Slowdive-Crazy for You

irritable, restless, discontent

no it’s not my bowels.

it should be my middle name .

grr. grr. grr. grr.

I just realized

**a good number of my blog posts are about me bitching about not blogging**

Time to change that.

I will no longer start each new post whining about how regretful I feel that I haven’t been blogging regularly. I will now just blog. About. Whatever.

Which is sort of how I roll anyways.

Or, I will not blog at all.

Which will pretty much speak for itself.

There. I am empowered.

so much for that last idea

I should know anytime I put myself out there with some sort of “commitment” of  writing something, it’s pretty much a nail in the coffin for whatever bright idea it was I had.    

In this case it was my !new and improved! hard-hitting and edgy! gritty and REAL! recovery blog. My initial idea was to check in on a daily basis for the first year of my recovery and detail every horribly uncomfortable white-knuckle moment with searing truth and RAW, stripped down emotion.  

The only problem is…is that right now, I have no emotion.  For the past two weeks I have been as dull and flat as I was when I was an awkward prepubescent. Ok, bad analogy. But flat. Flat is accurate. It’s not even depression, I don’t think. I’m not sad. I just don’t give a shit. About anything.

At least when I was drunk, I felt something…even if it was stupid, and like shit.

I think the term is anhedonia. It would be a pretty name, Anhedonia. But not with my last name. Anhedonia Lee is just stupid. Anyways, it’s sort of  like being the walking dead.

It’s the awful kind of grumpy-funk that makes hours of semi-catatonic head-nodding to Foster The People the most thrilling part of of my day. Yes, Foster The People. I know. I should be shot. The Gigamesh mix of that daffy song is pretty festive, I must say.  I hope secretly I’m not planning some Virginia Tech kinda freak-out massacre. Nah. I’m just sadly enjoying really really awful music. I am old and way past my peak freshness.

I was going to create a new blog, but I am lazy. The LeDonna Lounge has lost it’s liquor license and I had to shut down the opium den. Now it’s tea and Tchaikovsky for this party animal

Hi. My name is LeDonna. I am an alcoholic/addict.

There. I said it, publicly. Well I say it in public already, but in social networking terms.

**sigh** It pains me, but it’s time to come out of the closet.  No, I’m not gay, at least not today. I am referring to accepting and admitting that I have a monkey on my back. (He’s kinda cute though he’s one of those blue-assed baboons you see at the zoo and on the Discovery Channel)

As if no one really knew, right? Spoiler Alert! LeDonna is a batshit crazy alcoholic and drug fiend. (I know, it’s such a surprise, I was always so together and level-headed) I have been for, sadly, most of my life. From the day I started to produce those crazy hormones, I have been addicted to: Something.  I think it started out as food, then sex, then alcohol, then theft, then drugs. Surprisingly never smoking cigarettes, thank God because I can’t even begin to fathom the cost of that beast. Not to mention if I smoked the same way I pursued all my other obsessions, I’d be one of the Marlboro Man’s junkie exes that puffed her way into an early grave. Praise God for asthma. My painfully wimpy lungs actually had my back on that one.

So yeah, back to the drunk part. I recently for the umpteenth time in the past 5 or 6 six years, put my self back into a program of recovery. Why? Well because I’m a drunk **duh!**

I never ever really wanted to label myself as an alcoholic or addict even though over the years I have created countless monstrosities in my life and destroyed just about everything in my world as a result of the consequences of alcohol and drug abuse. And pretty much the whole world knew how bad of a trainwreck I was, I was way too ashamed to talk openly about my struggles, partly due to fear of the stigma, and partly because…well, I never really wanted to entirely quit getting fucked up for the whole rest of my life. I simply could not  fathom not being able to go back home to Houston and party with all my old friends (who sadly, I suspect many of them suffer from alcoholism as well), not being able to go to shows and clubs and bars and happy hour and airplane travel…and never have a drink again. I fucking love to drink. I love getting high. It’s not all about masking pain, it’s a lot about all the “pleasure” I could only seem to derive from altering my mind. It was the only way I could socialize, have any degree of identity or confidence, the only way I could unlock what I thought was the “real” me. I love euphoria. Euphoria’s great, especially when the other alternative is feeling like complete shit.

