Bedtime Stories, Hungry Wolves and My Own Candle Carousel, (and New Spoken Piece)

I was 19 when I met Adriana, a woman from Germany, who was maybe 10 years older or so than myself. She was extremely warm and kind, with an honest curiosity, much like my own. She asked countless questions, not in an interrogative way, but because she was completely curious about people whose lives were so completely different than hers. I knew her for all of 4 days. I think she and I could have been great friends, peppering the world with our endless questions.

It was the week of Christmas, and she was the girlfriend of the older brother of someone I was living with at the time. I remember wondering within the first 10 minutes of meeting her why she was with such a simple Meathead…but then again, why are we ever with anyone? Is it seriously easy to answer that question-ever? I mean besides the basics everyone is looking for, of course: kindness, honesty, magnetic personality, etc…so in retrospect, I realize that whatever the reason she was with him, she just was…even if their personalities seemed so different…then again, he was never impolite to me or anything. A year or two later, he actually drove me for nearly an hour to my mother’s home and played The Cure’s Disintegration CD for me the entire way…How terrible can a fellow be if he listens to Disintegration, right? So perhaps he had more layers than I realized. But the post isn’t supposed to be about him, or even about Adriana. She just happened to introduce something to my world that I had never seen before and it became a symbol in my world later on, and that leads me to the piece, Bedtime Stories, that I’ve rewritten and am posting here.

The Christmas gift, (and the amazing new introduction to my world), that Mr. Meathead and Adriana gave to his mother was an amazing multi-tiered wooden candle carousel, complete with intricate small, but very detailed pieces…people, some dancing with a partner, some dancing on their own. At the base of the carousel was a crown of candles, and when the candles were lit, the heat made the layers spin, and when the layers spun, so did the many dancers. I remember spending all of Christmas Day watching the dancers spin, and amazed by the idea that the candles could be creating this amazing effect while managing to not ignite the entire carousel.

That was my introduction to candle carousels, and at the time, I had no idea whatsoever that one day, over a decade later, my life would begin to mimic that carousel at different times…and that with the help of certain lighted heat, I would find myself, and all of my unique selves that live inside of me, dancing and spinning around in circles.

I know I’ve mentioned it before, but in case you’re new to my blog, I grew up without my father. The blame lies both with him and my mother in my opinion. But I try not to hold onto blame these days, and I understand the reasoning behind some of the choices they made, actually more of my mother’s choices than my father’s. The marriage between my parents had not been a happy experience for either of them. My mother was young and looking for a way out, or more likely, a way IN to a new life. My father was 22 years older than she was…I’m 100% sure that because he was older and had a pretty generous amount of life experience, and a charming personality, he was the perfect answer, so she felt content enough to trust him to give her the life she wanted.

He didn’t give her that life…He was a wild thing, always on the hunt for something new…a new wife, new experiences, new places, new existences…by this point, my father had  more than his fair share of professions, beginning with newspaper reporter, and  one of his stories actually earned him the risk of nearly being killed at some late-night meeting that was supposed to take place with someone that could give him some interesting information… (instead, he just lost all of the windows of his car to the shower of bullets). I would assume that he was more of an investigative reporter, (something that I’m extremely interested in doing myself, despite the risk of angry bullets… if the story is important enough to me). Eventually, he began running a diner, where my mother met him and began working for him. I can completely see how she would have fallen for him…I know his ways too well…Most of my ways are his ways, for better and for worse. Later in life, he would also become a car salesman before becoming a strip club owner, and probable pimp, to finally a private investigator…

The reason for bringing any of this up is that I grew up without a father, and as much as my mother trying to patch  life up by giving me a stepfather and siblings and trying hard to forget her past, it didn’t work for me. Early on, I was extremely protective of my mother, standing up to anyone that might hurt her…later, I began to resent her, because at the time I believed she had torn my world apart…now I realize that it was both of my parents that were at fault, but what are two people who aren’t in love to do? Spend eternity unhappy, attempting to maintain a happy facade for their child? It never works, and it isn’t fair to anyone…and I realize that now…But the pain it has caused has never gone away…this is something I’ve worked on coming to terms with for years and there has been progress, but still…does this pain ever go away completely?

I don’t think so.

So, despite the fact that I had a stepfather that I felt pressured into referring to as ‘Dad’, he never felt or behaved like a father in the least bit. Fathers never show photos of their 12-year-old awkward daughters to fellow truckers and discuss the idea of those truckers marrying her, right? No, I don’t think so either. So, I learned early on that he was not my father. For the first half of my life beginning at age four, I was completely fatherless, and regardless of what you might think, daughters need a father…as much as sons need a mother, (or nearly as much at least). I grew up feeling half empty, even more than half actually,  because I found very little common ground with my family, partially because I was a rebellious, wise-ass kid-who wanted something better, something more kindred, and also because we were and are completely different, so I spent most of my formative years feeling empty. And throughout my life, mostly unbeknownst to me, that emptiness grew, changed shapes, and at times even controlled complete aspects of my life.

I had absolutely zero experience as far as boyfriends go. I was a very new 18 year-old and had never really had a boyfriend in school, except a poor shmuck that tried dating me when I was 16, which meant free movies at the cinema, if I allowed him to do a bit of clumsy groping. I had no clue at the time how to be assertive or simply say “get the Fuck off of me!”. I had grown up thinking men were in charge of most things. I was a foolish 16-year-old.

Even before seeking out a boyfriend, I was searching for a father, but I didn’t realize that then. As a matter of fact, I wasn’t seeking out anything consciously, except for literature. I was consumed with gaining as much knowledge as I could from books, from writers like Nabokov and Kerouac and soon after, Henry Miller. They were poetry…new music to me and I wanted nothing more to develop their gift of language and feelings…and their fire. Boyfriends and anything of the such wasn’t of any interest to me in the least bit…but as is the case most of the time, that aspect of life happened, and I gained a boyfriend-a year and a half younger than me.

I fell into a full blown relationship, with someone nearly two years younger than me. Because he was quite clever, yet also very street smart, I quickly trusted him to look after me, and if I said he did not do as well as he could, I would be lying. He did. Everything from warning me away from people and streets to avoid if I were on my own, to stealing cans of beef stew and soup for me when I was hungry and had no money. This saved me at the time, but it also stirred the young subconscious child inside that was still longing for something she had not had since she was 4…I wanted to be nurtured and loved unconditionally. To be taught and defended, and protected, without doing or giving anything in return. Clearly, not something that a 16-year-old kid could give me. But of course, I was still unaware of how my brain was working, how my subconscious was searching for something bigger, something to fill the emptiness that was so insanely deep,  it actually felt physical at times.

Skip forward 3 years or so, to when I became a mom to a perfect little boy. Nearly every hole in me had finally been filled; I had purpose, and a reason to exist. Though the need was still there for a father, it was pushed deep inside, and very well covered with the need to be needed and the fact that I devoted myself wholeheartedly to being the best mom I could possibly be, tending to every single whimper, cry, stretch and sneeze…That’s the best thing I have ever done…and I’m sure nothing I could possibly achieve throughout the rest of my life will ever come close to being a mom. However, time passed and my little boy grew older, and suddenly, when I no longer needed to attend to every single need, every single minute of the day, I felt that old familiar darkness begin to hover above me and the panic settle in once again.

