According to Jimmy Buffet, If we weren't all crazy, we'd just go insane.

I need my friends.
I never used to.
But as I've gotten older I have realised that without them, I would live solely inside my own head.
A strange and eventful place.
Luckily I attract forcefully creative and emotionally dynamic people, and the insides of THEIR heads makes the inside of my own look manageable.
I say this with love.
If I wanted to live in white bread world, I would.
Having said that, too much of the 'Drama' and you will find me sitting very still in a corner.
Stupidity terrifies me.
I like crazy as entertainment, not crazy as a brutal imposition on my daily life.
However, as to what counts as 'normality' these days, I am beginning to question.
When I look at the news, and I see people killing each other because they thing that their God is better than another God, I want to reach in and smack some heads.
That has to be the most morbid insanity there is.
I am an avowed atheist, therefore unburdened by the need to seek responsibility or cause from a higher power, but even if I wasn't, the idea that a creator would seek destruction seems absurd.
Logic has no place in religion, this I know.
Men are animals driven to dominate, this I also know.
These two statements are inextricably linked.
To what extent, I do not know.
As for logic in my neighbourhood...sometimes also MIA.
And this is where my friends come in.
I sometimes need to check with the treasured inner sanctum that it's not me.
Twice in the past two weeks I have sat myself down with a quiet hot chocolate in hand and thought about the line between what is eccentric ( and therefore delightfully entertaining) and what is just mentally unwell ( and therefore way too much trouble).
The people who have given me this pause for thought are both relatively high functioning and educated creatures.
Both can be disarmingly charming and have moments of genuine contribution.
Both are egocentric- but then so am I and I don't give a shit- and they both nurture others throughout their day.
And they share one more common bond.
Professionally and superficially outstanding, inwardly they are both damaged.
And I mean broken.
Does this make them crazy?
Is that what that is?
'Cause if it is, I am pretty damned damaged myself, and that can logically only lead to one conclusion.
So I run my crazy past my friends as a mental health check sounding board.
True, the people inside my circle of trust may appear- at least to the outside world- nutty as squirrel poo, but I like them so it works for me.
One very dear friend insists on reminding me that we are all a little damaged.
She is right of course, and it would be foolish to imagine that without that little bit of scarring we would be able to fight the good fight.
One can not forge steel without first beating the shit out of it.
This same friend, and she will know who she is by reading this next bit, told me that her partner was 'dropped on the head at birth type damaged' but that she liked the type of damage he had.
That really made me stop and think.
Hard.
Is it that the crazy that I find so appalling, the selfish and juvenile kind, presses some button deep within my wounded place?
I guess this must be true.
Because if you tell me you believe in faeries, or that you remember things from your past lives, or that you once saw a ghost, or that you only eat yellow foods on even numbered days, or that place the furniture JUST SO to enhance the flow of energy in your room, or that you wish you were a woman even though you were born a man, or vice versa, or can't go into tunnels 'cause you dreamt that they would collapse on you, or that you secretly transform into woodland creatures during the full moon...I will be OK with that.
None of that will surprise me, in fact it will delight me.
I love the diversity of the human psyche.
But if your crazy causes me pain, or causes pain to others........
Not so much.
But that's when I need my friends, just to check that I am not seeing demons where there are none.
That's my kind of crazy, I think too much.
Which appears to be different to many people whose crazy is that they think too little.
Which I consider to be insane.
Reality is based on perception.
So , it would appear, is mental health.
Which makes the majority of us not actually crazy, just a little unwell......and the 'sane' ones, positively barking.

I Think , Therefore I Should Not Run With Scissors.

OH MY GOD, I am SOOOOOOOO excited.
I have just discovered I have a skill I didn't know I had.
I think you may have it too.
Maybe everyone does, but it's only now I am aware of it.
I finish sentences in my head while I keep talking.
I know you are wondering what the fuck I am on about, but try this.
Imagine you are talking to the biggest prick on the planet....you know who he is.....and imagine he is standing right in front of you.
Now the thing is, even though this you fantasise about this person being hit by a bus, for whatever reason, be it that he's a colleague, your boss or an ex you made children with, you can't actually kill him or ignore him, and sometimes you have to play nice nice and not say the things that are sitting right there on your frontal lobe.
