I think we all know what Bono is referring to as “The Troubles.” Those Brits are Masters of Understatement.
Gen A Means Androgygny.
Gen B: Bra Misogyny.
Gen C for All Cat Ladies.
G GenDer: Fluidity.
Gen Weird: Camp “Nuditity”.
Gen K for the Key Parties.
Gen P Parties Heartily;
Gen T those darn Tea Parties!
Gen U’s for the Underdog.
Gen V is for Vampire Love.
Gen Z: Zest most Youthfully.
EXPANDED GENERATIONAL ALPHABET‼️
Gen A Means Androgygny.
Gen B: Bra Misogyny.
Gen C for All Cat Ladies.
Wouldn’t wanna hit the the sack
With Gen’s D’s Double-Whammed Attack.
F GenDer: Fluidity.
Camp Weird: Gen “Nuditity”.
Gen K’s for the Key Parties.
Millennials have Lost their Keys
And Gen Me’s still a Mystery.
Gen P Parties Heartily;
Gen T dumped those Tea Parties!
Gen U’s for the Underdog.
Gen V is for Virtual Love
As well as Vulnerability.
Gen-X Longs for “Much More Sex.”
Gen Z’s Name is often “ZANE;”
Lives filled up with Zestful Days.
What Letter do you then select,
Grasp at straws then hunt and peck,
When New Gens Hit with fresh Impact?
After watching a true crime video (YouTube know where) about Murder-For-Hire as an Industry, I have some newly-acquired information to share.
The main Victims are The Spouse and The Top Motives are:
1) Life Insurance Policy and
2) He doesn’t want to be with Her anymore [for whatever reason].
I used to actually think about Getting Married Again, even up until a maybe a year ago. Don’t tell anybody because I don’t anymore.
However, if someone SWEPT ME OFF MY FEET, I would insist on the getting the following Pre-Nuptial Agreement SIGNED & NOTARIZED FIRST:
1. NEVER take out a life insurance policy on Me. EVER. I have contracted with the following Reporting Agency which will alert me if a life insurance policy is ever taken out in my name, and
2. Have the guts to tell me you want to kill me rather than actually kill me. Please. I will promise the same in return.
Do keep in mind, Murder-for-Hire levels the playing field and there are some angry females out here. TRUST me.
Most of us, according to the video, don’t act on it. The ones who get “stung” trying to order a hit from an undercover cop are positively CHILLING.
The main reason Murdering Someone isn’t an option for me? There was a term We used to get pretty riled up about Last Millennium called “Mutually Assured Destruction.” I think it describes what happens to both the Murder Victim, the MurderER, and Both Parties’ respective “Loved Ones” (even though I don’t currently have any right now).
I’d ask you if you’ve heard of MAD, but I’m pretty sure the term was disarmed from our Collective Lexicon 20-30 years ago.
I don’t care; don’t give a shit
I’ve begged and prayed for years to get
A decent offer of a job.
12 years I’ve spent jerking off
Receivers of my Resume,
My words designed to woo and sway.
It never did an ounce of good
As I must now get stamps for food.
But even if I don’t,
It doesn’t change a single thing:
I’m well aware that Industry
Gives not the slightest whit ‘bout Me.
“We Seek Individuality,
And Pride on our Diversity,”
Claim they with much Dishonesty,
While lying through their front eye teeth.
This LinkedIn Game is killing me.
The things people expect to see!
Your status and Job History
Must be updated and complete,
All jobs held uber-recently.
Should you possess a Vacancy
Or took time off for Other Things,
It’ll bite you in the ass.
Just wait and see.
Given the rise in popularity of the “True Crime” genre of entertainment, I decided to improve the Clue board game.
It didn’t seem – to ME, at least – that the theoretical mansion was particularly large or the theoretical murderers particularly adept. I decided to improve your play by adding new rooms (“crime scenes”) and killing objects (“murder weapons”). My generosity isn’t endless, however, so you’re still stuck with Miss Scarlet and Colonel Mustard.
