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The Bitch has been busy.

Not only that, but The Bitch is just effing tired. Heh, I said ‘effing’ when I go ahead and say ‘fuck’ in the title. That’s irony. Either that, or The Bitch is just freaking tired. Too tired to type proper profanity.

So what’s new with you?

You know what? I should probably care about SEO optimization and all that shit but I don’t. I’m just downloading what’s in my head here. We don’t even spellcheck.

So when I start talking about my real topic, you won’t be surprised, will you?  So here we go:

Last week there was an election. Remember that? And a whole bunch of people were like crazy happy, because in one day, ONE FREAKING DAY PEOPLE, the world changed. Colors were brighter. People smiled at one another. People hugged each other (except for the gays in California, who are still not allowed legal hugging) and remembered what it was like to hope.

Hope.

Hope is a fucking transient thing, people.

[I should mention here that while a whole bunch of people were chill about the electionary outcome, a whole bunch more were pretty pissed off. It usually goes like that.]

[But fuck them since I know who I voted for anyway.]

Hope. What’s up with that, anyway? One day we’re all boo-hoo-the-world-sucks, and the next it’s like dude!-look-at-all-the-colors!-shiny! You know? And what’s happened since then? Seriously. I want to know. What’s happened?

The sun still comes up, right? And it still goes down? And you’re still paying off your mortgage (or not) and working at your job (or not), and things are pretty much the same as they were the day before the election. Right? Still drinking the same coffee? Still have two-legs-two-arms-two-eyes-a-brain (or not)?

I’ll tell you what’s different.

Hope.

You thought things would change, and so your perception of things changed. That’s all. Your perception. Remember this, will you? Because next time you’re all boo-hoo about something, remember it’s not the THING that needs to change for you to feel better about it, but YOUR PERCEPTION OF THAT THING. That’s all. An attitude adjustment. Change your brain, change your life (without the extra helping of judgment that there is something WRONG with your brain, okay?). That’s all it takes. Looking at things differently.

What, not convinced?

Fine.

An example, then.

Two people. Person A sells or gives away all his shit. All of it. Every last bit. He doesn’t make a ton of money from the selling, and he’s careful to give his shit to people who might love it the way he did. He’s left with what fits in his car. People ask, “WTF?” and he says, “OMG, I can’t believe what’s happening to me. I feel so fucking powerless. I had to sell all my shit and now I don’t know what the fuck I’m going to do. THIS SUCKS.”

Person B sells or gives away all his shit. All of it. Every last bit. He doesn’t make a ton of money from the selling, and he’s careful to give his shit to people who might love it the way he did. He’s left with what fits in his car. People ask, “WTF?” and he says, “DUDE! I feel so free! This is totally awesome, like, I am CONNECTED with the universe! You should try it.”

Okay, maybe this one is too obvious. But who is, um, happier? Who has hope? Who seems more open to the possibilities that life might just be sort of okay after all, even when things sort of suck?

Now, I’m not asking you to go all Pollyanna here, but seriously: who do you want to be, Person A (the realist), or Person B (obviously on hallucinogenics)?

See? It’s all in how you look at it.

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So The Bitch was talking to one of her minions Fellow Brilliant Blog-Type Persons recently, and this Blog-Type Person* is sort of brilliant and totally let the phrase “Stop Global Whining” slip out all unintentionally and of course The Bitch was naturally intrigued.  It’s an awesome phrase and any time The Bitch can steal someone else’s idea give credit where credit is due, she’s all up in that.

So let’s talking about whining, shall we?

Ugh, already I’m feeling that little edge of disgust, the one you get when you’re talking to somebody with LOTS of extra drool in their mouth, when you feel like if you only watched long enough, a big wet glob of that drool would ooze its way out of their mouth while they talk and you’d watch it plop wetly and silently right onto their collar, where it would slowly sink in, leaving a wet snail-trail slime spot of shiny mouth-ooze.  And you Can’t.Look.Away.  You are mesmerized by that mouthful of slobbery wetness.  And you’re totally disgusted at the same time, not only at what you’re watching, but at yourself for watching it.

That’s what fucking whining does to me.

And people whine All The Fucking Time.

Hello!  Whiners!  Instead of TALKING about it, why don’t you DO something about it?  Or just do SOMETHING period!

