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  • wittyjules 8:33 am on April 18, 2012 Permalink | Reply  

    Boys Suck 

    I know I don’t usually get quite this personal, but the way my personal life is going, I just had to get this off my chest. Good guys, forgive me, all of you married and gay ones, especially.

    I’m just completely sick of liars, cheaters, and never-enoughers (oh, my!). I can’t stand abusers, manipulators, and rainbow killers. I hope to God that, one day, I can regain a healthy self-esteem, but it doesn’t look good, from here.  I feel generally ugly and useless. I must be stupid; I mean, look at my choices in men. My save-the-world-one-assface-at-a-time routine has got to go. I have to start being very particular and definitely rather alone.

    If it weren’t for my daughter, I would be worthless. A series of mistakes and train wrecks, summed up within one girl. And that is what all these guys have done to me and my hope. They’ve put me down, hurt my heart, and squashed my spirit. I don’t want it to happen to anyone else, so, people, if you’re reading this and you’re in a relationship that’s beating you down with each turn of phrase, or, even literally, the sooner you get out of it, the better off you’ll be. It’s a long road, but that’s where the healing begins, no matter how hard it feels at first.

  • wittyjules 7:34 pm on March 21, 2012 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: "best diet", "diet and exercise", "doomsday preppers", "dream meanings", "family guy", "free porn", , "new diet", "religious views", "US soldiers", death, diet, , free, healthy, , , , satire, soldier, stories, trump   

    For your consideration… 


    I just wanted to post a short story I’ve recently written for any feedback (positive, or negative, so have at it) I might be able to find out there.

    Thanks, guys! Ok, here goes…


    Wishing Well(?)

    Kali Sands stared down into the well, even as she threw the the coin. It fashed once, flipping over in the sunlight, before that wholly gracious reflection, too, disappeared forever. Pondering the depth of the old well was sort of a town hobby (or, joke, depending upon how you looked at it). The cold, gray, stone structure had been around since before anyone in the town could remember, and had existed when the town was founded, here. Yet, no one, in all of Terra (it was a small town, anyhow) had ever heard a coin hit the bottom. It was, indeed, a curious subject.

    She strained, stretching her neck to almost inhuman, even, comic book character lengths, to try again and gauge its depth. As always, nothing. Kali came to the well twice a week, or so, to sit in solitude and hopefully, one day, hear the tiny ‘clink’ of irrefutable evidence that might, at last, solve the mystery of the imperceivable abyss.

    Half the time, she wasn’t even sure what she wished. She’d just drop the coin, absent-mindedly and out of habit, then sit down to think, most days. For some reason, the question of the well’s depth concerned her exponentially more than her actual wishes. There were, of course, the obligatory wishes; health and happiness, and all that jazz; but there were other, more selfish wishes. Not to mention, Kali’s guesses, at what she was supposed to do with her life.

    Once, she’d wished for beauty. She had almost let the coin fall, too. And, she would have, had it not been for the nagging voice in the back of her mind insisting that vanity wasn’t worth a wasted wish. That voice had been so strong and calm, almost, like having God as her own personal conscience. She’d grasped the coin, pulled it back, and held it to her heart, like she could search it for a more noble desire. Fearing she didn’t deserve a wish, after all, she’d settled for clearing her mind and dropping the coin, purely for the hope of hearing it hit.

    One day, she knew, it would sound out. Proof that there was an ending; a bottom; a conclusion. On that day, she; Kali Sands; would be it. She would be fierce. She would know what it was, to finally be someone, who counted for something.

    * * *

    Columbus Tate watched, from his car, as Ceilia and her little homo buddy emerged from the lab, after a day of brewing up their fancy, scientific shit. They were probably on their way to get drunk and run their dick-suckers about him. He was already a few beers ahead of them, but, it hadn’t stopped him from following her before; why should it matter, now? Columbus grunted his disgust, watching them cross the street. Lunch, every day. Bar, every week. This guy was the reason Ceilia had broken it off with him, Columbus knew it; was counting on it. Ceil and her sorry little, fag, tag-along had tried to make a damned chump out of him. They were gonna pay, too. Columbus put the car in gear and drove along sowly, passing them on his way to their weekly watering hole. As soon as he had an opportunity, they were gonna regret it. Columbus Tate was nobody’s little bitch. He pulled into the bar’s parking lot, so wrapped up in revenge and his own, twisted version of reality, that he never saw the coin land in the soft carpeting of his passenger floorboard, a muffled thump of nearly muted sound, failing to echo the evidence of its existence. To anyone, really.

    “Why is it raining, all of the sudden?” Drew opened his newspaper, to use as a hasty, makeshift umbrella.

    Ceilia shrugged, nonchalant, in her bravado. She’d seen the car, but, refused to acknowledge him. He’d been following her for 37 days, now. If that wasn’t a stalker, she couldn’t imagine what was.

    “You got nothing?”

    She shrugged, again, as they reached the door and he pulled it open, for her.

    “Aww, shucks. Thank you, ever so, you big strong maaan,” she joked, in her best Scarlett O’Hara drawl, before ducking inside.


    “Hell, no. Shot! You want vodka?”