So you do this, you say half the sentence with your mouth, and the BIG EDIT button kicks in, and you finish the sentence in your head, but you can still talk nicely and even listen.
So out loud you say " Actually I sent you those papers yesterday"....in your head...." you mother fucking moron"....whilst you are saying..."I'm sure they will arrive next week"
" Yes , I think I can see your point"...in your head..."because I am excellent at spotting stupidity"......whilst you are saying..." and I am trying to find a way we can both be satified"
This self editting appears to have become a hardwired skill.
This is a great relief.
For years working on radio I used to set myself into safety mode around an open microphone.
My natural syntax is littered with profanity, and I also stand up and speak in front of others most days.
These two things never run concurrently.
The only time I drop a rude word whilst being paid, is if I am BEING PAID to swear.
Even then, on a mic, I find this a little stressful.
I have to override my safety switch.
But that's for bad words.
Bad THOUGHTS are a whole new ball game.
Tonight I was in a pub, working on a mic at a brand new gig when some Strapping Great Middle Aged South African Male decided that he would 'check up' on his ipenis to see if what I had just said was true.
And he decided to tell the bar that this is what he was doing.
So I said " Good idea, check my facts, just in case"...close mouth and inside my head..." You total twat, ps, I think it's time you stopped drinking"......open mouth and outside my head SIMULTANEOUSLY...."I will wait while you find the answer".
So check he did ,and I was right, and he was wrong, but no harm was done.
To me especially.
He was way big.
I know a woman who is so barking mad that the only things that can love her are Labradors and somehow her husband (whom I suspect of being one of those man-babies in the bedroom).
Mixed breed dogs and animals with survival skills keep a wide birth.
Labradors love unconditionally because they have emotional problems.
But I digress.
My point is, that this woman has the body shape of a smurf ( the boy ones) and the personality of a 'past-it's-bed-time-and-wired-on red-cordial' 4 year old.
Plus she is totally insane, and yet every time I see her or (God help me) speak with her my mind sentences get longer and longer.
" How are things with you ? You look well "...internal dialogue......"but why, oh why do you wear things that make you look like an advertisement for pear shaped bottoms? No one is buying the 'colourful smock makes me look creative' bullshit. You look like the joke version of a 70's art teacher and when will you just shut the fuck up about your poor ( and probably straying) husband whom you playfully -shudder- call 'boy'-shudder-? What the fuck is wrong with you?"
See, now I do this, but I don't go silent through this time. I finish the sentence in my head, but I can keep talking about her dogs and her deep deep belief in the Mayan Calender.
That's a skill right?
Or schizophrenia.
Whatever.
I am just pleased to have discovered I have learned tact.
It's taken me the better part of 42 years.
If I've had to contract a mental illness in order to do it, I'm a peace with the concept.
Perhaps the Scientolotards are right, maybe mental illness is a made up thing and the glazed looks and jabbering found in psych units is actually the outward manifestation of mental and verbal multitasking.
I don't know, and frankly I don't need to.
Now that I know my brain will protect me from actually saying things like " Wow, you look like shit" whilst actually thinking it, I shall spend my days making hapless small talk with all the fairies and fruit loops in my domain, safe in the knowledge that I, at least, can think in 'mute' whilst shooting from the lip.

Jeremiah Was A Bullfrog, Which Means he was Great with his Tongue.

I love Nikka Costa.
If you've never heard of her, it's time you did.
Go to you tube, type in the words 'Every one's got their something' and you will hear the sound of my subconscious.
Music is funny like that.
We all have a track that represents certain parts of our psyche, our heartbeat, a pivotal moment in time.
The sound of my soul is Mason Williams 'Classical Gas'.
Without it, I am nothing.
If Wendy Herbert was a piece of music, this is what she would sound like.
The music of my love is Bach's First Minuet.
When I think of love, this is the sound I hear.
I have lived inside music for as long as I can remember, and for someone who can neither read a score, nor play anything beyond a recorder, that is a telling statement.
My earliest memory of music was listening to my mother playing California Dreaming repeatedly on her record player. The song she sang to me repeatedly was Roberta Blacks 'Killing me softly'. I must have been about 4. I still know the lyrics of both songs by heart.
