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Topics - Luna

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Apple Talk / Luna's Adventures in Payroll
« on: March 22, 2011, 12:48:51 pm »
Aaah, my favorite.

A letter from the IRS.

Yep, new tax levy.  And, yes, the employee still works here.

Boys and girls, take my advice.  Do NOT fuck with the IRS.  They know where you work, they know where you live, and they do NOT fuck around when they want their money.  By the time I get one of these letters, I KNOW they've tried to reach you at home, and you've blown them off.

"Good morning, this is Luna in payroll.  I'm afraid I have some bad news for you.  I've received a federal tax levy that's going to come out of your check, starting next payroll.  There's some paperwork here for you to fill out."

Now, the usual response at this point is often along the line of, "screw you, I'm not filling anything out."  Alternately, there's, "can't you hold off until I talk to them?"  The more reasonable ask, "how much will be coming out?"

Here's how a tax levy works, kids.  It's not "how much will be coming out?"  It's "how much do they let you keep."

If you do NOT fill out the form, I withhold based on Single, one exemption.  We pay biweekly, which means your take-home pay is now $365.38.  No, it doesn't matter how much it was before, that's your net check, and EVERYTHING else gets sent to Uncle Sam until they tell me to stop.  You are not allowed to add any new deductions that are not required.  That's it.  And I'm required by law to do this, sorry, YOUR miserable ass isn't going to be me fired, fined, arrested, or anything else nasty the IRS can think of to do to me.

Now, what I CAN do for you is point out that if you fill out the form and claim your wife and two kids as three additional exemptions, you get to keep $1,015.38... and if you're nice to me, I'll happily explain that, and help you get it done and in before I run this week's payroll.  Hey, if you're a reasonable human, I'll even point out on your copy of the form where the phone number to call the IRS directly is, and tell you that if you call them and make some sort of reasonable plan with them, they'll fax me a release and NOT hose your check.

And I'll take time to explain this to you, if the first thing out of your mouth when you find out what we're talking about isn't a string of profanities and threats.  (Yes, I've been threatened.  No, I'm not impressed.  I know where you live, fuckhead.  I know your phone number, your social security number, and I've got the contact numbers you've given us to call your next of kin...  And if you think you'll get far jumping me at my car in the garage... well, particuarly after I've gotten a threat, you might want to think twice about that one.  I have toys I'd be happy to demonstrate upon your anatomy.)

So, take my advice.  Call the folks at the IRS, throw yourself on your sword for them, make a plan you can actually afford, fill out the damn forms for me, and, hey, how 'bout you pay your fucking taxes on time so I don't lose a half a day dealing with your shit?

Or Kill Me / No shit, there I was.
« on: March 19, 2011, 09:49:49 pm »
No shit, there I was.

That's how all the best stories start out, really. 

No, shit, there I was, at Pennsic.  If you're not in the SCA, you don't understand.  It's Mecca, it's The Big One.  For a lot of SCAdians, Pennsic is home, it's a week or two of being where you WANT to be, where you'd live year-round if you could.  It wasn't my first Pennsic, but it was in the first few. 

It's amazing.  Thousands of people, all there to have a good time.  Walk down one of the roads, strike up a conversation with a complete stranger, and it's all good.  Hear music you like being sung in a camp?  Stop at the gate, listen, and it's pretty usual to get invited in, offered a chair and a beer, and join the party.  It's camping with thousands of your closest friends, including a ton you just haven't met yet.  I'd say there's noplace in the world like it.  There might be, somewhere, but I don't know where it is.  Smaller events, sure, but nothing on this scale.

So, there I was.

It was late one night, nothing special.  The rest of the camp had started to wander off to bed.  My fiance was fast asleep.  I just wasn't tired, yet.  Decided to take a walk down around the lake, watch the stars.  It was a beautiful night.  The Perseid meteor showers were still going on, the sky was crystal clear, and, down around the lake, there wasn't much light pollution at all, you could see forever.

Most of the parties had already wound down.  Maybe the field battle was the next day, I don't remember, really, I just remember how quiet it was, how peaceful, how beautiful.