    He grinned. That woman definitely had an answer for everything. He could see the wheels turning, behind those baby greens, of hers. She had a theory about the rain, alright, probably wrapped up in some ridiculous conspiracy. He just wouldn’t hear about it, until she had a couple of drinks in her. After all, it was Friday. Recently, it had somehow evolved into a weekly ritual to hit the local bar, a block from the lab. It started about a month back, the day after Ceilia got dumped at dinner, by her longtime boyfriend. Drew had met the guy a couple times…total douche. But, wasn’t that always the way of it? Nice, smart girls always ended up with daft jerks, while nice guys, well…were mostly gay. That was Ceilia’s theory. The Cliff’s Notes version, anyhow.

    She was a brilliant woman and, although her theory on men and women rang pretty true, it lacked controlled results, or unbiased evidence, to support it. That said, her actual idea was, that people who were complete opposite, in personality, found each other sexually attractive, only to produce a more perfect person. Balance, and all that jazz. Drew found this theory unsettling. When it came down to it, her’s was just another wild, hybrid theory. He couldn’t get on board.

    She insisted that Drew only need, “look past the math”, to make most of her ideologies work. He just couldn’t see how this was possible. Math wasn’t something you overlooked, to get to a solution. Math was the only route to a Universal, plausible, non-arbitrary conclusion. As a fellow bio-chemist, Drew was fairly appalled even to hear Ceilia talking this way. She’d always hated her job and, truth be told, Drew did, too. Nothing killed aspirations of changing the world, through curing cancer, or, the elusive daydream of a Nobel Prize, quite like brewing up babies, for bored, rich women. Many a bar night, had begun with this very topic of discussion, in fact. The typical protocol being; “I never thought I’d be doing this, when I was in Grad school,” chased with a shot of tequila (or vodka, or rum), subsequently, by a couple of beers (usually, whatever was new on tap), and general pontification.

    “It’s just illogical,” he found himself saying. Slurring, actuallly. One shot had, somehow, turned into several. It was the only thing that remotely explained the gist of their conversation. Drunken science.

    “See?” Ceilia took a long, slow sip of her beer. “You just don’t see things the way I do, Drew.”

    “It’s a good thing, too. Otherwise we’d both be crackheads.”

    She laughed. “Don’t you mean, ‘crackpots’?”

    “Nah…I don’t think anyone uses that word outside of books, there, brainiac. Speaking of which, you know, our whole personality dynamic supports one of your theories, anyway.”

    “Oh yeah? Which one would that be?”

    “That you and I, being polar opposites, should probably bang.”

    She laughed again, wryly.

    “Yeah,” he agreed. “You do see a lot of things, other people don’t.” He paused, tapping the bar napkin with his index finger. “It doesn’t make you right about this, though.”

    “Look again, Drew. I’m right. Not to mention, it’s the simplest math of all time.”

    He gazed down at the napkin again, which looked even more surreal, against the backdrop of the heavy wood counter supporting it. ‘The God Equation’, she was calling it. He didn’t believe in God and, according to his Catholic upbringing, God especially didn’t believe in him. Science and math were the only plausible answer to the puzzle of our Universe; not some weird, arbitrary bearded guy in the sky. Sure, her ‘simple math’ added up. But, against what, exactly?

    God, man,” she said, as if she’d read his mind.

    He jumped at her voice. “You’re drunk,” his voice came out loud, awkard, accusing. He sounded like a little kid who didn’t want to play anymore, because he’d been picked last.

    She threw her head back, laughing wholeheartedly, this time. “Okay, Pot. Fair enough. But, you’re a little blacker, or, drunker, as it were. What are you? Trying to work up the courage to hit on me? We both know I’m not your type, honey.”

    Drew smiled a small, sad smile. “We both know, it wouldn’t work.”

    “That’s true. So, hit on the waitress.”

    He glanced at the overworked girl, as she pushed a dark loch of hair off her forehead. He shook his head, turning his gaze to the beer in his hand.

    “I doesn’t hold the ever-elusive meaning of life,” she’d read his mind, again. She had a tendncy. A freakish tendency; and it wasn’ just him. She always seemed tuned in to the locked up thoughts of other peoples’ cerebral chambers. If he weren’t a man of science, he’d swear she was psychic. She’d always had his number, since day one, when he thought he was so great at keeping everyone (parents and sister, included) out in the dark. He looked back at Ceilia, almost afraid of her.

    “Collective conscious,” she quipped. “Plus, you’re pitifuly easy to read.”

    He grinned, some more. “Pitifully, huh? Am I at least lovable, like a Pound Puppy, or a My Little Pony? Or, maybe, the little kids who learn a valuable life lesson, at the end of every, singe episode of G.I. Joe?”

    Drew couldn’t help, but to feel a perpetual need, to poke fun at Ceilia for her TV-on-DVD collection. She revered those old 80’s shows, bad camera and all, to the point that it made her physically angry for anyone to remake them, even in an honest attempt to introduce them to a new generation. She threw a peanut at him. Her secret shame was Jem; who could blame her?; after all, Jem was ‘truly, truly, truly outrageous’. Three truly’s…that had to be legit.

    “You forgot Brandon. You’re more of a Brandon. Especially, with that red hair.”