This was years before I would be diagnosed with Bipolar II, so I hadn’t learned then how to distinguish the differences in the various darknesses that hovered over me sometimes. The depression I feel because of bipolar is a hungry, uglier darknessit not only hovers, it pulls me, it throttles me and threatens to devour me completely. Mostly I fight it now and it only tends to come around at specific times. I have a pretty good restraint system in place now…it took a long time, but I’ve gained control…at least for the most part. The darkness from the emptiness I feel is different-its pain and its desperation and panic…a bit like what it might feel like to look down at your hand and see that your finger is missing…it’s a mad scramble to recollect the pieces, to fill the void and fix yourself. It’s the need to become whole again. But at least it does not want to end me like that other darkness attempts to sometimes do.

I’m not a conceited person…not in most ways, at least. I think I have a unique personality…though I realize I’m not the only person who collects dead bugs and keeps them in a cigar box on a bookshelf, that she sometimes takes out so she can study specimens like Butterflies, Mantises or Walking Sticks. I realize others do this too, so it makes me feel like the world is spotted with kindred spirits. That’s a comfort to me. There is absolutely nothing I feel is completely unique about myself, yet, my entire package, just like yours and everyone else’s is unique because we’re all wired differently enough to be a one of a kind.

My appearance has never been something I have taken for granted or been especially happy with. On the contrary, actually. I have struggled with BDD off and on throughout my life-the irrational ideas of cutting my nose off or finding ways to hide my face completely from the world (wanna know how many oversized sunglasses I own?) It’s why I learned early on, the absolute magic of makeup. If I’m not wearing makeup, I feel as shocking and doomed as Joseph  (aka John) Merrick, as if some grand creator either became bored by the time he was working on me or was too tired to care anymore. Maybe they ran out of suitable pieces and just made do with whatever scraps they had left. It sounds crazy, but it’s crippling sometimes. There are times when I can’t open my door or even step out on my balcony for fear that people will see me and become shocked at my hideousness. I forever feel apologetic to people around me who have to look at my face day to day.

And still, there’s something akin to Maya Angelou‘s Phenomenal Woman that lives in the very core of me, so that despite the fact that I dislike my exterior, I have mastered some powerful, womanly gift that unfortunately not all women ever master. Please don’t be offended or think that I’m being boastful, because if you are a woman, you have this same gift…and if you are a man, you have more than likely already met women who have also mastered this gift…and for that, I feel a bit sorry for you, because I know what it can do to you…the power that it holds. And it’s this gift that works for me sometimes…when I’ve wanted or needed it to.  For a long while, I became dependent on this gift to works its magic in hopes that I could finally find what I needed to complete myself once and for all, and stop this insatiable need to be loved in a way that I haven’t been loved since I was a  little girl.

A friend of mine once referred to the company of males I sometimes kept as my pack of wolves, always scratching at our door. That friend was a woman, and one of the very few women I’ve ever had a friendship with. But she never learned how to become her own phenomenal woman, and sadly, I doubt she ever will. Then again, she crossed me terribly in the end, so maybe I don’t feel so bad that she’s eternally unaware of her own abilities.

But about the wolves, and I apologize if, as a man, you feel offended by reading men being referred to as wolves…I’m only referring to the pack of males that for a time, at various times of my life, have gathered around, hungry, mad and sometimes a little too aggressive for their own good.  Again, this is not something that happens to only me. Many women have sometimes attracted a pack of sharp-tongued, bloody-fanged, wet-mouthed devils, eager for overwhelming sustenance and claiming a desire for eternal companionship…I can’t say for sure that I have believed their claims, because for me, the mind of a man is just as mysterious and intriguing as a woman’s mind, so despite the claims of endearment and love at first sight, and the life or death desperate need they swear to have, I haven’t a real clue of what’s going on in the mind of a wolf or even an innocent man...What I do know is that Little Red Riding Hood is one of my favorite tales, and I have often changed the story to make myself happier with the ending so that the wolf, rather than the woodsman, actually falls under the spell of Red and something joyous happens for them both…wolves are alluring, brilliant creatures. Not my favorite animals though, (I’m a monkey lover above all other animals) But still, if I had to liken men to an animal, wolves are far more appealing than calling them my barrel of monkeys.

So, at times, I’ve had my wolves…and try as hard as I could possibly try to have them complete me-whether it was as an older, wise, fatherly figure, a strong-minded, self-assured boy-man, or even one of my former best friends, a gay man who asked if I would be his first and only heterosexual companion, nothing ever worked. They never finished the stories for me…Love was never unconditional…they always wanted (and most of the time, rightfully so, expected something in return from me). And so, the darkness remained, and I’m almost certain it’s going to remain with me for the rest of my life…though I would do most anything to patch it up and pack it away, to wake up one day and no longer feel like a part of me is missing.

My father loved jazz, just as I do…that’s something we share and that means everything to me because it’s one of the few pieces I will always have of him….I’m not delusional, I know that if my father were alive, we would never see eye to eye on most things…but it’s that idea, the idea of being loved for who I am and not for the things I do or the way I look. Not for what I can give him, but solely because he loves me unconditionally regardless of what I do or don’t do, for what I say or don’t say.…just as the way I love my own son. I’m angry and sad that I will never have that feeling- unless of course there’s a secret father adoption service that I’m unaware of, but I highly doubt it. I would more than likely be distrustful of his motives anyway…

So finally to the piece I’ve written. This piece was actually written nearly a decade ago, but the original piece had absolutely nothing to do with my father. It was actually more of a naughty tongue in cheek piece about ‘cats fucking circles in my wet grass, and mulatto boys with tiny toots and water guns’. I’m not entirely sure where those words came from…maybe because I liked the way they sounded together…their rhythm…or maybe because my first major (non-rock star) crush was a mulatto boy in high school…who’s to say? It doesn’t really matter anyway, especially because they were replaced with words about my father.

The words were changed during a difficult time when having a father would have made so many things so much easier for me…I had a father figure in the form of a friend, but it wasn’t the same…there was something off about it all and let’s face it, how many men sign up to solely be a father figure for a sad lady that’s seriously broken? So, while I had a small clan of wolves nibbling my ankles and sniffing at the hem of my skirt, I was soul-sick and needed something I couldn’t find…I needed bedtime stories from my father, not wolves fucking circles in my wet grass.

But just as the carousel was moved by the heated flames, I have been moved by the heat from the wolves, knowing that for as long as they were there beneath me with their heated intentions, I could keep spinning and dancing, and perhaps one day find what I was looking for, and even if I don’t find it, spinning and dancing has been pretty amazing.

So, here you have it. And By the way, it’s the first time I’ve created the sound for a piece, which I’m pretty proud of-as much as I can be proud of something I’ve created. There’s a tribal feel to it for me, a ceremonial vibe…a soul-sickness cleansing…though there are two tracks that are reversed, because in the end, I felt that rather than being cleansed, I was instead, being pushed deeper into my soul-sickness.

And here we are…still the same, definitely not cleansed, but for better or worse, I finished the piece, and despite everything, my carousel is still spinning in its own way, and I’m still alive, spinning and dancing…fatherless or not…all of my darknesses be damned!

Love & All that Jazz,

~Lucia 13



Download Bedtime Stories



Bedtime Stories

Brittle-boned and feral-eyed, she sits atop her stony world, Fleecing her wolves for the rest of the story.

