"Don't ask, tell...

...I tell you such fine music waits in the shadows of hell."
-- Charles Bukowski

I don't have the tolerance to swallow the bullshit anymore. I am terrified of the whole I have been breathing through for seven years. I am a pussy. But I endure. I get up and I go to work and I bust my brains and my boss says I am not up to this work anymore because my short term memory is scarred. I am a pussy. My exboyfriend called me a pussy once. I told him pussy was tougher than cock. He said yes. Pussy is like good tires. It stretches and flexibly spreads around the road's barriers. Pussy is the toughest mover and shaker. I am a pussy.

I am not me. I lost myself nine months? seven years ago? I am waiting for my map.

I probably drank too much tonight. Right now, I perceive a level of vision that lets me see through the trauma drama bullshit that I am supposed to live up to... that I could never live up to. Tomorrow I will face my come-uppance when I am pointed out as incapable of fulfilling my occupational requirements. I fulfilled them yesterday and I was still called a failure and they were never my calling or destiny in the first place.

I am going to hell. Thank god, I don't believe in it.

This is not where I belong. I haven't walked the road home in twenty years. Actually, I don't even remember what my house looks like. What home is. I do see my sisters of mercy on the road and I don't want to leave them. I don't want to disappoint them. And I can't find my way back home.

There's no place like home.

Suck it up, bitch. Quit being such a pussy. Go to hell. I tell you such fine music waits in the shadows of hell.

Happy Birthday to my beautiful sister -- the Lioness!

When they brought you home from the hospital, I was convinced I was the luckiest girl ever, because you were so lovely wrapped in a meadow-colored afgan and I had a little sister.

(And 18 months later, my luck doubled with another sister -- who scanned this photo onto her flickr account -- providing me with a visual for the occasion.)

The Mammary Monologues

Or "Love, the Queen of the Breast"...(a topic of mythic proportions).

(that is a rough translation of Gwen Teir Bronn, the early Welsh goddess of fertility, about whom I can find absolutely no more info -- at least on the internet.)

Both of my sisters (Nora & Liza) have been boob-blogging, and I feel I must nip in with something about the funbags.

So I started with Venus of Willendorf, but there seems to be just a lot of articles by men riffing on their own cultural biases re: obesity in a fertility goddess (clearly, they've never been to Hawaii).

Anyway...re: my relationship with my own boobs...I like them a lot! Of course, compared to my sisters', they're rather small -- although in reference to the rest of the breast universe, I've quite the rack...I wish I had more -- like so.

There are all kinds of multi-breasted goddesses, but it's kinda hard to find the myths about them. (Incidentally, if anyone is looking to give me one of my dream jobs -- hunting down myths of all cultures would be just peachy, as far as I'm concerned.)

This particular goddess is Cybele/ Artemis and she and her rack o'boobs reside in modern day Turkey at the Ephesus Museum.

Linguistically and historically, Cybele may be known as "She of the hair" or "Mountain Mother" (not to be confused with Mountain Fiji, you former G.L.O.W. fans). Naturally, Cybele is a fertility goddess.

I mean, do you really believe that Paris Hilton would breastfeed? ("Like...wet-nurses are hot.")

Do you like living in a society where she's a sex goddess?

Now click here and fund a mammogram.