Clearly, one if these songs was her soul, one was her love.
My mother remarried when I was 5, and he was a violent and horrible man.
He didn't so much try and kill her softly with his song as rather dramatically with his fists.
But love him she did.
When they split, I didn't hear either song again.
But I do not tell you this to evoke sadness, quite the opposite.
My thoughts today revolve around the power of music and the concept of having your own personal soundtrack.
A young woman once whispered to me in a confessional tone that she actually had personal soundtrack to her day like it was a sign of mental illness.
Abso-bloody-lutely you have a sound track to your life.....we all do.
Whether or not we hear it, or choose to listen to it, is another matter.
The music is there regardless.
When I was 12 I fell deeply in love with Adam Ant ( laugh all you want) for telling me not to lower my standards whist dressed as a jaunty pirate and commanding not one, but TWO, drummers in the song Prince Charming.
Howard Jones - the ORIGINAL God of Emo- spoke my teenage pain in the song 'no one ever is to blame'.
It is no coincidence that soldiers preparing for battle play thrash metal- or the equivalent- inside their tanks.
It's tricky to fire up the blood to the point of murder under the aural influence of the sound of crickets.
Music is powerful stuff.
Songs are poetry.
Some of it shit.
I may be showing my age, but I personally find it hard to tear my own heart apart with the words " are we an item? Girl quit playin', we're just friends, what are you sayin'..." but I have seen with my own eyes tweenagers fall to the floor with tears streaming down their faces at the mere mention of a song that sorrowfully pleads " I thought you'd always be mine,mine."
" Oh God," they cry " Always and forever Justin".
Of course, here we are talking about the words.
But two of my musical heartbeats are wordless.
What they have in common, I realise, is that they both have a kind of a back story inside them.
They are multi layered musically, and I think this reflects me personally.
I am a tad complex.
Songs like 'Numb' by Linkin Park were there for me when I separated from my husband, but that is a no brainer.
Eltons 'The bitch is back' spoke to another more positive chapter.
Alanis Morresette's 'I'm not the doctor' pops into my head every time I sit across the table from a potential mate like a musical checklist.
If I find myself silently humming Sara Bareilles's 'King of anything' , I just cut to the chase and ask for the bill.
My daughter prepares for a night on the town with Katy Perry's Firework.....even though the plastic bag line makes us all snigger.
I prepare for a night on the town with Mr Mister's 'Kyrie Eleison'......but then I am a little more jaded and I need the cheer squad.
James Taylor also writes me as does Van Morrison, and then there are the days when my whole life is a private conversation between me and Eminem.
When I die, I want them to play The Byrds 'Turn Turn Turn'.
I do not believe in God, but I do believe in the words of Ecclesiastes 3.
Would I have these words with me if they were not set to music?
It's doubtful.
And it may mean nothing to anybody else, but I like the question " What is your personal soundtrack ?".
I would like to think that you read this and think about the music of your soul, your heart, your mind.
And then ask yourself why it is so.
Perhaps , like me, it has something to do with the idea of a life filled with creative balance and beauty...or maybe it's listening to hot guys in harmony.
I love music, it's true.
But I am no artistic purist.
I am also partial to men who are good with their tongues and fingers.
No such thing as an ugly muso.
Just sayin'.
I think Bill expressed it best.
If music be the food of love, play on.

Classical Gas
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JeHgNqbdBKs

How- or should I say Where- Can I Put This Politely.........?

I think I may be a 'ball breaker'.
And before the earths Axis is tilted by an inordinate amount of eye rolling, or hens stop laying due to a sound wave of sarcastically ascending " reeeEALLY?" crossing the country I would like to point out that in most things self awareness I can comfortably boast an 8.5 on the Richter scale. Plus I have 3 adult children. If there is anything self deluding I've missed, they'll let me know.
But the thing is, I didn't set out to be a ball breaker, and I don't actually take any pleasure in being one.
I see myself as gentle.
Honest.
But gentle.
Forthright.
But gentle.
Firm.
But gentle.
Once a man even described me as a 'fairy princess'.
True, we were naked, and it was post coital, but it still counts.
It made me giggle and go all coy.
I can be coy.
Even in bed.
