Thursday, May 28, 2015

Barbie's Pretty Big Feet

What has happened to Barbie’s feet? They are humungous. Everything else about her seems pretty much the same, maybe a little more hippy and slightly less busty, but those differences are barely perceptible. Her feet though?

Barbie's old school generation feet before the gender wage gap was considered an issue.  

Barbie's millennial generation feet kicking in doors, closing wage gaps and breaking glass.

With all the feminist concern and speculation over the years regarding Barbie’s possible negative influence on the burgeoning self-image and cultural status of little girls, this is the result? Bigger, flatter feet?

Is this going to be a thing now? Girls will start stuffing their shoes so their feet look a few sizes bigger than they actually are and then flop around, tripping over their own flipper-like feet in a futile attempt to be just like Barbie?

Social commenters and experts of various persuasions will blame pop culture in general and Barbie in particular for an epidemic of clumsiness seen in female preadolescents, as well as an alarming trend towards risky calcaneal implants and phalangeal fillers amongst young women old enough to give surgical consent.

People will reminisce with a sense of loss and nostalgia over the good old days, when girls had normal sized feet and could walk without twisting an ankle or doing a face plant in the pavement. There will be an explosion in the number of ER visits related to fractured bones and bloody noses. Barbie will thus be implicated in an overburdened health care system, resulting in a public outcry that Mattel resize its Barbie molds yet again.

Even more troubling, some investigative journalist will uncover a new and up-until-then little spoken of foot fetish spreading throughout the male population, whereby a significant number of men can no longer be aroused by small to average footed females.

The word “paw” transforms into a crude misogynist slur and eventually a grassroots movement is born to reclaim the “P word”.

There will be a surge in feminist outrage and a long overdue rise in masculine shame, leading to a rash of 12-step groups popping up near orthotic centres and shoe stores everywhere.

Podophillia becomes a crime and police put out an alert to be on the lookout for online predators posing as podiatrists with an unusually intrusive interest in toe jam and plantar warts.

More disturbing than that, foot rape also becomes a crime and females are warned against enhancing the size of their feet, the implication being that if a girl makes her foot too out-of-proportionally appealing then she’s “asking for it”.

There will be much debate regarding what constitutes consent. If an abnormally lengthened second phalanx unintentionally extends beyond the confines of an open-toed sandal and accidentally brushes against a nearby male foot while commuting on a bus, for example, is that akin to consent? There are, after all, A LOT of easily excitable nerves in a human foot, especially when said foot has not been permanently numbed by botulism and the unsteady hand of a second rate plastic surgeon with a drinking problem.

Is it reasonable then that a foot rapist overcome by the overwhelming physical sensations of involuntary pedal spasms be held criminally responsible? To what extent, if any, should a victim, conditioned by societal foot norms and fashion trends, be blamed for the assaults on her augmented feet?

These polarizing questions will elicit angry responses from all sides with the less intellectually evolved factions arguing if a girl is going to traipse about town with swollen, heaving feet ballooning out all over the place then she must be begging for, and thus deserve, an assaultive foot massage from some random perpetrator covered in facial hair and wielding a pair of menacing nail clippers.

In retaliation, loosely organized Paw Walks and flash mobs will spontaneously sprout up in cities across the country with women baring naked feet, fungus and all, and holding signs that read: “These Paws Were Made for Walking and Walking is What they’ll do. These Paws are gonna Walk all over You!”

Ah, Barbie and her pretty little head and pretty big feet – she still has no idea the power she possesses.

Saturday, May 16, 2015

David Chesney and Kristi Gordon's Sausage Casing

I thought I was listening to CBC’s Rewind when I got in my car, turned on the radio and heard this retro-trope:

"They can't get on any more skin tight, it looks like sausage casings. Their belly button is pushing through the material and I kinda look at that and I go, 'I get it, you're pregnant, all right.' Now why, why, why such a desire to push that out in front of everyone?"

