The Verbal Droooolings of a Marked Psychopathic Deviate

ringworm around the collar

dear radar,

hey! meeting you at shari's last weekend was great! you made me feel special and this got me thinking about a lot of things.

for instance, it must've been hard for you, having your mamma abandon you at the farm and all. and coming to the big city and being dropped off at the pet store to find a new mommy was super scary i'm sure. but you did it anyhow, radar! you hit the kitty lottery!

i know having a foster brother is hard. buddy isn't the nicest doggy around, and boy does he smell!!! it's a good thing kitty's clean themselves, huh? otherwise you might smell like buddy, and that makes it hard for strangers to cuddle you.

and speaking of cuddling, do you remember how much i cuddled you and held you and kissed you all over your velvet black face? me too. it made me feel warm inside, like we had a connection. i also liked watching you run around in circles and chew on things. remember when you started chewing on mamma shari's computer cord and she got angry? i thought that was hilarious even though she threatened to throw you back out on the street with all the rabie infested squirrels.

a weird thing happened, dear radar, when i got home later that afternoon. my skin started to itch real bad and i got these weird circle patches all over my neck and legs. i understand you were abandoned and all, but that still doesn't make it okay for you to give me a crusty skin infection. i realize you might think that because of your first few weeks on the planet, that people don't love you and that makes it hard for you to trust. but we do love you and you can trust us. so i think you should think about that and stop giving people burning, itching skin disorders. otherwise i'll have to take matters in my own hands and take you back to the farm and never look back. but i don't wanna do that, radar. i think you're alright.

i'm not gonna cuddle you for awhile, but that doesn't mean that you're not something worth cuddling. it just means that you're narly. you have parasites that are alive and crawling around inside your skin. that makes me scared, radar. it does. so i'm not gonna visit you for awhile. i'm gonna quarantine our love and come back for more when you're not ridden with funk. afterall, having missing patches of skin is emabarrasing. especially when you teach school and your students ask you why you have weird sore things on your neck and all you can do is shrug and tell them it happened because you dared to love.

so i just wanted to write you and say thanks. thanks for loving me so much that i have holes burned into my skin. that was considerate of you.

i'll talk to you soon, radar. but not really. more like next spring when your creepy, crawly buddies are dead and gone.

your friend,

judith

the unmaddening of me...

as part of my counseling, i had to ask myself what question constantly pops into my head when dealing with others. and i knew what my question was immediately, it took no time at all. it is 'are they mad at me?'

so over the last week, my counselor (i have a hard time saying therapist...) has had me write down everytime this question has surfaced in my head. and then i have to write down the context of the scenario. and since thursday, this has happened, on average, about twice a day.

and i feel horribly embarrased about this. i even thought my dog was mad at me, because on monday, i didn't walk her as long as i normally do, and felt like i short changed her...what the hell?

i understand the power of underlying feelings--what does it mean if people are 'mad' at me--and what i have come up with is disappointment. will they be disappointed if i do this or that or don't do this or that...and it's making me exhausted. these overwhelming feelings of guilt are crippling...

and so my current mood is sad/perplexed. and the sick thing is, i am starting to wonder if my blog audience is going to be mad at me because my mood isn't happy or silly or more entertaining. this self-exploration shit is no joke. whatta commitment this counseling is turning out to be...so sorry. i know i shouldn't apologize, but i feel like i should, and so by god, i am doing it: sorry.

stupid feelings....got me all jacked up and now i'm gonna go to bed and twist and turn around in my head and try to my upmost to forget i even wrote this and left this here for any of you to read because, really, it's just ridiculous...

put a bullet in my head, it would be a lot better than this...

aw....midterms.  i love 'em, alright....but i love other things more...what things, you ask?  well, let me tell you:

• cutting myself with a razorblade while shaving
• watching QVC with my dad as he snores in a recliner after downing 2 bowls of ice cream
• cleaning toilets while having a devastating hangover
• reading letters from bastard spawned bill collectors
• inhaling the scent of spoiled milk
• getting a pap smear in a room that is 50* farenheit
• forcing myself to laugh at jay leno's jokes
• having my armpits waxed
• watching football with a bunch of dudes who track stats and call players by thier first names, because, you know, they're 'boys' and all
• mixing drinks for toothless patrons who stare at my breasts as if i were broadcasting reruns of 'cops' across my chest

at this point, i'm desperate. stop me before i call my mom to chat.

