HastyWords's Blog, page 45

EVEN AFTER ALL THIS TIME

My Relationships Are Hard guest today is That Shameless Hussy.

I waited far too long to post this story.  I remember reading it and not being able to shake the romance of it.  The idea two hearts can be so deeply connected and yet so wrong AND right for each other leaves me dizzy with longing and grief.

You are incredible and I am deeply thankful you allowed me to post such an EPIC and deeply emotional love story.  I cried. A lot.  I still do.

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They are lying tangled together on the living room floor, her legs across his, recording their conversation on a cassette tape recorder. His voice, then hers.

You are so cute.

Shut up. I am not.

They are near the attic fan, as there is no central air, only two window units, one on each floor, in this 60 year-old bungalow. They are here because they are sixteen and in love and it is hot outside and all they want is to be near each other. They are listening to the same part, over and over again: Rewind. Play. Rewind. Play.

You are. All of you is cute. You have cute hands…cute elbows…cute shoulders…..

He continues his inventory, his claim deflected by her at every step except when he does something that makes it hard for her to breathe or talk or think straight. Her parents are home, so those moments are few and brief, and eventually he arrives at her feet.

You even have cute little sausage toes.

What are you doing? Get away from my feet!

Rewind. Play.

He is not her first lover, though she told him he is. The first holds the distinction of being so forgettable that she will never forget him in his utter forgettableness. She IS his first, though he told her she is not.

On Fridays she sits cross-legged on his portable amplifier and he wheels them both down the school hall from the band room to the parking lot and her car. They pass notes between classes and fight over stupid, childish things and make up with the kind of fierce intensity that comes with first love.

They share a locker and when they are lucky enough to be there at the same time she pushes against him and they breathe each other in and she pulls up both of their shirts, just a little, enough so that they are skin on skin. It is not long, then, before they are being marched down the hallway to the office, her with her fingers laced behind her neck like a prisoner. Not good with authority, this one, but he doesn’t mind.

She is lectured sternly on promiscuity and self-respect by the vice principal while the boy’s presence is barely noted, except by a vague reference that he can’t be expected to control himself. This only enrages her further and will pay off well for him later, in the music storage room behind the stage during an assembly.

The first time she is home sick from school, he brings her homework by without being asked. Her mother doesn’t wake her to tell her and she will never make that mistake again because the girl, her pajamas and her fever bolt out the front door after him as he walks toward home. He turns to see her and laughs because she is barefoot and crying a little, and he carries her piggy-back to the house and makes her promise to go back to bed.

This boy, this sixteen year-old bass player and die-hard fan of John Entwistle, is the best thing that could have happened to this sixteen year-old girl. This girl who thinks she is ugly and unlovable, and who has never, before him, believed anyone who said she was neither.

You, fathers and mothers of teenage daughters, I know the hairs on the back of your neck are standing up and you have already decided that no, he is not what she needs, she needs discipline and to lose her car keys and maybe she needs Jesus, but she most certainly does not need some punk kid bass player.

But she did. All the trouble, it came later, after he was gone. Then, he was everything.

He wants to marry her as soon as they graduate and move to a town where he has chance of making it as a musician. She does not want to go.

Mostly, she doesn’t like being told what to do.

It is terrible, when it ends.

Tell me you don’t love me anymore, and I’ll leave, she says but she doesn’t mean it. He has had enough, enough of her, and he walks up to her and his face touches hers, and he says it, softly but with conviction. I don’t love you anymore. And he walks away so he doesn’t have to look at her face as it crumbles and she grabs every Precious Moments figurine from his mother’s curio and hurls them at his back, one by one until he picks her up and puts her outside and locks the door.

She has trouble moving on, but when she does it is for a man far outside her peer group. The boy comes to see her where she works, in her tiny office in the local Cineplex and sees the much older man who waits for her.

