Pig Fucking

Posted on September 24, 2020 by Sister Wolf

A few years ago, I watched the first episode of the British TV series Black Mirror, expecting a clever Sci Fi drama, since it was being compared to the Twilight Zone.

In the episode, a member of the British royal family is kidnapped and will only be released if the British prime minister fucks a pig on live television. A wild, perverse premise with an obvious critique of contemporary culture. One of the actors described the topic as “humiliation, and the public’s appetite for humiliation”. Fair enough, in part.

I still feel shaken as I remember watching it. I think I went from amusement to disbelief to anxiety to abject horror and grief. Notice how this trajectory follows the one we’ve endured with the presidency of Donald Trump!

In the show, we see the varying reactions of TV viewers as they watch the spectacle play out. Many are crying. I cried with them, because I’m sensitive, alright?

I remember complaining for days and weeks that I was permanently traumatized, even though it was only TV.

Now, watching Trump on TV, I feel the same horror welling up, but I’m too scared to cry. Maybe later. Every utterance and gesture is revolting, shameless, viscerally repugnant, like the Prime Minister fucking a pig. When he holds forth at his rallies, his tone strikes me as a mixture of Mussolini and Rodney Dangerfield. I’m actually embarrassed for him, because I’m a human being.

How one stupid fat bully could succeed in corrupting the entire government and breaking the whole country, I will never understand. But here we are.

I keep reflecting on Black Mirror, against my will, because my brain is looking for a reference point, I guess. What I want to know is this: ARE WE THE PIG?

Or is Trump both the pig and the pig fucker?

That’s all I’ve got today, sorry. I just wanted to check in.

 

Posted in Art, Horrible Stuff, News | Tagged , , | 6 Comments

Four More Years??

Posted on September 2, 2020 by Sister Wolf

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that if Trump is reelected, we will lose our fucking minds.

Four more years of this anxiety, fear, disgust, and helpless rage would not be endurable. The daily insults to our intelligence and to our very souls are not sustainable. So even though on the one hand we are convinced that sanity will prevail and Biden will win the election, on the other hand we now know that a large portion of voters is rooting for that stupid fat malevolent cunt to finish destroying what’s left of our democracy.

So! What will you do? I want to leave the US, and I’m thinking about what my choices are. Ireland, maybe? I have two friends who live in Ireland, so at least I would know someone. They’re still letting us in for some reason. It’s a beautiful place, and I wouldn’t have to learn a new language.

From Dublin, you can fly to France, where one could hopefully outstay one’s visa and just blend into the background of Paris.

The last (and only) time I went to Paris, I was 15 years old. My sister and I had acquired a pair of French boyfriends who were vacationing in London, where we spent our evenings at a disco bar in Earl’s Court.  I can still remember the jukebox there, which was always playing either “Lola” or “Band of Gold.” Anyway, we met these guys, Michel and Daniel, who wore striped sailor shirts and little scarves around their necks. They were adorable.

Soon, they invited us for a dirty weekend in Paris, and we showed up there with no idea of what to do or where to go. We found a cheap hotel where the proprietress yelled at us contemptuously in French but took our money, however resentfully. The next day, we went to Daniel’s house in the suburbs, where the guys were lolling around while the parents were away somewhere. We watched French TV and one of the guys put on a facial mask. We assumed this was a normal thing for cute French guys.

The guys were horrified to learn that my sister and I were both having our periods! Hahaha! They were beside themselves, blabbing hysterically about “le regle.” Eventually they calmed down and I think we spent a nice day with them. I really can’t remember anything else, but I have a packet of heartsick letters from Michele Girard, his actual name, proclaiming his love and calling me his little cabbage.

So anyway, France would be great and they have socialized medicine, so hopefully I could get my antidepressants, lipitor, ativan, and calcium. If it’s Ireland, I can get some of those bulky hand-knit sweaters, and eat scones and oatcakes and learn to drink Guinness.

Meanwhile, my sister just texted me, “ARE YOU LISTENING TO WILLIAM BARR?” in all caps, and even though I’m not, I can feel the revulsion rising in my chest. What a fucking fucker that fucking bastard is. Four more years of that bulldog warty face will kill me, and not in a good way.

