29 September 2013

{Hiccup}

Drinking in the morning is tricky business. If you're not careful you could end up standing in the kitchen at 3pm waiting for a mug of beer to answer your questions. And the 120 Minute IPA takes FOREVER to reply. Only a seasoned third-shifter can pull off a good pre-noon drunk.
{hiccup}
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
Yada, yada, yada.
You've been drunk during the day before. Big frickin deal, you think. We're all proud of your impending alcoholism, Joleen Doreen, now move along to the moral of the story.

Joke's on you, asshole, I have no morals.

I used to have them. 
Scruples.
Ideals.
{hiccup}
Ethics. 
I traded them for lifetime supply of bad decisions.

A large number of bad decisions should be called a gross. My 14-year-old likes to say my life is "Groddy" but I'm certain she does it more to irritate me than as an actual term of measurement. Gross seems more appropriate.
{hiccup}
Bulk rate bad decisions at a bargain!
Gross never looked so good!
C'mon down to Joleen Doreen's,
We got 'em by the barrel!

My poor choices have been oak-aged. In that, I grew up in the woods. (Look, it doesn't have to make sense, ok? Don't see me poking holes in your origin story, do you? Just accept the inevitable hillbillying of the moment.)
My judgement is not always sound.
{hiccup}
My judgement is sometimes sound.
{hiccup}
My judgement has never been sound.
{hiccup}
But I never expected it to be, what with the noise in my head and all. I turned it all off once. The racket. The ringing. The static. The silence was more than my creativity could bear. The stillness gave me cancer.

Of all of my flaws, the melody of my mind is the most beautiful.

Feels like inspiration.
Let's do shots!
{hiccup}
I poured three. We'll assume that you guys had at least the first two that I just drank. After this, we stop counting. There's no telling who drank what. Nobody likes snitches.

I don't regret much. But when I do, it's a chorus of rioting stupidity. The only thing that can block the rampage of a stubbornness such as mine is a very thick blanket of booze. The alcohol needs to permeate the air of mystery surrounding why I do such dumb fucking things.
{hiccup}

Yep.
Time to throw cat shit out the window, or whatever you flatlanders say.
(editor's note: the daughter informs me that the phrase I'm looking for is "throws caution to the wind." Seems foolish to me. The wind is going to blow that caution right back in your face. Nope. It's definitely better to throw cat shit out the window.) Whatever.
{hiccup}
Time to drink.

Sure, it gets rowdy from time to time. But every once in awhile you need to toss back the booze at the asscrack of dawn and let the shitface shine. Every now and then again you gotta get tuned before noon. Here'n there you should slosh'er up with the mornin light. Because how else are you going to forget all the dumb fucking things that drinking got you into the night before? 
{hiccup}

And the sober things?
Well.
I still ain't ready to talk about those. Those are the ones that we brew our own beverages for. My resistance to making good decisions is 100 proof.
{hiccup}
Scratch that, it's 190 proof.
Doing dumb shit is as American as Apple Pie.
{hiccup}

28 September 2013

Empty

Of all the things I've done- remembering back the years-
of all the days long gone, wasted on my fears. 
Beneath the sky at night, resting on consideration,
waiting for the sight that comes from contemplation. 
Scan the clouds of day, staring down tomorrow;
hearing things I say, buried 'neath the sorrow.

Of all the dreams that fade- driven 'way by morning sun-
of all the choices I've made, to the feelings I've outrun. 
Emotions drown the sound of mocking in my mind;
compassion run aground by the soul left behind. 
The mistakes I make are beautiful, from the other side.
Yet insecurity can be cruel; confidence has died.

Of all the time I've waited- and waited and waited-
of all the self I've hated- and hated and hated. 
Understanding drained, feelings depleted.
Regretfulness gained, disgust completed. 
Bringing hope to start. Falling fast apart.
Hallow is the heart.
Hollow is the heart.

24 September 2013

Apple Butter

I check accomplishments off my list, one by one, as I earn them throughout the day.
  • Wake up
  • Healthy breakfast √ 
  • Don't stab an asshole in the face 

Still early. Don't want to jump the gun on checking off that last one.
Sometimes we have to ask ourselves whether or not we have an angry reason why. We do, you guys. Totally do. Turns out that 90% of the time MY "angry reason why" is what I like to call "other people." Not you. You're obviously cool. I can tell by the way you're reading the hilarious posts on joleendoreen.com. You know what's what.

What?
We were where?
That's right, at why.
And determined it was actually who.
So there's that.

And now here we are.
Back at Why.

It's apple butter season, that's why.
Turning ten pounds of yard work into jars of the sweetest sauce that toast has ever known is enough to make this country girl restore her trust in man. Kissed with the slightest hint of sassafras and cooked to perfection, apple butter breaks down barriers of dissatisfaction in my brain. While the pot of ripe fruit sits and simmers my senses undergo an assault of false content. Happiness swirls around in notes of cinnamon and nutmeg. As a Joleen Doreen, I have no choice but to succomb to the euphoria that erupts from every tiny bubble of the lightly boiling mixture.
The fog of elation is thick during canning season. I try to shake off the jubilation, but it clings like the scent of cooking apples. I could run from it all, but godamit if I don't get blinded by the brilliance of the falling leaves the moment I step out the door.
Optimism is upon me, bearing down with the force of October.

I'll probably die before I figure out how to live.