Now the boy has long musician hair and ripped jeans and snakeskin cowboy boots and an attitude. The girl is different. Jaded. Unimpressed by his insistence that she shouldn’t be with someone so much older, that there is something wrong with a grown man who would date a seventeen year-old girl. This conversation, over and over, as the rest of the band wanders in the lobby and pantomimes comic suicide:

Why do you care?

I just do. I don’t know why. (he is lying.)

If you tell me why you care, I’ll tell him to leave right now. (she is lying.)

I just do.

You don’t love me anymore, remember?

Please don’t leave with him.

Why do you care?

The older man quickly grows tired of the teenage drama. He kisses the girl in front of everyone and tells her to call him when she’s free. As he leaves, the boy shouts Bye, grandpa! Tell gramma hi! but the man doesn’t miss a step.

They grow up and move on, with and without each other. Their orbits sometimes brush against one another, but never connect again. Drunk 3am phone calls, he scares her when he talks of suicide and sometimes she drives across town to make sure he is alright.

She tries to go to every one of his gigs. She sits in the back of smoky bars where she can’t be seen and when the crowd rushes the stage she moves out the door. She writes for a local paper, and he reads everything she writes. Neither of them know.

He walks his dog by the bank where she works and comes in to see her weekly, for a long time, then just once in awhile. Later he drives through with the mother of his infant son. Then, just with his son.

Later still, he comes to tell her he is moving away – that there’s a chance he’ll be signed by a label and it’s only two hours from here but he’s moving, he has to, he’ll never do anything if he doesn’t, and she smiles and holds him for a minute and tells him to have a good life.

I’m sure you’ll see me again, he says and rolls his eyes at her.

She will.

It will be twenty-five years.

He is still only two hours away, but for some reason she never made the drive before. He was the first person to find her on Facebook, and the first time they talk there is this feeling of shouting across a great distance. So she goes, because he asks. They meet for breakfast and they excitedly trade stories and pictures of their loves and their families in a little diner full of old men drinking black coffee. He says his wife’s name with charming reverence, as if the very moon hangs from the word, and she talks about how her husband is the perfect counter to her flighty nature. How he keeps her grounded. She accidentally calls him “honey” and they both sit smiling in embarrassed silence.

He’s a session musician and plays in three different bands. He’s met John Entwistle and toured parts of Europe just as grunge was moving on to the next thing. She never left the town where they grew up, and her story is not as interesting, but they are lost for a few hours in their shared and unique experiences. They hold hands, just for a moment, as they walk to their cars.

Late one night his chat icon appears and they talk a little more, and she says I remember that you once spent the better part of an evening trying to talk me out of leaving with that “old” man. You know he was ten years younger than you are now, right?

I remember, he says. He was too old for you.

She is typing Fine, but I never did quite figure out what all that was about, and she has gotten as far as “quite” when the chat notification pops in again.

Because I loved you. Stupid.

And a tiny little scar, still there after all this time, finally disappears.

I know, she says, I loved you back, and they both laugh.

She still goes to watch him play, once in a great while. He still reads everything she writes.

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[image error]That Shameless Hussy is a mother of two, daughter of one, caretaker of four, trying to achieve a balance of principle and practice without shouting obscenities at too many people. She believes that a moment of clarity and a moment of sheer, unmitigated bullshit can look exactly the same, and tries to be as forthright as possible on her blog, That Shameless Hussy. She is a proud member of The Sisterwives Blog, as well as a frequent contributor to The Original Bunker Punks. Please follow her on Facebook and Twitter.

Tagged: love, love story, Passion, Passionate, Romance, Romantic, teenage

A WEEKEND ROMANCE

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She felt like a school girl with her first crush. The butterflies were crashing around obnoxiously in her stomach. She silently scolded herself for being so dramatic, but to be fair she was flying high on drugs which wasn’t really part of her initial night’s plan. Why she had given in to the suggestions that they made everything better she still doesn’t know but in order for the night to happen it was eventually inevitable. Needless to say she was high as a kite and her body felt as if it was floating. Given how important this moment was to her it didn’t seem fair.

