The Last Time My Mother Tried to Commit Suicide

Anger, no fear.

I just happened to run across a funny story about myself. With myself.

**for purposes of perspective: This is the last of the many times my mother tried to commit suicide a few years ago in my bathroom. This seems to be a constant theme of hers and around me in general, of life taken by self in any form. I choose to explore this theme for the sake of healing a long troubled life in which I have never quite been comfortable. I hope to relieve my own pain and ease my own guilt with my artistic endeavors and this self portrait is the beginning of that. –  Also realize this is the first thing I’ve probably said about this to anyone really  and its some heavy shit and yes I’m okay and I have support in all directions for the first time ever. 🙂 Thanks for reading 🙂
She pulled the trigger, only for it to give an empty *clack clack*
The air stood still for what felt like an eternity
She stares blankly into the thing
Like it bears the weight of all of her unanswered questions
Like it’s its fault it was empty.
Like it’s its own fault that it didn’t know.
Like it should have known.
The other one had already exited through the bathroom window
As I should have
As soon as I heard the garage door shut
Just like that first instinct
I disregarded
Here we are again
Gun in hand
Face to face.
Adrenaline rush.
Things beyond my control take hold this time
‘cuz I’m older now.
Not fear.
Unskilled hands clumsily grasp and readjust the long barrel
As if readjustment would make it serve its purpose.
A purpose it hadn’t been informed of.
It resisted giving way with another *clack clack*
The rush of horror sinking in
A run through of the details
A flashback of life
A blood rush to the head.
Flashes of light before my eyes.
The muscles in my back tense.
It rushes.
You would think it was cold
But its hot.
Instantly aware of the vast temperature difference
It breaks through
I reach.
I miss.
She screams.
A red lense drops into over my field of vision.
Sounds come out of me
In a form I’ve recognized before
But I don’t know where.
“Do you even know how to use it?”
The question that had been on my mind the whole time.
Dad had them.
In the closet.
Top shelf.
How could she not know?
Does she not listen?
Does she not care?
Is she afraid of them?
How could that be?
She had planned to use them.
How could she not know?
How did she get in?
How long had she been here?
How did she find it?
The heat seared.
All I hear are deep breaths.
Not breaths of consideration
But breaths of fear.
“DO YOU?!”
The chin quivers
The eyes water.
*oh shit she’s crying*
**you made your mother cry you stupid bitch
Who makes their mothers cry
she fuckin adopted you
and you let her do this…?!
Why didn’t you just do what they wanted
Arms flailing.
She screams.
The blood boiling scream.
A familiar scream
This time succeeding
The long barrel is empty.
As it has always been.
It always was.
This time though,
Not fear.
I reached as the shotgun leaped for the tile floor
Again succeeding.
Then Into the box,
Where the answers
She imagined seeking out lived.
*remember to breathe*
 *deep breath*
The end is near.
I know it
I feel it.
Guts over fear.
“Do it.”
f               e                 a                  r.
The air stood still for what felt like an eternity
The only sound is my heart pounding in my ears
She stares blankly into the thing
Like it bears the weight of all unanswered questions
Like it’s its fault it was empty.
Like it’s its own fault that it didn’t know.
Like it should have known that
I loaded it but put the safety on – 
The other one had already exited through the bathroom window
As I should have
As soon as I heard the garage door shut.
I left the door unlocked
I should have known.
Here we are again
Gun in hand
Face to face.
Adrenaline rush.
I felt invigorated,
Like maybe I was in charge-
And maybe I was.
I felt out of control-
And probably should have been.
I felt angry
And maybe I still am.
I feel like its not my fault,
But maybe I’m wrong.
**for purposes of perspective: This is the last time my mother tried to commit suicide. This seems to be a constant theme of hers and around me in general, of life taken by self in any form. I choose to explore this theme for the sake of healing a long troubled life in which I have never quite been comfortable. I hope to relieve my own pain and ease my own guilt with art. Also realize this is some heavy shit and yes I’m okay and I have support in all directions for the first time ever. 🙂 Thanks for reading 🙂

Happy Didorce: the joke that failed so hard it was funny

Let me start off by saying ti was an amicable divorce, we’re friends and coparents and all that happy horse shit *modern family dream shit, ya dig*.

So on my way to meet ex-hubs-to-be at the lawyers office, I stopped at Kroger for a long-considered practical joke, for lack of a better term. Looking around at the small amount of cake choices the bakery had, I decided on a mermaid cake that had multi-colored interior and sprinkles on the outer sides. I made my decision and spotted the lady behind the counter and walked up with her with a big, half-baked, nervous smile and asked if she would write on the cake for me. She obliged and asked what I wanted.

I couldn’t help myself and told her gleefully I was going to a lawyer to sign my divorce papers and I wanted to take a “happy Divorce” cake. Her puzzled look gave away the fact that in whatever country she hailed from, divorce didn’t translate. She asked if I could spell it. “D-I-V- *ring ring*, shit, O-R-C-E”, I said, reaching for my phone that was violently buzzing and ringing. I answer only to find out that my appointment was at 9, not at 10, and yes they were aggravated with me, but yes they would wait on me. The puzzled cake-decorator did what she thought I had asked her to do, I thanked her, took the cake, and headed towards my hilarious freedom.

