Tag Archives: humor

What Have I Been Up To? Shame ol’ Shame ol’

It’s the beginning of the month and my business is once again killing it. My projected income this time next month is $2,000 more than what I started with this month, $4,000 more than what I had in the bank this time last month.

I’m slowly gaining back my composure but…..

This is a big but…..

My employee’s get paid THREE times in July! This means that I need an extra $3,000 in the bank so I can pay them.

I even out.

I completely even out. Not only do I even out, but I’ll be back in the red-zone. The zone of despair.  Nicking away at my personal line of credit.

My broken armed therapist will be performing shirodhara treatments soon. One of our regular clients told me about them. I won’t go into detail about shirodhara, but It sounds wonderful and my therapist is stoked to do them. So that should help me out a bit in the money department.

I have yet to do my humiliating marketing stunt. It’s been a full week since I started my new “work” schedule (which consists of no work), but each day I find myself busy.

Today I taught my niece how to drive. No one wanted to teach her because they’re all scared, so I volunteered to do it.

Me – “Have you ever met a really stupid adult?”

Alexis – “Yeah.”

Me – “Stupid people are everywhere and guess what? They all have licenses!”

Alexis – “That’s true.”

Me – “If they’re allowed to drive, you can definitely do it.”

She has trouble taking right-hand turns and knowing when she has the right away. Sometimes coming to a complete stop at intersections.

I had to give her lots of encouragement. And to be honest, I love my car but I know it won’t stay new looking forever. I’m not scared of a few dings and dents.

Me – “There you go you got this!”

Me – “Supurb, magnificent. I wish I had gold stars to give you.”

I made her park, back-in, K-turns, drive on the main road, drive to her house, drive to my friends house, drive on the highway and then to the mall.

Alexis – “Driving is actually fun! I like it. I don’t know what I was so afraid of before.”

Me – “Just imagine what else you can do. You can do anything.”

I sound like an awesome aunt, right? Well, all this was happening while I drank beer in the passenger seat and held on to the “oh shit” handlebar above the door.

Me – “You’re a rockstar, look at you go!”

While back at home…..

My bedroom was on fire.

My mom calls my cell – “You are in so much trouble! So much trouble!”

Me thinking that she spotted me with a beer while Alexis drove my car – “What did I do?”

Mom – “Your bedroom was completely lit up in flames!”

Me – “Wha..?”

Oh shit, the candles…..

I bought 2 candles from Amazon the other day, one for prosperity and the other for abundance. I lit them both while waiting for Alexis to get here and I forgot to blow them out. They had paper sleeves wrapped around them with prayers on them, that’s what caught on fire. The paper sleeves.

Mom – “I never saw your father so panicked. He ran around searching for the fire extinguisher like a mad man. I never seen him like that.”

Me – “How bad is it?”

Mom – “I haven’t been down there to see but there’s so much smoke up here.”

My broken armed therapist and my esthetician were talking the other day about these special prayer candles and how well they worked, and me being the impressionable type, bought them immediately.

But they DID work before setting my room ablaze. I made $326 dollars today for doing absolutely nothing.

I want to buy more but my mom says I’m not allowed to have candles in my room anymore.

The damage? Nothing really. There’s a black smoke ring on my ceiling above where the candles where lit, and a thin layer of ash on my dresser. I just smudged a smily face in the center of the black circle on my ceiling.

*********************

It’s now about a week later. It’s raining and I’m laying in bed with my electronic cigarette.

I can’t stop looking at my bank account.

***********************

It’s about another week later and I can’t stop looking at my big toe.

Last year in August, almost one year ago today, I got myself a pedicure in Ecuador.  Now, this pedicure is unlike any pedi I had before.  It was on par with a medieval torture apparatus (I have super sensitive feet), but the polish she used was incredible.  Incalculable lasting strength!  If my nails never grew, they would still look as fresh as the day they were painted.

She used acrylic nail polish.

IMG_2143-1Only a wee bit remains…..

I send updates about my big toe to the girl I got the pedicure with.  She’s the same girl I went to Thailand with.  To be honest, I’m going to be sad when the last of it grows out.  And I think Brianna will be sad too.

********************

Another week later.

Today was my humiliating walk of shame day.  My last resort day basically.  I walked up and down route 10, the busiest street in my hometown, to promote my business.  I was wearing this:

[Image removed due to creepy calls at my business]

Yes I was Iron Man.  No no no, strike that.  I AM Iron Man.

The costume is meant for a 6ft male, so everything hung askew including the helmet.  I had to keep adjusting myself as I walked so I wouldn’t trip over my own feet.

Nobody does shit like this where I live.  Nobody.

All I thought about was my brother driving by and throwing his milkshake at me out of his car window like Daryl did to Prince Akeem in Coming to America.

Here’s the thing, my business is doing splendid lately.  I’m not just breaking even anymore, but gaining momentum.  Not a lot of momentum, but there’s some.