She had planned for this vacation for days. She knew she would be staying a few nights and she wanted everything to be perfect. She had the most torturous time packing and picking out the things she was going to wear. She hoped she would look beautiful for the love of her life! She wanted to look amazing in the photos she would someday share with her kids. This weekend was going to change her life forever, this was her destiny, this would no doubt be the most important commitment of her life. She had spent her whole life running from this moment because she never wanted it. She doesn’t remember the exact point in time she wanted nothing more than this moment. But here it was the countdown….

She was shaking from anticipation. Desire, passion, and years of love had led to this. So many obstacles had been overcome, so much heartache. She was laying in the bed fixing her hair as the tears began to run down her face, she began to shake more but this time from uncontrollable sobs of happiness. She wiped her eyes absentmindedly as she heard footsteps in the hall. Her heart was pounding so loud she was sure it would exhaust itself and die.

She knew there were a lot of other people in the room but there was only one face she could see. It was the creation of her greatest love. Everything she wanted in that moment was in that package being delivered to her arms. She was the most beautiful little baby she had ever seen. Nothing in life would ever mean more, ever be more important than this gift life had bestowed upon her.

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Tagged: blog, children, Family, Inspiration, Joy, love, motherhood, relationships, Romantic, Romantic Monday

IMAGINARY ROMANCE

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I slept alone but I felt you

The vivid image of you

Smiling across my eyelids

The beauty of your eyes

The only thing haunting me

 

Dreaming of our time together

Holding tight to make believe

My imagination is all there is

Of a romance I created

Fiction at its best, a novel erotic

 

The love we share inside my mind

Will someday become reality

Rousing my everyday mundane

I will find you the moment

My eyes decide to wake

 

Tagged: Beauty, blog, dreams, imagination, love, Passion, POEM, POETRY, Romance, Romantic

TABLOID DEMONS

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I hope you understand that everyone has a story and that story is rarely conveyed by what someone looks like. 

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I am not a big fan of the People of Walmart posts.  I love to laugh I just don’t love laughing at people.

If laughing at people is your thing, and sometimes it is hard not to when the person who captions the pictures is hilarious, then feel free to share and re-post all you like.  I just can’t join in.

Why do we go out of our way putting so much energy into things that could really hurt someone?  Why can’t we put our energy into something that doesn’t show a total lack of compassion?  But Hasty…people deserve to be laughed at when they wear ridiculous things out in public!

Deserve?

No, just NO…

They may not fit your idea of acceptable or even appropriate but nobody deserves to be laughed at and bullied online.  We observers know nothing of their story and yet millions of people join in and share and comment and laugh.

I have shared a few videos of people dancing…oblivious to the world… and I always comment how much I love how happy and carefree they are. BUT am I just another person sharing a video that may be ruining somebody’s life?

 ***

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I used to be big…much bigger than I am now so I am used to being laughed at and/or invisible although I was perhaps the biggest person in the room.  Then I lost weight and I wasn’t afraid to be in front of the camera anymore.  I worked out and I was no longer invisible…but I was never able to stop seeing myself as “ugly”.   I hate that word but it fits how I feel.  The way I see myself has nothing to do with my weight.

This weekend I went out to dinner with some friends and afterwards we went to a country bar to dance.  I do not listen to country music so it’s fairly foreign to me but I had a really good time.  I was very anxious and feeling old and overweight. I haven’t been out in month (s) so I decided to throw caution to the wind and just have fun.  I danced.  I danced like I was having a dance party in my daughters 10 year old bedroom.

I have never line danced before and it seemed fun so I got up with a friend of mine and we just learned.  I feel like I looked like a fool but I would do it again in a heartbeat.  But here is the thing… Someone took a picture of me and I looked horrible.  I woke up in the middle of the night with the idea that I was going to be the next internet joke.

Caption: Old lady must be HIGH  

Except I wasn’t high and I was completely sober and happy.

