovering their shared non-Christian status in the "Open" sign glowing brightly in the window of the local Chinese restaurant in their neighborhood, such is the close proximity that is our vast Melting Pot in New York City, thus beginning their own New World tradition. 

But, that still left us to tend to them here in Rockland County, just as we tended to ourselves and every other person around us who needs us, and there were legions who sought us out, even back then, tender and young as we were as new parents, but we did do it, by the grace of G-d's gifts bestowed upon us, the least of which are our extraordinary patience, incredible work ethic, kind and generous compassion and empathy, with a deep sensitivity and regard for the suffering of others. I still thank G-d for keeping those qualities intact in us, especially in the soft bright blues eyes of a young boy who went to work for the local Jewish people here in our home county, as a clerk in a movie theater one rainy afternoon, returning home with a huge bag of popcorn to surprise us with, when we let out a sigh of relief at his safe return home, finally beginning our true Christmas Day together as a family, a holiday we could only start after his labors ended, alone and derided by the very people who understood our suffering the least. 
They mocked him for being slow behind the food counter (because he was working alone on a holiday, as a teenage movie theater manager), or if he got their order mixed up due to the sheer volume of their derisively snorted requests, or because he didn't take their money fast enough for their tickets, mocking him when he swept up the aisles of the theater for having the decency to tend to them on his holiday, while they rested in comfortable darkness to watch some banal movie onscreen, like a zoned-out legion of half dead zombies.

I want you to think of him this holiday, when you belligerently complain about the delayed or postponed or cancelled release of some stupid ass-kissing buddy comedy that you've been so "cruelly" deprived of this year. You see the pure face of a beautiful blue-eyed boy in a dark theater on a dark Christmas morning opening some mall theater alone, as I had to see him, with tears in his eyes, cleaning up the garbage that you threw at him when he walked past you slowly up the aisle to do yet another task for you, like clean the bathroom you fouled up with your mess of mocking graffiti and strewn toilet paper, mixed with piss and vomit and shit and stink and mess. You think about that this year instead, and May G-d have mercy on your soul for your cruelty, selfishness, false pride, and injustice. May G-d help you during His Final Judgement when He weighs your sins in front of you one by one, when you cannot turn away from them. May G-d be with you then. 

Amen to you on this Christmas in the year of Our Lord, 2014.  Amen to you, with my blessings for a safe, healthy, happy holiday.