And those Devils make the sweetest playmates for the hollow-hearted girl, the girl whose Daddy nodded off before the story was finished, the girl whose Daddy slipped out of her room and away to Mexico to plant his rose gardens and finish his story for precious new daughters- that never play with Devils and never grow up twisted and lonely;


Not like the raven-girl, humming her birdsong dirge to her flock and waiting for the surrogate that’s going to fill those big, big holes in Daddy’s big, big shoes;

That girl, stroking those wolves and counting the days of dry cheeks and sugar smiles on her idle little hands.

I’m tugging at the rope but Daddy isn’t coming, no hero, (not now).

And my heat must have a spell behind its sweet ass ’cause those wolves keep fucking circles in my wet grass,

but for now, I’d settle for just a story (or two).

… Oh, the tragic little worlds we build when we’re half asleep and half mad.

Singing For My Supper: The Stories I Have Told

(A lengthy, but necessarily so, kind of post)

“So, what do you do?”
I can’t recall ever asking anyone that question, but it’s definitely on the top of the list for mainstream conversation, because people have asked me that a lot, especially lately, due to my socializing surge…And I haven’t a clue how to answer properly. I mean, my initial response would be to say something snarky like ‘well, I’m a chronic hand washer. I’m a terrible germaphobe. And if I give into the temptation of a burger, there’s a good chance I’ll cry myself to sleep, as in ugly-cry about the fact that I consumed something that used to be alive, probably felt love, might have had dreams-even nightmares and died just for selfish people and their primitive desire to eat other living things.‘ Don’t roll your eyes, I promise I’m not going all PETA on you-its just something that bothers me to the core whenever I give in, and eat meat…what other people do or eat is none of my business. I don’t judge you. Bacon smells good and I crave it at times. Sometimes, I could kill for some steak. I also bite my nails. These are all things that I do

Anyway, the ‘do’ question makes my head tingle and my scalp feel tight…Obviously, I know what they actually mean, but what am I supposed to say? Am I really supposed to tell them about the mind-numbing things I do for money? Am I suppose to explain my entire situation, condensed into some impossibly small 2 or 3 sentences? Should I mention that it’s an entirely a free-lance gig and that I have the advantage of earning money whenever I feel like doing it, day or night? Or what about the fact that sometimes, it comes down to the cold hard fact that there are days that if I want to eat during the following week, I need to invest 10 hours per day into telling fibs to companies? Singing the praises of their ads or products, when in fact I would probably never waste my money on them in real life? Should I tell them that I usually don’t even get paid anywhere near the minimum wage for all of the time and effort I invest into what I ‘do’?

I usually simply say ‘Well, I’m a writer by nature, but to keep the lights and AC on, its Market Research’. Then I do what I can to move past that statement as quickly as possible by turning the tables and asking them about what they ‘do’. But for the sake of hopefully explaining my day to day responsibilities to you once and for all, let me tell you a bit about it, and then move on to the main reason for this post: story-telling.

Day to day, I comb the internet looking for companies that want my ‘opinion’ on things-anything, from judging their ads to actually testing their products. Sometimes, I even waste days in focus groups with other people, all probably also wearing their comfy, worn-out PJS, and no doubt wondering what else they could possibly be doing to get out of their rotten financial predicament.

But in order to successfully pull the whole thing off, I have to tell some pretty tall tales sometimes, since companies rarely want to hear the truth. I suppose in a sense, I actually am being paid to create some convincing fictional tales, although the pay is next to nothing, but that’s beside the point. In order to appease the stingy mainstream companies, I have to become a very mainstream kind of woman. The character I usually portray is probably the most difficult character I could possibly portray because she is so unlike me. In this alternate world, I live in the suburbs. I sometimes drive an SUV, but I am also a faithful Toyota Camry lover, so its tough to choose which of those I drive to my boring little office job. I have two children that have never aged for the past few years-ever since I began doing this miserable gig (because 17 and 11 seem like the perfect ages for the kids that companies want to know more about.) I have considered adding a third child, a baby-but then I would be bombarded with an endless supply of diapers and baby formula to test, and I have no one to give these things to, so I would end up throwing them away, and I can’t bring myself to do that when so many people struggle to afford those things, and of course, there’s nowhere here to donate things to. Also, in the fictional world, I hang with my group of boring suburbanite girlfriends and we see mainstream movies during the first week of their release, and sometimes even vacation with one another. We go to the gym together, and I shop at places like Old Navy and Macy’s. I have a juicer that I use nearly every day and my friends and I love swapping recipes and making smoothies. I wear clothing with sports logos plastered everywhere-mainly Nike and Under Armour. I like sit-coms and I watch the Lifetime and WE channels, and I’m not much of a reader-except for the Bible, of course.

Umm…so, what do you think? Having just read the paragraph describing that empty slice of white bread woman, do you have the same bitter taste in the back of your mouth that I do? Because people love to search out things that offend them, maybe this is where I should insert a statement that I am in no way insulting people in their Nike clothing that live in cardboard-walled, cookie-cutter homes, but I can’t really say something like that without fibbing. I don’t understand that kind of life. Believe me, I’ve been around it often-I was 17 when I first moved into a friend’s family home in the suburbs. I was often peered at through people’s blinds when I walked down the street to catch the bus…I was the strange girl in black with the massive amount of black hair. I was really, really into Tama Janowitz then-so I wanted big ‘Tama‘ hair, and I wasn’t apologetic for that in the very least. I’m still not, actually. And I still love Tama, by the way. The houses on the street all looked the same. The people all wore pastel clothing and drove large, ugly vehicles. The women had orange, leathery skin and frosted hair. When they came home at 5 p.m., they were usually blasting some top 40 music. They were everything that I wasn’t, and to me, these people and that life was as alien as trying to fit into a tribe of headhunters or being a wife in a harem. I didn’t understand it, and being around it made me feel sick to the core. I’m still fairly certain that if Hell is real,  the demons all have fake tans, wearing old navy pullover sweatshirts, and humming Taylor Swift songs.

Again, if you are one of these people, it isn’t my intention to offend you, but you and I are two of the most extremes that anyone can be, and I’m quite sure that my life is probably as undesirable to you as your life is to me. I’m only discussing this because I want people to understand the tall tale I have created…The story I tell every day…the song I have been singing for my supper, so to speak. If you know me, you know why this is such a large feat to pull off.

But pull it off, I do. Every time I begin to doubt my storytelling capabilities, I look at this other world I have created, and as simple and sad as it is to me, it seems to fool enough corporate shit-wits into paying me to tell them this boring story. Of course, the pay I receive is the equivalent of what graverobbers were probably paid for their dirty job…but it pays for food and it keeps the lights on. That being said, its far too time consuming, and definitely the most mind-numbing job I can think of doing. But because I am seriously stuck in one of America’s typical dead little towns, with one factory, a handful of fast food places, and countless abandoned storefronts, and completely carless, it’s the only choice I have at the moment.

Of course, if you happen to have a job proposal, by all means, send me an email and let’s talk business.

BUT at last, something has happened to me! It appears that the fight or flight response has FINALLY kicked in for me, and finally, the times, they are  a’changin. You see, the past few months have been especially rough…and for a girl with a history of a lot of rough months  the especially rough months are pretty serious events, that even run the risk of becoming fatal– if not tended to properly. These past few months have found me really soul searching, waking up in the middle of the night midway through a panic attack, so there’s a new, harder drive in me to claw my way out of the place, both metaphysically and physically that I have been steeping in for quite a while now. I have finally settled on the first attempt at changing things, because I have finally convinced myself that even if it means skimping on making some money sometimes, I need to pull away from the mind-numbing work for a few hours here and seriously focus on the idea of creating something worthwhile, and hopefully even a tad bit profitable. I nearly said ‘lucrative’, but I’m a realist, (or maybe I’m just being too cynical?) I don’t think lucrative is as easy as it used to be, so I will accept a ‘tad bit profitable’ instead. I’m not tackling this with a single ounce of naivete…I will never appear on Oprah’s top book-list, nor do I desire to. Writers rarely become wealthy these days…But I’ll tell you about my new venture in the next post. This post is more about the art of storytelling.

