buttholes

I've known a few. First of all let's see what kind of descriptive definition of anus I can actually find...

"the opening at the lower end of the alimentary canal, through which the solid refuse of digestion is excreted." Thank you, dictionary.com.

I have to put first my least favorite kind of butthole - liars. Nothing makes me more angry than dishonesty. It's just so uncalled for. These people are at the very lowest end of the alimentary canal... I'm talking the last part the solid refuse sees before splashdown. The part that gets the lovely job of sitting nose to nose with the toilet water. The part that pretty much becomes a hemorrhoid in the event that they should occur.

Unfortunately I've dealt with these wrinkled sphincters before and I don't like it. Don't like it a bit.

There are all different kinds of liars - white liars, fish-story liars, easy-way-out liars, habitual liars, character liars, compulsive liars, and a handful of other kinds, but these are the ones on the tip of my brain.

White liars are viewed by the general consensus as "not so bad." They stretch the truth just enough to squeak by something they need to squeak by. The guy who tells his boss something is finished when it's really not, but will be by the time the boss actually sees it... the kid who tells her mom that her homework is finished when she really means she'll finish it under a blanket with a flashlight when she's supposed to be in bed... the woman who fudges her weight at the DMV... these are all white liars.

Guess what... it's still a lie.

Fish-story liars like to stretch the truth for the sake of the story. As in, "That fish I caught was a foot long!" and then in the next telling, "That fish I caught was a foot and a half long!" and then in the next telling, "That fish I caught was at least 3 feet long!" Fish-story lying is not just for your grandpa though. How about, "When I told Marge what June had said, she was livid!" when, in all actuality, June was just a little miffed and was totally over it by the time the conversation was over.

Guess what... still a lie.

Easy-way-out liars are fun to deal with. Kids a lot of time slip into this little mistake, but adults are just as capable. It's a lot easier to just blame somebody else rather than take the heat yourself, after all. Habitual and compulsive liars are downright entertaining at times, but still just as maddening.

I guess the type of liar that bothers me most, though, is the character liar. The person who claims to be one thing or a number of things and doesn't bother living up to the very standards they've placed for themselves by claiming whatever slot in society they have. They soon tear down their character and, many times, completely degrade whatever position they might have once hoped to hold.

depression

In a word: sucky.

After losing my opportunity at a night out to myself (or a night anywhere to myself), I came home, put away some laundry, cleaned up some dishes, fixed cereal for Scotty, fixed coffee for David, and finished up several other things just in time for Scotty to be hungry and need to nurse. While I was doing all those previous things - the things I do every day - I listened to the washing machine in the next room rock and rattle like it was going to come through the wall. It's off balance, so they say, and it used to bug the living daylights out of me, but tonight it was almost comforting. Maybe for the same reason that anytime I've been in the car by myself lately, I've cranked the radio up to an almost painful volume... or for the same reason I prefer to cry in the shower to anywhere else. Comfort in cover-ups. Chaotic noise camouflages the noise in my mind and tears aren't as obvious in the shower. It makes it all easier to deny.

Or maybe I like listening to the washing machine because I feel a common bond with it. After all, I'm a little off balance these days, too. It did what it was supposed to do, the same thing day in and day out, for a long time without the slightest problem, but then one day for no particular reason, it started screwing up. Most people who come into the house when it's running can tell something's wrong with it, but don't say anything out of politeness. A few people offer suggestions to fix the problem, telling me how simple it is to repair, but are at a loss when I tell them I've tried all their ideas. So it continues to run, continues to do what's expected of it, through the chaos and noise. Surely someone could take it apart and find the problem, but hey, as long as it's still doing what it's supposed to do, what difference does it make if something's a little off. It's still getting the job done, after all.

How do I always come back around to laundry?

I don't like being a washing machine. I certainly don't like being an off-balance washing machine, but for some reason I can't help it. I've learned the hard way many times over that things never turn out the way I expect they will, but I really, really wanted motherhood to turn out remotely like I expected. It feels so thankless and anonymous. I do so much and just feel used, used, used... like even my body and mind are at everybody's disposal but my own.

I love Scotty so much and don't begrudge the things he demands of me, but I'm so full of dark negativity and indifference toward everything else... things I love, people I love, activities I love. None of it seems worth the trouble anymore.

I've never been deep under water, but I would imagine that if you went deep enough you wouldn't be able to see the sun over the surface anymore. That's what I feel like... like incredible pressure of complete and suffocating darkness is on all sides and I'm struggling to find the light I know but can't even see anymore.

I'm tired of struggling.