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john galt

March 26, 2011

All caution to the wind, I am having a great life right now.
(ok, maybe I surreptitiously just knocked wood after…ever since reading The Good Earth as a child and having the concept of gods who do not like to hear men laugh too loudly over their blessings introduced to my small brain, I have been kind of slippery feeling every time I make an announcement of extreme satisfaction to the world at large. However, it is striking me just now that this is a fucked up way to go through life, and The Good Earth was actually kind of a fucked up book, and why the hell was I reading that so young? I did not have the faculties to deal with some of those concepts back then. However, here I am a solid decade and a half or so later, reversing the pessimistic damage done and stating to the sky, the gods, Wang Lung and the fates: when I am blessed and and happy and fat with the quantity of the good and gorgeous little things in my life, I AM GOING TO RUN THROUGH THE HALLS OF MY HIGHSCHOOL AND SCREAM AT THE TOP OF MY LUNGS.
That is funny because I never went to high school.
So there, Pearl S Buck. Maybe you should have written something with more good in it about the good earth. In my opinion you mostly wrote about the bad human. Seriously. No wonder I grew up so existentially cynical from such a young age. Also to the sky, the gods, Wang Lung and the fates: stop letting (unarguably beautiful and talented) authors of depressing ass people are ultimately shit commentaries title their brilliant twisted works of loss and despondency with misnomers of hope and endurance and peace. Seriously).

Wow.
So that was a rant I did not previously know was in the making. Sometimes you have a thought and before you know it your true feelings are out there all over the screen and you’re just like DAMN STRAIGHT Pearl S Buck, thanks for making me cry dry tears of hollow despair into my pillowcase in my tender years; thanks so much for the bootprint of distrust in humanity your nasty well written incredibly bitter work of art left across my little soul.
Sigh. PS. Not that I believe for a moment anything you wrote was anything other than true. Except for the exhibiting your joy to the gods thing. You were wrong about that.

Jesus Christ.
Superstar.
Apparently this is just a rant sort of a day. Now I am thinking about the world of literature and all that it did to my young soul during my formative years…man…that is a long list, and I have never once thought about this before. It’s easy to look back on an actual relationship and blame it for triggers or jagged edges in one’s personal bedsheet…but there are so many more relationships that I have had with people who have never existed or who have not existed in my own life frame. I have only been in love twice in my life, and I would have dropped the hat myself and walked into the pages of multiple books without a backward glance for the pure burning love of a work of fiction. I would die for my siblings in a last heartbeat, and I would have died passionately and with honor for many a precious, altruistic protagonist before my second sibling could even talk.
Man, books are the power.
Seriously.
I have been reading since I was four years old, and as I was a crafty and devious child whose favorite things were staged combat with other children or curled reading with an apple in the corner of the couch, my reading material was not really censored in any effective way. I was speed reading by the time I was eight, and so I had my above board parent sanctioned reading, which I did at home, at church, in the grocery store…and then I had my secret world of reading, where I would hie myself to a secret corner of the library while my mom spent an hour picking out books with my baby siblings, and I would speed read through all sorts of objectionable material. Since my second favorite thing was reading, because I went through a three hundred page book in about two hours, and because my mom was a stay at home whose primary function beyond teaching and raising me was to keep me safely occupied, we went to the library two to three times a week. This worked out to quite a few illicit fictional dalliances, and I read a lot of crap that I probably was not prepared for.
One dark day, I gave myself away by asking my dad, ‘hey, what’s U-R-I-N-E?’ Shut up I was eight, and we always just referred to it as pee. My dad looked at me funny, took the book I was reading, (a doozy of shorts on the nazi holocaust borrowed without permission from the extensive personal library of one of his historically minded adult friends), and, after scanning it for a moment, closed it and took it away with the words ‘I don’t think you should be reading this.’
He told my mom, and because the book was comprised of all sorts of shocking brutality including but not limited to destitution, disease, rape, murder, and mass barbarism, there was a massive uproar. It was a time of upheaval. I hid myself behind a pretended lack of comprehension, and my parents folded me to their bosoms, did not tell me what U-R-I-N-E was, (dude. we had a dictionary. I found out fast), and confiscated the book. They also went through the rest of my reading material, found multiple other contraband books smuggled from the book shelves of family friends, and the crackdown began in earnest.
Of course because my parents had jobs to do, other younger children to care for, bills to pay, meals to cook, and sleep schedules to submit to, and I had massive amounts of unfilled free time, an overactive imagination with sadly few demands on its creativity, and the god given ability to stay up all night reading a book out the window by moonlight, the war on mental drugs was not much of a success. I had to be even more crafty than previously now that my parents were on to my sticky fingered book borrowing, but as aforementioned I had ample resources to do so. I began my super secret ops reading missions by stealing back the nazi urine book, and I finished it (to my great mental detriment naturally, that book was a filthy compilation of pain and horror). Then I stole back all the other books and finished them. And I continued to carry out this stealthy consumption of fucked up literature until I was about twelve and my parents had four other children and no time to police my paperback intake.
At which point I branched out into Dostoevsky and Ayn Randishness, and became filled with despair at the overblown long winded meat at the heart of all that is wrong with this world: too many words lavished on pet concepts that ultimately should be kicked in the head anyhow and sat in the corner to repent their countless fucking pity parties of the soul.

