Badger Badger Badger.

Why do I share this humiliating, depressing, and all-too-personal shit with you all?
Well, I'm not running for chairman of the "My Life Was More Fucked Up Than Yours" Pity Party or anything like that. Even if I did, I wouldn't win the seat anyway. To say that others go through far worse would be an understatement.
In all honesty, I have no fucking right to complain or even feel sorry for myself. Everyone and their family is insane in their own special sort of way, and from what I've seen, few rarely live the stuff of fairy tales or MTV's "My Super Sweet Sixteen".  (<--accidental rhyming here, but i'm going with it).
Perhaps that's why I do share, because I know no one's life is ever really normal.

Part of attempting to be a sane(r) individual is knowing where you have been, and where you are now.
I feel this is important for me to recognize my own progress and sense of accomplishment in my life, although I have never been to therapy (save a couple months of alcohol counseling courtesy of the state of Arizona).
The years after 17, I was insanely self-destructive, violent, a reckless drunk, hating myself, picking fights, and overall a giant asshole, to name JUST a few.  It's no small miracle that I'm even alive today with all the stupid shit I used to do on the daily. Oh. Wow. Oh, memories...

I pride myself in everything that has happened to me, by my bad luck, bad people, or my bad choices. Although these things are awful and have undeniably changed me and molded me as an individual for better and worse, I am not these things. I refuse to let these things decide for me who I am or who I want to be. I am responsible for my own life and my own actions and I refuse to cower behind my dysfunctional past any longer.
Surviving and living past these things can be empowering when you use them to your advantage. I am proud to have already lived a life of so many hurdles and devastating, life changing events at 25. I am proud that I overcame them alone.
When I toss aside my self-doubts and old downward paths of thinking, I know I can do anything.
On days like these, I feel like a fucking warrior.

I didn't have my first kiss until I was 17. He was 24 at the time, and smelled of a strange combination of cigarettes with a hint of gasoline. He was hideously ugly, but I was very forgiving about looks at that time. He unexpectedly kissed me in the fountain courtyard in front of the mall one day.
Finally! Someone who thought I was pretty, funny, who liked talking to me. Someone actually liked shy, pathetic, awkward, me. I had waited years for this to happen. I fantasized and played out the scenario in my head like a short film entitled, "My Idealistic First Kiss", a thousand times every day. Reality never quite lives up to romanticized expectations, I learned. I withdrew my lips from his slobbery pucker, my stomach twisting in disgust, my face reddened with shyness.
Why doesn't this feel right?

I met him a few weeks later at a sleazy downtown motel he was staying in for the weekend to visit me. I told my parents I was going to the mall, and that I would be back later that evening.
"Be safe," my Dad warned gruffly, as I was leaving for the afternoon. A hint of tears glimmered from the corners of his eyes. I wouldn't be his little girl for much longer.

At the motel room, my secret boyfriend moved quickly. I soon realized I was naked. I tried to hide my shame, arms crossed over my chest, head bowed low as I watched my big toe trace circles in the dirty green carpet. He smirked at my embarrassment and told me he loved me, drawing me closer into his loathsome embrace. His arms felt like slimy leeches slithering across my bare white shoulders, and I shuddered at the thought of them.

I can't do this. It doesn't feel right. This isn't right, why am I here?

I tore myself away from him again. This isn't how it's supposed to be. I don't love this man.
He doesn't love me either.
I'm repulsed at the sight of him, his smell, his laugh.

I turn away from him. I stoop to pick up my childish flowered, cotton underwear, my hands still shielding my body from his stare.
Why won't he stop? How am I on the bed now? Why can't I move?

My mind floats high above the two bodies below me, watching as the man takes me for my first time. And I wait for it to be over.

I know this doesn't count as a real blog post, but I had to share it anyway because it made me cry.

What might have been... - m4w - 29

Before all of you CL Nazi's flag this post, please read carefully and you will understand that this is probably the most missed connection of all.


It's been 3 years today since I've looked you in the eyes and told you that I loved you. Since we've couch-potatoed-it-up and watched the worst movie ever! It's been 3 years since you've yelled at me for the laundry on floor and the toilette seat that I never could figure out how to work. Everything has been so inside-out since you've been gone. The dinning room table doesn't have the oversized flowers on it anymore, just the tiny vase you used to stuff them in. But now it's empty. As empty as my need to laugh, or love, or be happy. Knowing you as well as I do I know you wouldn't want me to be a miserable, anti-social loser who stay's at home and Tivo's his life away so I've tried my best to make some connections. Over the past 6 months I've met some fairly interesting women while going about my day to day life. All of which I have never been able to make it past the formal stuff... I truly suck at this. A buddy told me to post on here in hopes that just maybe one of my missed connections will see this and slap me around the next time I see her and force me to pay more attention to her. I've compiled a list...