Four more years of Jared and Ivanka, Chad Wolf and Peter Navarro, simpering Mike Pence and the rest of those motherfuckers, no no no no.

Think how much worse it can get! Or don’t, since it will raise your cortisol level, disrupting almost all your body’s processes and putting you at risk of anxiety, depression, digestive problems, headaches, heart disease, sleep problems, weight gain, memory and concentration impairment.

Wait, you already have those symptoms? Me too! France or Ireland, cast your vote. Or submit another viable destination and I’ll meet you there in December.

Posted in Disorders, Horrible Stuff, News, Rants | Tagged , , , | 11 Comments

Good Riddance to Fashion, Plus a Bonus Song

Posted on August 21, 2020 by Sister Wolf

Every day I get a million emails from shopping sites, promoting the newest looks. They want me to know what’s trending. They still challenge me to “up my game.” Who are they kidding?

Please. Does anyone want new clothes? I don’t get how the high end companies still exist. Why are they bothering us with “the new season”? Seasons are over. It’s either hot or cold. You either add or remove your sweater.

Now we’re asked to feel sorry for the fashion industry…one of the industries most responsible for pollution after fuel. The arguments are: If you put on a nice outfit, you’ll feel better about yourself! Or, fashion is still an important way to express yourself! Or, fashion brings joy into our lives!

Someone is still trying to up their game, because someone seems to be purchasing leather culottes. Every brand has them. But who wants to stick to the couch while you’re watching Your Shows??

So awful and tragic, at every price point.

I follow two fashion influencers on Instagram and I’ve already annoyed one by criticizing his Gucci ad. It’s his livelihood to look privileged, so I get that. But the inequities of the world are now too blatant to justify $900 sneakers. Maybe if we’re ever allowed out again, people with those sneakers will be ostracized. Or burned at the stake.

Where I live, people dress for  comfort, i.e. we are slobs. It’s a very working class neighborhood. Elsewhere in L.A., maybe people are doing their Starbucks run in leather culottes but I doubt it. It’s too hot and there’s nowhere to go. Looking ahead, there will be places to go but people will be too germ-phobic and worn out to give a shit about impressing each other.

Some things just feel over, permanently, and in some cases good riddance. People may want to argue that everything is coming back and things will be the same as before, but I disagree.

When I was young, women wore girdles and pantyhose. It was just a normal part of getting dressed to go to work. Now, this seems dumb, because it is.  Women with straight hair used to get perms! Ew, remember? Men used to smoke pipes! Just as those aspects of daily life have worn out their welcome, so will the idea of tirelessly adding new clothes, handbags and shoes when your closets and drawers are already full.

You can exhibit your style with the stuff you already have. Or you can decide that superficial shit is a waste of energy in this age of horror. After 9/11, New Yorker’s realized that footwear should accommodate running for your life.

Fashion is an anachronism. Let it die.

What about dining out? The concept already seems weird to me! It’s no fun to eat around strangers who might infect you with something. A couple of years ago, I offered my CBD vape thing to a girl sitting next to me on a flight to London. We got a little high together and she told me about her affair with a colleague. That won’t be happening again. Thanks to that cunt in the White House, we can’t fly to London.

Here’s where we can still go:

Albania
Dominican Republic
Kosovo
Maldives
Mexico
North Macedonia
Serbia
Tunisia
Turkey

What, no Belarus??

Other countries will take us but with restrictions.

What other things do you think are over for good? On the bright side, I have started reading novels again, so I could use recommendations.

Also, I now write songs in my head, usually in rhyming verses. Here’s my latest:

I don’t want to die of Covid, not that I’m afraid of death
I don’t want to die of cancer, dying in your bed is best

I don’t want to die of Covid, that’s not how I want to go
I don’t want a ventilator, if they ask me, I’ll say no.

Try singing that in your head and tell me that isn’t fun!

Posted in Fashion, irritants, News | Tagged , , | 8 Comments

Less Than Forty Nollars!

