Two things that make it worse:

1) Guilt about it. “It makes me a pussy, it’s all just excuses on my part to not excel at life, I’m a coward, I’m weak, etc.”

2) Anger. If it had physical symptoms, I feel like it would have less of a stigma. I don’t talk about it much with friends cuz’ there have been times when I’ve felt looked down upon by them over it. So I shut up about it and keep making jokes.

This is Hyperbole and Half. She’s an artist/blogger who had an awesome blog of drawings that poked fun at life. Then she vanished. She came back with this. Holy shit. I don’t know what else to say. She knows me. I want everyone in my life who knows me to fucking read this because now you know me. Well, a big part of me. And even if you shrug and don’t believe it or understand it, it’s ok. At least I’ll know you know now and can never say you don’t.

Part 1.

Part 2.

“GGGFAAOWWNNUUHHH!” is roughly the sound that issued from me before my face smacked directly on to the sidewalk.

I went DOWN. DOWN DOWN. As if poleaxed! If you translated that sound, it would come out to be:

“WHY THE FUCK ARE MY ARMS NOT COMING UP TO PROTECT MY FACE? THIS IS GOING TO HURT! I AM GOING TO HURT MY FACE! THIS IS TERRIFYING! TERRIFYING!”

As I lay there stunned, not even in pain yet, I heard two cars pass me. Two cars. Neither of them slowing. There’s a man lying facedown on a sidewalk in broad daylight. And not in the sort of area where people lying facedown on the sidewalk (whether dead, dying, high, drunk, lazy, or just plain fatigued) is a common occurrence.  And he’s hoping to hear someone’s power window slide down and a tentative, hoping-to-hell-he-answers-in-the-affirmative-because-we’ve-got-little-Shenandoah’s-soccer banquet-to-go-to voice ask if he’s alright. Nope. Two cars drove by. “What’s that man doing?” “Bleeding dear. Take a pic and Facebook it.”

When I took my face off the cement and noted the pretty drops of blood that were starting to pepper the sidewalk, I was pretty scared. I didn’t have a compact in my purse, so I had no idea of just how bad the damage was. Had my nose been reconfigured and pushed to the side? Was my eye hanging out? I could have answered that one for myself because my vision was fine. What little deductive reason I possess tends to fly away in the face of sheer panic. And my teeth – were my teeth all there? I know people with gaps in their teeth. People automatically assume you watch Duck Dynasty when you have one of those.

The worst part of it, after all was said and done, was that my husband was at the movies. With the car. And I was two blocks from our apartment. And I looked like Bloody Face, I assumed. I was able to deduce that from the pain and the blood. From my face.

Alone. I was utterly alone. No cars had stopped and I probably had a skull fracture and part of my brain was probably leaving (I hadn’t seen it on the sidewalk yet, but who knows – maybe it had fallen into a shrub or something) and I had to walk home alone.

I took my hoodie off, and held it to my face like people do when they’re trying to prevent smoke inhalation. I was trying to prevent unnerving people. Which is odd seeing as I was still resentful about the TWO CARS THAT DROVE BY, PROBABLY SAW A MAN LYING FACEDOWN ON A SIDEWALK, AND KEPT DRIVING TO SHENANDOAH’S SOCCER BANQUET.

It was a long two blocks. I passed three people. One was a small Asian woman. One was a young white man getting into a car that had been idling waiting for him. And one was an older white gentleman walking a dog. Apparently they had been invited to Shenandoah’s soccer banquet as well. Cuz’ not one of those assholes asked me if I was ok. And the sweatshirt wasn’t covering all the damage. That patch on my forehead you see is post-initial clean-up. It was bleeding pretty heavily at first. So the three people who saw me would have been able to see THE BLOOD STREAMING DOWN MY FOREHEAD. Wow, that must have been some fucking soccer banquet. Maybe they had a DJ.

What did people think I was doing? Converting to Muslim but had gotten confused about which gender wears the niqab? A stupid Muslim who was gender transitioning and couldn’t work her niqab correctly? Concerned about the smog levels in Quincy, MA? Really?