***

About 6 years ago, or maybe not that long ago because my past seems a bit blurry to me, I went to a club with some friends.  I was at my thinnest and having lost 100lbs I had some extra skin all over.  Most of the time it wasn’t noticeable but now and then it bothered me.  I worked out all the time…ALL the time.

On this night I was having a blast with some of my friends and danced like nothing else mattered.  This was also the night I blogged about HERE .  On this night there was a club photographer and he happened to snap a picture of me that has caused me to cry and laugh on numerous occasions.  I don’t care if people laugh because it really is the most HORRENDOUS picture ever taken of me and if you want to know the truth… it is also why I don’t accept compliments from people.

This picture is how I see myself everyday and it doesn’t matter how many pictures I post that people find pleasing…the picture below is the person I see everyday in the mirror.  The photographer caught my demon on film and now you bloggy people get to see what I see.  And maybe NOW you will understand why I will never associate with the pretty girl in the other pictures I post.

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 I hope by sharing the worst picture EVER taken of me that people can sort of, maybe, kinda get the idea that real people are behind these images.  Real people.  Lovely people. 

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Tagged: #1000speak, Beauty, Bullies, Compassion, friends, humor, Images, People, people of walmart, Pictures

LIT HEARTS

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She imagined the stars

Were bright shiny hearts

Blinking as they beat

Having lived a good life

Having been loved by

And cherished by one

Hearts that were once

Empty lanterns waiting

To be lit by someone

Hearts that became stars

To share with us

The love that made them

Tagged: Beautiful, Beauty, Hearts, life, love, POEM, Poet, POETRY, relationships, Romance

BECOMING GROUND

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Steps were heavy

Growing heavier

Taking more effort

Making her slower

A shaking began

More of a tremor

With each footfall

Was a tidal wave

Of fluid motion

Her years kept her

Clung to her bones

And held her tight

She was caught

Underneath gravity

Sink

ing deeper

Into the ground

Becoming

The ground

Tagged: Age, Awareness, Beauty, Death, Elderly, life, Living, Old, relationships, Self

THE NIGHT THAT DANCES

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The night dances even though day

We go from dark to light to dark again

From waltzing to swaying to waltzing again

Our steps paced evenly hand in hand

We pay no mind to the flickering lights

To the rolling of the hills outside our door

Or the way the sky knocks heavily on our core

That’s what being alive in the moment is for

Maybe the stars will fall to the earth this night

And feed on the desperate and the doomed

Their lies and cruelty completely consumed

Turning flesh to clouds of shadows bloomed

Perhaps we will be the ones who will perish

Fall to the earth and dance as the dust does

From one end to the other end without flaws

Us… the night that dances to earth’s applause

Tagged: Beautiful, Beauty, Dance, life, love, Passion, POEM, Poet, POETRY, relationships, Romance, Soulmate

THE PURPOSELY MESSY ELF

I thought I would repost this since it is that time of year again. I don’t LOVE Elf on a Shelf but I acquiesce for my daughter. She loves her Elf Perry and he still does silly things for her in December each year.

The comment section is not so Christmassy but highly entertaining. I find it sad that some people have to pick on even the most innocent of things. This time of year is hard enough for some of us. Let us have these moments of imagination while they last.

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HastyKid has an elf on the shelf.  Actually, it is an elf on the shelf disguised as Perry the Platypus.  He has been visiting her for 3 years and rarely makes much of a mess; until recently.  He spent the night at a friends house and another elf taught him he could be a bit messy.  The two elves covered the children in toilet paper and taunted them both by wearing the empty rolls on their arms and legs.  

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Since that night Perry the Elf has enjoyed being a messy elf.

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He has spilled crayons all over the place writing letters.  He has made a big fort in the living room, and dumped a whole container of cocoa on the kitchen counter and drew pictures in the mess.  I am telling you this because this elf and his activities have taught me how clever, and lazy, HastyKid can be.

