The Velveteen Hoodrat

How to run off the Mormons with nary a 'fuck' uttered.

2014-01-27T17:27:00.001-08:00

So, did I tell y'all the story of how I ran off the Mormons yesterday? Not just the 2 young men in white shirts and ties, but a suit wearing Bishop type, too.

IT. WAS. EPIC.

First, I told them I had issues with organized religion and where were the Gnostic texts -really-? You know, the relatively -real deal- as far as religion goes?

I schooled them on Bartholomew, the disciple that took over when Judas poofed.

I told them that the New Testament wiped out the old (and all 420+ rules) and there were only two rules now. Love others as you love yourself, and don't deny the Holy Spirit. And that that whole love thing? It included men in dresses, women wanting to grow peens, men who love men, women who love women, all that there, and any combination thereof.

I pointed out the Bible has been being fucked with since Augustus Caesar and that whole Holy Roman Catholic Church dealio.

I pointed out that King James was a flaming homosexual.

I pointed out Genesis 1 and Genesis 2 contradict each other. That in Gen1, God makes man and woman. Then, in Gen2, Adam is alone and he makes Eve. And what about the first chick, the one they call Lilith? Is that where Cain left the garden of Eden and got a wife at?

All the suited up Bishop-type dude could say was, "You're absolutely right. We're going to go now. We have other appointments."

hoodie: ALL THE INTERNETS
Mormons: 0

Don't want you. Damage is done.

2014-01-20T04:03:00.002-08:00

Assmaggot McDouchebag called me. I laughed my ass off when my phone said, "Message from Azzmaggot". He cried the blues all with his "you're the only one I want to be with" bullshit. He should have thought about that and how much he'd miss the PHENOMENAL blow jobs he got along with getting to hang out with my awesomeness.

Dudes, if you have a good woman who treats you well AND she sucks your cock and makes your toes curl? Don't be a dick. If you do, you lose all that and get stuck dreaming about the goodness while you wank into a tissue.

TRUFAX.

Dear Beautiful & Talented Penis,

2014-01-10T23:17:00.001-08:00

I am bereft that you are attached to someone so... utterly disappointing.

There was something special about you. You seemed to know how to slide into the yummiest places. You made me have orgasms.

In a crowd of cocks, you shined like the lights on Broadway. I was in AWE.

You got stuck with a real winner there, BTP. It's a Gawddamn SHAME, I tell you.

Why, Universe, why?

Why would you put such orgasmic goodness on a man who is so ethically, emotionally, and spiritually bankrupt that just the mere thought of him makes me stabby?

Irony? Serendipity? Sadism? Karma? Because the fuck you can and it doesn't cost you a dime?

Whatever the reason, it's MEAN.

MEANIE MCMEANYPANTS MEAN.

-cries a lil-

My InnerCunt: ALL. THE. POINTS. YAY!

2013-12-30T05:53:00.000-08:00

So, I wrote an entry some days ago about choices. Specifically, me and my choices. I am who I am because of the choices I make.

In passing I mentioned I have a darker side. A much darker side. A side I choose every day not to succumb to.

See, I take in a lot of information. I always have. I suppose it is a personality trait I fostered and mastered in childhood. A childhood filled with alcoholics and abuse. I suppose being hyper-aware was how I survived. I got -really- fucking good at anticipating people's actions, needs, wants, or anything that I might be able to use should a situation arise that needed defusing. Thing is, it wasn't just a tool I could use. I realized at some point, it could also be a weapon. A very dangerous and precise weapon. I pay SO much attention to every detail, every word uttered, every facial expression, every like, every dislike...everything, that I know where ALL the buttons are, and the reaction each button is going to elicit.

ALL. THE. BUTTONS.