All that to say, I am

The best drawer in the house

and I am off to

Woe. I am sick, with the galloping snot again.

Fortunately it’s pouring plain old dogs here, no raindrop this size could ever be effectively compared to a cat or a teacup chihuahua; so I am planning on drinking seventeen cups of tea and lying in bed all day reading star wars novels and watching the latest episode of America’s next top model. I don’t know about you, but this sounds like the perfect day to me if there can somehow be some soup or orange sherbet in there without my having to haul my ass out of bed and around the corner to the market. Probably that is not feasible, as Alain is working and the cats are good for nothing but shredded treasures and guilt trips over brands of tuna fish. Oh well. Eventually I will shove on my platform sneakers and take myself out to the corner store for smooth riding edibles. Meantime, yay tea.

So I’m totally glad I didn’t wind up making it to Portland, as I cannot see myself doing such a great job of driving back to SF with the nostrils on full blast and the nyquil rattling around in my head like a rat who can’t figure out how to run inside the wheel and so it tries to run on top for about two seconds and then falls into the sawdust again. I am so making fun of the Dahkness right now. May she rest in peace.

I will still be coming up to Portland shortly anyhow. I have divined that gas, which has shot up abominably in price since I last paid any attention whatsoever, approximately three years ago, will cost about two hundred dollars round trip to and from Portland. This makes my knuckles jut out in bony fingered indignation, but hey apparently this is what everybody’s been so pissed about for so long while I was blissfully walking anywhere I wanted to go and forking over twenty dollars a month tops for gas for the odd grocery haul or family visit to Newberg. This realization of course totally restructures the happy little twenty four hour continuous monologue I had going wherein I drive up to Portland all summer whenever I want and everything is very cheap for everyone and my car stereo somehow mysteriously works and plays all soul soarers all the time, and it is always sunny. Now that I have learned the sad truth, the terrible thing about life, I am kind of feeling that airplanes are still the best way to go. It’s just…if every single way is going to cost money from the hundreds column, then only a great fool would choose the method that is costing and is also taking the longest. Unless of course a great fool wants one day to drive for ten hours on purpose to feel the wind through her hair, and then have her car in Portland for the shuttling around of one loved one at a time. I bet I could cultivate the world’s greatest torso only tan on that drive with the top down.

In other but highly related news, someone found my blog today by googling ‘how to get around driving through mt shasta.’ I am now officially a useful and informational blog. So there, doubters. I must

Am sad.
All grown up, and pissed at snow.

