Has it worked for me? Oh dear. All this time, all these months, suggesting this to you, and I can’t even tell you that it works! All I know is that in these troubling times, we all need every scrap of help we can get. Are you with me on this?

Y’all, we’re all gonna do this and our collective mojo is gonna be off the fuckin charts. Bastards are gonna get swagger poisoning. The luck is gonna be drippin off a bitch in February. Let’s go.

Muddy Waters & James Cotton — “Got My Mojo Workin” (1966)

SCENE I.

ME: Come look at me in my sexy monkey costume! Isn’t it awesome?

YOU: Damn, girl, you’re a great monkey! I really like the tail!

ME: I know! Check out the ears, and the paws! I love my monkey suit!

YOU: Do you ever wear anything else?

ME (Shakes ass to better show off the tail): I’m a monkey, I’m a sexy monkey! EEEEEKKK!

YOU: How about this (pulls out a cat outfit)?

ME: Um. That’s nice.

YOU: Because I’m really into cats.

ME: Why don’t you go talk to one of those cats over there, by the scratching posts? They look friendly. You’re hanging out here, by the bananas, where we monkeys like to congregate. EEEEEKKK!

YOU: Because I think you’d look hot as a cat. And we seem to have so much in common: both are mammals. Here, let’s just switch these ears. MEE-OOW, that’s hot!

ME: I feel awkward.

YOU: You look great. Purr for me, baby.

ME: Purr.

YOU: Say, “Meow.”

ME: They don’t go with my paws.

YOU: Try these paws.

ME: I would–I would rather have my own paws. Can I have my ears back?

YOU: Why are you being so difficult? I feel like we aren’t connecting.

ME: Because you’ve just met me and you’re not into what I like about me.

YOU: I am, I just think you should be a little flexible.

ME: I didn’t realize I was wishy-washy. I should have stood my ground a little firmer. Lesson learned. Here are your ears back, miss.

SCENE II.

ME: Come look at me–I’m a mongoose! Chillin’ by this bowl of rubber snakes! Waiting for another mongoose. Or a ferret. Or a marmot. Or another weird carnivore. Not putting on a bunny suit. Or a squirrel outfit. Rather be alone than change for anyone else. I’ll change for me, but not for you.

It cuts the gums, like a bridle. She’s a better writer than I (uh, yeah–a better writer than I may ever, ever be–but she’s so apparently better. I mean, it just drips from her prose) and so many of her stories are like the story with the little boy and who marries the little girl with the velvet ribbon around her neck and they have babies and grow old together and he just can’t stand it that damn mysterious ratty old ribbon what is it it’s coming between them like a third person why oh why won’t she just remove it and wear the heirloom diamond choker he got her and she finally relents and he unfurls it and the last line is, “And Jenny’s head rolled off.”

Except with O’Connor, it’s so masterfully wrought I wish I’d written it. You can see the people as they hurl toward the pain of oblivion, and sometimes hell, and sometimes understanding, and sometimes death, so the pain is twice baked, all, Fuck, Seer, the world is shit and Man uncouth, and you’re just not that good at talking about it yet. Oh, and you don’t drink anymore so you have to feel it. Are there any brownies left, you swollen cow? Or did you eat them all already?

So the man who I shake hands with in a very adult way (we wear fancy dress gloves) suggests I don’t read Miss O’Connor’s work for hours on end at night anymore. Okay. Fair enough. I said I’d read a James Herriott to settle down. Nothing like some sweet country vet animal stories where everyone’s okay at the end and the lives are not torn asunder to pieces to make the night salvageable.

God bless us, every one.

Throw that acid, right in his or her haughty face! Fuck a bitch or bastard up!

I used to have really low self-esteem. I used to think no one would want to be my friend if they knew what I was really like. So I needed a “hook” to get people to be my friend. If I was funny, or smart, or useful, just something, then maybe people would consider having me as a friend. Because I was intrinsically worthless. My worth really was based in what I could do for you.

I still hear people do things that are variations of this theme. They’re good people because they take care of their kids, or shitty people because they can’t pay their taxes on time. No, you’re good people just because. That’s my worldview, anyhow. You should do good things because they’re good, not to earn a spot on the globe.

