muse
Muse is putting it lightly.
To call her a muse is almost a decade later, is a multitude of healed scars from top to bottom, is a dependence on the life I live under appropriate, supervised doses.
I always thought that I had the ability to be the bigger person. I’ve learned that I often don’t. But I bit my tongue nearly off to avoid screaming in her face three years ago, what do you fucking mean it wasn’t worth it?
And while that may have cut the deepest, it was what I had sought in so many other things and never found. Closure. I’ve never been so grateful to be freed from the clasp of a mild obsession. I threw everything away and three more years passed before I thought of her for the first time in a very, very long time.
And with absolutely zero emotion.
Fuck yeah.
-CJ
etching the written word
Literary tattoos totally get me off.
http://www.yuppiepunk.org/2008/04/a-not-so-complete-history-of-literary-tattoos.html
This my p0rn.
-CJ
this’ll probably get me beat
I’m really, truly, not usually this sour. I’ve been ranting a lot lately and I blame the difference between the record breaking October highs and humidity in Florida and the pouring, freezing rain that greeted me when I arrived in California on Tuesday night. It has induced a ranting frenzy that should wear its course shortly and I’ll be back to my people-lovin’ self.
You know those nutsack truck accessories? Go ahead and Google it. I’ll wait.
No one on the good, green Earth has or ever will think that you are any tougher, cooler, stronger or more masculine because you affixed a dangling sack under your truck. It does not represent your own, shriveled up and stinking, because you’re totally the type of dude that gets sack funk. No one single woman or gay man in existence has ever desired your rotting sack.
All that you’ve shown is that the effort it requires to attach the stupid fucking accessory to your vehicle is not beyond you. High fucking five, stud. That effort is comparable to hanging an ornament on a Christmas tree.
Which my six-year-old daughter can do.
Blindfolded.
If she was born with no arms.
You know who I hope owns a company that produces those? One of those impossible, man-hating feminists. Who is making a fuckin’ asston of green off of your stupidity. Profiting off of the pre-programmed way that you avoid thinking with the big head.
You look silly and disgusting parading that thing down the 405 freeway. No one will ever take you seriously and in fact, you should hit the five freeway at some point, take it down along the ocean, and fucking drown yourself.
Douche.
-CJ
shake this
Today was The Great California Shakeout.
Oh, you don’t know what that is? That’s because your company likes you.
Mine decided that it is harder to get our little feeble mind grapes around the fact that we should probably get under a sturdy surface in the event of an earthquake; something not unheard of in California.
At promptly 10:15 a.m. my co-workers and millions of Californians! took cover.
I made coffee.
I am a stubborn prude, no doubt, but the amount of time and effort and repeated e-mail reminders were so completely unnecessary. I truly don’t know what to do during an earthquake. There were two in the last year and a half and both times? I took off running. So the drill was specifically for people like me, who panic and take off on foot. We are the ones that the German Shepherds sniff out from under the collapsed ceiling.
But instead of making us actually pretend? This would have worked just fine.
To: Er’ryone
Subject: Sufficient Earthquake Preparedness, by Calamity Jill
If the world around you is suddenly in motion, your safest bet is under a desk.
And now that I have your attention, please see this rant.
Sincerely,
CJ
aches
October 14, 2009, 6:49 pm
Filed under:
frenz,
kiddo My friend Kimberly takes zee photos of Kiddo & the new lot of Jack Russell puppies.
These are so cute I’m OFFENDED.
She can take your photos too. Find her at myspace.com/klymg and tell her sweet nothings.
-CJ
a lady; in installments*
October 12, 2009, 12:08 pm
Filed under:
daily 
Told ya so.
*multiple bras and blowdryer in background are in case you really didn’t believe I was at least a little femme
unlikely early bird
The amount of Captain Morgan slowly dissolving my organs right now should definitely have warranted a buzz which should have begat a deep sleep of sorts. Roughly six or seven Solo cups of the stuff and some Diet Coke for color and I was not only freakishly sober, but wide the fuck awake at one thirty in the morning, when on the east coast, you can catch the Rockies and Phillies in the bottom of the ninth.
Six of us are slumber-partying on air mattresses at hotel Auntie since checking out of the Holiday Innnnn after the wedding. I was the last one asleep and the first one awake because of one person’s outrageous ceiling-sucking snores, (here’s lookin’ at you, Dad) bringing me to the laptop for some super shitty poker play at Winster.com to kill the time it took before my eyelids gave up on Mission: Awake. Clearly, this mission is still a go.
The sun rose behind a gauze curtain next to me. What was a slow spill of sunlight into this computer nook is now full blown morning in the time it took me to tell you nothing.
Goodnight.
-CJ
forecast
Laying on the beach today, I saw some seriously om-nom-inous looming going on:
But if you turn 180 degrees:
Slightly less on-nom-inous.
Thus is the weather here.
Carry on.
-CJ