And this brings me to my point- now that most of you have washed the burning image of me naked and post coital from your eyes- when it comes to certain things, at my age, and with my lifetimes experience, ' yeah, whatever ' just doesn't cut it.
Bad sex, bad behaviour, bad clothes sense, bad time management, bad personal hygiene, bad manners....all of those things that I used to think " shit, that's revolting, I wish I could say something " I now say something about.
Last week when the driver of a taxi I was in hawked and then spat out the car door...I shouted " Oh my GOD that is DISGUSTING, how revolting, that is REALLY rude in my country".
And then we sat there in silence for the rest of the trip.
Of course there is the less direct, but tried and true, method of bitching the said offender out to others, and I have done this often enough so as to be considered a card carrying resident of the ' always good for a bit of salacious gossip' camp.
Quite honestly, this horse and pony show can wear thin for everybody, especially me.
Perhaps that is why I have become more ball breaking.
It's faster.
I admire efficiency.
I value my time more.
I expect to be paid to entertain.
Now when someone is behaving like a dick, and everyone else is looking away because confrontation is confrontational, I will call it.
"Hey - insert name of boorish individual here - just because you were not loved enough as a child does not mean you can bring your ' I hate me so let me make you hate me too' to the table".
Of course I try and be nicer about it.
Unlike some, I have manners.
And everyone else is greatly relieved that someone has said something and that it didn't have to be them.
That it leaves me nauseous for days is something I am working on.
I notice people over 80 call bullshit with far less guilt.
I love Grandmas.
They have a comedy all of their own.
Ask a grandma what she thinks of your new skirt she will tell you straight up " It makes you look fat, and you have cankles. You should consider wearing a bag over your head, no wonder you are not married. But it doesn't matter, those cankles probably mean that you're barren".
My daughter's Grandma once reminded her to "keep the family white".
In her entire life, my daughter has dated one Caucasian.
I'm thinking no one in the family has had the heart to break the news that 2 of her grandsons are gay.
Perhaps she wouldn't mind.
At least THEY will keep the family white.
Somehow, Grandmas are not given the title 'ball breaker', although quite obviously they can be, and a lot more besides.
So how does that work?
Is it an ageist thing?
Is it one of those things where in your 20's you are 'disarmingly honest' and in your 30's you are ' ruthlessly open' and in your 40's you suddenly become a 'ball breaker' then in your 50's you are a 'menopausal bitch' then in your 60's you are 'no nonsense' and in your 70's you are back to being 'disarmingly honest' again, and then you are a Nana?
Personally I want to be a Nana well before 80.
God knows I started up the process early enough.
Bring me one of every colour and we shall sit and watch cartoons together on the floor eating nothing but plates of cookies and red frogs, and drinking ginger beer from the bottle until our teeth rot out.
I long for those days.
And perhaps that is why I have grown ever more impatient with sub-standard, sub-human substitutes for substance.
Weary of adult self indulgences, I crave the simplicity of childlike unconditional love and days making pasta necklaces.
Whereas my days are spent nursing the ego's of men who can't find a clitoris and women who see a 'trip to Cougar Town' as an investment in their intellectual property.
A) No my breasts are NOT rubber balls and they DO have nerve cells, and no that was NOT good sex, and no I will NOT 'teach' you anything 'cause at your age if you haven't picked it up, common sense would suggest you can't be taught and ....
B) No, that teenagers costume does NOT make you look hotter, it makes you look like you stole your daughters clothes and are attending dress-up day at the 'Desperate' factory. Mutton dressed as lamb is designed to trick old wolves. The guys YOU are targeting still have their eyesight and a fair sense of smell. Give it up.
Ball breaking? Or just disarmingly honest ?
Until I have enough money to be considered eccentric, I shall be forced to struggle along that fine line.
At least until I'm 80.
Then all bets are off, and I shall sit in the street wearing a woolly hat with bobbles shouting fashion advice to strangers and eating 6 for the price of 4 lamingtons straight out of the box.
When they come to take me home, I shall tell them what I really think, and then me and the great-grandkids will hang out in the living room all day making cushion forts using soft toys as weapons.
They will say "You smell like wee Grand Nana , and you are very, very fat" and their parents, my own offspring, will shush them down and tell them not be be so 'forthright'.