It wasn’t until later in the day that I came to understand the above was not some archival soundbite drudged up from patriarchal antiquity. It was one David Chesney, White Rock council member, expressing the opinion in the year 2015 of not only his fine pasty self, but that of others who have made their revulsion of the pregnant form known via email and social media regarding a meteorologist named Kristi Gordon, who had the audacity to get herself pregnant and not go into hiding.

In reality, the only thing that should go into hiding is not the visual evidence of human reproduction, but the ignorant opinions of old, doughy-brained politicians and like-minded individuals regarding the various states of the female body, opinions such as this:

"The fact is that the styling was much different through the '50s, '60s, '70s — even in the '80s women wore a little bit more loose-fitting clothes. But as I say, nowadays, how they can yank on those Lululemon sweatpants and body dance skins, and go out in public at eight months pregnant ... I don't find it repulsive (obviously he’s lying) I just really have to question, why that?"

“It’s a touchy point, but that’s just my opinion and by golly I’m entitled to it”.

With the world’s population projected to reach 10 billion by 2050 at a rate of something like two babies born every second, witnessing a reasonably dressed pregnant woman out in public or on TV should be one of the least shocking, most natural sights any citizen on the planet comes across.

If you’re going to question “why that?” then, you might as well jump into the existential rabbit hole and question why the human race exists to begin with? Why does it persist? Why is there something instead of nothing? And the most perplexing question of all: Why all the cognitive dissonance when it comes to the female human? It’s this weird mix of fear, hatred, lust, obsession, revulsion and worship. When will it stop because it is getting really, really boring. We’re here, you’re here. Deal with it. Master your testosterone.

Master your testosterone, ESPECIALLY if you have a problem with pregnant women. It seems counterintuitive and dumb otherwise.

And while you’re at it, show some respect for your mothers, mothers-to-be and potential mothers, for god’s sake.

The David Chesneys of the world with their “by golly” entitlement would not be here at all, sharing oxygen and pompously spouting their confused, outdated opinions if not for a mother, who through much mental anguish, physical discomfort and pain, first prepared the way for them.

Don’t stand on the backs, hard work, sacrifice and suffering of those who came before you, who made your quality of life – nay, your very existence – possible, and disregard, minimize or act contemptuous of what was done for you, that you could never have done on your own, and that enables you to enjoy whatever freedoms you exercise.

Honor your vets – honour your mothers, "repulsive" pregnancies and all.

And if you want to question “why that?”, how about the epidemic of unnatural, pregnant-looking, large-breasted men lumbering around like Neanderthals, not in Lululemon sweatpants but in stained, saggy, grey sweatpants that although loose-fitting, STILL leave nothing to the nightmares of imagination. I have the misfortune of witnessing these sausages without casings, these abominations of nature, every day, often getting out of vehicles with bumper-stickers indicating their admiration for the yoga pant and child brides.

This double standard of objectifying the female form and then abhorring it when it doesn’t fit into the sexualized ideal, while simultaneously humoring, even celebrating an overtly disgusting version of the male form has been eating me alive since I was young enough to notice such gross molestations. It’s turned a peace-loving little girl with fairy tale visions into a pissed off feminist, not because she is bitter, but because no one likes to have a cabbage-roll stuffed down her throat while she gags and told she likes it. Gag reflexes don’t lie, and oppression will either kill the spirit or ignite it into a raging fire of revolt.

If society in general doesn’t want to deal with outraged feminine energy, then stop with the degradation. It’s not difficult. Just don’t do it. There is nothing easier in this world than not doing something. For example, David Chesney could have easily not said this: “When you become a public figure as Kristi Gordon chose to do, you are put to a higher standard”.

I won't mention pots and kettles because a womb evidencing the miracle of life is hardly the hypocritical equivalent of a culturally irrelevant politician from White Rock with probable karmic erectile dysfunction regurgitating the same tired misogyny, but the only person in this equation displaying dismal conduct, poor judgment and stupidity is David Chesney. Kristi Gordon has conducted herself with nothing but grace and beauty. Pregnancy will do that to a girl.