But back to the gossip: it was social currency. If I had something particularly juicy to say about someone, maybe you’d sit by me. Maybe you’d even seek me out! It was a way to get you to stay in my life. Now, I’ve come a real long way since then. It still can come out. But I’ve done a lot of deep work to believe that I deserve to exist. Really. Even if no one wants to be my friend and I have to sit in a crowded room with nothing to do, I’ll be okay. I may feel extremely uncomfortable and maybe even embarrassed, but no one’s died of embarrassment or discomfort yet.

What I try to do to get compassion for my enemies (not because I am so compassionate and such a magnanimous person, but because otherwise I will go insane with fits of rage) is to write little stories that explain why they have developed the behaviors and coping mechanisms that so bother me.

I think one person, Z, is getting all of her or his self-esteem from one place. I don’t think this person gets out that much. So when that one thing is challenged a little, Z doesn’t know how to act except all Diva Queen Bee/King Shit of the Universe. Z will tell you how it’s done, because Z is used to living with Z and Z is fine telling Z how to do it right. I do not take this advice so graciously. I need to laugh it off. Really, it doesn’t matter.

Someone else I’ll call 1′ because why not and “One Prime” is fun to say, is really driving me crazy, but I think that this person may have been raised rich and everyone kissed his ass. After the divorce, 1′ didn’t realize that he wasn’t really fantastic because a) he’s a little crazy, b) he may be drugged, c) he may have had an accident that caused some head trauma, d) the divorce was a traumatic kindling event laying down some future PTSD (maybe 1′ was kidnapped by one or both parents!) e) it just never occurred to him to even consider the possibility that people had been paid to kiss his ass as a rich kid, or some combination of two or more of these factors. Anyways, now that 1′ is poor and shit, he still acts extremely entitled. It’s odd. Because he isn’t all that, but he doesn’t know it. He’s still all that to him. It’s not as charming as fish out of water romantic comedies would have you think, trust me.

I mean, that was a fun-filled romp! This person, maybe if I put him in a maid’s outfit in my mind, he’ll be more endearing.

Oh, and someone else is telling me what the fuck to do but refusing to do the same. A lot of do-what-I-say-and-not-what-I-do. Thinks my school is worthless but theirs is just fine. I should exercise and diet, but they should take medication for their conditions. And my books are crap but theirs are golden. Plus everything they cook is with condensed cream of shit soup and their house stinks of cat pee.

But that last person is my Moms so I can’t avoid her. She’s still awesome sometimes, though. These other two are strictly for the birds!

Sugarcubes — “Mama”  (1988)

This song alone is enough to make me okay with Moms again. I do love the crazy lady. We’re just so crazy together, we are.

I am a Certified Bug Wrangler.® That is, when I’m not covered in imaginary ones from the disorder. Then you’re on your own!

Now let’s watch some clips about bees!

Invasion of the Bee Girls (1973)

You had me at sexual epidemic. These bee-girls will love you to death! The whole thing is available for free on Archive.org (you can even download this lukewarm mess) and YouTube, if you got time to kill and like boobies in lo-fi.

Millions of Bees!

Bonus footage of Michael Caine, who also can’t seem to believe he’s in The Swarm.

Conan reveals Oprah’s evil.

Doesn’t she look proud of herself.

Not the bees!

Oh yes, the bees, please!

Bee business.

I don’t really know this show. Everyone says it was the best show ever. I think this was the best show ever. I guess I’m wrong.

Beekeepers! Covered in bees!

No, it’s not the best Eddie Izzard bit, but I always remember it.

Ax Men: Bees!

Yes, it’s funny to watch people being exploited. I especially love the man with few teeth.

Bees on your porch!

(Is it still funny to watch people being exploited?) I especially love everyone in this clip.

In Search Of… Killer Bees

Dig that 1970′s futuristic musak.

Cute nerd making an apiary.

This makes me think of being sick when I was little and watching public television during the day. He is kinda hot, though. Oh, do you want to be eusocial with me, Sir? I got some honey here in my hive. Come and get it.

Am I weird because I watched this whole thing entranced? Okay: I watched it twice. Now am I weird?

Friendly space bees!

Like you don’t love She-Ra, Princess of Power! My brother, Judge, used to make me watch She-Ra until he found the little dude with the big ears hiding in the background. Then he would let me turn the channel. I find her appealing somehow now, but Jem was really more my cup of tea at the time.

Well, I hope I have wasted enough of your time. I’ve certainly wasted plenty of mine.