Now that I look back, I honestly think the general public’s apathy towards my plight had something to do with the marathon bombing. It was probably a case of “Look, guy. We’ve all had enough of the death and maiming and we’re trying to get back to normal. Can you swing this one on your own? KTHANKSBAI.” So the One Fund won’t be supporting my recovery. I’m ok with that.

The only damage I really did was give myself a non-displacing fracture in my nose. Which means I broke it but not in the way where you need surgery to point it back in the right direction. This is good news, because I have that modeling career to get back to and Ford Models demands that your nose go in the right direction or you can kiss that Marie Claire cover goodbye, darling.

My face hurts.

This is what came up in a Google Images search for “Terror Train.” This was much more interesting than Jamie Lee Curtis screaming. The dog seems happy to be riding on a big pig head.

The source: Male. Late 50s. Large. Very large. Eyes turned beady due to fleshy face. Oxygen tank parked by his legs. He’s wearing shorts with athletic socks. Cell phone. He’s got a cell phone and he’s conducting all of his correspondence on it.

Transcript: “No, no. Patti. PATTI! PATTI, JUST GET IN THE SHOWER AND PUSH THE BUTTON! I can get off. I can get off. North Quincy? I’m at North Quincy now. PATTI, DON’T MAKE ME COME DOWN THERE! What did you have for breakfast? Oh yes, dear – ME, TOO! Blueberries! And bananas! My doctor got me hooked on them. Yeah. Yeah. He says they’re good for my ‘tasium or something. I don’t remember. How’s the DVVV player working? I love it! I love mine! That ray thing. Yes, yes, and when my cable went out that time, I was still able to watch movies! It was incredible! Oh, that DVVV player. Hold on, it’s Daniel. *clicks over* Daniel! DON’T YOU GET ME ANGRY ON THIS TRAIN! I’m on the train! You are a big boy, and you do what you think is necessary, Daniel. THAT DOCTOR SAID SIX WEEKS! DANIEL, I DON’T WANT TO ARGUE WITH YOU – I’M ON THE TRAIN! You’re a big boy. You do what you want. You’re mad and going to do what you want anyway. No, six weeks. The doctor…he said…Daniel. You are wrong. You are in the wrong, but I don’t care. I’m out of it. I’m staying out of it. I gotta get back to Patti. Patti. I SAID PATTI! Bye. *clicks back over* Patti? Patti? Are you there, dear?

Dear Debbie,

It’s Jay. We never met in person. We briefly spoke on the phone once or twice. Mostly you were the faint voice on the other end of the line when Scotty spoke to you. “Tell your Mom I said hi.” “Mom, Jay says hi.” “Hi Jay.” That was the extent of our relationship. And that’s a shame. Circumstances should have brought us together before your passing. As you’re probably aware, I’m marrying your son on Saturday.

I have been lucky enough to know Scotty’s Dad, Damon – who is a loving and generous individual. Being accepted by him, and receiving his big, broad smile whenever we meet is something I will always cherish.

I know there was pain in your life, in your heart and in your head. Your son and I have an inkling of what that is like, and we plan to never let the other succumb to it. It’s one of the things that binds us.

I wish I could have sat down with you, and gotten to know you. I wish we could have had tea together, or I could have made you laugh, which your son cites as one of the reasons he loves me. But most of all, I wish I could have gotten the chance to tell you what an amazing man your son is. And how much I love him. And why. And let you know that I plan to keep my heart with his for the rest of my life.

Your son Scott is my best friend. He is my waking dream. He is quiet and not one to be the center of attention. Being around people sometimes makes him feel awkward. He’s brilliant, and very adept at the things he’s good at. He gives amazing hugs, and can talk to computers. He can be a pompous 10-year-old. He can be a delightful 10-year-old whose naivete and innocence will break your heart. His attention to detail is maddening. When he sings, he takes over the song and makes it his own. I pretend to hate this but if I didn’t have it in my life – I would be bereft. I insist he’s not listening to me, when he actually is and will show me later on in the sweetest ways imaginable. He is patient when teaching, impatient with fools, and makes for a horrible patient himself. He loves animals more than people, but just when I think he’s the head curmudgeonly grouch…he will shock me with his kindness towards his fellow man.

