There are a million and one things I would like to complain about and allow me to be utterly self absorbed and fucked up when I do so.  Granted, complaints are just another person’s whining, crying, bitching and shit of that sort but no doubt that I’ve got a plate full o’ shit that I’ve eaten and puking it up through words is all I can do to make this feeling of shit subside.

Firstly, I’ve asked that dollymix child o’ mine to pick up her clothes a million times and she hasn’t.  My husband is so completely over the fact that she doesn’t do any chores. A part of us feel that online schooling might have been a great idea but also a shitty one because now, she’s just chillin’, hangin’ out, and the place is a shit hole den of a space that we barely can live in.  My husband tells me that he’d appreciate her help and many a times, I’d asked and told, but no action and to no avail have any of these tasks been completed.  So, my husband is now cleaning up the living room.  A living room that is my daughter’s room due to the fact that my father lives in my daughter’s room. However, that’s neither here nor there.  

My husband felt that online home schooling would alleviate the many pains of being in a fucked high school and in many aspects, our daughter is much happier not being there.  Happiness allows for the spirit to be free but freedom without respect or responsibility for the environment that surrounds us just furthers the pains for the future.  

Some people are taught to bite the bullet, do what must be done, and proceed without contentment but acceptance.  Sometimes, I wonder if that child of ours is completely spoiled, self accredited, absorbed, whiney, and incompetent of aiding the family without compiling a balance of deficit for what she feels is owed to her.

Secondly.  I’m not quite sure of what it is that’s gonna make our lives better or worse except that my husband must care for his grandmother and I must find resolution, or I should say, create a resolution, for my own parents.  It’s a pain in the fucking ass when I cannot deal with the rigors of my journey, to come home to the rigors of others’ shit, and to deal with this thing that is called “life.”  A situation that ferments over time and if not addressed, will destroy our lives, our relationship.  Permanently.  

My husband and I are slowly drifting, although not apart, not together either.  Both of us had always figured that we’d deal with the shitstorms of life when we were older, as in our forties or fifties, not twenties and thirties.  It’s sucha burden to bear this thing we live called life.  We once had the amenities of various grandeur and now, we relish in the various grandiosities that once was but isn’t anymore.

“The past is a cancelled check” says a wise, loving friend of mine.  ”If that’s the case, then my future has bounced!” I replied one night as we were shaving three hundred lipsticks. (I hate Lustre and Amplified lipsticks, by the way!)  

But amidst the days and hours spent apart, my husband and I try to sail through the turbulence of the seas of life, together, and in time, know that it will all bring us to safety, safely.

Because amidst the mounds of clothing that our child never puts away or the chores that she doesn’t ever do or the various complaints that she displays or the “only-child” syndrome disease that displays on her caramel skin, she’s a kid and a fuckin’ amazing kid she is.  

She gives wholeheartedly, with love and acceptance.  She allows for people to tolerate her and doesn’t expect acceptance for she knows that the world is a shitfilled fuckhole of a place.  Our child is a spoiled, self obsessed, insanely intelligent, fastidious in her quests, and brilliant in more ways than the mind can convey.  Our child is our light, a beacon of hope that invades our blood veins, one that we accept like a necessary drug. She may not cook or be a hardass, may not be Martha Stewart in the kitchen and the home but she changes the world, one click at a time.  One beating heart at a time.  And her giggling laughter is infectious beyond belief and we love her soooo much!

And yeah, that husband o’ mine is a pain in the brooding ass who can be self relenting just as the child can be and that’s perhaps the reason of why they get along so well.  My age is showing and in more ways than those lines on my forehead display.  My age is showing by way of indulging in the quiet moments that bless me.  In accepting that situations are shit and although can and will be changed in due time, forcing nature isn’t something that can be forced or coerced. 

Perhaps dealing with the rigors of the journey is a blessing in itself and although I’ve come to accept the various things that have invaded my life, I’ve also come to accept the fact that I’m quite detached.  Extremely detached.  From many things.  And this feeling of detachment, of a time and space that is just of my own but not only my own, and a feeling of creation of the moment for my own personal peace is a blessing.