And let’s face it: I get bored because I am boring, and live a boring life. That’s just a fact. I watched an episode of Celebrity Jeopardy from 2009 today while I worked on a baby blanket for Sparrow. That’s dull and there’s no way to get around that. I won’t apologize and I’m not ashamed.

UPDATED: Okay, since I wrote this, now three separate people have told me stories about being stalked by people who are a) definitely losing her mind (if she isn’t full tilt already), b) possibly losing his mind (if he isn’t already bananas) and c) a lady who is clearly certifiable now. Compared to that shit, I live in Blandsville in the state of Beige.
†Who am I trying to fool? I’m only 5’6″. There’s no way Salman Rushdie would fuck me with Don Dellilo’s dick.

• The stakes in these relationships for being loved are very high
• The intimacy between us is extremely intense
• We have had some communication breakdown before
• I have hurt deeply during this disruption of communication
• The issue or issues that lead to the breakdown are surrounded by some tender spots that can be difficult to talk about or that have no easy resolution to make everyone feel better

Because of all these emotional trappings, there’s a longing and drive to resolve the breach as soon as possible. We both want to make it okay. Unfortunately or not, I have found that I can’t usually process immediately. It’s just not my style. I need at least minutes, but sometimes hours or a day to figure out what the hell happened. Otherwise I’m usually not talking about what’s really going on with me. I’m reacting. And if I’m overreacting (which I do more than I would like to), I’m usually reacting to something in the past I haven’t gotten over yet at the same time as the current event. I try not to blame people for shit they haven’t done, so to keep things as clean as I can I need to untangle my experience. That can take a little time. Yes, that can disappoint and frustrate. But a little diplomacy, explanation and a small request of time now is better than some hysteria and irrationality and fucking fallout. I just have to honor the time commitment I make. If I say an hour, I come back in an hour.

And because I want to make it okay, I sometimes take on more than is really mine. By that, I mean I want to absolve the other person of any responsibility in the situation. I feel I have so much control over everything–because I’m so important, FYI–that I must have fucked up royally to make things so bad between us. The other person is okay, and I’m a huge fucked up Fuckerson McFucked. In this way, I can make it better. Maybe. Maybe I can’t, because I’m such a horrible thing! O, woe! Woe!

AND THE GREAT DOUBT, SHE came flying in from over the SEA. SHE could be heard SHRIEKING from a mile away, driving fear into MANY a Heart.

“You are Worthless!” she cried. “You will Die Alone! Alone! You will drive everyone away because that’s what you do! Settle for less, Fatty!” And so MANY ran into their Homes. And so MANY ran into the Woods. And so MANY simply lay down and CRIED, for they knew not what to DO, but buy bigger pants. But the BRAVE, They got into their Long-Boat and They Rowed out and They FOUGHT the GREAT DOUBT, for SHE WAS A BIG OL’ BITCH Who Had No Business In This Relationship.

There are few divides that cannot be bridged. We are on the same team, my friends and I. Resolutions are easily reached, but I have to let other people have their share of the relationship, and I can’t be so afraid that I won’t get my needs met. I will. Even if I didn’t have this person in my life, I will get my needs met. I have to go all the way there or I get too desperate to make it all okay by myself. I have to remember that no matter what, I’ll be okay. I already am! My perspective is what tells me I’m not.

About 98% of the time, all of this dramaticking happens up in my head. I say something to the Other Person, and they tell me it’s nothing. One percent of the time, we settle it moments after I say something. The other one percent I writhe in agony for awhile and think it will never be the same, Doubt was right. I’m an unlovable heifer who smells like poo. I shouldn’t have disturbed the Universe. I forced the moment to its crisis, and I: no Lazarus.

It has always worked out for me. I haven’t died of misunderstandings yet.

Remember:

I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only I will remain.

And if that doesn’t work, this always makes me feel better.

What have I been up to? Well; I’ll tell you. I did better last semester than I thought, despite taking on way more than I should have! Foolhardy and arrogant. And I paid the price mightily. Stressed out, and I couldn’t show up in any area of my life the way I wanted to. I was at about 65-70% all around. Not good. Anything that could be shed was, hence no blogging.

I could say I’m back, but I’m trying to promise less rather than do more. Sloth and gluttony, what what!

Actually, I kinda do a lot. I’m trying to ease up on myself a little and live in my spare time. That, and get some writing done beyond just doing assignments for class–and half-assed at that! And get the house straightened out. And see my friends. And exercise. And cook. And and and.

