Rebecca Arthur’s Blog

A sampling of the cacophony of voices inside this comic’s head

So I’m jogging down the street just before dawn this morning…I don’t say running because frankly I’m so slow I’m lucky I don’t leave a trail…and one of the street lights turns on when I go past. Now maybe that’s a fluke…I mean I don’t think they’re on motion sensors…but part of me thinks maybe they are…and if so, they’re street lights…which means they’re probably set to be triggered by something large…like a car…but I set it off…and what does that say about me…now, I’m big…6’ 4”…really big for a woman…but my weight is in proportion to my height…which is like saying the Empire State Building’s weight is in proportion to its height…its still A LOT…and I’m a bit sensitive about it, not that I really notice it all the time…only when its in my face…like when I’m standing in line for the women’s restroom and feel like I’ve landed in Munchkin land…or when I notice how dirty the top of my refrigerator is…without a step stool…or when a ceiling fan makes me nervous…or when I think I’ve triggered the motion sensor on a street light because I have an axle rating of more than a ton…but what should probably be of deeper concern is how I managed to personalize the simple occurrence of street light turning on to the point that I managed to write an entire blog entry around it…really an exceptional display of self-centeredness, which is a flaw I would try to eliminate…if I wasn’t so proud of it. If you’re proud of your own egotism, is that like the proverbial snowball rolling down hill that just gets bigger and bigger…ugh! Back to big again.

Saw on the news that there is enough loose nuclear material to make 120,000 nuclear weapons…and I’m thinking…and one BIG one. If I were President, I too would work to secure all loose nuclear material…so I could build one big bomb…and blow up the moon…tides piss me off. I have this really sick attraction to the thought of nuclear war…I think its like people that were abused as children becoming serial killers later in life…it must have been all those bomb drills at school in the 60s, when the bell would ring and we’d line up against the wall in the hall, kneel down, and put our hands behind our necks…duck and cover…yeah, that would help…radiation can’t find you if you’re in the fetal position…it didn’t make me safer; just made me want to wet my pants every time I heard the word “Russia” in the news…so now I have dreams of nuclear war where I’m not afraid…just waiting and wondering if that millisecond it takes to evaporate will hurt…maybe its just because I don’t want to die alone…and the contents of this blog entry probably helps explain why that is a concern.

Meditation

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Okay…while I find it to be highly unlikely, it has been mentioned that my life could be…more…well…spiritual. Yes, I know…I don’t believe it either…as is obvious to anyone who reads the mindless prattle that has preceded this blog entry…I already have one foot in Nirvana. But Mistress T, my therapist…who is trying to turn me into a Buddhist…a wasted effort since to be Buddhist is to renounce excess, and I am a person with the motto, “Too much is not enough”…Mistress T wants me to be mindful…which I already am…well, my mind is certainly full…of what, you can guess…and she wants me to meditate. Well, that sounds cool. Sit down…do nothing…I do a lot of nothing. But eliminate unwanted thoughts…wow…

“Okay, I’m meditating…meditating…no thoughts…breathing…breathing in…breathing out…breathing deep…I’m a deep thinker…like a deep septic tank that holds a ton of $hit…whoops….meditating…no thoughts…Am I a pedophile if I have a constant urge to fondle my inner child?…whoops…meditating…breathe in…breathe out…If I stuck false teeth in my vagina, guys could screw me and imagine they’re getting oral sex at the same time…whoops…breathe out…in…out…in…out…would I get in trouble is I snuck into the Braille library and ironed the books?…stop that!…breathe in…out…in…out…

Maybe Nirvana will have to wait…

My son is lost to me. My oldest son, who endures a self-imposed exile in the rustic badlands of Columbus, Ohio…he’s a Californian by heart, “but it’s so much cheaper out here”…a refrain I hear often and cannot fathom…yes, its cheaper to live in Ohio…or Texas…or Oklahoma…ad infinitum…but when you leave your house, you’re in Ohio…or Texas…or Oklahoma…ad infinitum. But I digress…anyway, we were bemoaning the end of the football season…which, frankly, is a little like Mary Antoinette bemoaning the end of the guillotine…you see we were both Houston Oiler fans…which is like marrying a guy in a trailer park…you know sooner or later you’re going to get beat…and then when the Oilers left Houston, we had to seek our pain elsewhere and chose the San Diego Chargers, a team guaranteed to satiate even the most avid sports masochist…but I’m digressing again…anyway, football is over for six months or so, and neither of us like baseball, which seems about as exciting as an international shoe-tying competition…so to fill the gap, my son says he’s going to try to get into NASCAR…NASCAR…dark times indeed…apparently my son’s soul has been tainted by long-term exposure to the land of crimson necks which makes up a good part of America’s heartland…NASCAR…which, I believe, is not a sport at all, since most of us do the same thing as NASCAR “athletes”…drive…except we don’t do it as fast, and we stop when we need to pee. And please, of course, its fans are only waiting for a crash; otherwise they could get the same thrill by watching a Hotwheels track…and the only thing my son finds attractive about it is that it basically goes all year long, so he doesn’t have to bemoan the end of a season…great…the beating never stops…anyway, I will try to be accepting of my son’s path, waiting patiently to welcome him back to the light…when he tires (is that a pun?) of the endless drone of engines, interspersed with the sounds of crushed and torn metal…and realizes that we could set up bleachers along most any urban freeway and find the same level of entertainment.

