SOWISA, Babyluv

Dear Grubby Fag,

It’s Sunday morning and I’ve scoured the house looking for a notebook with actual paper. You know, the kind you write on with ink from a pen.

What is this? 1992?

I had this grand idea that I was going to write you an old fashioned letter and mail it to you with a copy of Lisey’s Story (not in French), along with some catnip and toys for Petra (did she finally get fixed?) and maybe some bunny love for Violet, although I don’t really know what bunnies like. I’d find out though. You better believe I’d find out and send her all the goodies that she probably wouldn’t play with, that cranky wench.

I gave up my search for pen and paper because I was becoming desperate to get these words out into the universe to you and I could no longer hold them inside me. I’m still going to send you that letter and that book but these words have to be emptied from my soul right goddamn now.

I know you’d understand.

You left me on the morning of July 24 and haven’t been back since.
I can only assume you’re dead.
I’ve scoured all the obituaries in Montreal for the last several days.
I can’t find yours anywhere.

Maybe they cremated you and spread your ashes under our tree where you ate your lunch and thought about the violent yet sweet ways you’d ravage me against her bark. I like to think of you there in the dirt, underneath her canopy, your ashes mixed with the love we never got to make. I still have her picture on my phone. I look at her from time to time and think about you holding me against her, you inside me, barely moving against me, slow and gentle so the passers-by would just think we were two lovers caught in an embrace. But your words in my ear would tell a different story, wouldn’t they? You’d call me dirty and sweet names in French and bite my lobe if my breath became too ragged. You always took care of me like that.

I miss the way you called me ‘baby girl.’
I listen to your recordings over and over and I want to impale myself on top of you every single time you say “Oh my god Petra, die in a fire!” in the middle of some story you were telling me.
I look at your pictures and your scandalous videos and I get weak with the remorse.

The remorse.

The remorse of never again hearing your voice or reading your words.
The remorse of never meeting you in that hotel room in Grants Pass where all sorts of beautifully wicked and grossly erotic things happened between us.
The remorse of our dreams deferred by your untimely death.

R.I.P.

Our little house and pond on those few acres of land we were going to have somewhere, somehow.
The animals we were going to love and care for.
The violent sweet love we were going to make all day everyday until we died or our parts stopped working.
The cliff we were going to drive off of in the end so we’d both go together.

“Yeah, fuck you and I love you.”

“I love you too, you dumb bitch.”

“I know, you grubby fag.”

“Hahaha. God. You’re wonderful. Stab me, you beautiful skank.”

“Shit, you know all the back alleys to my heart. You ride around in them on your skate board and graffiti the shit out of them. Never stop.”

Why did you stop?

I never wanted you to stop.

In my head, I keep repeating that one lyric from that song “Slow Show” by The National.
“Everything I love gets lost in drawers.”

I guess you’re just in the drawer now. With the others. Fuck, I didn’t want you to wander in there. What’s so goddamn appealing about that fucking drawer? I want in. Can I come in? It’s my goddamn drawer after all.

Listen. You’re an asshole for leaving.
I don’t care if you did die.
You’re an asshole for dying and not haunting me.
You said you were gonna.
Where the fuck are you then? Huh? I’m waiting, you gigantic jerk. Come feel up my titties while I’m passed out on the couch from drinking too much red wine. Again.

You could have told me you were dead, fuckface.

But you didn’t. Instead, you just went all throat slit on me and passed out before I got a chance to cut my hand and rub our blood together so you’d flow through my body forevermore.

I’ll never forgive you for that.

But actually, I already have.

And in case you’ve forgotten, you love me.


You signed it and everything. That means you can’t take it back. It’s an official document.

You sent me that song one time and told me the album was special to you. I listened to the whole thing because of that.
You were special to me, J.
One time, a long time ago, I told someone that my heart was large and cavernous and there was room in it for everyone.
You’re in there now, too.
I’m keeping you there.
I hope you don’t mind.

Be well.
Be happy.
Live hard.
Live free.

See you on the other side, maybe.
If I don’t see you again on this one.

I love you, Grubby Fag.

All the love forever.
And a Day.

Your Twisted Saint.

Months


6 since I saw you
5 since I heard you
4 since I read you

6, 5, 4

4, 5, 6

Numbers. Time. Distance.

The other day there was a package on my doorstep.
I didn’t remember ordering anything.


I hoped it would be from you.

How absurd.
How silly.

How sad.

What do you suppose I thought might be in it?

