Bastards Bullies and Bitches:

There were two men at work that bother me. I mean, really get mad with them and I couldn’t quite get understand why. What could it be? They seemed nice enough on their own until some sort of switch that gets set off in my head and without a secondary thought I gear my fist to deck them. First off I’m not one of those crazy feminist who wouldn’t allow a man to open the door for her but some people can be so cocky that I would rather slam the door in their face and climb over the building just to avoiding them.

                Today was the breaking point. MY pleasantness dissolved. I couldn’t handle it anymore. There was a second were Rob would say off the cuff things and it was only yesterday that I realized he was intimidated by me. As I examined the conversation in my head I realized he was constantly posturing. When I can I try to be nice. But how can I be nice when he pretends to be this man that needs to take over whatever I am doing because HE’S DAH MAN. Fuck it, no way. I give him a horrible answer before I could stop myself. I would stop talking and just listen. But it’s fuck it.  As usual “quit bitching and start working!” or “Fucking seriously? You got a case of stupid?”

                But today I saw him for what he really was. A woman who had been so kind when she helped me. I was sweet and it was hard for her to give the speech that she had to give. She had to tell us that within two weeks we may no longer have a job. That is hard enough but when Rob decided to harp on her, yell at her and agitated a room full of people already freaking out. I snapped at him and put him in his place…. Twice. I saw red. I wanted his head on a pole that bastard and before I knew it I was avoiding him to make sure I didn’t his face into hamburger.

                He just kept making me angrier and angrier.  I realized what it was, what it really was. He was a bully. I couldn’t resist it. It brought out the bitch in me. That’s when I realized it. I knew one of three people.

Bastards:  The unfortunate souls who fuck everything up and it just all seems to work out. 

That is level one

Level two: Lost souls, people looking for redemption but can’t quiet to keep up.

Level  three: “I’m going to fuck up your life” ‘nough said right?

                Then there are the bullies are ones that throw around there weight and make people feel better about who they are and those are not the people are not well treated by me ever.

                I’m a bitch. But what else is there. Smart ass remarks flow outside of my mouth. And it was then that it realized it had come of my mouth. At least today I can be thankful I didn’t pound someone’s face into hamburger on the factory floor because if there is one thing I can’t stand. It’s bullies like rob that bring that out in me. I hate bullies

What are you doing with your life?

What are you doing with your life?:

                “Howdy, Ex-neighbor!” a voice came from behind me. I turned around to see my ‘Ex-neighbor’ standing happily behind me. The music blared and my ears twitched. Did he just call me Amber? No sooner did I think it, it came tumbling out of my mouth. “No, no,” he chided. “I said Ex-neighbor!” I apologized. It had been a long night, in fact VERY long night.  Another night being a low grade temp at a would be job running my ass off. I had tried to duck in and out but as per usual I end up staying a lot longer than I planned.  Blind dates gone badly. How to throw off the “I’m so not sexy” vibe, you know, the usual.  I gave the gal my ‘Satan’s double fist’ classic excuse.  It’s when you have your period like kicking donkey and the shits like a Mexican chili bowl. Descriptive and effective to fend off any unwanted attention from a gentleman caller, call me officially proud owner of this brain baby.

                “I said, how are you?” Ted yelled.

                “Good,” I smiled. “Very good and you?”

                “Great. Things are going wonderfully.”

                “That is really good to hear that. Are you doing better since your divorce?” He lifted an eyebrow.

                “You mean the one that happened 3 years ago?” oooo. Awkward.

                “Yeah,” I remarked. “It’s been a while since we’ve talked.” Okay. Not really but what the hell else am I supposed to do? “How’s your little one?” Children are always a safe zone for conversation. He’d been my neighbor for years and always been kind to me. I’ve always appreciated that. He answered questions about his life effectively.

                “So, How’s college going?”

                “I dropped out.”

                “What?” He yelled.

                “I left. ”

                “Now why did you that?”

                “I needed time to get my stuff together.” This was crawling into area of personal.

                “You shouldn’t have dropped out.” He pointed out starkly.  “Where are you working?” I prattled off the company I worked for.  His eyes grew big with happiness. “Congratulations!!! You must be so happy!”