Posted on August 16, 2020 by Sister Wolf

Now that I spend my whole life on the couch watching TV, I’ve developed relationships with a bunch of commercials, some involving ritualized behavior on my part.

When the DealDash guy boasts about getting suitcases for less than 40 nollars, I have to shout “NOLLARS!” at him. Check him out below.

Then there’s the lady who says smugly, “I don’t add up my regrets…” and I have to shout, “YOU SHOULD!”

Fuck her, you know?

I hate old ladies bragging about how active they are. I especially hate seeing them play with their grandchildren, that’s how bitter I am.

A new  commercial I’m enjoying is the one for the PureWick female catheter. In this one, a woman asks her incontinent mother how she slept. What I like is their diction and decorum. They speak like Shakespearean actresses. It is so comically unlike caring for my 103 year old mother-in-law, who wants to get up and pee a thousand times a night. All her caretakers have begged her to stop doing this and it is driving everyone crazy.

I could watch those two actresses for hours. They should do a Masterpiece Theater series about staying dry at night.

I know it’s no joke to be old. I’m still going to laugh, though.

I don’t think I’d enjoy a life reduced to worrying about peeing. Now that some of us are privileged enough to be under house arrest, we’re learning how to endure a constricted existence and wondering how much we can take. We’re trying to remember why we ever  cared about the things that took up our time and emotional energy.

We’re debating the value of getting dressed in normal clothes versus wearing sweatpants. I’m tired of this discussion because I just wear jeans every day, like every decent person should do. I wear jeans while I watch the news all day, and while I watch Netflix all night.

See my butt-print on the couch? That says it all.

If this ever ends, I hope I remember how to act like a normal, socialized person. Meanwhile, at least I’m not going to shopping malls. I’m saving millions of nollars, right? And I’m keeping track of my regrets.

Posted in News, Words | Tagged , , | 3 Comments

My Friend Michelle

Posted on August 9, 2020 by Sister Wolf

My friend Michelle has the foulest mouth I’ve ever encountered, and that’s saying something. When she was crossed in business, she fumed that she wouldn’t bend over and take it up the ass. Once, we were in her huge SUV, entering a mall parking lot, when a Mercedes cut her off. She yelled out of her indow “Whore!” The Mercedes stopped in front of us and the Whore marched over to the window.

I was horrified and pictured a fistfight. Not only that but there was $1000 in cash in plain sight, Michelle’s weekly pin money for blowing on designer goods. The Whore was a normal looking middle aged woman who barked, “Would you like to repeat that in my face?”

I gestured wildly to the Whore, making the “crazy” sign with my pointer finger, hoping she might back down from a nutcase. Michelle held her ground without repeating the word, and the Whore went back to her car. It was one of many times I found myself both impressed and terrified by Michelle’s rage.

Michelle and her husband owned a thriving alarm business and had an office behind their house where I was their administrative assistant. I am seriously incompetent in an office setting but it took them a while to figure this out. They were both clean and sober after years of wild living, and both were heavily tattooed in an era when that was still considered sketchy. The husband had been a heroin addict and Michelle had been an alcoholic. He disparaged AA meetings but Michelle enjoyed them, dressing up in Gucci and Dolce every Friday night to flaunt her status and gossip with her girlfriends.

Underneath her bravado, of course, Michelle was a troubled and deeply insecure young woman. Years of parental abuse had taken their toll on her. She strived to be a good mother to her young son and her teenage step-daughter. She was tender with the former and brutal to the latter but the husband never stepped in. He was as quiet as she was loud but when he got angry, there was hell to pay. Or so she said.

Michelle and I grew close quickly. It wasn’t long before she insisted on keeping the bathroom door open so she could keep talking to me while she peed. Her combination of thuggery and neediness was irresistible. Even after she ran over my dog Lassie we remained friends.

Michelle and I could make each other laugh hysterically with just a glance. When I told her that I’d always hated being called “Joni” she proceeded to call me that every day. When I expressed my dislike of Bob Seeger, she began to blast his music in the office and to burst out in his songs when I was off-guard at my computer.