A rabbits foot.
A song.
A poem.
A hope.
A dream.
Some piece of you
sent with love and care
all the way down here
to me.

I live inside my head most of the time. It’s wonderful and scary in there. There are hallways filled with rainbow flavored gummies that lead to cobweb covered corners where dreams pile up on top of each other until they’re oozing with the rot.

The rot.

I dwell in the rot for too many minutes of the day, I know,
but when I emerge…..
there is always a rainbow.

I don’t know how to not love you so I don’t even try.
I just let the thought of you wash over me whenever it wants to
and I don’t bother trying to stop it from consuming me
for however long it wants to hold me.

I wanted to be your best friend
your most insatiable lover
your wake up thought
your good night kiss
your coffee break smile
your dinner and a movie date
your RSVP plus one

Forever and a day.

Time.

There’s still time, she says.
My mom.
There’s still time for you, Stephanie.
You’re still young, Stephanie.
Anything can happen, Stephanie.

I know all of these things are true if you stand them up alone and by themselves. You can’t go piling them on top of each other, though. They don’t belong there all crowded in on each other with barely the room to breathe or stretch or claim their space.

Time.

Youth.

Yearning.

Those are wide open spaces inside which all the life you will ever live is confined forever in tiny time capsules buried sixteen feet below the deepest part of the ocean and you will never remember the coordinates or which sea to sail to get back to them.

They are as lost to you as yesterday.

They are as lost to me as you are now.

I loved you once
and so
I will love you forever.


Letting Go

Yesterday, on the way home from the doctor, I pulled up to a stop sign behind an 18 wheeler with Iowa plates. His mud flaps said Des Moines. I thought about following him but he eventually turned left and I kept straight. Several weeks ago, as I was leaving Wal-Mart, there was a 4-Runner in the parking lot with two kayaks on the roof. I instinctively looked at the license plate. Iowa. For a split second, I imagined it could be Wisebutters, come to profess his undying love to me. I imagined he was in the store, searching for a cheap bottle of wine and chocolates and would show up at my door minutes after I got home. We’d drive down to the river and float around on the kayaks, eating the chocolate and sharing the bottle between us.

Sometimes when I open my mailbox, I hope there will be a letter from him.

Sometimes I think about that scene in Brokeback Mountain when Jack tells Ennis “I wish I knew how to quit you.”

I wish I knew how to quit Wisebutters.
I wish I was someone worth not quitting.
I wish he wished he knew how to quit me too.

When will my heart stop aching for you, Wisebutters?

At the doctor, my blood blood pressure was so high
I thought I might die.
The nurse brought me a pill and when the doctor walked in and looked at me, I burst into tears.
“Please, can you help me?
I am drowning in my own sorrow, pain, and anger.
I can’t breathe.”

He took one look at my face over his bifocals and said,
“You’re headed for a trainwreck, aren’t ya? Let’s get you some help so you don’t get derailed,ok?”
Then he rubbed my back and told me a story about the time he was depressed.
Then I cried some more.
Then he prescribed me the entire pharmacy.
Then he said, “Stress kills, sister. You’ve got to let go.”

How, doctor?
How do I let go?

Raggedy Anne and Bart-Holo, A Love Story

I tried to sign up for a dating app this afternoon. By tried, I mean I filled out the 20 minute questionnaire and attempted to say kind things about myself that some other person might find appealing. I was feeling just sort of ok with the whole process and then the app wanted me to upload pictures. Suddenly, ‘just sort of ok’ turned into an immediate ‘abort mission.’

And then I deleted the profile.

I don’t know why but I’m so terribly ashamed to put myself on a dating app even though I know it’s perfectly ok and normal and there’s nothing wrong with it. I really do understand this. It’s just that I live in this antiquated spot on the map with a population of Hi, Neighbor! and I don’t want anyone to know I’m single and lonely and looking for love through an app on my phone.

I mean, why don’t I just go to church?! Everyone knows Pastor Brown’s son is divorced and in need of a god-fearing woman to help raise his three boys. Have you seen those boys?? Davey, Rod, and Jimbo sure could use a haircut, a hot meal, and bed-time prayers.

Bless their hearts.

I honestly can’t remember the last time I stepped foot inside a church and haircuts, hot meals, and bed-time prayers are beyond my scope of expertise. I’m not exactly step-mom material even though I have a kid. It doesn’t make any sense, I know.

So what am I looking for?
What do I want?

I dunno.