But I won't mind.
I will rejoice in their truth speaking, delighted that the young - much like the old- have precious little time for blowing narcissistic smoke up the arses of the socially challenged.

Ten Rules for a Faster/ Higher/ Stronger/Sexier/ Better/ Superer Dooperer Life.

A darling hearted dear friend recently sent me a copy of "The Rules", a 10 point plan for getting the right man's slippers parked permanently underneath your bed.
Her motivation for doing so- I believe and forgive me if I am wrong Suzanne- was centered around a bubble bath and the crucial self loving words from rule 10 " I am a beautiful woman, I am enough".
Suzanne was reminding me to be kind to myself. I often need reminding. Like a lot of woman blessed with a challenging life path, self loathing is an all too familiar default.
I love the women in my life. I breathe and devour their mentor ship, their wisdom, their honesty, their strength, their courage, their frailty, their perseverance, and their determination to be who they are, warts and all. Often they wear their hearts and minds on their sleeves and, filled with self doubt themselves, question whether or not that makes them weaker in the eyes of the world.
But only cowards run from pain.
'Ownership of self' is the ultimate sign of an unsung hero.
Like I said, I love these woman, and their inspiration gives me the daily dose of courage I need to be me.
So I looked at these 'Rules'.....and they started me thinking.
Frankly I am not sure that I am calculating enough to follow them all to the letter.....for example, apparently if he hasn't proposed after a year, it's a no go. To quote the article " Close the deal, Rules women do not date men for more than 2 years ".
If I never actually marry again, it will be too soon. Live with, yes, marry?...........Well.............I would need some serious convincing.
So then what 'Rules' would I create if I was creating 10 rules for women to follow?
Whether it be to attract a man - something I claim ZERO expertise in - or just to live by, what 10 things would I tell my daughter?
You see where I am going with this.......
Rule 1.
Write down, then print out and carry, a list of gas and bodily fluid boundaries that are irrevocable under any circumstances other than near death gastro requiring hospitalisation.
For example mine would read: We can only have sex if you agree to the following. NO farting in common areas, EVER. No burping at the dinner table, EVER. Flushing the toilet ALWAYS, and placing the seat down at nighttime for when I get up to pee at 1am and do not turn on a light. If you leave wee on the seat, wash it off,and if you DO happen to piss down the outside of the cistern, and GOD ALONE knows how that happens cause the bowl is wider than your dick, CLEAN IT UP. Also, you will sleep on the wet patch on winter nights, and I will on summer- but only if the aircon is on.
Rule 2.
Do not go out with men who send mixed messages, and if you are not sure, ask a friend, then take her advice. If she rolls her eyes when you mention his name, that is all the advice you need.
I am guilty of this one, so I know. If a guy chats and flirts and bats his eyelids and touches you and then makes you feel like you are a stalker when you call him, put a hit out on him. He is one messed up little fucker and you are better off with a small rap sheet with the local authorities than you are with his number in your phone. Prison terms for killing men are shorter than waiting for them to get their shit together.
Rule 3.
Buy yourself something nice everyday.
It doesn't have to be expensive. A nice bag of fresh cherries or a lip gloss or a good cappuccino will make you happy. Men like to feel like heroes, I am told by woman's magazines, by buying woman gifts. Great. In the meantime, be your own hero and buy your own stuff. That way, you can get the buzz of giving AND receiving.
Rule 4.
You will always have fat days, even if you are Kate Moss. Bald woman have bad hair days. You are not your fat, and you are not your hair.
You know how the day you go to the hairdressers to get it all cut off is always the day it looks amazing? You know how the dress that made you a sexual goddess last week makes you look like your mother today because you are about to get your period? Why do we do this to ourselves? We know what this is. Let's just say it. I AM MORE THAN THE SUM OF MY PARTS. Now say it again. And again. And again.
Rule 5.
Do not shit where you eat. Do not piss in your own pool. Do not fuck people you work with. Period.
If you MUST fall in love with someone at the workplace, make them quit, then continue. Never quit yourself unless it's for a better position.
Rule 6.
Men with stuffed toys in their bedrooms are bad in bed.