He had a knife.  I never even saw him coming.

I'd never be able to identify him.  It was dark, it happened...  It happened so fast, but like it was in slow motion, all at the same time. 

All I could think of while I walked back to camp was, how do I tell him?  How do you tell your fiance that something like that had happened?  How do you talk about it at all?  How do you deal with the questions, not just the ones that get asked, but the ones that don't?

It's easier if you don't, you think.  Just take what happened, shove it down into a box, lock it up, and never think about it again.

Sounds easy, doesn't it?

It's not.

Not when you flinch for years when you're touched when you're not expecting it.  Not when even the idea of any kind of intimate contact makes you think back to what happened. 

That was the worst part, you know.

The worst part was not being able to tell him...  And he never asked.

I know I changed, after that.  Who wouldn't?  But he never asked why, never asked what happened.  Never asked why I wouldn't leave camp alone, after that, not even in broad daylight.  Never asked why I stopped wanting to go down by the lake.

We didn't last much longer, after that.  I doubt he ever understood why.

Am I over it, now?  You tell me.

This is the first time I've given anybody this many details, right here.  I've told the women I camp with to be careful, that they shouldn't leave camp alone, I've made sure of it when I could.  I've told a few friends more details, but not many.

What kind of fucked up world is it that people can be hurt like that, and, no matter how it happened, they feel like they can't talk about it?

Fuck you, world.

Apparently, the GoP has decided that, in order to prevent women from using federal money to fund an abortion, the IRS should get to audit abortions.  Rape victims will get the ever so joyful experience of going over what happened with the police, THEN doing it again with an IRS agent.


Or Kill Me / A little something for my husband.
« on: March 16, 2011, 06:08:11 pm »
I thought I'd at least get a decent rant out of this.

It comes and goes, of course.  Sometimes the rage is white-hot enough that I can't even see through it.  There were flashes of that this weekend, when you had the balls to bring that whore to a public event where you KNEW I would be, where so many of our friends would be, and let her fawn all over you like a weasel in heat.  Getting to stand in a crowded hall and explain to people who've known me for so many years that, no, you really HAD decided the village slut was more important to you than your wife was a special treat.

I thought I'd have enough hate and rage to shit out when I got around to this one that you'd feel the splatter all the way across the internet on whatever sleazy pickup site you're using these days to cheat on her.  (Is she stupid enough to think you won't?  Really?  Now that she's seen how easily you DO?  Of course, she probably doesn't care, given that the whole time she was actively pursuing you and you two were running around behind my back, she was trying to sleep with anything with a pulse, whether they wanted her or not.)

I don't, though.  I've got nothing.  There's nothing left to get rid of.

All I want, now, is the rest of my stuff, and for the paperwork to be finished.  I'd say I want my freedom, but that's not yours to give.  I've claimed that for myself.

I don't need to rant, I don't need to rage.  I don't need to cry, or to lash out, even if I want to, sometimes.

I don't need you.

Or kill me.

Judson Phillips, founder of the Tea Party Nation, claimed his organization is under attack by the Internet hacktivist group known as "Anonymous."

Just one problem...  The folks at Anonymous aren't taking credit, and they're usually not shy about doing so...

Or Kill Me / Nice Girls
« on: March 10, 2011, 04:16:27 am »
Nice girls don't get angry.  Nice girls don't complain.  They don't yell, they don't scream, they don't swear, they don't fight.  Nice girls don't rock the boat.  They don't drink, they don't smoke.  They don't spit, they don't hit.  Sugar and spice, and everything nice, that's what little girls are made of.

Teach it to your daughters, your sisters.  It makes them tame, keeps them easier to control.  Keep them sweet, teach them that being "nice," being a "lady" is the most important thing.  After all, if you're not, the alternative is just unthinkable.  Teach them that, get it into their heads young, and keep stomping it in there.  If you teach them well enough, they'll barely be able to think for themselves, once some man gets the leash snapped on right.  She won't have to worry her pretty little head about having her own opinions, he'll give her the ones he wants her to have.