He takes care of me. He sees me in ways no one ever has or will again. He might be the only one to ever know me really. And he still sticks around.

We fight. Like tigers. Our worlds (both inside and out) collide regularly and painfully. But I don’t want to melee with anyone else, for ever and always.

In this sometimes sick and often very sad world, his love is the one thing I believe in. He is a good man, and your pride in him was and is entirely justified.

Thank you, Debbie. Thank you for bringing Scotty into this life, and ultimately bringing him to me. There’s no way to repay you except to try like hell to do right by him as much as I can.

I hope you are at peace,

Your son-in-law – Jay

p.s. I don’t think I can get through writing and reciting my own vows for our wedding, so I wrote this instead. I hope it stands.

Time: 9:49 AM
Place: Off of Kendall Square

Sleep last night wasn’t happening, whether because of wedding worries or Scotty constantly putting the dog in our bed and then going to watch TV and the dog wanting to be with Scotty so it has to wake me up to get him to Scotty. Go fuck yourself, Cooper. Anyway, all I could think about during my MBTA commute was:

A) a medium hot tea with skim and three Splenda
B) the can of Diet Pepsi I was going to shotgun once I got to work (gay internet sex workers get free soda, it’s a perk and something to drink while you’re praying the next set of pics you have to look at doesn’t include a prolapsed rectum)

and I’m setting the next one apart so you realize it’s importance…

C) A COFFEE CAKE MUFFIN FROM DUNKIE’S

I got my muffin, but it was ruined due to me having the mobile table manners of a feral child. Read on.

The muffin was all I could think about this morning. Normally I’m all about the chocolate chip (diabetes can go fuck itself, too), but this morning it was cinnamon and sugar for me. You know when you’re craving a food item and it’s all you can think about until you stuff it in your maw? Even though it ended up being slightly stale, it was still absolutely fulfilling. So fulfilling that as I walked from Kendall T to my office, I began to tear off hunks of it in the paper bag and shove them in my mouth. Not even thinking. Break off, stuff in maw, chew, more. Fuck, this muffin is good.

The small woman in the white capri pants and black top who strode purposefully out of the Genzyme building actually halted and almost stumbled when faced with me. I had been so blissed out by my muffin that I had edged a little closer than usual to the exit she was coming out of, so I was kinda blocking her way. We did that awkward thing where you try to make way for each other but feint the same way two times, and it’s just an eternity. It was made worse by the look of absolute DISGUST on her face. She was finally free of me, and hurried away. That’s when I looked down.

I had muffin crumbs spilled all the way down my shirt. My fingers were caked in muffin. And I slowly realized I had muffin ON MY FACE. No wonder why she regarded me like I had asked her to change my diaper.

I didn’t let it affect me that much. I may be a messy eater and been caught in some sort of messy child fugue state, but she’s the one who’s probably genetically engineering a killing machine made of great white shark and rhino that’s going to bust out one of those windows someday and kill everyone in its path. This thought made me laugh, as I attempted to clean myself and throw away the remaining muffin bits in the bag.

“DUDE FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK DUDE!”

“FUCK FUCK FUCK DUDE FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!”

“DUDE DUDE DUDE DUDE FUCK FUCK FUCK!”

That’s how their conversation initially sounded to the person unschooled in “young douchebag.” Eventually I and the other spectators who were just trying to mind our individual business while waiting for our rides were able to figure out that someone gave someone a dirty look. A girlfriend might have been involved? Pinhead #1 was white and short. Pinhead #2 was perhaps Filipino(?) and short. I say “Filipino” because he had brown skin and Asian features. I am a close-to-middle aged white woman and I have next to no clue how to discern between certain ethnicities. White people in America are clueless. There’s guilt about it. To be frank, there’s not so much “guilt” as there is “fear of being found out as ignorant.” Yes, I worry about these things.

Pinheads #1 and #2 did a lot of literal chest thumping, I noticed Pinhead #2 still had one earbud in. Was he being coached? It’s like Cyrano De Roxanne!I need to completely remove my ear buds when I speak to people, and when I order at Dunkies so I am sure to SCREAM at the counter person without meaning to.

