Giant F-Bomb Alert – Seriously

I’ve never had a warning at the start of a blog to actually ward people off, but tonight’s post needs a big, fat “L” for language. So, please, if you are one of my young relatives who’ve never heard me curse or a co-worker who would look at me differently tomorrow – please stop reading now.

And know that I believe there is no such thing as a “bad” word – after all, Shakes told us a long time ago that “there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.” I’d like to add that there are some words that most perfectly express how one is feeling by intonation and intent, no matter who deems them “offensive.”

Before you go – in tribute to a great blogger and her friend, check out Clusterfook and SecondHand Tryptophan. And not just today’s posts, but all of them to learn about these folks. There are some amazing humans out there if you surf long enough.

Now, seriously – if you are one who will be offended for whatever reason by reading my use of the infamous F-Bomb – then please surf along and I’ll be sure to post another happy-go-lucky, f-bomb-free entry soon enough.

Are they gone? Did they click away as they were told to? Are those left ones who understand that sometimes there is only one glorious word that can adequately express a feeling – whether it be joy or torment? Well, good because I would just like to say:


And un-fucking-fortunately, this fucking use of the perfect fucking word is not being uttered in any realm of fucking joy.

It is not even being fucking used about my own fucking life.


I learned tonight that a fellow blogger who also happens to be one kick-ass human from all fucking blog-accounts that I can tell is about to die from her fucking cancer. I, like anyone else who reads her blog, have known she is dying of cancer, but we literally were told tonight that the end is fucking any day now.

I do not know this person. I have only recently even become acquainted with her blog, and yet, I’m fucking pissed that fucking cancer is about to fucking take her from the world we know so fucking early.

I fucking hate cancer. It has taken quite a few in my family alone.

Not sure why I feel the fucking need to rant on about this, but I am fucking saddened by this turn of events for this woman. She is a wife to a great dude, like me. She has kids, like me. She loves to write whatever the fuck she wants, like me. By reading all of the comments of random viewers and more importantly the ones by her Power of Blog, she has some great fucking friends, like me.

How fucking human of me. She is the one fucking dying, and I’m fucking whining about how it effects me. You know what’s even more fucking ironic? This woman who is dying would totally understand my fucking reaction and embrace it, not judge it. We need more fucking people like her, not less.

We all have the ability to take something as fucking scary as cancer and turn it around into what it would mean in our own lives. Being human, I am fucking pissed that she has to go and leave her family and friends and blog world without her future self. Being selfishly human, it fucking scares me into thinking about my own fucking mortality and that of those I love.

But for Lisa and her family right now, it is just not fucking fair.


So, please go – visit her site. Read about her life and death. Read all the comments posted out of love for this life that is about to be over. Then kiss the ones you love and tell them that you love them. Say it often. And not just because they may get cancer some day, but because you love them and everyone deserves to hear how much they are loved…

And, please forgive my little fucking rant.

Meant to be you and me questionaire

At what point does a reason stop being a reason and start being an excuse?

For example, I have hormones currently regulated by mother nature and let’s just say that the old broad ain’t so consistent in either timing or intensity.  This is the reason for my periodic and sometimes drastic mood swings – not because I am a loser or a bad person or an untimely bitch.  There is plausible proof of some internal body electrical misfires.

I may or may not have consciously known this over the course of my thirty years dealing with an “electrical” cycle.  However, since having my “junction box” removed last year while retaining my “generators”, the whole issue has been more in the forefront of my daily cognitive functions.  (Please note:  blogger apology for the crude metaphor – I didn’t want to scare off the men who may possibly be reading this with words like menstrual, uterus, or ovaries – ;o].)

Do I still have reason to let these power failures affect me now that I am more self-aware?  Or do I use them as an excuse for my behavior thereby circumventing the implementation of actual adjustments in my life – regular exercise, strict diet, and possible HRT resulting in a more than moderately different person?

Like I said, it’s been thirty years – surely I am supposed to have dealt with it by now, right?  What if it were a different ailment – one not so illusive with more apparent physical signs and reactions like cancer?  Would the deadly ramifications offset the attitude and thereby provide some leniency?  Or MS?  Are those complications severe enough to warrant a hall pass on likability?  Or leprosy? Could the skin lesions alone grant me access to Barbara Walters’ ten most fascinating people regardless of my sporadic inability to be kind?

What if the malady was even more slippery and less socially acceptable to discuss like MPD?  Could I continue to blame the evil Mary Kate for my tantrums and outbursts indefinitely?  What about alcoholism?  Which program step is it that forces me to stop attributing my behavior to the drinking or alcoholic tendencies?  How about a deeply painful and repressed sexual abuse from childhood?  How long could I continue to live my life in reaction to such an abuse before the universe tells me to get over it?

In other words, to morph some extremely tired cliches, when do I stop sitting around calling a spade a spade and pick up the damn shovel to move enough dirt to turn the freaking mountain into an oasis?

Would that depend on the inherent caliber of person I am or am perceived to be in the greater era of history?  Who and what decides that?  Would I let it affect the person I am meant to become?  Or would I become that person because of it?  Which came first – the saint or the miracle?

Would Agnes Gonxha Bojaxhiu have become Mother Teresa had she also had to battle cancer her whole life?  What if Gandhi were an alcoholic?  Would he have become the humble giant of peaceful leadership we still hold in highest esteem today?  Suppose the Buddha was a leper?  Would the isolation have hastened his reach to Nirvana or prevented it?  How about Jesus?  What if he’d been abused before a section of humanity realized he was their Son of God?  Wouldn’t he have still grown up to be the Messiah for the two billion Christians in the world today?

My hormonal swings are clearly dwarfed by these larger and possibly offensive comparisons I have attempted to develop but they are currently my albatross with which I have to decide how much longer I am to let choke me.

The list is long of people in history, religion and our everyday lives of those who have eclipsed these seemingly minor to literally earth shattering situations to become luminaries, spiritual centers and generally happy individuals.

Am I willing to join them?

Are you?