But no.  It’s far easier to just complain about stuff than it is to own it.  Owning your shit takes guts.  Owning your shit takes the courage to LOOK at your shit to begin with.  And who wants to do that?  No, it’s far easier just to sit on that couch holding the remote in one hand and your dick in the other, picking your nose with your other [and magically manifested] hand, yelling at whoever’s in the kitchen to HURRY IT UP FOR CRYING OUT LOUD THE SHOW’S ABOUT TO START GODDAMMIT, than it is to put your dick away and put down the fucking remote, get up, and walk into the goddamn kitchen yourself.

But the Wal-Mart generation has bred a bunch of illbred inbreeds who find it far easier to complain about the smell of everybody else’s shit than to notice that they’re sitting in a pile of their own.

The other day was Blog Action Day.  More than 12,000 bloggers wrote about poverty.  Many of them solicited donations for the Global Fund, Feeding America, Donors Choose, Project Peanut Butter, and others (how can you not give money to support the development of peanut butter?).  Others banded together and made microloans to people in need of a helping hand all over the world through Kiva.

And while on the one hand you can make the case that each of those 12,000+ bloggers was whining about poverty, the idea was to make the whining count for something.  So much mass whining all on the same day has an effect.  If you read blogs, and you read on Blog A about Blog Action Day and on Blog B something else about Blog Action Day and on Blog C something yet again about Blog Action Day, then either:

a) You unsubscribe from blogs A, B, and C because who wants to hear about poverty? Especially when it’s not mine! Bring on the LOLcats!

or

b) You fucking Get The Point, and like everyone else you are affected by what you read and decide to get up off that couch and go Do Something, like maybe donate that jar of pennies or something, or maybe make a microloan of your own (they’re an excellent return and change people’s lives, one sad shitty life at a time.  What’s better than that?).

But that’s about the only example of Whining For Good that The Bitch knows about.  All other forms of whining are shit and need to be eradicated from the planet.  Immediately.  Before they do more harm.  In fact, The Bitch can make a case for the theory that global whining is the CAUSE of global warming.  All that fucking hot air.

So next time you hear some fuckwit droning on about the gum-snapping woman in the airplane seat next to him, or about the guy in front of him at the supermarket who had ELEVEN items in a 10-and-under lane, do something.  Because all that whining is seriously using up all our air. Tell him to either quit his bleating and shut the fuck up or stop breathing up all our air.

It’s us or them, people.  Global whining is a serious matter.

*Fellow Brilliant Blog-Type person is Christa who wrote some funny shit about the time she rear-ended a dwarf (oh get your fucking mind out of the gutter! Not THAT kind of rear-ended!) and also some serious shit about, well, go see for yourself.  You need to.

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So I may have mentioned before that I read other people’s blogs.  Guilty.  The Bitch reads blogs all fucking day, sacrificing her precious eyeballs for you people.  Fucking ungrateful.  And the Bitch is like an Internet Sponge, soaking up all the crap awesomeness that’s floating around out there.  And lately I’ve been running across some really awesome stuff, at least when measured by the Bitch-O-Meter.  Take this one.  This guy Tim starts off talking about words, and then look what happened!  First he totally pisses me off by telling me to “mind my language” (as if!) and then he gets all wise and shit and starts saying stuff that makes sense.  So go read it.

Fuck, I don’t mean now. Finish THIS post first, and THEN click. *Eyeroll*

Anyway.  I got to the end of Tim’s post where he’s talking about phrases to use instead of the garbage some of us usually fill our heads with, and when I came to “I want…”, fucking lightbulbs were exploding ALL OVER.  Seriously!  You know that mythical “aha!” moment we’re supposed to have when we think of something brilliant?  Well, picture that times like a thousand, because The Bitch is THAT brilliant.  Brilliant times a thousand.  And that’s like a hundredth of the actual lightbulbs.

I want.

Say that a couple of times, will you?

I want.

How does that feel?  Kind of weird, right?

See, the thing is, we’re all sort of fucked up when to comes to “I want.”  Lots of us, when we’re kids or something, are told in one way or another that saying “I want” is a bad thing.  Selfish, maybe.  We should think of others, not ourselves.  Think of those poor starving kids in China while you choke down those cold congealed peas!  And next time eat everything on your plate!

So “I want” has judgments.

And then we put “I want” away.  We don’t know what we want, because we’ve hidden it away in a dark closet somewhere.