She definitely deserves a professionally done belly-cast for having to deal with this bullshit when she is pregnant. David Chesney? Buck up buddy boy.

Sunday, April 26, 2015

Fuck you Michael Bublé

Fuck you, Michael Bublé, bug-eyed, dim-witted freak, with your smarminess and date rape Christmas cover song. Fuck you and your defective porno-intelligence, toilet humor and inane back-pedaling, backhanded apologies – apologies only stoner idiots and the usual overstocked staple of misogyny suspects with their dumb-struck female tagalongs would accept. Fuck your insipid fans, “celebrity” friends and bauble-minded mail order bride, too.

And fuck you to anyone still spouting the “world-was-created-in-6-days” type ignorance that rape culture is a laughable myth when it is constantly, factually, violently, being shoved in our faces.

Fuck you to anyone who thinks a girl wearing shorts – and it DOES NOT MATTER HOW SHORT – on a hot Miami day is somehow fair game to ridicule, objectify and condemn on social media, the sewer system of society where the sludge of humanity congregate like rats whiskered in a diseased skin of anonymity, salivating in anticipation of the next victim to molest.

Fuck your “this unknown girl must want her picture taken by a famous douchebag and uploaded to Instagram to be mocked when she goes out dressed like that”. And fuck off that the blatant pillory-style public humiliation of an innocent young woman minding her own business by a smug asshole and his mannequin wife is a “compliment”.

Don’t sucker punch me in the face and tell me it’s because you “respect” me; when I hit back, don’t act indignant at my “unexpected rage” and tell me that YOU’RE the one who is “deeply hurt”. And definitely do not say you don’t “court controversy” when that is EXACTLY what you’ve done. Fuck off. Here’s your controversy, you sorry Sinatra imitation.

That neither you nor your equally entitled wife would stop to think better of taking a picture of an unsuspecting girl and then putting it on social media to be jeered at, replete with demeaning hashtags that speak for themselves regarding your intent, attests to your pitifully low IQ and lack of integrity louder than any protestations you spew after the fact. Fuck you.

And fuck off to the Bublé supporters and sexist drone who have taken up his cause, claiming anyone who has a problem with petty acts of celebrity-driven patriarchal tyranny is “making a mountain out of a molehill” when females are dying gruesome deaths as a direct ripple effect of this kind of trivialization of sexual harassment every fucking day and there is nothing beautiful about it.

The endless river of naked body parts in various stages of degradation streaming along the information highway is turning half the world into an engorged spermatic tumor of unadulterated comatose dumbness.

Fuck off with your “haters are going to hate” drivel, too. It is the Groundhog Day overuse of this asinine idiom that has turned this blogger into a “hater”. All it does is give permission to assholes to disregard valid criticism and continue their vile behavior unaffected. Stop inflicting your regurgitated triteness on thoughtful people with totally justified dissident opinions.

And fuck off to those who say that the girl was “asking for it” or that “if it was you, you’d love the attention”. If you think anything about what Bublé and that trophy he parades around in her underwear did is no big deal then YOU are what is wrong with this world. When you stand close enough, even if all you’re doing is “enjoying” the preliminary “entertainment” before the big event, the blood of gender-based violence is splattered on your hands too.

What does one do with such a morally and intellectually abandoned era of people so eager to extend such huge, sweeping pardons to the criminal behavior of the famous, the rich, the beautiful and the powerful simply because they are those things? This is master-slave mentality at its finest.

How do you convince the pop culture slaves to revolt against the oppressive beliefs that keep them oppressed when not even pedophile torture rings, libertine politicians so gross that even the prostitutes they hire for their orgies have to be drugged to have sex with them, gang rapes, horrific murders, public floggings, body shaming and tragic suicides are enough to convince the moronic masses of a truth so plain that the only way to deny it is to say straight-faced that gravity is a lie and Kanye West can walk on water.

