muffy bolding

This week, the dark, blustery chill of Fall has finally arrived in Los Angeles, and with it, right on schedule, the return, for me, of THE FIRE.

As a result, I had a rather interesting self-revelation recently. Over a huge, piping hot bowl of vegetable soup at a Jewish deli, it suddenly struck me that, as a writer, I have ZERO interest in writing about or exploring stories about romantic love. SO. GOTTDAMNED. BORING. Christ, ANY motherfucker can fall in love with another motherfucker because your chemicals and genitals are gone wild and all aflutter. I am NOT impressed. For me, it is a much more fascinating and riveting proposition to explore and chronicle relationships between two (or more) people who will NEVER fuck, have NO INTEREST in fucking, but yet remain inextricably bound one to the to the other by something much larger, much deeper, and more profoundly enduring than fickle, fleeting, romantic love.

I am dumb-lucky enough to have found My One True Love in this life, and perhaps that has settled the matter for me artistically. Or, it could just be that my Lady Bits and Attendant Chemicals were ganked from me the same day as The Japanese Tsunami in a life-changing/life-saving surgery that I now fondly refer to as THE PUNANI TSUNAMI. I don’t know. But what I DO know is that what I am NOW interested in writing about is not just My One True Love…but ALL The Great Loves of My Life.

And…so I shall.

NO FEAR, BABY.

I am sitting here watching this video both belly laughing AND belly crying at the unabashed joy of these wild, delightful young men.

In the ancient depths of our Reptilian Brains, this is what we ALL dream about. This is what we REMEMBER:

Running.

Leaping.

Falling.

Flying.

Without fear.

Cheating death.

Living FOREVER.

Watch this…and remember.

Muffy-The-Imperious-Asshole Edict #773: If you violate your teenager’s human rights by tracking them and/or their car with a GPS — thus denying them the privacy, freedom, and sense of self-determination you yourself enjoyed in your own youth — FUUUUUUUUCK YOU.

Now…mind your own gottdamned bidness, eat a chocolate-dipped frozen banana, and SHUT THE FUCK UP.

That is all.

Another quick, DEAD-ON glimpse — provided via a single image — into my relationship with My One True Love.

Yeah.

Recently, a new friend expressed genuine shock and befuddlement that my seditious self sports NARY A GOTTDAMNED TATTOO. They told me they were surprised that a broad such as myself had never been inked, ever, saying, “I just can’t believe that someone like you, whose nearly every utterance is a bold, ballsy social and/or artistic statement, would pass on the chance to make one on your very own body, everyday, forever.”

I flashed my friend a dazzling smile and said, “My ABSENCE of a tattoo…is my tattoo.”

I am sick.

I am currently both UNDER-the-weather…and OVER-the-weather.

It is November 13th.

NOVEMBER 13th.

TWO WEEKS BEFORE WE COME IN FROM THE FROSTY COLD, MURDER A BIRD, and GATHER TOGETHER TO ASK THE LORD’S BLESSING.

It is currently 91 degrees outside.

NINETY-ONE-MOTHERLOVING-DEGREES.

What the FUCK?

YOU GOTTA BE KIDDING ME WITH THIS HORSESHIT.

The ONLY thing worse than being sick…is being sick ON THE SURFACE OF THE SUN.

FML.

That is all.

https://muffybolding.com/2013/06/29/though-i-walk-through-the-valley/

Never has a music video been more ON TRACK and more OFF TRACK — all at the same time — than THIS one.

Y’ALL MUTHAFUCKAS NEED JESUS.

Gold frame.

Olan Mills.

Fresno girl.

Seven years.

Two bows.

Junior bouffant.

Dotted Swiss.

Sweet smile.

Missing tooth.

BIG DREAMS.

Second one of the day.

Because sometimes…nothing else helps.

I will be okay.

I can’t do ANY math beyond addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division — and can BARELY do those.

I can’t drive a stick shift.

I can’t figure out how to turn on any of our televisions, so I only watch them when Gregory or Hunter are home to roll their eyes, pat me on the head, and do it for me.

I can’t fill out complicated paperwork, which is why I never went to college. Okay, and maybe also because I never graduated from high school.

I can’t balance a checkbook.

I can’t file a tax return.

I couldn’t ride a bike until I was 11.

I couldn’t tell time until I was 13.

I can’t walk barefoot inside my own house, much less outside. EVER.

I can’t go much more than about 20 minutes without washing my hands. It’s not a germ thing; it’s a tactile thing.

I can’t play any sport. None at all.

I can’t read TS Eliot’s, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” without weeping.

There is SO much that I cannot do in this life. SO SO MUCH. This meager list is just the beginning.

But, FUCK ALL THAT…because here’s what I CAN do:

I CAN MAKE FIERCE BABIES.