In Case of Emergency – Twirl in a Field.

In case of emergency – freak the fuck out.

Lately, I’ve been insanely busy with life. And I mean EVERYTHING that life entails. Everyone and their mother has been so far up my ass, I couldn’t tell you where they start, and I begin. Football games for my little boogerman, bake sales causing encounters with my arch nemesis, job interviews from Hell, and slight misconceptions of what I can physically handle.

I haven’t written on this blog in quite some time, trying to get my other one off the ground, but I must say I MISS YOU ALL. Adulting is Hard, period. (But, if you haven’t checked it out yet – it’s right HERE. Subscribe, comment, or seethe with hatred. Either or.)

So, here’s some absolute shit that has been happening in the life of Misty lately.

I’ve been sober for 6 months and some change (Thank you, sweet baby Jesus) and so far, so good. I haven’t had insanely overwhelming urges to go use, which is surprising because everywhere I look, I see people relapsing.

Overdosing.

Dying.

It physically hurts to see this. Diva called me the other day telling me all about how a close family friends son was released from jail, and immediately went and got a bundle of dope. A few moments later, he overdosed – his friend who was with him, passed away while he laid there unconscious.

I can’t imagine how he’s feeling right now. The guilt. The shame. The absolute grief that overwhelms the body and soul. The inner battle of using again just to make the feelings go away..

I become so consumed in the feeling of being blessed, I can’t help but fall to my knees, and thank God for the second chance, and for my family who has stuck by my side even in my darkest hour. But in just one second I could be right back in that spot where I was.

In that familiar darkness. The never ending hole of despair, my nails bleeding from trying to climb out, my soul crushed and barely hanging on.

The trick to staying sober, is embracing your addictive tendencies. Kind’ve like, ‘keep your friends close, but your enemies closer’.

My advice would be this…

Keep it on the surface and never, ever, let it be pushed down and ignored. It’s a serious disease. I’ve come to the brink of death dozens of times, and you would think I would’ve just have been like “Ah, well apparently this shit is dangerous, so I’ll just – you know, stop.”

If you were in a car accident every time you stepped in the car, would you drive again? Or would you say, fuck that death trap of metal, and walk your happy ass to where you needed to go? Exactly. A car would be the enemy. Your kryptonite. The one thing that could take you out in a seconds notice. You know this. You accept it, and you avoid it.

Why can’t addicts do the same?

I can’t give you the answer to that. I honestly do not know who can. All I know is, is that I’m embracing who I am, and dealing with it every single day. I’m breathing it, living it, and trying my hardest to come to peace with it.

Do I base my life around my addiction? Yes. Yes, I do. Think I’m going to go to the bar with some old friends because its one of their birthdays and they invited me? No. That’s like someone who’s allergic to pollen walking through a field of flowers in spring, twirling and singing like the girls do in tampon commercials.

It’s just unrealistic. When I’m on my period, I’m in sweats and swimming in my sea of blankets, all the while shoving chocolate and Doritos in my mouth. Not to mention, in between chomps I’m nagging at the fiance for leaving the toilet seat up or not clipping his toe nails to my liking.

You’re twirling in a skirt in a field? I’m twirling my hair in my fingers trying to figure out how I got Cheetos dust in it when I clearly haven’t eaten those cheesy, crunchy gods in 4 days.

Pickin’ up what I’m throwin’ down?

I hope so. Because, this Adulting shit is exhausting.

When Adulting turns into Black-sheeping.

No, dear readers, I have not died, nor have I randomly relapsed and overdosed myself into an early grave. I’ve been ‘ghost’ (clever girl) for over a week, setting things up and being pissed at the world for my horrible wishy-washy ways. I’m surprised I haven’t had cover ups on all of my tattoos because I cannot seem to be dedicated to one idea.

While adulting is definitely hard, someone else must have thought about that beautiful little gem before I… Bastards. How dare you be more creative and on point before I had the chance to think of it?

Rude.

That, my friends, is when it hit me. Right in the face. A sucker punch of creative juices slopped across my tired mug while I was coming back from a long day of laser tag,  movie theater sitting, and experiencing the wonders of 5 Whits…. With a side of Dave and Busters. (Minus the alcohol, obviously. Still clean, and still dapper as fuck.)

Black sheep chronicles.

I know. Amazingly accurate.

So when I’m finished tweaking my site, expect huge things to come. I’m stoked as all hell, and you should be too.

My new beginnings of new beginnings before my previous new beginning…

Little Blacksheep is far from “on fleek”.

blacksheep2on fleek: [fleek] – the quality of being perfect, or on point i.e. Zayn Malik

To be the black-sheep of the family is an honor in my eyes – I am different, the ‘outcast’, the minority. I shall wave my black-sheep flag proudly, and smile at all the cookie-cutter buttholes that look my way. Since I can remember, I was looked at differently in my family. My father and his friends would call me black-sheep, and it just became the norm. No issues, no “WHY GOD, WHY AM I THE WEIRDO?!”, definitely just accepted that I was unique and rocked that shit. When Sister would listen to her pop music, I’d be painting my nails black and jamming out to Incubus or Metallica. ROCKED. THAT. SHIT. Who wants to be a carbon copy of someone elses version of perfection? Or how the kids say nowadays, who wants to be “on fleek”? I don’t. (btw, for the record, I do not say that. To be 100% honest, I am not friends with people who say that. So don’t. Like, ever.) I am flawed. I am a beautiful mess, y’all. I have a small gap between my two front teeth and used to HATE it, wanting braces so no one would pick on me (Not like Madonna or Amy Winehouse, and definitely not like that girl from the commercial who says, “Get  the London look.) But looking back now, and seeing all of my other positive qualities, I say screw it. Its cute.

My flaws make me who I am, and I’m pretty fucken rad. I always rebelled against any authority figure, though. You tell me to blow my nose, I’d probably pick it and fling it at you like a little turd. As I got older, I got into more trouble – sometimes involving ‘the fuzz’, which was super fun in a really terrifying way.

And when I say that it was “fun”, what I really mean is, “I will never do that again”. Ever. There’s definitely nothing like standing up at the podium waiting for the judge to figure out if he wants to ruin your day by sending you to the clink. There is no escape. For example, this will not happen:

God “I find you guilty, and I sentence you to 60 days in [whatever towns] justice center. No bail.”

You “Wait, what? Actually, sir, that’s not going to work for me. I’m not really feeling that – I think I’ll just say, “no thanks” and get outta here. Thank you so much for the offer, though.”

So instead of getting myself into that kind of situation, I’ll refrain from doing anything illegal – I’ve got children and nobody really likes raising their kids through letters and weekly visitation.

There’s a fine line between good and bad black-sheeping. Yes, I said ‘black-sheeping’. It is a word.

Well, now it’s a word. Cause I said it was.

Anyways, like I said, there’s a fine line – some are good. You may just be introverted while the rest of your family are social Gods, and instead of joining them you sit and play WoW in your basement and lick Cheetos cheese dust off your fingers. Shrug. No, I’m not speaking from personal experience. I swear. *crosses fingers behind back*

Then there’s the bad – like, if you were to be a Satan worshiping sadist while your mother and good ol’ father (who’s a reverend) goes to church every Sunday and you make lists of who to massacre at Sunday school. Yet again, not personal experience. Real talk though.

I’m the black-sheep of my family because I never listened. Always had to learn the hard way, no matter what the consequences… Lately I’ve learned to take a little bit of advice, even if it kills me swallowing it down. I’m a stubborn asshat who needs a good reality check every now and then – thank God for families, because I keep them on their toes, and they keep me on mine.

Black-sheep’s unite, tell me your story.