Several weeks ago I was talking to Alain about my plans for driving up to Portland tomorrow, and he said like a reasonable person who has made that exact drive frequently, ‘have you checked the weather?’
As someone who has never driven this route on her own and spends the majority of group drives looking out the window at trees, also as a general nonplanner, I had not. I continued to not check the weather every day until yesterday, when I was beginning to pack for my incredible badass solo roadtrip from new home to old: ‘have you checked the weather? said Alain.
I had not. But to appease his preplanning finicky ass intelligent person brain I looked up the weather, and my feelings fell flat like a brick falling one inch from straight up. Thwap.
Apparently there are three ways to get to Oregon from California in a very small, nearly useless two seater packed to the guts and very totally paid off. Apparently two of them go through Mt Shasta, which is covered in snow right now, continues to get consistent heavy snowfall, is on ‘weather warning alert,’ and requires chains for traversing I5. Apparently this will last till Wednesday.
Apparently there is one other way to get to Oregon from California, which is to take the scenic route down the 101. It takes four hours longer but is prettier, and since I was already in for an eleven hour drive I might as well be in for a fifteen hour drive. I mean seriously.
‘Did you check the weather report?’ said Alain.
I had not. With vague and muddled flash images of myself in fabulous shoes in five inches of highway snow trying to figure out how to apply fucking chains to fucking tires without a single cigarette whilst semi trucks ruoar and suvs berpleberple behind me in my now chastened mind, I went and I looked up the road conditions.
Apparently the third route bypasses Mt Shasta entirely! Smugness returned prematurely. To avoid the snow one had only to avoid Mt Shasta by way of Grants Pass? Grants Pass has had snow, continues to have snow, and expects to have further snow? Chains required almost asap you merge onto I5?

Poutx144

Here is Jude Law pouting for me. No it does not make me feel better.

Jude Law and I do not approve of snow on highways, and we are

First of all, I love my new desk. It is orange and it has four drawers and it hugs the wall like a long slender pimp desk should.

I feel kind of like Mr Rosso right now. My planned parenthood closed. I feel like we all tried to stand with planned parenthood this time around, I personally signed rafts of petitions for weeks and wrote actual letters to my congresswoman, and I have a donate now email in my inbox all saved and ready for my next paycheck…and too late. My planned parenthood is closed anyway. STUPID FUCKING COWS, is all I can say. What do they expect to come of this? Oh I know, I bet now everyone will wait till after a two year courtship and a five hour wedding sermon to have sex, and will instead turn their passion toward the arena of higher callings, maybe like good old gay bashings or fucking anti abortion protest riots.
Right now I hate America.
I am always right there on top of the little heap that is fortunate enough to live in the little bubble of open minded thinking, yelling about how we can’t just all give up on our country and move to Europe and leave it to the disgusting nonrecycling overbreeding intolerant asshats of the midwest…I am always all no, we cannot abandon our beautiful land to a fate worse than death, a slow destruction under the hands that hate it, yadda yadda…and I know I am sounding just as closed minded as any toothpick chewing daughter fucking abortion hating redneck right now, but I am always saying how if we can all just work together and try to move toward love and tolerance and the golden ratio it will all be ok and the world will heal and nobody will ever be alone and ugly again…
and now I could seriously just stir y’all into a big mixing bowl of silly putty and have superman drop kick you into space, I am so mad that you have decided that I cannot have access to my birth control anymore. I can sure as hell go and find more birth control, but that is not the point; the point is that I had birth control, and I had a doctor who cared about me, and I was happy and you decided to change that for me.
I do not even know who I’m talking to, is the sad thing. I don’t know what your faces look like, or where your wallets are connected. I just know that you are fucking with my freedom and you have rocked the very boat in which my deep stability is rooted.
People should have the right to tell each other not to hurt one another. People should not have the right to tell each other not to take care of themselves in the way that seems best to them.
Funny then how someone has hurt me and my immediate and most hardcore reaction is the pointy toothed desire to rip someone’s head off and throw it over a wall.
I am mad.
And I thought I was doing something about it, but apparently not.
Now I can either sit on my ass and suck it or I can actually put in some effort and have my howl be heard.

http://www.plannedparenthood.org/

I am

about to nap like mad

March 17, 2011

new job is great

sex is great

brain is tired

body is tired

and I am