The one exception is a teddy from their childhood - ONE AND ONLY ONE HOWEVER- these men are invariably good with their tongues, don't ask me how I know but I do, but any man who owns a doll or teddy that was released in the last 2 years will not do any better entertaining your soft parts than the battery operated toy you keep beside the bed. Some men are into Marvel Models and the like. These are OK if they are displayed in the living room only. If he has more models than books, leave the house IMMEDIATELY and delete his number.
Rule 7.
White stockings and/or shoes make you look like a nurse, which is great if you are a nurse and on duty, otherwise, no.
Also, the 80's were genuinely the decade fashion forgot. Bubble skirts make skinny girls look like they have mah-hoo-sive arses and fat girls look like 17th century troubadours and fluro suits NO ONE. Uber high waisted anything makes you look like you have a mental health issue. Think before you buy.
Rule 8.
Love your breasts.
Big or small, saggy or flat, nipples like plates or raisins, they are yours, and they can feed babies, and they are amazing and they need love. I hate the breast augmentation industry. Hate it. I have a big chest, but it took me years to love my boobs. Heavy, hard to dress without looking like a porn star, sweaty in summer, I am now at peace with my lady lumps, but it was not easy.I have friends who fret and fret that there is "not enough". They bemoan what nature has gifted them.Why? VERY VERY few men ( ie: none) get 10 ounces of silicone shafted into their penises, and frankly, a number of them could. Not many women would complain about a man with a larger prick, but I never read ads for 'a more masculine 5 inch wide 10 inch long you' in the plastic surgery section of newspapers. If a man makes you feel that you are less of a woman because of the size of your tits, cut off his dick and see if he looks less of a man.
Rule 9.
Look after your feet.
Some feet are sexy, some are not, but they work really hard and they could do with some kindness. Apparently it was a really big deal in the Bible when a woman- who must have been a hooker obviously because she hung around the guys all day- washed the self proclaimed son of Gods feet. Things don't need to get that intense at your place. Just try and put them up once in a while, keep them clean, don't cut them with tight/ill fitting/ ridiculous shoes and then expect them to heal overnight. Put moisturiser on them as you go to bed. Paint the nails when you get a chance. If you live near me, indulge in a $98 massage in TST. Be good to your feet, and they will be good to you.
Rule 10.
Don't let anyone tell you how to live.
This includes me. Do not love people who do not love you for you.
For what ever reason you do what you do, what ever you do, try the best you can, to do the best you can and for the rest, consider this prayer by Saint Francis of Assisi.
"Lord grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
the courage to change the things I can, and
the wisdom to know the difference."
I am a total atheist and I pray to no one, but these words mean more to me today than they ever did.
I know that in order to achieve what I must on my journey, I must heed the message of acceptance, courage and wisdom.
Ah, so in the end, only three rules are required, and none of them involve capturing an unsuspecting hunter gatherer in my lace and silk spider web.
I guess there is more to life for a chick like me than sucking on flies.

Judge not lest ye be caught doing something really f**king stupid.

I like to believe I am not judgemental.
And I'm not.
Not actually.
Not in the sense that I consider myself blameless and others hopelessly flawed.
I am hopelessly flawed.
Hopelessly.
But I am not actually physically blind, and I do have thoughts, and I do form opinions, and sometimes I express them, sometimes publicly, and usually with less subtlety than most.
Believe me when I tell you, this tongue is a precision instrument in more ways than one.
But oral skills aside.
My thoughts, when turned into words, can be razor sharp, and my gut feeling is that if i don't release them from the cage of my locked jaw, I may actually end up slashing the inside of my own mouth.
This is a vastly dangerous proposition, and as much as I love you all, the thought of drowning in my own blood whilst attempting to tie down a tongue lashing armed with only my lips and aging teeth to assist me seems nigh impossible.
I love a bit of hanky spanky, but I am not a masochist.
If there are barbs to be unleashed, I would rather they kept away from my soft bits.
Rarely do my words vent far beyond my trusted inner sanctum anyway, and by now this select group have come to accept that once in a while I tell it like I see it.
They know it is never directed at them.
I do not keep morons within my inner sanctum, that's why they are in my inner sanctum.
And they know who they are.
But today I'm feeling lucky.
So let's talk.
