Ah, 1997. Remember Teh Internets back then*? Prodigy. AOL. Dial-up! The height of technology was the Hamster Dance, one of a horrific endless plague of cute little tiny animated GIFs. Remember them? Those little suckers were everywhere, at least until somebody discovered they cause the mass repeated application of a fork to the eyeball.

Ow.

But 1997 was the year The Bitch discovered the concept of Ascension. That’s right, Ascension! It’s The Rapture, except with patchouli! What, you’re unfamiliar with The Rapture? Not to be confused with the raptor (although they’re alarmingly similar and both involve lizards!), The Rapture is the concept that Jaysus is returning amid the noise of a zillion celestial trumpets, and when He does he’s taking a bunch of deserving folks with him, beaming them right up into heaven from their cars on the freeway or from digging in their fridges for a midnight snack or from whatever other clean and holy daily activity (not sex) the 144,000 super-special Chosen might be engaged in.

You just can’t make this stuff up. People believe this.

But hello, the New Age has sprouted its own can of woo-woo. So let’s talk about the Year 2012, shall we? People pay good money to hear The Bitch talk about this stuff all the time. Here’s what she has to deal with:

1. The Mayan Calendar ends! In 2012! OMG!

2. And look! The solstice! DECEMBER FREAKING 21st — THAT CAN’T BE A COINCIDENCE! THE WORLD IS FUCKING ENDING!!!!!!!!!!

3. Those Mayans, they were onto something! So! Freaking! Wise! They predicted the internet!

Back in 1997, the year 2012 seemed a million zillion years away. It was safe to scoff. And The Bitch was sitting there hunched over her dusky purple Sony Vaio PC, madly Googling (Google didn’t exist yet but whatever, The Bitch cleverly thwarted this problem by 1) knowing the future and 2) using the simultaneous nature of time to simply transport herself ahead a few years to 2006 by when Google The Trusty Search Engine That Could had become Google The Omniscient and All-Powerful, and 3) the Vulcan Mind Meld) the word “ascension” and coming up with things like “Ascended Masters.”

Woo-woo alert.

This is a test. This is only a test. If this had been an actual case of woo-woo, the signal you just heard would be followed by instructions telling you how to access the 5th Dimension and to dematerialize your body into its crystalline form.

Oooo, Ascended Masters? Just so you get this straight, there is no concept of “up” or “better” when it comes to human spiritual evolution. In fact, using the word “evolution” implies that there’s some sort of linear action going on. Humans learning lessons and advancing to the next class in the next lifetime. And while that’s a semi-useful analogy that allows people to grasp the fact that HEY PEOPLE, LIFE IS ABOUT HAVING EXPERIENCES AND MAYBE LEARNING FROM THEM, the whole thing of “older is better” is a load of crap. Old soul? Sounds awesome, right? Old souls are, like, enlightened, right? Not fucked up. They meditate every day. They’re so pure! OMG I EVEN TOUCHED THE HAND OF AN OLD SOUL, I’M HEALED!!!!

(However, I’m just better than you, let’s face it.)

So, What Up, Bitch? What about the ascension thing? People want to know! And is the world ending or not? Because I need to know whether these tightie whities I just bought are gonna last me for the duration or if it’s safe to buy some new ones between now and 2012, you know what I mean? (Men buy less underwear during a recession, you just can’t make this stuff up, people!)

So here’s the deal.

Humans, we are a-changing. You think evolution was a thing to get us to HERE and then stop? Why, how egotistical of you! Can’t you imagine something DIFFERENT or maybe even BETTER, genetically-speaking, than what greets you in the mirror every morning? (The Bitch sure can, she’s SEEN your ass in the mornings, and it is NOT PRETTY) So yeah. DNA and all. It’s changing, ever so slightly, all the time. Into what is your best guess but The Bitch votes for the power of flight. Also the elimination of farting (hey, if you’re going to dream, you might as well dream big) and maybe also grammatical errors, although without those The Bitch will have one thing fewer to mock people about, so we may be rethinking our Evolutionary Wish List.

2012 is just a year, sort of. Hello, who came up with this year-numbering thing, anyway? Oh, oops, the Chinese don’t use the same number format, do they? Also the Hebrews. Is their world ending in a different year? Or not at all? So numbering is arbitrary. In fact, almost any time you come across numbers (unless it’s The Bitch’s bank account and you are making a large deposit of small unnumbered bills), they’re arbitrary.