Only for it to be taken away next month when my employee’s get paid 3 times instead of 2.  Plus I’ll need to pay my quarterly taxes pretty soon.

There’s no end to this.  Even with the numbers we’re pulling in this month, it’s still not enough to cover the cost of owning a small business with a receptionist.

But I can look at it this way; this time last year I was working non-stop, still broke-ass as shit and I had a quarter of the members as I do today.

Me last year – “I don’t care how broke I’ll be.  I HAVE to stop massaging.  I’ll pay whatever it takes to not have to massage anymore.”

And here I am one year later with 9 clients on the books this week.  Between Monday-Sunday, I have to work a total of 9-15 hours as opposed to 30-40.  And I hired my friend to clean the bathroom once a week, take out the trash and fill the lotion bottles.

This would have been an impossibility last year.

Anyway, I’m tired.

I’m going to do it again tomorrow.  My Iron Man walk of shame.  At least I get to exercise while marketing my business at the same time!

Iron Man don’t give a shit what people think of him.  He does what needs doing.

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The End is Near

I had a credit card dream two days ago.  I dreamt I bought a new hat, a cowboy hat to be specific.  And it cost me $101,000.

Me – “But it’s just a hat!  A hat can’t possibly cost $101,000.  Someone over-charged me.”

Retail girl – “We’ll look into it.”

Then a cluster of shoppers stood outside the entrance of the store and they were all looking up.  I went over to see what they were all looking at, and that’s when I spotted a tornado.

Me – “Run!  Everybody run!”

I ran back into the store while everyone stood outside completely hypnotized by the swirling colors in the sky.  It was actually beautiful, but I didn’t stick around to see it.

People started getting sucked up to the left and right of me.  I figured that as long as I stayed in motion, it would be harder for the tornado to suck me up.  I was right.  I was safe.

Everything in this dream symbolizes monitory troubles.  Everything except the new hat – new hats symbolize business gains.

I went to work at my new business yesterday after having that dream, and sat down beside my new employee, Holly, behind our one desk.

My employee is great.  She’s young, cute, and came very close to selling a membership the other day.  But…..And this is a huge but….

Now I remember why I love working alone.

We have one large reception desk that I managed to squeeze two chairs behind.  We’re in very close quarters – shoulder to shoulder just about.  And this girl can talk.  Man-o-man can she talk.  Not necessarily crazy garbage talk that makes no sense, but the kind of talk you would expect to hear from a 23 year old fresh face normal everyday lassy.

I was never a normal everyday lassy even at her age.

I couldn’t blog, couldn’t read, I couldn’t fall asleep while listening to an audiobook.  I was stuck there – literally, I couldn’t get out.  Our chairs were jammed that close together.

I wanted to bang my head against the desk listening to her.  I couldn’t pay attention to anything she said – and it’s not that I don’t care or don’t like her, I like her a lot actually.  I just couldn’t do it.  My energy waned and I started looking forward to giving a massage – an escape back into my head.

I officially opened April 18 and today is April 24.  I managed to make almost $1000 ($990 to be exact), since I opened (not counting today).  This is in membership sales, gift certificates, and clients that I massaged during those days, 3 of which I had no clients due to Easter weekend.  So in 3 days, I made $990 (not counting tips).

I know what you’re thinking, “dang girl that’s the shit!”  But to me it doesn’t feel like the shit.  I’m still in freak-out mode.  $990 can’t pay for my rent which is $1250 and due in 6 days.  I’m running out of my personal line of credit, and my employee is there all day today with only two clients on the books.  She is my greatest expense.  Not the rent, not the utilities (I got that bill in the mail today), but it’s her.  Only when she has no clients.

I sold 40 Amazon Local Deals.  I get a check from them May 6 (which I don’t count as earned money until they get redeemed).  I’m also selling 300 Groupons starting May 6.

Groupon upped the amount they pay merchants from $18 a massage, to $20.  My therapists get $12 for massaging Groupon and Amazon Local people.  If they rebook with my therapists, they get $17 for massaging them.

I’m still utilizing my original plan of attack.  Sell Groupons, keep my employee’s fully booked, and wait (pray) for the rebookings.  Once the rebookings start, I won’t have any more dreams about tornado’s.

I’m using Massage Envy’s mode of structure which entails memberships.  If I can sell 60 memberships, I’ll be set for life.  My business will be established and stable with 60 memberships.  I sold 2 in those 3 days I been open.

I’m sitting in my office in Middlefield. I’m here today, tomorrow, and Tuesday is my last day.

There’s no better way to savor the end of an era with a video clip.  My little office may be dying out, but my dream of being a self-made millionaire shall live on.  And okay, I’m a dork with iMovie.

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I’ll rule the world someday

My diabolical plan to take over the world

By Melanie Funbags

It all starts with an idea.  An idea that germinates into inevitability.  Inevitability that spikes into destiny.

The path is already laid out for us.