I’ve learned a long time ago that each person pursues their own journey and that it’s not my journey, but theirs.  I’m just here to support and love.  I can only clean up my own mess.  I can only pick myself when I’m brooding.  Only I can aid myself.  Even blood and marriage cannot save the people who own those souls, only they can.  I don’t give a shit about the dirtiness that surrounds this place.  I only give a shit about the actions leading to the resolution of it.  I only give a mad fuck about the creation of the solutions that I can provide, if that makes any sense. 

I’m not in the mood to leave my house after I get off of my shit shifts and go somewhere.  I’m broke as fuck and my child has everything that a teen can get without having to work for it.  Money in the bank that continually gets filled in a timely fashion. Cash when she needs or wants it.  Clothes that grow like a virus, infecting our home like a mad cow disease on a farm in multiplicity.  Friends that care about her in such a fashion that they’ve become family.  She’s received accolades from various teachers and school staff, although she does her homework at the crack of dawn in a motherfucker’s ass.  Our child also receives things.  Things.  A lot of fucking things.  An iPhone.  Free laptop.  My parents bought her a brand new Sony Vaio a few years back that a friend had busted.  Fast forward years later and she gets a new one that she can fuck with alongside of fucking with mine.  She’s gotten various phones already.  Various dates with a dad who’s also a father who’s accepted and loved her for the last eleven years, goin’ on twelve.  She’s got a fanclub that she denounces doesn’t exist but as parents, we know of its existence.  She’s got games, she’s got friends, accolades from school staffing and parents.  Parents that love and respect the fuck outta her.  Us.  That’s probably why people wanna be a part of this family.  Even if we don’t always want to be! Hahahaa! 

Perhaps being a parent is a bitch and two thirds but fuck it.  It is what it is and I like this life that I live.  I’m content with having less and living more.  My husband and daughter perhaps, due to their youth, may not agree.  My husband loathed this Christmas.  And so does/did my daughter.  I’m sure my parents did, too, because there was nothing extravagant or amazing going on.  

I don’t get it.  I would have been happy in a silent home, nothing on the lack of telly, very lil’ food in the fridge, just voguing with myself.  Sleeping.  Laying in my jammies. Not giving a mad fuck about what means a lot to others based upon traditional material value.  Perhaps it is I who is disconnecting from my family, nuclear and extended, for we have such different views on what it means for families to be together.  Somehow, along the way of the path of shit, we’ve forgotten about what means a lot and for them, perhaps a lot means the most, more, more, more, gluttony, money, fun, stuff, stuff, goddamnit, more stuff!!  For me, the moment is more.  I wanna enjoy my naps. Drink my teas.  Read my boox.  Pet my cat.  Make jarred confectionary delights. Perhaps it is my world that has gotten too simple and disconnected.  Perhaps these assholes in my life were never happy to begin with.  When I’d had a good job, connected with various people, takin’ them on various events, eating out, buying shit when I’d wanted to, looking back in hindsight, perhaps they weren’t happy then either.  I don’t know.  But the past…is a cancelled check.  And I haven’t written a check in many, many years.  Nor do I intend to.  Checks are so yesterday, by the way.  Who the hell pays with checks anymore?  

And I no longer care.  Because I’m not responsible for your happiness.  Theirs.  Ours. His.  Hers.  Just mine.  And fuck me for living and creating my own journey.  I respect and admire creators and survivors, those who relish and are ignited by the flames of simplicity, the moments at hand, and for people to be so consumed in what isn’t as opposed to what is…is devalued by me and my psyche.  

When I was a kid, I had parents who could have given a mad fuck about me.  I had a guy who treated me like shit.  I had a kid when I was a kid.  I was fucked, saddened, alone and even then, I knew I’d be in a better place in my life as I accepted my path.  If people cannot relish in the beauty that graces their paths when their paths are blessed incomparably, well, then, perhaps they don’t deserve those blessings.  

