Those 3 little letters

Maybe it’s me. I’m an ass. But I’m having a hard time with LOL.
When I began my ‘internet life’, I had NO Idea what the fuck these three little letters meant. The sentences they usually finished weren’t particularly funny, so how was I to know?

Keep in mind, kiddos-this was a long, long while ago- yeah I was a “newb” (another term I’d love to slay).

The sort of people I ‘hang’ with aren’t prone to ‘laughing out loud’ after every other random thought, so when some of the pre-emo Goth sweets started peppering emails with ‘LOL’, I wasn’t sure what to make of it. Random example:

“Hey Luci, what’cha doin’
Not much here. Just thought I’d see what’s up LOL
Been listening to Rozz Williams LOL
It’s becoming more and more apparent that I don’t belong here, I mean ‘here’ in this world LOL
Maybe I oughta follow Rozz’s example and give my fucking Mother and Father an April Fool’s Day  theyll never forget LOL.”

Ok, I can sort of see the humor in the last line-especially if the folks are shitheads. I have a knack for putting strain on my own momma’s ticker on April 1, but come on people!

I’m thinking-”ok, he’s sending me a code or something-maybe  a modern SOS.” Then there was a Mr. non-goth glammy rocker twit that sent  an email, and again the dreaded LOL’s were everywhere!

“Hiya Luci!
I feel like shit LOL
I gotta go out today and it’s pissin it down outside! I will no doubt come down with the fuckin’ flu for the third time this year! LOL! I gotta take my little sister to the doctor, she’s growing horns and a third eye , LOL!”

Again, I was perplexed. I ask my roommate, and being the shithead she was (insert a very hateful LOL here, because “I hope U are dead, Pighead-wherever U may be slumming around, sucking the life out of desperate fools !!!” ( add another LOL -just because desperate fools are kinda funny-though maybe only worthy of a ‘wicked grin’, rather than a laugh out loud in my book-so lets try WG ).

Ok where was I? yes-I ask Pighead what she thought it meant and here’s what she said:

“Hon, he likes you! I told you he did! It means ‘lots of love’ that’s cool, Luci”

Ok, that was obviously a waste of time. So I did what everybody and their mother (except mine) does:

I googled it.

and then I still didn’t get it, I was like:What’s so laughing out loud funny, goddamnit?!

During the past few years  with my Beverly Hillbilly/ Squidbillies family, I’ve had the pleasure of sampling a few mind-numbing pills: Zoloft, Abilify, Topamax, Wellbutrin, Lithium (oh yeah! LOLOLOLOLOLOL-not.), And for a while each of these little wonders did indeed stop the claws and fangs from coming out and doing a number on Mother and her wicked little gaggle of rattlesnakes, but lately something new has come over me : I LOL all of the time!  During tv shows that aren’t at all funny; During spats with G; school work with N; standing in line at the grocery store; the library’s periodical section; the list could go on, but you get it.

Now, at first I found it a bit funny, and so did G & N, but the LOLs became more and more frequent and even more inappropriate- for example-sometimes the LOL’s are contagious, and N will begin LOL-ing too-and then G crinkles his forehead, because we’re LOL-ing  during his show about Japan. Or G & I are scurrying around like mice in the dark-while the poison people are asleep-and then I suddenly LOL-and then G  LOLs and then its complete chaos. I mean my tummy muscles ache from so many LOLs!

Perhaps that’s it. perhaps the LOLs really are an SOS-
“We’re all as mad as hatters here, Save us!!”

Maybe everybody’s laughing despite themselves. Maybe The Rozz-wannabe understood this. Maybe the non-goth glammy guy was so miserable over his sister’s horns and third eye-he could do nothing-except laugh in the face of complete horror.

It seems to be working for me.

I have a pal named Rasputin the Mad Monk, who is indeed a bit mad, but a very cool guy, A mystic beach fellow. and he HAHAHAs!!  and to me, it’s refreshing-and a bit more devious- at least coming from a “Mad Monk”.

This little LOL bug has spread to all corners of the world. In the last week or so I have received emails from people in Japan, England, Bangladesh, Italy, Netherlands, Ethiopia, Germany [and a few I'm forgetting Im sure]. AND THEY ALL LOL-ed AT LEAST ONCE!  Christ, even History teachers are LOL-ing.