Michelle was preoccupied with labia, and she liked to describe her girlfriends’ imperfections in that area. One was called a swordfish and I can’t remember the other names she made up. She once caught me in the bathroom and made a big deal about my abundant pubic hair. Twenty years later she still teases me about it.

It’s impossible to convey her wild sense of humor, but it’s a large part of why I love her. She could projectile-spit on demand, and was rightly proud of this talent. She would stand yards from a target, positioning her body like an Olympic javelin thrower, and she would point at the target like Babe Ruth calling his shot. The spit flew through the air and always hit the target.

Michelle was competitive in more areas than labia. She was extremely proud of her handwriting and was pissed off when I showed her my own nice cursive. She decided that the guys in the office should judge between our handwriting samples and she refused to accept their decision that mine was the best. How could I not love her?

Seeing each other every day in the office, we developed a deep intimacy. She befriended my son, who was away at college, via email discussions. Soon, they were exchanging horrifying images in their mutual love of the dark side. I was pleased by their friendship at first. When I passed her computer one day and saw an image of a naked girl covered in shit, I had second thoughts.

The night Michelle ran over my dog, I was home alone with my younger son asleep in his bed. I heard a screech of brakes outside but ignored it until a knock on my door. Lassie had wandered into the street, thanks to the gardener who forgot to lock the backyard gate. Michelle couldn’t stop in time to avoid Lassie, who came inside through the dog door, injured and bleeding.

I ran to my dog, who bit me. I was beside myself with fear. Michelle wrapped Lassie in a towel and drive to the emergency vet hospital. I called a friend to come and sit with me.

The vet finally called and told me that they’d tried to save Lassie but she was gone. I could hear hysterical sobbing in the background. It was Michelle. I asked the vet if Michelle was alright. The vet commented that she’d never heard anyone worry about a friend after hearing about the loss of a pet. She didn’t know how much I love Michelle, a broken baby bird with a mouth like a whole fleet of sailors.

Posted in Uncategorized | 2 Comments

Karen Sr.

Posted on August 3, 2020 by Sister Wolf

The New York Times wrote about Karen, the derogatory term of the moment, and defined it for us Karens:

a pseudonym for a middle-aged busybody with a blond choppy bob who asks to speak to the manager. Now, the moniker has most recently morphed into a symbol of racism and white privilege.

A “Karen” now roams restaurants and stores, often without a mask during this coronavirus era, spewing venom and calling the authorities to tattle, usually on people of color and often putting them in dangerous situations.

Obviously, it’s so Karen to complain about this. And I’m not going to, even though I’m still annoyed by Becky. I’m just wondering if someone my age, an old baby boomer, can be a Karen. They seem so millennial. Maybe we can have Karen Sr, which I will answer to if necessary.

While Karen symbolizes white privilege, Becky seemed more specific. She was a white woman who kissed up to Black women, always wanting to voice her support without actually doing anything to be an ally.

If Becky is still operative, that gives us three categories of white women: Karens, Beckys, and allies. Periodt.

When I complained about Becky, I was clearly resentful. Here’s what I wrote:

I have tried to imagine an essay about The 5 types of Keisha or The 5 types of Guadalupe or The 5 Types of Mei-Ling and I just can’t. Not because I am too nice or color-blind but because I’m not used to categorizing people of different ethnicities. Sue me. (WHITE JEWISH PRIVILEGE.) I can’t and I don’t want to. How would that help, you know?

I managed to piss off people I had no wish to piss off. I came back with a more “nuanced” explication of my stance. It was just Becky of me, in no way helpful. Now that I’m Karen Sr., I’m not going to try to squirm out of it, Karenishly, but instead I embrace it.

However, Black women who hate me simply for being white can now be LaQuisha. While I’m out Karening around, LaQuisha is banging out a 5,000 word manifesto about intersectionality. And that’s fine! I probably won’t be reading it, because, duh, Karen.

Women named Karen are feeling victimmy and some are writing defensive shit that is soooo Karen of them. However, here’s the response that Karens who are allies (I know, it’s confusing) are posting on Facebook:

I can’t get bent out of shape. I have no control over it. There are people losing their lives every day. If it’s the only thing I have to be upset about in this world, then good for me.”

and

It [is] very upsetting, but I would sacrifice my name for the[movement].