I should know. I’m supposed to know! Everyone knows you’re supposed to know what you want in a relationship and out of life by the time you’re 4 decades into this thing but….here I am! Not knowing!

Fucking Daredevil. That’s me.
My middle name is Knievel.
My mom named me after Evel.
It was a tossup between Marie and Raggedy Anne and one look around her in the middle of that blue van on the way to the hospital in Selma, and my mom knew. She just fucking knew. She knew in that way that you know what you know but you don’t really know how you know it, or even when you finally knowed it….. ya know?
Wait. What?
Anyway, my mom took one look around her.
There were my sister and brothers, all snot nosed and yelling;
my dad, one hand on the wheel and the other on his Coors Light.
Then, she looked down at her swollen belly, down at me under all those veins and tissue,
warm and snug inside the same womb that held my sister before me and my brother before her and then my other brother before him;
all of us coming to be inside this tiny little hut inside my mom.
She put one hand on her belly and the other hand over her eyes and said “you’re either gonna be the dumbest little bitch out there or you’re gonna be the bravest. I can’t claim dumb for you,Butterbean, so brave it is.”

With that, she took her hand from over her eyes and in the loudest whisper she could muster declared an end to the middle name debate between my dad, who picked Marie, my sister, who was really hoping for Raggedy Anne, and my brothers, who didn’t even know if they were getting a boy brother or a girl sister.

“KNIEVEL!”, she whisper shouted. “KNIEVEL! Stephanie Knievel. That’s Butterbeans’ name.”

And so it was.

Stephanie Knievel Butterbean was born.

SLAYER OF LIFE. BAD ASS BITCH TO THE BONE. Chapter 1.

You would not believe how many people don’t believe that story when I tell them. It always amazes me. As if I would lie about a thing like my own middle name. Come on!

Ok.

I’m totally lying.

None of that actually happened except my sister really was hoping I would be named Raggedy Anne. I mean, I kind of do too now. Sure,my formative years would have been tough, no doubt. But fuck yeah, I could rock the shit out of Raggedy Anne now. Imagine being someone’s plus one to a formal event.

“Mom? Dad? Senator Kirkland? I’d like you to all meet Raggedy Anne.”

“I’m sorry Bartholomew Junior…..did you say Raggedy Anne?”

“Yes, father.” Bart-Holo (my pet name for him) would answer. “This is my girlfriend, or, as she likes to be referred to…my Shack Job, Raggedy Anne.” At which point, I, being Raggedy Anne, would smack Bart-Holo’s ass hard enough to make him jump.

Later on in the hotel room, Bart-Holo would turn Raggedy Anne ragged for displaying that very defiant claim of ownership. But, Raggedy Anne being Raggedy Anne, would welcome her punishment like the good little rag doll she is.

Raggedy Anne’s are fearless and feral and brave.

Stephanie Butterbean’s, though?

Stephanie Butterbean’s wake up forty chapters into their life and realize they’re stuck in Hi, Neighbor! with nary a Bart-Holo in sight.

There’s just Pastor Brown’s son who is recently divorced and really needs a step-mama for Davey, Rod, and Jimbo. Those boys could really use a haircut, a hot meal, and a bed time prayer. Or two.

Bless their hearts.

Bless their fucking hearts.

Bart-Holo and Raggedy Anne 4Ever.

Love Kool-Aid

“Never make someone a priority when all you are to them is an option.”
“Stop crossing oceans for people who wouldn’t even jump puddles for you.”
“Don’t be someones second choice.”

Why not? How come? What if I don’t mind?

Oh, that’s right. I forgot. I’m supposed to set boundaries and junk. If I don’t set boundaries, I might get triggered and if I get triggered it’s game over.
Game Over, Bitches.

Sometimes I think we’ve all gone a bit overboard with all these rules regarding our hearts and emotions. I mean, sure, we can’t go running around naked and crazed all over town looking for you after you’ve declared us unworthy of your special Love Kool-Aid. That would just be uncouth and embarrassing. Especially at our advanced age. We should have figured out by now how to have a little decorum and not be tempted to take the electric razor to our luscious locks like Britney Spears circa 2007. But come on! Even 36 almost 42 year olds still dream of tattooing your name in hearts across their lady parts. We’d never do it, of course. Definitely not….
Probably not….
Well….maybe….
I’m not saying yes but I’m not saying no either.