I’ve struggled with depression, attention deficits, massive anxiety and what I now can recognize as bizarre mood swings, ever since I can remember really. The predominent feelings I had as a child were total and complete fear  and worry. At the age of 5, I was already a tiny female Woody Allen struggling to make sense of a world around me that was way too overpowering and intimidating. I was scared of my parents, I was scared of food, I was scared of the weather, I was scared of school and all the horrible foul turdmonsters of kids who laughed and teased me relentlessly because I was soft and pudgy and dressed like Shirley Temple from 1936 transplanted to 1976.  From the moment I walked into LaPetite Academy I was called fatso and blimp. And that was just the beginning of what seemed like endless days and years of being hit, pushed around, pulled off gym equipment and shoved in a corner to be pinned down while gravel was shoved in my mouth. Why? WTF??? I had no clue, I hadn’t even said anything to anyone. To make things worse, I was quite sickly and a pathetically picky eater, and as a result I was constantly either puking or shitting my pants, which of course e

ndeared me to everyone. Even the staff didn’t seem to like me.

Welcome to my little world and enter ginormous social anxieties and appearance issues that have plagued me my whole entire life. From as early back as I can remember, I always remember feeling uncertain if I was cared for or even liked. I doubted anyone I met would be anything other than…well, pretty much mean. It was so weird, so bizarre. I don’t know why I percieved things the way I did but it set the stage for a pretty much sad lonely childhood and freakishly awkward adolescence. Once I experienced the relief alcohol provided from all my troubles, I thought I had literally died and gone to heaven. I had found my Holy Grail.

So this blog I am now going to use to finally once and for all air out all the shit I should have been journaling for the past 35 years, and document on a daily basis step by step the path of my recovery. I really hope not too many people read it, as it is going to get pretty dark and personal, and I’m not ready for evyone in my life to see just how effed up my life really is. Actually I really do, because I hope my stories might help someone else out there that is suffering. You are not alone, little freaks. You are not alone.

Funny How I can Never Think About Anything To Write When I Force Myself To Blog

Ok, so I have decided to commit myself to blogging about something and completing at least one post per day.

Of course, when I force myself to do anything, all inspiration flees from my brain, and I just stare at the blank page like Helen Keller after a severe brain injury.

So…now that I have to write, what will I write about today? Hmm. Let’s see. What has been most prevalent on my mind? The Osama Bin Laden hoax? The decline of the American dollar? The world potentially ending in a few days? No…although all of these things have been weighing heavily on my mind and causing me extreme anxiety, I can’t say that these are the thoughts that have been ruminating in my mind with the most frequency.

What I have been obsessing about the most lately is kinda embarrassing. No, it’s not my increasing incontenence. Or my superflous nipple. Or even pornography.

It’s salami. Yes, you heard me, salami. And no, this isn’t some thinly veiled euphamism for penis. I’m really talking about salami, as in the genoa kind. Well, cured meats of all kinds really. Proscuitto, soprasetta, coppa, finocchiona, mortadella, pancetta, (ohhhh…pancetta!) breaseola…the list goes on and on. My new favoite is a varity from Volpi, their Pinot Grigio salami, which is a delectible salami flavored with…you guessed it…pinot grigio. They also make chianti and rose flavors as well, all of which are lovely, but not as delectable as the pinot grigio. Columbus makes wine-infused versions as well, but the flavors tend to be more overpowering and cloying than the Volpi, particularly the cabernet. If left to my own devices, I can easily devour an entire 8oz. log in one sitting. And no, despite what you may think, I don’t just graw on it and try to suck out the alcohol in a pathetic attempt to get a buzz. Well, ok, I did once, but found out it didn’t work, and only gave myself heartburn.

I have been eating salami or another luscious cured meat witha small loaf of crusty french bread every single day for the past…I don’t know…few weeks? I think I need an intervention. Do you know how expensive of a habit this has become? Damnit, I knew it would be cheaper if I just became a smoker.

Fortunately, I have not gained any weight as of yet. But if I keep this up, I’m going to need an angioplasty in no time.

Here is a picture of my favorite salami…doesn’t it just look scrumptious? I mean, you can’t really see it because of the packaging, but I can assure you, it is a very beautiful and enticing sausage indeed.

