Saturday, December 3, 2016


There's this book I read years ago and loved. A General Theory of Love. I hope it's in a box in my ex-husband's garage. I hope it isn't one of the dozens of books I sold to Half-Price Books this year when I was scrambling for survival. My brain is pretty much Swiss cheese. I have trouble with my long-term and short-term memory. It truly is miraculous that I managed to graduate from UTSA this year. I truly am more mystified than proud. But the main thing I recall from A General Theory of Love is that we observe and learn love in our immediate environment the first few years of our lives. Oh, quick interjection...just went to YouTube on my Android so that I can play music while writing. I was notified that someone reported the video of me sucking a peppermint stick. The video is terribly sexual. I'm sitting in a parked vehicle sucking a jumbo peppermint stick, staring into the camera with my terribly sexual green eyes. "Imagine this is me sucking your dick," I seem to be suggesting. Well, now the video has been reported and I think I'm expected to delete it so there goes my paycheck. I'm being faciculous (facetious combined with ridiculous, dontcha know). I receive zero dollars for my online activity. I blog and YouTube and Instagram and Twitter my ass off to zero monetary compensation. So am I worried, concerned, hurt that some random person decided to report a video of me sucking a peppermint stick? No. I feel superior because I am Killer Queen. I rise above such minor annoyances. I'm annoyed because I want to be listening to Devo or Dirt Dress or Lucinda Williams RIGHT FUCKING NOW. Oh! Just received this email from YouTube:

Hi Misti Rainwater-Lites,

As you may know, our Community Guidelines describe which content we allow- and don't allow- on YouTube. Your video "SUCKING XMAS CANDY" was flagged for review. Upon review, we've determined that it violates our guidelines. We've removed it from YouTube and assigned a Community Guidelines strike, or temporary penalty, to your account. Blah and blah and yada and yada.

For the broken record. I am anti-censorship. I am pro complete freedom of expression. I'm pro sex work. Evan Stone is my favorite porn star. Frank Zappa is my spirit animal. Larry Flynt is also my spirit animal. Lester Bangs is also my spirit animal. Henry Miller. You get the gist. I put a fuckton of stuff out there so of course I'm an easy target. There will always be covert and overt attacks. I'm hardly a martyr for the cause but would I DIE for Chupacabra Disco/eBuLLieNCe PReSs/Instant Pussy? I don't know. There's at least one psycho bitch out there who would love to nail me to any convenient cross and I'm more than a little alarmed to know she now lives in the same state. Texas is a big state but she's BIG CRAZY. But there is all kinds of crazy out there. Any number of crazies could be so fucking bored and disgusted with their lives that they take the time and energy (doesn't take much, I realize, annihilation is just a click away) to alert The Authorities That Be to my oh so controversial content at fucking YouTube. Let's just say I am not pissing my Walmart pajama pants. This blog can be removed. My YouTube channel can be removed. I'll continue to write, create, sing my little songs. I am in a happy place right now. That ain't about to change.

So. A General Theory of Love. You learn love and it becomes hardwired in your brain. There's this limbic system. I call it my limbic xmas tree. I have only ever truly loved one motherfucker. He was the wrong motherfucker to love but the motherfucker lit up my limbic xmas tree. He was Daddy in so many ways. I was Electrafied. My father psychologically abused me for six years and then abandoned me. I don't think spanking qualifies as physical abuse although I think it's insane for a man who is six feet seven inches tall to tower over his four-year-old daughter swinging a leather belt with rage and hatred in his eyes. I'm forty-three years old and the belt still stings. "There's therapy for that." Yeah. That's what they tell me. I won't bore the casual reader with details of all the therapists I've seen since I was nine years old. Soft suicide attempts (really more like screams for attention). Vacations on the psych ward. All the meds. Let's just say I've been proactive and leave it at that. My latest thing is driving around San Antonio talking to myself, working out the knots. The knots never end, I can tell you that straight and for a motherfucking fact. So. Yes. Daddy was a bastard. He broke my heart again and again and again and again. And this motherfucker who lit up my limbic xmas tree did the same. There were many last straws. The latest last straw? My maternal grandfather died. Instead of calling me and offering condolences He Whose Name Shall Not Be Revealed sent me some shit via text messages, taking me to task for riding to the funeral (in the town of my birth, which is several hours from where I live) with my ex-husband and our son. I called him twice. My calls went straight to voicemail. He sent a text telling me that we would talk when I got back from the funeral. That was it for me. We were engaged to be married, although he never proposed. I gave him the idea and I'm sure this was his thinking process: Well. She gets a check each month. She has a decent car. She's getting a big financial aid check in January. She's good in bed. She'll do.