                “Um,” I shook my head. “Not really.”

                “Well it’s not like your some temp or something.” I cringed. Great.

                “Oh no, Really?”

                “It could be worse, I’m just getting my life together.” He paused and took a long gaping look at me.

                “So tell me something,” he paused. “What are you doing?”

                “Huh?” He sighed.

                “What are you doing?”

                “Um, I-” He waved it off.

                “No, what are you doing, a college dropout, standing in a bar, drinking a bud light the night before thanksgiving?” No joke on the wording. I got a gut punch. Reality tumbled it’s way back into my life. Even as I stood there I felt ridiculous. The bud light I had cradled in my hand somehow seemed heavier. The ache in my legs thighs and feet started to thus with this startling reality. I guess it wasn’t all that startling. This was the reality that I tried to fight while I brushed my teeth and looked at myself in the mirror. The honest answer was, “I have no idea.” Everyone looked to me as if I knew what I was doing but all I kept doing was keeping my head above water until the next island.

                Smart ass mode kicked in before I choked out some corny thing I actually meant.

                “Well thanks for making me feel so fucking classy.” He laughed awkwardly.  I laughed right back at him. My life is a fucking mess…. Thanks for the reminder.

Suicide letters:

Reasons to bleed:

“Salander leaned back against the pillow and followed the conversation with a smile. She wondered why she, who had such difficulty talking about herself with people of flesh and blood, could blithely reveal her most intimate secrets to a bunch of completely unknown freaks on the Internet.”

                               ― Stieg Larsson, The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest

                I had written through my fifth draft of my suicide letter over the last 5 weeks. No one had seen me and no one asked. There was something comforting in the fact that no one really cared. I put down my coffee and stared at the screen. I was supposed to be this great writer but my grammar sucks and all I have ever wanted to do is to reach out to someone through my writing. Two novels down and I was beginning to get the feeling that they would remain on my hard drive. No one was going to take a chance on a stupid twenty something that doesn’t have a degree in the field.  But I figured if my last work as a writer I could at least explain to people why I had to put myself put an end everything.

                Somehow loneliness is its own disease and I knew that I would never let people see the darker side of me. So I kept smiling and dancing. I just kept throwing fans to distract people to how far to the edge I was. “Some of us will check out,” remarked G-man. I was so ready to end it. I wanted it to be over with. No one will ever give me a chance to see what I can do or just keep me in the same spot over and over again. No matter how much I try to do it will only get worse.

                I leaned back and inhaled my coffee. At least there was one thing that still made me feel a little bit comforted but a hot drink can only bring. The truth is, I’m carrying this God shaped hole in my chest and as I look at all those people around me I only realize how much more empty I am. What If they notice? I figured it was safer to leave everyone at arm’s length and pray that someone somewhere would hear my prayer and rescue me or even give me a little bit of guidance. Yet everything seems to fall short even myself.

                No one but a handful of people would miss me and each one has a half written letter. I guess I have trouble telling the whole truth to even my closest friends but I feel that there would be something left to explain. Something maybe  to forgive me and maybe forgive themselves for something they had no hand in. I never felt like I belonged and went through the motions of the happy go lucky gal. There were few people I could actually fool but the dance remained the same. The harder I smiled, the easier it was to choke back my tears. Sometimes I would yawn just to squeeze a few of them out.

                I wish I could explain why I’m so sad, why I feel that there is no end. I want to tell them, I love them but I feel like I have failed undeniably in all goals in my life and I now, I sit in my ir\ivory tower. Where, perched with a cup of hot tea and the organic view of my apartment, I reflect on the world. They say that if you look long enough into the abyss, the will look into you. To me, I feel as if I have become the abyss and no matter how much I try to push away from it seems to seek deeper into my subconscious. There really is no peace. 

Not here, not anywhere. I think I have come into a war that I’m no longer winning. It’s not like I haven’t tried before, there were even people I called to reach out to be there. A twist of fate? Or sign to jump into the abyss? I want to reach out, I want to get help but I can’t. Somewhere inside of my head I know that I can’t reach out because everyone would think I’m crazy and start to take away whatever rights I do have left.