I plan to take over the world with an idea.  The best idea’s are the one’s that feel inevitable – the one’s that feel right.

Inevitable idea’s feel inevitable because they are the ones that evolve you.  If you don’t wish to proceed into the next evolutionary level, you still have some growing to do.  Either grow, or get out.

Taking over the world isn’t exactly what you think it is.  What I mean by “taking over the world” is to not be a slave to it.  It doesn’t take over you, you take over it.

In essence, when you take control of your life, you take control of your world.  You own that shit, you hear me?

I grew up with advantages.  Not so much monetary advantages, but having a great set of parents who let me live with them until I was ready to proceed to the next level, kind of advantages.

Until recently, I had no idea’s that germinated into inevitability.  No idea’s that spiked into destiny.  Thus, no freedom to evolve.  No opportunity for progress.

My inevitable destiny that is just now becoming realized, actualized, materialized, is that of the pursuit of idleness.  I don’t want to do a damn thing.

Ain’t no thang but a chicken wing and that chicken wing ain’t do shit but fill our bellies and put smiles on our faces.  I want to be the wing!

I sound like an idiot, yes, I know.  I’m annihilating what could have been a perfectly good blog post.  See what happens when you put yourself into your work?  Shit gets messy just like dems wings.

Finger kicken’ licken ya’ll.

Anyway back to my story….

I grew up with advantages of not having to pay rent.  Two of my previous cars were handed to me.  This leads me to tell you about my number one advantage:  Perfect credit.

As my North Shore Advisory consultant used to tell me every visit, perfect credit can give you your freedom, or, the opportunity to obtain that freedom is more like it.

I’ll get back to that in just a moment but first, what the hell have I been doing with my life?

As I mentioned above, my true love in life is idleness.  With idleness, you own your god given right which is TIME.  Time is not a privilege, it’s a human right.  I want to own my time, hence, owning my freedom.  Owning my world instead of it owning me.

You may call me lazy, but I call me a realist.  I can’t possibly be the only one who feels this way.  With idleness, you can branch off to any interest that hits your fancy.  You can be a poet in France, or a gravedigger if that’s what you’re into (great workout plus the only way you’d get laid off is when you’re laid to rest.  I don’t recommend necrophiliac’s to take up gravedigging [I wonder if that’s a sexual preference you’re born with?  I read somewhere that pedophilia is something you’re born with, so why not necrophilia?]).

I would like to work at Walmart – yes I would!  I want to see what’s it’s like.  I’m curious, okay?

So, what I’m trying to say is, all this time I’ve been vying to own my freedom by owning my time, but I was missing the most important thing – not having to depend on anyone!

Ayahuasca told me that we shouldn’t depend on anyone.  That we are all here on separate journeys and we are all of equal worth.  When you depend on someone, you’re lowering your worth.  Just as it is with depending on a job – they tell you what you’re worth, and not the other way around.  They end up owning both you and your time.

(I already wrote a whole bunch about depending on your spouse or loved one, so I won’t get into that.  In short, don’t do it.)

Although I claimed to be owning my time, I wasn’t able to fully enjoy it.  It wasn’t exactly my time – I didn’t own it, not really.  It belonged to my parents house and generosity.  It belonged to the hard work of my family, and not me.

I had this Mac Air for over a year now and I just discovered something really cool about it.  Literally, it happened 2 seconds ago.  I have a client coming in any minute so I dimmed the lights in my office, and my keyboard lit up and my screen dimmed automatically.  How does it know?  How’s it do that?

If I didn’t have a client coming in, I’d research it.

Blah humbug….

Okay, so I have an idea.  A sperm, if you will.  This little sperm has X and Y perfect chromosome credit.  It’s been swimming around in her little fishbowl stew lollygagging, eating cheese and chicken nuggets for far too long.  Now comes the next stage in my evolutionary journey.  My little sperm is the next quantum leap in human evolution.

This girls got spunk.  Sperm spunk that is.  Idea’s.  I’m talking about idea’s.

I have to expand my business.  I HAVE to.  It’s the only way I’ll ever get out.  The bigger your world, the more freedom you have.  The bigger your business, the more freedom?  I’m just going to have to say yes to that.  Yes more freedom.

Originally I was going to buy a spa in Cheshire, but the girl selling it (my brother’s ex-fiance), wants 35K for it.  It sounds like a disastrous investment to me.  Besides, I never trusted her (I’m wicked cynical in biblical proportions).

Instead of buying her beat-up ass spa, I can take out 35K and build my own.  Okay, maybe not 35K, I’m thinking more along the lines of 10K.  3 of it will go towards my credit card debt and the rest will be spent on a deposit for a lease.  I need a bigger office.  I need me some little worker bee’s.

I showed my last client how my laptop keyboard lights up automatically and she didn’t seem all that enthused.

One more client to go.

Last client done.  He had a small lump on his forehead.  Not large enough to be an egg and too big for a zit, which leads me to a new understanding about myself – I want to touch  other people’s lumps.