Imagine a world where the only thing you knew for sure was that someone with a reputation as a totally flakey - albeit bright and charming - pants man became the love of your life. He came to your bed dragging a trail of broken promises on a string.Imagine then that he broke your heart by sleeping around........and you never saw it coming.
For fucks sake.
Imagine if when cornered, he placed blame squarely on the state of the modern world and it's inability to keep a mans private affairs private....then hurumphed himself out of the playpen, throwing toys and sticks over his shoulder at his playmates.
One might suggest this man might try to keep HIS privates INSIDE his pants, and he wouldn't have an issue.
Or perhaps the star struck woman who have 'pick me I'm desperate' stapled to their foreheads could just run it by any other woman on the planet, just to check.
But either way, if you sleep with a man who is a known cheat and he cheats on you, you deserve to drown in every tear you shed.
A bad workman blames his tools.
And a tool has no one to blame but himself.
Stupidity is one thing.
Lunacy is quite another.
I often describe people as being ' as mad as a cut snake'. I have never cut a snake, so I am not actually sure how mad they get, but I can bet it's pretty mad.
Thing is, for me, this is a term of endearment.
I love a bit of good old fashioned 'out there' with my coffee and a chat.
I would hope I am described in the same manner- although I suspect it may not always convey the same love for eccentricity that my label intends.
But 'nutbag' and 'being nuts' are not the same thing.
I once heard a discussion on radio in Australia about the word 'bastard'.
When Australian men greet each other, they might say " how are you, you ugly bastard?".
These are kinsmen. Being a bastard here is like being part of a secret club of brotherly man love.
If you were to gently chide that man for not bowling well at cricket, you might say "come on ya bastard" and it would mean' you can do it, we believe in you'.
But if someone is described as 'a bit of a bastard', they want him dead.
And 'being nuts' is not the same as being 'nutty', or a nutbag' or 'as mad as a cut snake', it's being insane.
And that's not fun for anybody.
Well, maybe a little at first, but then less so.
Once the novelty value has worn off, the crazy can be pretty wearing for those chaffing against it.
Paranoia is only fun until they really do all start talking about you.
Plus it never ends well.
Unlike being permanently deluded, which is more fun, because you always end up winning. Always.
I have long worked with creative people, I like them. Some of them are a bit deluded- which is not the same as being a bit of a bastard, although some do also fall into that category.
A week ago a man with precious little talent but mighty mighty powers of delusion was thrust into my path, as he is 3 or 4 times a year.
It is exhausting.
His self belief system is so enormous it has it's own climate.
Thankfully the only person who has ever remained close enough to him is his wife, and she is not without delusion herself.
Somehow they have managed to co-exist without actually spinning into one an others head space for many many years.
Personally I think it's because they each have their own gravitational pull that keeps them both rotating and functioning around each other and out into the wider world.
It is the ultimate symbiosis.
Were one to die, I should think the other would instantly disappear, not through grief- as they actually hate each other- but because the lack of 'ego force ' which would result in a delusion vacuum whereby they surviving partner would disappear up his or her own arse.
A quite literal black hole.
Ewwwwwwwwww
A hideous thought.
And one I shall leave you with.
Along with this chestnut.
Remember, life is like a box of chocolates.
If you press the caramel ones, the inside oozes onto the foil then you can't eat it without zapping your fillings and in three weeks time all that will be left of that box of countless delicious moments will be 2 sad and lonely orange creams leaking their guts into the butter compartment of the fridge.
W.

This Graph Will Explain Everything.

I am having 'a moment'.
I have been having it since February.
Some who claim my acquaintance would suggest that I have been having a moment much longer than that.
To them I say, "Bite me. If you are not part of the solution, clearly, you are part of the problem".
It's nothing major, this piccola crisi (God Damn and hooray :) I have always wanted to use the word piccola in print in place of small... take THAT bucket list....), and it has taken the form of neither self abuse nor black dog.
Merely inertia.
Not in every area, and not even consistently enough so that you would notice.
But I know it.
There have been more than a few times so far this year when my preferred course of action to any issue deemed 'too hard' has been to 'do nothing' and see how that pans out.
The problem is, sometimes it works.
Inbox full of questions that seem stupid and irrelevant?