Anyways. Enough with the bitchin. I’m here, at least for a moment.  Class started again Monday! I had five luxurious weeks away, all squandered. We’ll see if I stay with OH or not.

Things with the Special Friend are good, though, thanks for asking. It’s nice to get laid on the regular.

Oh! I’ve finally started to crystallize the plot for my novel! Apocalyptic! Mysterious! A little Gothic! Traveling! It’s fun. And everyone in class in excited about it! Moms asked, “Will I be expected to buy it?” after I tried explaining it to her over Christmas (I laughed and told her she wouldn’t have to do a goddamned thing). She loves me, to be sure. She just loves being right about me a little bit more sometimes, and it gets caught in her throat, and it comes out first.

It’s okay. I don’t dwell. I do process with people and through some visceral experimental work, very visceral, messy, strange, good. She wouldn’t like it, so there’s no reason to tell her about it. A Gospel, sacred, profane, of experience, truth, lies, and such. Just life stuff. It is good. I am good at this. That’s one thing that’s come out of being in close contact with other writers of high caliber: I’m good. I’m better than some, not as good as others, and better than I was when I started. So it’s worth it. Still fun, too.

I prefer to live in a world of sunshine and rainbows and Afronauts. A land of Yes, Please. Moms says no. Come with me, won’t you?

Moonshoes — “Boogieland”  (2010)

*Look, if you still need me to slap that bitch, I will. Your call. You’re totally in control of this thing. All I’m saying is: I am a slapping machine. Slap happy in this motherfucker out here. Slapping fools for no good reason. I just slapped my imaginary friend, Boutros Boutros-Collins. Don’t let your face get in the way of my hand! (Back to the top! I command thee!)

I mean, the whole reason I hadn’t said anything to her about the texts for a while is because she’s so mentally and emotionally fragile. But everyone who knows me knows I don’t really text. I don’t. My sexy friend is the only person who doesn’t know that, because if you’re going to mack my box, fuck yeah I’m going to text you. And my friends, I will text them now and again. But someone I don’t know, I’m not going to text you on the regular. And with new relationships, I usually set a boundary pretty fucking quick. I’m not a texter. I’m a gradual grandma. We didn’t have cellphones when I was in college. No, we didn’t. Not until I was supposed to graduate (note that it took me eleven years to finish my undergraduate) did that shit become regulation. When I was in junior high, there was an episode of Doogie Howser, MD where Vinnie had to deliver a baby in an elevator, and Doogie is coming to help him, and he’s using a cellphone that’s attached to a fucking suitcase! That’s just twenty years ago. That’s how old I am. Texting is not something I’m super comfortable with.

So I was tired, and I probably said why I wasn’t comfortable with texting as a medium for communication for me (it’s avoidant for me). I know I sure as shit said that she could continue to text me. Also, I don’t know if any of you have heard my voice in the wild before. The timbre is incredibly high and whiny, and telephones often think I’m hitting buttons when I’m just talking. So her phone kept thinking I was done talking, and I had to keep hitting the button 4, and I wasn’t sure if the message had cut me off, so I had to keep repeating myself to make sure the whole message was on there.

Apparently this means I am a terrible person. Why? Because her feelings were hurt.

She called me later and said that leaving a two-and-a-half minute message about text messages was a horrible thing to do, and how I should have done it, and why she does it, and so forth.

Well. I’m here to tell the people of the Internets a lesson I have learned the hard way: just because my feelings are hurt doesn’t mean the other person/people/thing/creature/season/force of nature/world did something wrong! My feelings used to get hurt a lot more than they do now, it’s true. But the world is a fucking honey badger. You think the world gives a shit how you feel? No. The world don’t care. The world could give a fuck. The world is hungry, and the world says, “Get out of my way, stupid. I need to get into this house of bees to eat all this larva.”

Sorry: here’s something to get us all up to speed.

Got it? Good.

See, for a long time I wanted everyone to treat me real nice, and to shape the fuck up. Didn’t they know who I was? I was so sensitive! They were so mean. I came from a place. They should be nice to me. Because if they knew where I cam from, they would see how hurt I was! I was so fucking damaged.