    He ran a hand through it, involuntarily. “It’s not red. And who the hell is Brandon?” He sounded very like the mythical Anne Shirey, and they both knew it. Ceilia grinned.

    “Punky Brewster’s dog. What is it, if it’s not red?”

    “Auburn. And you would know the name of Punky Brewster’s dog.”

    “Whatever. I made you laugh, anyway.”

    “You usually do.”

    Ceilia summoned the waitress. “Let’s get outta here, kid.”

    “No problem, Bogie.”

    She loved those old movies, too. She was the only grown woman he knew, who still watched the ancient, Hayley Mills version of, ‘The Parent Trap’, and she owned every Marilyn Monroe movie, ever made. Not to mention the whole Bogie and Bacall collection, ‘It Happened One Night’, ‘Dr. Strangelove; Or, How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Bomb’, amongst others. Ceilia was a metaphysical conundrum, he supposed, in and of, herself.

    Columbus watched the pair leave the bar, wondering if that Don, or Dan, or whatever the hell his name was, could grow the balls to try something with Ceilia. Just once. One time, was all Columbus needed, to confirm his suspicion that the two had been messing around, all the while, on him. They called two cabs, hugging innocently, before they supposedly parted ways. Oh, they were clever, alright. Columbus took a swig from his private stash and followed the D-named fag’s cab, all the way, down that yellow brick road.

    * * *

    Kali slung her backpack off of her shoulder and threw it to the ground. She never lost her cool. What was wrong with her, today? Oh, yeah; she knew what it was; that damned math quiz. She’d failed. She was sure of it. Math was simply horrid. So limiting, with no room for imagination. How many times, she wondered, had she wished she was at least capable at math? Countless. Truly, an insurmountable quantity of coins had been flung into the abyss, with this very name on them. She fished around in her pocket for another one, this time, with rain on her mind. She dropped it, straining again, for the sound of surety, only to be disappointed again, at its silent descent. Slumping against the well, Kali gazed up at the cloudless sky. Still, no rain. Still, no hint of a bottom in the old well. It wasn’t shaping up to be a good day.

    * * *

    Ceilia sighed. She had managed to grant a bored, rich housewife, quintuplets. What would happen, from here on, was completely out of Ceilia’s hands, but, it didn’t stop her from speculating at the terrible fate of the four extra little people. Ceilia had always been pro-choice, and completely okay with someone who found herself in a jamb, using abortion as her end-all, be-all, nowehre-to-go, last option. It wasn’t birth control. It damn sure wasn’t appropriate for a woman to stir the pot and have babies genetically engineered for her, toss the rest of the embryos, like they were nothing more than used-up tissues. That, Celia mused, was most certainly a horse of a different color. She couldn’t imagine that this was what ‘free will’, if such a thing truly existed (which, her profession seemed to prove), was meant to be.

    She wondered what Drew thought about all of this, but, she couldn’t really ask. He was touchy, even with subjects that only danced around the idea of any brand of God(s). Free will, was pretty completely, a God(s) argument. She’d had enough of those for this week. It was awfully tiring to argue with a supposed atheist, about something he’d grown up around and actively chosen to refuse to ever acknowledge, again. Celia had always believed in a Higher Power, but, on her own terms, alone. She couldn’t bear to box God in, with a little book, in a little steeple. Drew; he couldn’t even come to his own terms with any Creator/God figure. She could understand why, too. If her overtly Catholic parents had sent her to a de-gayification camp three years running, she might have felt the same.

    Celia preferred to think of the human race as one, of many, manifestations of a pure and perfect Energy/Universe/Creator. She’d figured, long ago, that these words all meant the same thing. She was likely wrong, as all of the human race was apt to be, however, people had always been uncomfortable, talking with her about theoogy. She was labeled, in her family, an atheist. She didn’t really mind. They just didn’t understand her and she, well, she just didn’t understand anything. But, at least she was smart enough to know that she knew nearly nothing. She couldn’t help, but, feel like she had a little in common with God(s), what with her petri dishes and celluar construction. It was hard to imagine that everything had fallen into place, this way, without a guiding hand, of some sort, by whatever name. Still lost in her thoughts, she stepped out into the rainy afternoon, for a long overdue lunch. Where the hell was all this rain coming from, anyhow? She felt like she was in a tropical forest, during the monsoon season.

    * * *

    Kali gazed up at the sky, longing for a single drop, of life-giving rain. She perked her ears and tossed the coin, with a wish for water, pushing its way past her lips. She coudn’t imagine how Terra would survive much longer, without any rain. It wasn’t as though her town was a desert. She looked around, sitting cross-legged at the foot of the well. The town was starting to look sad and dull, almost like a ghost town, in the old Westerns. When was the last time, she’d seen anyone at the old well, Kali wondered. When, in fact, was the last time she saw anyone…anywhere? Something very strange seemed to be going on around here.

    * * *

    Columbus sat outside the bar, watching and waiting. What were they doing? Was that ‘mo holding her, keeping her warm, in the dead of the night? Who was taking care of Ceilia, if this fag didn’t have the balls to do it? Columbus shook his head; what the fuck was he doing; worrying about it? She was whoring herself out to a queer, when their relationship wasn’t even cold, in its grave…so what. He didn’t give a shit. And he’d tell himself tht; the whole time he was following her.

