Vampires are hot. Well, technically speaking, I suppose they are cold, but DAMN are they hot.  We need to look no further than the actors we choose to play vampires to see, that I am, without a doubt..not wrong. To wit:

Aidan Turner, (Mitchell, Being Human) Hot.

Robert Pattinson (Edward Cullen, Twilight) Hot.

Yes, Gwen, I know you think he is disease ridden and quite possibly rabid and foaming at the mouth. Possibly a few other orifices. But there isn’t a disease this boy’s got that I wouldn’t get a shot for.

Brad Pitt, before he got all Angelina whipped and started snapping up unfortunate children like puppies at the pound and leaving his wife….(Louis, Interview With the Vampire) Hot.

Alexander Skarsgard (Eric Northman, True Blood) FA-HA-REAKIN hot. Also? Hot. Also central to one of my favorite vampire scenes of all vampiredom:

He cries blood, he begs, he shows emotion! I am a quivering pile of goo! Oh, Eric.

Oh, WONK. FAIL. Tom Cruise as Lestat. Just. Fuck.

Tom Cruise, who I despise on almost every, fundamental level…knowing him personally as I do *coughbigfatliecough* is also the exception to prove the rule of vampire hotness.

Speaking of Tom Cruise, have you noticed that his teeth are REALLY fucked up? I don’t mean fucked in a can-totally-be-fixed-by-orthodontia kind of way. I mean, look:

That line, where his teeth should line up? Yeah, not so much. It looks like his teeth had a union meeting and decided it would be best to pick up and move a full inch to the left. So not hot. Lestat is an asshole, so they casted that much correctly with Tom Cruise, but if panty pudding is the end game….Tom Cruise is not my quarterback.

I digress.

The whole “sucking your blood” thing aside, the way I see it, it would be most advantageous to date a vampire. I mean, during the day? Your life is entirely yours! There is no quibbling about where to have breakfast, or how many times you hit the snooze button. Your man would be safely tucked away in his comfy coffin and you can hit snooze until your brain explodes.

The obvious exception to this rule, of course:

Edward Cullen. He doesn’t sleep, he sparkles. On a related, yet slightly creepy note, he will also watch you when you sleep.  Not because he’s a stalker, or obsessive. But because he wants to keep you safe.  Safety first, that’s the vampire credo.

Edward better hope you aren’t a sleep farter.

Vampire sex is about as effective against pregnancy as abstinence, because…well..vampires have no *ahem* fluids. It’s not like you see a long line of vampires trying to earn extra money wanking at the sperm bank.

Again, the obvious exception:

Mr Cullen’s vamp-nuts are apparently cryogenic capacitors which can freeze his vamp-batter for 100+ years until the right girl comes along. I suppose having frosty balls has its advantages. Would it be like getting laid by an ice pack? I am over thinking this.

But I do have an ice pack….

(all images were snagged from google images. I do not claim rights nor do I claim them to be mine)

Humility, they say

be humble, do not express

your pride

But I am done hiding

my light

I can bake

a motherfucking cake

In an apron that says

laissez les bons temps rouler

(it rhymes if you say it right

so just try to say it right

because I won’t correct you anymore

because I used to

and that shit is rude)

I am made of humorous things

mostly directed at myself

but damn if I am not the best friend

that you will ever know

my heart, this big and wounded thing

well shit, bitch…it loves you

and some days

oh some days

it needs to be held in the palm

of your hands and cradled

because I am not always so strong

I am a brainy girl

and my hands are just like my mother’s

beautiful

strong

they build things

pictures with words

things with yarn and beads

and fabric and fluff

things that are nothing

things that matter

they hold yours in tough times

and reach out when they need

sometimes

I am talented

I am good

I deserve the things I’ve denied myself

and instead of sitting

and waning

pitching pathetic

I can roar

Amanda, I can roar. Thank you for showing me how.

It used to be that I couldn’t walk dark corridors alone. Any restroom in tucked away corners left me scrambling for an entourage to come with me. I’ve held the hands of so many of my girlfriends,  fingers squeezing as our high heels clicked down beautiful walkways to hidden restrooms. Hidden terrors, for me. None of them knew they were my surreptitious bodyguards against my ghosts. Laced fingers through mine, held my shaken pieces together, until the time came when I had to walk by myself.