We’ve all been there.  Too close to the frame to see the picture.  Then why go into the museum of life then?  Why?  Just stay out?  Nothing’s gonna make you happy anyways so fuck you.  And fuck me…for feeling contentment.  Without you.  Any of you.  For I am me.  And I will continue to dream.  Be me.  Forthright.  A bitch with a heart.  Straight shooting, aiming for the heart yet shooting from the soul.  I love me.  And I love my dreams.  They rule.  

Yesterday, after a whole year and a month later, a dude tipped me at work for wrapping his presents.  I waited.  I’d wished.  And it happened.  Finally, someone tipped me. Then again, some dude offered me cookies after I’d wrapped his gifts and some other brawd brought me some frames.  Staff in the mall are really nice to me, giving me hugs, hooking up my food, and I did see my old friend and her mom from high school. Goddamnit, I love my life.  Sometimes, though, I just loathe the moment.  

Anywho I turned that tip around to tip the groovy dude who served us at Olive Garden. The Christmas Eve dinner where my husband complained about his lack of salad, the the bitches in his life made his choices for him and he didn’t get the salad he wanted.  A grown man didn’t get a salad, people. Brace your goddamn fuckin’ selves.  And then I’ve got this other spoiled ass child who hates this holiday because of (fill in the blank). Honestly, I’ve no more energy for the leeches that impair my vision and I’ve detached. More so than I’d ever imagined.  

And I like it.  

Yes.  I like it.  A lot.  Actually, I love my detachments.  That feeling of what was, no longer remaining.  Temporal.  Fleeting.  I’m gone.  Out.  And it feels good.  To have created this for myself.  It is my temple.  Nothing else is.  And nobody else can create this temple for me.  I’m older than I was a year ago, a month ago, a moment ago, and I’ve accepted my path. 

One thing I know is that my wishes and dreams, they ALL come true, big or small, I kid myself not!  And I’ll be thirty-six…and my journey is just beginning.  Each man creates and survives himself.  His own choice.  Attitude.  Position.  And I, for one, have eluded the many polices that have held me back by being straight forward, with tact, sometimes tactless for courtesy can do nothing for some yet something for many, and in time, I’ve learned that I’m only truly responsible for me.  

Our child is getting older and growing up.  The path is up to her.  My husband is on his own journey.  His grandmother.  My parents.  Our daughter’s other family.  Our cat.  

Separate journeys, just parallel streets, sometimes intersecting, but separate nonetheless.

I love my Christmas.  I’ll be thirty-six in a few months but I already say that I am.  I love this thing that I’ve created for the me in my life.  It sounds so self (fill in the blank) but it’s amazing, y’know?  To be detached, out of control because control is an illusion, to be loved when nobody loves the day and loathe everything around them.  Leeches take my blood but my groovy soul remains. 

I’ve got plans and with or without the fuckers in my life, I will continually immerse myself within my own plans.  Although I love wholeheartedly the lives the surround me, I also love the pathways that I’ve created.  ”Spoilism” should be a word.  It’s a reality.  So it should be a word. 

Fuck naysayers and unhappy, pretentious, ungrateful fucks.  And fuck me for feeling that way when I do.  Awful.  Yes, I feel awful when I feel ungrateful and thankless.  I’ve got a few moments to quickly, collectively, calmly gather myself and reignite my own flame.  

Not even the people that I love can snuff that flame that resides within me.  

Well, only if I let them.  But those days are over.  

I love this Christmas.  Reality’s here.  And it will never go away.  And neither will my tenacity to live in pursuant of what is great for me. Greatest.  For me.  

If what I do isn’t enough for you now, it never was before, and in the future, will never be enough for you.  So why do I continually pursue a horse to race that’s already been shot when his leg broke aeons ago?  

Nevermore.

Detach.

Free.

Accept.

Grace.

Empathy.

Let go.