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To: My Dearest
From: Medicated Lady
Re: Evaluation
There is compelling evidence that you do not feel you have made an error in judgment concerning me. This is disappointing as I had not terminated you; I had only put you on probation. I fully expected for you to come through a reassessment with no problems. However, it has come to my attention that you are refusing to return to your senses. Weeks gone by and now it seems you’ve redirected adoration toward another.
All possible scenarios have dwindled to a singular ray pointed at the Exit sign. It appears the fire alarm has been going off for some time now, everyone has left the building except me. It is strictly against company policy to leave me behind.
Since your resignation, I have considered your tenure with me. I contemplated what might be said if you were to realize your mistake.
– How dare you come back around after saying you were not ready for a relationship?
– How could you tell me you didn’t want to have sex with me anymore because you wanted to look around? How could you not see I was a good thing, right in front of you? There was nothing to look around for.
– I hate you.
– I love you.
– Let’s take things slow.
– Let’s fuck.
It is as this point that I have to express my disappointment with your finagling with wig shopkeepers. I would be remiss if I did not mention that your deception in this matter has not improved your performance evaluation.
As you know, company policy states that evaluations are given regardless of manner of discharge: resignation or termination. In this case, you resigned before I was able to terminate you. This gives me pause. Since I cannot give your evaluation to you, I give it to the world. It is not favorable. I would hope that, though you are not officially required to do so, you would not shirk your responsibilities and give me the opportunity to say I never want to see you again. Should you do this, your performance rating would dramatically increase.
I hope that you will be able to reconsider your position and come back to me in the future. If only so I can fire you.
I loved her
She deserves my grief
but I can’t give it her
I don’t feel grief
when you die they all say that’s just awful justly awful awfully just
***
Bryan has decreed I must do an open mic night soon. I have no opposition other than it’s intimidating. Or it would be if I felt anything.
***
the skin of the dead does not take to makeup well. pores no longer absorb moisture, leaving a dried mud look, not quite in good taste.
***
I think my dog could use company. She likes other dogs. She likes people. So she needs me to get another dog and another boyfriend.
I feel that gaining weight is the death of dating. I keep remembering big fat Eva-dog at the shelter but now I am suspicious of why she’s heavy. Probably a pituitary gland tumor, maybe malignant. I wonder if Poppy would mourn her one-on-one time with me.
***
Thanks all for your well-wishes.
Just yesterday, I was struggling to come up with something to blog about. My Aunt Celia died early this morning.
This whole time, I was thinking I had only recently licked my wounds from the ex of 2008. Then I remembered that last November I was developing a solid relationship with a guy who would 3 months later leave to go to Japan for a couple of years (aka the guy who left the country without telling me; I technically knew he was leaving but fuck him, he’s my story to tell now). Remember that? What fun. I called this man an asshole and he was but I still like to talk to him sometimes. I mean, he has that funny Wisconsin accent. Then the guy with the facial tic. Then that guy who diagnosed my knee problem, which would have gotten him a second date (I’m a hypochondriac) except he used “golly gee” and “holy smokes” during the conversation and I couldn’t live with that. No one could. Then there was the one I liked but it didn’t work out. Rapid fire dating. Airforce John. Oh, and remember the one who shaved his arms and had the smoothest arm skin I’ve ever seen. I’m sorry, but he was too short. 5’8 is too short for me and I know this but then I tell myself, “well maybe…” and then I remember that the height specifications I’ve set are important as soon as I meet the guy…I swear I feel as though we’re eye to eye even though he’s 9 inches above me. Aside from Gary Stubble of yesteryear, I’ve never been attracted to a short guy.
They fade quickly into mythology, don’t they?
There might be another shot at an Air Force man (too soon to tell). Mainly, it’s slow-going because I am so over putting out effort at the moment (as such, I’m ruminating over all of my lost loves, most of whom I didn’t mind losing). Ebb and flow, friends.