It’s Billy O’s pub night tonight.  Yay!

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A little sour milk with your chocolate

Once out of every six months or so, I experience a stranger lying in bed with me.

This “stranger” isn’t some random guy that I picked up at the bar.  He’s a very real, very solid figment of my imagination.

It happened again last week.  I was sleeping on my stomach when I felt someone laying on top of me caressing my mid-section.  This time around however, it felt more like a dream than it did real.  Usually these dreams feel extremely real.  Picture yourself lying awake in bed with your eyes closed, and you feel a stranger laying next to you touching you (I mean physically touching you as in real-life) who shouldn’t be there – who literally is not there at all.

But this time felt more dream-like.  I can’t explain how or why, it just did.  Perhaps I wasn’t as lucid as the other times?  I don’t know.

It wasn’t sexual and it didn’t make me horny.  I had a lucid dream last night where I grabbed the nearest man I could find so I can have my way with him – I know what those dreams feel like, and this wasn’t one of them.

It was pure love, pure tenderness, without any want or need.  I felt undeniably loved on a scale that I never felt with anyone in real life.  Only in my dreams…

And because it felt more like a dream, I was able to relax and enjoy it.

“This is what it feels like,” I thought to myself, “to be loved.”

I sunk in and soaked up as much of it as I could.  I didn’t want to wake from it.  And just as I have experienced in past dreams, love is inspiration and feeling like you can achieve anything.

A few days later, I went to Newport for a mini-vacation with a few friends.  It turned out with me being the 7th wheel.  All couples, and then there was me – always and forever, the odd one out.  The ugly duck.

I’m not the type of person who care’s about this kind of stuff.  I can hang in both worlds, single and couples alike, it don’t matter none to me.  Although, while I find myself sitting alone, it’s the pity party from others that I don’t care for.  If I don’t feel sorry for myself, why should they?  I happen to like sitting alone.  Writers are weird like that.

Anyway, I do however, suffer from a condition.

Before the trip, I was struggling with low-energy.  I felt like I just didn’t have the energy (or money) for a weekend trip.  I couldn’t get excited about it.

And the more I couldn’t get excited about it, the less energy I had for it.

I couldn’t get stimulated, you know what I mean?  There was no challenge.  Nothing to write home about.

It’s just that, I don’t know….What is it?  What’s my problem?  If the stranger in my bed accompanied me to Newport, I’d want to go – I’d be excited to go.  You know what I mean?

There’s no love for Mel.

No, that’s not true…..my friends all love me.  Well, most of them do anyway.

Maybe it’s just that there’s no inspiration for Mel?  Maybe Mel is tired of drinking?  And that’s what this trip was all about; drinking.  I have to drink to replace true inspiration – true love.  I have to drink to escape not feeling connected or understood by others.  I hear cocaine works for that too…

The less connection I have with people, the more I want to drink.  I was just kidding about the cocaine part, trust me (I’m way too cheap).

I’m tired of drinking.  I’m tired of feeling like the only way I’ll have fun is if I’m drunk, or getting drunk, or have a beer in my hand at least.  And it sucks that I’m tired of it.  Other than writing, beer is the only thing that fills me with that special inspiring love that the stranger in my bed provides.

A freaking stranger in my bed that doesn’t even exist!

I hear my mother upstairs yelling about a pair of underwear she can’t find.

Mom – “Where are they?  Who took them?”

She thinks everyone takes her stuff.

Minutes later I hear my dad shouting for me outside my bedroom door.

Dad – “Mel, you in there?  Can I come in?”

Me – “Yeah.”

Dad – “Neh?”

Me – “Yeah.”

Dad – “Yeah?”

Me – “Yeah.”

He comes in and places an ice scraper on my desk.

Dad – “Here’s your ice scraper.”

Me – “What are you doing with my ice scraper?”

Dad – “It was in my car.”

Me – “Oh, okay.  Hey can you tell mom that my underwear is missing too?”

Dad – “Okay.”

As he leaves my room, he shouts up the stairs to my mother, “hey Mel’s underwear is missing too!”

I went upstairs to find something to eat and I say to my mom, “all my underwear is missing.  They’re all gone from my drawers.  I have no drawers in my drawers.”

Mom – “Yours is missing too?  Check the dryer, or the laundry pile in my bedroom.”

She was completely serious.  My dad however, saw the humor.

Dad – “Maybe Fran (my brother), is wearing them by mistake.”

Me – “Yeah, he takes everything.  MOM!  I want to make chocolate milk!”

I scream this like the kitchen is on fire.

Mom – “You’re going to have to wait until tomorrow.”

Me – “Why?  There’s milk here.”

Mom – “I don’t know how old it is.  Don’t drink it!”

I give it a sniff, look at the date…

Me – “It seems fine to me.”

I fish for a glass in the cupboard as I hear my mom frantically getting up off her recliner shouting warnings at me.