And when wounded, my first instinct is to wound back. When it comes to that? I am an expert marksman. When I raise my weapon and aim it at your soft spot? I mean for that shit to hurt. I mean for that shit to hurt you down to your soul. I mean to grab the rug you are standing on, viciously yank it out from under you, watch you land on your ass, and squeal with absolute glee. I've planned it all out in my head. I can, because I already know you well enough to know what your reaction is going to be before I ever push the buttons and I'm prepared. You? You don't stand a chance. Intimate warfare and intimate terrorism, these are things I know all too well. Patton and Al Queda ain't got SHIT on the bitch I keep reined in.

Because? ALL. THE. BUTTONS. YAY!

Me: "So, uh, Kitchenbitch, you put your hands on my girlegg."
KB: "I didn't mean it! I swear!"
Me: "Don't blow smoke up my ass, you little fucker, it's allergic."
KB: "Don't kill me, Hoodie. Please, don't kill me."
Me: "Kill you? I don't want to kill you. If I kill you your worries are over and mine just begin. Nah, I don't want you dead, I want you ALIVE, and SUFFERING. That's why when I find you, it'll be daylight and I'm taking out your knees, motherfucker. Below the waist & before dark? That ain't shit but aggravated battery, I can do that bit on my head. Then, when I am off parole, I am going to find you, move in an apartment across the street, and every time you come out pushing your walker with the lime green tennis balls? I am going to point and laugh. And laugh. And laugh. And laugh some more. I will make sure every painful step you take for the rest of your life reminds you to never contemplate hitting my child EVER again. Alive and suffering, motherfucker."
KB: "You're a sick bitch."
Me: "Don't ever forget it."

InnerCunt: ALL. THE. POINTS. YAY!
ThatDude: 0

My dark side is that cunt that finds out you're cheating, and instead of flipping balls, or beating someone up? Finds the woman you're fucking, meets her for lunch, goes MIA with her for 3 days, and fucks her. For the sole purpose of hurting you with it.

When confronted upon my return, and being demanded to tell where I'd been (beginning with his harsh shouts and me purposefully waiting until he was at a fever pitch with his eyes bulging), I looked at him deadpan, my voice emotionless and monotone, my right brow raised as it is wont to do, and said, "Well, I'll say one thing. Isn't a bitch when your girlfriend steals your girlfriend?" Then, without missing a beat, I turned on my heel and walked away.

I left him standing there, alone.

Wounded.
Bleeding.
Ego decimated.
Gobfuckingsmacked.

InnerCunt: ALL. THE. POINTS. YAY!
ThatDude: 0

Cold, calculating, cunning, and cruel. The 4 C's of my InnerCunt.

I have that^^ bitch living inside me, and I have to choose not to be her, many more times a day than I care to discuss, because she is my default setting.

The Statement.

2013-12-30T05:49:00.002-08:00

Trigger warning? Probably. If you have a weak stomach. Or PTSD. Or nightmares.

I must have been in custody at the jail about a year and a half. The prosecutor was dragging her ass about giving up the discovery. I'd only recently seen the morgue photos.

That? That was all bad. If there were one thing I could unsee, those photos are it.

As bad as those photos were, though, they didn't prepare me for his statement. Seventeen pages of gory details. Seventeen pages of his thoughts while dismembering a human corpse, someone he once claimed to love. Seventeen pages of confessions, except they sounded more like braggadocio.

He admitted he'd beaten TheMan. He blamed that on me. "She made me lose my temper!" he told detectives.

I was well under his thumb by the time he'd killed TheMan. So much so I wasn't even allowed keys to our apartment. Sometimes, he'd take advantage of the deadbolt locks on both the front and back doors and lock us in for the day. He'd made me quit my $27/hr job because YOU SUCK ALL THE COCKS IN THE BOILER ROOM ON COFFEE BREAK. He'd taken my vehicle and left it in one of the hundreds of parking garages surrounding the downtown area and refused to tell me where. He'd decided I was going to stay home and take care of TheMan as he slipped deeper and deeper into dementia.