 Yes, we’re all mad as hatters and the world is completely out of control-thanks in part to the slow Texan Oil brat, and we’re plunging into a new, darker depth, and sometimes the tears can’t come-so all you can do is LOL. Trust me when I tell you that in my most painful experiences over these last few years, I’ve LOL-ed as much, if not more than COL-um, [that's Cried/crying out loud, you newbs, geez-get a clue!]

So, the next time I get an email from a 60 year-old lady in Tokyo, and she LOL’s, I will no doubt cringe, but I’ll also understand that there’s nothing else she can do.

-Then I’ll no doubt respond with one of my WG’s

                                                                      ~ Your Wicked #13
       Time is digging graves for the chosen few,
Children dig graves for me and you -Rozz Williams                                                                                     

The one-eyed girl is QUEEN!

After roughly three hours of hollow sleep this morning, I stumbled sleepy-eyed out of my hiding place -into Smalltown, USA: land of the un-living.

Going out is a necessary evil, yes, I know, and rather than make waves or run with the bulls, I do my best to blend, I really do: to fall in line with the tired faces and empty worlds.

I remind myself of the introvert’s rules: No interaction unless absolutely necessary, no direct eye contact, Don’t look too glum, but no big smiles (or they may notice you) Smile with your eyes, soldier-Smile with those eyes!

And then without fail, it happens every time. At the slightest hint of an eye-smile, the Legion of Grannies attack!

From the spice aisles they come forth, trance-like toward the eye-smile, from beneath dusty shelves of Korn Flakes, they heave themselves up and slither toward the eye-smile beacon, and from motorized scooters they miraculously climb. Wrapped in the essence of rosewater, eucalyptus and granny-sugar, they roll toward me in a solid wave, slow and painful like a belly ache, and I am defenseless.

No longer eye-smiling, bracing myself for the impact, I peek out at them through my armour of dark bangs and catch glimpses, lifetimes of secrets twinkling in those faded grey eyes. Painted, wrinkly lips part to expose tiny yellow teeth, and my busy head buzzes with curiousity about those lips: Did they tighten from decades of tight-lipped girl secrets and pretend smiles? Perhaps holding back words for the sake of peace? Are those wrinkles from yesterday’s young lips wrapped confidently around bold cigarettes or perhaps hungrily around their bold fellows?

I’m shaken into the present by the the soft  chorus of pleas, like a basket of hungry kittens it begins:

“Can you help me?”

“Could you help me find the [cotton balls, bubble bath, epsom salt, laxatives, baking soda, vinegar -to name a few]?”

“Could you reach those tins of tomato soup way up there on the very top shelf?”

“I didn’t bring my glasses,honey, can you read this box for me?”

And because my vanity discarded my own glasses years ago, I  read the directions for cheeseburger macaroni through squinchy, blurry eyes.

As they continue purring their demands, they hold me tightly in their gaze, seeing straight through the facades I usually guard so well.

Then the transformation occurs: Like Ebenezer Scrooge and the Grinch on Christmas morning, I warm  a little in the part of my stomach where I swear my soul  lives. Suddenly, I want to save the whole world of Grannies! Not only fetch their goods, and help them compare prices, like the frugal diva I am, but escort them home and make them a nice tea.

Forgetting all about my own shopping, I join them in conversation: “Why must they constantly rearrange things and why must they put the soup up so high?”

And despite the fact that I am 5′9 and have never needed help reaching for anything on the ‘very top shelf’, I feel their pain.

“How dare the supermarkets provide tomato soup for the leggy amazons while completely neglecting the countless granny dwarves longing for the same bland goodness?!!”

Then I break the ultimate rule: I ASK THEM EACH HOW THEY ARE FEELING.

In a sea of bursitis and gangrene, blood sugar levels and cancer, I am carried to a place I do not wish to go. Suddenly I too have an aching back, and can recall mysterious headaches; My blood sugar drops to numbers as low as 27 when I forget to eat; and my allergies are giving me the sniffles. Upon that last complaint, I am presented with a dozen granny tissues, no doubt left over from Dear Brother Bill’s funeral in ‘86. I politely accept them, squeezing them tightly in my hand.

I fight the temptation to ask questions like:

Did you marry the right man?

Is he still as beautiful to you as he once was?

How does it feel to share the same air with him for 30,40 even 50 years?

What will you do when he goes?

Do your children still hug you or have they abandoned you?

What do you dream?