Or, we go crazy with “I want.”  We run up enormous credit bills filled with “I want,” each trying to make a dent in the emptiness we feel inside.  We fill bigger and bigger houses with boatloads of crap destined to take over our landfills, and still it’s not enough.  We still feel that emptiness, even when surrounded by everything we thought we wanted.

The trouble is, we still don’t know what we want.  We’re running after something, sure, but we haven’t gotten to the heart of it.  “I want” is still hidden.  It’s underneath that pile of crap, hidden below a stack of credit card statements.

Oh, we talk about what we want all the time.  “I want world peace!” we chirp, or “I want a warm house in a safe neighborhood where I can raise my family!”  We talk about wanting stuff, but it’s the stuff that it’s okay to say we want.  These things are socially acceptable, so we are conditioned to want them.  A 4 bedroom 2.5 bath house in the suburbs, 1.7 kids, an iPhone and a Prius.  That’s what we want.  And while we’re at it, we want good government, adequate and available health care, world peace, an end to climate change, our health, and maybe some more Doritos.

We want what everyone else wants because it’s okay to want that.

But we still don’t know what WE want.

What do you want?

Feel that?  You had to take a deep breath, didn’t you?  You know why?

Because you don’t know what you want.

Most of us don’t know what we REALLY want.  Knowing what you want takes WORK.  You have to dig deep.  You think about what you want and then you go deeper:  WHY do you want that?  And digging deeper takes guts.  It takes courage.  It takes the strength to really look at yourself and answer questions with honesty.  And most of us aren’t all that willing to do that.  It’s hard.  It brings stuff up.  It feels icky.  And it reveals answers that may not fit within the image of ourselves we thought we had.  It reveals a person we didn’t know we were.

Is that what you want?

Do you want to find out who you really are?

Then start asking yourself, What do I want? And start listening to the answers.

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“Sorry.”

I hate that word.

It’s a beautiful word, when said in sincerity, but frankly the meaning has become fucked up.  No one means what they say.  It’s rote, routine.  Meaningless.

I no longer accept it.  I am done, finished, finito, kaput.  C’est tout.

Instead, you can just say what you mean:  “Fuck you, bitch!  I totally meant to pull out in front of you in traffic today because YOU SUCK!  And I’m just generally pissed off!  For no apparent reason!  And apologizing seems to placate you!  And saying it makes me socially acceptable instead of being seen as the fucktard asshat I really am!”

There.  Doesn’t that feel better?  Say what you mean.  It’s all there anyway, why hide it?

You know what REALLY pisses me off?  Parents who forcibly make their kids apologize.  “Johnny, tell Aunt Mimi you’re sorry for scuffing her floor with your shoe!”

Johnny’s not sorry because Johnny had no idea he did anything wrong.  Even if he had asked Aunt Mimi why she is so fat he was doing nothing more than being a kid.   A curious kid.  A kid who wasn’t issued a copy of the Holier-than-Thou Manual of Grownup Social Mores and is clueless about having done something wrong.  And even if he did something that he knows is wrong, like, say, breaking one of Aunt Mimi’s 12,000 Precious Moments figurines, why humiliate the kid?

True Story?

Try to imagine The Bitch at age 4.  Tiny Bitch.  Like most really really smart kids, Tiny Bitch is a little socially retarded.  Not a lot of friends at age 4.

So Tiny Bitch is out front in the driveway washing her tricycle, the green one that was a step up from the tiny red one.  Its almost time for a two-wheeler with training wheels, but not quite.  All Tiny Bitch has is her tricycle, and she’s fucking proud of it.  Mom and Dad wash their car, so why not wash that tricycle?  The garden hose is handy for that sort of thing.

Here comes Prissy, the 3-year old baby next door.  Tiny Bitch knows Prissy is a bit of a weenie and a baby, so she doesn’t usually do more than ignore her.  But Prissy is interested in the tricycle-washing process.  It’s fascinating, really, this idea of washing one’s tricycle.

So Prissy comes back over pushing her own tricycle.

Tiny Bitch has warmed up a bit to Prissy by this point and is feeling magnanimous.  Handling a garden hose in the warm sunshine can have that effect.  Tiny Bitch is feeling so magnanimous, in fact, that she wants to help Prissy wash her tricycle.  Tiny Bitch and Prissy, they’re bonding now.  Over tricycles.  And a garden hose.  It’s really quite a beautiful thing, this thing they’ve got going.

