Justin Beiber Is A Sign The 4 Horsemen Have Arrived

Just when I've thought I've seen every frigging stupid toy (Hello, Pictionary! When I was a kid we used a pen and some paper. What's with hooking yourself up to a TV screen and doodling on a smart pad) out on the Christmas saturated market, something else comes along to replace my blown brain cells. 

So when I caught site of the Justin Beiber real hair doll, I knew that the Apocalypse is only weeks away.  Apparently if you get tired of doing your own hair you have the freedom to mess with The Beiber's tresses. 

It can only get worse from here, so I've been told.
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In other non-sarcastic news, December 8 has always been a big deal for me since 99.  It was 12 years ago this day that I got the courage, strength, and Heavenly guidance to escape an abusive relationship.  A chain of events were set into motion that I can only attribute to Heavenly Assistance which ended 4 months of hell on earth. 
I was going to get super deep and emotionally vivisect that time, but I'm too friggin tired and frankly don't want to go there now.  I've got those demons out.  The people closest to me know what happened and how I believe that night 12 years ago was a make it or break it night.  So as I say my prayers as I drop off to sleep, I'll send up an extra thanks to the BVM.  I've never had a close relationship with her, as I'm more of a Magdalen type, but I am forever grateful.
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To date, which is 3.5 wks, I have lost 6 lbs. Which is a huge boost to my ego and confidence about kicking this weight to the curb.  But really when someone tell me that I'll go back to being "your old gorgeous self" after I lose XX number of pounds, it takes all of my willpower not to reply, "Bitch plz!"

*If Zombies Are Real Then I Want F. Scott Fitzgerld To Go After "The Great Gatsby 3D"

Redford. Hot then, pretty damn good looking still.

For the love of tea and crumpets, why in the name of Lay's Potato Chips would someone greenlight a remake of The Great Gatsby? In 3 fucking D?

I'm beyond flabbergasted.  Actions movies, space movies, movies about human-animal hybrids having sex with their tales--fine do it in 3D.  It'll cover the fact that the plot holes are so big the national debt could fit through it. 

I'll be there with popcorn when Fitzgerald comes back to gnaw the brains out of those involved in this hack job.  But I will not be wearing the 3D glasses.

PS-Maybe if I got more sleep I would see this as humorous instead of sending me into a pissy hissy fit.  I apply the same feeling towards "healthy" junk food.  No, I don't want to see that my Lucky Charms provide me with 9 grams of fiber.  (Not that I believe that.)  Nor do I want to hear that the trans-fats have been removed from my Oreos.  THEY DON'T TASTE THE SAME ANYMORE. 
Please powers that be, stop fucking with the classics.  Now hand me that stick of butter while I enjoy my first editions. 

*Alternately titled "Caroline Is On A Diet And Needs A Xanax Donut" 

Finding The Pulse On The Trigger Point--Or--Hooray For PTSD!

So today I had a fantabulous flashback that came out of nowhere.  Really I don't understand how can my brain jump from fold box flap A into flap B, stack in alternating patterns, to being back in a frightening place, walking alone across a dark windy campus.  I was crying, more like sobbing.  I remember two friends coming across me trying to ask why I was so upset.  I couldn't answer; the words wouldn't come.

But the memory stopped there.  I wasn't going to allow myself to wander down those dark paths again.

I don't know what set me off.  There wasn't any music playing.  I wasn't uncomfortable with my surroundings.  So strange.  

I'm just proud of myself for becoming aware of what was going on in my head and I was able to short circuit that mess.  I don't give myself enough credit for being strong and amazing, but damnitall I am! 

And now once again, that it is nearing midnight, I should really contemplate going to bed.  I know I'm going to hate myself in the morning for staying up this late, but I had to get these words out.  But I had to watch Psych first. 

Just Do It

My head spins.

My demons, my insecurities, things I have been told before tell me that I am no good, that I can't write to save my life, that my job to provide for my son is a huge, fucking joke.

• I think I could love you, even though you didn't have a good education.
• You're not capable.
• We doubted that you'd bond with your son.
• When are you getting a real job? 
• You have readers in Kuwait? So what?

I doubt myself, I cringe when I think of writing.

Just do it, dammit!

You know you are better than this, you've come so far and you are still afloat.  Remember the tattoo you have? You might not know your plans but God does and so far He has dropped you. 

Write the damn book!

Stop doubting yourself! 

You are worth it, your life is wonderfully interesting, and your wonderful, wild imagination should be a playground for the world. 

You have nothing to lose and everything to gain.

The Difference Between Wants and Needs Pt. 2

My darling Frister Kathy is engaged to be married.  Her man-to-be is so darling, I want to carry him around in a obscenely expensive purse like a toy poodle, much like (A Nite in)Paris Hilton is seen often doing.  Of couse, this can't really happen because he's almost 7 feet tall.  And I don't think he'd let me do that.  Plus, the most expensive purse I've ever bought cost me $30.   

This very joyous event has brought my wants in the department of ideal men to the forefront of my mind.  I mean, it's always hanging around in my subconscious, but now the ideals are pounding on the door.  Lest you think I am jealous of her, I can tell you that I am not.  She was the first person I called when I discovered that I was pregnant.  Her excitement almost cased her to drive off the road.  We've been through so many ups and downs.  One of the low points came when we had a HUGE blowup over the demise of my relationship with her friend; the next time we spoke was a year later and I thought she had come to stab me with a butterfly knife.*

So now that relationships/men/desires/needs, I figured I should hammer out a list.  Because the good Lord knows, I need a better winnowing process.

And damnitall, I NEED to write.  My brain has been mushy, my mental health checking it's coat at the door on and off, and my vocabulary is stilted, so if I set up another 30 day challeneg like my shrink had me do several months ago, I'll get back in the swing of things.

I (foolishly) signed up for NaNoWrMo, have the entire novel plot line written out, but have written 250 words.  My execution of said idea has fallen flat, not because the idea sucks, but because I am completely scared.  I know that the idea is great.  No one has written a story about this woman, from this approach, EVER.  It has the possibility to be something awesome, but it's my doubting voice, the only that mocks me which is holding me back.  I keep finding up new excuses to keep me from writing.  And I'm finally sick of it.

But, bringing this derailed train of thought back into the station, I'm going to start a running list of qualifications I am desiring in a potential mate.  Hell at this point, I'd be happy with dinner and coffee with a warm body, but since I am bound and determined not to go down wrong avenues again, I need to write a map for myself.

*Note: I had mono which enjoyed manifesting itself in hives.  When she walked into my dorm room unannounced, I was curled up (naked) under my extra-large-cheap-ass-king-sized-"feather"-comforter.  She was wearing her leather jacket and her don't-fuck-with-me face on.  There was snow on the ground and I distinctly remember thinking, how am I going to explain it to the Dean when I am seen running across campus in my Hanes Her Way cotton undies?   Obviously, she didn't stab me and the 250 student at school were spared the site of me sans clothes.