                “Get help,” they say “It will be for the best” they say. I’ve been medicated and for the most part, I still am but the pain is always there and constant. I felt trapped in an H.P Lovecraft novel. Somehow there was space and time that never existed. I am slave to the pits of sorrow and never ending tragedy that haunts me every day. For days on end, I swim through the day with sadness leaking from my soul. What can you say? How do I cope.

 And counseling? Only so much can be done with the very little time I can afford and the shrinkers are easy to treat depending on the line of questioning. I don’t want to be fit into a little box where blue little pills can be shoved down my throat and I would be deemed “cured” by the doctor’s or counselors or whoever else wants to tramping through my skull. Either way my darkness and pain are my own to deal with. They are my burden and no one else’s that why the letters are so important. Maybe a sentence or two will work but either way I want them to know how much I love them and how much this world will never be one I can ever be a part of.

I tried my best to write these letters. Letters spread out across my desktop and sort through them. All of them half finished. All of them different and it seemed so distant. I’ve told myself that the day I stopped crying for the people I left behind would be the day I pulled the trigger. I was depressed, not in the right frame of mind and whether I like or not people care about me. Just because I could see it or feel it didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

I rubbed my eyes to refocus on the letters ignoring the ever growing “missed calls” vibrating from my cell. Nothing seemed to help. I was so tired. It was an endless state of fatigue.  I wanted to reach out to my boyfriend and get emotional support from him. I wanted more than anything to curl up on his lap and have him tell me, “how everything was going to be ok.” Would he be strong enough to just hold my hand?  Or would be staring at a different type of letter?  My fingers twitched as they wandered aimlessly searching for my pack of cigarettes.

I think the worst part of this was the desire to not hurt anyone. If I could find a way to just give up and not have anyone care; would I die freely? I saved the letters and looked outside of my third story apartment. Lights twinkled through the newly blossomed trees of spring. Maybe it was time to take time and change some things. My fingers stopped searching and went back to the key board. It was time to put this down for a while and try to focus something else. Anything else but the beautiful silence of oblivion.

Meeting Wonda

I’m a penniless starving artist. I seem to have a lack of physical objects and a tiny but very cozy apartment. I have denied a sense of wide-eyed innocence and clung to the bland ideals of a jaded age. With handful of exceptions. I dream. Or at least I have dreams like anybody else. I wanted the American dream. I have a dream to publish my novels, to take care of my loved ones and along the way help organizations. You know awareness issues. I wanted to help survivors of domestic abuse, victims of hate crimes and equal rights. I had seen battered woman needing help, drug abusers manipulating people and elderly people being abused by family. I wanted to believe in a better tomorrow and always held the belief that a better tomorrow always started with me. If I wanted to attain my dreams, help people- it could start with me living a good path and making the right decisions.

The only thing I seemed good at was selling things. I prided myself on selling quality products. I figured even though my life wasn’t where I saw myself I could at least bring some form of happiness and satisfaction to others. Karma, eventually it would pay off somewhere. Keep a good cycle. Live a good life, surround yourself with good people and you can live a good life.

What did I have to lose? Sure as hell wasn’t money or a relationship.

I was waiting for the right opportunity. The right person to work with and every day, I meditated, I prayed. Every day my desire grew to make life better. I’d meet Wonda while working as a cashier at a grocery store. I remember the first time I ever noticed her. I was sitting down for a break making a mild attempt at forcing time backward but failing. She walked with a heavy stomp with a noticeable hunch. A translucent white blouse gripped her body with desperation. A black lace bra stood out like magic marker. She slammed down her designer purse in a cart and began digging furiously into the large bright blue purse.

People walked by her, averting their eyes as if she could smell their fear.

She began a march through the store. The store oozed with the brash loudness of her personality. I poked at my half eaten burger watching her in curiosity. Working in customer service, you get a lot of strange types in every shape and color. Yet somehow, this stood out. What was it? Was it the outfit or was it the crooked stomping?

As for her torso ensemble, I figured that she didn’t know any better. On one hand I had figured she doesn’t know and on the other, I thought it was done on purpose. Who was I to judge? At least she wasn’t naked. I finished my break and drudged back to my department.