Well, all this talk of sausage has made me hungry, so I guess I’m gonna head up to Whore Foods now for my daily fix. DO NOT JUDGE ME PEOPLE!

What are some of your favorite cured meats? Please, write in with your comments, I would love to live vicariously through your descriptions. Also, feel free to send me samples. And remember salami gift baskets make a fine gift, no matter what time of year. Hickory Farms gift cards are also acceptable and appreciated. Grazi!

I think I’m entering my Golden Years. I think.

I am working on a parody for this poking fun at our crumbling economy and the collapse of the American Dollar! Hooray!

Jimmy Fallon, I’m Calling for You!

I am writing a song solely and specifically designed to categorically and methodically woo and fetch me one Jimmy Fallon. No, not for such nonsensical sexual purposes like you think I would be attempting to woo Mr. Fallon for. (Although, this girl could only dream). This is a song I am going to make a video to throw on You Tube and do my damndest to get his attention.  And honestly, in this crazy viral video age, I don’t think it’s going to be that hard. If Rebecca Black can do it, I sure as hell better be able to trump that.

It’ll be kinda like an audition! But better, because I’m sure I’ll flash my boobs. Oh wait, I guess I could do that in person too. I just know if I could spend just one hour…well, any length of time…face-to-face with Jimmy, he would see my talent, and he would love me. Period! I have years of material I have worked on and never shown anyone…lest I jinx its magic!  I have been saving it for one man. One man. One man that I seriously believe that if I could get an appointment with him, and had my goods together…we would be good to go. Solid Gold.

I am tired of dreaming. This is my life, and I’m about to make some magic happen, you just watch. 🙂

My song is cute. It is kick ass. And when the time is right…you’ll get to see it. 😉

Appropro

In light of Scarlett’s marital woes, I am dedicating one of her own songs to herself. I think she will find it it fitting, touching, winsome… or perhaps just  a touch annoying. But whatever. She’ll at least be happy that I was thinking about her, I’m sure. (*Yes, we are close like that*)

 

And Isn’t it Ironic!

And who would have thought? It really does figure!

I find it highly, highly amusing and am really tripped out by the synchronicity here….

So, If you (who care) can recall, I believe it was Ryan “Sexiest Man Alive” Reynolds who ditched (and whyyyyyyy, because “you outta know” that if you do this, she’s gonna write a really hateful song about you) Alanis Morrissette back in 200-oh wtfeverland, because he was so sooper hot he was gonna bag the world’s most favorite ooberbabe ( or shall I say, ‘booberbabe’? ) Scarlett Johansson.  Which he did, he bagged her, dragged her and tagged her as his wife, in a union that at the time I thought was kind of weird, because at the time…did anyone ***really*** know who Ryan Reynolds was?

So now, it looks like Ryan’s choking on a little jagged little pill called Scarlett Johansson dumping his **truly** handsome ass, leaving him with his own case of Scarlett Fever, and his own ‘Scarlett’ Letter to boot (the letter would be be “D” for dumbass, that’s what I’m thinking). So where exactly do they put Scarlet Letters these days…do they get branded on the ass, like a cow? Or are they still embroidered on a handsome ascot or kerchief of some sort? I guess the new hip way would be to get it tattooed, like on your forehead. Now that would make a statement.

The even funnier piece to complete this sad little travel puzzle for those who wear helmets, is that Alanis has moved on, and actually managed to spawn her new baby boy in an almost astrologically brilliant touchdown move that coincides and actually somewhat trumps the date of the filing of her former estranged lover’s divorce petition. Huzzah~!!!!!!! Ah ha ha. Exquisite.

And the even BETTER part…the lil’ box o’ massengill apparently has gone back to Alanis for “support” during this tough time. I hope secretly, she kicked him in the ballsack, just a little, because obviously, he outta know by now, he had it coming to him.

I think maybe Ryan and Dave Coulier should get together and maybe start their own little support group, where they could meet up at the movies and reminisce about their happier times with Alanis.

CDInsight.com – News: Alanis Morissette Gives Birth to Ever Imre on Christmas Day.

 

Crap! I don’t like how these photos are going to layout, but I have no more freaking patience.