I’ve never claimed to be good at anything, really. Actually, in retrospect, I think I’ve been a pretty decent (and most definitely interesting) mother. Of course, as I mentioned in a previous post or two, I wasn’t and am still not a conventional mother. I raised my child in a completely different world than most children are raised. I focused on allowing him to explore and experience the world while developing his personality to the full extent, all while keeping him wrapped in the most secure bubble tape possible, figuratively speaking, (for the most part). Just yesterday, we were discussing the fact that throughout his entire childhood, he had less than a handful of scraped knees, and this wasn’t because he did nothing but sit on his ‘Golden Child’ throne all day, but because I was basically holding his hand the entire time…while he grew. He was always free to speak his mind, always free to tell me when he disagreed with me, and even when he was 3 feet tall, I never towered above him and talked down to him like I’ve seen so many parents do. When he was scolded, it was always at eye level, me on my knees in the middle of a toy store, explaining why he wasn’t allowed to spend the next few hours reorganizing the shelves of Star Wars toys in a ‘cooler way‘. You might think this ‘over-mothering’ that I was accused of throughout his entire childhood would have made him into a fragile, helpless, needy adult. It hasn’t. Quite the opposite actually. As an adult, he is one of the most stable, well-rounded people that I have ever known. It makes me happy to think that I helped make him that way.

But, my days of making sure that my little boy was happy, entertained and healthy 24/7 are finished. And its been the hardest thing I have ever done…letting him go off into the world to live his own life. It hurts every single day. Even as I type this, tears are starting. My first priority is that he is happy, and that will always be my main priority, but I miss looking after him every minute of every day, and though people told me it would become easier, it hasn’t, and I don’t think it ever will. I cry every time I watch him drive away, but the fact that he is happy and the fact that perhaps my mothering abilities helped him become who he is – is an amazing comfort to me.

Now it’s time to focus on myself a bit more and to do all of the things that I had planned on doing before I found myself pregnant at age 20. I was a kid carrying around Henry Miller and Jack Kerouac library books in a plastic store-bag along with my rough looking notebooks, thinking that one day, people might want to read or hear what I had to say….the stories I wanted to tell.

I’m hoping that people still might want to read and hear them.

I grew up in a family of storytellers. My grandmother kept me entertained throughout my entire childhood with stories; everything from real-life ghost stories to the fact that ‘the president could push the button’ and then we would all become skeletons (at least that’s how my 8-year-old brain envisioned it) My mother has the same storytelling ability, so I was taught from a very early age how to create and tell my own stories. For me, storytelling is the only thing, besides being a mom that I really know how to do….except maybe use a bit of charm, but charm will only buy you so much before it wears thin, so storytelling it is!

Once, during the first week that I was living on my own (in the great big dingy wonderful city after escaping the terrible suburban life of my friend’s family paper-made house), I was invited to go for a drive with a pizza delivery guy that worked with my best friend. He spoke too loud, looked just like Izzy Stradlin and smelled strange. (I later discovered that was due to an easily treatable foot condition, but that’s not really the point.) Though he was socially awkward (and if I refer to someone other than myself as socially awkward, then you know they must be especially awkward!) It was my first week of being a grown-up, living on my own in the ‘real world’, so I accepted his invite to go for a drive.

Luckily, Mr. Smelly Feet was in some ways, the same kind of geeky as me…he mentioned his comic books and his music collection once we were in the car, and like the naive teenager I was, I agreed to go to his place.

I know what you’re probably thinking by now…that I may or nearly may have been physically assaulted, but that’s not where this is heading, I promise. He lived in an empty apartment with only stacks and stacks of books and albums and piles of clothing. His apartment smelled like a stronger version of his strange odor, but the stacks of albums made me forget the offensive odor and within seconds I was combing through his collection. I was so engrossed in his impressive collection of The Cure extended remixes, that I hadn’t noticed he had crept into his bedroom to retrieve a purple binder, until he and his unique waft was sitting beside of me, the purple binder in hand.

Before I had the chance to scoot away just a little, (since he was most definitely encroaching upon my personal space), he opened the binder and began reading-in a theatrical ‘how do I love thee?’ fashion. I tried not to laugh aloud once I realized that his performance was actually a sincere attempt to impress me. The words described a girl with long black hair and how he sometimes watched her ‘gaze from her second-floor window out at the busy (and often times dangerous, thanks to the crummy location of the apartment) night’. How he often parked his car beneath her window and fell asleep in the driver’s seat, happy to be near her, to feel his ‘wide-eyed angel’ breathing through the bricks of the wall. Yeah, I know…a bit over the top, but also quite charming to my younger self, especially when he stopped long enough to tell me that he had written this himself….and that I was that wide-eyed angel! And that he often braved the hookers, pimps and occasional knife-fights to actually sleep beneath my window.

I was flattered, and a little creeped out… I was barely 18 and had no clue what to do or say. A stack of Dungeons & Dragons books caught my eye, so I immediately began asking him questions about the world of D&D and hastily created some completely fabricated story about a D & D session that I once tried to participate in. Funny that I would remember the gist of his heartsick prose and the story that managed to steer him away from his attempt to woo me. I also remember that it was the first time that someone had written about being  smitten with me. Smitten is still a good word, by the way.

The completed fictitious D&D story I told him actually made him sit his folder aside and after a lengthy gaming explanation about what the game master had obviously been doing wrong with me, he began showing me some of his most treasured comics, all in the protective cases, all untouched and unread because ‘they would one day become priceless’. I had managed to escape the awkward purple binder. Eventually, I made an excuse for why I needed to go home, but of course, remembered to thank him for a ‘nice time’. I had no clue what to say about the words he had written for me or his dramatic performance, so I didn’t say anything.

This wasn’t the first and only encounter with him. I actually ran into him several times for the next few years. I even slept at his place when I had nowhere else to sleep, and I must give him credit-he always behaved like a true gentleman, and other than occasionally slipping something he had written for me under my apartment doors for a few years, he never pushed himself on me in any way.

However, years later he somehow managed to find me, and showed up unexpectedly at my door one day. I was somewhat more mature, so I managed to find the words to thank him for not only allowing me to stay at his place on a bitterly cold night but to also tell him that the things he had written for me throughout the years had not gone unappreciated- but due to the fact that I was a socially awkward, painfully shy person, I had not known what to say or how to handle it. The conversation ended with him telling me that ‘my aura was the purest white he had ever known’ and also, that I was in extreme danger because I was living with what he described as an actual demon. The ‘actual demon‘ he was referring to had just come home from work and had heard this last bit of the conversation, so a surpisingly angry male hormone-driven argument ensued and unfortunately, poor Shaggy Smelly-Feet was kicked and punched all the way to his car. I did try to intervene initially, and I remember screaming Stop! over and over but the whole scene was so shocking and so violent, I didn’t know what to do…so I stood there in tears, contemplating his white aura and demon statement, which had really, really affected me for some reason. If I had to do it all over again, I would have stopped the fight by inserting myself between the two of them, but I was a scared, clueless kid then. Anyway, the poor guy recovered both from his physical attack and also apparently from his heartsick feelings for me. Last time I saw him, he was wearing an oversized cowboy hat, Texan-style belt buckle, and a very thick mustache. He told me proudly that he had taken up line-dancing and was quite good at it. Perhaps I should have asked him about his Cure albums since he probably no longer had any use for them- in light of his new found passion for country music and all.

