Listen to Discount Rap (per Michael’s request for something very sweary) by Kindra M. Austin #np on #SoundCloud
Allow me to extend my genuine gratitude; I’m honored you have chosen to visit my blog. I hope your time does not prove wasted here, as building human connections through the written word is paramount to me. I’ve made many friends via WordPress. I’ve also offended a metric fuck-ton of people; these folks ran away from me full on Kevin McCallister style. I don’t fret when I lose subscribers.
I’m not for everyone, and I respect that I disrespect some readers/writers with my foul mouth. I know what it’s like to come across a blog so fucking filthy, I’ve wanted to bathe in bleach. Even I have standards, and standards are all relative. What should be understood is that there is a real difference between me using words like fuck; twat waffle; thunder cunt; pork sword; douche canoe; and those who glorify sex violence; domestic violence; homophobic violence; religious violence; child pornography; animal abuse; genocide.
But, yes, I do stand by all of you who don’t like the coarse words I utilize in my writing. What I do take issue with are the reprimands I receive for my goddamned blog posts. You have the right to rub my nose in a piss puddle, because my blog is public. But are those reprimands necessary? I’m a grown ass woman, so I think not. Before the argument is raised that my bad words are unnecessary, I say, the hell-damn-fart they’re not. I write my truths. And my truths are sometimes very sweary; I make no apologies for the butt hurt. I have a warning label on my home page, for fuck’s sake.
So, to all of you kind enough to stop by my blog for the first time, please, proceed with caution if you are easily offended by a sailor’s tongue. And understand that I don’t offend people because it is my goal. My only goal is to be true.
I wish you all peace.
Kindra M. Austin
To Whom It May Concern:
I am a writer. Many writers consider writing an art form. I am one of those writers. I’m also an artist–mostly pencil and pen, but do I love to paint. Or at least I did love to paint back when I could afford the supplies to support my painting hobby. Pencils and sketch pads, and coloring books and crayons/colored pencils/markers are much cheaper. Yes, I’m a member of the adult coloring book movement–I need to fucking relax damn it! I like elephants, kitties doing people things, and letters that spell out swear words the best. Five points to the house that can correctly guess my favorite word to color in with Crayola and/or Sharpies.
I fucking love Sharpie markers. Especially the two-ended ones.
So, like writers, musicians are artists. I love music. Music is a necessity to me. When I was ten years old, I taught myself how to play Silent Night on my Yamaha keyboard. I was damned proud of myself until I heard my friend across the street play fucking Chopin on her mother’s upright piano. Fuck you, Keri Keifer. But mostly because you killed your mother with a baseball bat when you were nineteen. Do they have a piano for you to play in the psych ward? Seriously, I know it wasn’t your fault. Schizophrenia is not your fault. I have loads of fond memories of you and your family, and I hope you still play the piano.
I love the piano. Piano is second to violin. Third is trumpet, because Nicole plays trumpet. In high school band, when Nicole was a senior, she tried to get the band director to teach Tusk for the football half-time show, but the students were like, “We’re fucking stupid, and we don’t know who Fleetwood Mac is, and Tusk sounds fucking lame.” And Nicole was like, “You guys are fucking losers. Fleetwood Mac is awesome, and Tusk is the fucking balls.” So naturally, the band director did not teach his students one of the best arrangements in the history of music. Granted, he himself was unfamiliar with Fleetwood Mac, being a dude in his mid-twenties. It’s a goddamned shame, parents don’t teach their kids right anymore. Nicole knows all the best books, movies, and music. Because her mom and dad raised her right, ffs. I honestly don’t know what is wrong with people, letting their kids grow up ignorant. In fifth grade, Nicole was reading The Diary of Anne Frank. Her classmate asked her what the book was about, and Nicole said, “Are you kidding? Anne Frank? Emilee, it’s about Nazis,” and before she could give more detail, Emilee said, “Nicole, you know I don’t listen to the same music you do.” True story.
Emilee listens to Country, I think. Lots of people where I live listen to Country. I don’t like Country unless it’s Dwight Yoakam, Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, or Waylon Jennings. Okay, so I like There’s Your Trouble, by the Dixie Chicks, but that is it! Maybe Achy Breaky Heart. But that is it! And Black Bear Road, by C.W. McCall. I listen to Black Bear Road on repeat, no lie. That’s it. Period. End. Until someone reminds me of some fucking George Strait song, or some shit. OH! Patsy Cline. Damn, Patsy Cline–she’s the Queen.
My tolerance for rap is even lower. Are you Twista? No? Then get the fuck outta my face. Are you straight outta Compton? No? Get to steppin’. MOST importantly, are you a Rap God??? Are you my Superman? Do you run with Dr. Dre? No? Bitch, leave my house, now. Eminem is King–a proper poet, which leads me to the point of this letter.
