The Fuck You Tongue

Have you ever had a scab that you know you shouldn’t pick at, but damn if the urge isn’t there to see the grossness underneath the healing?

It’ll leave scars, our elders told us, don’t do it, leave it alone or else, Miss Missy!

Well, my scab happens to be named Asshat and today, I couldn’t stop myself from ripping it clear off, revealing the worst of my nature.

I broke my no contact streak of almost 6 weeks or roundabouts.

As a matter of fact, I still am. (Nothing illegal, I still have a hold of my facilities, what’s left of them.)

I decided that I wasn’t able to just “let it go” like everyone keeps telling me. I want him to suffer, but I know that nothing I can do will get a response that will make any of this shit better. It’s as pointless as banging my head on the wall.

It’s just this intense rage has taken a hold of me and I can’t seem to repress it. I mean, I’ve never hated anyone like this before, ever. He hit me directly where it hurt and how can I just let him go, all zippy-dee-do-da after all that he’s done to try and destroy me? For all of the bullshit that he’s put my kid through over 15 years?

No. Not this time. This is too big of a betrayal.

He’s a sick twist, a perverted sociopath who once proclaimed that he “had my back” and that I was his soulmate, someone with whom he could not ever live without.

Everyone! Hailey Mills and the Fuck You Tongue!

Holy fuckballs and I believed him. If by chance someone says that to me again before my ashes are scattered at a favorite childhood park, how will I ever believe them?

I’m really a nice person, sweet, generous, kindhearted, just ask my friends and family…but yes, even meek and mild Mer can become a rabid dog ready to bite hard (and not in a good way) on his johnson.

I ain’t no twinkling, pure snowflake anymore, you piece of fuck.

Ah ha, this is the anger part of the grieving process and it feels like Icy Hot in my veins. If I wasn’t buttering his muffins, why not just tell me the damn truth?

Geez ass.

I was supposed to write here at Spooky blog today about the untimely return of my sex-drive, but that will have to wait until next time.

Here’s a question for you, Paul: How do I stop myself from trying to garner any kind of human reaction from Asshat?

And do you have some bail money?

Filthy Acts of Betrayal

Hi there! I’d like to apologize for my extended absence. It’s a really decent excuse too.

My partner and husband of 15 years is a lying, cheating sociopath and I had no other choice but to kick him out. After it came to my attention that he was having an ongoing affair, I went 100% no contact with him on December 4th.

He’s been such a bad boy, I had to put this as my “intro” on Facebook:

If you’re here to rat out my husband, don’t bother. I already know that he’s a sleazy bastard.

Yep. The current tally is now 5. Every damn time that I log in, I’m afraid that another one of his extracurricular activities (or an honest friend of one) has left me a message informing me of his filthy acts of betrayal.

This would have been me 60 years ago.

At this point, I don’t give a shit how many times he’s been screwing around. The damage has been done and I’d love to plead total blissful ignorance from now on. I mean, five is bad enough, why add insult to injury.

I like my salt on my fries, not rubbed into my wounds.

I’ve been struggling to write on my own blog, so sadly my gig over here on Spooky blog has been on a hiatus. But, I am starting to write again and am semi-participating in blogging once more.

I’ve done a lot of swearing, crying, sleeping, zoning out…repeat cycle.

Don’t get me wrong, though. My husband has always been a bit of an abusive asshole in other ways, so my almost 21-year-old kidlet and myself have been enjoying many freedoms that we had almost forgotten about.

That word, though. Freedom. It’s a beauty, ain’t it?

I am planning on posting here at Paul’s bit of the internet at least once a week, like I had originally planned before I had the rug pulled ungraciously out from under me.

There are certain topics that I’m unable to dish about on my own blog, plus how in the fuck could I turn down such an awesome invite from our very own curmudgeon?

Exactly. I could not (would not in a boat.)

No. Not even with a goat.

Friday Funhouse: Brian and Stewie

Hello there. I hope that you’re feeling funky on this fantastic Friday.

Paul asked me if I’d cover the Friday Funhouse while he’s off doing his Paul thing. I happily accepted the challenge and so, without further ado, here we go!

My favorite show is Family Guy. If you’re not familiar with Family Guy, I’ll give you a quick tutorial.

There’s Peter Griffin and his wife Lois. They have three kids, Meg, Chris and Stewie (a baby who can talk with a British accent) and Brian, a talking dog who fancies himself a writer.