And 2012? It’s sort of a tipping point. A marker. You can look back 100 years afterward (providing you’re still alive then, which hello, looks unlikely) and say, “Oh yeah, looks like things changed. Huh.”)

You’re creating the world we live in. (NOTE: The Bitch did NOT say “you create your own reality.” Here’s why.) So we agree the life is changing. People are changing (if you want to say “evolving,” fine, I won’t stop you, but let’s agree that what we really mean here is learning how not to pick our noses, or at least how to pick them without getting caught doing it, not that “evolving” means anything remotely special unless you figured out the flying thing). We agree on that. And since we’re changing, and the world is changing too, why not agree to change it in a way that’s meaningful to all of us? More porn? Why sure, and thank you! (Oh, we figured that one out already. Fine, go on to the next one.) Holding hands and singing Kum-bay-yah? Uh, okay, but is that really the world you want to create? I’ll pass on that, thanks. But give me a world where people feel connected to who they are, and can communicate without using fucking guns or bombs to do it, and that’s a start.

But let go of the 2012 thing.

*Fast forward to 1:00; you’ll thank me.

Dudes, you welcomed The Bitch back with open arms. Awesome! (Next time, a little deodorant, maybe? Think of others before you embrace so fervently.)

And now the pressure is on. Fine. In the last eight months or whatever, The Bitch has had plenty of time to hone her already razor-sharp wit, to fine-tune her startlingly astute opinions, and to separate out the New Age bullshit from the sweet sweet perfume underneath the steaming pile.

Which is why we’re talking about Signs and Omens today.

How many times have you heard this:

“I was seeing these plus signs everywhere, just EVERYWHERE … blue ones! Especially on those little white sticks that Xerxes kept insisting I pee on. Isn’t that wild? It was totally a sign, that’s what I kept telling Xerxes, a sign. And next thing you know we’re engaged. Want to see the ring? I told Xerxes that he was supposed to spend two months’ salary on it, and he said something about paying for it with blood, something about ruining his life forever? But whatever, I mean, we’ve already set the date and all, and I have all those darling blue plus signs to thank for it!”

Or this:

“11:11. It’s EVERYWHERE. The microwave. The alarm clock. In the car. We’ve been seeing it for weeks now. Eleven eleven. So we’re going to name our daughter that. Eleven. It’s a sign.”

Sound familiar? Another nutzoid making important life decisions based on what they think a clock is telling them.

ALL HAIL THE CLOCK OF WISDOM!

I’m sure that darling little Eleven (or Evelyn, as her parents will sheepishly change it to a few months later, or perhaps Elven if they’re total LOTR freaks, and if you know what LOTR means then you might be one too, but you’ve already named your kids Frodo and Arwen which means I just cannot help you, sorry) will appreciate someday knowing that her parents were slaves to a hunk of plastic that plugs into the wall.

I can hear you whining already in that miserable pleading voice, “But Bitch, I KNOW that signs are telling me something! I just know it!”

Yes, and they are. They might be telling you that you need more fiber. Or that your mouthwash is, apparently, not doing its job. Or that you need to sell all your belongings and dress in long shapeless garments made of handspun hempen flax and stand barefoot at freeway exit ramps, attempting to stare passing drivers into submission with your newly-acquired laserbeam stare.

Or, they might be telling you nothing of consequence at all.

You have to decide which.

Signs do have meaning, though. Let me explain. First you have to understand that the You as you know yourself to be is just a small and puny part of the overall You That You Are. So say that we are all actually M&Ms. The part you know yourself to be (“Mr.Personality”) is the colored candy shell — thin, easily cracked, and melts in my mouth, not in my hands. And the bigger, wiser, and frankly more substantial part (“Chocolate Soul Brother,” or just “Soul” for short) is what’s inside the candy shell — complex, has a wider perspective, hangs out on the astral plane, etc.

Mr. Personality is kind of stupid. Well, one-dimensional. He gets caught up in day-to-day life, like about who gets to eat the red ones, and forgets the big picture. Soul, on the other hand, has got it goin’ on. Soul sees clearly the whole big picture and then some. Soul has this loose plan-thing, stuff he’d like to accomplish in a given lifetime, but he’s got to keep Mr. Personality from getting too distracted by things so they can get anything done. Soul is more or less the brains while Mr. Personality is the brawn. Soul can’t do much on the Earth plane because Soul doesn’t have physical form except as expressed by Mr. Personality. They need one another. This works pretty well except for one thing. Communication. The thing is, they don’t speak directly to each other most of the time. It’s weird — you’d think that chocolate and a candy shell could talk to one another, but they don’t speak the same language.