I arrived, went through the motions, discussed the things and laughed with them. Then we had cake. After that, ex-hubs and I talked in the parking lot for awhile, and discussed a few things and reminisced a tad. It was at this point that I realized the goddamn cake was spelled wrong, and I was somewhere between crushed at the fact my thing I had planned for so long wasn’t right, and falling in the floor crying with how ironic it was that the cake was fucked up. To which ex-hubs says, “yeah, I saw it. But you were entirely too pleased with yourself so I didn’t say anything.”

Well shit.

What I came home to after a hard day of triumphs, failures, and hilarity. 🙂

Love story album art

I say album art because this is what I was listening to at the time. It’s quite an enjoyable album that pretty much has something for everyone. The name of the album is Love Story and it’s by Yelawolf. You might remember the song “Til it’s Gone” from the feature on a super important episode of Sons of Anarchy (god that show was a fucking ride on my EMOTIONS MAN). My personal faves off the album (not in any particular order): “change”, “American you” (I’d start with American you), “til it’s gone” is good shit, for you Eminem lovers, as we know, Em produced Yela and is on the track “Best Friend”, ooh god the song “Heartbreak” is FUCKING LIT, and “Tennessee love”, “love story”, and “box Chevy V” … shut the whole albums lit what am I talking about 😁

Its been 2 years since we posted…

I started this blog when pregnant with my second daughter…2.5 years ago. And left it and and never made it back. I’M BACK BITCHES! What’s changed? Well, damn near everything. Here’s a dang list: Divorced, new wonderful life partner person, kids in school, quit my day job, and started living FOR MY DAMN SELF. My kids are happier, ex-hubs is happier, and I’m literally living my childhood dreams of being an artist and entrepreneur. And you know what? There’s nothing better in this world than letting go of people who don’t have your best interest at heart and putting yourself first for a change.

Don’t get all fucky and like “MERRR your children come first,” because that’s bullshit. If you can’t take care of yourself, and you don’t love yourself first – HOW THE FUCK can you teach little humans to love themselves? If I was still a martyr without a life of my own, my girls would have done the same old shit and been submissive to a man like I was and like the mothers before her. and FUCK. THAT. SHIT. We will NOT be subservient, we will not heed your demands, and we will question EVERYTHING.

Adoptee on 23 & me

I am literally losing my freakin’ mind about this. The 23&me testing kit just came on the mail last night. I took a photo of it- opened the box, and read the directions. I registered my barcode and said they could keep the sample for further analysis for research or whatever.

What my struggle here is, is that I am fuckin terrified. I have lived my entire life up until 12 weeks from now not knowing anything about where I came from- and also not caring too much because it never occurred to me that finding these other people was a real option. I used to care from time to time and even did a little research like calling the adoption agency and getting he paperwork to open he file whatever whatever … I never sent it in. So…

Here I am. I drank a little too much tea, smoked a bowl with my best friend, listened to Daniel Tosh’s new standup album with my husband (who bought me this test kit by total surprise)…(might have I mentioned I have been a bit snippy to recently)…and am now running out the clock smoking a bit more waiting to go coach the last soccer practice. THANK god it’s the last one. We are at he end of our ropes with this shit 😩*sigh*.

So I’m having a good day man. Oh I looked at houses on Zillow too. Anyway- I keep wondering what I will do with this information when I get it. Will I feel differently? Like….about myself and who I am and shit? I guess I’m going to find out if ignorance is bliss or not in about 12 weeks.

Has anyone else done this? Anyone else adopted?

UPDATE I have no fucking family on record anywhere in their database. But I’m Irish as shit. Like super Irish. With Roma gypsy 3rd cousins. Well shit

Pesto: Make it or Buy it? The answer will surprise you

Pesto Post Close up DONE

Anyone ever had the Chicken Pesto Panini at Atlanta Bread Company? If you have, you know why I absolutely HAD to try to make it myself. It is super expensive, at over $8 for just the sandwich! So here is what I did. I got the basic ingredients for simple pesto, although I omitted the pine nuts because I think they suck. As I was gathering the necessary items, I happened to notice that the brand Knorr makes a pesto sauce mix.

pesto by knorr package

Which at first I found to be a little weird and off-putting since it had you cook it on the stove, and fresh pesto is just basically blended together and used. So- here is how I made the Fresh Basil Pesto:

  • 1/3 cup Parmesan (or other firm cheese)
  • 1 Bunch Basil
  • 1/2 cup Olive Oil (start with 1/4 cup and add more to your liking)
  • 2 cloves fresh Garlic
  • 2 tsp Lemon Juice
  • Salt & Pepper to taste

Pull all the leaves off your basil and roughly chop your garlic. Put basil, garlic, and cheese in food processor and pulse. Scrape down the sides and add a generous pinch of salt and lemon juice. Keep adding and pulsing until you like the way it tastes.

It was DELICIOUS. Fresh and bright.

So then after this, I just followed the package directions for the Knorr pesto mix which was just adding olive oil, water, boiling, and then simmering.