TheMan hated me. He hit me. He pinched me. He spat at me. He told me I ruined everything, that GinsuBoy was supposed to marry him, but he married me instead. He would sit next to me on the couch and shit his pants, then laugh. He would come out of his bedroom and piss in the living room corner, then laugh. He would tell me how much he missed my husband's cock in his mouth. He would lock himself in the bathroom and smear shit on the walls.

This wasn't a job I was mentally, or emotionally, equipped to handle. Eventually, I snapped. I demanded he put TheMan in a facility that could care for him properly. I pointed out he had enough income to secure something quite nice. I told him I would go back to work, that I made more in 2 weeks than he and TheMan brought in together, that TheMan's income wouldn't be missed. I told him he could quit working and I would support us. Anything. Anything to not have to do what I was doing anymore. I couldn't do it anymore. COULD NOT.

Request denied.

Except, he wasn't understanding, this wasn't a request. In a rare bout of bravery, I stood my ground. Of course, it did nothing except send him into a rage. A rage that he took out on TheMan. A rage that, ultimately, drove him to kill TheMan.

GinsuBoy was hard to read. I suppose most sociopaths are, though. Sometimes, I could tell when he was lying. Mostly, though, I just never really knew for sure. He loved spinning elaborate tales sprinkled with just enough truth to make you wonder. It was all part of the head games he loved to play. Keep me off kilter just enough to make me doubt. Doubt myself, my sanity, my reality, my worth, my judgement, my...everything. I didn't walk on eggshells, I walked on thin ice. At any moment I expected my icy world to give way and to drown in an abyss.

The Court Shuffle always began in the wee hours of the morning. We'd be awakened at 3:30am for breakfast. Breakfast was always at 3:30am. On days you were scheduled for court, it behooved you to get up and eat breakfast. Lunch was inedible. Well, for me it was. I just couldn't get that bologna past my nose. The smell alone was enough to make one retch.

We'd be locked back in our cells around 4am. At 5am, we were sent for medication and allowed to shower before court. They'd start herding us up around 5:30, by 6am we were cuffed and ready to go. We'd be shuffled from bullpen to bullpen until we reached our courtroom bullpen several hours later.

The courtroom bullpens were always bitterly cold. It didn't matter what season it was, it always felt like the dead of winter. I remember wearing long johns and a t-shirt under my pale blue DOC's, even in summer. I remember all of the concrete. I remember the steel benches. I remember the chipped, worn cell bars. I remember the stale odor of millions of bodies that passed before me, cigarette smoke, and urine mingling together. It clung to my clothing, hair, and skin like cheap perfume. I remember how everything was so hollow it echoed. I remember how all of that steel and concrete held the cold.

Fuck, it was cold.

My attorney had stopped by the courtroom bullpen that morning before our appearance. He motioned me to come to the bars of the cell so he could speak to me with some semblance of privacy. He handed me a stack of papers that had been neatly stapled into a packet of sorts. He leaned in and whispered to me, "I'm not supposed to give you a copy of this, but I thought you might want one. Keep this to yourself. Keep this hidden."

"What is it?" I asked.

"It's his statement. Just read it. I'll see you in the courtroom," he replied, as he turned to leave.

I looked down at the statement I held in my hands, and I began to tremble. My entire body was shivering. My teeth were chattering. My knees were wobbly. I needed to sit down. My feet felt like lead as I struggled those few short steps back to the frigid, steel bench. My chest was tightening. My breath became labored.

My head was spinning.

I stared at the first page for what seemed like an eternity, my eyes unable to focus on the words before me. I'd seen the result of his actions in the morgue photos. Now, I was going to find out what those actions were. He'd told me so many different stories over the years I wasn't sure what he'd actually done.

I didn't know what was real and what wasn't.

Finally, I began to read. I was stunned by how truthful he'd been. I never expected him to take any responsibility for what he'd done. He spent years holding this over my head. He spent years wielding it like a razor sharp sword. He'd made some changes to the statement, but the original wording could be read through the scribble marks.

He blamed me for him losing his temper.

