Tuesday, September 27, 2011

My fingers threw up. All over the place. Sorry.

I got a new phone.  I haven't even gotten to play with it much yet, I've been so busy tonight.  Well.  Busy is a relative term, I guess.  I went to Melinda's to decorate our reception Crocs (more on that later), and then I came home for my hot date with Sookie and Eric and Bill and Niall.  I've finished book 9...now I wait until Rick's finished with 10 so I can put the entire series to rest.  And the raccoon is back in the attic.  No, we never did anything about it this summer, and now he's back.  Oh fucking boy.

I feel bad when I blog about religion - like I'm destined to offend someone.  It's like how I want to blog about how I feel about some personal shit, but I can't because maybe those people will read my blog and then they'll know what I'm too chickenshit to say to them and they'll be mad at me so I don't blog it at all.  Do I have to be that way with religion too?  Even though I'm trying to work it out for myself?

There's a lot I don't say; mostly because it'd be too many words and I'm lazy as all get out.  I get tired of trying to explain myself three paragraphs in...

I don't know where else to say the things I think sometimes.

My pee stinks.  I haven't had asparagus lately; I wonder if it was the wine?

Oh, and that personal shit I don't blog about?  It's not about you, Kim.  Swear.  Promise.  It's not about Jimi, either.  Or work.  It's just stuff I want to blog about desperately but can't because I'm afraid I'll hurt someone's feelings...

I fucking hate it when bloggers do that shit, don't you?  Gosh!  Alright, here's the thing - not in my household, but there's a baby on the way and there's no money and there's a lack of a lob involved and maybe not a lot of job hunting? and I'm just really frustrated and worried.  I can help some, but not enough, and I have reservations about some gestures...  (Do you offer to pay the electric bill, or do you just invite them over extra for dinner to spare them that expense?)

I work in an industrial park near a college campus.  There are street walkers, prostitutes, hookers (pick your moniker) that populate the area - lately I've come to notice a couple in particular.  One was a lady I saw last week, and today, for the first time, I saw the hooker with the walker - the one my boss refers to every time I mention the hookers on 4th street.  The hookers on 4th street are not attractive ladies; no no, rather, they're the picture in the dictionary next to "rode hard and put up wet".  Everything about their face looks tired, and it's heartbreaking.  They carry themselves with a certain manner - head down, eyes up, shoulders forced back, but you can tell they're faking the "I'm awesome" vibe they're trying to send.  Their faces are weathered and worn and craggy with lines that tell stories that would give us nightmares.  I can't see them without picturing, only for a moment, what they will be doing in an hour or two, what they've chosen as their craft, what they've been reduced to doing to make enough for a meal or two, or maybe the rent.

The woman with the walker, she's maybe 27 or 29, but she looks 50 from a distance.  Her coat is blue, U of K blue, and it hangs, too big for her, down to her knees, the sleeves past her hands.  Her pants are too big for her emaciated waist.  Her face is full of those lines of which I spoke earlier - her eyes have a sort of vacant far-off look to them, but then, I've only seen her as I've driven past, and that was just a moment, even though I turned my eyes from the road to watch her as I passed.  She doesn't use the walker in the traditional manner you've seen your grandpa use his; she shoves it ahead of her with her left hand, her right hand held out to her side to balance, and then pulls her feet forward, one at a time, slowly, very unsteadily, as if she's going to topple over at any moment.  I wonder when I watch "why doesn't she use it as it's intended?" and then I know that if she did, it would block "the view".

I don't know how we know they're hookers - the neighborhood, they way they carry themselves, stories that've made their way into the office from the workers in the plant; they all paint the picture and once you lay eyes on these women, you can see it as clearly as if they were wearing signs advertising blow jobs for five dollars and straight sex for twenty-five.  (I have no idea what their pricing structure is like; this is pure conjecture on my part.  Insulting, I know.  But maybe not.  If you saw them, you'd know what I mean.)

My heart breaks for them.  How did they end up there, on the corner of 4th and Central, stumbling along, willing to suck off any random dude with a stiff cock and a wrinkled bill?  What in the fuck must've happened in their lives to land them here, abandoned to the men who find their love on street corners and in dark alleys?  I almost hope it's drugs - if it's drugs, maybe they're still finding some joy at the end of their day.  It's almost too awful to imagine it any other way.

I didn't mean to go off on a tangent about the hookers, I just can't seem to stop thinking about them today.  One of my biggest fears in the world is being raped.  I can't even watch rape scenes in movies - if I've ever come close to knowing what my friends who suffer from severe anxiety feel during a panic attack, it's how I felt when I watched that movie where those kids break into those rich peoples' house and make the mom take off her clothes in front of her husband and her kid and they're about to rape her...I had to leave the room.  My heart felt like it'd blow up.  My whole body was tense, and I was shaking with the fear and awfulness of the idea of that happening in reality, knowing it happens all too often, though obviously not quite like that.  So yeah - what're the odds that those women have come to the point where they are without having suffered sexual trauma and abuse?  That's what I think of every time I see them.  And then my heart breaks all over again.

The Yellow Tail Riesling is really much better after you've had half a bottle.  That first sip is a little sharp, but the 25th or so goes down quite nicely.

It's so late.  It's getting easier to stay up later and harder to get up earlier - it has to be the season change.  Right?  Must force myself to get up early and walk the god.  Dog.  I know I fucked that up, but it made me lol, so I'm leafing it.  That one too.

Maybe it's time for bed.  OH!  And plan on seeing much more of me, because as I said, I totally got a new phone and it's got a badass camera on it so I can take like real pictures and stuff and I can totally get on the internet and like twitter and shit.  It's my first Android; I'm super excited.

Oh, and Dan, are you reading this?  If you are, say "I love blueberry muffins".

9 comments:

  1. You blog about what you want to blog about because it's the purpose of blogging. If someone doesn't like it, too bad. It's not their blog. I know you don't want to hurt anyone's feelings, but they are your perceptions and feelings. If someone would like to have an intelligent debate about a post you've written than all's the better. If someone would like to give you insight they feel like you might not have, even better. This outlet of expression we are allowed through blogging allows us that. That is why we blog. In hopes that someone will reach out and touch our lives in some way. But when someone just rails on you for writing something, but doesn't offer any knowledge with their critics it isn't constructive, it's just petty and cowardly. Especially when they pepper the criticism with a guilt trip. Yeah, I read the comments people leave. And though, you're too nice to say it, I'm not. Of course, that's just my opinion. I love your posts. All of them. Don't stop writing about things that make you FEEL just because someone gets offended. I'm always proud of you when you write these amazing, insightful posts that I wish I had written.

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  2. Great post, Natalie. I agree with Kari, write what you want. (I'm working on that too.)

    Enjoy your new phone. I totally love my android and I fear the day when I won't have it or unlimited net anymore.

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  3. Say whatever you want. It's your blog. No regrets, baby. It's your mind. If someone doesn't agree with what's going on in there they can simply skip over that entry or find another blog with their own similar ideas.

    Freedom!

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  4. You are a fake ass cunt.

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  5. And you're a scaredy cat little bitch that hides behind "Anonymous". Say it to my face.

    :)

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  6. That's obviously some shithead who doesn't know anything about you, because you're nothing if not authentic and warm. Love!

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  7. Who is the fake ass cunt that called you a fake ass cunt?

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  8. Drunk blogging at its finest ;) I just LOVE the way you write! AND what you write about, religion and all. Don't hold back dear, your thoughts are my thoughts. And fuck that stupid troll, what a douche.

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Please don't make me cry.

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