Prissy isn’t very good with the hose.  She accidentally sprays Tiny Bitch a tiny, wee bit.  Tiny Bitch thinks this is funny.  After all, she’s the one who makes real pies out of dirt and mud sometimes; why wouldn’t playing with water out there in the warm sunshine also be fun?

Tiny Bitch takes the hose.

She sprays Prissy with it, a lot.  Tiny Bitch is laughing because she knows Prissy knows how much fun this is.  It’s warm outside and they have bonded in the sunshine.  With the tricycles.  And the hose.

Prissy’s laughter stops.  Her face gets red and twisted.  She looks funny.  She runs away.

Tiny Bitch finishes washing her tricycle, alone.  She wonders where Prissy went.

Mom comes out, her lips pressed in a white line.  She grabs Tiny Bitch by the arm, just above the elbow.  It almost hurts.  She makes Tiny Bitch walk up to the door of Prissy’s house, the house next door.  Tiny Bitch has never been to that door and she is feeling scared, a little.  The door opens.  An angry lady stands there, waiting for something.  Mom tells Tiny Bitch to say some words and she says them.  Robot.  A scared robot.

Then Tiny Bitch has to put her tricycle away, and the hose.  She knows she will never be washing her tricycle again.  But what happened?  They were having fun.

And yeah, The Bitch has gotten over it, thanks for asking.

“Sorry?”  Nine times out of ten, maybe more, it means shit.

Someone dies?  We say “sorry.”  As if that could possibly convey the enormous amount of grief and pain people feel at such times.  And hell, maybe we’re not actually sorry, maybe the guy was an asshole and there’s this sense of relief (mixed with shock, dismay, and a distorted reminder of one’s own mortality) that he’s not going to be telling his stupid blonde jokes in the office anymore, but we can’t say that.  It isn’t “done.”

We also say sorry for running out of potato chips.  Or for stepping on someone’s foot accidentally.  Or for running over their cat.  See any problem with this meaningless one-size-fits-all word?

I do.  And I’m over it.

Say what you mean and mean what you say.  Simple.  And don’t fucking apologize to me unless you mean it.

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Vigilante vegetarians fucking crack me up.

They’re all, “I don’t eat anything with eyelashes!” and then they force-feed us pictures of sad Bambi-eyed creatures destined for the slaughterhouse.  These people claim they believe in non-violence, yet have you seen how violently they thrust those dangerous pamphlets at you?  Dude!  Those things are dangerous!  A corner could put somebody’s eye out.  Or cause a paper cut.  Non-violence MY ASS.

Another thing.  Vegetarians, veg-what are they called?  Oh.  Vegans (whatEVERR).  Those people.  The ones who patronizingly refuse to eat the food “God”* clearly put here for us to dominate and exploit?  They seem to be missing the larger point.

Everything is alive.

That means that salad you’re so condescendingly consuming, thinking you’re doing a Good Deed for Mother Gaia by only eating non-animal things, is alive.  Alive and has a consciousness.  Are you okay with that?  Can you live with yourself?  You’re okay with killing the potential grandchildren of heads of lettuce?  Ew!  You eat HEADS??!  EWWWW!

There are two options:

1.  Become a breatharian.

Come on, it’s fucking real.  You could live on air and light if you were enlightened enough.  Not yet ready to give up Krispy Kremes?  Read on.

2.  Do what the Bitch does.

Don’t give a fuck.

Everything is alive and everything has a consciousness.  So what?  For centuries people killed stuff and ate it.  They were grateful.  They acknowledged that they were taking a life, taking the energy of what they ate.  They knew they were taking the energy of whatever they consumed into their bodies.  Or they killed stuff and ate it and weren’t grateful.  It didn’t make a difference. Everything is alive and everything is energy.  Energy is energy is energy.

Sue, you’ll probably FEEL a whole lot better if you eat real food, acknowledge its aliveness, and hold that in gratitude.  Animals do.  We don’t see them on their knees praying, but who decided what gratitude looks like?  Being present is one of the highest forms of gratitude there is.

And if you want to stalk your neighborhood with a crossbow so you can bag your neighbor’s cat (or better yet that yapping little ankle-biter dog-in-a-handbag-thing next door), so be it.  I’ll look the other way.  As long as you’re grateful.

The important thing is to be at peace with your hypocrisy.  The Bitch is.