I heard HastyKid talking to Perry the Elf after the crayon fiasco.  “Now Perry, I am going to KungFu and I will expect you to pick up all the crayons before I get back”.  Of course, she said it loud enough for me to hear so I am sure she knows who wields the elf magic in our house.

When she got back from KungFu she was very disappointed Perry the Elf didn’t listen.  She decided to tell on him, “Mom, Perry the Elf won’t pick up his mess!”  I told her, “His job is to make the messes and if he has to clean them up too he would probably stop making them.  Do you want him to stop?”  Her answer was an emphatic NO!

Since, I have decided it is a lovely way to motivate her to clean.  Tomorrow he may dump out all her messy clothes drawers to be redone, or maybe pull everything out from under her bed.  The ideas are limitless

CURTAIN CALL

Maybe you feel alone? Maybe you feel worthless? Maybe you think you waste everyone’s time with your problems/feelings. Maybe just breathing fuels your feelings of despair and the only thing you can manage is sleep.


 


Congrats…


 


You probably won the depression lottery. It is estimated nearly 350 million people worldwide suffer from depression according to the WHO.


 


Social stigma is one of the biggest factors preventing effective care.


 


Do the whole world a favor and be proactive with those you love. Let them know they are NOT alone.

 

Depression doesn’t respect the holidays.  It is the Grinch.  It is the Scrooge. It is the devil in a red Santa suit come to steal all your beautifully wrapped silver linings.

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline Phone Number
1-800-273-8255

All the channels

Dance with static

As she sits silent

Inhaling the dark

Perspective fuzzy

And Vodka blurred

Turning memories

Of laughter into

Cries of terror

Blood drips slow

Into gelatin pools

Sticky strands of

Plush synthetic

Absorbing it all

She waits for

The show to start

The symphony

Of the dead

Bones cracking

Knick Knack

Paddy whack

As the world

Crushes her

Underneath

Everything

And pulls

The curtain

Closed

 

Tagged: Depression, despair, Holiday, manic, Mental Health, POEM, Poetic, POETRY, suicidal, Suicide

NOT LOVELY

For the first time in months I worked a bit on the fiction I am writing.  Here is a small piece.  I am not a writer so I know it will definitely need an editor but I hope the story at least captures your interest.

The leaves were scattered around her bare feet.  Her toenails painted the color of her favorite sunset.  Fall sunsets were always catching the whole sky on fire. 

“Sunsets are lovely” she whispers quietly “just lovely”. 

The wind kicked the leaves up and she watched as they swirled lazily in half circles before landing again.  

“Just lovely”

She watched them knowing it was safer than looking up.  She didn’t want to know where she was or where she had been.  Nothing good ever came from her looking up.  Discovery usually lead to pain.  She began to walk shaking her head, “Not lovely”.

The streets were quiet because it was a Sunday and everyone in this town would be in church.  All 40 people would either be singing their mornings away with their hands in the air or hungover in bed with covers over their head.  And yes those at church would talk about the drowning souls that didn’t make it to praise his name.   

“Forgive them father for they know not…”

“None of them are lovely”

She didn’t like living in this town.  It crawled with evil and she hated that she had been directed here.  They had one church they named THE CHURCH OF THE LIVING SAINTS.  She called it CHURCH OF THE WALKING DEAD.  None of them welcomed her when she got to town. Not one of them made her feel loved when she walked through their church doors for the first time.  No… they were not lovely. 

She was nearing the town’s only crossroad.  Every Sunday she hoped she would get news that she could leave.  She finally looked up for the first time and searched the street. Today was not that day.  The street stood empty. 

She could hear the congregation singing PRAISE BE THE SAINTS, their final song.  For the first time since the leaves at her feet came into focus she wondered what they had done to her the night before. 

“Not lovely”

Tagged: Angels, Demons, Evil, Fiction, Heaven, Hell, Power, Religion, strange, town, work in process