Do nothing. Half the problems will solve themselves, and for the others, if it's that vital, they will contact you again and you can deal with it later.
Irritating tick you were once involved with jumping up and down about some hideous article of clothing he thinks he left under the bed?
Do nothing. He has already told anyone who will listen you are a psychotic bitch anyway, let your continued kidnapping of his favourite rugby shorts stand as proof of your unreasonable behaviour.
What have you got to lose?
Also, the material they use in those shorts is fantastic at mopping up cat vomit. Seriously, that is some super heavy duty cotton.
Writing deadline approaching?
Do nothing. Nothing will appear, but then you can always claim 'the need for creative retreat' and appear even MORE enigmatic when you emerge.
You see, this inertia business is the business, as they say.
It does fall down somewhat on the domestic front.
Not buying toilet paper because you are having a crisis day/week is all well and good for a while, but it runs a little empty on about day 3.
Thank God I have the habit of stealing tissues from coffee shops and hiding them crumpled up in my handbags.
And thank God I have several handbags.
There are times when I am being inert that it feels like I am lost in a sea of words. Words make the waves, and they pound me and rise up around me, drowning me as wave after wave crashes inside my brain, echoing and reverberating in the caves of my mind.
They are mostly quite intrusive words, self doubting and ponderous. They tend to be heavy in weight, and they slosh about like a thick, dark soup.
I know that the inner workings of my mind sounds ghastly, and it can be a scary place, but what surprises me about all this is that, rather respond with fear or courage -good old fight or flight-, I do nothing.
I stop.
Dead in the water, as it were.
Other things get done, mine is an active, fruitful and happy life, but some things simply do not, and these in actions remain suspended by the words that surround them in a kind of high wire word act attached to a large transparent jelly like Zorb Globe made of words.
Or at least, that's how I see them inside my head.
I wish I could draw, then I could show you, but I hope you can see what I mean.
Today, whilst on a bus, I saw a woman wearing a t-shirt that said " Be happy, it's one way of being" and I thought OH MY GOD !!!! it's a sign, because words can do that for me and I was having a moment, and I wrote it down in my notebook. Then as the bus pulled away, she unfolded her arms to reveal a final word...."wise"...and I thought, bollocks.
You know, I HATE,I simply HATE the concept that happiness and wisdom, or ignorance and bliss, or awareness and self satisfaction are in anyway connected.
Ignorance is not bliss, it is ignorance. Being happy is - like your orgasm- your OWN responsibility, and NOTHING EXTERNAL can make you happy if you do not BE happy. Being happy does not make you wise.
Spongebob Squarepants is happy, and he's a moron.
Why, oh why, oh why does everyone get the same right to breed?
I don't actually blame that woman.
T-shirts in HK say all sorts of things that make no sense.
I once saw a man wearing a t-shirt that loudly proclaimed that he was going to ' rock out with his cock out' and he was about a hundred.
Whilst I admire his intent, I somewhat question the reality of his situation.
And I say that with genuine respect, 'cause I know old people have needs too.
Like my need to achieve something more this year than mark another birthday.
Yes, yes yes, those of you who know me think I do lots of stuff, but there is more.
I need to write a book, several actually, that have been suspended in jellied word bubbles in my head for so long that the coating is becoming opaque.
I need to pick up my mentally inert self and throw myself into the fear abyss and smash those bubbles into cliffs so that the words spill out and fall onto the page.
I need to not wait and see how this one pans out.
Who knows what will happen?
Perchance not much, but at least there will be space made inside my head for more productive inertia.
You know that face recognition thing on facebook?
The one that tags your photo's?
I was deep in thought last week, studying the folds of my own navel whilst juggling 900 balls in the air as per usual.
I was uploading pictures, and in a candid shot and caught off guard, my face reflected everyone of my 41 years.
"Who is this?" it asked.
"Fucked if I know," I answered, and then retreated to my mind cave for half a day to see if the words held any answers.
Mind you, I may have over reacted.
Sometimes, there simply are no answers, and the reason doing nothing works, is because nothing is all there is to be done.
Inside my head, and even outside my head.
Once cyberspace tried to tag the face of the Mona Lisa that was in a poster behind me.
"Who is this?" it asked.
Dude, you are facebook. If you don't know, how the hell would I?