Head Games: Peek-a-boo, I see you.

I'm a very detail oriented person who absolutely adores a good head game.

Head games are the one thing that trips my trigger hardest and I happen to be really fucking good at them. It's a rare occurrence that I don't get exactly what I want, with folks wearing a smile while giving it to me.

In fleshworld, I'm a big ol' bitch about my shit. Ain't no shame in my game. Ain't no hair on my tongue.

I wasn't always a good person, but experience has changed me. I perfected manipulation back in tha' day and it's the one thing I can't seem to change. Fuckmerunnin' it makes me hot. Having someone who beats me at my own game makes me putty. Silly Putty™. 

It isn't ever malicious anymore, but it is self-serving. I try my damnedest not to leave a path of destruction. I don't lie. I don't cheat. I don't steal. It took me a long time to realize that honesty, loyalty, charm and a little TLC can get me whatever I want.

I let people know exactly what they're getting into with me.

I'm fairly non-judgmental and by that I mean, if I care about you, I can accept damn near any flaw.

There's a hitch, though.

I got rules. Yeah, I know, friendships shouldn't have rules. Well, fuck that, I got me some rules anyway and I don't expect anything I'm not willing to reciprocate when you need me to.

I've spent too much of my life with no-good motherfuckers that I allowed into my life.

Now, I have a big ass sign that I tote, loud and proud, "No-good motherfuckers, exit, stage left."

Thing is, being good doesn't come naturally to me. I have to actively work at it. I mean, let's keep it real. I'm the bitch that fucked the bitch that my man was fucking just to teach him a lesson.

Which brings me back to manipulation. Head games.

I'm going to study you. I'm going to figure out what makes you tick and I'm going to give you what you need from me. I'm going to figure out what gives you flight and what makes you fall flat. Everything is a tool. You can't tell someone, "Hey, you're not being the best YOU (that you are with me) you can be," and hope they get it, unless you know exactly how to make it hit home. Maximum impact.

I'm smart enough to have realized that no one person can give you everything you need. You can't give me everything I need and I can't give you everything you need. I used to be one of those people that being around was like getting sucked into a vortex. Thank gawd I came to understand diversification.

I'll figure out what you're bringing to the table, what needs you'll fill. I'll figure out what you need, from me and I'll carve out my own little niche in your life and I'll commit to it.

I have far too much pride to ever let someone walk away from me thinking, "Man, I regret ever meeting her." A victory doesn't count if I can't walk away, head held high.

Unless, of course, you -like- hit someone I love and you're all out of pocket about it. Then, it's headbuttin' time. Just sayin'.

Yeah, I'm a prideful bitch.

It's because being a selfish cunt is so much easier. Not giving a fuck is so much easier. I know, from experience, and it's habit to reach for my most comfortable pair of shoes.

I have to work at doing the right thing. When I feel hurt or betrayed, my first instinct is to strike back viciously. I have to stop and think because doing the right thing might not feel good right now, but it sure is sweet on the lips later.

And if I can work at it, so can you.

You can be a grimy motherfucker to everyone else you know, but you won't be a grimy motherfucker to me.

My environment is tightly controlled. Tighter than frog pussy.

It runs smoothly and basically drama-free.

Everyone has their niche in my mix.

I don't expect too much, but what I do expect, I better fucking get. Not because I'm entitled to it for breathing, but because I know I'm that bitch that has your back.

Romantically, though, it becomes a big fucking problem, this fucking pride.

I'm good at being a good human being and I'm cocky enough to own that shit.

Yeah, this pride, pride I work at maintaining because fuck if I'm not my own worst judge, jury and executioner and just... fuck that. I choose to stay out of court. I avoid doing shit I'll feel guilty about like the black plague and it tends to give me a pretty fucking swollen head.

The people in my life are my orchestra, they each love their instrument and are more than happy to make music with me.

Til they're not.

And my pride rears its ugly head.

All that goodness I've consciously and methodically put out now becomes a possible weapon. One I try really hard not to use. Sometimes, unsuccessfully.

My whole M/s journey has been about finding the man who was interested enough, strong enough and smart enough to know exactly what code I want to live by and expect nothing less from me. Ever.

A man whose code mirrors mine enough that there is no hiding from him.

If he points out a flaw, it really is a flaw and it needs to be fixed.

I can't very well stay in alignment with him, if I'm not in alignment with me.

A man who won't let me slide on my self-proclaimed code, when it's easier to do just that, is a man that can run this fucking show. I mean, fuck, I'm not perfect, no matter how hard I try or how much I attempt to delude myself into thinking I am.

I get pretty puffed up once in a while and need knocking off my pedestal. Once the tears of indignation have stopped flowing and I've dutifully eaten humble pie, I'm actually grateful. Grateful I wasn't allowed to be the person I work so damn hard NOT to be.

And making me feel gratitude takes effort, a steady diet of effort, because I'm on my game. I know where my queen is and I have my king protected.

Give me what I need and everything I want? I'm running roughshod.

My orchestra.

Give me what I need and know when NOT to give me what I want? (yeah, timing IS everything) You're the guy holding the stick with a carrot tied to the end.

Your orchestra.

Head games.

And I'm dangerously charming.

See through them and you own my ass. Check me when I'm out of line and make me see it, you own my heart.

Yeah, I love me some fucking head games.