    Drew couldn’t understand what was bothering Celia, so. And, to make matters worse, she was remaining uncharacteristically close-mouthed about it. He eyed her, from behind the beer glass, as he took a swig. Yes, it was Friday, again. It had a way of coming around regularly, like that.

    “What?” she’d caught him, staring at her.

    He shook his head. “Just wondering what’s up with you. You’re so,” he paused, “quiet.”

    “Yeah, I know.”

    “Anything you want to talk about?”

    Now, she shook her head. It was going to be a long night, at this rate. Without Celia to entertain him, tonight was sure to be a bust. He realized, then, how much he looked forward to her zany concoctions, regardless of his cynicism. She kept him light-hearted and bizzarre.

    “Now, I’ve got you thinking, huh?”

    He nodded, raising his glass, again.

    “If Science and Religion ever shut the hell up and agree to meet in the middle, I think I’ll be happy.”

    He nodded, again. “I just don’t see how they can.”

    “Yeah,” she mused. “Nobody seems to. That’s just the problem. I’m the only one who sees a little of it, which makes me automatically wrong. I’m by myself, in a society where majority rules.”

    “You got that right.”

    She smiled.

    “See? That’s what I was missin’. Are you thinking about Levine?”

    He’d hit the nail on the head, alright. She found herself akin to the proverbial nail. She was, in fact, still worried about the four “extra” babies, she’d inadvertently cooked up for Mrs. Saul Levine, III. Honestly, she’d expected more from the woman, considering her faith. You’d think God’s chosen people would be smart enough to realize there was a reason they weren’t chosen to have kids. But, all of it was truly out of her hands, now. Some lab tech had probably already disposed of the little miracles lying unwanted, in their dish.

    “Yeah,” she admitted, “but I’d rather not dwell on it.”

    “Fair enough. You need someone to talk to, you know where to find me. In the meantime, I gotta take a leak.”

    “Well, I’m not going to come looking any time soon, then. Damn.”

    Both of them laughing, Drew excused himself, leaving Ceilia to her own musings, which inevitably wandered to this unending question of morality, in a society devoid of even a hint.

    For no reason that she could name, Ceilia looked up, just then. She was startled to discover there was no ceiling, only a long (seemingly endless) tunnel, raising straight up above her head. A dim, dying, gray glow reached out, toward her, never to touch her world. Ceilia blinked, once; twice; but, the tunnel stayed and kept glowing, ever so slightly. It never wavered. This was impossible. Surely, she was dreaming. There was, simply, no other explanantion; logical, or extraordinary.

    She turned her attention back to her drink, still waiting for her, just as she’d left it. In fact, she could feel the icy liquid, there, beyond the glass, and the sheer layer of condensation; wet droplets of sweat, against her palm. All was, indeed, as it should be. The bartender, sullen and bored, pouring another shot, to drown the sorrows of a patron who refused to shut up about them. The usuals, jammed up at the bar, to catch the game their wives wouldn’t let them watch at home. A couple of weird guys she’d never seen before, hanging in the corner, talking amongst themselves.

    On any normal night, Ceilia would have willfuly and readily made up a witty dialogue, to entertain two such chracters. It was her favorite part of any bar; letting her underused imagination take flight. Married couples, boyfriend-and-girlfreinds, guy parties drunk on alternate man-love and battles of testosterone… they were all good fun. These guys could have been interesting. One had on a trench coat, dull and gray, and Ceilia found the theme song for ‘Inspector Gadget’ running through her head, unwittingly. They were talking in hushed tones and Ceilia figured they were probably up to no good. They were at a bar miles from where they lived, to discuss some hit the preppy guy wanted Inspector Gadget to carry out. It was probably Richie Rich’s wife, he wanted offed. Every now and again, Richie Rich’s eyes scanned the room, paranoid squirrel style, to lock with hers and scamper away, uncertainly, again. She smiled, with about as much joy as the bartender, and gazed down into her glass. Half, maybe a third, full. Drew had downed his before retiring, to tend to his business, she noticed. All was utterly, as it should be. Except, for that far-reaching tunnel, the hole, and its glow.

    She didn’t mean to (again), but, found herself wondering about what she’d seen, prior to actively distracting herself, this way. She supposed her thoughts had to come full circle, sometime. It wasn’t as though she was drunk enough to forget. She was, truth be told, pretty sober. They didn’t start with a shot, and this was only her second beer.

    Wait! She’d looked away; turned her attention to the people in the bar. The tunnel had to be gone, now. It was the oldest trick, in lucid dreaming, to turn your attention elsewhere, when something was about to wake you up, or, shatter your illusion of life, as you knew it. At any rate, the tunnel must have disappeared. She looked up, tentatively. Still there. She found herself transfixed, by what would go down in the record books, as the most surreal, insane thing, that had ever happened to her. The tunnel stretched out, into Infinity, into that glow of Heaven, or whatever it was.