Listen, just because we’re old and have hips that go out on the regular (even in our sleep) doesn’t mean we don’t feel all the feelings our 22 year old selves felt when our hips didn’t lie and we could shake them better than Shakira.

I know! I know, I know, I know.
Boundaries are important.
Triggers are bad.
Got it.

I’m not going to drive to the middle of the map and show up at your doorstep with a caramel apple I made from scratch and a carving of your name in clay for Valentine’s Day.
I’m not!
Besides, I already tried that and you thought I was batshit insane and that was only one day after we’d said goodbye to each other and were still in love. Or so I thought. Imagine your reaction now! Hilarious!

In all seriousness, this composure stuff has gotten way out of hand. I’m not really interested in keeping my composure all that much when my heart has been ground up and turned into shredded beef and left discarded on the butcher table for the flies to lay their eggs in. It doesn’t really interest me to pretend like I’m not just standing over there in the corner staring at my stringy heart, all bloody and broken and prone to decay after you so carelessly tossed it aside.

Forgive me if composure and sensibility and pomp and circumstance are not wells from which I can draw from at the moment.

Love is everything we are but mostly what we don’t want the other to see.

I saw you.

I don’t have it in me to get over you yet. I know I should. My brain understands this is a dead end and I need to turn around and start walking back the way I came. My heart, though. My heart just keeps pushing on this brick wall in front of me, hoping beyond hope the love stored inside it will be enough to make the bricks crumble all down around me and you’ll be standing there on the other side.

Love is the good bad ugly dirt underneath your fingernails and a fresh coat of paint on top.

A shattered heart is a jigsaw puzzle and every time the pieces get all mixed up and put back together, a different portrait appears.

“Never make someone a priority when all you are to them is an option.”
“Stop crossing oceans for people who wouldn’t even jump puddles for you.”
“Don’t be someones second choice.”

I don’t want to live in a world where the only time we give grace is when we receive it.
I don’t want to live in a world where the only time we swim across shark infested water is if someone else does it first.
I don’t want to live in a world where we don’t understand that sometimes being second is better than being first.

So why not? How come? And what if I don’t mind?

Seven Point Two Seconds

I was rummaging through the warmer, looking for a sweet potato casserole when Brenda Faye called my name. She was standing by the stove, watching me quietly. She knew I had been down for far too many days in a row.

“Stephanie.”

I paused in my search and looked over at her

“I love you,” she said. I quickly looked away and grabbed the casserole.

“I love you, too,” I said as I closed the warmer door.

And then promptly turned around and left because the tears were already pooling in the bottom of my eyelids and I knew I was going to lose it all. My composure, my dignity, my goddamned mind. It was all going to come gushing out right there onto the floor of that kitchen in that store on Highway 80 in some town no one has ever heard of but where the story of my life keeps unfolding. Or unraveling. Faster than I know what to do with. I want to scoop up all the pieces of me that are floating all over this town I’ve never loved and pack them up in a suitcase and take them somewhere…anywhere. Away from here. Away from this. A hotel room in the city, a cabin in the woods, a shack on the beach, a tent in the desert, a sleeping bag under the stars.

My Life: The Series

Bad Decisions
Failed Attempts
Wandering Lust
Half Attempts
Daydream Realities
No Attempts
A Too-Sad Heart

All I’ve ever learned from love was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you.”

Hallelujah.

A cold and broken hallelujah.

If I could carry your grief until it was light enough for you to lift it, I would.

If I could take your pain and expunge it from your heart and bury it in the farthest corner of a place you can’t find on any map, I would.

The time it takes to say “I love you” and choose not to cry for the sixty-seventh time today. How much time is that? A minute? Thirty seconds?
Maybe 7.2 seconds and it’s lights out forever. Maybe it’s only a journey as short or as long as a sentence. From the first capital letter all the way to the period. Question mark? Exclamation point! Commas are just baby heart palps along the way.
That hardly seems fair, does it?
Maybe if I don’t punctuate any of the sentences things will never end and we’ll just go on and on forever and can stay here on the surface and not get sent into the abyss
the void
the nothing
the eternal darkness
the nether
the nor
the final fade
the last curtain
7.2 seconds and it’s lights out forever and ever amen hallelujah and do you think there’s a god in the universe or a place to see light or just this darkness that eats away at the lining of my stomach and sits on the far reaches of my soul until I can’t breathe and I want to drown in my own misery just to stop feeling all the feelings when a simple thing like “Stephanie I love you” threatens to unleash all the tears as I try for the sixty-eighth time in one day to choose not to cry but it’s never a choice not really it’s never a choice,
I am a hostage
inside my mind
inside my brain
inside my heart
inside these fingertips
inside this mouth
that speaks words of love but hurls words of insult against the aching breaking heart of a nine year old little boy who’s whole world is built on acres of broken glass and burning coals where the threat of disaster looms with each unsteady step he takes and I don’t know how to clean up this mess we have created for him in his one and only life that I tried so hard to keep together but it all just fell apart and I don’t know how to put it back
I don’t know how
I don’t know how
I don’t know how
and in 7.2 seconds it’s lights out and he’s left there in the destruction as I fall into the abyss
his nine year old face looking out over this scorched field of glass and coals
my own personal hell
I’ll live in
for all eternity
forever
and ever

