Full of piss and vinegar, oozin' through my jugular vein.
Aaaahhh, catharsis. Now that's what I'm talkin' bout.
So, dear people! I will post about my beautiful camping trip in the mountains when I return from a FUCKING BABY SHOWER GAH that I must depart for shortly. But right now, I want to share a moment of sublime baggagefreedom.
Yesterday was The Ex's thirtieth birthday (which in itself makes me laaaafff and laugh). One year ago yesterday, that sparklefarting unicorn and I, in hopes of spreading some convivial love and shoring up her and my splintering relationship, collaborated to make this, ripped off from one of my favorite movies ever (sadly, the only photo of it I have includes the aforementioned unicorn):
Also known as The Boobie Tree. Also known as my ElJay icon (well, its inspiration is). Also known as my favorite clay project I've ever made. Also known as the thing that has haunted my dining room for the past year because I was unwilling to part with something I made with my own two little hands, even if it was dragged through the clay-slip with traumatic connotations. The birthday party for which I made this Boobie Tree, with her help, felt like a funeral, and two weeks later, they were gone.
Ever since he left, people have been asking me how I can possibly live with it in my house - especially because it's the first piece of art one sees upon walking through the door, boobie balloons and all. I've told them I don't have it in me to destroy it, because I like it too much to let it be sullied with that bullshit.
In reality, I have spent the last year waiting for the perfect opportunity to break it. Something befitting to the weight of it, both its tremendous physical mass and the one that sits atop my blackened little heart. Something that would satisfy the immense grail-like search for an explosion as rich with that metaphor stuff I do so love as possible. Something that would present itself when I was ready. Something that would feel right as soon as it entered my field of view.
We packed it up in the car to take with us to Asheville, just in case that moment arose. What could be more appropos a location of demise than the Appalachians, after all??
When we flew by the overlook on the Blue Ridge Parkway, I knew instantly. I saw it and my brain screamed that this was the place. So, with the help of my wonderfully indulgent and understanding and camera-holding and pep-talking Partner in Crime, I chucked that bitch off a cliff. And damn, it felt good to know that it splintered into a million and one pieces at the bottom of a mountain gorge.
I considered attaching the following to a birthday-wishes email to He Who Remains Without an Epithet. But I'm not quite that much of a cunt. So I'll share my great big motherfucking hoorah, chock-full of snarkiness though it is, with you instead, boys and girls. And sit here and bask in the baggagefreedom of excising that 30-pound weight from my house, my life, my memory and my heart.
I just wish the boobies had a little more sail to them. And that I had a shot-putter's arm.
I say goddamn, that felt good.
So, dear people! I will post about my beautiful camping trip in the mountains when I return from a FUCKING BABY SHOWER GAH that I must depart for shortly. But right now, I want to share a moment of sublime baggagefreedom.
Yesterday was The Ex's thirtieth birthday (which in itself makes me laaaafff and laugh). One year ago yesterday, that sparklefarting unicorn and I, in hopes of spreading some convivial love and shoring up her and my splintering relationship, collaborated to make this, ripped off from one of my favorite movies ever (sadly, the only photo of it I have includes the aforementioned unicorn):
Also known as The Boobie Tree. Also known as my ElJay icon (well, its inspiration is). Also known as my favorite clay project I've ever made. Also known as the thing that has haunted my dining room for the past year because I was unwilling to part with something I made with my own two little hands, even if it was dragged through the clay-slip with traumatic connotations. The birthday party for which I made this Boobie Tree, with her help, felt like a funeral, and two weeks later, they were gone.
Ever since he left, people have been asking me how I can possibly live with it in my house - especially because it's the first piece of art one sees upon walking through the door, boobie balloons and all. I've told them I don't have it in me to destroy it, because I like it too much to let it be sullied with that bullshit.
In reality, I have spent the last year waiting for the perfect opportunity to break it. Something befitting to the weight of it, both its tremendous physical mass and the one that sits atop my blackened little heart. Something that would satisfy the immense grail-like search for an explosion as rich with that metaphor stuff I do so love as possible. Something that would present itself when I was ready. Something that would feel right as soon as it entered my field of view.
We packed it up in the car to take with us to Asheville, just in case that moment arose. What could be more appropos a location of demise than the Appalachians, after all??
When we flew by the overlook on the Blue Ridge Parkway, I knew instantly. I saw it and my brain screamed that this was the place. So, with the help of my wonderfully indulgent and understanding and camera-holding and pep-talking Partner in Crime, I chucked that bitch off a cliff. And damn, it felt good to know that it splintered into a million and one pieces at the bottom of a mountain gorge.
I considered attaching the following to a birthday-wishes email to He Who Remains Without an Epithet. But I'm not quite that much of a cunt. So I'll share my great big motherfucking hoorah, chock-full of snarkiness though it is, with you instead, boys and girls. And sit here and bask in the baggagefreedom of excising that 30-pound weight from my house, my life, my memory and my heart.
I just wish the boobies had a little more sail to them. And that I had a shot-putter's arm.
Click to viewI say goddamn, that felt good.