s....o.......s........s.......o...........s.......

oprah is stealing my thunder...

ya know, i'm pissed. really, truly pissed.

apparantly, if you have some fancy television show that broadcasts all over the world and a hot-off-the-press magazine with your big fat face on it, your literary opinion means more than someone, who say, is a lowly paid college professor and graduate student. i guess it means people are more apt to listen to you. respect you. and take into consideration what you have to say in regards to the world around you.

it all started about a week or so ago...i was reading some of my old blog entries and came across 'ethics and other bullshit.' it was here that i begged and pleaded my narrow little blog audience to pick up a book by my new friend james frey called a million little peices. of course, i recieved 0 comments. (thanks, guys. appreciate it.) anyhow, i clicked on the link to his website that i provided and found him to be thanking oprah. and i was perplexed, thinking, "why's he thanking oprah?" and so i scroll down, reading more...i find out his book is number 1 on every friggin book list possible...and there are cameras following him wherever he goes to do book signings, oprah's cameras to be exact.

turns out she picked his book for her book club this month. and to that i say fabulous! really. frey deserves some recognition for his powerful prose, but the thing that ticks me off is that i have been bragging about this memoir for weeks, months even. i have been preaching the good word about this story, how amazing it is, how it picks you up and makes you twist and makes you turn and makes you think and feel and consider what it means to make it through one more day. just one more day.

and the only person out there in the whole wide world that listened to me was none other than my wild child sidekick, shari. that's right. shari. way to pull through 'ole girl. i lub you. i do. the rest of you i spit on. how dare you doubt me. is this what it takes? do we need some billionaire shoe whore to tell us what to read and what not to read? huh? is that the way we are choosing to live? is it? because that's the way it seems to me. stupid oprah.

AND! it doesn't stop there. there's another one of my fave books that she is now preaching about---and no offense, but this book is soooooo march '05; she should really get with it if you ask me. it seems that next week she's having Janeatte Wells on the show, the author of The Glass Castle. yeah, this book most definitely fits into my top five of 2005--not that any of you care, because you obviously don't. but if you did, i would tell you to read this memoir because it is mindblowing. i thought i grew up poor and neglected, but after reading this book i realized i was only kind-of sort-of poor and neglected. so that's good. but Wells is a gossip columnist in nyc, writes for msnbc, and you would never-EVER!-guess her upbringing. it's bold and savvy, and the most amazing thing about her voice and her interpretation of her existence is her unwillingness to take on the role of victim. profound character that takes, right? and just to demonstrate a point, i would also like to mention that i recommended this book to about a million friends. guess who actually read it? that's right. it was shari. (all the sudden i'm beginning to think shari and i might be literary soul mates...novella novias...my bookish better half...)

anyhow, i just want you all to know that i forgive you. each and every one of you. i do. i understand the risk of trusting someone's ideas about art and culture when they do not own a corporate monopoly. i get it. afterall, we do live in america, the land of freedom, the land of choice. and it's up to you to choose who to believe, who to relate to. and oprah is more relatable. i mean, i don't know about you, but i definitely understand what it's like to have four ginormous mansions and two jet planes and so much godforsaken money that i could burn a million just for the fuck of it. that's cool. so i guess all that needs to happen for me to be taken seriously in terms of my taste is for me to generate billions of dollars of wealth. got it. i'll put that in my pocket (which is ridden with moth eaten holes) and keep it.

and as for you oprah, get off my blog bitch! quit stealing my ideas. god. think for yourself, you slut.

penis, oklahoma: volume three

we finish dinner and make our way to callahan's: the hippest joint in town thanks to an old buddy we graduated with named brett. we park the neon, and corby hauls his 6'2 frame into the back seat. he takes the posterboard with the fake name and sets it up in the back window.