    Was it a wormhole? Ceilia wondered. Certainly not, she remedied, realizing that the walls of the tunnel were clearly man-made. The gray and beige cobblestone walls sparkled, at points, in the poor light, to suggest quartz, or, even limestone. The blocks were rough, uneven, thrown together and adhered with mortar. The mortar didn’t even look quite like the factory-made stuff, you could buy at Home Depot, but more like the old-school formula of; contained sand, clay, traces of calcium carbonate, and a high percentage of lime. Ceilia marveled at the detail her mind was absorbing and simultaneously recalling, in only instants. She absolutely must be dreaming, she again convinced herself. It was a very well-calculated, detailed, and constructed dream; that was it. Then, it happened.

    As she studied the walls, a figure came into the light. A silhouette of someone, or, something. God (maybe)? She wasn’t sure, but, the pure, raw emotion; the instant connection and love of someone she didn’t know and never really could; suggested that this could only be God; that, or, she’d just given birth, without realizing it; they were the only two loves that compared. This face, however, wasn’t the face of a God, Who’d been painted throughout the centuries, by the classical greats and the common Wo/Man, alike. This was no Sage; no old, wise, timeless bearded man, in the sky, reaching for cherubim from a cloud of perfection. This face was the epitome of Youth; plain and pretty. This face bore the small, adorable snub nose, characteristic of early childhood, and high cheekbones ready to emerge from the last remnants of baby face…

    “CEILIA!” Drew said, sharply, as though this were the umpteenth time.

    She turned to him, with a start, confused at his sudden presence. Oh, right; her head cleared; he’d gone to the bathroom, only moments, before.

    “Are you drunk?”

    She shook her head, dumbfounded.

    “What are you looking at?”

    She pointed up and his gaze followed. He shrugged, as if to say; Really-what the hell are you looking at?

    Ceilia looked up, expecting the tunnel to be gone, at last. It wasn’t. Tunnel, glow, young girl (Ceilia wasn’t sure when, or how-but she’d decided it was a young girl, that God, or, Whatever it was, up there); all, still watching her. Ceilia gazed into the glow, at the face she could barely make out, as a coin flipped, end-over-end, past Ceilia’s uplifted visage, to clink into Drew’s empty glass. Outside, thunder crackled, and the Monsoon season began again, for today.

    In the two days since she’d noticed, Kali had seen no one else, in Terra. Where her books, or backpack came from, she’d no idea. Whom she never seemed to talk to, she didn’t suppose she’d ever find out. Wandering around, aimlessly, had only led her here, back to the old well. Confused, she fished a coin out of her pocket and tossed it absent-mindedly, straining to hear, knowing she wouldn’t, as always.

    She wished, only, to know who she was; to know where this was; to know what it all meant, after all.




  • wittyjules 11:28 am on March 15, 2012 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: "Best book of the year", "conspiracy theory", "Kennedy assassination", "new King novel", "Stephen King", conspiracy, JFK   

    11/22/63… (The New Stephen King Novel) 

    I just finished the book and sat there, stupefied, for a moment. It was brilliant. I could hardly put it down and, honestly, I kept forcing myself to, just to stretch out the reading a little longer, like a Tantric exercise for my brain. I considered, briefly, the amount of research, alone, it must have taken to put such a thing together, which goes above and beyond amazing. It even leaves awesome (over-used as that word has become) in the dust. Yet, the research was nothing, when compared with the sheer magnitude of the concept. I began to visualize the Universe as I imagine God sees it; every string intricately woven into each other, nearly infinite and still not even close; before I realized that such a thing is likely the leading cause behind spontaneous combustion. So, remembering the various Card Men and fearing my fate, should I dare fully realize what I was being shown, I quickly banished the vision, begging God not to let me in on any secrets of the Universe.

    I’ve always liked the mystery of  it all much better. In fact, I was sorely disappointed to put my imagination to bed on the disappearances in The Bermuda Triangle, upon learning that pockets of methane were responsible for them. It was a hell of a lot more fun to speculate that it was an opening into a dimension we can’t see, but stands side by side with us, or even to pretend that it’s an alien landing strip we don’t know about. So, in the end, I withdrew from the awe-inspiring epiphany.

    “I thought I wanted to know,” I said, aloud, to the empty room and the interdependent immense web of Reality beyond it, “but I don’t. I can’t. My brain can’t take it.”

    And the feeling was gone. Just like that. I’m okay with the mystery; like I said. The mystery is like a little playground for my imagination. I’m sure, one day, we’ll all see our world with her clothes off, but I doubt very much that any of us will be tethered to this flesh, when we do.

    Thank you, Mr. King, for the final clue that opened my mind to the glimpse.

    And thank You, God, for the glimpse, itself.

    Just the same, I think I’ll be satisfied with my grain of sand life, spent up in less than a jiffy (which is actually about a millionth of a second), when measured against the center of the Universe. Any attempt I make to understand myself is, in essence, futile (at best). I will try to bear that in mind and keep true, as I spend the days and years of my tiny little part in this particular second.

  • wittyjules 7:36 pm on January 5, 2012 Permalink | Reply  

    string theory via facebook….who knew?? 


    So, I went and did a silly thing (a comment which calls to mind Peter Sellers in the War Room, trying to explain an impending nuclear disaster to the drunken Russian President).

