On the Prayers Jesus Answers

I did not expect very much out of today. Currently, I am experiencing a fibromyalgia flare-up, along with a psoriasis breakout. I look like a leper and walk like an old lady with poop in her Depends. Armed with a box of cookies and enough brownies to satisfy even Roseanne Barr's sugar craving, I was set to spend my weekend wallowing in self-pity. That all changed when Jayne at Ach du Lieber, Jayne! presented me with the blogger award that I have been praying to receive since I created this blog. Jesus listens, people.

Isn't it gorgeous?

It's always strange when someone whose writing I admire acknowledges me. It has not happened often, which is a good thing because I am not sure I could get used to this. If you would like to see why I am so impressed by this little lady, do yourself a favor and read her Achtionary. Make sure to memorize a few of these babies and try them out next time you find yourself standing next to a hipster, and enjoy the confusion which will very quickly mark their faces. They'll be spreading these gems around town faster than they spread the Clap around campus, and isn't that what we all want? Not the clap. Too many people get the Clap at the same time and you get a standing ovation, which just wakes the neighbors.


Here's what some people do not know about receiving an award: there are rules, and if you break them, you will lose your place in Heaven. Because I got such a great spot next to Lord Byron(he made in there, okay!), I am going to abide by them.

1. Thank and link back to the person who presented you with the award.
 Thank you ever so much, you wonderful woman. If I ever have a child, I shall name the baby after you, especially if it's a boy because I am an asshole.

2. Answer the ten questions below.

3. Share ten random facts about yourself.

4. Nominate seven worthy blogs for the Kreativ Blogger Award.
Simone de Beauvoir just whispered in my ear. She demanded all the bloggers I choose be female. I agreed.

 Questions:

1. What is your favorite song?

"Siren Song," by Bat for Lashes, because "I've got so much wickedness and sin."

2. What is your favorite dessert?

A spoonful of peanut butter.

3. What ticks you off?

Having to repeat what I just said. Either I did not speak clearly, which is a possibility that I will ignore, or the person I was speaking to didn't care enough to pay attention to pay attention to what I had to say the first time around. That bastard!

4. When you're upset what  do you do?
I am extremely short-tempered, so I am quick to release a verbal whoopass.

5.Which is/was your favorite pet? 

Frankie. Always has been, always will be. When he shall die, take him and cut him out into little stars and he will make the face of heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with night and pay not worship to the garish sun.

6. Which do you prefer to wear, black or white?
Both. I am not racist. I like the way a black man looks on me just the same as a white man.

7. What is your biggest fear?
Fear. 

8. What is your attitude mostly?
I was under the impression that I am cynical and pessimistic, yet those that know me well disagree, but they're all heavily medicated. 

9 What is perfection?
I have absolutely no idea, and want to keep it that way. Perfection would bore me, I think.

10.What is your guilty pleasure?
New Age music and dubstep. 

Random Facts:

 1. I once hit on Leonardo DiCaprio. He didn't hit back. 
 2. Gerard Butler once hit on me. I didn't hit back. 
 3. I can't shop at Wal-Mart anymore after accidentally exposing my breasts there, not once but twice. 
 4. I don't take meds of any kind, and haven't for years.
 5. I sleep an average of four hours a night. 
 6. In college, I taught people how to kiss for pay.
 7. People tell me I have dated men that smell worse than the city dump, but I wouldn't know because my sense of smell has been in a coma for years. 
 8. A tongue ring cost me thousands of dollars in dental work. 
 9. I still have the desire to be a nun.
10. I forgot how to cry.

Next, I choose seven bloggers, which is difficult because I love them all, and that should be obvious considering I am following them like the stalker too many failed relationship have turned me into. 

1. Jen at "Jen" e sais quoi. I absolute love that the name of her blog is in Dutch. It's such a beautiful language. And of course a gorgeous talent like her would be fluent in Dutch, and that's because she lives in Portland, which is somewhere in Belgium. Jen often writes about her Red Dress project, which has inspired me. Fridays are a treat, since that's when she has Foodie Friday, and is kind enough to include pictures. In between that, she just plain kicks ass.

2. Tracie at Crack You Whip. This fine lady does not need another award. I am sure she has so many of them, they no longer fit in her home. And that's fine. There's nothing wrong with reminding someone that they are absolutely brilliant and never fail to entertain me. I mean, she made me laugh at the Prince of Wales when mostly, I just fantasize about him.

3. Katy at Lesbians in My Soup. That feeling that you have that tells you there is something missing from your life. It's this girl. Give this a try.

4. Shay at Seriously-WTH. I began to follow her shortly before the A to Z Challenge. The few posts I had read before the Challenge could not have prepared me for what she had in store. Every single entry was so well-constructed and packed with funny juice.

5. Scarlet Blue. She doesn't post often, which is unfortunate. I am hoping this award will turn into a small fire that will burn under her bum. I need her posts. Need. 

6. Willis at Recent Mistakes. I understand that Willis is not a woman, but Simone approves because, listen, this guy is as smart as a whip. He has this incredible way of writing about topics that are considered taboo, but while I am reading his posts, he makes it difficult to remember that I should be shocked. He presents this subjects as if they are the most natural things in the world. If you're worried you'll be disgusted into a heart attack, don't be. Here, baby steps.

7. Tara at Faith in Ambiguity. One of the first things that I learned about Tara is that she, like me, suffers from fibromyalgia. I expected a blog that was drenched in misery. I didn't mind that because fibromyalgia isn't something that I discuss with many people or very often. I liked the idea of coming  home and indulging a bit in that misery. Except, that isn't what I got. Tara is is potently and palpably alive. She is fierce. She has a mind full of opinions and she is not afraid to use it.