Java [the] Hut
Xylophone Jam Room
Icepick / Innuendo
Kill Kit / Kindness
Mixed Martial Arts
Vibrator, X-tra Large
P.S. You’re welcome!!
I. Of the two sisters, Mary is the YOUNGEST and Anna, the OLDEST.
Of the two sisters, Mary is the YOUNGER and Anna, the ELDER [OLDER].
II. I want to work for someone THAT challenges me.
I want to work for someone WHO challenges me.
III. We’re hiring a new person so everyone has LESS cases.
We’re hiring a new person so everyone has FEWER cases.
IV. She finished it in LIKE, LITERALLY, three hours.
She finished it in three hours.
Conspire in hushed voices
Make impactful choices
Ooze with honeyed words
No matter who they hurt
Consort in lust and luxury
Extort and commit usury
Flood with blue-hot threats of fire
Those who question; dare inquire
Currency possessed in spades
Yet the Piper’s never paid
From the comfort of their thrones
Gladly saw through skin and bone
Keep tight grips on all they own;
Treasures we will never know
I may never be a force,
a great talent,
“somewhat” of a talent,
or even a flash in the pan.
But at least I’m a spark.
[And we all have to start somewhere]
(Thanks to @wflwong for the photo)
My burning “like” [it was never love] for you has frozen over; misery my only companion in the awfulness that Life by Your Side has become.
How and why did we make this colossal mistake?
I don’t think I’ll ever know, and I’m not sure that I want to.
I ONLY know I’m ready to trade:
Your “love” and “partnership” for aloneness.
Certainty for uncertainty.
Shouting for silence.
Constant conflict for calm.
Walking on eggshells for mental relaxation.
Being a disappointment for being enough.
The prison this marriage has always been for the freedom a divorce might provide.
Yes, I will fail after you.
I will fall and fail until I die.
Should I be blessed to have another 20 years,
I won’t be wasting them on you.
I get mad when people mistake self-deprecating humor and vulnerability for weakness instead strength.
What kind of insecurity places a bullseye on itself? Projection is the preferred ego defense of the “unexamined mind.”
When I make fun of myself or “tell on myself” (as some say in the South), I’m usually doing it to put my companion[s] at ease. It comes out of a desire to magnify the other; to make them feel confident about themselves. I’m an empath, and I pick up on a lot of what others are saying and showing, even if I don’t directly mention it.
Instead, I try to take what stressors I perceive they’re feeling and try to make them “un feel” them by communicating my understanding of their suffering.
I confess that I used to have to be the smartest person in the room. I wouldn’t stop until everybody knew it (or, one time at a business conference in Switzerland, until one fellow British VP thought I was a complete asshole!).
This behavior is from my striving, highly “successful” period – when my “bride price” was probably much higher than it is now.
I think I’ve finally learned, grown, and realized I prefer underpromising and overdelivering to showing off.
Sadly, despite all the work (mental, interpersonal, emotional) I had to do to get to this, my wisest and strongest place in life, I sense I’m perceived as the Chauncey Gardner/Peter Sellers character in Being There. Without the incorrect recognition of “his genius.”
So my question is this:
Am I full of bullshit, still desperately needing to be the smartest person in the room by complaining I feel misunderstood since no one realizes I’m the smartest person in the room anymore (even though I know I still clearly am)?
Why does my heart bleed for teenagers when I never had any of my own? I try to give them (probably misguided) advice – see my reply to a young girl’s comment. I know: wisdom from the woman known as Karaoke Konnection on YouTube. It’s laughable.
Then, please tell me if it’s misguided. Because I really need to know. It’s profoundly, remarkably, achingly important to me that my words never damage these young people. I want them to excel and to thrive and to keep Humanity alive!