**

The first time I wrote about my rape in detail, I was overwhelmed with fear. A shameful  cloud spit its hateful rain around me in an acidic deluge. In the reflection of my computer screen, pixels of my worst moments darkening a white box I poured myself out into a tiny cup. My soul, my pain, my fear, my shame, my secret all there in indelible ink. The immediacy of a victim’s mind, is to run and to apologize. I wanted to tear that post, my words, like an outdated poster from a wall, leaving only the corners attached as a memory of its presence. But I didn’t and you were there. The solitary walk of the victim had ended.

**

For many years, the arms of my fiance wrapped around me as I tossed in nightmare’s ugly clothes. For many years he fought alone, the man whose knife had almost kept me from him. But as I wrote and write and soldier through, you are there. Since I have been able to share these things and fight these battles, I can sleep peacefully in the depth of his love. I can sleep peacefully in the depth of your support. You are a comfort.

**

I am, unfortunately, not unique in my experience. I am a statistic among statistics. But, as I struggle through this period of surviving, I find strength to look forward. I am no longer satisfied to muddle through denying the potential of my light.  Today, I am at Violence Unsilenced and I am imploring upon you..once again..to lend me your kindness. Thank you.

A lot of you have been emailing me and asking where I’ve been lately. I figured instead of some long, drawn out story, I would give you a scrapbook of my recent adventures.

I’ve been running my very lucrative Marilyn for Hire company. Economy schmeconomy! I am booked solid!

My Maybelline contract was short lived, when it was found that I am hideously allergic to any cosmetic which is sold at a drug or grocery. This was the only picture taken before my eyeballs swelled shut.

I had to meet up with my good pal Robert Pattinson, for a totally casual picnic.

Did you know that I was the only female member ever allowed into Menudo?

Now you know.

I decided, on a whim, that I should no longer hide my various tattoos. They are art. I also took up smoking.

Then I found the pearl earring I was missing! I was so relieved, I thought it was lost for good!

I was so excited about finding the earring that I accidentally ripped off my steering wheel in excitement. Good thing I was wearing a helmet.

After all of this adventure, it sure is nice to be home with my honey. He really is the king of the world.

Create your own FACEinHOLE

I am an unwavering friend.

I am fierce and bold and strong.

I am afraid.

I am careless, impetuous, flaky.

I am dependable.

I love.

I love so much it hurts and so often without the hope of it being returned.

When it is returned I am shocked. When it’s not, it is expected.

I am a nurturer, a protector.

I wish I could hide in my mother’s apron.

I wish I was a mother.

I am worth your time, regardless of my insistence that I am not.

I am funny.

I am kind.

I am intense.

I adore with my whole heart, with the deepest part of my wounded soul and it lasts.

I am fragile.

I am easily lost in the magic of things. The underpinnings of hard work hidden and a glittering, flawless surface emerging, I am enraptured. The truth of the lightning, splitting wide open the black sky, painting light. When I was very little I thought the lightning was God’s paintbrush.

To make things silver, to make things clear in the darkness.

I know, you see. I know that this is how I see babies.

I mean, look. Sweet, right? Right now my ovaries are freaking the fuck out over this baby. The sweet little lips, the dreamy little eyes , the slightly red hair. The looking at you with adoring little eyes. I want to put this baby in my purse and take it home. Shut up, I have a big purse. What, is something wrong with putting the baby in my purse? I am feeling very judged right now.

Also, I might be slightly hormonal. I’d bet you’ve not noticed.

But seriously…that baby. I bet he smells like graham crackers and baby powder and not at all like….

Because this baby does not shit. And if it did shit it would never be so gauche as to shit outside of its diaper and down its own leg and then be so annoying and demanding as to expect that I should clean it up. Nope. Babies are delightful, through the night sleepers who don’t chap your nips while breast feeding and never EVER speak unless spoken to.

They also tell you exactly what they need, in plain English and never ever scream loud enough to test the very fabric of civilization. They don’t. At least this is what my lying ass deceitful ovaries are telling me. Every time a baby crosses my path, my uterus squeezes its empty protest and my ovaries begin to dance in a hateful mambo. Or maybe a cha-cha. It’s entirely possible that it’s a rumba, but I’m not sure.

Ovaries: pssssssssst isn’t that baby cuuuuuuute? (cha-cha-cha!)