seven point two seconds

maybe not even that long.

I did my best, I know it wasn’t much
I couldn’t feel, so I learned to touch
I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come here to fool ya

Grump and Wisebutter

My dad came over Sunday.

I don’t know why but I told him all about Noah and how awful it felt that someone could like me over the airwaves for a whole year and then meet me in person and decide I suck. And what a complete mind-fuck it was that Max’s dad actually found someone who thinks he’s a catch.

He asked what the new woman looked like and I told him I didn’t want to know because there’s a massive wound festering on my self-esteem that’s threatening to open any minute now.

First Gerard, then Noah, now my baby daddy.

Fuck my life.

This shit is too real.

Hello! My name is Undesirable Nancy and I like taking long walks in the moonlight with a paper bag over my head so you can’t see my hideous face, fucking with my clothes completely on so you don’t accidentally barf, and sitting in the corner with one of those safety cones around my neck; you know, the kind they make the dogs wear after they snip their nuts so they don’t lick themselves? Just make sure the velcro is tight as fuck so I can’t talk or even breathe really because I might scare you away with the way my breath is so goddamn dramatic on the exhale. Can you just stop breathing now, Undesirable Nancy? Or at least hold your head out the window? God! Your hot breath is all over the car.

I mean, I didn’t even want a man until I got drunk that one night back in the summer of 2019 and decided I was tired of watching Bruce sing The River on YouTube and wouldn’t it be fun if I found someone to talk to? Heck yeah, it would!! A quick Google search later and I drunkenly stumbled into that music chat room and declared to the room that I would love to visit both Seattle and Washington state someday. Obviously, I know Seattle is in Washington state so my sentence didn’t make any sense at all but I was halfway through a bottle of red by that point and making sense hardly seemed like a priority. I guess it wasn’t totally cringe because someone named Grump messaged me and thought it was rad. We chatted back and forth until I finished my bottle. I promptly logged out and stumbled off to bed.

But wait!

I didn’t give him any way to contact me other than through this random music channel that I may never remember how to get back to. I logged back in quickly and he was still on so I gave him my email address because I am 800 years old and had never talked to people on the internet before him and didn’t know I was supposed to have some kind of app or somesuch something in which to converse with strangers around the globe. It didn’t matter to Grump because he was also 800 and us old people know how to make shit work.

And make shit work is exactly what we did.

Damn, that was a fun ride with Grump.

It truly gutted me when he disappeared. So much so that I revived this dead blog to write to him almost every single day in the hopes he’d come back around. Yeah. I did that. He’d read everything I’d written back in 2009 when I first started writing here so he knew the blog existed. I had no way to contact him except on these pages. So that’s what I did.

I don’t even know if Grump is dead or alive.

How I stumbled on that Reddit post a couple of months later where some guy was asking for advice about his dating profile, I’ll never know. I don’t even know why I clicked to read the comments but I did and there was Wisebutter. Just commenting away, being a total smart ass and a total good guy all at the same time. I laughed and thought ‘awww this guy is something else’ and then checked out his profile and read all of his post history several times over. I thought about sending him a message for 4 days before I actually said ‘fuck it’ and pressed send.

I had no idea that Wisebutter would turn out to be a total Casanova and would feed me his elixir almost immediately. I’d never had anybody treat me the way he did, like I was both a goddess and a whore, both strong and weak, complete and incomplete. It was a heady force that left me feeling dazed and beautiful and so incredibly feminine. He seemed to instinctively know that women wanted to be both cherished and commanded at the same time. And the way he talked to me! No man had ever said the things he said to me. It was intoxicating. Totally mystifying. I was still crazy about Grump and hoped he’d come back around but Wisebutter was a different breed. He asked me things like “who owns you?” and called me a “good girl” and talked about my body as if he knew it like the back of his hand. He could be so rogue and unbelievably scandalous but then turn around and send me walls of text detailing the most tender of emotions.