Stewie and Brian are best friends and they often go on adventures together. Hilarity ensues. Here’s a montage of some of their best moments.

It’ll only take 4 minutes out of your day, so what are you waiting for?

Girl Gets Chased by a Gorilla, Lives to Tell the Tale

I used to love to go to haunted houses. I had a boyfriend who also enjoyed getting the shit scared out of him, so we went to at least a dozen within a two month span.

I would hide behind him, pressing my face into the back of his jacket, screaming in terror while giggling at the same time. The ghosts and ghouls had a great time with me, because I was good for business. My petrified screeching carried far and wide, proving that these paid actors and actresses were doing a damn fine job.

One night, it was absolutely freezing outside. The line for this particular house of horrors was long and by the time that we got inside, my legs were numb from the bitter wind. (October in Cleveland is a crapshoot.) I always wore jeans back then and they didn’t have enough insulation to keep me very warm.

But, I was young and full of adrenaline. Frozen leg-pops were not going to keep me from seeing the Oogie Boogie man, no sir.


It was a really freaky haunted house and there was a tunnel. We had to get on our hands and knees in order to crawl through. No problem, I was a spry 20-year-old. My only concern was that my boyfriend might accidentally fart on me.

I had someone behind me as well, so I made sure to keep my sphincter muscles tight.

Once out of the tunnel, there were a plethora of bloody maniacs and devils around every corner. I shrieked, I yelped, I hung onto my boyfriend’s coat for dear life. I was so gleefully scared, in fact, that I forgot to notice how fucking cold I still was. My legs hadn’t thawed out one iota.

This is an important detail, so remember it. Mer’s legs were still numb from the cold.

When we finally made it to the end, the last room had one of those strobe lights going. I was instantly disoriented as my peripheral vision caught sight of a gorilla in a cage.

He made a lunge for me but I didn’t react. Perhaps the extreme cold had finally entered my brain and turned it as numb as the rest of my body.

So, instead of screaming like I usually did, I laughed at him (human in a gorilla suit.)

This would prove to be a mistake.

When we exited the haunted house, all seemed well. I was thinking about finding me some hot cocoa and a place to sit down when all of a sudden I heard someone call out from behind me.

“Watch out, he’s right behind you!!”


Don’t you laugh at me, bitch.  I be scary! Wah!


I started running from him when my legs finally gave out on me. I fell hard, smack dab on my ass.

When I looked up, I could see his eyes through the mask. They were full of triumph.

The people around us were laughing, because free entertainment, but my boyfriend was really pissed off.

After making sure that I was basically unharmed, the gorilla dude turned around and went back to his cage, while my boyfriend helped me up from the hard concrete. He was ready to sue the place, but I calmed him down.

I think whoever was in that gorilla costume took his job way too seriously. But, it didn’t stop me from going to more haunted houses.

However, it sure made me not like monkeys all that fucking much.

Confessions #1: A Virginity Story

A couple of months shy of my 19th birthday, I was desperate to finally lose my virginity. And so, one early evening in May of 1993, I had “sex” with one of my brothers friends.

Well, I don’t know if you could really call it sex. It was 40 seconds of something that happened down there that I’ve rarely ever talked about because it’s so shameful. (Which I’ll be explaining in a second.)

It’s on my Top 5 list of “Why the Fuck Did I Do That?” 

We all have one.

I had always thought that he was really cute and funny. He was at our house so often it felt like having him around was normal and sometimes we’d lightly flirt with each other, but I never let myself think of dating him because he was 15, close to my brothers age at the time.

He looked older than he rightfully should have. He even had stubble on his face a few times. (Yes, I stared at him plenty, while sighing inwardly, so I noticed.)

Anyway, I was lounging on the couch watching television after coming home from my job as a teacher’s aide at a nursery school when Melvin (not his real name) knocked on the door.

“Yo, come in,” I said or some kind of shit like that.


“Where’s your brother?” he asked me.

“Not home from school yet,” I replied.

“Can I hang out?”

“Sure.” My heart skipped a beat, but I acted aloof, cool as a cucumber. He was one of those people, who when they shined their attention on you, made you feel slightly giddy and bedazzled.

We chatted about nothing of much importance for a few minutes, joking back and forth like we often did. Then he paused and looked at me sorta funny, scrutinizingly, like he was trying to figure out if he was attracted to me or not.

Was I a SILF?