Mom – “Don’t drink it it’s bad!  I don’t know when I bought it.  You’re going to get sick!”

She flew into the kitchen and grabbed the milk out of my hands before I poured it into my cup.  I’m not joking or embellishing any of this, but she was looking at the expiration and making up dates that weren’t there.

Mom – “See, right there it says DO NOT SELL AFTER FEBRUARY FOURTH.  Don’t drink it.”

Me – “It doesn’t say that, are you serious?  It’s only January 27 and the expiration doesn’t say February fourth, it says January 30.”

She takes the carton of milk into the living room to fetch her reading glasses, sloshing its contents as she hobbled on her knee replacement.

She was moving really fast.  She doesn’t even need a cane anymore.

Mom – “Okay, it says January 30, but it still smells bad.”

Me – “Really?  It smelled okay to me.”

Mom – “Than taste it if you don’t believe me.”

She hands me the milk.

Me – “No way I’m not tasting it, you taste it.”

Mom – “My stomach’s already messed up, I’m not tasting it.”

My dad shouts at us from the living room – “I had some yesterday and it tasted fine.”

We ignore him.

Me – “If no one’s going to taste it, I’m pouring it down the sink.”

My mom watched as I tilted the contents of the milk into the sink.  She hates wasting food – even expired food.

Mom – “No wait, don’t waste it.  I’ll take a sip.”

Me – “I don’t want you getting sick.”

Mom – “No, let me taste it.  Stop pouring it out.”

She gets a glass and pours out a sip.  She tastes it.

Mom – “Well, it seems okay….”

Me – “Really?  Here, let me taste.”

I grab her cup and take a sip.

Me – “It’s expired.  It’s definitely expired.”

It was disgusting.  How can she not taste how disgusting it was?  After making all that fuss?!

And that’s what I did in the last 20 minutes of my life before coming down here to write about it.

I wasn’t going to write about it, but I’m pretty much laying everything out on the table tonight what with my stranger in the bed and all.

My life is filled with these episodes.

And in the meantime, my crazy aunt who my father claims as a dependent on his tax forms (along with her 40-year-old son), is ALWAYS lurking behind me.  No matter where I am, she’s there wanting to be where I am.  I’m making eggs in the morning?  Yep, she’s there wanting to use the burner.  I’m making some tea?  She wants to wash dishes so I can’t reach the keurig.

And she talks incessantly.  Whereas I reply in an even monotoned to everything she says “okay, sure, yes, thanks, okay, that’s good.”

And on and on she goes.

This isn’t funny.  This is sad.   I clearly have problems.  Clearly!

“The entire world population can’t be insane, so it has to be me.  It has to.”  According to The Road Less Traveled, I’m a text book neurotic.

And the shitty thing is, until I can find someone who understands me – someone who understands all the shit I write about – I won’t have an anchor.  I won’t have anything that holds me in place and says to me no, you’re not crazy, you’re not alone, and yes, you’re loved.

Okay, I’m going to end this post before I start having an irrational conversation with my rational brain.

“Please don’t involve me in this.”

I’m not!  I just said I’m ending this post.

“Okay good.”

Good.

“You know you’re not the only one with these thoughts, right?  You sound like a damn baby when you complain like this.  Everyone wants to feel loved, not just you.”

Okay got it.  Goodnight.

“Seriously, you have to stop transfixing.  And besides, do you actually feel this way?  Or are you just bored and feel like writing?  Is not feeling loved or having a connection a serious problem for you?”

Yes, I think it is.  I mean, I’m not doing it because I’m bored.  I really think it’s an issue.

“Well, the more attention you bring to this “issue”, the more power you will give to it.”

Yes, I know….

“You’re not special Melanie.  No matter how much you want to believe you are, you’re not.  You’re not any more special or different than anyone else.  That’s the true basis for your “issue”.  You’re grappling with humility.”

I’m too tired to have you write out an explanation to that, so I’ll just have to take your word for it.  This post is already too long as it is.

“Okay, get some sleep.  Maybe we can write about it tomorrow.  And what the hell was your last post about?”

I don’t know, I just felt like writing.

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Melanie’s not so normal life online

An old woman started working in my office building around this time last year.  She wears the same khaki sweater everyday, and the same green felt pants.  The kind that easily attracts lint and fur.  When people greet her good morning, she nods her head and goes about her business without uttering a word.

Well, this woman knocked on my office door shortly after I noticed her working in my building.  I open the door and say, “hello” with an open face smiled.

Without hesitation, or any expression on her part, she starts hitting me repeatedly on top of my head with a rolled up newspaper.

“Hey!  W-what are you doing that for?”

She continued to hit me over the head with the newspaper, ignoring my question.

“What did I do?  Is there a reason why you’re hitting me?”

The woman stopped hitting me and quickly scampered up the stairs and out of site.

“What the hell was that about?”

