Self-Empowerment: How The Fuck Does That Happen?

I've been taking a self-empowerment class at my local New Age book store. Well, I'm using the term "taking" loosely. There were three classes over the course of three weeks. I missed the first one, showed up for the second one, and arrived late to the third one, which was tonight. In my defense, I didn't really feel like being empowered the first week. And tonight, I had the brilliant idea that it would be "breakfast night", but not just that, I was also going to make eggs-to-order. Now, usually when I make eggs for my whole family, I just throw all ten of those bitches in one big pan and scramble them up. Takes no more than a few minutes. But since everyone got to have it their fucking way tonight, I ended up having to make four omelets and two over-easy in addition to their pig slices and French toast. Mmm, pig ass. Yummy. So my defense is that not only am I a bitch, but a lazy, dumb bitch at that. I plead dumbassness, your honor. I should have been a lawyer, right?

After taking one and three quarters classes, I don't feel anymore empowered than I did before I started. They must have covered a lot of shit in that first class. I have just as many questions now as I did before. No, that's not true; I have way more. Don't get me wrong, it was a fun class. The teacher is a rocking guru bitch and I will take any class she teaches. The class provided guidelines on how to empower yourself. It gave us a jumping off point and we were supposed to take those jump-offs and figure out what is holding us back from fulfilling our destinies or being all we can be or whatever happiness-and-light bullshit is supposed to happen.

Bullshit, indeed. I didn't want guidelines and fucking suggestions. I wanted answers! I wanted her to tell me what I needed to do. I wanted to walk in there a fat, jobless screw-up and walk out a fucking Mother Teresa wannabe.

Ah, but Mother T never said 'fuck', did she? Another dream dead and stinking. I wouldn't give up 'fuck' for anything in the world. I wouldn't give up 'fuck' if you paid me in diamond-studded chocolate bars stuffed inside 50 Prada handbags. I wouldn't give up 'fuck' if Denzel Washington was naked under my Christmas tree with his bank book and keys to a beach house in Waikiki in one hand and two divorce decrees (both his and mine) in the other. Oh, and four nannies on standby so that I wouldn't even have to talk to my kids if I didn't want to.

Damn, I lost my train of thought...What the hell was I rambling about? Oh, right, bookstores. No, that's not right...Gandhi? No...Cursed dreams of indirect motherhood! Give me a minute to scroll up and read what I was bitching about. Try to guess what's wrong with this picture in the meantime:


Did you see the baby? Nice, huh?

So as I was saying before my neurons abruptly stopped firing, I'm still basically clueless as to how I can get my life in something vaguely resembling order. She gave each of us questions, specific to our birth dates, that, once answered, should help us rise into the enlightened beings we are all destined to be. This was my first question: How do I open myself and communicate my love? Lady, I've been asking myself that question since the time my husband, then boyfriend, asked me, "What do you have against PDA (public displays of affection)?"  and I said "While it's true that female dogs like to fuck with an audience, this bitch right here prefers to be petted in private." If I had the answer to that question, I'd be home right now with a pint of Ben & Jerry's watching Tivo'd episodes of Rules of Engagement instead of sitting in the hot back room of a bookstore resisting the urge to flat iron the frizzy, blonde hair of the annoying woman next to me.

Is she serious? How do I open myself? What the fuck does that even mean? I'd venture a few guesses, but I don't want to lose any of the lovely four followers I gained today. The rest of you already know about the bullshit I sometimes let spew from my brain onto this poor, unsuspecting computer screen, so you wouldn't be too surprised.

Well, it's late now. The snore train just pulled into the station. Destination: Keep My Ass Upville. If I don't go to sleep before the train goes full steam ahead, all the prescription painkillers cum sleeping pills in the world won't help me get a good night's rest.

Oh shit! He stopped breathing!

Damn! He started again.