the bEaT goes on

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Who gets MONO anymore?

Me.  I get mono.  And double pneumonia.  And a host of other medical problems that I won’t get into right now.

On the bright side, I am sane and spiritually healthy enough to deal with it all.  SURE I am a little hysterical but hysteria is one of my endearing qualities.  And no disease is going to bEaT that out of me.

That is all.

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The Way The Truth and The Life

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As we enter Holy Week, today being the day that Jesus entered Jerusalem and willingly went to His death, I remember the miracle in my life.  I was about to die and I felt the hand of Jesus on my head.  I thought it was my stepmother, a true believer in all that Christ has taught.  It was not her.  And I knew I was saved by Jesus.  It is not always easy to say that.  It is not easy to say the NAME of Jesus without being laughed at or at the very least, judged as daft.  But He is real. 

We don’t all get a miracle.  But we all have the choice to follow Him. 

 

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i am henry viii i am

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Ok, Did you watch “The Tudors”?  It was about as historically accurate as Roman Centurions invading Normandy.  It was a hot people sexfest wrapped in wholly ridiculous fashions.  No one was jaundiced.  No one had “the pox”.  It was “Search For Tomorrow, 1535″

Here’s what I know about the reign of Henry VIII.  He didn’t have a six pack.  No man had a six pack in 1537.  They had tooth rot and maybe syphilis but not six packs.  The women were not bone thin with tiny tits parading in gilded gowns that could pass for current day prom dresses.  .  They were “rubenesque” and out of shape and they likely had a festering forest between their legs as opposed to Brazilians so evident on this thing.  Women were a mess downtown.  There was no sanitary protocol.  I don’t even like to think about it.   Everyone smelled back then – but Henry the worst with his open stinking leg ulcer that caused people to vomit into the cloths they carried in his presence. People would inhale halved oranges which they carried on their person.  If caught, I think it would be high treason.  By the time he was approaching 40 he deemed everything high treason.  If you cut a fart in his presence your head would be chopped off. 

He broke with the Catholics for reasons only Queen Anne Boleyn would understand and essentially formed the Protestant faith.  That took balls.  He considered himself a conduit to God.  That took medication that wouldn’t be invented for centuries. Henry was an attractive young man and as proficient at sport as was portrayed n the series however but at the end of his life he was so fucking fat he had to be hauled from room to room in a sedan chair carried by four men.  His coffin was so heavy it was dropped and broke open on the street.  Yeah. That’s hot.

I watched The Tudors the way I used to watch “90210”:  so I could yell at the TV.  I am warming up for my later years.  It was fucking ridiculous.  I mean I am fucking ridiculous. 

Ok I ran out of jokes.  This was a horribly disjointed post. 

 

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addiction: brought to you by Mazda

5440_101166680291_202671_n Did you ever watch the show “INTERVENTION”?  It’s this show where they exploit the escapades of an addict on camera then film the family intervention and subsequent recovery.  I’ve never seen one where the person dies.  There should be episodes like that.  The percentage of success is not realistically represented on this facakta show.

When I was 13 I started to think partying was better than school, dancing, gymnastics and most of all my parents’ divorce which was the backdrop to all.  I mean all.  There was no getting away from it.  Air and their divorce were the only sure bets in my life. Weed made it go away.  Boonesfarm wine made it go away in basements with boys getting to third while I knocked back the rest of the bottle.  That was probably a sign, no?

I stopped in 1989 at the height of expensive cocaine and the decline of the white dealer.  I would periodically return as if on vacation, shoveling coke up my nose but not drinking preferring the undiluted and crisp high of pure chemicals.  Or something.

Then I would stop. 

Then go back and add new heavier drugs, perfect the art of dealing to hillbillies for 3 times the price and stay high enough to tolerate the cast of heroin addicts parading through my nice apartment with all mod cons because, in case I forgot to mention,  I was such a high functioning and perhaps elitist drug user that it was hard to really tease out if I was even was one considering the normal trappings of my life in contrast to the flickering lights of the lives of the others.

Then I would stop. 