He said he'd dragged TheMan into the bathroom after he'd stripped him, and wrestled him into the bathtub. He went on to describe how he stripped naked himself and climbed into the tub on top of TheMan. He told the detectives he started with a toe because he wanted to 'see how hard it was going to be', and that he'd worked his way upward.

I knew he'd sawed through bone and tissue. I saw TheMan's remains, or, what was left of his remains, anyway. I'd expected gory, I hadn't expected the utter desecration GinsuBoy described.
He said he was so angry at himself for being gay that by the time he got to TheMan's groin, he was so enraged that he cut TheMan's penis off.

He intended to behead his victim. He described his frustration at not being able to make TheMan's eyes stay closed. Instead of covering them, he chose to stare into TheMan's eyes as he brutally sawed through his neck with a dollar store, wood-handled, serrated, steak knife. He told of his surprise at the 'whoosh' of air he heard, and felt, as knife met windpipe. He said he'd wrapped his left hand in TheMan's hair, so he wouldn't drop the severed head.

He described removing TheMan's internal organs, with this creepy undertone of reverence and pride. He waxed philosophical about how surprised he was at the seemingly healthy appearance of TheMan's heart and lungs, as he was a long-time smoker. He chalked this up to him forcing TheMan to quit smoking a year before. He lovingly described holding TheMan's unbeating heart in his hands. It sent chills down my spine, and made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

TheMan had approximately 33 postmortem stab wounds in his buttocks. GinsuBoy said he became frustrated trying to bag the remains and attacked TheMan's ass because he'd died.

TheMan's hands were missing. Pieces of his organs were missing
.
I wasn't aware I was even crying until my tears began to hit the page. In that moment, the full gravity of what, and who, I was really dealing with hit.

It hit like a speeding fucking Mack truck.

"Hey, Bitch! Nice to meet you! I'm Reality!"

These were HIS words I'd just read. His words he dictated to a detective and a prosecutor. His words he reread and initialed his approval on, paragraph by paragraph. His words he chose to scratch out and alter.

All I could do was cry. I cried for everyone, and everything. I cried in despair. I cried in rage. I cried in frustration. I cried in gratitude. I cried in fear. I cried in denial.

I cried until I was empty, numb, dazed, and exhausted.

Somehow, I made it back from there.

Somehow, I made it all the way here.

I still don't know how, or why.

Choices.

2013-12-18T13:23:00.001-08:00

So, I haven't talked about this at all, but I've started therapy again. I've taken some gargantuan steps. I confronted the ex, literally. I'm facing down my fears, one by one. I love my therapist. She's a really good fit for me. She understands and believes when I tell her I can feel people's thoughts and feelings. She understands and believes when I tell her about doing someone's chart and nailing things and 'seeing' things I should not know. She doesn't doubt me when I say I can take someone's personal item (keys, ring, watch) and describe details of things I have no knowledge of. It's really important that she accept this and not 'tsktsk' it away like many do, because for me this is VERY real. For those physically and emotionally close to me, this is very real. I can't even begin to count the number of people that have run screaming because I'm "too much in my (their) head." I've been called a witch. I've been called creepy. I've been told to 'knock that shit off.'

I used to not hear the noise so loudly. It was always there, but more like a low rumble. Something changed, though. Now, everything is so loud. I hear/feel it all. I go places where there are lots of people and I'm deluged, bombarded, and I'm overwhelmed. Imagine feeling 20 other people's shit, aside from your own, all at once, and all you were trying to do was fucking grocery shop. This, coupled with my PTSD and whacked out fear of my ex, I became a hermit.

So, yeah, therapy. I don't want to be a hermit anymore. I confronted the ex, taunted him even. I've set down that heavy fucking piece of luggage. The only thing holding me back now are the PTSD triggers and The Noise. She and I have started DBT. She reminded me that I could make a bubble. Focus my energy and make a safe bubble around me to deflect the noise.