I hesitantly sat back down at my desk.  “Seriously lady?”  I smoothed my hair after having it disheveled and felt confused for the remainder of the day.

The next day I walked into my office building and the old woman scuttled up to me and started hitting me again on top my head with a rolled up newspaper.

“What’s the meaning of this?”

The receptionist behind the desk shrugs her shoulders.

“Seriously, why are you doing this?”

The woman’s strikes were equally spaced out like a metronome.  Her face looked stern and determined.  At least three minutes went by while I stood there receiving a beating and asking her the same question only in different variations, “why are you doing this?”  Or, “I don’t understand, what did I do?”

The receptionist starts laughing.  I guess from an outsiders view, the situation was comical.  The bashing didn’t hurt, it only messed up my hair and annoyed me.

“If you don’t stop I’m going to call the cops.”

This made the receptionist laugh even louder.  The angrier I became, the more absurd things got.

I ran down the stairs, down the hall, and into my office.  The old woman couldn’t keep up and it looked like she struggled going down the stairs.  I felt sorry for her in a way.  Sorry that she wasn’t able to keep hitting me on the head with a rolled up newspaper.

I heard a knock on my office door minutes later.

“Go away!”  I shout.

“Is this the massage room?  I have a 12 o’clock appointment.”  A meek voice on the other side announced.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”  I opened the door and explained the situation.  She too thought it was funny.

“But I don’t know anything about the woman.  She doesn’t talk or explain herself.  Every time she see’s me, she starts whacking me over the head with a rolled up newspaper.

Again, the client laughs.

Once I completed my work day, I stepped out of my office and the old woman was there waiting for me.  And once again, she beat me over the head with a rolled up newspaper.

It went on like this for months.  She used the same newspaper, which became ratty and papers often flew from it.  There wasn’t much of it left.

I grew angrier with each passing day until I reached a breaking point and I pushed her down outside my office building after work.  She wasn’t surprised, angry, or upset in any way.  She merely accepted it as if it was part of her job of hitting me over the head with a newspaper.

She had trouble getting up.  I felt bad for her.  She was just a mortal old woman after all.  I bent down and helped her up and as soon as she was back on her feet, she started pelting me again with the newspaper.

I ran to my car and the old woman tried to keep up, but slipped on some ice.  She laid on the pavement for a few moments looking like an upturned turtle flailing her arms and legs about.  It was her second spill in less than two minutes.  I walked over to her and helped her up.  I made sure she was okay.  Once she was back on her feet, she started hitting me again with the newspaper.  I didn’t mind her hitting me because that meant she was okay.

As long as she was able to hit me, I knew she was okay, and so I let her hit me.  I grew to gain relief and satisfaction over it.  I resigned myself to it.  And I became increasingly troubled knowing that it would’t last forever.  That this old woman, who went out of her way to whack me over the head with a newspaper every day, would pass on.  Or even worse, the newspaper would lose its last page.

I wondered which would come first; her passing on, or the newspaper losing its last page.  I pondered which would be worse.

If she died before the newspaper lost its last page, she would die happy.  However, if she died after she was no longer able to hit me properly with the same newspaper, she would die miserable.

The thought overwhelms and saddens me.  I try not to think about it.

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Expressionate is NOT a word!

I’m 800 words into writing chapter five of my book.  It’s nearing midnight, but I’m still cleaning up and adding to it.  I told myself an hour ago to cool my jets for the night, but that hour flew by in minutes.  Well, technically an hour is made up of minutes, but those minutes felt like…uh…minutes?

My brain is toast and I have a long work day ahead of me tomorrow.

I just wanted to tell you guys that the word “expressionate” is not a word.  I mean, holy crap, right?  I feel like I’m in the twilight zone right now.

My whole life I used it and now I’m being told that it never even existed?  What else do I not know?  And worse of all, most everybody already know’s it’s not a word.

This gotta be the twilight zone.  What about the Law of Fives?  When the Law of Fives fails to work, there’s gotta be an interstellar glitch in the matrix somewhere.

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Delusions of Lazy

Polski: Świąteczne lenistwo...

Polski: Świąteczne lenistwo… (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Oh no.  This isn’t good….

I’m embarking on a new pilgrimage.  Only this time, I’m heading down the lonely road to delusions of grandeur.

The more I write, research my book, and feel my faith welling up inside me, the grander I feel.  Grand and delusional.

I’m following my bliss.  Basically, it’s the opposite of being lazy.  And to be frank, it’s the opposite of being me.

But I’m not Frank.  Frank is my Dad.  I’m Melanie.  And I’m not a hard-working man like my dad.  I’m neither hard-working, nor a man.  I’m womanly (in the delicate sense).  And my dad made me a life of comfort.

Logically what I’m trying to say is that I’m not a man named Frank.  Read between the lines, it’s all there.

I believed for the longest time that following your bliss meant doing exactly what you want to do for that exact moment and repeating this action every minute of every day.  However, no.  That’s not the case at all.