Only cattle-brains unable to be alone with themselves because they don’t know how to control  their urges or think off-script revel in the idea of publically dissecting the physical pieces of a female body in minute detail and laughing at what a “joke” it all is, or better yet, how such a dissection should be seen as “flattering”. You’ve absorbed your master’s agenda. Off you go to slaughter.

The deaths of Rehtaeh Parsons and Amanda Todd were not a joke and there was nothing “flattering” about the attention they received. Rinelle Harper’s ordeal was not “funny”. The countless women and children sexually harassed and assaulted online and in person on an hourly basis is not a joke.

Taking predatory pictures of girls and uploading them for dehumanizing, widespread salacious consumption and vile commentary is NOT respectful admiration.

Privileged, well-known personalities who not only profit from public attention and sales, but who also, unfortunately, command (whether they intend to or not) the herd’s thinking and behavior have a moral responsibility to conduct themselves in the way their mothers taught them.

And if like Michael Bublé you are a slow learner who does not take your responsibility seriously and doesn’t know the difference between right and wrong, there are socially conscientious bloggers patiently waiting with disdain in the cyber-sludge hidden amongst the internet trolls, ready, itching really, to pounce. Fuck you.

Thursday, April 16, 2015


“It says right across your forehead, integrity for sale,” isn’t just a catchy Nickelback lyric. It’s a reflection of our times. It’s also a hard-to-swallow cultural truth we are constantly being forced to face by those who, whether intentionally or not, take the public stage hostage and use it as a platform to show the world just how despicable and stupid a human being can be.

For us Canadians, though, this cultural pain was largely felt vicariously through our neighbors to the south: those psychotic, living large, gun-slinging, fast food, Walmart Americans with their bizarre, over-the-top celebrity worship and cartoon politics.

But then the Mayor of Toronto, Rob Ford, and his long suffering wife, Renata, came along like a counter-superhero with a cunnilingus-receiving sidekick to ruin the day and obliterate any smugness Canadians might have been harbouring regarding their superior level-headedness and decorum.

He is Rob Ford! The Apologizing Man! His special anti-power is his insincere-sincere apology…sincerely.

Not even a cancer diagnosis can stop this man from apologizing.

It would in fact appear that he never leaves his house without an apology in his right pocket and up until relatively recently a crack pipe in his left. 

The crack pipe might have been exchanged for a malignant lard tumor, but apparently he still keeps his Special-Shield-Apology-Badge with him at all times for those inevitable occasions when he still needs to apologize, even though he is no longer the mayor.

In the past, he has found this badge of dishonor useful in situations where he has been caught in drunken stupors while jay-walking or getting high in  the midst of plotting the demise of one of his many “perceived” enemies.

When he’s caught doing or saying something he really should not – which he always gets caught – he whips out his badge with an unsteady hand, staggers to his knees and offers up an apology after the fact the way a sinner prays for forgiveness while committing one or more of the seven deadly sins. The difference is that unlike the praying hypocrite, Rob, the Apologizing Hypocrite, falls to his knees not out of genuine contrition, but because he is weak in more ways than one and letting empty words drool out of his mouth requires a lot less effort than being accountable.

Basically, this privileged, undisciplined goofball and his equally ridiculous wife have made deals with the devil – albeit a Looney Tunes Tasmanian one – in which integrity has been exchanged for addiction and all the corruption and soul-erosion that goes hand-in-hand with the kind of self-indulgent substance and food abuse Rob Ford enjoys.

No one can know for sure if Robby Boy, whose denial is so great he refers to himself in the third person because he cannot bear to accept the buffoon that he is in first person, ever had any integrity to begin with. But if he did, he lost it along with the definition of “sincerely”.

He has made so many public apologies using the word “sincerely”, when clearly he is NOT sincere, that one has to wonder if he has dyslexia in addition to his other glaring issues.