We had a session yesterday. She got here and she, literally, stopped in her tracks when she saw me. I'd cut my bangs, had on make-up, I was riding high on my self-esteem. She said I was glowing, that my energy was vibrant and all around me. After this weekend and the horrid rantings of Mr. Assmaggot McDouchebag, the old me would have been curled in the corner, weeping. I cried, but not because I believed his rantings, but because he fucking insulted me. He insulted my very core.

LaFemme, my therapist, told me she was proud of me. She was proud of me for standing up for myself, but she was especially proud of me because I really know who I am, down to my deepest crevices. I am able to be the person I am -because- I know who I am, and who I want to be. I have all of the tools to be a bitch that runs over motherfuckers and leaves them smiling anyway. I've got game and skills and manipulation is my forte. I make a conscious choice, everyday, to be who I am, because I -know- I could be someone else. Someone not so kind. I know what I am capable of in my darkness. I choose not to be that.

So, yeah, the motherfucker made me cry. He tried to tear down what I have consciously, deliberately, methodically built in me, a set of ethics and boundaries. Ethics and boundaries I have bound and dedicated myself to honoring. The old me might have folded in defeat, or fought back with purposeful destruction. I cried. Those were tears of rage. Better to cry than revert to old behavior. He wouldn't have liked the old, vengeful me. That bitch was nothing nice.

He can fuck off, I like me. I'm fucking awesome. I'm awesome because I CHOOSE that path everyday, even when it's really fucking tempting to make different choices, easier choices, less honorable choices.

When laser tag imitates life.

2013-12-05T23:21:00.000-08:00

My girlegg recently reminded me of something Ginsuboy used to like to do with them. Laser tag.

There's much I don't remember. A lot of the details are tucked away in the back of my mind. If they weren't, I'm convinced the sheer volume of fuckedupedness would drive me insane.

Once in a while, though, those memories come flooding back in all their Blu-Ray™ and surround sound glory.

I hate myself in those moments. Or rather, I hate who I used to be.

I hate myself for being too afraid and too fucked up to have made better decisions. Rationally, I know I did the best I could. We all made it out alive, after all. I normally don't question how things played out. Could I have done this? Should I have done that? I've done all that. It's tucked away in a neat little box marked 'Case Closed'.

Until I get reminded. Until I remember.

With every revelation, I have to wrestle with the what-if's anew. I have to nit pick it to death. I have to come to peace with it. I have to open the 'Case Closed' box and add another piece of evidence.

Laser tag is one of those pieces.

I remember him gleefully volunteering to take us all out to eat and then to laser tag after. I was always left out in the waiting area. I was the KeeperOfTehStuffs©.

He'd go and pay the fees, get the equipment, and they'd gear up for the game.

I remember him always looking as if he were half in a daze.

Until recently, they never spoke of what went on inside the mirrored, darkly lit maze.

Apparently, it was never anything good.

The girlegg said she felt truly hunted. She said he'd get this 'look on his face' and he'd hunt.

He always went for them first. Always landing a direct hit to the head or chest. He was a fierce competitor and always strove to land in the top 2 among the many other people competing for rank.

She said he'd grin and celebrate when he'd pick someone off. She said he'd laugh maniacally and take off after a new target.

He'd get pissed if he lost and insist on playing again.

"It felt like he really was hunting us, Mom."

-----chickenhoodie, the sky is falling!------

It fucks me up that I couldn't/didn't protect them from that. It fucks me up that they were terrified. I feel like a fucking failure.

I'll bounce back. I'll get ok with this like I got okay with everything else. I'll get it where it needs to be, eventually, but for now?

Just. Fuck.

wanders off to look at the other shit in the box

I don't want to be pretty.

2013-11-01T10:12:00.000-07:00

"You're a beautiful woman."

No four words strung together in a sentence make me cringe inside like those four words do. They're emotionally charged and, in my head, loaded with expectations. All of which I want no part of. I don't want to be pretty. Some things are just better left ignored.