Are house dresses really comfortable and why must they always be adorned in giant green and fuschia flowers?

Hey Sweeties, what was the phrase for a mind-blowing orgasm back in your day?

Oh, and do tell, were you a bottom girl- sweet like Eve or a fierce thing, riding like Lilith until you were sated?

And of course, the big one:

 Are you afraid?

But their eyes have answered these and more; Some giggle sweetly, adorned with smile lines and some wear permanent frowns, all etched through decades, all speaking volumes.

Eventually, I slip back into my own life, so I say one of my shy ‘goodbyes’ and once again avoid eye contact. I can’t help feeling a bit smug, pleased with myself like a hospital Santa Claus with the scented wad of sweaty tissues still clenched in my fist.

Bangs brushed away from my ’smiling eyes’, and chest out boldly, I turn and walk through the thank-yous and God bless yous.

I-the leggy, blurry-eyed savior of Grannies.

And now I’m here-in my safe little world, where everything’s always within my reach, my lips wouldn’t dare puff on a cigarette, and Lilith always reigns supreme.

Nocturnal House

Sleep was useless. I had a busy head this morning, I think I was waiting for the rain-which came, said ‘hello’, then left again. Perhaps it’s raindance time.

Around 7:00 this morning, I tried to fall asleep, (which isn’t something I particularly like doing anyway). A little after 11:00, I woke to a very dark, extremely humid atmosphere-much like the nocturnal house at the zoo-sans the barn owl and the stench of blood.

It’s not that it’s unusally hot, perhaps 80-something degrees, but it came out of nowhere yesterday, like when your mother comes unexpectedly, and you haven’t a clue how to deal with her. I mean, we were doing jackets a few mornings ago, and now there’s this humidity, which is transforming my already rebellious  bedhead tresses and waves into a medusa tangle of copulating serpents.

So, today is a very lazy day-I’ve spent the last hour or so lying on the bed, scribbling down ideas and details for a few stories, wishing for Cleopatra’s fan-bearers and sunshades.

aah, the thunder’s just started. Bliss

                                                                      -13

This Island Life

Today wasn’t so bad.

Didn’t see anyone very much, which was nice. Slept until 2:30 or so in the afternoon, and woke up very, very hot-which makes me oh so cranky. The sky promised rain, but she did not deliver. We shall have thunderstorms today, damnit, or I shall do my raindance!!

I didn’t write, but I’m not beating myself up about it right now. Like always, it’ll come when it wants to…

I’ll probably leave another post later. I’m a bit preoccupied at the moment, and there’s a strong breeze, which means rain may be here soon. It’s nearly 3:00 a.m. which is my best time of the day to get things done, so until then… prayers for rain

                                                            -13                        

A ‘Cure’ for the snake bites

I’ve been told I’ll be late for my own funeral. We’ll see.

It was a normal Sunday here-tiptoed around the ‘virals’, (the rattlesnakes). Read for several hours (Blood Alley by Tom Coffey, watched another episode of Millennium (episode 12 or 13, I think), then waited for several hours for the wretched  fucks to move their mess out of our way so we could have dinner-which in turn sucked for me (burnt pizza). I know, I’m soooooo cheerful, it filled a hole-that’s enough, trust me, I get it.

 The day/night ended well-Mr G. and I watched a movie I’d DVRed a few weeks ago called “Wind Chill”, which was actually very good; made me feel like I wasn’t the only one surrounded by ghosts and stranded in a ‘lost’ place.

 I feel homesick, but since we don’t have a home at the moment, there’s nothing I can do about that. And when I have no control over things, things go very sour -very quickly.

I’ve written two lines today. TWO. Tomorrow will be better, yes?

ok, good stuff (mostly):

“The Only One”is brilliant. I can’t wait for the new Cure cd!!! I got the song a few days ago-and it truly made the bad stuff seem smaller and made the week a bit more bearable.The video is on YouTube, but the ancient dial-up, (which is controlled by very old hamsters on a broken wheel) makes it nearly impossible to watch videos. I waited for over an hour last night for 32 whoooooole seconds. Joy. The things I do for Robert Smith. Still, it was a great 32 seconds.

see, mostly good stuff, right friendo?

           Ok I’m exhausted. Morpheus, here I come.

It’s Me…

This should look a bit better by the end of the weekend…Until then,

Smiles and all of that sweet, icky stuff  ~ #13