How gracious, right? How would you react if your name were used to describe all that is loathsome in our society? Luckily, in 2018, Karen ranked as the 635th most popular girl’s name, alongside Elaine and Dallas.Good news but what kind of monster would name her daughter “Dallas??” This makes me want to cry.

Meanwhile, there are some who view Karen as a racist, classist slur.

LaQuisha, if you’re reading this, DON’T BE MAD! I’m just an old lady, don’t come @ me! It’s not easy being Karen Sr. It’s hard to learn the latest memes and insults. I’m doing my best to stay relevant, like Madonna, who strikes me as a total Becky of the worst kind.

More Karenology here.

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Love on the Spectrum

Posted on August 1, 2020 by Sister Wolf

Love on the Spectrum is an Australian TV series about single young people on the autistic spectrum, learning to date and looking for love. I don’t know what I expected but I’ve been overwhelmed by how sweet and compassionate it turned out to be.

The series follows several characters, through interviews and during their dates, but it feels less voyeuristic than other reality shows in its gentle and informative perspective. If you’ve had no experience with people on the spectrum, you will see how varied its impact is on their personalities. As the saying goes, if you’ve met one person on the spectrum, you’ve met one person on the spectrum.

Me, I’ve had experience, and I can spot as Aspie from 100 yards, but I’m still learning. I’m increasingly convinced of my own autistic traits, which present in females much differently than in males and are more likely to go undetected even into adulthood.

There are only 5 episodes and I’m putting off seeing the last one because I don’t want to say goodby to its cast. I’ve tried to put a finger on what makes them so endearing, and I believe it’s their sincerity. In an age of studied authenticity, true sincerity is like a beacon of light. When they talk about their hopes of finding a partner, their unvarnished yearning and their simple requirements are almost unbearably poignant.

My inexpressive husband murmured emotionally during one segment, “So heartbreaking.” A guy named Mark was talking about his “disability” and how much he had to offer in spite of it. We love Mark! He is upbeat and positive throughout, although who knows what he’s like off camera. His parents discuss how far he’s come from being a non-verbal and aggressive child. How far we’ve all come from being awful children, but for most of us it hasn’t been such a persistent struggle.

The girls, Chloe and Olivia and Maddie, seem more self-aware and more inclined to joke about their habits. They seem less locked into gender performativity than the guys, who seem keenly aware of what men should act like.

This amorphous gender presentation reminds me of the years I would only wear men’s clothes…until my father threw them away. Even now I feel like a transvestite when I wear a dress and heels. I know I’m female but I feel deeply uncomfortable when someone calls me a “woman”. I’m okay feeling like a gay man in a female body, even though my husband isn’t crazy about this description.

Is it part of my autism? Or just a random trait? As a kid I felt baffled by other kids, who seemed to all know something I didn’t. I love to mimic people and I’m good at it. Females on the spectrum use this skill to blend in, often into adulthood. They are also prone to obsessions with people, who they stalk with unusual vigor. CHECK! Instead of acting out with tantrums like boys on the spectrum, girls are more likely to be afflicted with depression and eating disorders. CHECK! An alarming percentage of girls on the spectrum have been “sexually exploited.” CHECK! Because they don’t know how to say No, and don’t know how to recognize dangerous situations.

My husband and I also love Michael, a 25 year old who lives with his parents and only wants to be a husband. He is so earnest and guileless, it just kills us. What a lovely soul. I think he would make a great husband. Then there is Kelvin, who reacts with horror when a date tells him she isn’t interested in him. “You mean you don’t want to love me?” he screams, as you clutch your heart in agony.

I don’t want to sentimentalize the cast, or to imply that everyone on the spectrum is a saint. I’ve met several who are complete assholes, just like neurotypical people.

But more often, I’ve observed a sincerity that moves me deeply. Defined as “honesty of mind or intention; freedom from simulation, hypocrisy, disguise, or false pretense,” sincerity is a pretty rare commodity. After intelligence, it’s probably what I look for most in a friend. Along with the ability to accept my mimicking, obsessions, and the gay man in a female body thing.

