Dear Moms and Dads

First of all, I would just like to state this isn’t aimed at all mothers. I’m sure there are a bunch of you out there who are very pleasant responsible people. This is for the group that is not.
So, I have to get this off my chest. Dear mothers, just because you have pushed a human being out of your body and I have not does not make you better than me, it doesn’t make you smarter than me. It doesn’t make every thought you have rainbows and sunshine and it doesn’t make my views evil and wrong. It doesn’t seem to even matter what the conversation is about. It may have absolutely nothing to do with the topic of children or the subject of motherhood, but according to most moms I can’t know anything about well, anything. If I hear the words, “Well, you’re not a mother so you couldn’t possibly understand” One more time I’m going to fucking explode. Yes, okay! I could possibly understand! I could possibly have some grasp of what it’s like to love a child more than anything in the world. I do have children in my own life thank you very much. I didn’t give birth to them so maybe no, it’s not exactly the same but I can understand. I can get it. It’s not like I’m some 21 year old selfish nimrod. I’m an adult woman who truly wants to have kids of her own. Alright?!
OH! Here’s another issue I have with this ‘Mom’s club’ going on around here, it’s like you guys don’t want anyone else to join you. You can be going on and on and on about how beautiful your children are and how motherhood is the greatest thing to ever happen to you and yet as soon as I say, “I’d like to have a child myself someday” you instantly switch gears? Its goes from “Motherhood is just the best” to “Are you sure Kate? I don’t know, it’s so hard. They scream and cry, and talk back and you never get any sleep, and you gain so much weight, and they ruin your things, blah, blah, blah” It’s like, wow, thank you so much for the fucking encouragement. Now that you feel you’re better than everybody else you don’t want me to obtain this secret to all wisdom as well. Well, that makes you mean and selfish. So there.
Part three of this rant is for both genders. Mothers and fathers alike come on down! I’ve got something to share with you! And it is simply this: WATCH YOUR CHILDREN! Okay, some context. When did it become okay, when did parents start to think it was appropriate and or decent behavior to bring their small (I’m talking babies, to like five here ok?) children to a party or gathering, set the child down and wander off assuming everyone else will just watch the child for you? You can’t one minute be lecturing me on not understanding the fear that your child will be taken or some shit and then leave your two year old alone with four complete strangers while you go stand in the back yard to smoke and bullshit with your buddies. What kind of crap parent are you? If you wanted your ‘grown up’ time, then maybe you should have left the kid at home with a babysitter that you know and trust.
Why is it that I seem to be the only one to notice when the five year old goes wandering across the field and is going into the dark woods at night time by themselves? I brought the child back, got him an ice cream and it was a whole nother hour before the father reappeared having absolutely no idea that his kid had ever left the camp grounds.
Why is it that I seem to be the only one to get up and walk along with the four year old as she jumped from slippery jagged rock to jagged rock around the fire pit? Another mom there (not the girl’s mom) laughed at me and called me paranoid. But ya know what, when that girl slipped and almost busted her head open on the next rock, she didn’t! Because I was there to catch her in time. You’re welcome.
Or at this baby shower I was at on Saturday. This mom comes in sets her ‘almost a year old’ (I never heard a true age) baby on the floor and then, SHE WALKED THE HELL AWAY. She didn’t know the few of us sitting in the living room. We didn’t know her. And nobody else seemed to give a rat’s ass about her child either. I watched, I just fucking watched, as this baby pulled down every cup on the coffee table to spill colored liquid on the carpet. I watched as he changed every setting on the TV as he button mashed the crap out of the remote. I watched as he poured vase water all over himself and the fireplace. I watched as he pulled every movie off the movie shelf. And yes, someone stepped on one and I heard it break. You know, they didn’t pick it up either. They laughed at the cute baby and kept moving. I finally intervened when the kid almost tumbled head first down the concrete steps that led into the backyard. The mom appeared out of nowhere and snatched the baby from me like I had done something wrong. Your child almost fell down the side of these steep no-side-railed steps to the cement patio okay? You’re fucking welcome; oh and by the way that big ass mess in the living room with the TV now only playing in Spanish that the hosts haven’t seen yet is on you. And if that was my house, I’d be fucking pissed.
So, okay, parents who are so much wiser than me; even if the chance of your baby getting hurt is only 0.000001% isn’t that too much? I know you can’t save a child from everything, every bump and scratch, but shouldn’t you at least be trying? Especially when they’re not even a fucking year old yet? (oh, yeah, also at this same shower, I stopped another kid, age four, from running out into the street, in front of a car going by. The Dad was in the back having a beer with the fella’s. You’re welcome sir) And it’s not like these parents ever ask anyone, “Hey, I’d like to get a plate of food and maybe talk with the future mom to be for a bit, would you mind watching Timmy for me?” To which I would probably say sure. I like babies. But they don’t ask! Ever! They just assume that everyone will chip in. Which I’m here to tell you parents, no they won’t! It seems to be just me, and my amazing boyfriend (who is as fed up with this as I am) who gives a shit about your kids. Everyone else at the party is ignoring your kids as much as you are. And for the record, I took my niece places when she was little, to gatherings and things, and I knew how to watch for her safety while she played, keep her from destroying someone’s house, and have a good time with my friends. It’s not that hard ‘real moms’. Unless your kid is just a terror, to which I say again, get a babysitter.
Whew, I feel so much better now. Thank you.
PS: WATCH YOUR KIDS!