My specialty in this store was simple. I sell booze. Any and all types. I studied sale strategies, read up on content and did my best to deliver the best quality product I could. A good glass of wine can make or break a situation. I was good at my job; in fact I was awesome at my job. As I was maintaining the store, she had lumbered into my department. I kept my gaze locked on to her face. Don’t look at her bra, just keep your eyes straight ahead, I thought to myself. She asked my opinion on good wines for people who like sweet and only sweet.

                For the time being I pushed it of my head and continuing to work a job I hated but as least I was attending school and if I got the right job I would be on the right track. I just had to look for the right opportunity. Wonda started coming in more often. Not for booze but for her prescriptions. She would glance halfheartedly at the wine. Tapping her long talons of her finger nails against the shopping cart. I she came in to get some advice on wine. For her daughter, she claimed.

                Her eyes never left mine as we talked she appeared to be interested in the information more than the product itself. But even more I kept on with my sales Schick. Don't be fazed, I thought to myself.  It was always the small adage I lived by.  When you're looking down the barrel leading an unsuccessful life and living in Brokesville, you live by a handful of things. In my case, I lived by my word. I could work honestly and lead a good life if I would live by a few simple things. My ambiguous religious code was set in one statement, “don't be a dick, be a dude.” To me you didn’t need to worship a deity to live a good wholesome life. It didn't hurt mind you but use a sense of good judgment and there will be no gray areas. 

                I didn’t like the idea of shoving religion down my throat, why the hell would I do that to anyone else? I had a bullshit alarm that is set off when anyone says certain words. One of my favorite sentences is, “I am a Christian _____. I would never do _____” Whenever anyone defines themselves as a certain definitive thing, chances are they are not that thing and are using it as a defense to whatever wrong doings they are doing. I had heard it over a hundred times and each time I was right. Each time that statement was given, it would take a little bit of digging before I found out whatever truth they were trying to hide.

                “You know?” Wonda had dramatically underlined in her voice once more. I nodded my head in agreement. What were we talking about again? Her heavily lined eyes widened at the lack of my response.

                “It will get better,” I said with a warm smile. Her eyes seemed to demand more of my attention than I was willing to give. Her eyeliner seemed to have escaped its designated zones and a loose blackened streak settled itself on her cheek.

                “I’m going to be flying to Kanas city tomorrow and see my father.” That’s right her father. I had trouble remember the story of every person who came in. I remembered them but usually had to be reminded.  “He is going in again for treatment.”

                “He is doing the right thing and I am sure with time, he will be healed.” What the heck was he diagnosed for? Crap.

                “But its prostate cancer!” She insisted further. “They are hundreds of people who die each year from it.” She brushed her hands through her hair lightly. I was surprised that her numerous amounts of bracelets hadn’t gotten caught in her heavily sprayed hair.

                “There are also hundreds of survivors as well,” I pointed out. That much I knew, the director of this store had recently overcome a battle with cancer.  “Granted,” I paused. “It’s not an ideal situation but cancer research has come a long way even over the last five years.” She scoffed childishly. “It’s true; there are several forms of chemotherapy that are very effective.” She finally turned her attention to the wine. I noticed the bizarre absurdity of her mouth.

                Her mouth mimicked that of the cartooned parody that was the hateful “Jews” propaganda from that the Nazis used to hold a nation hostage. I noticed a little bit of drool escape her mouth. “I’m not interested in this wine,” she said staring at our Moscato selection.  A half hour had slipped away, I thought as my eyes jolted to the clock. Typically, I had already sealed the deal by now and most customers would be happily on their way. “I want something sweeter.” Sweeter than Moscato? I searched my mind for a second.

                “Moscato is typically the sweetest wine on the market the only one that I can recommend is ice wine but that will run you way above a decent price range.”

                “I don’t really care about price,” she said with a flamboyant shake of her head.

                “A bottle of ice wine will run you about seventy five dollars plus and it will only be approximately three hundred and seventy five milliliters. We won’t be able to give you one that I can guarantee a 100% quality guarantee.”

                “Quality guarantee?” raising an eyebrow at me, she leaned against her shopping cart.