It too, was DELICIOUS. I was looking for an exact replica of the Atlanta Bread Company pesto…and I found it! For shits and giggles, I decided to just mix them both together and add another dash of lemon juice, (I love love love lemon!). IT. WAS. THE. BEST. DAMN. PESTO. EVER. OH. MY. GOD. I made myself the most epic sandwich ever – with my crockpot shredded chicken, medium cheddar cheese off the block, pesto, mayo, all put into a hot iron skillet with a little butter. Amazeballs. Simply amazeballs.

In conclusion – which one is better? They’re both really really good. When mixed together – it is definitely the best basil pesto I have ever had in my LIFE. And on a side note – some recipes say you can freeze it in ice cube trays and pull it out as needed – I tried this, and failed miserably. Maybe if you made it without the oil, froze it, and added oil when you thawed it out, that could work. But with the oil in it, it wouldn’t come out of the mold and I had to let it melt out onto a plate and put it in the fridge.

Confessions of A Failed Multitasker

Blood and Lettuce DONE

Have you ever felt like a jellyfish? Moving through the ocean of life – where for every two steps you take forward, you take one step backwards? Where you seemingly brown-nosing the anus of life? And then BAM, with one fell swoop, you unravel your entire string of small victories and end up damn near where you started. Let me tell ya’ll about my shit-storm of a day the other day and how the above (real) picture came to fruitition.

It was a cold January day in Georgia, and I, a second-time Mom on the ass end of maternity leave from my super hectic job, was multi-tasking many kitchen duties. Now, I have always been a bit of a procrastinator, I have realized that for some reason, I do my best work after 6pm. My husband had asked me to put the chicken we purchased the previous day in the crockpot (more on fantastic crockpot shredded chicken at another time). So I decided to make myself dinner, make crockpot chicken, cut up a head of lettuce, jam the fuck out, and carry on four conversations via text message at the same time.

As i sharpened my mid-grade walmart knife from the set, I thought to myself, “damn man…this is a sharp knife.” I chopped half of a nice, ripe white onion for my chicken and dumped it in the crockpot along with the chicken breasts and garlic and thought to myself, “hey…I should chop up that lettuce while i’m here chopping things.” And here is where my real journey for the night begins.

I smash the head of lettuce as instructed by my mother-in law and sister-in-law/best friend and pull the root part off. I chop, chop, and chop, with seemingly expert motions when the phone vibrates. My brain simultaneously tries to make another chop and reach for the phone at the same time. In one clean sweep, I successfully cut the vein leading between your pointer finger and middle finger IN HALF. IN HALF ,guys. The dark red liquid immediately spurts like that of a hose with no nozzle. I stare at it while it sprays with the beat of my heart all over the crisp light green lettuce and contaminates everything in sight with an unsettling amount of dark red discontent. With every spurt it screams “YOU HAVE MADE A HUGE MISTAKE” like I was starring in my own episode of arrested development.


In my process of deciding whether to freak out or not, I consider that my husband has the car, and decide whether it is worth it or not to call my mom, who lives next door. While I felt the decision process was made easier flailing around the kitchen like an idiot on fire and pouring blood everywhere is the best course of action until I feel faint and decide to call my mother. I never determined whether I felt faint because I lost a bit of blood, or if it was because of the crippling embarrassment I had unwittingly signed myself up for.

“Okay Mom. I need you to listen to me and NOT FREAK out, just do NOT FREAK OUT,” I say in the most convincing voice I could, “I have cut myself pretty badly, and I need you to come over and help me as soon as you possibly can.”

As I was flailing a little more and waiting for her I thought to myself, “so this ends a perfect fuckin’ evening, and a fantastically weird maternity leave.” By the time she arrives and gets my hand wrapped in a towel, there is so much blood it takes her about thirty minutes to mop it up, and I continue to freak out, hyperventilate, and cry like a little fuckin’ baby.  I got three stitches at the local hospital, where despite the hoards of people spreading their public school plagues and putting their staff infections on everything they touch, they were super nice and hella fast. Fayette Piedmont had a separate section the took me off to, where the nurses and other staff got the benefit of my nervous humor, because when I hurt or get super nervous or uncomfortable, I don’t shut the fuck up and tend to tell a bunch of jokes that may or may not offend and embarrass my mother. They got me stitched up and on my way out in 50 minutes – now thats a record we should be talking about! Maybe we should also talk about how we pay $600 a month for health insurance and I still had to pay a $300 deductible, and by pay, I mean it was added to my growing bar tab of dumb-shit hospital visits. Perhaps I will cut off a limb they can keep in exchange for payment…hmmm…something to ponder on as I fall asleep tonight.

So guys, do I get an A for effort or not?

Have you ever failed this hard? If so, I would love to hear about it!

My Pet Sloth

I have come to the determination that having a baby is what I imagine having a pet sloth is like. They’re slow, they’re cute, can’t run away from your love, and are disproportionately sized.

sloth tongue

I had this thought when I had a drink or two and went into deep-space thought. It happens.

sloth fat and cute

ohhhhhhhhh the cuteness!!!