Tuesday, July 6, 2010


Joseph's mom was a drug addicted alcoholic. She did not want her children. As a result, Joseph was taken away from her but not before he had to endure abuse and neglect typical of what the helpless must face when the broken are charged with their care and safety. Joseph lived in more than 12 foster homes before he was old enough to be discharged into a world where the people who volunteered to protect him from the abuse he was supposed to have been taken away from, perpetuated the cycle and abused him some more. Joseph's aspiration as a child was to become as U.S. Marine. So that he could legally kill as many people as he wanted to.

Sunday, July 4, 2010

El Gibbor

The SoL lady doesn't have anything to do with people. Once I go into my house, I don't open the door for anyone, for any reason. As out going as I am (and I'm very out going. I once told a woman in a bus station w/pig tails that she looked just like Willie Nelson with a big oh smile on my face. For what it's worth I was 4. I still do it though, just in a much more adult way). It's very difficult for me to allow others into my telephone booth. I know it doesn't make sense. Stop arguing with me in your head and keep reading. And so I was invited to go camping. With strangers!

Thursday, July 1, 2010

Not Even Close to Being Done

Don't mind me. Camping, breaking up fights, training animals not to eat my panties, feeding children way too much pizza, and working on this, still.

Monday, June 28, 2010

Oops. :(

I'm back. Due to desperate times, involving children who consume groceries at alarming rates, severely lacerate themselves in bath tubs, and otherwise suck the very life right out of my quickly aging body, I haven't had time for this. Ignore the ugly pink crap & the lack of formatting, appropriate lay out and all the other stuff that used to be here. I'll fix it as soon as I can remove my focus from the fear of the next face mutilating bike accident that's probably happening as I type this. Thanks for understanding, and,


Monday, April 19, 2010

♥More Sadness♥

Out of deference to the "I'm really sad but don't really have a right to be" theme, I'm going to share with you what helped me tremendously last night.

fonts from copyright their respective creators/owners (, artwork created by SanctityofLife

Sunday, April 18, 2010

♥My Favorite Color is Clear♥

Hi there. Someone once said that in order to make it past pain, focus on others. I always say, beauty comes from ashes. So I'm going to focus on others. I don't feel that my problems are the business of the rest of the world. Unless you're going to gain something from it, there is no place for my burden on your shoulders. But I will try. Today, I'm going to be transparent. I'll use the bad things in a good way and pray that you grab on to them and see what's good and right and that way, those bad things won't have been for nothing.

Something hurt me. Something hurts all of us, every day. My pain is no more unique or special or worse than yours is. But I'm too weak to handle it. After 30 years I've finally said:

"It's my turn. It's about me now. Not you. I'm giving to me and not you and I've had enough and no one will ever hurt me again and blah blah blahBLAHblahannoyingselfrighteousselfishnonsense."

So, I went to the hair doer lady. And I told her to put as many colors as she could fit onto my head and give me a mullet. She did. I look like what would happen if this guy:

And this guy:

And this chick:

had a baby.

Next, I got something that looks like what a drunken sailor after church would have, tattooed all over my back.

But not really.

My pain is bigger than me. It's finally come to a head. I've been mopping the hell out of my floors and vacuuming up specks of dirt I made up in my head that aren't really there and doing 948375 thirty-nine loads of laundry a day. Because I want to be perfect. If I can't be that, I have to face what hurts, and then I have to face that I'm not perfect, then I have to face that I look like what happens when Puerto Rican clowns attack and that I spent way too much on that and then I'd probably crumble to the floor and dissipate into whatever hateful, hurting almost middle-aged women dissipate into when they just can't handle any more.

I woke up this morning and my back was sore because I decided to have this huge statement thing carved into me. I'm going to look like an idiot when I'm 80. And it didn't change anything. I have a brand new car and I can do whatever I want whenever I want to do it but I can't bring myself to leave my garage unless I absolutely have to because the past eats me from the inside out and regret and the hurt that was never healed scream at me and I can't make them shut up.