    I tried to shake things up and suppose aloud (sort of) on the world’s favorite social network, that we are merely the swirling protons and electrons in an atom, that this atom is the planet Earth, and that Earth and the other planets who share our solar system make up a molecule in a single body (the universe) that we can’t possibly fathom. It generated a really interesting conversation because the people who are up late on facebook are usually on my wavelength, plus, my friends and I are all kind of weird. It turns out that there are a lot of really smart people (or protons) out there. There are also a lot of people who are happy to Google shit they don’t understand and pretend to know what they’re talking about. Anyhow, all of that aside, I noticed how popularized quantum physics have become. People don’t just smile and nod at the asshole who thinks she’s smarter than everybody the way they used to, just a few years ago. Our minds, collectively, seem to have opened up to the idea that we have no idea, which is promising.

    It suggests to me that we are on the brink of something great. Perhaps, humanity, this is our year to come through a mess of stupidity, out into love for each other, world peace, enlightenment, and all that good shit. Lets keep at it, shall we?

    Oh, and, thank you, Morgan Freeman.

  • wittyjules 8:57 pm on December 29, 2011 Permalink | Reply  

    Feminine Neuroses (a.k.a. Bitches Be Crazy) 


    Okay, so he loves me and all that jazz. I won’t give you the sad and complicated backstory; suffice it to say that it is both tragic and complex. 

    That said, I will let you in on some of our practices. I’m an okay girl. Some people think I’m a C-word, some people think I’m the kindest chick since Anne Shirley. I don’t often have chick bonkers moments, though, an this was one thing that pissed me off. If you want to hang out with your buddies, so be it. If you want to go out with one of your friends on MY writing night (where I need a distraction for my daughter so I can actually get some work done), fine. 

    If you seem excited at the release of not being obligated to spend your New Years’ with me and YOUR daughter…we’ve got a problem. 

    So, here’s where I stand; do I put my foot down? Nah…fuck it. It’s New Years’. He can spend it how he wants. He just can’t get mad if my superstitions are right and he curses himself out of our lives. I do believe that the way you spend New Years’ determines the course of your entire year.  I can’t help my deep-rooted superstitions. However; they joy on his face at my decision not to fault him for “having” to go to the friends (I can’t stand)’s house for the holiday, really makes me want to throw up. 

    My intuition tells me that this was his intention, the entire time. He contrived to spend the night with his lush friends and that’s all there is to it. 

  • wittyjules 6:29 pm on December 21, 2011 Permalink | Reply
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    Worst date night, ever. 

    Thanks, a lot, Kane Yama, in Peachtree City, Ga. Oh, yeah, I’m calling you out.

    Recently, I had a dining experience so horrid, as to inspire this letter to the offending outfit…

             …I would like to start out by saying that I have been to several comparable restaurants in the area (Kobe, Golden Bhudda, etc.) and this was the most expensive and least desirable. When I spoke to your amazingly smug, self-righteous manager “Clinton” about the fact that they refused to honor the online advertised prices, he quipped to my husband that it was “our fault we picked up a (physical) menu”. It’s your responsibility to update your own website and menus with current prices and our responsibility as your patrons, to enjoy your hospitality. Your staff was incompetent (sending a fellow waitress to deal with our table of thirty when we raised a question about the menu, rather than your surly and immature manager in the first place), your cuisine sub-par, and your managerial staff rude and largely rather stupid.
    My experience was terrible and I will never again darken your doorstep, which, as it were, darkens the dining industry.
    Where has customer service gone? We’ve all wanted to smart off, at some point in our lives and been forced, instead, to grit our teeth, smile, and agree; before walking away cursing under our breath like a bested, smoldering Yosemite Sam. At least, in my day, we did. What has changed? At what point did the person, whose very job description contains the actual word, hospitality, devolve into the sad, sniveling bastard who didn’t care that s/he didn’t care.
    I would like to know what has happened within the past five or ten years, to produce such a large group of utter ignoramuses (or, is it ignorami?). People don’t say “excuse me” anymore, don’t hold doors open for others behind them, don’t “God bless you” when you sneeze, etc. The list goes on and on. This “my own little world” world, is starting to piss me off.
    To those of you with your noses in your phones on heads up your asses, WAKE UP! Look around. Be considerate. And, most of all, do your JOB. Because, yeah, Kane Yama employee (of the month); you might spit in my food. But, I might watch your kids.
    Think about it.  That’s literally all I ask, is that you think about anything.
    Thanks for reading.
  • wittyjules 7:58 pm on December 14, 2011 Permalink | Reply  

    Rollin’ with the punches… 


    As most of my more loyal readers (and better friends) likely know by now, one of my favorite unlikely heroes of the literary kingdom is, by far, Mr. Bukowski. Although, I doubt very much that he’d enjoy any young lady addressing him as “Mr.”, with his reputation. Nonetheless, to challenge the very fabric of the grammatic rule with the chosen weapon being POETRY, of all things, is bold, to say the absolute least and for that, the man has my utmost respect and admiration. I can relate to what he’s saying, but his simple message remains majestic and succinct. I happen to pride myself on my extensive vocabulary and the unexpected proficiency with which I wield it, because my appearance belies my actual personality. I don’t look like a dork. But, I am. I don’t look smart. But, I do alright, with a few things, intellectual. I don’t look like I swear, or drink, or possess a single, dirty vice. But, I have several. In other words, when you scratch the surface, you find a lot more than you think you might. It’s a damn rare thing, these days. 