On, Hey, I am a Girl

Livermore, California is known for many things, very few of them remotely interesting. It's a picturesque town in Northern California's Alameda County. It is also home of the Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory, and the world's longest lasting light bulb, glowing dimly for over one hundred years. Oh yeah, and there was a concert at the Altamont in 1969. People died, but that's not a big deal. People die all the time because it's incredibly hard to stay alive, especially when old age or the Hells Angels are involved. But what I will always remember Livermore for is the city in which I was first asked by a stranger if I am a man.

I am a dude.

 
Not Too Naughty is a porn shop, I am sorry, an adult bookstore located in the middle of downtown Livermore. Residents have attempted to shut it down for decades to no avail. Because I was unable to enter the shop when I first moved there due to my age, I would settle for taking a peek every afternoon on my way to school. All I could see was a few mannequins dressed in faux leather outfits. I wanted more, but I always want more. It's the way I was built.

In October of such and such a year, I turned eighteen. It was time. "Mad World" played on the radio, which I saw as a blessing. A song about the emptiness of existence, and the desire to die. Sex is a bit like death. Sure, why not. I went with that. I was greeted at the entrance by a man that was severely perspiring, prematurely balding, and heavily panting. He asked me for identification. I quickly handed him what he asked for, but he barely examined it, and told me I was free to browse at my leisure.

"But before you do," he said while pausing to chew on the inside of his cheeks, "I would like to talk to you."

"I just got here. There's no way I've already done something wrong."


He let out one of those forced laughs that make a person sound constipated.

"No, of course not. I was just wondering if you wanted to be my date for the annual tranny convention in San Francisco."

"Who's the tranny? Are you a tranny? Oh my god,  you think I am a dude. I have a vagina. I've never seen it, but I am sure it's there. Dude, I queef. I am a girl."

He apologized and I accepted. I wanted to say much more because I wasn't sure I had convinced him, but I knew that the more I talked, the more it would seem I was lying.


What that man said stuck with me for years, but no one else seemed to question my sex, so I made every effort possible to not obsess over it. That is, until I saw an acupuncturist for my anxiety.

"You undress there," he barked and pointed at the sink in the corner of the room, which surely started out as a closet.

"Like, naked?"

"No. Keep panties and breast fabrics. Breast fabrics stay on breasts"

 He said 'panties', I thought. Asian men like panties. A lot.
So, I took off my clothes, except for my panties and breast fabrics,  and I sat on the floor.

"What you doing. Get up, Get up!! Go lie on bed thing," needle man said.

For a man that was supposed to cure me of my anxiety disorder, he sure was great at making me anxious. And if the yelling was driving my heart to pump at a speed that made me fear myocardial infarction, what he  pulled out of a drawer would go on to cause a month's worth of minor strokes. Imagine a paddle. Used appropriately and responsibly, I am sure it can provide enormous amounts of pleasure, if you're into that sort of thing. But wait, why don't you attach needles to that paddle. A hundred of them, if you can. Now, slap that across your body for an hour. That was done to me by Asian sadist man.

"The probrem is, you no woman," he grunted while trying to kill me.

"I am a woman."

"No, you no act like woman. You see here," he pushed down on my lower abdomen,"there no woman sex heat."

There no woman sex heat. I still have no idea what that is, but I want it. Oh, I want it.

Acupuncturist tried to kill my leg.

On the Ouija

Full of evil.

Once upon a time, I had very few answers. That hasn't changed, but it should have the day my mother purchased a Ouija board at our local Thrifty's.  This was many years ago. Back when I had two things in common with Angelina Jolie.

1.Disgustingly huge lips
2.A vile full of blood taken from the person I loved  most (myself) that hung from my neck by black thread I twisted together. 

Yes, I was pretty dark. Dark like extra rich chocolate milk. Dark like that old lady's home whose lights are never on because she doesn't trust electricity. Dark like my sister's elbows.

Initially, I was against playing with the cardboard oracle. I had viewed enough horror flicks to know that it couldn't turn out well for me.I even knew a girl who knew a girl who knew a girl who knew a boy who had died tragically after playing with a Ouija. He was eaten by a giant stuffed Smurf. There were rumors circulating that his own father had killed him, but I knew the truth had less to do with a human, and more to do with Satan.

I did everything I could to stave off temptation, but Ted the Necromancer convinced me to play with demonic fire. Ted the Necromancer was my make-believe friend. He was a very handsome man in his mid-seventies. He liked long walks on the beach, young girls, and bologna sandwiches.

The first time I held a planchette in my hands, I knew power. All my wickedness and sin traveled down my arms, collecting in my fingertips. I wanted to know about my future, about life, about becoming the next big winner of the Publishers Clearing House sweepstakes.

Spoooooooky.

Instead, I got a young ghost man who had been murdered, but not by a Smurf, who offered no answers, no wisdom, but was heavy on the obsessive love. Who can blame him?
He told me I was to keep his name a secret or else my mother would die. And so it is that I've never revealed a name that time has not erased from my memory. My mother's death will not hang on my shoulders. I feel guilty enough over the 2010 Incident. That was when I stepped on a crack and almost snapped my mother's back in half. Luckily, her cat broke her fall. Poor China. I really do miss her.

Actually, now that I think about it, there is one thing my ghost friend told me would definitely happen in my future.

n-e-l-l-i-e

he slowly spelled out,

o-n-c-e  y-o-u  h-i-t  p-u-b-e-r-t-y
c-o-r-i-n  n-e-m-e-c  w-i-l-l  f-i-n-a-l-l-y  b-e  y-o-u-r-s.


I anxiously await puberty.