Before I had this 'coming to God' deal with asexuality, I was quite the closet whore. A really good one. I was determined to find this Holy Grail of sex that I kept hearing about. I aggressively pursued what I was looking for. Even in today's sex positive atmosphere, I don't discuss my number because it is that high. My looks and my sex are intricately tied to each other. There's a ton of fallout from that.

There's this, what I perceive, view that with beauty comes sexy, and an expectation that with sexy comes sex. I used my looks and put myself out there as some sex object, trying to find that elusive...thing. I spent far too many morning's after completely torn to shreds. Feeling disappointed, gross, used, unsatisfied and hearing "I told you so" ringing in my ears and nausea churning in my gut.

I don't want any more mornings like that. I don't want to be pretty.

There also seems to be this tone, that if a woman is beautiful and adorned, she invites attention. That if she is inviting attention, she owes it to whoever wants her attention to give it to them. Whether it's walking faster to avoid catcalls, or dodging the one skeevy fucker in every crowd who decides he wants what you have and won't give in until he gets it, or the crazy guy that follows you home, or the nice guys that hover who think today is the day that your 'no' will become a 'yes'.

I don't want any of that attention, and I don't want to have to give any of that my attention. I don't want to be pretty.

I've dealt with the dudebros that tell me they could fall in love with a girl like me, based on what I look like and not, you know, because of who I am. I admit to it pissing me off. I also admit to using my looks as a weapon to dish up a cold plate of poetic justice. I am not a t-bone fucking steak ready to be served to order. Don't treat me like one and you won't get treated.

I don't want to be that woman anymore. I don't want to be pretty.

I despise dealing with the whole "Well, you're beautiful and sexy, how dare you not desire sex!" thing. The challenge it presents to some folks, because, you know, MajikalPeen™. For some, it just doesn't compute and they're going to keep slapping the side of the TV until it works. I'm not a project, I don't need to be saved, I'm not broken.

I'm an anomaly, don't notice me. I don't want to be pretty.

I don't want to be in love. I've seen that pain in too many eyes. The intentions are always good. They seem to 'get' my lack of sexual need and attraction. I downplay anything that might spark sexual interest. It always rears its ugly head, though, because, you know, LOVE CURES ALL.

I don't want to hurt anyone else like that. I don't want to be pretty.

I'm hiding behind Ms. Frumpy. The clothes, the lack of make-up, the lack of shoes, the weight, the rarity of girly time, or girly anything. Hell, I don't even own a purse. It's all a ruse. It's my bubble wrap and my warning label.

I don't try to be pretty because pretty has too much baggage. Pretty costs too much. Pretty makes me angry. Pretty makes the world too noisy. Pretty hurts.

I don't want to be pretty.

Emotional compatibility

2013-11-01T10:06:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking a lot about emotional compatibility lately. Recent events have me reevaluating past relationships. They have me connecting dots between my sexuality (or lack thereof) and my lack of emotional compatibility with my lovers.

I feel like I have all these dammed up feelings. Feelings I'm not 'allowed' to express because people have this expectation of me to be a certain way. Strong and steady and calm and efficient, because that's the facade I hide behind.

Really, though? What lies behind all that people see, is this small, scared, fragile girl that holds her own hand when she gets afraid. They can't see how much I need to be THAT girl sometimes. To just let go and not have to carry the weight of the world alone.

I get it. That's some heavy shit. It overwhelms me and I live with it. I can only imagine what it feels like for someone else feeling that coming off of me. My feelings are BIG. HUGE, even. They're full force. And I control them...well, contain them really well, anyway.

I've come to believe that as long as I have to hide that girl, as long as I have to wear a mask, as long as I have to control my feelings by not letting them out, I'll never really connect with anyone. Not the way I need to, anyway.

I tried doing the 'toughen up' thing. I didn't toughen up. Not really. I just turned inward more. Relied more on me and less on the world. And hid that breakable girl deeper. Built thicker walls. Underneath, though? Underneath it all is still a fragile girl.