"just in case we forget which car is ours..."

moments pass and flashes of anticipation frenzy in my belly; everyone will see me for the first time in eight years; will they think i'm fat; will they think i'm crazy; will they think of me at all.

i can tell that corbin is nervous too; he starts singing at the top of his lungs as we walk our way up the parking lot. i see right through this and ask him if he wants me to walk in first.

"well, i mean, if you want."

"yeah, i will. you know me, i always need an entrance..." i say all coy.

"whatever scoops your poop, lady."

"is that how y'all talk in san diego?"

"nah, babe. that's how the corbin speaks."

"alright, that's enough. it wigs me out when people refer to themselves in the third person."

he laughs; i laugh; we come upon the front door.

"here we go," i say.

"bombs away," he says.

i open the door and hear rod and ryan screaming from the foyer. they are twins; thier dad was vice principal at the high school during our stint at ehs. pretty funny, considering our group of friends. imagine participating in play station round robbins on saturday with the dad looking in, laughing and making us grilled cheese and dr. peppers; and then on monday being sent to his office because you got busted for skipping or drinking or smoking or whatever else we did back then.

i see three tables pushed together and a dozen familiar faces: daniel, loan, jenny, toni, jay, adam, corey, brian, brandon, rod, ryan.

"what up, foolios!" i smile and wave a meek hello.

"JUDE!!!!"

i laugh.

"CORB!!!!"

he laughs.

we all fall into rhythm. chattering, hugging, gossiping, smiling, reminiscing, hollering.

the nerves fade away.

i go the bar and gasp because they have sierra nevada. wow. good beer? in enid? i'm shocked.

corby tells everyone the story about mike ellis. it makes people laugh, it makes me feel good, it makes ten-year reunion history.

upon my second beer, jay stomps my way. he's a funny fucker, man. he's 5'5, 200 and something or other. he's a cross between sean astin and chris farley, if you can imagine that. when he would take the field at high school football games, we'd all yell, "RU--DY!! RU--DY!!!" and when he'd get real drunk after the game we'd make him flex and shake and pull up his shirt and do the truffle shuffle ala the goonies...

"so, you gonna fuck thomas this weekend?"

i cough my beer back into the glass. "i'm sorry, what did you just say?"

"i said, are you gonna fuck thomas this weekend?"

"are you fucking crazy? what is wrong with you?" i'm taken back, but i'm smiling at the same time.

"c'mon, jude. do it. i told him if you looked hot and didn't get all fat on us, that i'd do my best to get you in the sack with him."

"well i appreciate your concern." i roll my eyes and light a stogey. "thanks, but no thanks." i take a drag and blow the smoke in his face.

"so you're still a tease, i see..." he saunters into my space, two inches away from my face and begins to stage whisper. "see, the deal is, he's bangin' jenny right now. but he's always regretted dumping you sophmore year just cause you wouldn't touch his yank. so he's thinking he might give you another shot, see what could've been, so....you in?"

"jay." i pause for a couple of moments to collect my thoughts. i continue, "my vagina is my vagina. and while i admire the regard you seem to have for satisfying thomas' sex life, i regret to inform you that i will not be sleeping with anyone this weekend. unlike some of you, i have no business here left to settle."

"don't be such a bitch, man. just fuck him. it'll be fun."

"absolutely not."

"dude. i'll give you a hundred bucks."

"wouldn't that make me a prostitute?"

"nah..." he says. "that'd make you savvy."

"right."

"okay," he scratches his head and thinks real hard for a moment. "what are you banging corby or something? i heard you all are staying at the same place. he got dibs on you this weekend?"

"dude." my 'women-were-not-put-on-this-earth' speech begins to creep up my esophogus. "nobody has dibs on me this weekend. i am not here to hook it up with anyone. i am here to hang with my homies and have a good time."

"whatever, man. you're just bitter because thomas dumped you in 10th grade."

"no i'm not!"

"yes you are," he gives me an 'i got you figured out look'. "you're pissed because he broke it off because you wouldn't drop your drawers..."

"jay! i'm not. no offense, but i got over thomas in like two days."

"sure you did."