It is as if he believes the word “sorry” literally works like a delete key and that its mere utterance completely erases deplorable behavior, as if the behavior never happened in the first place. He has convinced himself of this so thoroughly that he actually becomes self-righteously offended when asked by reporters and others to explain himself.

He has never understood what the problem is. As far as he’s concerned, he might be a man who likes to have a good time outside of his job, but so what! Who doesn’t? And sure, he’s “a little rough around the edges”, but he’s also a man who “calls a spade a spade” and up until his unfortunate liposarcoma diagnosis never missed a day of work.

Rob also likes to point out, all apologizing aside, that he really is a good guy who, for example, NEVER took advantage of the free zoo pass to which he was entitled as a council member. He is quite proud of all his self-sacrifice.

He furthermore thought it was a DISGRACE that other counsellors would waste taxpayer dollars by taking advantage of ANY of the varied perks allowed them. Rob Ford, for one, would NEVER rip off the electorate in such a blatantly unfair way.

While other counsellors were living large with free metro passes, for instance, Mayor Ford resigned himself to blasting around in his own gas-guzzling Cadillac Escalade using fuel he paid for himself. He furthermore apologized REPEATEDLY for many, many things and continues to do so. What’s the problem? He’s sorry. There is nothing more he can do.

Watching any one of Rob Ford’s apologies, absurd rationalizations and deep affronts is the funniest thing ever seen on Canadian news. His persona has at times over the last few years turned the news hours into Late Night with Ford Nation. It’s been fun.

However, sadly, the fun might be ending prematurely. Cancer, that cunning sadist, seems particularly fond of honing in on a life right when things are getting good. It is sad because above all else Rob Ford is just another person struggling with his mortality, a fate everyone shares, and as such deserves the same dignity all passing human life does.

Tuesday, April 14, 2015

Watermelon Infidelity

Watermelon seeds are responsible for my divorce. I love watermelon. Unfortunately, my former husband, Walter, did not. He despised anything to do with watermelons, particularly the seeds.

He hated watermelon seeds so much that after a few years of wedded bliss, these seemingly innocuous black ovules caused him to fly into a blind, murderous rage. In a flurry of watermelon induced madness, right before my very eyes he massacred the last and final watermelon I ever brought into our marriage.

I had never seen this psychotic side of Walter before, although if anything was going to make him lose it, watermelon seeds would be the thing. The only time I ever saw him get agitated about ANYTHING was when watermelon seeds were involved. The rest of the time, during our marriage anyway, he was pretty much an insentient object – perhaps a watermelon but without the color.

Yes, Walter was a melon.

The first summer of our union that I brought a watermelon home from the market, Walter was mildly annoyed. He said he was not a watermelon fan and would prefer it if I refrained from buying them.

"Watermelons have NO redeeming qualities," he informed me. "They are 95% water and seeds. If you're thirsty, drink a glass of water. There's much less mess that way. Besides, there's nothing appealing about the taste of watermelon. You don't hear people say, 'I'm thirsty; I could really use a drink of watermelon' do you? No, they want a sports drink or plain water. Watermelon is disgusting and nobody wants to drink it."

"Don't be absurd," I retorted with a laugh. "Watermelons are tasty and refreshing and an excellent source of vitamin C. They also happen to be MY favorite fruit."

And herein lay the root of our irreconcilable differences.

"Well, that's fine," Walter countered, "but I LOATHE watermelon and if you have any respect for me as your husband you won't bring another one of those monstrosities into this house!"

I had never seen this side of Walter before. I was intrigued.


"Yeah, that's right," he snarled. "A fruit shouldn't be that big. It's a stupid size for a fruit. Why can't they make a watermelon the size of a grapefruit? There is no place to put a watermelon because it's so huge! You have to use a whole roll of Saran Wrap to cover it and even that can't keep it from leaking all over the fridge! You need a freaking garbage bag to contain the thing!"