Oh, I know what you’re thinking.  You’re thinking about extrapolating this and talking about war and shit.  For the record, war sucks.  It ruins lives, kills people needlessly, and just, well, sucks.  In the larger scheme though it’s no big deal.  We live, we die, sometimes peacefully, sometimes horribly, but we always die.  And then we get to do it again.  That’s a sort-of comforting thought for those who believe it, but if you’re into thinking this is an existentialist one-shot deal, One Life to Live and then BANG you’re dead and cold and decomposing, well, then life sort of sucks for you.  It also sucks if you think it’s all angels and fucking harps and virgins all day, because dude.  BORING.  One virgin, you’ve fucked them all, basically.  Who wants that all day long, every day, into eternity?  It’s WAY more fun thinking life is a fucking GAME and we’re here to PLAY and shit.

So taking that further, animals and bugs don’t really much care when you kill them either.  Sure, what bug LIKES getting squished, but if you’re tapped into Bug Central you pretty much know you’re part of the oneness of everything and eventually it all sorts out again.  No big deal.  Again, that’s in the Big Picture, and though meanwhile Bambi’s there looking at you and your shotgun with liquid, imploring eyes, thinking about how much it’s going to fucking HURT when you shoot him and Thumper, you can ignore that.  Bambi does that to fuck with you.  Can you live with the memory of his accusing eyes burned into your retinas?

Then go ahead and shoot.

P.S. The Bitch is a vegetarian.

*we are all “God”, so this is moot, but whatever.

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Fuck.  You think you know me but you don’t.  How could you?  I’ve been a total cock tease.  But you don’t know me at all.  So here’s another piece:

Although I’m far from routine and I love change and creation, there’s a certain beauty in efficiency.  I read a LOT of blogs.  And I’ve established a useful routine to quickly get a glimpse at what I’m looking at whenever I check out a blog I haven’t seen before (by the way, leave me a link to yours and I’ll be sure to stop by; the more interesting your comment is, the faster I’ll beat a path to you and whatever it is you offer):

1.  Theme.

Is it navigable?  Is it predictable? (please give me something that sets you apart!)  Do I like the colors or are they, frankly, boring?  What can I tell about you from the header?  (for instance, are you a dime-a-dozen stab-me-in-the-eye-because-you’re-boring-as-hell-when-you-talk-about-that-cute-thing-your-kid-said mommyblogger? I can spot you and your custom header a mile away.  If that’s not you, carry on.)  Is your site cluttered up with every badge and ad known to the universe?

I know you’re proud of your blog, but look at it from the eye of someone who doesn’t care about you.  Like me.

Oh, and if you are still using Blogger, you’re an amateur.  I won’t even mention MySpace (without suppressing my gag reflex).

2.  Writing Quality

Fuck, people, this goes without saying, but…spell-check your fucking posts! And learn something about grammar!  Not sure where to put your commas, if at all?  Not sure what a run-on sentence is and if you commit them?  Don’t know what a sentence looks like that you end a preposition with?  Then LOOK IT UP, PEOPLE!  Before you put yourself out there be sure you are delivering a quality product.

[eye roll]

Which leads me to the writing itself.  You can have lovely spelling and dainty little-finger-lifted grammar, but boring is boring is boring.  Is boring.  Seriously.  You would not BELIEVE the huge number of fucking abhorrent eye-bleeds of blogs that clutter up the wasteland that is teh innernets*.  Don’t be that.  Learn to write a sentence, a paragraph, that’s compelling.  One that makes people want to read the next one, and the next.

You can practice here.  And you can read this.  Don’t like those?  There are only a zillion other examples of really good writing out there.  Find some and study them.  Take bits and make them your own.  And practice.  Pretend you don’t know your story and are stumbling onto it for the first time.  Write for the person who doesn’t know you.  Or care.  Like me.

Make me care.

Oh, and for those who snivel, “I’m only writing for myself so it doesn’t matter!”, YOU LIE!!  If you were only writing for yourself then you’d be writing in some spiral-bound blank doodle book with pictures of uber-cute puppies cavorting all over the cover, making little circles over your lower-case i’s and stashing the whole thing under your bed so Mom won’t find out you that went to 3rd base already.  If you were only writing for yourself you wouldn’t be writing a fucking PUBLIC BLOG.  So stop lying to yourself.

3.  About Me

I love breaking rules, especially my own, but you need something somewhere that tells people Who.You.Are.  You need people to care.  But don’t do the whole TMI thing, please.  (Unless that’s your “thing.”  But only make it your “thing” if you’re really really sure you can pull it off.  Otherwise, steer clear of TMI.)