I was consumed by him.

He seemed to be consumed by me too.

Until he just….wasn’t.

There’s no other way to describe it. It’s like a faucet that he just turned off suddenly. Without warning. There was a usual morning text one Monday morning in December and by that afternoon he was gone. I could feel it when he left. We had been texting for a year by that point and had met in person in October. I could feel the exact moment the shift occurred. I knew it was over Monday afternoon at 1:30. Here that morning, gone that afternoon.

No explanation. No reason.

When I asked what happened several days later, he seemed genuinely baffled. To him, nothing had happened.

Now here I am. A month or more later and I still don’t know how to process it. I don’t know if I ever will.

He’s just up there in his spot on the map, completely oblivious to me now.

It’s mind blowing and mind numbing all at once.

SIGH

First Grump, then Wisebutter……

Now a happily ever after for the baby daddy too.

Undesirable Nancy has left the building. She’s going back to watching Bruce sing The River on YouTube.

Naked.
Without a paper bag on her head.
Breathing with her mouth wide open.

Once Upon A Time

I spent the last two hours writing to you. 

It’s long and drawn out and I’m not going to post it here.  It was an attempt to make sense of the last year of my life.  But after I wrote it and tied it up all nice and pretty with a shiny red bow, I realized I wasn’t really interested in making sense of the last year of my life.  

Why bother?   

Why do we feel the need to make sense of things?

Sometimes things just don’t make sense. 

You can find an answer or a reason for anything but it’s not always the right answer or the real reason.  It’s just a thing we latch onto to make ourselves feel better.  

To ease our load just a little bit.  

The truth is, I’m not interested in easing this load yet.

When the load eases so do my memories and thoughts of you. 

 

Maybe none of it was real for you.

Maybe you made the whole thing up.

 

I didn’t.

 

It was real to me.

I loved you.

And that’s all that truly matters in the story of my life.

 

Stephanie loved Noah.

Once Upon A Time.

 

Love Letters to Stephanie

 Dear Stephanie,

It’s me, Stephanie.

I’ve been reading your blog over the last year and…..Whoa, Sister.

You’re a bit of a mess aren’t you?  Maybe a little ship wrecked?  Train wrecked? I-don’t-remember-how-I-got-here-wrecked?

How many more years in a row are you gonna welcome the new year with the ‘ol achey breaky heart?  Hmmm?

Got anybody lined up to do the honors come December?

Listen, I need to let you know something that apparently everyone EXCEPT YOU already knows.  It’s going to change your life, maybe even save it.  

It’s what everyone your age is doing now so you need to do it too.

 

Okay, here goes.

Stephanie.

Don’t put your eggs in one basket.

That way when someone is done with you, you will have scattered your eggs around to several different baskets and you can just chill in one of those for a while.

This will prevent you from giving too many Fucks.  Giving too many Fucks causes you to feel things.  Feeling things causes you to give your Fucks to people who might actually deserve them.

But listen, you don’t have that kind of time.

You’re old as shit now and your birthday is in 6 days and you better not even pretend to turn 29 again because, BIIITCH! ain’t nobody falling for that now.  Just be honest  with yourself for once in your life and put 36 candles on the cake this year.  For fucks sake, Stephanie.  Everyone already knows you’ll be turning 36 anyway.

AND FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY go put your eggs in as many baskets as possible!

Like RIGHT NOW!!!! YESTERDAY EVEN!!!

Look, I don’t know who this mysterious person is that you’re gonna eventually want to give all your Fucks to but you need to at least be operating at your Max Basket Capacity so you’ll have a way better chance at recognizing him when he shows up.  Max Basket Capacity varies for everyone.  Some people are able to operate upwards of 10 or more baskets at one time.  Others can only handle 5 or less.  Since you’re a rookie and don’t know your MBC (that’s Max Basket Capacity), I’m gonna suggest you start big.  You can always narrow it down later.

NOOOOO, Stephanie.  This is purely math and science here.  Get outta English Lit and walk your ass back across the hall.

Listen, it doesn’t matter if they catch feelings for you, Stephanie.  You are not giving them any of your Fucks, remember?  Right.  So fuck ’em!  That’s not your problem.  They’ll have to figure out how to cope after you’re done with them.  Because YOU WILL be done with them eventually.  They’ll learn.  It’s not your job to teach them.