"My need for intimacy, non-sexual intimate touch, cuddles, kissing and heartfelt connection isn't related to sex.
I need someone to coddle the unloved little girl that I have inside me, that I hide so much, because no one likes a weak adult.
I need someone to take that little girl in me and help her grow up, so that she matches the body and mind that I have today.
I need someone that can do all these things, and not expect me to be strong all the time.
Because I'm at the bottom of my well of strength right now.
And that little girl is all I have left, despite the facade that I've perfected.
I need someone to tear that facade to pieces, and show me myself in a mirror, so that I can accept that broken child inside me, and then help me build her up, make her what she's meant to be.
I need to be unafraid of disappointing you with the real me." ~Myri~

It's a twisted, vicious cycle that never seems to end. I'm even wondering if this is WHY I am asexual. How do I ask another to take on the burden of someone so fucking fragile? How do I make sure they know what kind of flood is about to hit? How do I know they can and WILL handle it?

I can't without busting down the dam, and once that is done? I'm not so sure I can gather it all up and contain it again. There's too much and what if I don't, or can't get control again?

I want to see taste. I want to smell touch. I want to hear aromas.

I need to FEEL. It is what I live for and long for. That little girl in me needs to feel everything, safely, because she's never felt anything except alone and exiled.

Gah, this shit shouldn't be this complicated.

My personality was cemented by age two.

2013-11-01T10:02:00.000-07:00

My mother used to tell this tale about me when I was just a teeny thing of 2.

I was standing on the toilet, playing in the water in the sink.

Apparently, I'd plugged the drain and water was seeping under the door out into the hall.
My mother noticed the water and busted into the bathroom scaring the hell out of me.

I guess I told her so, too.

"You scared the hell out of me, Mommy."

She screeches, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!?!"

I answer, "Nothing."

She swats the back of my thighs with a wet flip-flop.

whack whack whack

She asks, "What did you say?"

I answered, fists on my little hips, "I'm going to tell my grandma on you."

WHACK WHACK WHACK

"What did you say?"

"I SAID, I'M GOING TO TELL MY GRANDMA ON YOU."

WHACKWHACKWHACK

"WHAT DID YOU SAY!?!?!?"

"I SAID, I'M. GOING. TO. TELL. MY. GRANDMA. ON. YOU."

WHACKWHACKWHACKWHACKWHACK

"NOW, WHAT DID YOU SAY?!?!"

"I SAID, I AIN'T GONNA TELL NOBODY NOTHIN'."

"That's what I thought."

Grandma walks in?

"GRANDMA, GRANDMA, MOMMY HIT ME WITH THE SHOE!"

Once I started wearing Those Shoes.

2013-11-01T09:57:00.000-07:00

It was one of the last visits I'd had with my dad before my mom sent him on a merry chase and separated us.

It was my birthday. Farrah Fawcett and the rest of Charlie's Angels all were wearing beautiful, knee-high, chunky, wood-heeled, leather boots.

And I wanted a pair.

I'd BEGGED my mother for a pair. Of course, they were too expensive. There was always some excuse she'd come up with to not get me what I'd asked for.

So, she did what she thought would blow up in my face. She suggested I ask my dad for the boots. She even laughed and joked that she bet his cheap ass and his harpy wife wouldn't let him do it.

So, visit day came and I asked.

He took me to Thom McCann. I remember it vividly. Going into the store. Smelling the aroma of leather in the air. The formality of the inside of the store. The salesmen in their suits and ties.

Dad walked right in and up to a salesman who proceeded to take us over to the ladies' boots.
There they were, in all their brown, leathery glory, calling out my name.

I practically dragged my dad over to the display.

He checked the price and looked down at me. "These boots are REALLY expensive, Peanut. Are you SURE this is what you want? You have to promise to take very good care of them."

"Yes, Daddy, I will. I REALLY want these."