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Ungrateful Patient

The rain drops river down the large spanning window. The rivers slither and weave in and out of each other on their hurried way down. I rake a hand through my hair irritated by the silence.
“Do you ever feel as though you are being watched? Even when you know you’re not. But you’re still tense? Afraid?”
She looks up from her notes, peering at me over her thick tacky ass frames.
“What do you mean? Do you feel this way?”
No, it just sounded like a fun thing to say.
“Yes.”
“When do you feel like this? Where are you?”
“In the shower.”
She lifts her head fully now. Now she is interested.
“I’m standing in there and whenever I have to turn into the water, to rinse soap off my face, I feel as though someone is standing in the empty space behind me. And the more I try to hurry to get all the soap off so I can turn around, the more I feel like this person is reaching for me. That I’m in danger.”
She writes rapidly now.
“Hmmm.” She mumbles.
“Is that fucked up or what?”
“How often does this happen to you?”
“Often.” I shrug twirling my hair ends in and out of my fingers. She continues writing. I whirl my chair round to look at the stupid seashell clock by the door. She can’t actually like that thing. It goes with nothing else in this room. Everything save it is brown. Fucking brown. Even her outdated suits are fucking brown. All shades of it. But there it is. This ugly blue and yellow seashell clock. Maybe it was a gift, from someone who visits her here. Or, my god, what if she does like it? It is her little bit of home at work. Eeww. I wonder what her home might look like if that be the case. I can’t image. I would go nuts in a place that ugly. Wait, I am. Supposedly anyway, according to popular opinion. Hell, that’s why I’m here; on this freaking brown chair, in this freaking brown room, with this brown wearing bitch who really doesn’t give two craps about what I’m saying or feeling.
I look to her now. She is still writing. Probably her grocery list. We both know this is a waste of her time. It’s the one thing we don’t talk about. I pretend I have complex thoughts and strange happenings in my emotional department and she pretends to care, although not very well. She never does tell me what the fuck she writes or gives me any real advise. She just hears me. And takes my mother’s money.
I wonder which one of us will snap first.

Bad Day

Apparently, at the moment, I am depressed. I figured it out this morning. You ever reach that point of sitting around when because you haven’t moved in quite some time and you are doing absolutely nothing at all your stomach finally yells at you, Hey I’m Fucking Hungry. So you’re like, Hey I should fucking eat something. Then you get up and make a lot of food. But then you sit there and stare at it. Every bite becomes heavy in your mouth, filling it, choking you. You no longer want to eat. Food is so gross to you all of a sudden that you can’t even fathom that you wanted all this food in the first place. Well, that’s what happened to me. It’s a place I know well. And it tells me, Hey you are really fucking bummed out right now. The strangest part of this little episode is that I don’t always see it coming. I could be walking around thinking I’m doing okay, I’m happy, everything is good. And out of fucking nowhere, BAM! I can’t swallow. I don’t want any of this yummyness in front of me. My body has to tell me that I am depressed. And if it’s going to have a wake-up call this is a good one, because I fucking love food. The smells, tastes, chewing, it’s all fantastic to me. So when I suddenly don’t want to eat and food is suddenly so fucking disgusting it’s like, Whoa! Something is seriously the matter. The times I didn’t know anything was wrong are the worse. I sit back; stare at the heap on my plate and think, what is bothering me? What am I keeping bottled up? And why am I hording it? What is the reason this is festering? Today though I know what is wrong. I knew instantly the cause of this horrible waste of good food. Come to think of it these times are no better either. Because I already know what is festering and why I’m locking it inside. And I’m slapped in the face with the fact that I am alone. In my depression and anger, am I alone. There is no one that feels the pain I do, or would understand. It is something I have to keep to myself. Because the person who needs to know the most won’t or can’t help me. I can’t turn to the one person I need to for this particular problem. Or I’ve told them and they don’t care. And that fucking sucks big time.
It is ironic for me to be bummed about being alone emotionally. I’m sitting in a room with three other people right now and I’m wishing I was alone, physically. Just for a while. I need to breathe. I need to cry. I need to scream. I need to let go and let God. And I can’t with them here. It’s been so long that I’ve scream or cried or breathed. I crave it. I feel it deep in my bones and it aches. I feel the pressure pushing up inside my skull. It seeps from my ears and clogs my pores. It is slowly becoming an energy surrounding me. It will infect those near me and they will think I have attitude. Which I guess I do. And will until I can release the demons of my mind to God alone. But I can’t. So I will sit here inside myself and burn. The flames will lick me till hopefully they burn themselves out.