The threats and dialogue got increasingly more amusing. It was confirmed by the smirks and chuckles of the two other young men trying to separate them.

“Dude, you wanna fucking go? You wanna fucking go?”

“I’ll fucking slap you, man.”

“You’re gonna stab me? YOU’RE GONNA STAB ME, MOTHERFUCKER?!?!”

I’ve never seen someone get so enraged by thinking someone threatened to stab them. Most people would just run, or find a brick, or call a cop. Pinhead #1 began clawing at the neck of his t-shirt, and flexing his (sub-standard) muscles. It reminded me faintly of Randy “Macho Man” Savage, a former WWF (that’s what they called it back then) wrestler whom I used to watch as a child and thrill to his weird speech intonations when I wasn’t staring at spandexed man ass and pretending to care about champion belt match outcomes.

There’s more -

“I said SLAP, dumb motherfucker! SLAP!”

Chortle. Fights lose some of their ferocity when one opponent has to decipher a threat he made to the other.

They staggered like drunks across the circular pick-up area at Wollaston, the four of them. Two idiots, and the poor friends of idiots trying to maintain the peace. Swaying this way, and then that.

They began to betray their age (16? 3?).

“I’ll call my fucking cousin and he and his boys will come right the fuck down here and we’ll fucking kill you!”

“NO! Let’s go right now! I just got out of prison, dude! I just got off of parole! You hear me? Check my motherfucking phone and you’ll see all the friends I can get down here!” (Wow, he’s popular. And who knew the justice system was so lightning fast? The only thing I could picture him being in jail for was as a snack.)

Somewhat off in the distance, the girlfriend who had been alluded to at the beginning of this farce was leaning against a lamppost, sullen, arms folded, talking to another girl. She was watching disinterestedly. Seemingly unconcerned. As if everyone was always fighting over her and her jeggings.

A cigarette-smoking gentleman got out of his parked truck and ambled over to get in between them. They ignored him completely. The four of them still lurched around the concrete, with this man trailing them while casually asking them to drop it and go their separate ways.

They began to draw dangerously close to where I was leaning against a streetlight and pretending to read my book about how evil Scientology is.

(It really is. You have to keep paying the church! And if you fuck up, they send you to these work camp-type things! Did you know America has concentration camps? No wonder Tom Cruise won’t come out of the closet.)

As the quintet drew near me, I thought:

1) What if he did say “stab?” What if this is one of those awful accidents where an innocent bystander gets knifed? Paper cuts really hurt. Can you imagine getting stabbed by some cretin?

2) RUN! RUN! You should run! So what if they laugh!!!! You’ll survive!

3) Arm yourself with something witty to say insinuating that they’re fucktards without them catching on immediately if they get close enough!

4) Offer a half-hearted entreaty for everyone to calm down (even though you’re fine with them killing each other, less fucktard that way) if they get close enough!

5) You’re using Kindle for iPhone! You’ve got a PHONE IN YOUR HAND! Call the police! DIAL 911! Crime! Dissension! They may be short and stupid, but you are a pudgy white woman and haven’t been in a fistfight since freshman year of college and you needed to hit someone with an umbrella to get out of that one.

The group eventually swayed away from my streetlight. I breathed a sigh of relief. They DID separate briefly. The cigarette-smoking man left.  Pinhead #1 dialed someone and wildly gesticulated at his phone and tore at his t-shirt some more. A black sedan with tinted windows (who pimps out a Taurus?) screeched up to speak with him. Wow, he IS popular. And apparently important.

The Taurus took off across the parking lot to speak to Pinhead #2. Scotty pulled up and I got in. He was on the phone, and ignoring my excitement. A patrol car pulled up, and began to speak to Pinhead #1, who got very docile. The bored girlfriend sauntered up and put her hands on his shoulders in a show of support. The officer left his car as Pinhead #1 pointed towards Pinhead #2 who was apparently being questioned by whoever was driving that phat Taurus. The patrolman began to get back in his squad car. Scotty was on the phone with someone and refused to pull around the semi-circle driveway so I could view the rest of this drama. A big SUV was blocking my view. I felt frustration. I needed to see this denouement!