"But...," he sputtered with bits of spittle spewing from his mouth, " you know what the worst thing about a watermelon is?!"

Walter had really worked himself up into a lather and there was no stopping him.

"The worst part is the seeds! You find seeds for weeks on the bottoms of your feet and in between your toes! And don't tell me there is any such thing as a 'seedless' watermelon! They should be called the 'not so easy to see' or the ‘not as many seeds as regular watermelons’ !"

I had never heard Walter say so many words at one sitting. It was quite the eye opener. Naturally, his rant did not prevent me from bringing watermelons into the house. Every watermelon season I continued to purchase the fruit and Walter's rage escalated accordingly with each passing year.

The final seed came in the sixth year of marriage. I was in bed reading when I heard a horrible kind of screeching, yowling, stampeding sound. It was like a cat was being ganged up on by a porcupine and a hippopotamus, and one of these creatures was in terrible pain.

It turned out the creature was Walter. He burst into the bedroom like a wild beast, and thrust a black watermelon seed in my face, "I found SEVEN of these things stuck to my foot and THIS one was inside my big toe!"

"That's weird – how could it get 'inside' your big toe? Do you mean it was stuck between your toes again?" 

He was heaving and angrily glared at me with flaring nostrils. He was ridiculous. How could anyone not laugh under these circumstances?

"Oh, you think this is FUNNY?!”, he screeched. “That's IT! I'm putting an end to these watermelons once and for all!"

He stormed out of the room as fast as he came in.

For the first time in our marriage, his watermelon rage did not seem so comical and I felt a twinge of alarm. I got out of bed and ran after him to see what he was going to do and possibly stop him from doing it.

There he was, with the glint of hysteria in his eyes and a butcher knife held up high over his head. I screamed, "Stop!" and lunged forward, but it was too late. He plunged the knife into the watermelon over and over again, with chunks of red flesh splattering all over the kitchen and all over Walter.

I tried to wrestle the knife from him, but he'd already massacred that watermelon to an unrecognizable, pulpy abomination of nature. By the time he let go of the knife, he had crumpled to the floor, amidst the watermelon wreckage, and proceeded to sob uncontrollably.

Needless to say, that was the end of Walter and me. The last I heard, he had to be institutionalized during a business trip to China. Apparently he had a mental breakdown while scouting a new venture: The Zhen Institute of Watermelon.

Monday, April 13, 2015

How to be Unhappy

In the quest for happiness, people can unwittingly kill the very contentment they hope to capture. Theirs is a kind of caged happiness, which is no more genuine than caged freedom. Eventually dejection sets in and a dejected person is an unhappy person.

But is unhappiness really such an undesirable thing? Perhaps there is comfort in misery. There are certainly enough miserable people around to keep the unhappy from feeling they are alone.

For those who are sick and tired of hunting down that elusive happy camper, learning how to be unhappy might be the way to go. The key is to remain locked in a perpetual fog of negativity and hopelessness in four easy steps. Unhappiness will surely follow.

Negative Ruminations

First, be sure to dwell on the negative aspects of any given situation, person or thing, no matter how seemingly positive. This pessimism is easy when the circumstance is overtly tragic like a betrayal, death, financial ruin or injury. However, for true, far-reaching unhappiness, one must also look for the downside in every rainbow, sunset, birthday party, holiday, new relationship, job advancement, financial gain and personal accomplishment. Adopt the mantra that for every good thing in life there is always a downside. Every reward has a punishment and every accomplishment a failure.


Second, complain about the impossibility of your circumstances and do nothing to improve them, even when solutions are presented to you. Argue that you are a victim of the world and there is absolutely zilch that you can do about it. As you complain, frequently use the word "but", particularly when others give you practical advice. Never challenge yourself to act, unless it is in the role of victim.

Since you will already be engaged in negative ruminations, openly complaining should be the natural next step. Grumble about everything and anything — blighted hope, the weather, taxes, the neighbors, the state of the world and physical ailments are all possible subjects.