I’m amicably lazy.  I have no qualms about it.  I loft, yawn, stretch my paws like a cat and circle my domicile, fluffing my nest like a puppy before coiling in its tender embrace.

Ah, bliss.

How is this bliss different from the other kind?  You want to know how?  I’m going to tell you anyway.

It’s not about being lazy, it’s about feeling defeated.

I like to analyze my actions, if you can’t tell.  I examine myself and my life consistently.  And although yes, you can enjoy a peaceful afternoon of video’s games and frolicking on the couch with a bowl of ice-cream without feeling guilt – you have every right to enjoy!  However, now this is where the analyzing comes into play, know why you’re being lazy.

If you’re being lazy simply to avoid something or someone – what that laziness really is, is fear.  You know it, I know it.  It’s fear.

“I’m completely happy and content.  I don’t need anything.  I’m fine just as I am.”

Really?  Come on now, what’s really happening here?  If you analyze as much as I do, you’re avoiding something.  And most often it’s something that can hurt you (it can be a subtle hurt, or big, what do I know?).  It can be something you care deeply about.  And that something is possibly your bliss.

The hardest thing to do is often the correct thing to do.  Trust me, it has taken me years to confirm this (thanks Law of Fives!)

Bliss is the way to evolving yourself.  Doing what makes you happy, even if it hurts, is your path to becoming the stronger you.

And now that I’m on it (by writing my book), I know the difference between defeatist laziness and true laziness.  I know it sounds crazy, but there IS a difference.

I had all day to write my book yesterday.  I stayed home after work purposely to write it.  But I kept telling myself that I was too lazy and that by indulging in my laziness, is also a way of following my bliss.

Nope, it wasn’t.  You know why?  Because it felt empty.  And that emptiness left a sticky film residue in my mouth.  Either that or my new organic toothpaste isn’t working as well as my beloved Crest.

I have to brush twice a day now 😦

Today, I ruminated on my book.  I did online research for it and just by thinking about it and being productive, I felt my self-worth rise.

That’s where I am right now.

In my delusion, I have a following.  People set-up discussion groups from all around the world to discuss my philosophy that slowly manifests itself into religion.

I get invited (all expenses paid) to make guest appearances to these discussions.  I sit cross-legged atop a mountain of pillows fit for a sultan (with the little tassels on all  four corners) and dispense words of encouragement and love.

Did today leave an empty film residue in my mouth?  Heck no!  It’s more like the dusky remnants of garlic from this morning’s garlic infused packet of instant grits.

That’s all for today friends.

Fall fast and write free!

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Mumpy Slobbergobs tackles fluoride and hallucinations

I fell asleep last night listening to The Hitchhikers guide to the Galaxy and heard my typical auditory hallucinations again.  Auditory hallucinations happen when you hear things that aren’t there.

I heard laughter after every funny sentiment in the book.  It grew louder the more my ears craned to hear it.

“Uh, that’s weird.  I never noticed laughter before.  Why would they insert audience laughter now?  In the middle of the book?”

An alien with a funny name made a joke and the laughter ensued.

“Oh, it’s just my hallucinations again.  Wow this is wild.”

Jokes that weren’t funny before (I listened to this book a few times), sounded funny because of the laughter.

“Ha, I never knew that was a joke, but I now totally get it.”

I wondered if I’d be able see my translucent arm again, but figured it wasn’t worth the effort and fell back to sleep.

Before bed last night, I vaped hard on my electronic cigarette.

Now this is going to sound nuts (as most things I write about do), but I googled “nicotine” and “pineal gland”, to see if there’s a connection.

I googled pineal gland because trippy psychedelic hallucinations are usually spurred by pineal activity.

What you seek, you shall find.

Send all your thanks to that absurd Law of Fives.  I never know what’s real anymore because of it.

According to the Law of Fives, err hem, I mean a website (forgot which one), nicotine helps to decalcify your pineal gland.  That’s one of the many reasons why native tribesmen smoked tobacco.  Because of its health and healing benefits.

I also learned that fluoride found in tap water is a major cause for this calcification.  It’s not only in drinking water, but fruits and veggies from fluoride laced pesticides.  And the type of fluoride used is nothing more than a toxic waste product found in steel manufacturing plants.

It’s illegal for them to dump it in our rivers, so they persuaded the government to use it in our water.

It calcifies our pineal glands, dumbs us down and lowers everyone’s sperm count.  It causes cancer, links to ADD (and maybe autism).

The fluoride hardens people teeth causing pits and lines to occur.  It hardens bones enough to make them brittle.  Americans have the highest rate of hip replacements and osteoarthritis.

Anyway, I went on Amazon and bought organic toothpaste.  Then I found organic aloe vera and had to buy it since Cleopatra used it everyday after her bath.  Then I bought some apple cider vinegar for its plethora of health benefits…

Yes, we all know I have problems.