Go watch this show on Netflix and tell me what you think.

Posted in Art, love | Tagged , , | 7 Comments

At Least We Still Have Words. Sort of.

Posted on July 24, 2020 by Sister Wolf

I just learned a new word that describes my condition: avolition.

People with avolition often want to complete certain tasks but lack the ability to initiate behaviours necessary to complete them. Avolition is most commonly seen as a symptom of some other disorder, but might be considered a primary clinical disturbance of itself (or as a coexisting second disorder) related to disorders of diminished motivation.

It’s not the same as laziness, which is assumed to be a choice. It’s not the same as apathy, which is:

a lack of feeling, emotion, interest, or concern about something. It is a state of indifference, or the suppression of emotions such as concern, excitement, motivation, or passion. An apathetic individual has an absence of interest in or concern about emotional, social, spiritual, philosophical, or physical life and the world.

I have a surfeit of concern, interest and emotion, currently; I just can’t do anything. Is this Covid related? Is it the result of being stuck at home for a billion days in a row? Of having only one other person in my environment? Of not having to hustle for money? Hours on the couch, watching TV? The lack of concrete things to look forward to, given the uncertainty of the “new normal?”

The term “new normal” still arouses my ire, so that’s good, right? Also the word “Zoom.” Also the shortening of  the already annoying “folks” to “folk.” Folk have grown tired of systemic racism, sure, but so have PEOPLE!

Back to avolition, here are some of the things I can’t do: deal with bills, get dressed, water the lawn, cook, put my shoes away, make the bed, make phone-calls, clean the house, drive, or write. It’s not so much Why Bother as much as it is I just Can’t.

I did force myself to sit at the computer to write this! It might be an aberration or the Something of my condition. What is the word I should use here instead of Something? I genuinely can’t think of it. I could use “abatement” but that’s not a word in my normal lexicon.

Something something something something! Something something.

I started keeping a list of words I was unable to retrieve for either hours or days.
orchid
aurora
Robert Duval

But then I stopped keeping the list, because avolition. I will try to start again. If I get enough to make a haiku, it will be a worthwhile project.

Do projects have to be worthwhile? I hope not. What are you guys up to? Are you putting your shoes away? Any new words? Advice or [something]?

images (c) Wellcome Library

Posted in Disorders, irritants, Words | Tagged , | 13 Comments

Lawrence of Arabia

Posted on June 22, 2020 by Sister Wolf

After watching a million hours of MSNBC News the other day, I decided to look for something else to watch. Lawrence of Arabia had just begun on Turner Classic Movies and since I’ve never seen it all the way through I decided to give it a shot.

Peter O’Toole was such a babe, duh, but I mean truly gorgeous. His black eyeliner was subtle but gorgeously queeny. I’m not a fan of blond men but in this case, I get it!

Since it’s a slow movie, I had the time to reflect on Peter O’Toole’s finely chiseled nose and wondered if he’d had a nosejob. Lots of actors did this back in the day, far more than actresses for some reason. So I googled it.

Google has removed all mystery from everything, a double-edged sword if ever there were one, right? I am constantly looking up everyone’s age to make sure I look better than them or at least less wrinkly. I particularly love before and after pictures of celebrities, who keep morphing before our eyes.

So anyway, yes, Peter O’Toole got his nosejob before he became a star but after he’d had some notable success. It came out much better than Harrison Ford’s or Jeremy Sisto’s. It works with his patrician facial structure and I’m okay with it not being natural.

I also read a review of a biography that catalogued his bad behavior on set and in his long marriage to Sian Somebody. His drinking is legendary and part of his persona, but I was disturbed by the account of his divorce. After his wife could no longer endure his affairs, she moved out of their house. He never let her return and refused to let her have her famed collection of antique jewelry. He banned her from visiting her children and a messy court battle went in his favor.

Here the story rung a sinister bell for me: A friend described him as “a man who prided himself on his resolutely unforgiving nature.” I’ll repeat it for emphasis:

a man who prided himself on his resolutely unforgiving nature.

Do you know anyone who might be described like this? I do.