By the time she's grown, she won't even question it.  Her concept of what a woman should be will be set in concrete, and stepping outside of that concept will take her so far outside of the comfort zone you've installed that she'll resist it without even thinking about it.


It isn't ladylike.  Bottle it up, shove it down, bury it deep.  Get so good at it that you don't even recognize it in yourself any more.  Angry?  Deep breaths, don't worry, it'll pass.  Sure, it'll pass.  It'll go right to your gut, coil up with the rest of it that you've swallowed over a lifetime until it eats you up from the inside.  But, no need to worry about that, after all, you're a NICE girl.

Do it well enough, when you finally DO get pushed too far, you won't even know yourself.  You won't recognize that banshee howling her fury and pain at the world, if she can even manage to open her teeth.  You'll be more shocked than anybody when your hand finally flies.  Just a slap, barely a tap, nothing like the punch you know you COULD throw.  (Those karate lessons in college?  REALLY not ladylike, how DID you manage to do that?)  Nothing but fingertips across the chin, but still something that shakes you to your core.  Nice girls just don't DO that, and that's what you are isn't it?

Isn't it?

Fuck it.

Not any more.

The concrete is crumbling.  Take a sledgehammer to it, and that's gonna happen.

I'm getting to know that banshee in the mirror.  She may not be a "nice girl," but you know what?  She's stronger than I thought she was.  She's been frozen in stone for a long time, but she's starting to find her feet.  You bastards haven't managed to kill her, for all your trying.  We're going to get to know each other pretty damn well, I think.

Being a "nice girl" all the time has gotten me nothing but kicked around.

I have some things I need to learn from the banshee.

Or kill me.

Or Kill Me / Vampires...
« on: March 09, 2011, 09:54:57 pm »

No, I'm not talking about the sparkly faggot in the movies, the ones with the fangs in the WAY too many she-porn books cluttering up the shelves, or the twitwads to think it makes them cool and mysterious to dress in black, cut each other up, and exchange bodily fluids in ways that are less fun and more stupid than the way most other people do it.

I'm talking about the people walking around with so much grey in their lives that when they see somebody else with some color, they have to do whatever it takes to take that color for themselves.

What kind of sorry fucker do you have to be to need to take what someone else has, rather than build something of your own?  How miserable do you have to be to need to tear down what somebody else has built to find the stuff  to build something, yourself?

And how fucking stupid do you have to be?  Seriously, if you compromise the building materials, it's not like anything you build with them is going to last?  If you tear apart something to take what you want from it, you've done a fuckjob on the thing you're taking, and it will never be what you admired in the first place.

It'll never be as shiny and bright as it was before you came in and fucked it up, and, now that you've broken it once, it'll break again, easier and faster.  You deserve what you get.

If I see something I want, let me have the patience to wait until it's up for grabs, or the brains to find something else.

Or kill me.

They're "foolish," Speaker William O'Brien said in a recent speech to a tea party group.  "Voting as a liberal. That's what kids do," he added, his comments taped by a state Democratic Party staffer and posted on YouTube. Students lack "life experience," and "they just vote their feelings."


"They don't vote the way WE want them to vote, so we want to bar them from voting."

Did I wake up somewhere OTHER than America this morning?

High Weirdness / Cactus Walking On 20 Legs Found In China
« on: March 02, 2011, 03:50:18 am »

Apple Talk / I suppose it's a good sign...
« on: February 16, 2011, 11:56:26 am »
When and old friend comments on Facebook "love to you and (soon-to-be-ex-husband)," I feel worse about having to correct them (You'll have to deliver that other half seperately, we're done," and dealing with the ensuing inevitable outrush of, "Oh, I'm sorry, what happened" than I do about the fact that it's over.

Apple Talk / Forgetting
« on: February 08, 2011, 10:23:18 pm »
It hasn't been easy.  It still isn't.  Finding out you've wasted years on your life, thinking you had it set, that you'd done it right.  Years of feeling just a little smug, sometimes, that happy little glow of "nothing bad can ever happen."  Right up until it happens.