"i DID! and it's great to know why he finally dumped me. i appreciate it. what a dick! just because i wouldn't sleep with him?"

"you were always a prude. i guess some things never change."

"that's pretty funny coming from you." i look towards his wife, the same girl he's been with since 9th grade. "isn't she the only girl you've ever been with? talk about a prude."

"fuck you, dumont."

"fuck you, klein."

he gives me a bear hug and lifts me off the ground and spins me around. he brings me back down and leans into my ear...

"just think about it...that's all i'm askin," he whispers..."think about it."

he winks at me like we just did a drug deal, slaps my ass real hard till it stings, and walks away and finds his place next to his wife, his most favorite place in all the world.

penis, oklahoma: volume two

after a two hour drive through the vapid countryside of oklahoma, we arrive in enid. it is me and corbin and my fancy dodge rental. we roll up into town and a nostalgic cloud of sameness falls over me. same trail motel; same winchell's donuts; same broadway tower; same security national bank.

i am expecting my old community to have evolved, to have ripened, to have flourished. but it hasn't; the same roads chart our route and the same additions section off houses. i used to drive around that town with my eyes closed, and now i am second guessing directions, wondering how to get to chestnut avenue.

we sit in the yard of corby's cousin's house, waiting to be let in; the sun is setting and horses run through the field just to the north of us. i breathe in the swooping air, remembering why we sang about the wind sweeping across the plains. and i chuckle.

"fucking enid," i shake my head and pull some grass from the soil.

"fucking enid," corbin cocks his head to the sky and scoffs. "this sure as hell aint california."

"you got that right."

"damn straight."

the cousin pulls up the road and parks in the drive. we say our hellos and wander inside the standard red brick home: three bedrooms and a couple baths. there is floral wallpaper with forest green and golden trim; candles sit in pastel colored holders with wicks that have yet to be lit; pictures from college football games reveal sweet smiling faces; faces i used to know.

we have an hour to kill, as we are meeting corbin's aunt, my old english teacher, at the country club for dinner: a place my family was never apart of; a world a savings account away. betrayal consumes me, as the enid i know is on the other side of town, the side where porches creek and ceilings leak and daddys drink till they can't see me anymore.

when i was a child i thought everything would be okay if i lived in a house like the one i am now standing in. i figured this would solve my imperfect self, dispersing the shame i held for never feeling good enough and never feeling worthy. but as i look around i understand the courageous myth i foretold me way back then; one day this will all mean nothing.

circumstance is liquid.

i unpack my goods in the guest bedroom and patiently wait for corbin. i am nervous, wondering what people thought of me then and how they will recieve me now, the return of the prodigal friend.

"ya ready?" corbin taps on the door.

"ready." i stand on my feet and straighten my shirt for presentation's sake. "let's eat, i'm starving."

we strap in the neon and venture on our way. it is dark now, and the town is sleeping. no traffic, no movement, just crickets, the silly crickets who sang me to sleep every night i went to dream.

"hey, you wanna hear my impersonation of enid?" corby breaks the silence.

"let's hear it, big boy," i say as a sly smile crawls up my right cheek.

"MOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" his voice inflects the cattle we used to harrass as kids.

i collapse with laughter, this shakes my nerves away.

"ah, babe. it's good to be home," i tell him. "i missed you."

"oh yeah?" corby says. "i missed MOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!! too."

i throw in my tribe called quest and we bounce our way to the club, feeling good, feeling funny, feeling like we did on some random day back then...

penis, oklahoma: volume one

my ten year reunion was this past weekend, and as most of you know, such events generate queezy feelings of uncertainty and anticipation.  but i can't dig straight into these happenings without starting from the beginning, and the beginning just so happens to involve a little package from my homeboy, corby.  er...corbin.

***

it all starts with the following email:

jude,

expect a package in the mail on monday morning.  don't ask any questions, just know it's not from me, it's from 'mike ellis'.  and whatever you do, don't use it before you pick me up at the airport.

corbin

hmmmm...an anonymous package from california?  that could only mean one thing; so i smile and type back:

uncle corb,

sweet...toke it up.  can't wait.  monday it is.  and i won't use it till i see you.

jude 

the week passes and suddenly it's the sunday before the reunion and the night before the delivery.  i surrender to sleep after posting a note on my front door instructing the UPS dude to place my package on the side of the house.  i venture off to dreamland and find myself waking up abruptly at 4:31 am to the sound of pounding at my front door.