Repeat after me:  Fuck ’em!

They’re just human beings with feelings and emotions, blah, blah, freaking blah they haven’t learned to regulate yet because they haven’t taken all the personality and love tests we’ve taken or gone to hardly any TED talks or webinars or zoom conferences where EXPERTS, Stephanie, EXPERTS tell us what to feel and then  how and when to feel it.

STEPHANIE

STEPHANIE 

STEPHANIE

They haven’t even set up their Boundary Box!  They don’t even have one!  They’re just out there –  all willy-nilly and EXPOSED for everyone and anyone.

THE AUDACITY!!!

Please tell me you have a Boundary Box, Stephanie.  It’s the box we keep ourselves in until we get ready to give our Fucks to someone.  No one, and I do mean NO ONE, is allowed inside the Boundary Box.  In fact, if you’re a pro like me, you will have a Boundary Box inside a Boundary Box inside another Boundary Box, kinda like those Chinese nesting dolls.

Listen.  This is important:

The Basket Eggs are allowed to approach the Boundary Box but must never attempt to infiltrate it even a tiny bit.  If that is to happen, you must go NO CONTACT immediately.  Right away.  No questions or explanations are needed for the vile and filthy person who would even think about getting inside your Boundary Box.

GHOST THEM, STEPHANIE!!!!  It’s the only way.  They are EVIL.  They will try to make you feel things for them!  They will try to make you give them all your Fucks!!!! 

Do Not Fall For Their Manipulation Tactics!

Walk Away Walk Away Walk Away

Then RUN, bitch!

As fast as you can!

There IS a better egg in one of those baskets and you deserve that egg, Stephanie!

DO NOT settle for just any Basket Egg.

But absolutely DO let them entertain you until you have found your GOLDEN basket egg.  It makes them feel important and when they feel good they’re more fun to be around.

Win/Win.

No, Stephanie.  They’ll be fine!  They’re just crying right now but they’ll get over it.  Remember?  Fuck ’em!

Repeat after me:  Fuck ’em!

STEPHANIEI’m telling you right now that giving them even half a Fuck will cause you to feel something and feeling something will cause an avalanche of all your Fucks and then you will love them unconditionally forever and ever amen until the end of time because that is what you do and I am tired of saying hello to all the January’s of all the years with a broken goddamn heart because you can not stay inside your Boundary Box!

Stop flopping around in the mud puddle and come look at these potted plants from the Home Depot and then bake cookies and sip tea and talk about your crafts and your kids like the rest of the middle aged ladies do!  God!

LYLAS,

Stephanie

 

P.S.  BIIITCH!! We all know you’re not turning 36 in 6 days either and if you don’t lock yourself up in that boundary box, I’m going to expose you!

 

 

Dear Stephanie,

Hey, it’s me, Stephanie!

What’s up, ho?  

What the hell did I just read?  You sound a bit unhinged.

Look, I’ve got this ok?

I have it on good authority that I am a REAL BAD BITCH.  As such, I can handle our shit.  

I’m sorry but you’re gonna have to sit this one out, sis. I appreciate your Fucks and MCBs and BBs and the really sage advice about treating people like shit so I can get what I want but that’s not really how we operate, is it?  I mean, we didn’t make it all the way to 37 (you got me) with our heart still tender and malleable by being a total douchebag, did we?

We didn’t.  And I don’t intend to make it another 37 years by being one either.

So calm the fuck down already.

We’re going to keep right on loving people who may or may not also love us back and then we’re going to write about it here on this blog after we have fallen all the way off the cliff, just like the 16 year olds we never grew out of would do.  After a few months of total despair and heartache, we’ll find love again.  Or we won’t.  In which case this blog will sit dormant for another 10 years.  Maybe forever. 

Or. 

Or, Stephanie.  There’s always an ‘or.’  Maybe, just maybe, someone will eventually love us back the way we love them and then we can rename our blog “UntangledOrder.”

You just never know.  The future is alive with possibilities.

But, in the meantime, you and I will work on neglecting and killing potted plants from the Home Depot, burning the baked cookies, staring at the crafts that we bought but don’t give two shits to actually try and, most importantly, avoiding the other old ladies that don’t look like us because NO WAY WE LOOK THAT OLD, sister.

Now, let’s go listen to Em’s new album and try to say the words along with him. That fool is never gonna stop rapping. And we’ll never stop listening.