Think about who you are.  You’d think this’d be obvious, but there are tens of thousands of bloggers out there inflicting themselves on the world who have no fucking clue who they are.  And that’s okay in a cute bumbling self-explorative way, but … it gets old.  So allow for change, check in with yourself once in awhile, and show who you are becoming.

Write it down.  I totally go right for the About Me page every single time.  I want to know who I’m dealing with.  I read about the top three posts (unless they’re fucking novels, in which case I scroll down for the punch line and get out before the Tentacle of Blog Boredom slithers through the screen of my Macbook and pulls me in.  No way do I want to get sucked into somebody’s annals of banality), have a look at the blogroll to see who else they read, and then go right for About Me.  So make yours entertaining.  Make me want to comment.

4.  Comments

Everybody knows its a sad sad blog post when the only comment is from Aunt Martha or BFF Jen/Jess/Heather.  Don’t be that.  A hallmark of a good blog is the quality of the comments.  Good bloggers foster a sense of community, or at least enough snark in their responses to make you want to check back and see what they said to yours. Good bloggers also write about stuff that’s interesting enough to generate interesting comments.  So make it easy.  I’l be judging you.

But what about you, Bitch?

Yeah.  What about me.

1.  Where do you live?

In a city of glass, where the homeless root through that day’s recycling.  And there’s wifi.  And sushi.

2.  What’s your real name?

Fuckmenow.  My porn name is Fifi LaBouche.

3.  Were you kidding about your shoe size?

Not at all.

4.  What makes you so special?

I’m little.  Yellow.  Different.

5.  Really?

Of course not.  I’m an anorexic Amazon.  But like I said before, I am like no one you know, and I am like everyone you know.  I just say it out loud.

*irony is in this year.

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You know her by sight.

She’s the woman who walks confidently up to the head of the line you’ve been standing in for five minutes, speaks quietly to the person in charge, and walks away smiling.  She got what she wanted.  She also got what you wanted, only you didn’t speak up.  Pussy.

She’s aggressive.  And I mean that in a good way.

Aggression is simply the ability to come right up against boundaries, meeting them, time and time again.  You know people like this.  You may also be able to reproduce it yourself on occasion.  But why not all the time?

It’s the dreaded “nice” thing, isn’t it?

Yeah, well, it’s too bad that “nice” also equals “doormat.”

(To be clear, we’re not talking about kindness here.  Being an aggressive bitch is not incompatible with being kind.)

You want to be that person, the one who gets what she wants?  (or he, either way)  Follow these simple steps:

1.  Get clear on what you want. This may be the most difficult part.  After all, to be clear about what you want takes some doing.  Some insight.  Some self-awareness.  And you have to put aside those inner fuck-you-over Voices Of Doubt.  But once you do all that, what remains is, simply, what you want.

Oh.  One thing about this.  Understand that what you want is subject to change.  And it’s OKAY that it changes.  Expecting yourself to remain perfectly constant at all times for now and forever into the future is like dooming yourself to robothood.  And we don’t want that.  We like you all soft and pliable.  So do allow for some change.

2.  Say what you want. Go ahead.  You can practice right now.  Yes, out loud!  It really only counts if you do it out loud.  Tell someone, anyone, your naked self in the mirror even, what you want. And let it be wild, if that’s what you want.  Like kink?  Then fucking say so!  But say it.  Say what you want.  You’ll never, EVER, get it unless you do.  Sure, I can read your mind (and I know what you’re thinking RIGHT NOW, perv) but no one else does.  So unless you want to put you life on hold until you’ve surrounded yourself with a bunch of fucking mind readers, say it.  Say.  It.

3.  Expect what you want to be handed to you. If you don’t truly believe you’ll get what you want then you’re sending out mixed messages.  Make your message crystal clear:  THIS is what I want and I am SAYING what I want and I EXPECT it now bitch!

Truly expect it, though.  Which means you may have to examine those underlying thought-patterns and identities that are preventing you from getting what you want.  But when you hold yourself with perfect confidence, the world responds!  Things fall into your lap.

See how easy it is?  You’ve probably already done this at least one time in your life, noted how great it felt … and then fell back into that doormat trap again.  Well, get your head out of your ass and get the fuck out of there!  Check out the boundaries you sense around you and push back at them a little!  And above all, have FUN with it.  Life doesn’t need to be so fucking serious all the time. 