Another example of beneficial storytelling came years and years later…actually, it didn’t benefit me personally, but I was pleased with what I believe might have been directly attributed to my storytelling, (and perhaps a bit of my charm 😉 ).

I think I may have mentioned before that I basically lived a double life for years. No, I wasn’t a spy or something…nothing that interesting, but besides being the very attentive mother, I had a side-life. If you’ve read my blog, you might have read the post about my late night drive by the river, with a friend, after days of virtually no sleep. My secret side-life was that I actually managed to have a social life of some kind-sometimes, (as much as someone like me could comfortably manage a social-life). And I managed to keep it from everyone for several years. Of course, I didn’t want my social-life shared with my family…besides never really being understood or fitting in with my siblings or mother, I was never one that needed to draw attention to myself and I knew they would judge me for keeping company with what would be referred to as potentially dangerous strangers (which would have been an over-exaggeration by the way).

I’ve never been a bragger…I’ve never needed anyone to know of my successes or failures…I have never bragged about how much money I had in my pocket or handbag. I never understood my family’s need to excessively sing their own praises. Sure, I understand sharing good news with your family, but it was always more than that with them…they seemed to want to impress me(?) or make me feel they were superior to me in some sense. In truth, it did neither. I was happy that good things had happened to them, but I was never really impressed and I certainly never felt ‘outdone’, which I’m sure probably perplexed them, especially my brother, who was forever trying to appear as something or someone who’s success (aka surburban life) was surely unattainable to a weirdo like me. I simply smiled and said ‘great job’ or ‘looks good’. I never really needed to tell him that the life he was trying to desperately create was basically my idea of a domestic nightmare. He probably wouldn’t have understood or believed me, but then again, he was one of the harsher critics of my nonconventional kind of mothering, so it was useless to explain anything to him.

Anyway, the decade-long friend and confidante that was also my roommate wasn’t really a friend at a matter of fact, she was one of the most deadly types of backstabbers. I would sometimes test her by telling her things and watching how fast those things would trickle in some distorted way to my mother and then through to my siblings. It almost became a game for me…to confide or share something trivial or completely untrue with her and watch as the story changed and often became something altogether different by the time it reached my family and they found a way to smugly tell me that they knew all about whatever it was they thought they knew about me. But I found that when I really needed to share something important with her for whatever reason, making her swear on the life of the person she loved more than anything, actually forced her to keep her lips zipped-even though I’m sure she was often nearly bursting at the seams with the desire to share gossip with my family. They could all have whispered their criticisms of me and my pal, Judas, would have agreed with them that I was indeed a shameful woman. In truth, I sometimes went out with people, sometimes romantically, but usually just for some time on my own at the end of the day or night. I never wanted to introduce men into my son’s life. I firmly believed back then that I could somehow manage a social life while protecting him from the fact that sometimes mom went out to dinner with friends or a coffee shop with someone. Or even a fundraising event (gasp!). I know, I was indeed a wild, wild woman, right?

One of the most trusted friends I have ever had was someone I mentioned in the late night drive that I referred to a few paragraphs ago. He was and is a good person. He was older and much wiser than I was…and he lived such a different life than I had lived. He somehow managed to fit somewhere between the world I lived in and my perception of the real world. He was a counselor for the city’s Catholic charity services, and initially, I believed his aim was to eventually become a priest. Early on in our friendship, I spent a lot of time making colorful jokes about being a fallen woman and needing the help of such a Godly man to help me find salvation, while dancing around the empty cathedral where he counseled people that needed help. I was an immature brat…I still am, but I’m harmless as well (for the most part, at least). I was thrilled to know someone that  had lived such a vast range of lives in his nearly 50 years by the time I had met him, yet still found me interesting enough to befriend. He was the first person that dared to eventually mention the word bipolar to me, and he never once criticized me or tried to stop me during one of my manic rants. Instead he would sit quietly and watch as I tried to manage the words to form the sentences for the racing thoughts that I was having… for all of the speedy ideas and words I needed to say…for the times when my words couldn’t come out fast enough so I would eventually begin crying, because my brain was moving too fast and I was embarrassed and clueless about why any of this happened to me. He was also there at times when I spent all of my money in a manic shopping spree and needed financial help. He became a stand-in for the father that I never had. Even when I used to get angry that he remained ‘too calm’ while I was having one of my infamous bipolar extreme outbursts, ‘so he must surely be judging me as if I were one of his charity cases’, and I would tell him to fuck off, while vowing to never speak to him again. I was a different person then. I had no clue what was wrong with me and I certainly had no one in my life that cared (or maybe was just brave enough?) to tell me that I needed help getting things under control because in many ways I was spiraling…terribly so.

One day, he asked me if I would be interested in attending an event to raise money for some inner city wildlife sanctuary…My initial thought was about the art event I had stumbled into as a teenager for an art club exhibit that hadn’t gone well due to the fact that my Judas friend and I had shown up in teenage metal babe denim skirts and crop tops, clueless about anything art club-related. So, I wasn’t sure about attending something so formal, but he enticed me with the promise of really good cheeses ( one of my weaknesses) and wine (which is not a weakness at all), and made an attempt to joke about needing interesting arm candy. I accepted the offer-mainly because it was funny to hear his attempt at an almost off-colored joke, as well as the offer to purchase for me whatever I wanted to wear to the event. I knew my usual Bohemian-Goth-Hippie mash-up wouldn’t work…Tall fringy suede boots and a black velvet cape would not be adequate. I had the money to buy a nice dress for myself, but if someone wanted to buy me a dress, I was certainly not going to turn them down. Besides, despite all of his charitable efforts, he was after all, living in a newly built highrise overlooking the riverfront, so I took the money and ran, so to speak. Being frugal, I ended up buying a surprisingly inexpensive black velvet dress and pocketing the rest for shoes, music, and books. After all, it was no one else’s business that I’d managed to find a twenty-five dollar dress that I could pass of as something much more expensive, right?

So, even though I felt stomach sick at the idea of being around stuffy, wealthy people, I attended the event. I kept my head down for the most part, and immediately searched out an empty table to help me hide from the plastic, well-dressed people. Luckily, most of the people were actually quite elderly, (I suppose that older rich people care much more for inner city wildlife than younger rich people do?) So I was really relieved, but still a bit overwhelmed in twenty-five dollar dress and fifteen dollar shoes. While my charitable friend was making his rounds, schmoozing in honor of the inner city critters, I was sipping some cranberry drink and pretending that I actually didn’t hate cranberries. I felt out of place and self-conscious. I belonged in a dark club full of pale faces, black hair and heavy velvet clothing with mopey loud music blasting through my head, not here in a room full of wealthy people that surely recognized that I wasn’t one of their kind. I was staring at the glass of bitter juice when an older man asked if I was already bored so soon. I wanted to believe- like I usually want to believe when a stranger speaks- that he was talking to someone else. Reluctantly, I raised my head and found a tiny, much older man with cloudy, but kind eyes staring at me. He was smiling with what seemed like a genuine smile, but I couldn’t help but wonder if he was laughing at my general freakiness or maybe he had been asked by the other attendees to kindly but firmly see me out. I felt panicked and and wanted to crawl beneath the table. As he pulled the chair out, he asked if he could join me. Of course, I nodded and smiled as politely as I could, hoping more than anything that my charitable pal would save me ASAP. He didn’t. It was nearly an hour before I saw him again. In hindsight, I wonder if he deliberately left me on my own to ‘teach me’ about my ability to handle situations outside of my comfort zone.