                “It’s something I personally have tried, bought and intend to buy again. I don’t sell things that ,I, myself would not enjoy myself.” She nodded her head contemplating what I was saying.

                “Well, I don’t want to have anything that tastes like wine. You know?” I could hear the echo of horn trumpeting “wah-wah.” I looked it her concealing my confused look. Then why shop for wine at all? But then again, I got a lot of this type of clientele in. I liked to call them ‘Wine Virgins’ and I usually got them started on the ideal ‘starter wine,’Moscato. What do you do when they shoot down your first choice? “You know?” she repeated.

                “What did you have in mind? What type of drink do you want?” I shoved the feeling to start rubbing my head down and tried to focus on the situation.

                “I want wine.” She said as if this was something she said to me a hundred times. “I want a sweet wine.” I had to kick up my game. There were sweeter wines but they were more like syrup than wine but since I was running out of options. I went to the dessert wine section that housed some of the syrup and various malted wine beverages. Mad dog 20/20, Arbor mist, Boone’s Farm and other so called wines. That had low prices combined with high alcohol with high sugar.  Poor man’s hooch, pinched nose guzzle and the dreaded of all alcohols. A true wino would consider drinking toilet water before that stuff.

                “There are several options here,” I said looking at Marsalis. Good product, good price and you could cook with it. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her eyes lit up. Rock on!

                “What’s this?”  She said with a curious look in her eyes.  Yes! I finally nailed it! I wanted to give myself a much warranted pat on the back.

                “This is Marsalis,” remarking smoothly. I got this! I nearly cheered with joy. I might make someone happy in the process. I reached out and grabbed the bottle off the shelf. I held it out on display triumphantly.

                “No, not that, this.” She pointed to the middle of the shelves.

  Oh god no. “This looks yummy!”

 It was only my most dreaded of varietals but the one I tried to avoid at all costs.

 “And it says its strawberry flavored!” She had to be kidding. There was no way she was going to get- “Arbor Mist white zinfandel.” I hide my shudder. “I’m going to get this one. It looks good.”

 I don’t think she cared about my guarantee. With a whopping $3.33, She plopped the wine in the grocery cart with barly a thought toward me. Wonda started hobbling toward the store exit; I decided to walk with her to the door. “I’m really worried about my father.”

                “It’s good that you are going to see him soon,” we stopped at the door attached to the rest of the grocery store. “I think it will do a world of good for both you and him.”

                “I know, right?” I smiled and bided her a good day. She hobbled to other parts of the store for lord knows what.  Glancing at the clock I noted that not only more than an hour had melted away but I was behind in my work. Before long a cashier brought over the strawberry Arbor mist. What was the point? I tilted the bottle in my hands and reflected. After all that what was the point?

Foreword

Foreword:

I guess this story would start like any other story. A story with a normal person who gets caught up in abnormal situations. But I'm going to level with you. I'm not normal and there is a good chance that I never will be. It's a fact of life. I try and try and try to be normal and 9-5 it but the fact of the matter is; I am who I am and that is the end of it. This anthology of stories regarding the strange tale of Wonda. No one could ever explain or be able to make sense of a person by the likes of her. I had the chance to stare down the last of my inner darkness and face the truth.

I could click my heels too and see what happens to get the same result I am getting from this judicial system.  It was about more than money. It was the moments we would never get back. The excess cash and plans she had made but completely lied about. What are hopes and dreams but a chance to look life in the face and say. "I got this. I can do this “There is always a way.” Nothing is more cruel than giving people hope and then taking it away. In a world where every cent counts and people’s dreams have power, it seems a great state of distaste to use ones ideals against them.

That being said, I'm not sorry. This project will be offensive but it's true. There is a time where a recorder was present and other times I drawing from notes I have written and memories (lots of them). What has happened thus far has been bizarre and unsettling but true. Or as true as truth gets in the case of "Wanda."

Names have been changed to not only protect those involved but in the hopes that "Wanda" will someday be caught and brought to judgment where jail time could be a reality. If I have the chance I will bring her to justice with the trail of people she maimed. There is a chance that someday she will be made example of and banned from society. Until that time, her identity( along with the identities of those involved) are changed. Sorry folks but thems the breaks.