I have some random man’s boxers on
maybe the ex’s or any sort of reasonable facsimile
or the Gay Man
or such
The utility of men’s undergarments
the user-friendly hole in the front
pisses me off
as women are trapped in bras, lycra
panties that don’t have any ass coverage
just shoestrings
and such
Which has nothing to do with the point
which is that if woman came from Adam’s rib
isn’t Adam to blame for everything
**Admittedly a rant but only because I have a fatalistic look on love and sometimes I need to blame another gender as a distraction for blaming myself for all things terrible in relationships.** 🙂 or alternatively, 😦
- Although I am miserable, I am not miserable over Steve as I was this time last year.
- I am not pregnant.
- I have one more of my favorite blue pens left before I lose it.
- I do not have herpes.
- My eyes are not as dry as they were.
- I like the sting of eye drops (so I think I’ll use some right now).
- Eye drops simulate crying, which I also like.
- My dog has not pooped in my house in several days.
- This year, I became an astronaut, who should not be in charge of landing the aircraft.
- I do not have the H1N1 virus (yet).
- I have my sunglasses for a cloudy day.
I received a prestigious award (some sort of Lovely Blogger thing) from Bindo, who is my male poetic twin. We wallow together and that takes effort.
I don’t like the word “lovely” in this case. I shall rename my awards as Motherfucking Good Blog Awards.
- Bryan Borland. Friend and Pseudo-Foe. His words are possibly the love of my life.
- B.R. Belletryst. A poet bursting with potential who sometimes forgets that.
- 1writegirl. Honesty, vulnerability, and humor are the shit.
- Val Russell. No bullshit, a hard ice edge that can slowly be melted.
- Paul Squires. Beautiful prayers that move my soul.
- Bindo. I like it raw and dark. A blog that feels like home.
- Patrice. Reminds me art is beautiful in all forms.
- Paul Russell. Delicacy incarnate.
- Jessie Carty. North Carolina and you have a good harmony going on.
- Uncle Tree. Wisdom with a good dose of humor.
- The Mess Pot. You make me hungry. What’s for dinner?
- mariana. Philosophical you.
- Savage Chickens.
- Fuck You, Penquin.
erosion of the worst sort
the sea neglects the land
its tentative and loving shores
careless, the sea
pathetic, see
wearing down the earth until the sea only has itself
to blame
wondering where it all went wrong
I’ve been inspired by many of my fellow bloggers and my precious Bunny-Love (who considers me Mother and Poetic Grin his Other Mother, for he is the logical love child of the unnatural union of Bryan and me) has generously answered my probing questions with grace and good humor.
1. There was a skit on SNL once where Will Farrell was playing Harry Carry and said, “If you were a hotdog and you were stranded on an island, would you eat yourself?” Well, would you?
It depends on the type of hotdog I would be; if I were to be any sort of alternative hotdog–turkey, soy, etc–no. Just no. However; if I happened to become, in my hotdog island isolation, a chilli dog, there would be nothing for rescuers to find. If I were to be transformed into a corndog, that would be ideal, because I can only ever eat about half of one. The taste is great, but I get sick of it easily. And really, that sounds like me.
2. Where you do get your inspiration for writing? (Also, please tell our esteemed readers where your name comes from.)
I get my inspirations from a variety of sources. The major provider is just observations I make while wandering around, watching people or animals or plants or documentaries. The second source would have to be love. Friendly, lustful, insatiable, painful, distraught, miserable, wonderful, joyful, manic, light, and especially dark, love. I get little echoes of writings from my friends, but my best work derived from love comes from relationships. There are a lot of gay themes, and gay romances explored in my writing.
In regards to my name, B.R. Belletryst, I should say that the first part was given to me by someone who will always mean a lot to me. B.R. stands for Bunny Rabbit. The name came about during a particularly verbal sexual scene in which he told me to sit and hop on his cock, and called me his cock-rabbit. It developed into a pet name, Bunny, and has since become a name I regularly associate with. The second part, Belletryst, is my own invention. It is a portmanteau, sort of. A belletrist is a writer who writes centered around aesthetics, which is something I’d like to believe I do. The latter half of this word was changed though, because of my influence from love. A tryst, as defined by The Free Dictionary, is an agreement between lovers, especially in regards to a location to meet at. This word making up so much of who I am, romantically, as well as quite a few of my dreams, seemed a natural alteration to the word belletrist.