Turns out, I didn’t need to be saved at all. As it happened, my table companion, Arnold (he preferred”Arnie”) hated soirees like this with a passion because it meant he “had to dust off his old monkey suit, which meant chasing away his moths for a while”. But because it was a good cause, he figured he should check it out. Then he asked me about my own passion for animals. What could I possibly say? I grew up in the country…when I was 4, I had a brilliant idea that I would explore the woods alone and find a bear cub to take home with me. I spent months searching for a bear cub to befriend, but sadly, never found one. I told him about how my parents used to run three small country grocery stores and that I used to trade small paper bags full of candy, I would sneak from the store, for pony rides. I felt silly telling him my stories, but he asked a lot of questions and listened intently, and often laughed at my young self’s ability to master fair trades for pony rides, and my attempt to entice bear cubs out of the woods with my half-eaten peanut butter sandwiches.

By the time my friend had returned to the table, Arnie had asked me if I wanted to dance, but because I am 5’9 and he was 5’1 in tall shoes (his word), I made a colorful joke about the height difference and the awkward situation we might find ourselves in. I still can’t believe I had the nerve to make a joke in such a setting, but he obviously enjoyed it thoroughly, because he laughed until he began coughing hard and for a few seconds, I was afraid he might fall out of his chair and land on the floor dead, like in a dark comedic movie or something. Later that evening, I ended up not only shaking his hand and giving him some sort of quick, formal hug, but he also managed to plant a kiss on both my hand and my cheek, as he said that it had been a pleasure to spend the evening in my company, so I assume Arnie actually enjoyed his time with me.

On the way home, I learned that Arnie’s family had been in the headstone and memorial business for over a century. Perhaps that’s why he didn’t find it difficult to strike up a conversation with someone who spent a great deal of her time reading, playing and even napping (true story) in cemeteries. A few days later, I also discovered that Arnie had donated more than any other individual had for the inner city wildlife preservation. Perhaps it was my colorful joke about the dangers of dancing with Arnie due to the risk of a cleavage-induced concussion (only made after he laughed about his own slight stature), Or maybe it was the stories of my pony rides/candy trading business or my attempt to befriend a bear cub with my peanut butter sandwiches that won him over.

Regardless of the real reason, the inner city wildlife sanctuary benefitted and I’ve never again felt under-dressed or intimidated by rich, plastic people.

Perhaps putting my storytelling to use now will benefit me too, and maybe…just maybe I will no longer need to waste so much time singing for my supper.

I’m working on my next post about my new project, so I promise it won’t be long.

Hugs & Colorful Jokes,


“Nice To Meet You”

I’m not a social person by nature. For the most part, I hide away from the world. I’m not sure why I am this way, but I have been for as long as I can remember. I remember on the first day of school, I hid inside of the plastic playhouse that was set up in the middle of the classroom. The teacher seemed enormous to me, and she towered over the playhouse as she told me to come out and have a seat. I was terrified, not only of her but of being there, with the other kids. I wanted to be home, where I could run around the yard barefoot, trying to catch the random, stray puppies and cats that were always being dropped off by people, who for some reason must have believed that our house needed more animals. I belonged outside, with my tangled hair and dirty bare feet, not in a cold classroom with an ogre-ish teacher barking at me in a husky voice to have a seat at a desk with the other kids.

“If you don’t come out and say ‘Hello’ to everyone, no one will ever like you, and you will be alone. You will never have friends as long as you hide”. I assume this was meant to coax me, to instill some kind of fear in me, so that I would do as I was told. But fear tactics have never worked on me-just ask my mother and ex step-father. I didn’t care about having friends. I had a younger brother that was more of an annoyance than anything (he was nearly 5 years younger than me, so of course he wasn’t actually a friend). I had 6 male cousins, nearly my age, that I sometimes spent the weekend with. They were tough, but I was just as tough, at least most of the time, until snakes and worms were tossed at me. Even then, as I have mentioned in a previous post or two, I still held my own because I was a dead aim with big rocks, so for every worm or snake that was tossed at me, my feral cousins were pelted with rocks and usually cried like babies because of my lethal stone-throwing. So, the idea of friendship was foreign and absolutely of no importance to me.

But, as soon as Ms. Ogre walked back to her desk and grabbed a giant wooden paddle from her drawer, I decided to save us both a lot of time and tears by coming out of the house and finding a seat. I tried to ignore the dozens of eyes staring at me, as I twirled my messy hair around my finger and stared at the tacky blue carpet.

Decades later, I still remember her words and the vile way she spat them at me, with some vengeful satisfaction, as if maybe she longed for friends but didn’t have any. She was a rotten teacher, not at all a child-friendly adult, and now that I think of it, perhaps I should seek her out on Facebook (if she’s even still alive, that is), and say something like “Who’s got friends now, you big, ugly, bitter cow?”

Of course, that would be stretching the truth just a bit…not about the name-calling, but about the friends. Truth is, I have a handful of people that I speak to on a regular basis. But there are many people that I speak to often, just not regularly. At last count, I have 540 people on my friend’s list on facebook now. I’ve engaged in conversation with many, many of them. Mostly about music, but sometimes about other things too. (I nearly began to type a list of those topics, but it doesn’t seem fair to them to do so.) And I enjoy those conversations, though at the moment there are around 60 messages that I haven’t read from the past month. I’m social in small bursts…replies take me a lot of time. Then again, I’ve been told more times than I can count that ‘there’s real time, and then there’s Luci’s idea of time’. I couldn’t possibly deny the truth of that statement, but I think it has always served me well in many, many ways. Once, I heard Prince say that he abandoned the concept of time, including his birthday…I don’t go that far, but I feel I have a pretty good relationship with  ‘time abandonment’. It definitely makes me a happy person when people tell me that I don’t look old enough to have a son that is as old as he is, (I give 100% of the credit to time abandonment…and perhaps a little to retinol ). But of course, my insecurity kicks in as it always does when anyone compliments me about anything, and I tell myself that they are playing the ‘opposite’ game: saying the exact opposite of what they really mean. I do that a lot…OK, most of the time when someone says anything kind to me.

I have a difficult time looking anyone in the eye too. It’s not that I’m hiding anything…well, I’m always hiding something or other, but not from most people, so it has nothing to do with a guilty conscience. It’s not out of insecurity either. I dislike looking people in the eye because I usually can see their story (or stories), and I feel bad for them. Every time it happens, every time I accidentally look someone in the eye or feel compelled out of respect to look them in the eye, their stories come rushing out at me, sometimes strong enough to knock the spiritual wind out of me. At times, when I look people in the eye, I see what surely must be the look many people must give right before they die: some helpless, scared, lonely, questioning look. You probably think I’m over-exaggerating, but I’m not. I hate it-the sad, scared look I see so often. I’m not sure if that’s where my effort to avoid eye contact originated…I can’t remember when it started. Maybe I have always been this way. Anyway, I have sometimes said that “If I deliberately look you in the eye, it’s because I either really, really Love you, or I really, really dislike you.” But of course, there are those eye-contact accidents, like on Wednesday night, when I was making my way down an aisle in the shabby little grocery store up the street.