If you’re not having fun, you’re not doing it right.

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Here at New Age Bitch it’s a policy to never keep things inside that are chafing.  No, we let them out.  Alllll the way out.  It’s a proven fact that holding things in creates problems and discomfort.  Holding things in leads to an eventual eruption.  Hold something in that’s longing to come out long enough and you end up with a messy premature ejaculation of emotion.

People do this all the time.  You do it too, I can tell.  You hold things in.  You keep what you think inside you, what you feel, what you believe.  You wait for the right time, or to be around the right person, or to find the right moment.  You hold things in because you’ve been trained from infancy to do this.  Crying only works when you’re in diapers, and most of you aren’t hardcore enough to pee yourself and sit in your own shit all day just so you can tell it like it is when you feel like it.  You’re such a sucker.  There’s never gonna be a right time, a right person, or a right moment.  You have to take life by the balls and make it yourself.

But what about tact?  Social niceties?  Can you really expect to be able to say everything you think at a given time simply because it’s there inside you and New Age Bitch says let it out?

Actually, yes.

Do you really want to go around for the rest of your life holding in all that stuff that’s eating away at your insides?  Wouldn’t you rather get it out and be done with it?

Don’t answer that.  If you haven’t left to go buy yourself a jumbo box of Depends (and you know who you are…and soon we’ll know too), you’re still with me.  And you’re nodding your head yes.

(Isn’t it cool—in a creepy way—how I can see through your screen like that?)

There’s one easy way.  You like it the easy way; I know you.  You want self-awareness, but you also want someone to tell you who you are.  Okay, I’m fine with irony.  Whatever.

Scream.

That’s it.  Scream.  Good, long, and hard.

(Yes, we’re still talking about screaming.  Unless you’re the one who went out to buy Depends, in which case I can’t help you change.  Literally.)

Really.  Scream!  Right now!  Go ahead.  Take a good deep breath, lift your head a bit, and let one out.

There.  Didn’t that feel good?  Now do this every day.  Maybe ten times a day if you’re holding in a lot of shit, which you probably are.  Most of us are pretty fucked up in that department.

Want to cry now?  You’re not alone.  Letting out what’s been pent-up for so long brings up other buried emotions too.  So go the fuck ahead and cry.  I’ll mock you, but so what?  In ten minutes you’ll be feeling so much better that you won’t care.  In ten minutes, after some good hard screams and that cry, you’ll feel lighter.  Cleaner.  More like yourself.

I dare you to try it.

What have you got to lose?

Like the Bitch? Dude. Of course you do. Then go ahead and subscribe to my RSS feed!

Because you can believe anything you find in print these days, you probably already know this, but there’s been an actual outcry to bring back The Bitch.

Why, thank you!  But I’ve never left, people.

Neither have a whole lot of other bitches.  You can probably think of at least one right now.

Being a bitch is more about acknowledging your own perfection in whatever state you happen to be in than it is about backbiting and catfights.  I’ve never gone in for that stuff myself; I’d much rather have it out in a public fair fight than hang out in virtual backrooms and alleys.  Being a bitch means knowing yourself and being completely okay with that.  Being a bitch means calling people on their shit, even if that person sometimes is yourself.  Being a bitch means telling it like it is.  Not to hurt feelings, but realizing that sometimes people’s feelings do get hurt and it’s far worse to hold your breath and walk around on eggshells and sit on something unspoken but obvious than it is to just let it out and let the chips fall around your cankles.

So how can you let out your own Inner Bitch?  I’m here to help, people, here to help.

1. Get clear on who you are.  The rest pretty much follows from there.
2. Stop judging.  Yourself, other people, whatever.  Just stop.  Now.  Life is too fucking short for that shit.
3. Take a deep breath and hold your head up a little higher.  I swear this works.  Trust me.  Plus it’s what gets Dooce through the day (that and a good stiff handful of meds, and blogging, and a bunch of stuff.  Being Dooce is complicated).
4. Just say it.  You know you want to.  Whatever it is you’ve been holding in, it’s time to let it go.  Now.
5. At least once a day, utter this sacred mantra loud and proud:  “WHAT THE FUCK!”

There.  Again I’ve done my duty by you.  Now go forth and multiply!

Like the Bitch? Dude. Of course you do. Then go ahead and subscribe to my RSS feed!