Actually, I believe it is known as antinatalism.  I had no idea there were so many people passionately opposed to procreation, on the grounds that it morally indefensible to bring a child into the world when we know without certainty that it will lead to suffering and death.

Do you feel this is a crock of shit? I do, and here’s why. I believe that if I invited every antinatalist to commit suicide, I would get no takers. Why? Because they fucking want to live, that’s why! Even though life means suffering, THEY WANT MORE OF IT. But they don’t want to subject this thing they want more of, to any future beings.

I believe these avowed antinatalists are acting in bad faith by refusing to kill themselves. Shit or get off the pot, know what I mean?

Life is certainly filled with tragedy but as Woody Allen complained about a restaurant with bad food, the portions are so small!

By the way, I came upon this topic via Chip Smith, a provocateur (and antinatalist) whose website wants to make you mad, or at least ruffle your feathers.

While laying in my death-bed, I’ve been able to read the new Vogue magazine with a fine-tooth comb, so to speak. It’s filled with horror this month. I haven’t even begun to dissect its many insults, but a feature on the style of ‘real’ women introduced me to the self-centered Trophy Wife of John Mellencamp.

Former fashion model Elaine Irwin and John Mellencamp have named their two sons “Hud” and “Speck.”

What were they thinking?! Hud is just awful, but Speck? Did they name him after serial nurse-killer Richard Speck? Or was he just really tiny, like a little teeny speck of a baby?  Whatever, the Mellencamps are fucking idiots.

I am also a little disappointed in Brangelina’s name for their new boy, “Knox.” I see it is imperative that all their boys have an X in their names. Maddox, Pax, and so on.

But “Knox?” It cries out for the suffix, “Fort.”

Here is my list of suggestions for their next son (leaving out the too-conventional “Max”)

Tex
Tex Mex
Text
Fax
Lox
Vox

That’s it, I’m worn out. Any one got some more?

In the hospital, I shared a room with Dorothy, an 85 year old woman whose voice was weak and quavery.  Poor Dorothy had been in the hospital for four weeks without getting a diagnosis. She complained that her hands and arms were purple from being stuck with needles.

Dorothy was miserable. She suffered endless indignities, like a night nurse who inquired loudly “You need go poo-poo?”

One day, Dorothy’s son came to visit. I couldn’t see them behind the curtain that divided out beds. The son had a deep booming voice and began reading letters from lawyers, concerning a quarrel over her estate. Her younger son was mentioned and characterized as a shyster. The Booming Man, Gene, wanted to be named executor of the estate, instead of the shyster. Dorothy was barely able to respond. She probably just wanted a sip of water or a bedpan.

One night I started crying and told Dorothy that I just wanted someone to shoot me. She answered back, “Me too.”

When I’m back on my feet, and I will be, I’m going to find Gene. I’m going  to make him sorry for being a monster and a douchebag. I’m completely serious. That’s how I know I’m still me.

He’s better than a nurse, though. At least he’s not actually trying to hurt me. If he needed to stick a catheter tube up my bladder, he’d fucking well do it.

When I couldn’t pee and it went on for days, the nurse on duty couldn’t find my bladder. She went to get another nurse to help. The two of them stuck tubes up me, peering between my legs as though they were explorers on the Amazon River. “Where is it? It should be right THERE!”

They couldn’t find it. I started to worry that my bladder was now somewhere else. When they changed shifts, a new nurse, named Sol, rolled her eyes and promised “I find it.” She was a young Filipina with beautiful white teeth, and she knew how to find a bladder.

The temperature in my bedroom at home is around 100 degrees. I’m always sweaty. All my visitors complain about the heat but it doesn’t make any difference to me. I’m only concerned with degrees of pain. I experiment with leg placement, trying to relieve the pressure on my tail-bone. I smell awful but no one offers to wash me. My sister suggests Female Wipes. She also eyes my Oxycodone.

When I left the hospital in an ambulance, I had just started shitting after 5 days of laxatives. Morphine is constipating, as it turns out. My stomach was churning in agony but the ambulance had been ordered for 4 o’clock.

The nurse put me in an adult diaper, big enough for a 500 pound man. She put my friend’s cotton dress over my head and didn’t bother to zip it up. The two young ambulance guys lifted me onto a gurney, showing great respect for my pain.  One of them flirted with me a little, unaware of my shit-filled diaper.