The thing was, not everyone was mean, and when I looked at their intentions, most of them weren’t trying to hurt me. They really weren’t! I could read all sorts of shit into their intentions if I wanted to, but if I really stopped and asked myself, “Is this person trying to hurt me?” the answer was rarely yes. I wasn’t bullied and abused. That was a narrative I had created around myself to keep myself in a hole and to justify my own negative behavior. People were generally kind, and when they weren’t they were neutral. It was the close relationships I could focus my energy on, and when there were patterns of behavior that hurt me, I could ask people to not act in a way that I found harmful.

That’s when I set boundaries. When something happens repeatedly that has led to problems, or that I think may lead to problems, I set a boundary today. That’s what I was doing with Soandso the other day. I don’t text. So I let Soandso know. Why not say so now, early on? I know this about myself. I feel it’s best to describe who I am clearly. Now, other people may not like it when I tell them what is and isn’t appropriate behavior for me. Some people think it’s super rude when I tell them immediately when they call that I only have ten minutes to talk to them (someone told me–in a card she wrote to me–”The police give you warnings,” so apparently, I am not supposed to do this). I do this for various reasons with various people, but when those ten minutes are up, I get off the phone. And I don’t spend that ten minutes yapping about me. But boundaries like this, or telling people that we aren’t dating, or that I don’t want to give them my phone number, or that I won’t take their calls, or that I can’t talk after a certain time, or don’t send me chain texts, or that I can’t respond to their messages as promptly as we both would like–all of these things are necessary to keep me sane. That doesn’t mean other people like them. It also doesn’t mean I did something wrong. What is right for me and what looks right to them aren’t always the same.

Remember, people who are sensitive like ol’ Seer here, pretty much everywhere it’s gonna be hot! Not just somewhere. But even where you live and work and play. So don’t get too butt-twisted if something doesn’t go exactly like you want it to. It isn’t always personal! It isn’t always about you. Just take a deep breath, dust yourself off, and start all over again. It also helps if you make a stupid joke with your friends, laugh really hard, or both.

And tonight? Like last night, and the night before, the baby upstairs is rocking the fuck out! Oh shit. Look out! Yes, she likes to rock and roll all night, and her older brother likes to party every day. Throw the goat, bitches!

That baby isn't experienced, but that isn't holding her back. She's running with the bulls upstairs! OLÉ, you bitches! Make way for motherfucking ducklings!

What does it sound like when your upstairs neighbor is a baby who likes to party? Well, when you have obnoxious adults who like to party, they do shit like crank the music, drink, holler, play the TV loud and respond to it like it’s a cardboard box and their friends are just standing in it giving them a show, have lots of people over, have a lot of traffic in and out of the apartment, smoke a lot of cigarettes out on the steps above you, and stay up all hours.

Two-year-old players run game a little different. They don’t know a lot of people, so they can’t roll deep. (She knows her parents, grandparents, and her brother. Only her brother is down. The rest of her family? Total squares, man.) Babies can’t turn on the TV for long periods of time, and they don’t like to watch the game or the fights. They don’t smoke or drink or do drugs. They mainly like to race back and forth repeatedly throughout the house, grab the metal gate if the front door is open and shake the shit out of it, bang on the piano if they can get to it, and slide and roll shit (alternating the ol’ slide and roll, like you do) across the wood floor in the hallway. Good times, what-what! To do all this, you must have parents who are insanely busy and exhausted. And you must learn to evade capture (part of the partying lifestyle) and hone your scream, son. Scream like a motherfucking banshee. Being adorable in appearance really helps. And these kids are really, really beautiful.

Throw the goat!

How hard do they like to party? These kids, especially the little one, are dedicated to the lifestyle. She is up until 9 o’clock almost every night, and I often hear her wake up around 11 scurrying around and screaming again. That one is wily. She has a weirding way, I tell you.

Now, I’m a night person, and this isn’t really bothering me. These kids aren’t broken. They’re happy. They also aren’t mine, so if they’re disobedient, it ain’t my problem. They don’t sass me. And the neighborhood itself is quiet. After they turn in, it’s all good in the hood.

So when the band asks, “Who’s ready to rock?” I know. It’s the kids. They want to rock and roll. They want to slide some shit. Pencils or something. Refrigerators. Anchors. Anvils. Safes. And then they want to do a Decathlon in the three-bedroom house they live in, upstairs from the two apartments their family rents out. And they want to do it tonight, motherfuckers. Everybody Wang Chung tonight!