Peek-a-boo, I see you.

I exited the hermit cave and hob-knobbed with real people!

Yes, I did. I almost didn't, but I did.

I'm so proud of myself.

I haven't been out to a restaurant in at least six years. Hell, I've not been more than a mile from home in that long.

Tonight, I went for it.

I had a few chest-tightening moments, but the boyegg and his 'new dad' friend kept me jabbering and it wasn't so bad.

I dressed in something not "what-not-to-wear-esque".

My son and his 'new dad' came by and picked me up. He (my son) and I did some reconciling while sitting in rush hour Chicago traffic on my favorite road in the world, Lake Shore Drive.

I babbled about the sights like a well-schooled tour guide, pointing out the obvious as well as the little known, quirky stuff.

We went to my favorite restaurant, RJ Grunts.

Birthplace of the salad bar.

 

 

We had drinks made with top shelf liquor. (BTW, Maker's Mark makes for a fabulous whiskey sour.)

They gave us a booth in the back, where I could see the door. (It's the ONLY way I can handle sitting anywhere in public for any time without freaking out.)

I tasted my first martini.

I had my favorite French onion soup.

We took pics.

We laughed.

We played music trivia to the 70's tunes that were being piped over the speakers. (The Shazam app is the shit!)

The waiter brought me the most delicious, rich, ice cream sundae EVAR, with a candle and DID NOT SING!

I closed my eyes, made a wish, and blew out the candle.

Benny and the Jets came on and we all sang low. It was weird, too, because that is one of my girleggs' favorite songs. It was like she was there in spirit.

ma-ga-zayyyy-eeeeeeeeeeennnnnn-oooooooooooooooooooo

B-B-B-Benny and the Jets

He brought me flowers, a balloon, a card and chocolates.

Oh, and the cutie-patootie waiter said he thought my son was my brother.

It was perfect.

The day George Clinton and P-Funk met da 'hoodrat.

A bunch of us from an AOL chatroom all met up for Mardi Gras back in '98.

As the friends who hosted the week long bash were big into the New Orleans music scene, we had tickets and backstage passes to a few shows.

One of the shows was George Clinton and P-Funk.

So, there I was, backstage & bubbly and here comes George. Draped in what looked like a white sheet that was decorated with aliens, a la kindergarten finger painting class.

I had NO idea before going that aliens were his current theme and I was wearing a t-shirt with a glow-in-the-dark family of aliens holding a sign that said, "Will abduct for food."

George walks past, catches a glimpse of my t-shirt, backs up and says to me, "Sell me that t-shirt."

I said to George, "Are you going to give me another shirt to put on?"

George says, "No."

I said to George, "Then, you won't get the shirt."

George says, "Are you serious? You see the bitches I got?", as he thumbs back at the gaggle of beautiful, albeit barely clad, young women following behind him.

~~Yes, I know Mardi Gras is all about tits, just not MY tits. TYVM~~

I said to George, "Are you serious? You think your fame impresses me?" as I rolled my eyes with as much drama as I could muster.

One of his bassists witnessed the exchange and laughed, heartily.

George glared at me for several seconds before he stomped off, his groupies in tow.

The bassist approached me and gave me props for having the balls to tell George Clinton "no" so, he decided to stick it George a little harder.

He dragged me onto the stage and made me sit there for an entire 2 hour set. Me, in my glow-in-the-dark alien t-shirt, with my glow-in-the-dark-skin, sporting, honest to Pete, rose-colored sunglasses and stoned out of my gourd, on stage with George and P-Funk.

My friends were pretty pissed since I had possession of the only backstage pass.

Yeah, George was not a happy camper, either.

I, on the other hand, was as happy as a pig belly deep in slop.

Hoodrat: 1

George Clinton: 0

C is for Cookie...

Since I am on a fixed income, I have to do quite a bit of creative financing.

One if the ways I do this is by baking and selling cookies.

I usually have a selection of peanut butter, oatmeal and chocolate chip. I bake for hours, bag up the sweet little gems three in a bag and walk my neighborhood selling them for $1 a bag. 

I turn a nice little profit and it keeps me in pocket change.

Yesterday I was out doing my cookie thang and I'd just walked off to sell to someone else and this boy starts running down the street after me.

"Hey! HEY! HEYYYYYY!!!!! COOOOOOKIE!!!"

I think I have a new nickname. o.O

Let's have a party!

I love my neighbors for the most part. They're fun. We have each others' backs. They're friendly.

But, damn, they like to party.

Weekend parties in the summer are frequent, raucous and over the top. The music? UGH, it sounds like something that should be playing in a carnival, but these folks have a hell of a time.

It also seems like they will throw a party for damn near any reason.

Oh, the baby is turning two! Let's rent an inflatable jumping thing that he can't get in! Let's hire a DJ! Let's buy LOTS of alcohol so the party will last long after every kid has passed out in the jumpy balloon!

Oh, so-n-so is getting out of jail! Let's rent a jumpy balloon! Let's get a DJ! Let's get drunk! Let's whoop and holler all night!

Oh, you got shot and didn't die! Let's rent a jumpy balloon! Let's get a DJ! Let's get drunk! Let's whoop and holler all night!

When I say 'holler', this is what I mean.

These folks love to party and will find any damn reason for one.

sighs heavily

Summer can't end soon enough.