So, everyone knows my future x has a gi-normous dick, and I wish there was a pill I could slip into his amaretto that would make his knob fall off and him drop dead just before he decides to bitch-punch (bitch=me, punch=punch in face) me again. I actually am stupid enough to believe he isn't going to hit me again if he doesn't drink. But since I have no where to go, no money, and gave up my fabulous career as a hairdresser to be with him, have no job. How fortunate I am to get to stay home everyday, hear about every ignorant, negative thought he has day in and day out. Is it really any wonder I have scars on my wrists, and have to hide under this cowardly character? Anyway, if anyone comes up with that pill, hook me up. I beg you. He really does have that beautiful of a cock, but it hardly makes up for that ugly dick in his soul. Ok, that is all.
Colombian women have a worldwide reputation for being conniving. I believe it is due to the low ratio of men to women here, and the available men are dogs, having at least a girlfriend on the side. My Ecuadorian father cheated on my Mommy, and he continues to now (which my Mommy totally relishes in!) with his wife who is younger than me. Disgusting on so many levels. Why there are an abundance of hookers here I can't figure it out, but it is the disease ridden norm. In Medellin, women will go through your husband in a coy fashion, to methodically split you from your beloved (well, not so beloved, in my case) so you can join the single and miserable ranks of the majority of Colombian women live. My sounding board spouse and I have concluded, after three years here, that the abundance of sexuality of Colombian women is a total misnomer. I just smile and act like I don't know what they are doing. It is like being in high school all over again.
As I mentioned, we presently are squatting at the home of Mr. Matitute's business partner. I feel like I am in the middle of a dysfunction layer cake. The Medellin (pronounced maid-a-jean) Queen (yes it rhymes) is a controlling, boisterous optician, who enjoys micromanaging everyone in her spare time. Her husband of ten years is a trolling, unproductive, albino looking loser who has not made a penny since their wedding, but continues to have a total lack of respect for women. He is from Minnesota and doesn't want to learn Spanish. He is way out of his league here. The live in maid is a wannabe cookie cutter (cutting) of her boss, who hates using modern appliances and thinks arepas are part of a balanced meal. Then you have my sociopath un-better half, who shouts out things like 'hot sauce' and 'dog food' from the shower and I am expected to read his mind and jump on command. He also believes Interpol is following him because he is on their persons of interest list, and aliens implanted a chip the size of a grain of rice under his hairline. He has had me try to remove it more than once. So, you see what I am dealing with. God, please do not permit me to end up like these people ever. They are certified looney. Me, I'm just a moron.
The doctor is convinced I need fixing. She keeps saying she is worried about me, but I don't dare let her into my world and before you know it I would be turning tricks in Bogota while my spouse and her go off into the sunset together. He keeps telling me she wants him, bad. Go for it, I say to myself. They seem to have more of a love\hate relationship than he and I do, which is fun to watch because a little of him dies every day being told what to do by a woman. I guess mine and her husband have more in common than I realized before writing this. Oh well. Back to my story.
Instead of prescribing me a true remedy in an opaque orange bottle with a white lid, she brings her psychic advisor over for coffee this past Sunday. Her name is Denora. She is about 249 years old, doesn't speak any English, and seems to think something is wrong with me too. But like most psychics, she looks into her crystal ball and pretty much repeats everything the doctor has told her, about my situation. Except she adds that I am super smart, which shocks even me. The funny, worth repeating part was before she started reading my aura, or tea leaves, was her stories about run-ins with an alien called Clew. He has visited her since she was 9 months' old, and has allowed her to hold memories from when she was in the womb. What purpose that holds, I didn't quite make out, because she spoke way to fast for my Spanglish mind to translate. I am also suspicious that her and Clew hit the coca before she arrived, and covered it up by having three cups of coffee. Denora had a typical life, marriage, kids, a near drowning experience on her honeymoon that Clew saved her from. The best recollection she shared was her visit to the president of Colombia's farm, when President Kennedy happened to be there also. Before he was shot, but I can't be certain. She and her three children had met with both presidents by chance, when she was making a food delivery to the presidential farm as a favor for one of her friends. Being a psychic I can't understand why her and Clew didn't warn Mr. Kennedy. I should have asked her that, and what the Florida lotto numbers are going to be for Friday. One of the much smarter people I am surrounded with should have, don't you think? So, Denora and her children are on their way back home at dusk. They came to a stop light, and as she started to accelerate, the car levitated and started to go through a long tunnel. Then another stop light, and another tunnel. The kids didn't seem to mind this little detour, I guess. She said she started to become frightened for them, and she summoned Clew, who also was able to telepathically speak to her and the kids. She asked Clew to put them back onto the road, and let her get home safe, which, being a friendly alien, he did.
When they got home, she and the kids told her husband what they experienced. All of them had the same detailed story, but her husband just didn't believe it for some odd reason. He did fill her in to the fact that the local fire department had been called to put out a fire in that area, and even though there are no stop lights on the road they travelled, she must have had a bit too much Aguardiente. Add that to the smoke that engulfed the area, and you can debunk the tunnel she was flying through. She stuck to her story, because she didn't see a fire truck. She countered his theory by saying the fire truck was invisible, and the car floating up in space with Clew was factual. I can't say nay or yay for sure, but I was skeptical of her story because she also added that her car was a beater that needed water added to the radiator every two blocks but on this particular day it didn't need a single drop. Apparently aliens have on the spot mechanical expertise as well, but only on days you meet the presidents of two powerful countries on a remote farm. I can't wait to meet Denora for coffee again. I am hoping she will bring a blood filled egg to pull out whatever the doctor thinks ails within me, so you can be entertained by a 'normal' author. Wouldn't that be boring?
I confess, there is nothing more fascinating than the 'Mini-Me', or penis. Lest me not leave his sweater wearing bros out of the conversation; they are as enjoyable as my fun bags are for my spouse, but not as attention grabbing because they don't grow as much. They remind me of those Kushballs from the 90's, but not as pretty, because Kushballs came in bright colors, and tasted like rubber instead of, well, salty balls. For many years (ok, 45. Happy?) this dangling flesh has given me hours upon hours of enjoyment, in ways nothing else has. Although I sometimes, no, lets make that 23 hours of the day, wish the future ex that I am currently with, would come down with a brain aneurism and keel over onto his keyboard, I could stay a happy widow if only he left that sequoia trunk with me forever. Am I sounding like one of them now? You know, the enemy, that I have sex with and have to sleep next to, night after ambien free night? Am I wrong in my morality believing men look at women as walking vaginas? Is there a man who would not want to throw a rectangle of sheet metal over a woman's mouth, Beetlejuice style, and rivet it on permanently? Maybe, just maybe, I am bitter, beat down from every man I have ever encountered. All but one, who I fell in love with at a young age, who, while working as a missionary in Thailand, was killed by a drunk driver while riding his motorcycle to the church he helped build. True story. His widow can be found here.