Finally, we did pull around and as we passed Pinhead #1 yelling at his girlfriend (with the patrol car approaching Pinhead #2 and the fly Taurus he was probably about to slap or stab in the background) I felt the strangest and most juvenile urge to scream “PUSSY!” at him. I didn’t.

I’m toying with blogging again. I’ve had lots of therapy. Hopefully my block is cleared. I’m just not sure what to write about. Little vignettes about my day? Even typing that made me want to shear off my face with something sharp. Posts about my hatred of things? I could write about celebrity bullshit, but did you guys know Michael K. at DListed hired me out of the blue to cover for him when he’s got the clap and it’s affecting his laptop? How fucking huge was that for my ass? So whenever there’s a holiday or he has a flare-up, it looks like I’ll be over there handling famous douche. I hope. FUCK, what if he decides I suck? That last thought was why I see a therapist once a week. Anyway, thay was a fucking dream come true. And ironic, seeing as in the post where I closed this blog, I noted that he was a way better writer than I am. Still true, but if you can’t beat em – beat them off.

I could post secrets people told me, but thinly veil them. SHROUD THEM. So “fucked his husband” becomes “got that used on Craigslist.” 

The posts about what I saw on the T were pretty popular. But now I pay for parking. Did you guys know I work with my future husband…

OH SHIT, THIS COULD BE A TOTALLY BORING BLOG ABOUT HOW I’M GETTING MARRIED IN OCTOBER. It could be like one of those bride blogs where I tell you about how the sand in that centerpiece was imported from Revere Beach. Smokin’ butts. Tannin’.

I need to keep my peabrain busy, so I guess I’ll just post about whatever strikes my fancy. Here’s where I make a promise to myself (I PROMISE TO TRY, BUT IT FEELS LIKE A LIE. I still think Like A Prayer is her best album.) to post once a week. HAHAHAHHAHAHAHAH. That’ll happen. 

Has anyone had Mrs. Fields cookies that come individually wrapped in a box. Shit, those are good.

I need a new banner. I am taking submissions.

Hi. As you’ve probably noticed, I sorta stopped updating my blog. I have excuses! Plenty of em’. Here’s some:

1) I’m really lazy.
2) I have a problem with depression which affects any motivation I have.
3) I really don’t care about celebrity gossip. I didn’t even care about it when I was getting paid to care about it. I just seem to have a really good memory structure to house stupid facts about vacuous assholes who stumbled on to fame and fortune due to genetics.
4) This wasn’t making me any money, and I wasn’t sure how to monetize it so it would.
5) Blogs like DListed and WWTDD do this sort of thing way better.
6) What? I’m not getting down on myself! I’m a pretty good writer, and fairly amusing. But sometimes I think my humor is forced and a riffing a little too much on other people’s.
7) I had some serious job crazy in the last couple of years. I got laid off my blogging gig, lived in jobless terror for 7 months (which time I should have spent making this blog all kinds of awesome and I didn’t really try), got a job, lived in job terror for close to a year (insane boss), got fired, and then got my current job at the purveyor of gay sex headquarters. Which I hated at first, but then I got a promotion and I love it. Seriously, I look at dudes all day, can look at porn all I want for “work reasons,” I work in probably the most gay-friendly environment ever except for maybe a dildo shop in SF, I get to social media-ize and write all day long…it’s just fun and I look forward to what the day brings. I don’t think I found my calling, but it’s a helluva place to hang out until (if ever) I do.

Those are kind of all the reasons I can think of. Maybe I’ll check in now and then but it’s not looking that way. I will keep it up and open, though. So – yay?

There IS good news. I recently began writing a good portion of the Manhunt Daily. So if you want to follow what I’m up to…here’s the link – http://www.manhuntdaily.com. If you liked this blog, then you will enjoy the Gay Ass Gossip feature. I’ll also be doing some tv recapping this summer, so stay tuned for that.

I’ll also be writing the blog for BigBearDen, coming soon. http://www.bigbearden.com

And if you’re a HUGE J. Harvey fan, here’s where the rest of my day job happens:

http://www.facebook.com/manhunt

http://www.facebook.com/dlistcom

http://www.facebook.com/BigBearDen

Note: A good portion of those (specifically the Manhunt Daily) are COMPLETELY homosexual in nature and very NSFW. You’ve been warned.

