Oh, Sweet Jesus, Waxing Philosophical

https://youtu.be/6Ux6SlOE9Qk
Occasionally, you will find a serious post, when I’ve had a hard day or something knocks me out of my bubble of detachment into the world of feeling.  I’m usually really good at distracting and self-medicating away from the realm of emotions, but music is one of those things that invariably makes me, ugh, feel.  This song especially strikes me.  Please, please click on the link at the top of this post.  It is beautiful and poignant and strong.  I’ve been this woman.  More than once, unfortunately—in fact, most of my life.   It began as a child, as far back as I can remember, and then branched out into about 75% of the  boyfriends I ever had, and then my first marriage.   I  met plenty of “nice guys” along the way, but, because I  had no schema  for what a “nice guy” is, I thought they were alien creatures  and really didn’t know what to do with them.  So I continually ran back to what I knew, which was very unhealthy and destructive,  and  was broken again.  And again.  And again.   This is one of those deeply personal, drunk confessions that I’m going to regret tomorrow, but it’s so important to reach out to other women who have been in this place.   When you’re lying face down, bruised and broken, and you look up at the person who put you there and say, “That didn’t hurt,” you’re trying so desperately to take power back.  It’s the emotional equivalent of getting knocked down in the ring for the 10th time and standing back up while every bit of self-preservation is screaming, “Stay down, you fool!”  But you can’t accept defeat.  So, knowing it might literally kill you, you muster up every shred of strength and dignity you’ve saved in your entire life, turn to the monster who is literally and/or figuratively crushing the life out of you, eyes bruised and swollen shut, blood running from a busted lip, and say, “That. Didn’t. Hurt.”  And even if what follows is horrible punishment– physical or mental or emotional– you know deep down that you took some power back.  And that means you still have some life left in you.  It means you are a survivor.

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Def Leppard is the Motherfuckin’ Shit

My husband and I have a beautiful and shameful ritual of getting really drunk every Friday night and listening to the 80s music we loved growing up.  And fortunately for us, YouTube has every music video ever made, no matter how old or obscure.  Chugging rum and Coke while watching a bunch of guys in spandex shake their hair sweat all over the stage is weirdly therapeutic after a week of dealing with assholes and morons in equal share.  Come by our apartment at any given moment on a Friday between 8:00 PM and 5:00 AM, and you’ll find us drunkenly belting out the lyrics to Rock of Ages and our frustrations along with it.  You’ll also find my husband playing air guitar in a wonderfully obscene way that looks like he’s having the greatest upright sex in history.   I’m jealous of that air guitar.  Then my hubby gets really sweet.  He makes me dance to Rod Stewart and Barry Manilow and Bruce Springsteen while he softly sings in my ear and holds me against his solid chest.  This ritual is the highlight of my week.  I’m a supervisor at a fine-dining establishment.  By the time Friday afternoon rolls around, I  am so sick of dealing with an ungrateful and entitled general public,  and wound so incredibly tight from the stress of running the joint, that I feel like a rubber band that’s on the verge of snapping.  I firmly believe I have found the perfect formula for releasing that stress in a way that doesn’t lead to me being arrested for going on a murderous rampage or streaking naked through the grocery store while shrieking hysterically and flinging poo at everyone I see.  (Though if I do ever get arrested, I want it to be for that.  Part of me really wants the phrase “crap-flinger” on my permanent record.)

There’s Some Cheese in That Sandwich…

I chose this blog title carefully.  I am an open-faced sandwich—what you see is what you get.  And, with me, you get a lot of shit: funny shit, sad shit, angry shit, stupid shit, bullshit (my initials are even B.S.  How fucked up is that?).  Hence the name.
If you’re easily offended or religious at all, this is not the blog for you.  For one thing, I  don’t care to hear that you disagree with me or that you feel mentally assaulted by my writing or that you firmly believe I will burn in hell for having a wildly inappropriate sense of humor and little to no moral compass.  I write for my own well-being and to entertain anyone who happens to find my particular brand of darkly sarcastic humor amusing.  I deal with enough contention in my everyday life, so if you don’t like what you read here, go away. Quietly.
Now that the disclaimer is out of the way, we can get down to dirty, filthy business.  I am far too unfocused to have any kind of theme here, so expect it to consist of mildly incoherent ramblings about whatever happens to make me laugh or piss me the hell off at any given moment.  Also, expect some drunk blogging.  I once tried to start a blog based on writing while drunk (because that’s when I do my best writing—or maybe I just think it’s good because of the temporarily overly-inflated sense of self esteem), but I quickly realized that I couldn’t drink nearly often enough to make that a success.  So expect roughly one drunk post per month, probably containing at least one deeply personal fact that I will strongly regret revealing the next day.
Okay, title explanation, disclaimer, further disclaimer about having high expectations of me…  I think that’s it for preliminaries.  I’m sure to reveal more about myself than is really necessary, as I  write more posts, so you have that to look forward to.  I like to live life in a way that gives a big middle finger to pretty much everyone who isn’t awesome and to virtually every established government, organized religion, and institution.  If you’re good with that, we should get along fine.