There’s a lady that works there-actually a few ladies that work there, that are friendly, and often initiate conversations whenever we are there. One even remembers the kind of cookies and chocolate bars I like. That’s nice, but also a bit…invasive(?) But still, for the most part, it’s nice. One of the women was in the aisle straightening cans as I walked by. She turned, just as I walked by and said “Hi”. Around people I don’t know, I’m quite…I mean, my voice is sometimes little more than a whisper, which really bugs me, because it makes me feel like a little kid, hiding behind my mother’s chair at my step-father’s relatives’ houses when I was 5. I definitely don’t want my voice to come out as a whisper-ever. I’m basically known in several circles for being vocal, so it makes me angry that my voice disappears at times. Maybe I’m trying to compensate for the very loud people that live in my apartment complex: Every single person yells when they speak. The armchair psychoanalyst side of me says this is because they are so desperate to be heard by someone, due to their sad, little lives. That last part isn’t a judgment, its fact. They are miserable people; you could ask any of them how they were doing and they would say just as much, I’m sure. That’s dead-end small town life for you. Their highlights are smack and meth they manage to score from selling hot items, or if they’re really lucky, scoring some pennies from the rip-off check-cashing places that pepper this place. Perhaps my whisper is to distinguish myself from the yelling despots. (Great band name, I think: The Yelling Despots™)

Excuse my rambling. Back to the accidental eye-contact from a few days ago. After my “Hi” came out as a whisper, and I began to walk away, she stopped me with a “Hey, where have you been? I was thinking about you a few days ago!” And there it was…I had to turn and meet her in the middle of the aisle to participate in some kind of social interaction thing. And I accidentally looked her in the eye, and it was sad. Really, really sad. Like an animal in the headlights kind of scared-sad. It happened again a few minutes later at the check-out. I accidentally looked her in the eye. She’s a kind person, she even offered us a Christmas tree (actually after Christmas, she said she would have given us one-even though we have a stupid tree, but I didn’t feel like decorating last year…I’m not a traditional gal at all), but I can tell she’s had a tough time throughout her life. That makes me sad, mainly because I can’t fix it for her. If I could, I would fix all of the sad, scared eyes telling those sad, scared stories in the world, so if by chance, I did want to look someone in the eye, I would see nothing but happy stories and blue sky-smiles.

So, even though it isn’t my nature to be social, I have been trying, and pretty much succeeding lately, (except for the past week, when I basically went off the grid). But I’m back and I’ve already accepted three new friend requests today. And with each of the nearly 540 “Hello” messages I’ve received, I’ve replied with “Hi, Nice to Meet You” and I mean it every single time I say it. 540 interesting people from all over the world, living 540 very different lives. Even a terribly shy introvert like me can appreciate such beautiful thought.

540…Take that, Ms. First-Grade Ogre Teacher!

Hugs from my plastic playhouse,


P.S. I have a pretty interesting mix on my ark of friends, so of you want, send me a friend request. I promise I won’t bite…but there’s also a good chance it will take me *ages* to reply to any messages I owe you 🙂

*Blame it On Luci-Time*


The Dark Hippie and Her Crunchy Love

One of my readers told me that I am a wonderful ‘Dark Hippie’

I think ‘Dark Hippie’ is much, much better than the “Granola-loving, black-haired, tattooed spoiled brat living in your mother’s basement” comment I received during a small political kerfuffle with a Trump supporter.

My reply to that one:

‘I DO have black hair, well actually it’s sort of  faded from black to a dark brown at the moment, which is really bugging me because black hair is sort of my security blanket and one of the many ways I separate myself  from women like you…BTW, is that yellow-gray hair I see in your profile photo intentional? Is that a frosted look you’re sporting? I didn’t even know that frosting was still a ‘thing’!

I don’t have a single tattoo, mainly because I’m not into pain at all…I mean, there WAS that brief self-pain inflicting phase in high school, because I desperately wanted attention. I was such a sad, sad kid, and I wanted someone to just listen to me and to tell me that one day, that hellish period of my life would just become a bad memory, (well, several bad memories) and while my peers would all become leathery looking orange people, I would blossom into some mysterious butterfly-ish being. I actually still have a collection of very faint, little scars from those days…they remind me who I used to be and of how much stronger I am now. Tell me Sunshine, do YOU have any scars that remind you of who you once were and how much you have changed?

I’ve never been spoiled…well, actually that’s a fib, I’ve been a little spoiled at times, but I’m a headstrong feminist, so I prefer spoiling myself these days…except for breakfast…and dinner, most of the time; I definitely still like being spoiled like that. I’m also a sucker for having my hair played with too 🙂

I haven’t spoken to my mother in a very, very long time, especially post-election, because we are now on completely opposite sides of the…’wall’ in my mind, and she’s never had a basement, and even if she did, I wouldn’t live down there-I’ve always preferred top to bottom in most situations 😉

But granola-loving? Damn, woman, you hit that nail on the head big time! Love Crunch is my favorite, but I’m a granola sleaze, so I’ll take whatever is available most of the time. What’s your favorite granola, Sweetie?’

I even posted a photo of my favorite granola for her.

She only replied with a picture of various handguns and what I assume are assault rifles (I’m not very good with identifying guns) displayed on a table with a sleeping beagle in the background. I’m not sure if I was supposed to be impressed or feel threatened, but I’m quite certain she is not a fellow granola lover 😀

Peace & Love (Crunch),

~ Dark Hippie 13


Birthing Ghosts (new blog and piece)

This will be a quickie post (I can’t believe how long it’s been since I last posted-its shameful!)

I’ve been working on a sister blog of Whispers From The Underground. I will continue to post my random ramblings here, and Birthing Ghosts will be entirely my work. Although much of the new blog isn’t up yet, the first post and piece (also titled Birthing Ghosts) has finally been posted. So have a look, if you’d like and let me know what you think of the new piece. It very well might become a spoken piece soon, since as I was writing it, it came to me as a vocal piece.



Also, I’m working on several posts for this blog that have been hanging out in my Drafts folder for the last 2 months.

Dear Beloved Private-Eye Pimp-Daddy,








Random message for my late father, the original Huggy Bear,

While tunneling my way through the boring slow Monday work I was suffocating under, I did what I often do when I am working-I entertain myself and pass the time by opening countless tabs from places like eBay in hopes of finding some amazing deal on some potential staple piece that my currently under construction wardrobe might be missing and seriously yearning for.

As I was glancing down endless pages of useless, boring button-up blue shirts, itchy-looking, pastel sweaters, and dreadful khaki mom-pants, there were occasional…colorful pieces that caught my eye. After the third or fourth time of enlarging what ended up being some colorful blue/brown (two of my favorite colors) silk button up travesties, it dawned on me what was subconsciously happening: I am becoming you, and at an exponential rate!

You see, I already understand the habits you have passed on to me because I live with them 24 hours a day. I know that I have your eyes, your nose, and your excessive need to endlessly find ways to turn a dime into a dollar…or two. I often lay awake at night, searching my brain for some master scheme, plan, that will dig me out of this deadbeat town, this angry country and my own demons.

But we need to have a chat about something else, that has always been apparent, but may be finally getting out of hand: It’s your sense of fashion, Dear Daddy-O, and how it’s really beginning to affect me, even more than it always has.