Shun Gratitude

Third, do not be grateful. This goes hand in hand with pessimism. Gratitude is only for happy fools and you’re no fool. You are too disillusioned to be thankful and you like it that way. Do not appreciate the air you breathe, the good health others less enlightened than you might enjoy, the gifts you are given, the people who claim to love you, or the lucky breaks you endure.

The instant you experience appreciation and say thank you, you run the risk of becoming happy. Rather than have this happen, hold the belief that the world, God/Goddess or whatever owes you and anything you receive is compensation for simply being alive. It is other people and not you who should be grateful for the honor of having you walk the planet.

Ignore the Present

Fourth, never live in the present and always look forward to what is certain to be the bleak future. Remain in a constant state of worry and doubt about the probability of misfortune around the next bend.

Anything positive that might be happening in the moment is not worth appreciating because you know it will not last. Why waste emotional energy on fleeting sources of happiness and future disappointment when you can be unhappy at the current time? Better to conserve endorphins and embrace malcontent today.

Besides, everything comes to an end – all things must die. In fact, the whole purpose of the present is to plan for your inevitable demise. You started dying the day you were conceived. How can you possibly enjoy the present when mortality looms overhead and death is where you're heading?

Finally, by following the above steps with narrow-mindedness and perseverance your unhappiness is virtually guaranteed. Do worry – be unhappy.

I'm Lov'in It!

I'm going to McDonald's;
I'm jumping in my car.
Just a block away;
It's not very far.

I'd walk if I could,
Since it's only down the street.
But I'd never make it
With my asthma,
And large, swollen feet.

I pull into the long
Drive-through line,
Everything looks so good
On the menu sign.

So many choices,
I can't make up my mind;
And there's a person honking
At me from behind.

So I order every item,
Except for number eight.
When I get to the window,
They make me sit and wait.

Thinking of the feast
I'm about to partake,
My mouth starts to water,
And my head starts to ache.

You may judge me as unhealthy
And without willpower.
But I'll have you know
I start my diet in an hour.

Until then I don't care if I'm bloated
And my pants don't fit,
'Cause the food is delicious,
And "I'm lovin' it!"

You Oughta Know but Apparently you Do Not

Alanis Morissette wrote a song,
It was catchy and I used to sing along.
I was drawn to her lyrical rage,
"You Oughta know" seemed fantastically sage.

But after rewinding the tape 50 times,
Before CDs, DVDs, iTunes and LeAnn Rimes,
The words began to grate on my nerves;
Even though a cheating lover no one deserves.

Whiny with self-pity, embarrassing too,
An obsessed, pathetic, undignified shrew.
A man breaks a promise or falls out of lust,
Move on! Live your life! Shake off the dust!

Be thankful you got out when you did,
No domestic trappings, no debt, no kid.
So shed your bitter cross and clean up the mess,
Leave angry revenge for karma to address.

Saturday, April 11, 2015


I didn’t know Betrayal was a physical assault. I assumed it was an emotion that momentarily devastated the mind, and if you believed in such things, took a bite out of the soul, but had no actual effect on the physiology or science of the body.

But it isn’t true. 

Betrayal hits all three spheres of mind, body and soul. It assaults every perception from within, even in the darkest recesses of unawareness, and comes unbidden, physically forcing its way out of your eyes, lips, mouth, bones and bowels. 

If the Betrayal is strong enough and its fuelling energy that of utter blank darkness, then even the physical manifestation of its attack is unbearable. Physically, mentally and spiritually, it crucifies you.

In retrospect, I suppose I should have known better as I happen to be someone who experiences ASMR (autonomous sensory meridian response). I know firsthand the power of thought, both concentrated thought and subconscious directives, over physiology, brain chemistry and anatomy.

Retrospect, however, was of no use to me when Betrayal slammed into my brain so hard, blood-tainted tears spewed from my eye sockets like lava and waves of shock avalanched  down my spine, crushing vertebrae like dominos, and then reaching around to squeeze my heart tight enough to make me believe I would die.