Stephanie, we are beautiful and transparent.

Probably from all that time we spent splashing around in the mud puddles when we were 36, almost 37.

We’ve got this.

LYLAS,

Stephanie

P.S.  HO, if you tell anyone how old I actually am, I am going to stuff you inside your boundary box inside the other boundary box inside the other boundary box so you can’t ever get out and then I can really spread all my Fucks around!  

You can’t even imagine how many Fucks I have!  

So very many Fucks.

Fucks for Everyone

Fucks for Days

Fucks Forever

Fucks Unlimited

……………..

A Dignified Queen, I Am Not

Every single day I think of you and every single day I think of some different thing I did or didn’t do while we were together that made you think “hmmm, you know what?  FUCK THIS.”

Because obviously it was a big Fuck This from you.

Right?

What’s that stupid shit they love to throw around all over Reddit?

If it’s not a HELL YES it’s a HELL NO.

I guess it wasn’t a HELL YES for you then.

I go back and forth between being sad and heartbroken to angry and confused.  I don’t know which place I’m supposed to dwell in until I don’t think about you anymore because I’ve stopped caring one way or the other if I was a HELL YES or a FUCK THIS.

I want to ask you how come you couldn’t love me but I don’t dare because that is considered weak and pathetic and I’m supposed to know that I’m a QUEEN who doesn’t need answers because obviously it’s your loss only and 

this one is my absolute favorite:  IT’S NOT ME, IT’S YOU.  

But also, there’s this thing called DIGNITY and apparently I’m supposed to want to possess it and therefore can not go flailing about all out of control (who makes these fucking rules!) because that will look bad to the person who broke my heart (you) and I am supposed to want them to RESPECT me later on down the road when they’re with someone who is NOT ME!

DIGNITY!

Have some motherfucking dignity, Stephanie.  Make her your bitch  and walk around town with her tattooed across your forehead so everyone will know that when your heart breaks in half you do not fall down or even stumble.  

Why?  

BECAUSE YOU ARE DIGNIFIED! 
AND A QUEEN!
  

And when that man asked you to take your final bow for him, you curtsied all the way across the stage like the good little girl you’ve always been and let him go gently into that good night, back from whence he came.  

Good Day, SIR.

That’s how someone with DIGNITY behaves when her heart shatters. 

 

What a load of absolute molasses!!!

But, Stephanie! TWENTY SEVEN people on this one post on the internet said it’s true and there was also an article on Medium written by an accountant who almost majored in psychology but didn’t and she said it was true too.  Plus, there’s this sad old woman who writes this pathetic blog about how much she loves all the men who don’t love her and she said it’s true too….

Wait….

No, she didn’t.  

She definitely didn’t say it was true.

She says all the things that no one really wants to hear because we’ve all convinced ourselves that we are gods and goddesses and anyone who thinks otherwise was simply just too dull to bathe in the beauty of our light so they need to GET GONE.  We have bigger fish to fry than to worry about a thing like self-reflection.  FUCK THAT.  The only person who needs to do any kind of self-reflecting is the absolute moron who could have possibly taken a pass on you, Queen.  There is obviously something wrong with him.

It’s not you, Stephanie.  Of course it isn’t you.  

He only thought you were amazing for a whole year before he met you in person.

Do you think it was your chin?  Or  that you wore too many clothes?  Maybe you should have let your titties hang out more?

But seriously.

What the fuck did I really think was going to go down when you met me?  I mean, the week before you said “This feels more like a dead end than a new beginning because it would be an insurmountable challenge for you to move to Corn City and I don’t want to move to Loserville so…..”

I will tell you what I thought.  Honestly and Sincerely.  From the bottom of my overflowing heart.

I really and truly thought we’d fall madly in love.

Or, at the very least, we’d like each other so much that we’d want to see each other again.

That’s what I thought.

FUCK ME SIXTEEN WAYS TO FOREVER, I never imagined it would be a one and done.  Totally did not see that freight train barreling right on through the station.  I guess I was too busy looking at you and laughing when we stared at that map of Mobile on the wall of that little house we stayed in.

I was really hoping I’d see you again sometime….

I’d give you back my whole heart if I could rewind time to that day in October when you left your apartment up there to drive down here.  I wish when you locked your door behind you, you were just on your way to the market and not on your way to me.  Then your name would still light up my phone and your voice would still be in my head.

I miss you.

I hope 2021 is everything you need it to be.