The Strain, Pilot (on FX)

After a long and mind numbing phase of sparkly puppy love romanticized vampires, The Strain appears to be a wonderful long, dark shadow at the end of that tunnel. Bringing vampires back to a horrific, scary, ugly, dark place intertwined with the long time fear of an uncontrollable virus.

The show starts off with a plane coming in for a landing in New York from Berlin, when a flight attendant hears something thumping in the cargo hold. When they go to check it out, whatever is inside pounds its way out and onto the plane. When the plane is found perfectly still and intact at JFK airport the CDC, and just about every other three letter agency is called in to investigate. I don’t want to say too much because not knowing whats happening next is part of the fun of watching.

Not much is known about the characters of the show yet. You spend most of your time with Ephraim, who was quickly pegged as a nice, if but very human and intense, man. There is also his CDC partners, a thug working for a man I assume to be a vampire, a rich old man in a room kept so cold you can see their breath (who seems to be responsible for bringing ‘the thing’ on the plane to the United States) and a silver collector with a sword in his cane who has a beating heart in a jar.

If you’re a sensitive dreamer like me, then this is not a show for right before bedtime. Not just the creepy factor but it is a bit gory. Many questions were raised in the Pilot episode and I’m happy to say, for now, that I will keep watching to see where it goes.

writers think too much

What in the world to write about? What in the world to talk about? What is important? What is entertaining? What is interesting? How do I tell it? How do I make it good? How do I make it exciting? Do you ever have a great idea, but that’s all it is? An idea. Developing that idea into a full-fledged thing is hard. Harder than I think most people think. Or maybe it is just hard for me. That would be sad. What matters to people? What do they care about? Do they even want to slip into a world where they’d care too much? Do they want a place totally unrealistic? That they can lose themselves in? Or do they crave being able to relate? Say, “yeah, I’ve been through that.” Or “Yeah, I know someone who has gone through that.” How do I know?

What do I want to write? What do I want to talk about? What do I feel is important enough to say? What entertains me? What am I fascinated by? Are my ideas any good? How do I develop them the right way? So that it all makes sense. Or should it not make sense? Does it have to? Would people be able to relate at all to something that doesn’t make any sense? Could my scattered beginnings of ideas, touch people? Would they understand them? Would they care? Would they take anything away from them? Would they make them think, like they make me? Without flushing them out, keep them raw? With no real start and no true end? Would they mean more that way?

Music is Life

For years I’ve been trying to express what music means to me, what it is to me. I’ve never been able to find the words. How could I? Music is everything to me. It brings me closer to God. I feel Him in music. I hear him. I hear myself. I feel my emotions to their deepest and truest levels in my favorite songs. I feel love, sadness, hope, hatred, joy, all to the fullest, rushing through my blood, through my soul when I listen to music. Music takes me to a spiritual plain that is intangible but deep inside me. Through music I can reach in and touch it. It makes me whole. It inspires me. It brings me peace. It helps me cry. It helps me understand. Without my music I would be lost, not just in the world but inside my body. Music is what roots me to all that which I love and need. It is what guides me back to sanity when I have strayed too far into the darkness that wanders inside me.  Music to me is the same as air. It is something I physically need. Without it I know the heavy, loud silence would swallow me up and I would disappear to all that care for me.

Hello

I’ve done it! I drank the Kool-Aid! I have joined the world of the internet. Sort of. So Hellloooooo

So where to start? Ain’t that always the question? For someone whose favorite parts of movies are usually the first 20 minutes I am awful at writing beginnings. (Yes, I am a writer. Who on the internet ain’t?) I never know where to start a story. Nor do I now, with this blog. Why do people blog? What possess a person to send their thoughts and words out into the void to be read and judged by people they don’t know and may never meet? At the moment, for me, it is my urge to express all that I cannot out loud to those that I wish. But I won’t start with that. I don’t want to be negative. I could start in such a dark place, but why? How is pouring more anger into the internet going to help anything? Not saying that I won’t, I’m sure I will, but not today. For the moment I guess I will simply start with me.

Things to know about Kate:

I spend about 80% of my time in my own head and as a Pisces it can be EXSHAUSTING! (Yes, I am a Pisces and a Dragon, otherwise known as the double whammy of emotional instability.)

Hypnophobic  (which means I’m always at least a little tired and two steps away from cranky)

Writer, reader

LOVER OF ALL ART! – paintings, photos, film (movies and television), books, graphic novels, poetry, theater, dance, music, video games, graffiti, etc. (Reviews of all to come!)

Classic romantic

Red/Green personality type (though having been raised to be well mannered I don’t often let myself go all red on most people)

Overly opinionated

Open minded

I sometimes swear needlessly (For that I apologize in advance, I’m sorry)

I type carelessly fast, there will be many typos I’m sure (Again, sorry)

I thought a way to express a bit more about me would be to post some of my own journal entries. Like I said, I spend a lot of time in my head. I have a hard time accepting myself doing this but maybe it will be good for me. To feel as though my words may be read by another. That maybe someone will relate or understand or just simply like what I have to say. Either way, I guess I’m doing this.