Now, it's, "what has SHE got that I haven't got?"  (Easy answer, that one.  My husband.)  "Why her?  She's disgusting."  (She is.  Really.  Petri dish with feet.)  Now it's hours of "where did I go wrong," and "what could I have done differently," and, worst of all, "how could I have changed myself to make it work?"

Stupid questions, really... but they dance around my head, bouncing off each other, sending sparks that burn when they skip off my brain.  They're normal enough, I suppose.  It's not the first time I've been cheated on.  Granted, it's the first marriage that's been destroyed.  The legal crap that's to come is scary as hell, but I've had relationships blow up in my face before.  Maybe it's because this time I'd promised forever.

Funny, my idea of forever was a bit longer than four and a half years.

He said, originally, that he'd walk away and leave me with everything, he felt so bad.  Like I'd want to live in the home we'd made together, surrounded by the ghosts of happier times.  Now, of course, that it has come down to it, every thing that's even remotely "ours" (as opposed to "I had this when we met") is an argument.  The sum total of the furniture I was allowed to take was a dresser (which was mine, before), a table that's about ready to fall apart, and some shelves.  Some dishes from the kitchen (pretty much on my own for pots and pans), and a coffee pot I bought for ten bucks four years ago and left at work.  Going through cash like it's water, trying to make the place livable.  (You can't imagine what the words, "hey, I've got some stuff in storage, you need it?" meant.  There wasn't more than a couple things I could use... but the fact that a friend cared enough...)  My bank account is hemorraging, he's complaining that I owe him for half the cell phone bill, the car insurance, the health insurance, he's got NO money... but the little tramp is bragging to her friends about lobster dinners.  (Oh, yes...  when you live in a state you can spit across, never, EVER forget that you have no idea who talks to who, and how fast the fact that you're bragging about fucking a married man will get back to his wife.)  And, let me tell you, finding out that they were talking about having kids months before I'd even moved out of the house was a special treat.

The hardest part is remembering things.  The look in his eyes when I finally asked him if he even wanted to TRY working things out.  He never did answer that question.  Remembering that kicked-in-the-gut sensation when I realized that he'd run around with her behind my back, but that he'd permitted her to chip away at our relationship for, literally, years.  Remembering him defending her with the, "if it wasn't her, it would have been someone else."  Yeah, that helps, a lot.  How many other women have been whispering their poison about me into your ears for years?  Even worse, remembering that wonderful vacation we went on, less than a month before I found out about her.

Yeah.  The good times are the hardest to remember.  I can't help wondering, when I think back, "was he glad it was ME that was there, or was he wishing it was HER?"

I sometimes wish I could forget it all.  Forget the years of marriage, the years before that we lived together.  Wipe out over a decade of life, of memories.  Just shovel out the brain, start over.  I don't want this crap cluttering up my brain, keeping me awake at night.  I haven't gotten more than four hours of sleep a night in so long, I don't remember what it's like to wake up to an alarm, rather than using it as a "stop lying there feeling sorry for yourself and get your ass to work" reminder.

You know what?

Fuck all that.

Through the worst of this, I've made some great friends, and I've found out some people I thought WERE friends, weren't... and some who I thought were just casual buddies were really friends.

I've been smacked in the face with the fact that other people have got the kind of baggage to lug around that I can only stare at in jaw-dropping horror.  If they can get through that shit, I can get through this.

Yeah, it'd be nice to flip the "I don't care" switch and go on like the whole decade didn't happen...  But, it did.  He's not worth cutting out that much of my life for... and killing the part of myself that cares isn't going to do me any good.

So, yeah.  I'm going to cry, sometimes.  I'm going to see one of my friends who's pregnant (and what the FUCK was in the water around here, anyway?) and choke up at the lost time and lost chances.  And I'm going to get angry, and take it out on the guys at fencing practice.  (Sorry about the bruises, honest.)  I'm going to lean on my friends a little too much for awhile.

But you know what?

This might have been the best thing that ever happened to me.

Bastard doesn't deserve me.

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