I was the worst drug addict imaginable.  I once had a boyfriend whom I adored – a rip roaring junkie – who forever said “You SUCK to get hight with!  You ruin it with your need to get fucking sober! Can’t you just get high and fucking enjoy it!  You’re torturing me!” and shit like that.  I would not resign to the addiction.  I refused to go without a job, clothes, cable, a car, name brand cigarettes.  I would rather die than be seen with a pack of Basics.  I was not cut out to be a drug user. 

Here’s the thing:  I never appeared to be high.  I never hung around my family all fucked up and looking like a crack whore, stealing their money and helping them look for it like the “INTERVENTION” drug addicts.  Perhaps if my life had been brought to you by Mazda I would have been a more declined, depraved and higher rated drug user. Insofar as Neilson ratings anyway.

Addiction isn’t produced in Hollywood.  It is lived deeply, lightly, fearfully or in a full embrace.  And it is often stealth and easy to manipulate, to incorporate into your personality as if it were a sense of humor or some other natural aspect that your loved ones would think normal.  Drug addiction was a lump of clay for me which I molded poorly in the beginning but became so good at it with practice that the ghost of Patrick Swayze would have been afraid to help me spin it.  I was a sharper.  I was too good.  I was so good I didn’t even know I WAS good.

I was not a good drug addict.  Just ask the 13 odd junkies I knew who are now dead: the mark of a truly committed addict.

I guess what I am trying to say is that “INTERVENTION” bugs the shit out of me.

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paranormal assholes

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Out of sheer boredom I have been watching “Paranormal Witness” on Youtube.  One after the other after more still and it’s always the same story:  “the ghost of a lost child”.  Always some benign spirit who needs to be recognized and the house’s inhabitants fall into it episode after episode but they all end the same:  the spirit is not benign.  It’s evil.

Were I an evil spirit I would probably use this method as well.  Lure them into communing with me then destroy their lives or at least scare the living shit out of them.  I know some of you disagree and feel that spirits that walk the earth are not necessarily evil and maybe you are right but I don’t think so.  

I lived in an old funeral home for 3 years.  There were many uncomfortable and scary occurrences but I,  being so hip and all, stayed in the house and communed with this force that was very present.  I never saw anything but other people who came to the house did.  I thought I was the shit.  Living with ghosts like it was nothing.  I even thought that the night I flew out of bed choking to find hand prints on my neck was “interesting”.  Nonethless, I moved from that room.  I was scared.  I was scared when I would wake up to something pressing me down to the bed and would throw my hands behind me to grip the headboard like it would save me.  It stopped the event – but just for that night.  And still, I thought I was the cool chick who lived with ghosts.

It never occurred to me that in the 3 short years I lived there I had been taken out by ambulance near death not once but twice. I refused to acknowledge that I was bipolar and chose instead to use illegal drugs to manage my hysterics and depression.  My life was breaking apart, like shingles flying off of a house in a hurricane. I didn’t see the connection between my decreasing life and the increasing force of “the other side”.

Spirits are not something to fuck with.  Don’t get a house clearing, don’t try to talk to the entity, don’t think you are cool because you live with ghosts.  Get into the light.  God, Jesus, Buddha whatever.  Get into the light.

 

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everything is temporary, isn’t it

18397b015d7d42959a8aec488638b76c (2) All things end.  Except for God’s love. 

I forget to hope sometimes and just get invested in the moment. 

I think we all do.

 

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there is always room

tumblr_nkgna6DJv71slacz0o1_400  I thought the worst day of my life happened in August 2013 which became the best day of my life.  Surviving death.  Finding God.  Loved and supported by my family.  I thought I would never feel so low again.

There is always room to fall further.

I would never hurt myself even though I have lost all confidence and my optimistic vision has turned to black, my plans and hopes are suddenly dashed, I am in a crisis of faith, my therapist is away for 3 weeks, I have to shoot medicine into me that is making my hair fall out and I’m really just lonely.  I thought by now….

I can’t pray.  I don’t want to hear about Jesus.  I don’t want to hear that “God is in charge”.  I don’t want to hear how I didn’t let God run the show or any of the other endless  clichés of the faithful.  I went from faithful to faithless and it took only 15 minutes Friday morning.  I feel like a shadow.   I have no where to turn but to you, my 4 blog readers and I am insulting you with this vague bullshit which should generate about as much sympathy as that which I am getting from people who don’t require bandwith to interact with me. 

Tonight the role of God will be played by alcohol. 

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