    Mousy brown hair, dark eyes, olive skin, and an aging innocent face, all contribute to this paper thin persona I seem to portray to the world. At times, I like to stay in the shadows, watching everyone, figuring out their stories, their depths, and generally, what got them here. I make up lives for people I never knew existed, except for that minute they stood out from the bar crowd, and I fashioned for them a life I can’t possibly predict, one way or another. A tall, skinny fireball who doesn’t seem so, all the more because I spent so long being invisible. Now, I just explode every now and then, Katherine Hepburn style, to alternately baffle and offend. I’ve always thought that we must speak well. It seemed, to me, integral to any hope at a future within “decent society”. It’s because I grew up, dirt poor, with only my wits to guide me out of that particular hole. Now, I wonder…

    Here’s what set me off: learning Spanish. Well, that and the abrupt realization that everything we know, see, think, and hear, may not actually exist in any objective reality; known, or imagined; but, we’ll start out small. So, Spanish, it is. Now, as we all know, there are about 47 different brands/variations/persuasions (much like our own beloved English). Well, suffice it to say, I learned more Spanish; practical Spanish; in all the short-lived restaurant jobs I worked, than I EVER learned in four years of high school. I lived in some neighborhoods who supplemented my comprehension of the language and worked in (I don’t know how many) kitchens that did far more than merely supplement. 

    Combined, these experiences have led to a better, more understandable, actually practical application of my Spanish usage than ANY book (or jackass in a bow-tie) has ever taught me. I want to burn every comma (well, almost) trash most of the fancy words, and actually relate to my readers in a way that no one else can without being stuffy and condescending (I have to sneak in a fancy-ish word, every now and then, you know). 

    Mostly; really; I just want to write something worth reading, without some power-hungry-kid-who-got-picked-on Editor chopping it to worthless, soulless pieces. Is that so much to ask?

  • wittyjules 10:49 pm on December 5, 2011 Permalink | Reply  

    Where the hell does the “hour” in my lunch hour go? 


    I swear, my lunch break defy’s physical laws of nature and probably accounts for Einstein’s crazy hair and the theory of relativity, all at once. I think you know what I’m talking about. When all you have is one allotted hour to leave work, get something to eat, scarf it down, and return in time so that no one’s pissed at you for cutting into their lunch “hour”, your hour starts to look more and more like about 15 minutes. Even, when you’ve got an hour to kill. Ever notice? You get somewhere early, like the doctor’s office, or something, and you think you’ve got all this time to kill, so you grab a coffee and scoot over to the bookstore to drool over the latest (pick your poison) release. Mill around, peruse, think about grabbing a bite to eat, look at your watch and go, “Oh, shit, now I’m late for my appointment!” It never fails.

    Lunch goes something like this (for me, anyway; I’m pretty boring): I’ve got a whole hour and I think I can drive home (6-8 minutes, in light traffic), make a dry ham and cheese sandwich to eat with some chips (15 minutes, tops), and get some quick chores done. But, no. By the time I finished my sandwich, peed, and restarted my daughter’s blanket in the dryer-which consists of turning a dial and pushing a button, because the blanket was already in there-I already had to leave for work or risk being late. As it was, I clocked back in, with only three minutes to spare. My obvious question, here, is where the hell did the other half of my lunch disappear, to? Is it floating around in the ether, somewhere, with Amelia Earhart and that whole Roanoke settlement, partying with the crew of the Mary Celeste and surrounded by all the lost dryer socks and our childhood dreams?

    I do. I just want to know where the time goes. I’m curious enough about such things, that I believe my dying wish, were I to be condemned with cancer, or some such affliction, would be to get launched into a black hole, just to see what happens.

    I know. I’m crazy. Thanks for reading, anyhow.


  • wittyjules 11:05 pm on November 18, 2011 Permalink | Reply  

    Growing up, or, GIVING up? 

    I don’t think that anyone knows the difference, honestly. Not now. Not here. First of all, half the “grown-ups” I know, are faking it. Yeah, we don’t give a crap about Justin Bieber’s latest album (although we DESPERATELY want to introduce to him a famous poster of Farrah Fawcett and then, also, a pair of scissors), but we still know how to dance. We don’t want to go see the latest vampire movie trash, but we own every John Hughes flick, ever made. We may not, necessarily, want to admit that we still care about the big things and, subsequently, the little things that represent them, but, well, you know, we’re just as stubborn as we were, ten, or twenty, or thirty, or fifty, or a hundred years ago. What can ya do….