I made up a game when my life was not so good. I would sit and say to myself,

"Hey! Live or die. Make a choice. Right now. If you're going to live, get up and live. Move your feet and your hands and the rest of you and do it. If you're going to die, get it over with. Kill yourself. Don't lay there and exist. That doesn't work. Even animals go after food until they can't anymore."

Then, I would think of what I had to be thankful for. Of all of the reasons why life was beautiful. I would say to myself:

I can breathe.
My arms work.
I have teeth.
I'm not cross eyed.
I'm really good at playing solitaire.
I don't have to eat bologna if I don't want to because bologna is gross and isn't even real food.....

So that's what I'm doing. When it hurts too much, when it's too big and you can't hold on. When the pain is so huge that you cannot breath and you're sick and damned tired of it. Just pick up your foot and walk. Move forward. Be thankful for toes and eyebrows and buttons on your shirt so your lady business stays dignified and steering wheels in the car because if your car didn't have a steering wheel that would suck. Just move in increments so small that maybe nobody else can see it. But do that. Don't be like me. Don't spend money on terrible hair and ugly tattoos and purses that don't really do a damn thing at all. Instead, decide to keep moving. Even if you have to crawl. If you need help with that, I'm always here.


fonts from copyright their respective creators/owners (, artwork created by SanctityofLife

Wednesday, February 3, 2010


Hi there. Long time no bloggy talking. I've been working, raising babies, exploding cakes in my auntie's kitchen. The usual. I haven't forgotten this place at all, but it's not until I'm compelled by something bigger than myself to share a message that, in the very smallness of my finite being I would be incapable of sharing without inspiration from the heart of the living God, that I say things here, for you to read. Do what you want with that.

Moving on, I just wanted to tell all of you about my job! I work with ugly old people. The way they smell is yuck. The other day one of the dear hearts told me that my hair is ugly and that I really should learn how to fix it. They spit on me. I dumped a bed pan full of bed pan water all over my back thereby saturating myself with the smell of the urine of a 97 year old woman the other day. Do not want, ever again.

So I've been storing up all sorts of interesting things that occur on a regular basis at my place of employment to share with you. I can't REALLY share them based upon privacy laws, so I won't use names or any other identifying information lest I should incur the wrath of the federal government. But I will tell you about the joy that yucky people we've thrown away have the power to use to change the whole world.

We run after graduate degrees. There are all sorts of jobs that we aren't allowed to do without a piece of paper that says we is smart. So we go get those pieces of paper and then beat other people over their heads with them to prove that we know the most. We're superior because we spent 03840835083486 dollars to be that. We know how to fill out pieces of paper the right way. We put our initials in the correct boxes, and use words in the way that they best make us look like we know what we're doing, and we're successful because of that. Nurses learn sterile technique at school and employ that with the utmost precision. And then win awards for that kind of ability. We save money, refine the bottom line, have impeccable credit scores, buy purses like this:

(That's a $200.00 purse.)
Eat things that cost way too much money because we can afford it. That's what makes us influential. We mail money halfway across the planet and tear families apart by way of adopting babies from S. America in the interest of "humanitarianism" instead of helping to put them back together. And that's what makes us important, and worthy.

But there is a woman I know that died unable to speak. The only way she could communicate was through a song. So we would sing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star to her. She was bent over and silent and food fell out of her mouth and her eyes were yucky because they were runny all the time. Before she got sick, she had many children. And was a prolific writer. And expressed joy at being alive, and spoke of life as a web to be woven with the choice to be happy. She didn't have the money to buy special coffee that costs way too much. Her clothes were donations.

There is another lady that picked cotton when she was young, and lived through the hell of an abusive relationship during a time when these things weren't spoken of. You just held on and never left. She's excited at the prospect of being awake and alive. She says, "I love you two times!" with every other breath. She's so happy to have her little red shoes on her feet, and her hugs are full of a strength that I don't have.

Ladies and gentleman, this is what's beautiful. These people fill me all the way up with a love that I am so humbled to be a party to.

And so I ask you to please, rethink beauty and success and the way you define "good".


fonts from copyright their respective creators/owners (, artwork created by SanctityofLife