“Do you want to have sex?” So matter of fact, if I recall. My goodness, he was quite the charmer.

Now, keep in mind that I hadn’t even really kissed a boy yet, no tongue at all. (I was a late bloomer.) Sure, I had many male friends, but that’s where it ended. If any of the boys liked me more than that when I was in high school, they never let the cat out of the bag or I was too naive to notice. 

Most of my friends had already done it. I was approaching the ancient age of 19. And, up to that point, I had yet to have anyone approach me sexually since I was 13…by a 14 year-old altar boy.

“Yes,” I said, a knee jerk reaction, for I had fantasized about him many times.

Plus, this could be my only chance to lose the virgin thing. Such a stupid thought, I know now, but back then it seemed to be of the utmost importance that I rid myself of that title. 

Call it Catholic rebellion.

A condom! We needed a condom, of course! Did I have a couple of dollars? The local head shop was just a block away on Detroit road and they sold them individually. It would take him about 10 minutes by bike and back, he promised me. 

I gave him a couple of bucks and he went to go get the condom. While he was gone, I went to the bathroom and took a quick look at myself in the mirror. My make-up had that 12-hour fade thing going on and my hair was flatter than a Necco wafer.

But, I didn’t have that no so fresh feeling (you know what I’m saying, ladies), so I was good to go in that department.

This was really going to happen. Holy shitballs. I started to panic.

The minutes ticked by slowly while I waited for him to get back with our solitary prophylactic. I was also so afraid that my brother would come home and ruin it all. Or worse yet, interrupt us mid coitus.

As I mentioned above, I shouldn’t have worried.

“But he’s so young, Mer,” my inner voice whispered. 

“Shut up, inner voice! Can’t you see that I’m about to finally get laid?!”

He finally came back and we rushed upstairs to my room. I took the clothes and blanket off of my bed and laid down. I had no fucking idea what I was doing. Didn’t he have to be the one to take off my pants? Wasn’t he supposed to kiss me?

Touch my boob or something?

He was standing there looking down at me, then he quickly whipped his shorts down. I followed his example, taking off my jeans and undies.

And then…


…well, it was over before it even began. I knew something had happened, since he threw away the now used rubber in my mini garbage can. He left my room without a single word and then I felt the front door slam.

I guess he decided not to wait on my brother to come home after all.

I remember lying there in a daze for a few minutes, trying to understand what the actual fuck had just happened.

I finally got up and redressed myself, then I walked over to the nursing home kitchen that my best friend at the time was working at. I’d often go there to wait around for her to get done, talking to the residents while she served them fish sticks. Then we would go get an ice cream cone and sit on the swings at the park.

I told her what had happened and she consoled me the best that she could.

Melvin didn’t come around much after that and I was glad. It would have been awkward.

So, I pushed the whole incident out of my head until a couple of months later when my brother confronted me. I guess Melvin had been bragging to his friends about our short interlude and my brother had gotten wind of it.

When I confirmed that it was indeed true, he looked disgusted.

“Dude, he’s only 14!” (He still ribs me now and then about it, but to his credit he has never told our mom and he so could have.)

My stomach dropped, because 15 was technically okay, maybe, but 14? That was just too young to be anything but immoral and wrong.

I still think so. I wish that I would have said no to the fucking kid and laughed him out of the house.

Wait for my brother on the porch, you flaming asshat.

It turned out that Melv often lied about his age in order to woo girls. If you take into consideration his lack of sexual prowess, I don’t think that it worked all that often.

I still refuse to count it as the first time that I had sex, but don’t be waiting for me to write about that, because it was unspectacular and not illegal. 

A total snorefest, really. 

No, it was an act of desperation from a girl who seriously didn’t think that she’d ever have sex, like ever. I seriously thought that, which I think is truly sad.

This is the first time that I have ever written about this sordid chapter in my life and I have to admit, I do feel a little bit lighter.

Thank you for reading.

Picky Eatin’

Although it’s hard to tell by looking at me, I am an extremely picky eater.

One thing that you’ll learn about me, I love list posts. In fact, I love them so much that today I decided to name all of the different foods that I won’t touch with a 20 foot pole, due to either gastric distress, allergies or personal taste.

I know, I’m excited too.

My Picky Food List

Meatloaf made by anyone besides my mother. The freaking pope could make a meatloaf and I’d still have to pass.

Fake crab meat, because life is too damn short for pretend seafood.

Bratwurst. Even the name sounds unappetizing.