Me: Totally. I bet there is a ton of laundry associated with it though…

Ovaries: Lies! Babies wear the same thing everyday and it never requires washing! It is anti-microbial! (shuffle ball change)

Me: I am pretty sure there is laundry.

Ovaries: *blink* (begins Michael Flatly’s finale from The Lord of the Dance)

So, as you can see my ovaries have won the battle of wits by tap shoe wearing brute force. I am dying to nurture something, and honestly my tomato Aerogarden plant isn’t exactly satiating my motherly instincts. However, life being what it is…my ticking time bomb of a biological clock might just have to left to :

Because we are far from ready for a kid. Even a perfect one. Which mine would be, clearly.

photo credit 1

photo credit 2

photo credit 3

keeping in theme with my “start shit and don’t finish it” tendency, Fabulous Flutters will not be every sunday. It’ll be more of a whenever I feel like it kind of thing. But if you see a post that you love email it to me at fluttercrafts at g(mail) d.ot com

that I would love writing fiction, but I do.

The story of this character is coming to me in delicious little turns, just as getting to know an actual person. Things that she would say pop into my head at the strangest times, making me laugh. Or think. Or stew in the fine texture of her imperfection.

I like her.

I like her tragedy and her humor, her sense of justice and her sarcasm. I like that she is quintessentially herself, all the while sharing the common human condition of being slightly ill at ease.

More than that, I like escaping this world and my place in it, while I spend time with her. I like giving her the wheel and letting her steer her destiny. I like the choices she is making. Writing hasn’t been this fun for me in a long time…and I am loving it.

Loving it.

My anger is a slow boiling thing. It takes a long time to develop and settles into the marrow of my structure like the fibers of what makes me human.

It takes so much to truly piss me off. It takes so much more for me to burst.

I am rounding that corner.

I am irritated, aggravated with myself for giving this pathetic human being so much of my worth. I am furious with myself for handing him my radiance and allowing him to buff it down to a sad little glimmer. I let him rape me and as my life lurches forward, I allow him to rob me of my potential.

It’s all such bullshit. I’ve been here before, at this point. Where I don my pointy metal bra and go all warrior woman on his ass…metaphorically. Then some seemingly inconsequential tidbit steals my breath and I am left gasping. I suck in giant clouds of his scent and his essence, trapped in my atmosphere and he guides me, as a satellite into a world where I do not control myself.

If it is frustrating to me, I can only imagine how horrendous it is for the people who love me.

So, this boiling pot of anger, it is starting to touch the flame. It is sending up sputters of noise and protest. My anger, it wants to burn him whole, even if I am scared.

It used to be that I would dream of him, carving his “s” shaped terror into me with a dirty knife. His sweat falling onto my face like rain from an angry cloud, even on that cold December day. I would awaken cold and clammy and heaving with the fresh recollection of the death of my spirit.

As years passed, so did the focus of this dream. From crisp bruises and blood, to the aftermath.

I kneel, my green dress folded carefully over the door of a bathroom stall. Shivering, with caked blood under my fingernails. My hair is piled into a tormented bun at the back of my head. My own blood is adhered to the floor is a streaky mess as I scrub it with paper towels and soap from the hand dispenser above a row of sinks.

The smell, even in this dream gags me. The mix of his semen and my blood and the sickly, chalky smell of pink industrial hand soap. I slosh and pull and push giant wads of paper towels. Watching them grow more ever full of me. The aftermath. Literally and figuratively cleaning up the mess he made.

I am still cleaning it.

Sometimes, he breaks his hold on my helpless dreamworld and skips forward into my waking hours. I used the restroom at work and washed my hands. The soap came out a soft, foamy pink and the smell hit me like a fist. I can’t even piss without him shaking his fist at me from my memory. But, I swallow down tears and emerge smiling.

But sleep? In sleep I have no defense. In sleep I cannot use the strength of my words, the simple, inarguable force of my will. The warrior that I am cannot fight him. Even in his absence, as I scrape up enough blood from that floor that I should have died, he is with me. Even when I lose the subtle shapes that made up his face, a leaf will fall that is the same color of his eyes and he is with me. Even when I have not given him a thought, the smell of blood, or bathroom soap, or his sickening-spicy cologne on a stranger passing by- places my small hand in his big one and he drags me back.

Back to tired. Back to small. Back to cold. Back to him.