More than anything…
I’m 54, and I feel like you’re telling my story. I know it feels like your father has betrayed all of you (because he did) and everything that once seemed so certain now seems terribly uncertain. And you don’t even get to be mad because you’re being such a little adult, keeping up your end of the deal, while the adults are abandoning their roles as if they never existed in the first place. I’m so sorry that the pressure has fallen on you during this time. My only advice for all of you teenagers who are hurting now is:
Please never bury the real and unique you that burns inside. You know your dreams and your passions and your heart in a way no other person does. Your circumstances will change frequently throughout your life, but your essence, your personhood, won’t. Please don’t EVER bury yourselves so much in your efforts to make others happy that you extinguish the beautiful flame that burns in each one of you❣️
P.S. Tell your parents a lady older than them said so‼️
Apparently I’m as “out of touch” as ever!
My friend Robi told me I had been using the term “Millennial” incorrectly all this time.
I thought it meant “people born after the Millenium,” aka: anyone 21 and under.
Though Robi couldn’t tell me what a Millennial actually is (”older” was his one-word explanation), could you save me the effort of having to go back and swap out “Millenials” for “teenagers” and just retrofit all of my comments about them in your brains?
And could someone do me a solid and let me know what people born after 2000 are called?
I make a big enough ass out of myself without “Semantics issues” increasing my public humiliation.
Thank you in advance❣️
[Thank you Sigmund for the use of your photograph].❤️
“I frigging love this❣️ I don’t know why we insist on only using “lovely” and “lavish” language in poetry. Poetry should reflect life, an observation you and only you are equipped to make. So if I didn’t already say it: I love it!”
This was the comment I made on the poem Your Design by Kait King. I’m linking it, not because I have any exposure to offer Kait [she’s a professional, and I’m not], but because I obviously like what she wrote. I can guarantee you that if you like anything I’ve written, you’ll feel the taut determination of justice in this piece. It’s also important for you to read it for us to move forward. So please, 30 seconds:
Okay, you’ve read it. I want to link a poem I wrote about a murdered child after binge-watching true crime videos on YouTube. Please do me the honor of reading it. I believe it honors predated children by shining a light on their predators. And again, it’s necessary to proceed with this.
I know: it’s not a light read. I didn’t know it at the time, but I’m starting to realize that my more imaginative writings have a way of amplifying my inner voice. I don’t know if that requires elaboration (which is a bad sign at this point), but I’ll try:
The week I wrote that poem, my first-ever (of 2) based on lyrical patterns in songs I particularly like, I was thinking a lot about the time I was “sexually molested” (I don’t even know the term for it anymore) as a 6-year-old in a K-Mart in Atlanta, Georgia.
Those were different times and I don’t blame my mom that this happened. She didn’t even know about it until I told her years later. It was during the summer, and every time we went to the store, my mom had to “struggle” all five of us “summer siblings” into an impossibly-small car. Seriously, there were no Tahoes in the ‘70s! I don’t even know how we got to the store in the first place, I just…don’t. I only know that as soon as the car officially came to a stop, children and adults had dispersed and were on their ways to their own favorite dark corners of the store.
Of course, I was the child who made a bee-line for the Toy Section…because that’s where the Barbies were. And I adored Barbie, Skipper, PJ, Ken, and their “Malibu” cousins. All I wanted whenever I had a birthday was a Barbie. And if I didn’t have enough birthday money saved, I’d buy barbies clothes instead. I had a large vinyl box that held all of my barbies and all of their clothes and accessories. I had a mental inventory of every single item in that box.
So I didn’t see the old man near the toy section until I was next to him, separated by an aisle that was about 3 feet high (I’m not very good with height and depth perception). I just remember looking (up?) to see an old (because he’s bald, like my Grandaddy), nice (because again, he looks like my Grandaddy, and Grandaddy loves me) Man standing there.
Who looked DOWN at me and said “Come Here, Little Girl.”
He must need my help, because Grandaddy only ever tells me to do something in that mean kind of way if it’s an emergency. So he must need my help. And you’re not supposed to not mind your parents or grandparents, especially when you and your mommy and sister used to live with your grandparents. Since your Daddy didn’t live with you anymore.
Now you only know that your new Daddy Mike says it’s very important to mind grownups, and you’re a good girl. Maybe your older sister Stephanie isn’t, but you are.