In fact, I used to cherish a self-image that could be described as “You don’t know who you’re fucking with!” I enjoyed feeling like the embodiment of never giving an inch. I scoffed at people who gave up grudges and felt it was proof of how shallow they were; a person of substance should take their grudges to the grave.  If you’re a longtime reader, you know this as deeply as my family and former friends.

Both of my children admired this posture. But Max was nothing like me in this respect. He forgave people right and left…including me. He never even hesitated when someone wanted to patch things up.

I’m trying hard to be different. I’m trying hard to be the shepherd, you might say. I’ve learned to say “I’m sorry, I was a jerk” and “Please forgive me!” In fact, I say it all the time these days.

Life is so hard, so full of calamity and tragedy and unexpected turns. It takes effort to be compassionate, like Morrissey says, but eventually it comes naturally. Empathy is sometimes all we can offer each other, but what are human relations without it?

So I’m trying and I’ll keep trying. There’s nothing noble about being stubborn and hardhearted.

Lawrence of Arabia also reminded me of the disastrous date I had with Michael Shamberg, who bought the movie for us to watch on his gigantic home movie screen and then got huffy when I said I enjoyed the homoerotic energy between the co-stars. So I was going to write about the part where we had terrible sex because he was so ignorant of female anatomy…but I decided not to.

That’s how nice I am now.

Posted in Disorders, revenge, Words | Tagged , , | 2 Comments

Triage

Posted on June 9, 2020 by Sister Wolf

Having left off with a heartbroken post about Mother’s Day, I am back with more miserable reflections of the state of things, or more specifically the state of me, Sister Wolf.

Remember when I fell and broke my pelvis? Well, I have done it again! Hard to believe, I know, and yet there it is. This time I fell in my own home in a stupid fluke accident and landed on my bad leg with the hardware in it. The hardware was sturdy but my pelvis was not. The part that broke is the pubis ramus, a fucking bummer.

So I had to get an ambulance, and the EMT guys were sorry about taking me to the hospital, acting like they were delivering me to certain death from Coronavirus. I sobbed about dying but since I couldn’t stand up, I had no choice.

The hospital was great! There were no COVID patients there, and the nurses were lovely young women who chatted with me about everything and brought me extra coffee when I begged for it. At night, the ward was full of screaming and moaning, but not from me. One doctor talked to me for more than an hour about his life and aspirations. When I went home after 2 days, I missed all the companionship.

Twelve years ago when I broke my pelvis, some awful Russian cunt made it a project to mock my pain on her stupid blog, which I then parodied on a blog I devoted to mocking her back. Those were the days, eh?

So now I need to use a walker to get around my house, and I’m in nearly constant pain. I guess I could take this opportunity to become addicted to opiates, but nah, why bother? I have a nice physical therapist who keeps calling me ma’am. My poor husband has to help with everything, and I secretly wonder if he can distinguish me from his 103 year old mother. His mother has a better attitude, obviously.

Yesterday, my oxygen saturation was 94 %, not good. It connects me to the cultural inflection points of George Floyd ( I can’t breathe) and the pandemic (low oxygen is a symptom of COVID 19.)

I watched the funeral service in Houston today, and envied the solidarity of black families. My friend Romeo told me that this is because we’ve never allowed black people to have anything else. If this is true, I still envy those families. The love and the loyalty is so absent in my own family, a pill that grows more bitter the older I get. All the feuds and petty squabbles. Even when times are tough, my family is incapable of pulling together.

On top of everything, I found a hairdresser who is making house-calls, so she came over last week and spent four hours ruining my beautiful hair. She left me with some shit in my hair to rinse off in 15 minutes. If she’d stayed for it to dry, she would have heard my shriek of horror when I looked in the mirror to find a platinum fright wig where my beautiful highlights used to be.

Ha ha! Life is full of jokes, if only you have the sense of humor to enjoy them! I do enjoy them, up to a point, you know?

If you have time, pray to the gods of your understanding that my pelvis mends and I don’t die of Coronavirus before I get to have a last laugh at someone else’s expense, hopefully Trump’s.

Thanks in advance! xoxo

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