Clams. My dad gave me one to try when I was a kid and he even warned me that I wouldn’t like it. He was correct, it was disgusting.

Curry. Have you ever tried to run like the wind blows to the bathroom in a pair of high heels?


They should have taught us how to do this in Home Economics class.

Lamb, because they are too fucking adorable to consume.

Beans, raw onions and broccoli. (Gastric distress, please steer clear of me for at least 12 hours.)

Almost any kind of leftover, unless it’s pizza or lasagna. Cold lasagna is delicious, you should give it try. Go ahead, live on the edge.

Pecans, walnuts, pistachios or any sort of tree nut, because my mouth will start to feel like I tried to eat flames.


Here, let me cook that hotdog for you.

Coconuts. I love the smell, but hate the taste and consistency of it.

Ketchup and yellow mustard, because I’m weird. Other mustards are fine, though.

Hot sauce. Well, anything that’s hot or really spicy. I don’t get why people enjoy scorching their insides, but hey, who am I to judge?

Lorna Doone cookies. Seriously, what’s the point? This isn’t a cookie, Nabisco. You better get your shit together and dip it in chocolate, then we might have something.


Selling lies since 1912.

Is there any food that you can’t stand? (I know someone else out there must also hate ketchup.)

Lil’ Runaway

When I was in the 2nd grade, I told my parents that I wanted to move in with my best friend at the time, a girl named Ann.

She had the coolest house. Her stepmother had a brown velvet chaise lounge.

They asked me if I was sure and I said yes, I was sure. I already spent so much time over there anyway, so why not make it official? I would visit often, of course. Plus, I’d be saving them shitloads of money on Kool-Aid.

So, I packed a bag that consisted of some clothes, fresh underwear, my favorite Barbie dolls and a couple of my stuffed animals. If I needed anything else in the future, I only lived 5 blocks away, so I wasn’t all that concerned with leaving my belongings behind.

My dad drove to drop me off. I gave him a kiss and a hug, then got out of the car to stand with my friend on the sidewalk, while her own father watched this childish drama unfolding nearby.

“Are you sure?” my dad asked me again.

“Um…yes,” I replied. I nodded bravely.

“Okay,” my dad said, then slowly started to drive away.

He didn’t get more than 200 feet down the perfectly paved street before I started crying, running to catch up to our orange and brown station wagon.


You see, my parents knew that I was full of bullshit. Instead of telling me hell no, you crazy fucking kid, they let me play out my little fantasy of the “grass is greener on the other side.” They wanted me to see for myself that leaving home wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be.

A sweet chaise lounge couldn’t make up for my own comfy bed and loving family.

But, that was many years ago. (I’m 43 now, so do the math. I’ll wait.)

Honestly, I’ve always had this intense desire to leave Northeast Ohio. I live less than 15 miles from my hometown of Lakewood, which is one of the largest suburban cities on Cleveland’s westside. I grew up within walking distance of Lake Erie, many beautiful parks, fast food restaurants galore and my sheltered Catholic school.

Wanderlust, maybe? I don’t know. But, I have yet to ever get up enough lady balls to pack all of my possessions and hit the dusty trail for places unknown. I keep telling myself that I will someday, once my mom passes away. (I can’t write about my beloved mom and her ailing health on KOBAF because she reads my blog.)

Not that I want her to die! Holy fuck, trust me when I say that when the day comes…and it will…I’m going to be a hot mess for a long time.

I tell myself that someday I’ll move out west, where the milder weather might help with my chronic pain. When my 20-year-old daughter finishes college and can afford her own place. She lives at home and commutes to Cleveland State.

I own a condo that hasn’t been updated since 1987, in a quaint little neighborhood, voted the 2nd safest place to live in my region, with a highly desirable school system. That was one of the reasons why we moved here, so my kid could have a killer education.

A few months ago, my husband put an ad up (complete with dick pics) looking for someone to shag. One of the ladies that he was pursuing somehow found out about me and sent me the info on Facebook.


We’re “working it out.”

But, his cheating heart has sent me reeling back to my longtime dream of running away from home, so I can start over from scratch in a new environment. I’m not as spontaneous as I was when I was 9, thankfully, but it’s a recurring daydream of mine.

“It was a beautiful day, the sun beat down
I had the radio on, I was drivin’
Trees flew by, me and Del were singin’ little Runaway
I was flyin'”

RIP Tom Petty