And so with the poem “in which he wakes,” B.R. Belletryst was born. I had been operating my website before that, but it was really with that poem, and that series of events that inspired it that I became the person and poet that my dear friend MedicatedLady is interviewing today.
3. Can you tell me why I’m so obsessed with my dog poo-ing?
No; but I can offer you this–cat poop is the worst thing in the world. The worst thing in the world. Ever.
4. How did you know writing was going to be a major part of your life?
I never know that it will be. It’s just part of me. I can’t explain to you why I write, why I write what I write, and I can’t tell you, or others, to write, or how enriching it is, if it is. To give you an example of what I’m talking about, I just recently started work outside of writing, and haven’t written anything since September 28th, journaling aside. Writing is a biological function to me, natural. It is a bodily excretion, as someone once said to me. It oozes. It flows. It is important, and it is nothing. Writing is drool, is shit, is cum, is piss, is blood, is menstrual blood, is bile, is tears, is snot, is earwax. It’s slow, it’s explosive, it’s orgasmic, it’s release, it’s scary, it leaves a bad taste in your mouth, it is salty, it is gross, and it is beautiful and delicious. Writing is alchemy; primordial fluids coming together.
I don’t control when I’ll write, what I’ll write, or if I will feel like it at all. My idea about writing is that writers are and constantly become. Every day you write something, you become a writer, or tap into it, and it takes something from you, and gives you something else.
5. Ohio seems like a nice enough place. Can you give me the high points and low points of life there? Also, do people from Ohio support cows?
Ohio. There are decent theme parks and some kind of history involved, but it’s very boring. I live in Lancaster, Ohio–a small city that gets its kicks out of preserving American Civil War history. I’ve heard so much about General Sherman (even went to the middle school!) that I’ve lost a bit of respect for history. I’ve been in all the historical buildings, seen all those meticulously preserved outfits, rooms, and cannons, and the only thing I have to say about it is that it’s like keeping your dead grandfather’s toenails; creepy, unnecessary, and obsessive. But that’s just my opinion. I fully acknowledge that the Civil War and all involved were important to history, and the development of our country, but the extent to which my city revolves around it is ridiculous. In all honesty, my favorite part about Ohio is the people, and getting out of my city to go to Columbus. There’s a bit more culture, the people are more exciting, and there is always something to do.
That was a bit of a rant. Oh well, I’m planning on immigrating to Canada in years to come.
Cows, cows, cows. Nope. No support for cows whatsoever. I think that’s sort of an American thing. Or a human thing, considering Kobe Beef and cows everywhere else in the world, excluding India.
All around me, carnivorous people ripping them apart, screaming, chanting “BEEF! STEAK! JERKY! PRIME RIB! BURGER! RIBS! BARBECUE! TONGUE!”
And I hear their teeth, just gnashing,
gnashing, and holy fuck, it’s like trains
crashing, brains just like potatoes mashing,
something disturbing, but can’t look away,
teeth sinking in, tongue chewed on,
trying not to betray my senses
as I fight off winces, hunger growing,
growing, thoughts start slowing,
racing to realization, serenity or actualization
–Beef. Beef. It’s what I want. Juicy, rip it apart, consume, consume, oh gods it has consumed me, that fucking cow head, that fucking taste, give me more! MORE! I demand it!
MORE! Suddenly, meal finished,
I’m back, I abhor;
I can’t believe it was me, those actions, those … poor cows. Thoughts of meat hooks, slaughter houses, mooing, mooing, chopping, sawing, hooves flying and butchers laughing… Am I repulsed? Am I horrified? I’ll have chicken tomorrow. Or maybe… beef.
Visit Bunny’s website at http://brbelletryst.wordpress.com/
Ramblings of a Medicated Lady: Words of Woe by Loria Taylor 
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