BOOM!  BOOM! BOOM!

what the fuck, what the fuck, flashlights flashing in my windows.  i am completely naked, because, well, why not?  so i scramble to find some clothing and make my way to the door.  i peek out.  there are two cop cars sitting outside my house and they see me behind the glass.

the package, the package, fuck, fuck, fuck, i'm busted...racing thoughts are running through my head.

i hesitate; then i open the door.

"are you judith dumont?" a white man in a cop suit stares down my face.

"uh...yeah...that's me.." i hesistate and stammer.

"ma'am, we have some bad news for you," the cop looks toward the side of the house, and i know, just know, i am going to jail in pajamas that fail to match.  (devastating for a leo...)

'okay.  am i in some sort of trouble?'  i face the demon head on.

'well, it depends on how you define trouble...'

great.  an ambiguous arrest.

the other cop, a lady with a too-tight french braid, edges her shoulder in front of the other gentleman cop, "ma'am, basically it goes like this: your car was stolen this evening by three punk teenagers.  and we found, well, i found them.  and they're in custody.  but your car is another story."

my eyes light up, "you mean my car was stolen?  oh!  well...that's not such a big deal, i mean, it is, but you have it? that's great.  good work, officer."  i do my best to contain the utter relief bursting out of my body.

they fill me in on all the details: pressing charges, the estimated damage, my rights, thier rights, blah, blah, blah...

i try to go to sleep, but i toss, turn, and a funny thing begins to happen as the dope diversion fades away.  i get pissed.  SOMEONE STOLE MY CAR!!!! 

i jerk out of bed and  make a phone call to my dad.  (you know, the ex-con?)  the conversation goes like this:

me:  hey dad,  it's jude.

dad:  what's up, blue. i'm here hanging with j-bird.

me: well, isn't that fitting...

dad: what the hell crawled up your ass?

me: oh, i dunno, it's just that MY CAR WAS STOLEN!

dad:  what?

me: yeah, that's right.  my car was stolen.  and it's all your fault.

dad: what the hell's wrong with you, you damn goose.  i didn't do nothin'.

me:  well, yeah you did. 

dad:  prove it.

me:  it's pretty fucking simple if you ask me.  you stole cars for a living and now my car's stolen.  don't you get it?!?!  IT'S MY TRIBAL KARMA!!!

dad: get off my line, blondie.  i aint got time for this shit.

*click* 

i bang my phone on the counter and call my friend and insurance agent, justin.  i kiss the sky when i find out my insurance covers everything.  a blessing, because the little jerks (aged 14, 15, and 17) vandelized and wrecked my car, causing $3,000 worth of damage. 

punks. 

i call into work, get everything covered, and begin figuring out the annoying amount of trouble this shindig is causing me.   i have to get my car out of the pound.  angela takes me, and upon seeing it, my mouth drops.  it is smashed up on the driver's side door and everything inside it is gone: no stereo, no panel, no paperwork, no nothing.

i start my car with a flathead screwdriver and make my way home.  i roll up to my house  in my gangstafied automobile and see the UPS man driving away. 

sweet.

just then, two of my homies show up and we start surveying the hunk of shit my car has become.  i call the vandals 'hoodlums' and 'ghetto freaks' as i tear open the package from california and take a long whiff of mother's sweet illegal nature.  hippocrit shmippocritt.

I get a rental the following day; there is no way i am rolling up to my reunion in a car that has to be started with a flathead screwdriver.  (i was sooooo the poor girl hanging out with the rich kids in high school: think lea thompson's character in some kind of wonderful.) and there is no need to perpetuate that image even further.

so i take off on thursday morning and pull into the okc airport to pick up corby.  i walk up to passenger pick-up with a newsboy cap pulled down real low over my eyes, all the while holding a big white peice of posterboard with bold black writing that reads:

MIKE ELLIS.