Besides all that nonsense, my pineal is as soft and squishy as a babies ass (not to be confused with the rest of my ass brain).  My family always drank Poland Springs and because of my laziness, I only brush once a day.  And guess what?  No broken bones and no cavities for almost 34 years and counting.

The nazi’s used fluoride to make prisoners docile and more willing to walk into a gas chamber.  I mean come on now – it’s crazy stuff!

As far as my book goes, I wrote a little of the first chapter today and stunk up Cheshire coffee with the stench of dreadful amateur writing.

Is it wrote or written?  I suck.  Suck suck suck.

Writing is a craft.  I enjoy it immensely.  I enjoy it, but never bothered to hone it.  I whittle my thoughts to perfection, but not my writing.

I am so bad at writing.  Freakishly bad at writing.  If my writing was a person, she’d have a conjoined twin, mumps, a droopy eye, and a mouth that never closes so a steady stream of thick drool puddles on the front of her T-shirt.  She would be mean too and most likely smell of farts.  And she’d be a total slut – she has low self esteem the poor girl.

I will call my freakishly bad writing Mumpy Slobbergobs.

Oh the horror…..

I’m making her a mean slut so not to offend the people suffering with mumps, droopy eyes, conjoined twins and puddles of drool – sorry guys!  At least you’re not a mean slut, right?

Mumpy Slobbergobs is the reason for this blog post tonight.  I’m avoiding her.  I avoid writing by writing – wrap your head around that turd infested reasoning.

Well, at least I know I suck.  Right?  If I didn’t know, that’s when I should worry.

Oh Mumpy, why?  Put your underwear back on.

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I Found My Niece on YouTube Today…

She’s the one with the blowdryer.

She was over the house today and hacked into my mom’s Facebook.

And set my moms profile pic to this:

my moms profile picI also wanted to put my face in a hole.

face in hole

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I’m Really A Dude!

Dude, What Would Happen

Dude, What Would Happen (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I am officially certified to marry people.  Yup.  It’s true!  I’m printing out my online certificate as we speak.

I’m a registered minister, or you can call me a priest, a rabbi, a reverend – it don’t matter.  You can call me anything and I’ll grin a big healthy grin and marry you when you least expect it.

I can marry you to your pet fish if the mood strikes me right.

I’m involved with the church of the latter-day dude, otherwise known as Dudeism.  Here’s their website.

I am now a true blooded Dude, only I wear clean clothes (most of the time), and my stomach’s not hairy (okay, maybe a little).

Anyway, putting my awesomeness aside, my date went well yesterday.  I’m not much in the story-telling mood at the moment being that it’s already past midnight, so I’ll just say it went well.  The guy’s nice.  Not sure if he’s a Dude or not, but he’s nice.  He friended me on Facebook so now we are Dude brothers.

Besides that…

I read one of my old posts from February 2012 (you can read it here) and came across my old list of goals.  I actually checked off three out of the five on this list!

1)  Hike the Himalaya’s.

2)  Come back home and save $2000 for an aromatherapy oxygen bar machine.

3)  Start my own business.

4)  Take a few college classes.

5)  By the summer of 2013, go backpacking through Europe.  I don’t care if I go it alone –  it would probably be great if I was alone.  It will finally be the time alone that I craved for so long.

This list was compiled just before the universe dumped a big steaming pile of sense on my head.  The same type of sense that fills the air with the stinking realization of what an idiot I had been.

And now that I’m no longer an idiot, but a certified Dude – imagine all that I can accomplish NOW!

So I made a new list:

1.)  Pay off my debt by February 2014

2.)  In the summer of 2014, go cross-country on a motorcycle

3.)  Finish and publish my first book by next year

4.)  Buy a multifamily house after going cross-county

5.)  See Italy

6.)  Sponsor a kid from Guatemala 

This is proof that everything I’m going to accomplish next year is planned ahead of time.  See?  It’s all written here in black and white!

Next year after I buy my house, you can refer back to this post and say to yourself, “Damn, this girl really does do everything she says she’s gonna do.  I wish I can be like her.  Oh how I love her.  You sweet, sweet thing that I dream of every waking hour of everyd….”

No no stop that now, no need for that.  I know I’m awesome but keep your pants on.

Stay tuned for more in-depth coverage of a girl trying to break free.  A girl up against all odds.  A girl who’s….who’s….bah, I don’t know.  Let’s just say I have very little at the moment.  No money, I live at home with my parents, I drink, I’m lazy, I play video games…etc.

You wait and see world what this Dude’s gonna do!  Dudes gonna do, that’s my motto.  Dude does.  Dude Do.  The Dude Do the guru.

Little Miss Muffet sat on her tuffet contemplating her cool that day

There came a big spider

Who sat down beside her

And Miss Muffet turned to him and said “hey..”

Hey as in, “what up spidey?”

The Dude is dope, the Dude is Pope 

The Dude abides

He is no joke

I’m going to stop myself right here.

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