    The thing is, we’ve forgotten to care. About the real things; the things that matter; the things that made us who we are. It’s one thing to let go of that crazy, passionate, teenage zeal for David Cassidy and Lief Garrett, or The New Kids on the Block and Boyz II Men, or, The Jonas Brothers and Justin Bieber (and that goes double for the similar chick bands/acts of  the above-mentioned decades; Nancy Sinatra, Debbie Gibson, The Spice Girls; need I say more?). The truth of it is; that doesn’t mean we have to let go of all our passion. Love your kids, love your significant other; yes; but, love yourself enough to stick to your morals. Don’t sellout to be a regular Joe/Jane, for God’s sake! Few of us ever make it to those childhood fantasies (often fleeting) of the greatness we’d once achieve, but, most of us make it to so much more than what we ever saw for ourselves, as short-sighted as our visions often are.

    We fail to see, too many times, the beauty within ourselves, the dreams within each other, and the faiths we’ve lost/shed/dropped along the way. In doing this, in losing our joie de vive, we lose the chance to ever be young again, ever be ourselves again, or ever understand our own kids and their wistful whims. It’s time we remember what got us here, in the first place. Our dreams. It’s time we stand for them, instead of falling at the feet of whatever easy and unsatisfying path presents itself. You must dare to dream to be.

    Whatever your path, whatever your passion, however you live, or choose to be, go for it. If you are where you need to be; recognize that this is your path, be it an astronaut, or a ballerina, or a waitress, or a landscaper, or a janitor, or a dump-truck driver. Believe in true love, in happy endings, in hope, and in fairy tales. Faith will get you through the lost days, the hard days, the dead and long gone days. Remember?

  • wittyjules 1:20 am on October 26, 2011 Permalink | Reply  

    5 People I would most like to have… 

    5 People I would most like to have lunch with ( and why)


    Okay…I couldn’t narrow it down to five. 10, it is…(with compunction: I may have to add without elaboration, an honorable few)

    #1:     Joe Rogan

    I agree with a lot of his conjuncture, to the point that it scares me. He says a great many things that I only think. For example, as a twelve-year-old, I came up with a story that the world has been killed and reborn more times than we can conceive, as mere mortals. I’ve dreamed that we are a sad experiment, of one mad “universal scientist”, with the bible placed here as a practical joke played on us by an “older” experiment, relatively. My thought process goes way out of line, as a rule, and so, I think that a conversation with Joe Rogan would top my list of lunch hours, as it were.  Several quotes, with which I could completely identify were:

    “People are full off shit and the story sucks”, in relation to ‘Noah’s Ark’.

    “I’m all in favor of believing that there’s a purpose to life, but, I just want it to make a little sense. That’s all…”

    And, then (my favorite, as a goober who reads physics books, for fun, though she hates math; go figure): “Space is the most taken-for-granted-thing, ever.”

    No shit. Everything so easy to see, is too mundane to be beautiful, to most. I can’t fathom the mindset of a wo/man, who feels that the sunset is a thing to be glimpsed, or that the stars are a force to be trivialized. True beauty lies within the recognition of it and those who refuse to acknowledge it, have lost the true meaning of whatever it is, we live.

    Dream on, speak out, blunder through, Mr. Joe! 😉 I’m a dumbass, too. I understand how life would go, without mathematicians, of any brand.

    2:     Michio Kaku: need I say more?

    The string theory, metaphysical science, theoretical physics…  What about any of these, doesn’t intrigue/pique/enchant one’s natural curiosity?

    I’m sorry…maybe it’s just me, but, I would like to understand whom/why/what we are and the purpose we serve, here. I think that the modern view of physics and what we make/have/are in and of the Universe might explain something.

    3.     Dante Alighieri

    Religion. Dante seemed at odds with Catholicism in his time, while remaining chaste and clean. His was a pure Dualism; a torn heart, between what the Church taught him and the blasphemy of thinking for himself which was almost sure to land him on the butcher block of a premature beheading. I would love to let him hash out those Catholic Church brainwashing sessions, to a modern and sympathetic ear. I would love, in turn, to hash out my own stigmas, in favor of the inner turmoil of a truly like soul.

    4.     Cam Neely

    We jocks have to converge. I’m a hockey player/fan, through and through. Mr. Gretzky, you can shove it and you know why. Mr. Samuelsson, I truly think I would literally punch you in the face, were I to meet you in the street (and I know your ugly mug).  Bobby, and Ray-Ray, I’m sorry; I love you, too. The new guys, who won the Cup I wanted for my boys, Thank you!!! You come, Lucic, Bergeron (I remember when you were a rookie, pukin’ in the corner  ;), Krejci, Horton, Marchand, Boychuuk, Chara, and the unforgotten, yet, unnamed… I love you for all that you and your predecessors have achieved.

    Cam, however, brought modern hockey to a whole new level. Bad-ass checking, meets finesse puck-handling…I don’t care who you name; no one ever measured up to the intermingling of fight-me-or-fear-me hockey, the way Cam did. You had to watch out for that hip-check, but, the 90+ mph wrist shot was a blast to whom no goalie could be completely oblivious, without serious jeopardy of his/her career.

    5. Wes Anderson

    Why; you ask? Because, the man has gained MASS APPEAL without selling out! Wes Anderson movies embody the beauty of life without assuming any bit of the fake, trivial, or superficial. The  tiny beauty, we fail to see, the trivial moments, we can’t recognize, or, the old fires we just can’t put out; all of it, waiting to be written, and expressed.

    Stay tuned…I have five more, plus honorable mentions.


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