Finally home on a hospital bed, I couldn’t stop shitting. Eventually, I lifted my body to the bedside commode with excruciating effort. I cried while ten thousand tons of Morphine marinaded shit flooded through my bowels with a sickening force.

The next morning I was still shitting. I chewed tablets that promised to stop the tide but nothing worked. By nighttime, my stomach was finally peaceful and most of the shit was cleaned up. Now I could return to worrying about constipation.

My husband bought bright red sheets for my home hospital bed. Friends are reminded of Frida Kahlo when they see me. I feel a new affinity with Frida. I am Frida without the paint.

If you throw up all over yourself and your hair, they yell at you in annoyance. “Why jou dint use the pan!” They cluck their tongue and tie your hair back as tight as they can with a piece of torn latex glove. That’ll teach you.

The instant you hit the pavement, your whole world turns over. You can feel all your organs rearranging inside you like planets.

After six days, the image of a squashed cockroach won’t go away. I’ve just inched across my bed using my arms to support me, dragging my legs together like a broken mermaid. If you move slowly enough, you might be able to avoid the stabbing burst of pain in your groin. The fractured tail-bone is always in play, but the pain from that at least stays where it belongs.

Any sudden noise or unexpected movement sends shock-waves of pain radiating from my pelvis. I jerked when a bottle of water spilled on my bed, and it took hours to move again. “Bones have feelings too,” my physical therapist explained. “It’s only been a week. Your body is still in shock.”

My helplessness only matter to me. No one sees it as a call to duty. My husband plays music in the other room, blasting all the bands I hate. When I call him name, he won’t answer. Finally, I start screaming HELP at the top of my lungs as if I were on fire.  Still, he won’t come. Just as I start to cry, he says “What?” He was taking a nap.

Thanks!

the webmaster

I’m embarrassed that I didn’t know anything about The Rake’s Progress until I read an article about the fascinating Robert Lepage. I googled around to learn more about the opera, composed by Stravinsky in 1947.

It’s a three act opera featuring several elements that I count among my many obsessions.

A man is tempted by The Devil to leave his country-bred sweetheart to seek fortune in the big city. There, he is seduced into marrying a Bearded Lady and invests all his money in an invention that proves to be a sham. He wins a final bet with the Devil, who then curses him with Insanity. The hero dies in Bedlam.

What more could one ask for in an opera? I need to get Lepage’s production of it, recorded in Brussels.

If you’re interested in mental asylums, I wrote about Cane Hill here. If you’re interested in Bearded Ladies, you can go here.

If you’re not interested in any of that, how about this Pvc Bustle Skirt? It’s only $150 and with the matching top, it looks like something Vivienne Westwood might have designed, doesn’t it?

I usually hate jewelry with affirmative words on it, like “peace” or “soul” but when I saw this bracelet I stopped in my tracks. Why didn’t I think of this before! My purpose on earth is to provoke. It is probably the one word that most describes my personality.

This bracelet by Aurora Lopez-Mejia is hand-stamped 22k gold, and it looks nice and chunky. I would love to see it on my wrist!  However, I would like my credit card balance to go down, not up.

As you see in the photo of Sister Wolf age sweet sixteen, provoking has always been a priority. At present, I am provoking some misogynist losers on another blog, where some angry man told me to “Go do the dishes!”

Hahaha! What an idiot. Everyone knows that my husband does the dishes, because he’s the one who likes them clean.

In the old days, I provoked some guy on mySpace  into wanting to shoot me. It was much funnier than it sounds, I can assure you.  What is more fun that provoking (besides sex, eating and shopping?)

Yesterday, when I wasn’t busy with penises, I found this leather skirt that I can’t afford, but still covet. The pleated ruffles just kill me! What wouldn’t look great with this skirt?

So now I’m aware of Hartmann Nordenholz, who designed these amazing dresses. Do you love him or do you love him?

I’m sorry, I can’t seem to avoid penises.  This time, I was browsing some gossip site and saw a picture of director/douchebag Brett Ratner at a party celebrating the launch of a new book. Sure enough, it turned out to be a new title by Taschen called ‘The Big Penis Book.’

“This hefty book is profusely illustrated with over 400 historic photos of spectacular male endowments, including rare photos of the legendary John Holmes.”

Okay! What’s not to love about this book? You can look at some of its contents at the Taschen website, but I personally am afraid to do so.  Maybe I will once the kids are asleep.  Let me know what you think.