So I’m sitting in a movie theater waiting for the film to start and I’m having to endure all the preliminary BS like commercials and “first looks” at the next sorry-ass TV show…which is particularly galling because if I wanted to watch TV…I’d be home…instead of having to cash in a portion of my IRA to pay for the ever-increasing price of a movie ticket…Some commercials I admit to finding humorous…like the one they’re showing now of how joining the Army is like one big video game…they show this guy fighting a dragon…with some kind of fiery sword…and he morphs into a combat soldier…I never knew it could be so exciting!! I wonder how many video game nerds watch a commercial like this…run down to the recruiter and sign up for 4 years expecting to fight trolls and Baelrogs with the Sword of Drugoth’s Bane or some such over-hyped weapon only to find themselves in Iraq, with sand up their butt crack, cleaning the latrine floor with a tooth brush. “Oh dark days, indeed!..when the innocent become the fodder for the voracious appetite of the military meatgrinder.” And of course the cruelest trick of all…is when the nerds find out that in this game…when you die you don’t return to your last saved position…

I’ve spent a lot of time in therapy…and not always by my own motivation…I’ve actually gotten so I rather like it…hell, I get to talk about me…that’s all I really like to do anyway…its just a bit insulting to think I have to pay someone to listen…course, at least if I’m paying, I don’t have to worry about them telling me to “shut up”…or “quit whining”…or “if you don’t stop I swear I’ll smother you in your sleep”…not that I’ve ever been told the latter…recently… Being a therapist is a weird profession…basically being paid to act like someone’s friend…which I guess is legal, until you add sex…then, of course, shame shame…you can be friendly, but not THAT friendly…and do they really have to go to school that long to learn to listen and ask you what you think about what you just said?…when I’m paying THEM to tell ME what THEY think about what I just said…but then they’d be talking and I wouldn’t be talking about me, which is why I’m there in the first place…and not because I think I need it…or its suggested…or there’s a “court order”…or “society needs to be protected”…my favorite therapist is “Mistress” T…who works at Kaiser Permanente…the Ellis Island of the medical community…I think she’s actually helped me in many ways, because I feel better, which causes me a great deal of anxiety, because I feel a need to bring drama to our sessions…and when I feel good…there’s not as much drama…so I feel like I need to bring a new sickness to the table each time we meet…which I’m sorry to say is a challenge I rather enjoy…but I’m grateful for Mistress T…and for the fact that she’s pretty computer illiterate and will never read what I just wrote about her…let’s see…next week…I know…“I’ve been chewing on my cat’s tail!!!”

At work My boss will ask me, ” are you sure?”.    Hell, no !!! I’m not sure of anything…I can’t be sure I’ll have only one butt crack any given morning.   I can’t be sure I’ll take my next breath…or the next…or the next…in fact, whenever I think I’m sure, I wind up being sure I’m not sure…which isn’t even possible…of that I’m sure…

The Boss

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My boss drives me crazy…not a long trip I know…especially with the phone calls.  His office is within 20 feet of my cube, but he always uses the phone…which isn’t what bothers me…its the number of calls I get…he uses the phone like a machine gun…call, call, call, call, call…reload…call, call, call, call…RING…”Rebecca…I need you to wipe your ass…” 3 seconds …RING…”make sure its front to back”…2 seconds…RING…”not back to front”…4 seconds…RING…”and only use 5 sheets of paper”…3 seconds…RING…”and let me see it when you finish…I may need to make my own additions”…

Sexaholic

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I have to go to these group therapy sessions at Kaiser…cause they they think I’m crazy…which of course I am…but I’m probably crazy enough to need drugs, but of course it’s cheaper to pour you into a psycho-social blender than it is to have you talk to someone one on one…and give you serious drugs..which is why I decided to be crazy in the first place.  Anyway, one night this quadruple layer cake of a woman moos her way into the room and plops down in a chair that winds up looking like four tooth picks buried in her ass, opens the gaping maw in the middle of her bulldog face and starts to talk about her “sex addiction!”. How does someone like her get a sex addiction?!  I mean she’s not a one bagger or a two bagger…she’s a body bagger!  Surely there’s not other people involved!  Maybe she buys duracells by the gross…which describes her as well.  What the fuck is wrong with people that I’m alone…and what does that say about me!  Maybe if I eat the Sears Tower and dip my face in acid someone will want me…not that I would want them…I just want them to want me!!! Now why do they think I’m crazy??

The greatest thing happened to me today. I got a flat tire. And it wasn’t just any ‘ol’ flat tire, it looked like it’d been chewed up by a gaggle of gators…assuming there is such a thing, and if there isn’t there should be…’cause I’d been driving on it for a bit…well, the roads are so crappy, you can’t tell if it’s a pot hole, or your riding on a rim.  Anyway, I’d just crossed the San Mateo bridge, and something took out my left rear tire.  So I finally pull over and get out the good ol’ cell phone…and I’m trying to get through to AAA when this guy pulls over in a small pickup truck and tells me he’ll fix the tire and he pretty much took over. I helped clear out the trunk of all my fat clothes that I keep meaning to take to Goodwill…maybe a circus (those who knew me in days of yesteryear understand). Anyway, a cop pulls up just sits in his car behind us…didn’t really protect the changing the tire, but I guess people we’re scared enough of the cop car (course my just stnding there was quite a beacon) that they stayed away. The only thing he did do was yell out his car’s speaker for me to stand off the road…presumably to keep me safe…but more likely to make me stand there feeling all helpless and girlly…not really comparable with my usual personna…rather an uncomfortable feeling.  Anyway , the guy finished putting the “tire” on…I have the word “tire” in quotes because I don’t have a spare…of course I have a donut…a tiny TEMPORARY tire the guy made sure I knew about before he left…and the only gift I could give him was to take my role and shut my mouth.