But death at that instance would have been a relief and the assault wasn’t over yet.

My heart’s agony was ruthlessly ignored even as it pounded, begged and screamed for all its life to get out of its rib-encaged prison.

But Betrayal continued its torment without mercy, bringing me to my knees with such speed and intensity I felt the physical pain of my limbs fracturing into shards of cartilage and bone. There was tissue and cellular debris as Betrayal torpedoed through every atom of my being, sadistically seeking out pain receptors and nerve endings with which to intensive the brutality of its attack.

When it had done its job, leaving my flesh ripped open to reveal the insides of me, Betrayal calmly walked away, like one of nature’s instinct-driven beasts, unperturbed at what it had done and having no awareness whatsoever that it and its actions were an abomination. The Beast of Betrayal was thus not moved to compassion by the sights and sounds of my suffering, but rather was annoyed in an almost off-hand way by the sound of my uncontrollable whimpering, the chattering of my teeth and the crushing of my dislocated jaw. To the Beast, witnessing the excruciating torture of my body and soul was a mild annoyance, like swiping at a single fruit fly buzzing by.

It didn’t care. No one cared. I lay there fallen, thinking I could never move my broken bones and oozing wounds without help. But there was no help.

Left with no other choice, after an eternity of lying there, hoping death would finally take me, only to discover even death had deserted me, I gathered myself up from a position of heaped up, forgotten kindling and rose like the sparks of a newly created fire.

Surrender? I'd Rather Die

What's my name, he said,
As if he didn't know;
Ripped the hair from my head,
So I'd see this was his show.

But I refused to say his name;
No surrender from me.
He can live with his shame;
I will not beg for mercy.

Prodded, bull-baited,
A dog thrown in a pit.
My innocence hated,
Kicked, bitten and hit.

But cut off my lips,
Blind my eyes,
Shred me from feet to hips,
Let my entrails bring on the flies.

For I will not be a fool,
A puppet of fear.
I'll stand in a bloody pool,
I won’t shed a tear.

He can hurt me with all his might,
But say his name? I'd rather die.
Or I'll emerge from this fight,
My own name a victory cry.

Forever Married to Cruelty

When I see a drop of bright red on a backdrop of white,
When I hear a woman pleading in the middle of the night,
When I feel something sharp or witness something taboo,
When I taste salt or smell garbage that's when I think of you.

If the sun is sucked behind a mountain and the sky left black,
It is you who I think of and wonder if it's imagination I lack.
You are who I think of when a crash makes me cover my ears;
It is you who I imagine when I speak of hopeless fears.

And it makes no difference where I go, you are always there;
I could hike to the highest peaks where there's hardly any air.
I could travel to the Arctic or rocket into outer-space,
To the ocean's depths, the Earth's core, I’ll always see your face.

I tried to obliterate you with substances of abuse,
But treating poison with poison is useless and obtuse.
I could find religion, seek therapy or cut my own wrists,
But none of it would stop the recollection of your fists.

Even after your body has been put into the cold Earth,
Your immortal words keep me from ever experiencing a rebirth.
No matter what I do you won’t move out of my head,
And there's no way to kill what’s already dead.

Could you comprehend what this is like for me?
You my tormenter in life, in death still won't set me free?
And so it seems it was fated before I was ever born,
I'd be the never-ending victim of your cruelty and scorn.

Do not Presume for Me

It's my life and my demise;
Don't presume to speak for me.
This should come as no surprise;
Do not tamper with my mortality.

It's my soul and my salvation;
Don't presume to fear for me.
It is you who suffers indignation;
Do not impose your morality.

It's my wisdom and my belief;
Don't presume to know better than I.
Existence might be brief,
But to live one also must die.

These laws of nature hold no shame;
Don't presume to mourn for me.
For I'll return from whence I came,
Recycled into a new reality.