Some discount Eazy-E motherfucker liked twelve of my poems yesterday, and commented on all of them. The comments were only links to his SoundCloud. Like, he just randomly selected posts to attach his link to, and said nothing else. I understand shit like this happens. I understand the hustle. Fuck, I want people to read my book, ffs, but I don’t hit up random folks and leave my link on random posts. That’s fucking rude. Have some fucking manners, dude. Buy me dinner first. I’m a lady, motherfucker.
And P.S. I listened to one of your tracks, and you fucking suck hard, dude. Like, if I had a dick to go with my big brass balls, I would have wept in legit pain listening to your tired-ass raps. Only one dude can pull of the stoned sound, and that’s Snoop. Do us all a favor, and go home to sober up, you marble mouthed monstrosity. And quit auto-commenting. Damn.
Kindra, someone with taste
Dearest friends and family the world over,
You all deserve ponies, and ice cream sundaes, and bouncy castles, and…I don’t know. What is like, super balls awesome? ATVs? ATVs, I suppose, are pretty fucking rad.
The encouragement I receive in support of my dream is incredible, and incomparable. I’m an author now, not only because I finished a manuscript. I am so loved. If my heart swells any more, blood will leak through the pores of my skin. Literally.
Don’t you hate it when people improperly insert literally into their conversations? “I packed so many egg rolls down my throat, my stomach, like literally exploded.” I was so fucking mortified, I like, died. Literally, dude.” “I rolled my eyes so fucking hard, they literally fell out of my head.” “I’m a vacuous cunt. Literally.”
And I am literally grateful.
You all are bananas, and I love you endlessly.
I am in fact, ignoring your phone calls. Leave a message, and I will listen to it at my earliest convenience. Send me a text and I will likely answer promptly, so long as it’s not an invitation for company. I’m avoiding company, as my own is the only I desire at the moment. Unless I gave birth to you, that is; Babe is always welcome. Because Babe and I understand one another. To share a space with her, even deep in heartbeat silence, is to feel a more meaningful connection than I do with anyone else in my world.
But I digress.
There is a difference, to me at least, between being a recluse, and being reclusive. Presently, I am reclusive. You can’t begin to fathom the mechanisms that make me tick-tock. Unlike you, I process on my own; I do not seek your ears until I’m certain I need them. You may not fucking get me, but you accept me. For that, I thank you.
I have become exceptionally introverted since my hip replacement surgery. Contrary to popular belief, I’m an introvert anyway, so I am not at all concerned about my mental welfare. And I know you’re not either because you’re accustomed to my bouts of stillness; that, and you know my strength of will; you’ve seen me walk through every level of hell. Believe me, it’s a specfuckingtacular feeling, knowing that in your eyes I am a tough mutha–and someone you can count on for sound advice and a patient heart.
But Jesus, fuck! I am too damned tired right now to play psychologist. I don’t know how many more ways I can convey this to you without punching the words into your head. I need someone, anyone to fucking hear me. So, this is what you’ve reduced me to–bitching in a blog entry. One that I know you will read…and feel offended by because that’s how you operate. I know what makes you tick-tock.
You are good, honest, and loyal. But when the shit is thick for you, self-absorption rules you.
I pity you. And I love you.
Damn it, I wish you loved me as much as I love you.
I dreamt of you (again). It was an epic dream, the kind that picks up where it leaves off after waking a few moments to roll over, or take a quick middle of the night piss. You were a school janitor, and dressed accordingly. I don’t know what the fuck I was doing in school; and I have no idea what I was wearing, as I was dreaming in first person–I can only hope I looked hawt as all hell’s acres.
The details are dingy, but I do recall leaning against a set of tall grey lockers next to the ladies’ room, and you were nearly pressed against me. I playfully jingled the keys attached to your belt loop while you explained I was too young to kiss. Bullshit, Norman. I’m a grown ass woman–37, thank you very fucking much!
I awoke for good just after you asked me out. “Let’s get together tonight and throw some darts,” you said.
It’s a start, Norman. I’m free this Saturday.
Kindra M. Austin
Dear Verizon, and HTC
I hate your actual guts. Both of you bastards have driven me to drink. On a fucking Tuesday afternoon. Tuesday! What the actual fuck is the Verizon Cloud? Where are my goddamned files and contacts??? The only thing that’s easy about using this back-up service you provide is losing my shit. Sure, I can manually enter my contacts, but how am I supposed to recover the 300 photos of my cat? 100 selfies? And eleventy hundred photos of my family? Oh! And HTC, you’re the fuckest-uppest. My phone keeps telling me I don’t have a SIM card installed. I can see the motherfucker in its slot! So what the actual fuck goes on during assembly there in Taifuckingwan? I can’t send a simple text message to my daughter telling her how much I hate your actual guts! I can’t make a phone call!
All of you motherfuckers don’t know me. You don’t know how quickly I go from 0-fuck you. I’ve already destroyed my old phone trying to get to its insides. See, the Verizon Cloud needs me to use my new phone to scan a goddamned QR number on my old phone in order to transfer my files and contacts. And the information will not scan!
Fuck you all so hard in the butthole. I hate you.
Kindra M. Austin