Like the apples in the pot, I've been reduced to mush. The success of creating a glorious batch of apple butter has clouded my perception of reality. I actually, for a brief moment there, believed things to be right'n good. Through the haze of hopefulness I missed the telltale signs of a bad apple. And it was bitter.
So fucking bitter.
All it takes is one nasty taste to throw you off altogether. Then you're left with a love of nothing you want to swallow, and a whole mouthful of it.

Some things turn out to be so distasteful you want to cut the sorry sum'bitch who is givin' it to you. But alas, it happens, developing a liking for something poison. The lesson here is ya'll need to take a good look at what you're puttin' in your mouth.
And never trust management.

Apple Butter turned out great though.

Love, Joleen Doreen

I know the type you like.
Dangereously damaged.
A sprinkle of instability on a mountain of stubborn strength
Under a blanket of insecurity.

I know the type you like.
Vulnerable to weakness.
Lost upon a sea of doubt aboard a ship of character
Beneath a sky as blue as eyes.

I know the type you like.
Self-destructive creativity.
Walk away from coming back without turning around
Never leaving.

I know the type you like.
It's Me.

19 September 2013

Pickled

Chances are good that I could take out an eye with a slingshot and a single penny. Because some fucking people just aren't worth my two cents. I mean, it might not come clean out, but I'd be fixin' to wing ya pretty darn good. Nothin personal, of course, just an outlashing of aggression. I usta could work these things out in other ways but I just haven't found an adult kickball league in the city that I feel comfortable with yet.

Self-esteem is a funny thing. 
Not, like, "haha" funny. 
More, "I have none" funny.

I'm confident that I have zero sense of self-worth. That amounts to A LOT if the unit of measurement is Irony. Unless there's a sarcasm to sadness conversion rate.
No? 
Pity.

I fell in love four times today.
♥ The first one has broken my heart before, and will again. There's not much a girl can do to avoid the charm of a Cap'n. But his crunchberries ultimately left me feeling empty. ♥ The second time was a little trickier. Because of the dickier. It left me stickier. That thought just made you all sickier. ♥ The third was not nearly as dramatic. My truck already knows we're soulmates destined to spend eternity together. ♥ The fourth was when the daughter walked in the door after school. ALWAYS.

I've walked away from tons of stuff in life. Giving up is kind of my specialt


Where were we? I threw in the towel on that conversation a while back.
Oh yes, giving up on love.
Now I remember.

It's a familiar path, this lonely road of insecurity. Once I walked the whole thing; from here to the other side of over yonder and back again. Took a good bit of all the questions I had to get me there. Never did find no answers, just ran out of money and good looks so I had to turn around. Lost a hundred pounds on the way. Did gain 'bout four thousand followers tho. 

My abandonment issues run so deep I gave up on them too.

Every once in awhile a mindfuck comes along to top all other periods of inadequacy that I have ever encountered. The kind of brain blowjob that completely strips logic from the frontal lobe and replaces it with a stupidity the likes of which are unheard of in nature. It's almost as if the words "you're pretty" trip a portal in the line of defense that I've erected against assholes. But, alas, I get swept away by their lack of compassion and caught up in a whirl-wind of bullshit. In my defense, they usually have Fat Nuts. This one needs locked in a basement.

It doesn't take a psychologist to see that a truckdriving father has a daughter who fears people leaving her. Hell, I'm six beers into this post and I could have figured that out. I would have turned it into a drinking game.

My demons are angry. 

They've turned my blue eyes sapphire while all I see is red. 
So, everything's a murky purple, really.
Feels like it too, bruised from I don't know where. Turn'd inside out by it all, I am.

It pisses me off faster than a polecat that I'd let something as squirmy as the heart tell ME what to do.

I'm inflap.. I'm unfali.. well, hell, I'm damn near uninvincible. I've got a blackbelt in avoiding emotion. I still haven't dealt with the decade-dead brother. (You can't make me) 

I've swallowed a lot of things in life, and to be honest, some of them didn't taste all that great. But of all the things I have shoved back in, the disappointment that I feel with myself at being jealous is among the foulest I have ever chewed on. Joleen Doreens are not the jealous type. I'm a country girl, for Jiminy's sake. The last time I was envious it involved an entire roasted pig and a quarter keg on a work night. 
To put it kindly: I don't give a flying fuck where you throw the stick until I'm the one playing catch.

Did I say "kindly?"
I meant "country."

The thing of it is, I've got stuff that needs done and things to get did. Chasin' after a dead chicken sounds 'bout as useful a limp cock. (Oh, what? You're too good to laugh? Fuck you guys. The hilarity of the words alone were worth my typing.) 

I miss the mountains.
Because doesn't it figure that I'd find the only good 'ol boy in the city and I'd fall head-first into his jar of acid and ferment while he gherks me around. 
And I can be a cool cucumber for only so long.

This is a very old picture of myself, my younger brother (the dead one), and my dad shooting guns. Just so you understand what I'm capable of. Well, not ME, really. But LIFE. Because they both died decades later. At separate times. No guns were involved. In either incidents.
This picture is really just here because I don't have any pictures of pickles.


08 September 2013

Orange

When the trees call home
They blow and billow and cry.
When the leaves fall aground,
among the carnage stands I.
The air swirls crisp.
Warmth- not a wisp.

When the trees call home
They sway and mumble and chatter.
When the branches hang low,
beneath the sad arms I shelter.
Sunlight flashes.
Memory- ashes.

When the trees call home
They shimmy and shake as they sigh.
When the night grows long,
be with them to dance will I.
Daydream- over.
Love, October.

Hard at Work

My Desk.