As it turned out I did not attend my grandfather's funeral. When he was dying in a hospital bed he spoke to me on my little brother's phone. He said,"I love you so much" several times. And I sobbed. I sobbed for several days. I spoke to my mother after her father's death. I told her that I was also upset because I had broken up (again) with a man she has zero respect or love for. She lectured me as she has done numerous times before. She didn't want me coming to her parents' house where everyone was mourning the death of the family patriarch being in a bad mood because "some fleabag" broke my heart. Again. It was not appropriate of me to mourn the loss of "some fleabag" and the loss of my grandfather simultaneously. Of course I was pissed. And hurt. But I understood and accepted. My family members don't know everything about me but they know quite a lot. This blog and my books are terribly easy to find. I am easily found via Google. "Well, Misti is sick." That's the general assessment. So I'm certain no one was surprised that I, the eldest grandchild, did not attend my grandfather's funeral. One of the last things my grandfather told my brother was "Misti sure can write." I will always have that. And my grandfather telling me several times while dying that he loved me so much.

For the morbidly curious, I'm living in my ex-husband's guest bedroom. We don't have sex with each other. We had separate bedrooms in the last few years of our marriage. I know my ex-boyfriend cannot fathom this as he is still in love with the mother of his four sons. They divorced each other in 1980something. And I loved my ex-boyfriend while chasing dick all over San Antonio. He can't understand that, either. It isn't rocket science. You can hear that sad shit on any radio any day of the week. You can't have the one you love and want. So you attempt to fill the void. The Awful Rowing Toward God. I think it all comes down to this. My ex wanted and needed to love me. It made sense for him to love me. But he didn't. So he dismissed me in various ways for infractions that weren't really infractions at all. I breathed wrong. He was my accomplice in self-loathing. I would tell him all the things I needed to fix and he would agree. I'm a piece of work. Well I'm done with self-loathing. It's boring. I know my flaws. I do not need reminders. There are plenty of happily coupled motherfuckers who have all kinds of flaws. Men on death row receive love letters and panties. "I'm not a monster," the ex told me once. I'm not a monster, either. My need for love is monstrous but I'm dealing with that by trying really fucking hard to love and nurture myself. Planet Fitness. Kale. Lots of books and breathing in and out and time with my son. And work. The work never ends. Even when I've been dead for a few centuries I'll still be the one who does not sleep but flies around lighting inappropriate fires. Books. I've got books to write. So this will be my last smoke signal. Chupacabra Disco por vida, babies. Oh. Yes. Donations wildly welcome, ecstatically accepted via PayPal! Yes. Yes. YESSSSSS.


There was a group of people. We were outside. The sun was shining hard. The leader of the group mentioned snow. I didn't believe him but then I looked and sure enough, there was snow on the ground. I picked up some snow and made a snowball and carried it inside an auditorium. People were so happy together in pairs and groups. I was alone but not lonely. I was pretty damn happy with myself and my snowball. I guess you could say the snowball was my best friend. The movie was Oliver Stone's "The Doors." I was excited, happy, elated, jubilant, ebullient to be watching "The Doors" with a crowd of strangers and my new best friend. But there were glitches. The movie projector wasn't doing its job terribly well. What the fuck? We're here to watch Val Kilmer as The Lizard King make love to Meg Ryan as Pamela Courson. We are not here to watch a blank damn screen. You get what you pay for. I paid nada. I just walked through the door to find a happy surprise. Then the surprise was less happy due to the glitches. Then I noticed the man who functioned as my stepfather for several years. He was sitting with a group of people, talking, smiling, having the best damn time of his life. "I hope he doesn't see me. I don't want him to see me alone with this snowball. He'll think...Bitch Really is Crazy," I thought. He didn't see me. Whew. The movie never did continue. I guess eventually I left and the snowball melted. There are raindrops on the window and the xmas tree is aglow. The fish tank is still burbling even though the fish is buried in the backyard. I'm going to color my grey hair now and make myself gorgeous for xmas pictures with my son. If you would like to receive a xmas card from me and my son send me your address. You know how to contact me.