So they resort to signs.

Say your soul needs to tell you something. Like maybe it’s time to stop picking your nose and scratching yourself and to start doing whatever this big Life Plan stuff was that you signed up for. Since your soul doesn’t actually have arms, it can’t wave them wildly in front of your face to get your attention. Instead, you get little nudges. Like to look at the clock once a day, say, at 11:11. After several days (or maybe weeks, depending on how dense you are) of this, you suddenly go “OMG A SIGN!” and then madly start Googling 11:11, soon becoming convinced that the world is ending IN JUST TWO YEARS and you’ve got to help prepare, so you sell everything and move to New Zealand, where you hope that both the proliferation of sheep there and the space-time continuum regarding reverse drain flow in the Southern Hemisphere is going to save you.

Now, if you had been paying attention, and trusted yourself instead of Google The Omniscient to determine the course of your life, you might have taken those 11:11’s for what they were:  nudges. And then, if you were smart, you’d simply start listening for more. You’d ask questions like “What is this sign really telling me?” (hopefully you are not asking this out loud in the presence of your boss) and then wait for an answer to take shape. Doing this, frankly, takes trust in yourself and also in the connection you have to yourself on a soul level.

“But Bitch,” you whine again, a confused puddle on the floor, “How do I KNOW? What the signs are telling me? Can’t you tell me, pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease?!!!!”

Well, sure I can.

But do you really want to trust me with The Rest of Your Life? How do you know I won’t tell you that you need to shave your head, paint yourself green, and become a lamppost in order to find enlightenment? People are so quick to give up their own power and just hand it away to some stranger. Use yours. Trust The Bitch — you do have inner wisdom.

“But Bitch!” (this whining thing is getting out of control) “What about Omens! YOU SAID OMENS!!!”

Oh. Yeah. Those.

Okay, two, no three, schools of thought on omens, which are signs foretelling the future, right?

1. School #1. Time is simultaneous (that’s right: past, present, and future are all in this one big amorphous Now), which means that omens telling the future, or at least pointing to a possible future, are not a crock of shit and can exist. CAVEAT: like signs, omens also mean what you think they do. In other words, their entire meaning is the meaning you give them. If you think, for instance, that seeing two crows walking hand in hand (wing, beak, whatever) across the street means you’re going to meet this fabulous guy to walk hand in hand with for the rest of your life (or until one of you gets tired of it, which is reality people, let’s face it, and we’ll talk about this “forever” nonsense another time), then SO BE IT, IT IS SO, it is done, amen.

2. School #2. Omens don’t mean shit and you can’t predict the future.

3. School #3. OMG! I live my life doing everything the signs tell me! Also not stepping on cracks! And holding my breath in tunnels! And OMG black cats! And ladders!

(HINT: The answer is not #2 OR #3)

TO REVIEW: Signs are a way of your soul kicking you in the head. Pay attention. Then listen. They mean what you think they mean. Don’t ask other people what they think your signs mean; your signs are for you and if you ask other people you’ll only get their opinion and why are you giving your power away like that? Listen to yourself, pay attention, and be cool.

Also: in the U.K. please substitute “Smarties” for any reference to “M&M’s” in this post. We apologize for any momentary confusion.

Now go forth and spread the wisdom! Also tell everyone you know.

Holy shit, people. It’s 2009.

True story:

I was driving down a deserted country road somewhere in New Mexico, or maybe upstate New York, last December. I hear this WHOMPWHOMPWHOMP noise at 70 mph and I pull over. Yep, the left rear tire is flat. Shredded. Oh, fuck, I think, do I even have a jack? How many years has it been since I changed a tire anyway? And what about my nails?

Fuck. I get out of the car. It’s cold and I know my fingers are going to freeze off.

I’m digging around in the trunk trying to remember what a jack looks like when I hear a car approaching. I look up. Scratch that — it’s not a car, it’s a pickup truck. Filled with big burly dudes in plaid hunting jackets. This could get ugly. The truck stops. The big burly dudes sit in the cab of the truck, three of them. Do I even have an umbrella in here? Any sort of weapon? I knew a judo throw once. That might work. I consider the use of my 5-inch leopard heels as ninja throwing stars.

Suddenly there’s a HUGE ELECTRICAL ZAPPING SOUND in the air right above my head. I look up and see something huge, shimmering, can’t tell what it is, right above my head about 100 feet up. No shit. Burly dudes don’t seem to hear the sound, don’t see it. They’re still conferring on the best way to roast juicy thighs of New Age Bitch over an open fire.

And then …

ZAAAAPPPP

The pickup truck is lifted, I AM NOT SHITTING YOU, right into the air. Burly dudes and all. Into a giant alien spacecraft.

Oh, and also my flat was fixed.

So I got down on my knees and thanked the Baby Jebus for fixing my flat tire and then I went and did what anyone would do in this circumstance, which is to go straight to the National Enquirer and sell my story, which I did for $250 and a coupon for the Olive Garden, and then I got a job at Wal-Mart, which is where I was until yesterday when someone cashed out my drawer and took my red smock and nametag and POSED AS ME so I figured it was about time to start blogging again.

Oh.

What?

Not believable enough? Which part was it? It was that my flat got fixed, wasn’t it? I wondered if anybody’d call me on that one.

Okay, so true story:

I was driving down a deserted country road somewhere in New Mexico, or maybe upstate New York, last December. I hear this WHOMPWHOMPWHOMP noise at 70 mph and I pull over. Yep, the left rear tire is flat. Shredded. Oh, fuck, I think, do I even have a jack? How many years has it been since I changed a tire anyway? And what about my nails?

Fuck. I get out of the car. It’s cold and I know my fingers are going to freeze off.

I’m digging around in the trunk trying to remember what a jack looks like when I hear a car approaching. I look up. Scratch that — it’s not a car, it’s a pickup truck. Filled with aliens. No shit! Little green dudes in plaid hunting jackets. They rolled down the window and looked at me. They said stuff.

Dld;dd;;fioijsdjsjitiur5u.  Iotityutiiititrjttuyyyydfofofoeeeikkkklllpp. gj? yyywww&&%^mmbNNifdlgrjkncdxk@@.

I performed my Amazing Mind Reading Trick and was able to understand what they said. Perfectly.

“Hey, get a load of that!”

“Yeah, can you believe those shoes? In this weather? Five-inch heels and snow just do NOT mix! Plus, NOBODY is wearing leopard this year. That’s so 2007!”

“You’re so gay, ZZryyp.”

“I know you are, but what am I?”

“Shut up, both of you! We need to convince this human to return with us to our planet to help propagate our species. Our search for someone who can understand the complexity of our nine different genders and three different species densities  must be successful! You know as well as I do that without help we’ll all die. Can you both shut up long enough for me to talk her into going with us?”

“I will if HE will.”

“I’m making no promises.”

“Fine. Whatever.

They looked at me. I looked at them. One of them cleared its throat. Choking sounds started coming from it, like a cat being strangled underwater.

“Fine,” I muttered. “I’ll go. Just have me back by the end of the year, okay?”

The alien dudes turned a brighter shade of green, which since then I’ve come to know is their way of showing pleasure. Whatever. Save an alien race? Sure, I could do that. And I’d be back by the end of the year.

I forgot to specify WHICH year.

So, whatever. Life went on without me. I used to be on Alltop. Now, apparently not. I used to have a readership. Now, well, hi.

But The Bitch is BACK, baby. And we’re gonna have us a time, talking about things. Like breast implants. And toothpaste tube middle-squeezers (you know who you are). And climate change. And new age woo-woo crappiness (not to be confused with new age awesomeness, but if you’re good I’ll tell you how to know the difference).

So, are we cool? Tell your friends.

P.S. Do not, DO NOT, under any circumstance ever utter the phrase “Anal Probe” in my presence. Do NOT. Unless you come prepared with lube.

You know how I feel about memes, but I’m still masticating on the post ideas you gave me so I stole this one from Avitable. Stole at least one of his answers, too. Or did I? That’s for you to figure out.

9 Layers: a meme to peel away the layers of you.

Layer One:
Name: New Age Bitch, or just Bitch. You choose.
Birth date: 12:20 pm.
Birthplace: Mom says it was vaginal, but my memories of it are hazy.
Current Location: On your screen. Staring at you. Right now.
Eye color: Depends on the light.
Hair Color: Upstairs or downstairs? Be specific.
Height: Let me stand by the door at 7-11 and then you tell me.
Righty or Lefty: The Bitch is ALWAYS right.
Zodiac sign: Guess.

Layer Two:
Your Heritage: One part shameless whore, two parts bitch, one part deliciously mysterious.
The shoes you wore today: Fuck-me pumps, obviously.
Your weakness: I have a weakness?
Your fears: Being out of control.
Your perfect pizza: Is that a euphemism?
Goal you’d like to achieve: The Bitch has done it ALL.

Layer Three:
Your most overused phrase on AIM: Who uses that anymore?
Your first waking thoughts: Fuck.
Your best physical feature: Tits. Told you that already.
Your most missed memory: Could you repeat the question?

Layer Four:
Pepsi or Coke: Ew. Neither.
McDonalds or Burger King: Ew. Neither. (Who eats that crap anyway?)
Single or group dates: We talking gang-bang here? Not for me.
Adidas or Nike: New Balance.
Lipton Ice Tea or Nestea: More crap. Great. No wonder you suck.
Chocolate or vanilla: Darrrrrk chocolate.
Cappuccino or coffee: Tall skim double-shot latte. Duh.

Layer Five:
Smoke: Only when I’m on fire.
Cuss: Fuck no!
Sing: Every day.
Take a shower everyday: It goes with the singing.
Do you think you’ve been in love: I’m in love all the time.
Want to go to college: Again? What for?
Liked high school: Are you serious?
Want to get married: Again? What for?
Believe in yourself: Only when I click my red shoes together three times.
Get motion sickness: Only when riding that mechanical bull.
Think you’re attractive: I’m fucking gorgeous!
Think you’re a health freak: No, but you would.
Get along with your parents: Yes, after I buried their bodies in the backyard.
Like thunderstorms: I love them.
Play an instrument: Several.

Layer Six: In the past month….
Drank alcohol: Yep.
Smoked: Haven’t been on fire in the past month, so no.
Done drugs: Only the type I can inject directly into my eyeballs.
Made out: “Made out”? Who wrote these questions?
Gone on a date: Fuck.
Gone to the mall: Haven’t been on fire in the past month, so no.
Eaten an entire box of Oreos: Don’t they come in a bag these days?
Eaten sushi: Yes.
Been on stage: Naked or clothed? Be specific here.
Been dumped: Never.
Gone skating: Uhhh. No.
Made homemade cookies: Picture that, will you? I mean seriously.
Gone skinny dipping: It’s fucking December. Brr.
Dyed your hair: Upstairs or down?

Stolen anything: Layer Seven: Have you ever….
Played a game that required removal of clothing: Several. I’m especially good at Strip Trivial Pursuit.
Been trashed or extremely intoxicated: Define “extremely.”
Been caught “doing something”: Doing…what?
Been called a tease: I always follow through.
Gotten beat up: Are you serious?
Shoplifted: Once, and I was wracked with guilt for years afterward. Still have nightmares.
Changed who you were to fit in: Are you serious?

Layer Eight:
Age you hope to be married: Dead. That would do it.
Names of children: Tremor, Scream, and Haggis.
Describe your dream wedding: Oh, fuck.
How do you want to die: In bed.
Where do you want to go to college: We covered this already.
What do you want to be when you grow up: Me. Which is what YOU want to be too, let’s face it.
What country would you most like to visit: Iceland.

Layer Nine:
Number of drugs taken illegally: At one time?
Number of people I could trust with my life: Stupid question. Who puts that kind of responsibility on someone else?
Number of CDs that I own: Who owns CDs anymore? Never heard of bittorrent?
Number of piercings: Only 6.
Number of tattoos: Only 2.
Number of times my name has appeared in the newspaper: Several.
Number of scars on my body: Who counts scars?
Number of things in my past I regret: Zero. Zilch. Nada. None.

Wanna do this meme? Fine. Go for it. Link to me, bitches.

Well well, so another calendar page blew off the wall and it’s December again. Do you care? Except for all the stress you feel when it’s December? Too bad you can’t enjoy it, but no, you’re too busy waiting in line at Wal-Mart, or trampling poor scrawny temp workers who just wanted to make some extra Xmas dough to save up and buy that set of matching NASCAR towels they’ve been coveting all year, or tick tick tick clicking away making Cyber Monday deals and sending your credit card balances spiraling upwards. Fun, eh?

So whatever. Christmas. let’s put the Christ back in Christmas, shall we? Or better yet, let’s not and say we did. Because frankly, that’s another good idea that’s been twisted way out of recognition. But again, whatever.

No, I want to talk about me.

Looks like my last post was a bit of a bust. What, put off by the talk of masturbation? See, it’s something everyone does but won’t admit to and doesn’t want to talk about. Whatever. There were comments but I saved them from your tender ears. Eyes. Whatever. Because it’s slightly creepy when there’s someone who really DOES want to talk about masturbation. In detail. So…no. But hey, no skin off my nose because The Bitch didn’t actually write that post. If you look carefully you can see that the magic codes usually embedded that hypnotize you and make you think I’m a genius and sleep like a baby the night after reading my posts were missing. See? Yeah, those. So whatever.

I mentioned before that The Bitch has been busy and that doesn’t seem to be going away any time soon. It’s not that I don’t love you, because I don’t, at least not THAT way, but some of us have a life. Maybe even you. Most assuredly YOU, anyway. But you can all look forward to more Bitchposts in the future. That could be an empty promise but you’ll either have to keep coming back repeatedly or subscribe to be sure, won’t you?

Oh, and I’m taking requests. Because I’m out of original ideas and may as well use yours. So put them in the comments.

Chances are you see this every day:

I made that one up. So what. But guess what it is?  If you know me, you’ve probably already guessed.  Masturbation.  Using, of course, my amazing, new, tried-and-true technique! (Only available if you visit my alter-ego porn site and subscribe for $119.95 a month. I guarantee it’ll help you more than seeing your shrink. Because, guys, it WON’T make you shrink.)

Politics, like a lot of life, is filled with this shit.  I will not lower your taxes!  Through me you’ll have jobs! Security! Wealth! A winning side! A scapegoat! You’re the “best country in the world”! I’ll tell you anything you want!

Why do you fall for this, time and time again? Obviously, because you know it’s true.  I have something you don’t have that you absolutely NEED. The Bitch is self-assured, relaxed, all-wise, all-knowing, all-powerful, and I can give you all you ever need. Just suck up to me.

Wait … not *that* way. (Your mind is totally in the gutter. Get it OUT of there and listen up.)

Remember a short while ago we talked about what you really want?  You still don’t know what you want if any of this appealed to you in the slightest.  Because I just told you what you do want, what you’re missing, and how to fill that huge hole in your soul that I just told you you have.  And a part of you still believed me.

So what’s the problem here? What am I venting about?

We are raised to be good, upstanding members of society.  Put in other terms: we’re raised to be disconnected from our Self and each other. We’re expected to be unquestioning, to be totally believing of others’ bullshit, and to be bowled over by peer pressure.  If we have to make a tough decision – like in the photo – chances are we whine, “what should I dooo?” Not what we WANT, but what we should do. If you’re really fucked up, which means you’re “normal”, you’ll be translating “should” into “want” in everything you do so as not to appear like the indoctrinated mush of putty that you are.  What you want is exactly what you’re told that you should want. No need to listen to that silent inner voice; it’s already muzzled.

All this sales shit is geared towards that gnawing emptiness you believe is you. It supports it and creates it.  No matter how “enlightened” someone is, if they’re trying to get you to improve, there’s some of that crap there.

If you pick up a New Age magazine, what you’ll see is more of the same: advertisements, solutions to your problems, products, more happy-sounding thoughts and shit to fill that empty hole that is your soul.  But it will only connect you to Who You Are if you stop believing you’re that pile of mush.

I’ll tell you what the Bitch likes: being treated like I’m already enlightened. Because I am. Yes, I still have pain, angst, anger (like that doesn’t show), and a hell of a lot of estrogen. And balls. My idea of enlightenment includes that. And you’re enlightened too. Even without the masturbation (or with, because dude—whatever blows your skirt up).

Oh yes, and I go for the penguins.  Not the bus.

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.

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.

[Click to embiggen.]

Is this fucking awesome, or what?  Tag cloud made courtesy of Wordle.*

*You do know what this is, right?  The Bitch painstakingly typed in ALL of the words ever uttered here at New Age Bitch, fed them laboriously into a computer the size of a refrigerator, and eight point seven hours later, this was the result.  This is what The Bitch talks about.

Now go play with this and make sentences out of it.  Go on.  I know you want to.

Oh, fuck.  I’ll start.  Here:

Post saying, “Fuck life! Talk fucking!”  Thought: deep, hidden.  Look!  Just someone stop!  Stupid…

There.  Now go play, will you?  Life is too short to fucking take it seriously.   Get your kicks where you can.

I read a Twitter lament recently from someone lambasting the bazillions of homeowners who got in over their heads with loans they couldn’t possibly repay, and it got me to thinking about what made those homeowners sign away their first-born with blood on a dotted line made of precariously leaning towers of sub-prime greed.

1.  They were sorta greedy.

Everyone wants the American Dream.  You know what I mean:  the 4 bedroom 2.5 bath 3-car-garage behemoth in the suburbs, where nobody walks and you drive through two miles of identical rows of identical houses to a big fresh new-smelling mall where everyone gathers to eat by themselves in the drive-thru lane of Burger King, or if it’s a special night they wait 90 minutes for a table at Applebee’s or Olive Garden and eat the same thing thousands of people are eating all over the country at the same fucking time. 

Yeah. That dream.

That’s the dream that has sold 5 million iPhones.  That’s the dream that skyrocketed Wal-Mart to its place among the walking undead of capitalism. That’s the empty dream that millions of people have been chasing for years.

2.  They were sorta stupid.

They didn’t do their homework.  They thought, as many did, that the bubble would never burst, that the markets would continue to go up forever, that a real estate investment is a sure thing and not the crap shoot that it really is. Tons of people have bought into this mindset, so if it’s you, you’re not alone. But do you know how many people willingly put themselves into hock for $300K, $400K, or more based on the emotionalism of “But honey, it has a three-car garage and a jacuzzi!”*

3.  They believed the loan officer.

We believe doctors, lawyers, and anybody sitting on the other side of a desk from us.  Why?  Because they display their diploma on the wall behind us! 

This gives them the ability to know what is right for us?? Hardly. But we fucking do it all the time. Somehow that white coat, that desk, that diploma, renders us incapable of making a decision on our own and gives the person wearing that white coat or brandishing that diploma the Ultimate Authority to Decide Our Lives.

So fucking stop it. Stop giving away your power. Stop thinking that other people know more about you or your life than you do. Because the Bitch is fucking tired of it.

You do this, you know you do. You’re a nice person, right? So you’re concerned about what people think of you, right?

ZINNNNG!

That’s giving away your power. The SECOND you second-guess yourself about something because of what someone else might think or say or do, your power goes right out the window. You might as well sign over the papers to it right now. Go ahead. Sign ‘em over.

“But, Bitch!” I can hear you whining right now, “Those people, they’re Experts! They went to school and stuff! I don’t know ’bout birthin’ no babies!”

Yeah, and I’m sure you heard at some point that a third of doctors and lawyers graduated in the bottom third of their class, right? What makes you think these people know any more than you do, especially when it comes to YOUR FUCKING LIFE?

“But, Bitch!” You’re still whining. “I’m just being respectful! These people went to school and they studied and they, like, KNOW stuff!”

Shut up. Shut. Up.

Do you hear yourself?

Do you hear that sucking sound?

That’s the sound of YOUR power being sucked right out from inside you, YOUR power that you’re willingly giving away to anybody else, ANYBODY but you.

Why?

Because you’re fucking afraid to own your own power.

True.

You’re afraid. We’re taught to fear the power we all are born with, the power we all own. We are taught to just give it away to anybody who seems more educated, smarter, or more powerful than we are. We are not taught to own what we came here with.

The thing is, YOU are the person who knows what’s best for you. Sure, a loan officer, a doctor, a lawyer is going to have some specialized knowledge that comes from schooling and experience that maybe you don’t have.

But you still have the ability to know what is right for you. You just don’t believe that you do. It’s easier to give it away and trust someone else, and to hand over your life and your future to someone else. It’s easier to do that than it is to own what you came here with.

Trouble is, if you decide to own your power, then you also own the consequences of the choices you make when you own your power. You can’t blame anyone else anymore. Are you willing to do that? Are you willing to look to yourself not only for your power but also for whatever happens when you make (gasp!) a mistake?

If you can do THAT, then you automatically have a toehold over everyone else in the universe. You make choices, you make choices that feel shitty and so feel like mistakes, and you learn. Ba dum bum. That’s life. But it feels a helluva lot better than giving away your power and feeling fucking helpless.

Take back your power. Take back your life. It’s YOUR life, after all.

*Okay, that was a rhetorical question, but if you demand an answer, it’s this: A FUCKING LOT OF THEM! ALMOST EVERYONE YOU KNOW! There, was that specific enough?