You see, it was totally cool that you spent the 70’s in your plaid suits, driving your groovy brown-paneled station wagon. It was the 70’s…you were simply embracing the era. And then, when I saw you last in 89′, you showed up at my door in your ark-sized, deep-brown Cadillac, sporting your dark brown pullover sweater under your somewhat retro leather pimp-style coat (so, my love for brown comes from YOU-I just somehow figured that out!). I thought it was fine…even a bit wild, in a cool way. After all, you were a colorful character, to say the least… a man with big, big stories… you were 65% shady private investigator in your long, tan detective trench coat (by the way, I just bought a long army-green trench coat last month, Pops. Pretty cool, huh?) but you were also 35% pimp…yeah, I know… real pimp…and for the most part, I have made peace with that, because it was different era and you were a noir-ish character…but, you see, if I’m not careful, my wardrobe will stop looking so, sorta sexy, dark hippie momma and more like Huggy Bear ala Starsky and Hutch. No offense, I dig that look…I mean, in the 2004 Starsky and Hutch movie, Snoop as Huggy Bear seriously slayed.



BUT, I’m not sure that his look is really a good look for me. I usually describe my look as “Gypsy Goth Bohemian Nitemare Hippy Girl“, and I don’t think there’s really any room for ‘Pimp-Darling‘ in that description, so please…please, stop forcing my eye to the most dreadful silky, orange, mustard-yellow combinations or silk brown shirts that even Giorgio A. Tsoukalos would have trouble fitting into his beloved brown wardrobe. Your influence on my style is already permanently etched into my personal stylish flair, like my love for crocodile print shiny shoes, or shiny shoes in general, and my own taste for mock pimp 70s brown leather jackets, faux fur-trimmed everything, oh, and I even have a pretty strong thing for fringy stuff (where did THAT come from BTW? Is that Mom’s fault?) but let’s leave it at that, OK? While I do truly have a love for hats and am still awaiting the perfect opportunity to wear two of my favorites-including a Huggy Bear 70’s inspired brown, velvet newsboy cap that I recently rediscovered, similar to the one I’m wearing in one of the photos below, I think we need to stop before feathered fedoras creep up, and I am fairly certain that if I don’t put the breaks on your fashion influence now, feathered hats will begin to appear in my newly budding wardrobe.

OK, that’s it for now. I hope you’re doing well in your heavenly (?) jazz bar, which I hope contains a fully-functional Mexican buffet.

Now, I am off to look for something solid colored and preferably black…maybe velvet and low cut…possibly adorned with a touch of faux fur.

Who knows, I might pair it with some shiny black shoes and a faux crocodile print handbag.

Love & Adoration,

~13 (aka Huggy Girl)



A few examples of your legacy:


redmagda         newfur       img_0001

Luciiiiia #1 BW_1

‘Now, Ain’t That Just Like Me?’


If you’re keeping up with things, you already know this was meant to be posted on the 2nd, however, I’m still not great at the work/writing balance, so it’s late. Juggling time is at the top of my resolutions list. Actually, I read somewhere that you should say intentions, rather than resolutions, so my number one intention is to carve out more space for writing and blogging.

If you know anything about me, you know that music means the world to me. I could write my life story by simply making a very long playlist. I published a few posts in the past about particular songs and what they meant to me and how they correlated with a particular time or incident in my life. However, revisiting some of those times became a bit too much for me and rather than ‘good therapy’ it became ‘bad dreams’, so I had to take a break from it.

I’ve written posts featuring my ‘top 10’ songs of the year before, and I felt like doing it again for 2016. I searched several places (like my MP3 player, online playlists, etc) to find my ten most listened songs of 2016, and this is the list. Of course, this list has everything to do with what I was going through and feeling, and how the songs directly affected me and my life at the time I was listening to them each on ‘repeat’. But rather than explain my reasons for each song, I’ll leave it up to you to figure out, if you want to. If not, just press play and listen to 10 really great songs. Also, I’ve added lyrics in places that lyrics might be hard to decipher. This tracklist is basically my life in 2016. I hope U enjoy it, or at least get something from it.

Love & Hugs,



10.)   Dead Mans Bone – In The Room Where You Sleep

‘I saw something sitting on your bed,
I saw something touching your head,
In the room where you sleep,
In the room where you sleep…’




09.)     Crystal Castles – Femen When I first heard this, I remember feeling a slow, sinking, sad feeling. A few days later, I discovered that it was actually a cover of a song… in reverse. I’ve added the second video of the song played forward, and when you hear what song is actually being covered, you might understand why that sinking, sad feeling happened.



08.) Santigold – Anne 

‘My name is Anne, I got a plan
I may lack virtue but I’m penitent

To lose my mind, it’s never easy
A shadow, still, there’s weight to me
J-J-Jesus pieces, rescue me
The more I try, the more it gets too complicated
J-J-Jesus pieces, rescue me
The more I give up, the more it takes, the more it takes
J-J-Jesus pieces

My name is Anne, I’ll take a stand
I’ll hold my head up, dig on in
You can bait me for the hell of it
I’ll take it for the hell of it

See it there but it’s too far ahead
Go numb from how bad I want it
See it there but it’s too far ahead
And I hear you calling to me right from here

J-J-Jesus pieces, rescue me
The more I try, the more it gets too complicated
J-J-Jesus pieces, rescue me
The more I give up, the more it takes, the more it takes
J-J-Jesus pieces’



07.)  Cold Cave – A Little Death To Laugh

‘Somewhere in the Kingdom
Of my memory
A mirage of youth
A stream of infancy…

I give you half the love I need
And no more…’



06.) Matthew Dear – Around a Fountain

‘You know hurt and what it’s worth
And I don’t need to tell you much
But one thing is clear, you’re living in reverse
Because love is hurt and hurt is hers
You don’t need to hear the truth
Because, darling, truth can’t handle you
You’ve set your course; there’s no reverse
Because love is hurt and hurt is hers’



05.) David Bowie – Lazarus

‘Look up here, I’m in heaven
I’ve got scars that can’t be seen
I’ve got drama, can’t be stolen
Everybody knows me now…’



04.)  This Cold Night – Black Rose

‘At death we sit at the bitter table
surrounded by faceless company
and life has lost sweetness
when every eye is full of pity…’



03.) Beck – Wow

‘Wanna move into a fool’s gold room,
With my pulse on the animal jewels
Of the rules that you choose to use to get loose
With the luminous moves
Bored of these limits, let me get, let me get it like…

It’s like right now


….Look around, don’t forget where you came from…’



02.) The Afghan Whigs – Be Sweet

Ladies, let me tell you about myself
I got a dick for a brain
And my brain is gonna sell my ass to you
Now I’m OK, but in time I’ll find I’m stuck
‘Cause she wants love, and I still want to fuck

Now that I’m ashamed, it burns
But the weight is off
Now that you’re out of the way
I turn and I can walk
You showed no sympathy, my love
And this was no place for you and me to walk alone
On my grave, am I OK?
I’m sure I’m not

Ladies let me tell you about my love
She kept giving me more
But it wasn’t enough
So understand
Now that I come to you
To understand my little self
To understand my little self
And baby you be sweet’



01.) Bellmer Dolls – Every Angel is a Terror


‘Lipstick on your pretty face
and smeared across your pretty face
Everyone you used to do
Everything you put us through
You were always taken care of…

Your face, it could replace the past…

Sleep in the ruins you design, you design…

Every Angel is a Terror…’

Thanks for reading & listening.

LaLa Love U  😉