CLERK AT THE FRY's (22nd & Kolb)
I've comented on your necklace more than twice, It's a red ruby with silver chain, it's beautiful just like you.
I find myself driving out of my way to have you bag my Cheerio's. : )


GAS STATION ATTENDANT (22nd & Alvernon)
We went to high school together. I had a crush on you back then and after bumping into you on accident a few months back
I understand why. You're smile is worth paying the extra 5 cents a gallon! : )


BLACKJACK DEALER (Desert Diamond old nogales HWY)
You see me once or twice a month, I'm always wearing a t-shirt that says something vulgar or outrageous on it. I'm not a mean
person. Wearing t-shirts with curse words insures that no senior citizens with try to buddy up to me. Not that I'm anti-social, I just
can't relate to the grandchildren stories. You have long black hair (usually) and always give me the 5 second smile. Everone else gets the 2.5 second smile.
: )


REID PARK MINI TRAIN
Two weeks ago I was standing in line with my 4 year old daughter waiting to board the mini train at Reid park. Our daughters were waving at each other and laughing
you smiled and asked how much the ride costs. We made small talk for a min until the train arrived but there wasn't enough room for you to get on with us. you were wearing pink Nike shoes and a ball cap. : )


I know 3 years is a long time but I honestly don't think I'm over you. I never should have let you drive away upset that night.
I should have bought you that Ruby necklace for our anniversary.
I should have paid more attention to you when we were in Highschool.
I wish you never taught me to play BLACK JACK. Cause damn I suck at it!
And every night when I throw my dirty laundry in the hamper and not on the floor by the bed I see your pink Nikes sitting in the closet. I realize that you can't be replaced.
Our baby girl is getting so big and is looking more and more like her mother every day.... BEAUTIFUL.


Rest in Peace sweetheart. We love you, we miss you.


-T&G

• it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

I have to make a post about this because I've worked a variety of different service type jobs since I became old enough to work. Beginning with making pizza at bowling alleys and serving ice cream, to bartending and cocktailing at bars and night clubs -- I've done it all. I give kudos to people who survive in this kind of industry and can keep their wits about them and not go insane with rage. Dealing with people is incredibly taxing on your patience, to say the least. Here are some of the more memorable moments of my ten years in the service industry:

• At 18, I cooked in a bowling alley snack bar. A blonde, middle-aged woman angrily complained to me one day that her club sandwich had a long hair in it and she demanded a refund. I thought this strange because she ate nearly her entire sandwich, and only returned to me the chewed-over crusts.  I retrieved the culprit hair from her food basket, and pointed out that my hair is short and black. The hair was blonde, and appeared the same length as hers. I denied her the requested refund. She was asked to leave an hour later because her ten-year-old son was rummaging through the bowling center trashcans for pizza crusts.
• At 22 -- I had been bartending for three years. A nondescript middle aged man whom I had never seen before sat at the bar and ordered a 7&7. He took a long, thoughtful slurp from his glass and asked me how much much money he would need to take me to a hotel that night. I told the man that he was clearly in the wrong establishment for that kind of business transaction and to kindly get the fuck out. 
• My first night of cocktail waitressing at a "real" bar, I was 19. A party of five ordered a pitcher of beer from the bartender. A drowsy-looking young woman from the group took a single drink from her beer mug, and promptly passed out. A female friend of hers shook her awake and then led her to the ladies' room. After the women spent nearly twenty minutes in the bathroom, the group suddenly split with a quickness. I began clearing their table and then noticed sets of pink and brown footprints on the tile floor from the bathroom hallway to the front door where the group had exited moments before. Upon further inspection of the premises, I realized the footprints were vomit and feces. In the ladies' room, there were puddles of pink vomit and shit splattered all over the floor and in the first stall. In the toilet there was ALSO pink vomit and MORE fecal matter, as well as below and around the toilet. Through logical deduction, I hypothesized that the drunk woman started to take a dump, then realized she had to vomit. She must have turned around in the stall, bare-assed, to puke into the toilet, while shitting on the ground below her. This process would've been repeated again, as she must have remembered she was shitting on the ground, mid-vomit, and turned around again, puking on the floor and while shitting in the toilet. 
• Last weekend: A man who appeared in his forties decided to give his 13-year-old son pointers in picking up women by insisting that his son flirt with me and get my phone number. I knew this because he was giving his son instructions on how to do so while paying me for their meal. The poor kid was pretty embarrassed. Note: Do not ever, EVER hit on waitresses and bartenders, guys. It's not flattering, nor is that kind of inappropriate attention welcome when you're just trying to get through another day at work. Whatever clever, charming thing to say that you think will make her laugh, she has heard a thousand times before, and probably from someone far better looking than you. 
• At 22, I was managing a different bar, working alone on a Sunday afternoon.  A couple of regulars who were playing a game of pool began shouting and arguing with each other. I immediately left my post from behind the bar to mediate in the situation. The smaller of the two men suddenly became very irate and snapped a pool cue in half. He then tried to stab the other man with the jagged, broken end of the cue and a fight broke out. About 10 other male regulars jumped in to separate the fight, and I ran to call 911. While on the phone with the operator, I told the aggressor of the fight (Mark) that I was on the phone with the police, so he'd better get the hell out now. This pissed him off even more, and he lunged at me, swinging his fists in the air. The nearby men in the bar piled on top of him and wrestled him to the ground. It turns out the guy was pretty high on crack.
• At about 19, I was bartending on a busy Friday night at another bar when an obviously pregnant young woman entered the bar and asked me to make her a stiff vodka and cranberry. I explained to her that I couldn't make her a drink because I had a moral issue with serving alcohol to someone who was with child. The young woman seemed rather surprised. She then denied even being pregnant, despite her swollen pregnant belly (she looked like she was at least at 8 months into her pregnancy). She then said she was going to go elsewhere, where she could find "good service." Before leaving with her male escort, she asked if she could borrow a coat hanger. 

As long as I can remember, my life and the reason for it has been an utter mystery to me. From an early age, I knew that my life was never going to be easy and that much of it involves a degree of suffering. I was right. There weren't many happy moments for me growing up.