So you go to help, and the nice old man tells you he has an emergency (good thing you listened!). He describes his emergency as this:
“I have a “pin” stuck in my [this is one thing I don’t remember: the term he used for it] __________,” but it really didn’t matter because he was busy demonstrating with what he was holding in his hand.
He said he needed me to help get the pin out.
I remember I sucked in my breath very quickly, because immediately I knew I was seeing something that I shouldn’t see.
And there wasn’t a “pin” in it, either.
That man, positioned right in front of the toy section, proceeded to shake his grown man’s penis in front of my little girl’s face. Why? Because he got a thrill from trying to crush the Innocence out of a
Well, guess what, Cocksucker (because I’m sure if you’re not dead, you’re professionally sucking cock in prison right now):
You’re a sick pedo fuck and you and the rest of your kind with your disgusting shriveled cocks can rot in your own level of hell for ten eternities, alone and with no one to keep you company but each other.
P.S. You didn’t succeed. I refused to let you steal my Innocence.
P.P.S. I know you sick pervs get off on reading shit like this, but as does Kait’s character in Your Design, I want to expose you for the cowardly, crude, contaminated criminal you are.
Is there room in my life for you?
Is there room in your life for me?
You know I don't come to you pristine, newly minted, or shiny and new.
I have felt hurt and caused hurt,
I have been broken by the random and the cruel - and by my own choices.
My body has been ravaged, charting atrocities visited on it by plague and progress.
Yet you love it - even desire it - all the same.
You don't love what I once was; you love me now, scars and all.
Of this much I am certain: where our lives intersect
There's a special space; a pocket of air, a sea of calm, a place of rest
That quickens the war-torn and restores its vigor.
You've fixed your circle on me:
Rounding out my sharp angles and smoothing the rough edges,
Like a balm against chafing.
Like sand against glass.
All without any intention of "fixing" me.
In answer to this gift, I will fight my baser self to love you back, with honor and devotion. I know myself; know this will surely be a struggle.
But I am committed to it.
And in the giving and receiving, I will be transformed into the beauty visible to your heart's eye.
Thank you. Bless you. I love you.
My Introductory Post on Instagram:
MY INTENTIONS HERE
I tend to censor myself on Facebook because, in my head, I’m certain “Everyone” thinks I’m having a nervous breakdown when I attempt to express myself creatively. Maybe it’s because my mother and I share 107 Facebook friends? Or because Family Members and many Friends Since 8th Grade are there?
It doesn’t really matter since the problem is my own.
To tackle it, about 3 months ago, I started expressing myself emotionally on a [Wordpress] blog and physically, through Karaoke, on my [YouTube] channel…of 20 wonderful followers❣️
Both have been anonymous enough for me to feel free to put words to (writing)- and then exorcise (publishing)- the vicious lies and hateful slurs I didn’t even realize I was telling myself. Since forever.
I’m incredibly grateful to these social media platforms for helping me to rediscover my voice. By providing me with therapeutic outlets for energy and conversations too long suppressed, they’ve served as my freedom fighters, rescuers, and liberators.
So please, Friends, here on Instagram (where I’m a total newbie): if you know me personally, know my family, or have known me a long time, don’t judge me by the words I write. Sharing openly and honestly is a life-preserving activity for me. If I don’t do it, my body makes cancer. And I really don’t want to die! For the first time in a long time, I want to stick around. I’m having so much fun, and I feel like I have cried enough. I’m getting really tired of these tears, my Friends❣️
Please extend me the benefit of the doubt and don’t make any assumptions from my words. Some of my angriest ones could be directed at a disease or a traumatic experience.
I want and need to be my most authentic self for what’s left of This Journey. Having gotten a taste of it, I want to actually BE Jennifer instead of play her on TV. I just can’t play the “role you never knew I was playing” anymore❣️
#socialmedia #selfexpression #honesty #transparency #authentic #authenticity #facebook #conversation #creativewriting #writerscommunity #writersofinstagram #womensupportingwomen #women #mentalhealth #breastcancer #traumahealing #vulnerability
Everybody knows Successful “Social Medians” must have an Instagram account! So this is MY story of MY 2021: