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.

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.

Much of what’s included in the vast umbrella of woo-woo loosely called the New Age movement is actually a thinly-veiled attempt at making people feel crappy about themselves.  And it’s pissing me off.  Let’s talk about one now, shall we?

The Old Soul

“Oh, you’re such an old soul!”  or “He knows SO much, he HAS to be an old soul!”

kajsfkfkef,.llkkkkk  (that was the sound of me retching with contempt)

You’ve heard this before.  Old = Better.  Old = Wise.

Strictly and reincarnationally speaking, an “old” soul is someone who’s been around the reincarnational block a few dozen times, with multiple lifetimes to show for it.  But age doesn’t correlate with wisdom, at least not in a linear fashion.  Sure, most chronologically older people, in order to survive that long, have acquired at least some basic common sense skills, but there ARE 60-year old retards out there.  Old people come in all shapes, size, and IQ levels, just as anyone does.

Ergo, old souls = same fucking thing.  NOT necessarily better.  They just have more experience.  Sure, they COULD know better about certain life experiences, having done them before, but all of us are stuck in this same earth-plane funhouse illusion-factory where nothing makes sense and we’re not given any fucking rules or even a map so we have to make up our own.  Every time.

So yeah, I’m [hypothetically] an old soul, but I’m [hypothetically] just as fucked up as you are.

But the thing is, we’re ALL of us pieces of the Same.Thing.  The same universal energy source that is All That Is.  Not only that, but we’re not even pieces!  We just have conveniently fooled ourselves into thinking we’re separate from anything else around us because we’re in these bodies wearing skin that separates us from one another in our minds, but REALLY we are EXACTLY the same as the gum on the soles of our shoes.

So not only is there no separation between any of us but there is no difference, really in soul age.  Old soul, young soul, fuck that.  Time doesn’t exist except in our limited human perception so there’s really no such thing as Old-anything.  ALL souls are equally wise, ALL souls have equal access to the universal energy source that is All That Is, and ALL souls have equal access to whatever rules there are down here, the rules of being human.

There’s no better.

There are just different ways of perceiving.

And just because you can’t truly grasp anybody else’s way of perceiving things, and they can’t truly grasp yours, does not make theirs better.  Or yours.  Just … different.

(Except for me, of course, because I’ve got everything figured out.  But you knew that already.)

Ever have one of those panicky moments when you realize that whatever crappy previous post you wrote not only truly sucks about as much ass as anything you’ve ever written but also it’s ZOMG on the FRONT PAGE, deterring THOUSANDS OF POTENTIAL PRESHUSS SUBSCRIBERS?!!!!!

Yeah.  Me neither.

Listen.  What we need around here is a little good old-fashioned handholding.  I know, I know, it’s not what you’ve come to expect from me, but … We are the world.  All the world’s a Coke.  This is the dawning of the age of Aquarius.  Free to be you and me!  I’m OK, you’re OK.

Group. Hug.

Okay, shake it off.  That’s enough.  Hey!  You there, with the woody:  that was NOT the intent of our hug.  You therefore are BANNED from all future and subsequent group hugs and huglike events.  We may even have to completely redo the t-shirts.  We can’t have people going around wearing THAT!  Somebody text Cafe Press!

Sorry, folks.  I’m afraid we’re going to have to cancel all future and subsequent hugs because SOMEbody couldn’t keep his hand out of his pants.  We may even have to cancel CommentLuv.  Wouldn’t want to spread some nasty VIRUS or anything just because there may have been inappropriate…contact [shudder].

People.

(You know, there are people who think I’m a misanthrope just because I hate people.  I seriously don’t get that.)

Oh, who am I kidding?  All that love-and-light free-to-be crap?  Not me.  I can’t pretend, sorry.

But … there’s something awfully compelling about it, isn’t there?  The siren’s call of sweetness and light?  If I just hold my breath and cross my fingers and don’t step on cracks and wish really really really hard, I’ll get a pony!  And unicorns!  A rainbow unicorn! Seven of them!  One to match each day of my day-of-the-week panties!

Unicorns my ass.

Oh, don’t get me wrong:  unicorns are TOTALLY real.  They just prefer not to be associated with rainbows and little girl’s panties.

Unicorns, REAL ones, are total bitches.

If I were most bloggers, I could throw a stupid fucking little lolcat link up here and call it a post.

But The Bitch has a little thing called blogtegrity.  So, no fluff posts here.

Instead I’ll tell you more about myself.  You may have noticed that I’ve been somewhat-intentionally coy about revealing too much about myself so far.  Well, that’s about to change.  But rather than tell you who I am, I’ll tell you a little teaser-taste of who I am not.

I’m not gender-confused; I am most decidedly a woman.

I’m not afraid to talk about how I feel, even if that has consequences.

I’m not going to manage your feelings; I have enough to do managing my own.  I do believe in tact and kindness, though.

I’m not fat, or ugly, or stupid.  If you are any of those things I’ll be glad to tell you, but you probably already know.

I am not likely in this or any other lifetime to run for political office.  Though if I did I’d be way bigger than Colbert.

I’m not at all immune to those who require compassion, but I realize that those who desire it the most are those who lack the ability to be compassionate to themselves.

I’m not like anyone you know, and I am like everyone you know.

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.

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?

A regular feature here at New Age Bitch is the blasting of New Age stereotypes.  Pretty much every post chips away at them, but from time to time we’ll take on some woo-woo concept and make sense of it all.

Today’s topic?  Vibration.

I hear this word and it makes my eyelids want to turn inside out.  Vibration.  There it is again!  What does it mean?

“Raise” your vibration. (Huh?  What is my vibration anyway?  How do I get one?  Raise it?  How?!  WTF?)

One thing at a time here.  Vibration refers to how the particles of matter that make up your physical being are connected with one another.  Everything vibrates. Everything is vibration.  Nothing is truly solid; everything you can touch, taste, smell, see, or hear is made of particles with spaces between them.  And those particles are always moving.  The rate at which they move and interact with one another is vibration.

You with me so far?  Good.  Keep going.

Again, everything vibrates.  You do, your clothes do, the chair your ass is glued to does, and so does what you had for dinner, the air you breathe, your computer, the window you stare vacantly through from time to time, everything. Even thoughts, intentions, etc.  But we’ll get to that later.

(Oh, who am I kidding?  You don’t care a fat fuck about vibration.  What you really want to talk about are vibrators)

Too bad.  Get your hand out of your pants and stay with me here.

To raise your vibration you make changes in your own rate of energetic self-movement to match what’s vibrating around you.  Most people do this without realizing it. It’s … just part of life.  You sense what’s around you energetically and you naturally want to be closer to that.  If it’s a forest of tall buildings and busy people milling about, you match that.  If it’s a forest of quiet eternal tall trees, you match that.  Easy stuff here.

The thing to remember though is that your vibration is just as strong/important/present as the vibration of what’s around you.  So just as you strive to make sweet non-dissonant hum with what’s around you, everything around you is matching you at the same time.

The thing that’s wrong about the phrase Raise your vibration is the implication that there’s something wrong with yours and that you must change.

The First Rule of Bitch is that You Are Never Wrong.

Seriously.  What have I told you before about your Inner Bitch?  If you constantly send out little vibrator-thought-waves of oh-I-must-be-wrong and everyone-else-is-better, then people will respond to that and help you make it true. But if instead you just say what-the-fuck and hold your head up high and send out vibrations (there’s that word again! my eyelids!) of I-totally-rock-and by-the-way-fuck-you-asshole then that’s what people will respond to.

Trust me.  If you want to be something, then stop focusing on what you are NOT and start just being what it is you want. It’s as simple as that.

I am constantly astounded by the amazing hubris exhibited by the human race.  We are a breed apart, aren’t we?  Thinking we own the entire goddamn world and everything on it and that everything revolves around us, a smelly and quarrelsome lot of ridiculous semi-upright hairless apes?

Take the whole global warming concept, for instance.  A group of classic British tight-assed mutual masturbators calling themselves the Stratigraphy Commission of the Geological Society of London has decided to rename our present geological epoch to reflect the huge impact we ridiculous hairless apes have wreaked upon this doomed planet.  That’s right, this is now the “Anthropocene” Epoch.

(Points if you can name what it used to be called.)

So why is this worth talking about?

Because the Global Warming concept is a SHAM, people!  You are being fucked over yet again by the slavering media and all you do is roll over meekly and murmur, “Thank you sir, may I have another.”  Do you LIKE being the media’s fuck-bitch?  Really?  And do you LIKE thinking of yourself, a smelly and quarrelsome ridiculous hairless ape, as being so self-important that the entire world revolves around you?

That last part I can’t help you with, but let’s get something straight here:  as a species we are trashing our planet.  There’s no question about that.  And it needs to stop, simply because it’s incredibly stupid not to.  But this trashing of the planet is not the cause of the temperature shifts that are occurring.

(I know!  That’s treehugging liberal blasphemy!  But I mock people on all sides of the party line, so don’t worry, your time will come.)

When we carried clubs and ran screaming after our food, we were too busy to keep temperature records.  Basing “trends” that are occurring now on the relatively short time we’ve actually been keeping such records is like choosing a President based on who gets the most media time closest to the election.  Which explains some of our abysmal choices.

So sure, it’s getting hotter.  Global hot flashes are not your imagination.   But that would have happened anyway. The Earth is just going through menopause, that’s all.  Soon we can expect dryness in sensitive areas and constant PMS.  Get used to it.

And get over yourself.  Then go turn off that fucking light you left on in the other room.  And while you’re at it, get a bicycle, recycle your shit and stop buying so much stuff, stop peeing in my drinking water, turn your Escalade into a home for illegal immigrants, and pick up some fucking trash.  And if we’re gonna rename this geological epoch, we might as well come up with a useful name.  Go on, make a suggestion.  I’m listening.

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!