Anyway, that’s that. I’m sure I will see you again soon. I love you.

In an awesome turn of events, this is what you get when you type in RiRi Boston. I think it's an album cover. When it doubt, give something that aura of authenticity by painting vaguely Asian-looking characters over your seascape.

I’m sorta/kinda watching Avatar and this is an ELABORATE-ASS movie, huh? My first time seeing it was at one of those kickass Lux theaters where you get an armchair and a cocktail waitress so I was SOUSED during it so I probably cried when the Keebler Elf Blue Tiger People Memory tree blew up but now that I’m watching it sober…jesus. What a technical marvel. Granted, I can see Jim Cameron grabbing digital artists by the hair and slamming their faces off of consoles if they don’t draw a CGI petal on a background flower correctly, but that kind of workplace abuse resulted in some RAD movie-making. Oh, and I wanna make out with the dude in the wheelchair. Not sure he can act or not, but he’s got a nice face. Can you draw me wearing this Unobtanium necklace? And only this Unobtanium necklace? Oh, yeah, still answering questions…

Will you ever move from Boston? Why/Why Not?

Does RiRi Harvey read all of your blogging? Does it make for interesting conversation at the holiday dinner table?

Would I ever move from Boston? I’m a vastly immature 36, but still 36. All of my family and friends for the most part are located here in Massachusetts. I just landed a job that I’m really enjoying. My partner hails from Buffalo, and he has no wish to return there to live despite us probably being able to buy a house with what we pay to rent a small two-bedroom on a slightly dicey street here. So…yes? Scotty has been on us to move somewhere else in the seven years we’ve begun together. I, however, am a coward. I have plenty of friends who live and have lived in other cities, gone to school on different continents. I envy them. They are brave where I am not. I am an utter pussy. I never thought I would make it in a strange place. I like knowing that I have people who love and care about me within an hour and something’s drive. I like knowing how to get places. I love this city. I can use the subway. Seriously, that’s comforting to me. I love how Boston is slightly puritanical and infuriating and I’m always complaining that there’s little to nothing new going on. But it can also be the most amazingest party (man, we like the drink here in Boston), with people from different social strata some of whom seem to strive to try and do the right thing, and there are these huge hearts beneath icy northern exteriors. Ok, I am starting to sound like some cheesy bitch writing things on the sides of mugs for souvenir shops in Fanueil Hall.

Most of our holiday dinner conversation is mocking each other and mocking people we know. If my brothers read my blog, we would probably mock that. Like others should, cuz’ damn, I just read the bullshit I wrote about Boston above.

This is seriously what came up when I typed in watch in the toilet. I got nothing. Charlie Sheen is all done up on the coke so he probably sold his watch.

Sigh, next question.

QUESTION: You go to put your watch on after taking a dump and it falls in the hopper. Unfortunately, you didn’t flush yet. How much poo is too much to stop you from reaching in and grabbing your watch?

Also, do you think Annette Benning is pretty?

That was from long time commentator Bill Cosby. Count on Bill to shove a Pudding Pop made of a brown, oogy substance that ain’t pudding into your face.

Honestly, it depends on the watch. If it was like Tag Heuer, I’d use something to fetch it out and wash the damn thing. As you learn throughout life, shit (both literal and metaphorical) washes off. If it was like a Swatch or something gumball machine-ish…well, I’d take it out anyways. You can’t flush a watch.

I hate shit questions. This was an exercise in begrudgingly. I’m glad I don’t wear a watch. I get the time from my phone. I dropped a cell phone in a Port-A-Potty once. I don’t tell that story.

Yes, I think Annette Bening is pretty. Although I didn’t like the part in The Kids Are Alright when she told Mark Ruffalo that she needed whatever like she needed “a dick in my ass.” It seemed very tough guy crude. But I think that was what she was going for as an acting choice. Oh, and she was so dementedly awesome in Running With Scissors as the crazy bitch with the shag. She’d fish a poop watch out of a toilet. She has no fear.

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