I looked up at him and I saw something in his eyes. Something that made me feel sad and guilty all at once. Somehow, I knew he was making a huge sacrifice for me.

I tried backing out of buying those boots, but my dad insisted on my getting them.

My mother was ever so surprised when I came home with those $50 boots. In the mid-seventies $50 was a fuckton of money.

She was also seething with rage. She was convinced my dad would never dish out that kind of money for me. She didn't figure I was worth that much expense, why would he?

After the blow-up at the pool, those boots were really all I had left of my dad. I'd find myself sleeping in them, holding them under my blankets, closing my eyes and smelling the leather.

And remembering. Longing for my dad. Fuck, I missed him SO much. It was like a black, bottomless, sucking hole in my chest.

I wore those boots long after they went out of style. I wore them long after I'd outgrown them. I suffered the blisters and crunched toes because I needed what those boots represented.

I needed my dad.

Those boots disappeared sometime around my 15th birthday. I'm sure my mother had everything to do with their disappearance.

God, I hated her for so many years.

But the world was different once I started...

I am a crazy person.

2013-11-01T09:52:00.000-07:00

I rarely sleep when it's dark out.

When strangers touch me, even by accident, I have panic attacks.

I like to go for days (or weeks) on end, alone, in my room.

I am a crazy person.

I have a million and one things that are triggers and those triggers make me feel a trillion feelings I never want to feel again. Avoidance is my BEST friend.

Sometimes, the touch of even the ones I love makes my skin crawl and my stomach lurch.

I hate orgasms. I hate what they represent. I hate that I rarely have them. And I especially hate how I disappoint others when I don't. I regularly tear myself to shreds over it.

I am a crazy person.

I have big emotions and big reactions and I hate myself for it.

I stuff everything down so I'm just like everyone else.

I am a fraud because I only allow you only see what you can handle seeing. I hide from you.

I am a crazy person.

The harder you work to break down my walls, the more furiously I slap mortar to brick and put them back in place.

The smallest of slights become excuses for me to run.

I am overly sensitive to your every word, every look, and every body movement.

I am a crazy person.

I am afraid of the world.

I am afraid of people loving me.

I am afraid to acknowledge just how much I need. NEED. NEED. NEED.

I am a crazy person.

My calm, cool exterior hides the tsunami inside.

My smile hides my rage.

My kindness hides my desire to smash the world to pieces.

I am a crazy person.

I need you to love me, and I don't want you to. I'll only hurt you in the end.

I need you to hold me tightest when I pull away hardest.

I need you to give a shit--even when I tell you I hate you and to go away.

I am a crazy person.

I am pain and frustration and tears and drama. I am doctors and medication and hospitalizations and mood swings.

I am more trouble than I am worth.

You'll invest more than you'll return.

I am a crazy person.

Got To Give It Up, or my first step in racial awareness.

2013-11-01T09:35:00.000-07:00

With all this race stuff that I keep seeing cross my feed, I thought I'd tell my story of racial awareness. I want my friends to know where I am coming from, REALLY coming from.

The first thing you need to know is that I was raised by racists. Hardcore racists. My mother's father was so bad that when my uncle visited him with his Puerto Rican friend in tow, he greeted them on the front porch with an aimed, loaded and cocked shotgun.

I remember being in 3rd grade and we lived on a block with a Mexican family. I used to play with the kids. One day my stepfather pulled me aside and told me if I ever married a "spic" or "nigger" he'd disown me...and it hurts to even type those words.

Imagine now, his mother and father living in a neighborhood where they were the ONLY white people in a two block radius. They had a German shepherd named Sam that was trained to attack people of the darker variety.

Nothing except fear and disgust of black and brown folks was being instilled in me.

I was, maybe, 9 or 10 and the first round of the Swine flu was wreaking havoc on America. My mom caught it and was hospitalized for weeks. While there she had a black woman as a roommate. Both of them almost died. They comforted each other through their illness. They became friends and remained so until my mom died.

She'd invited us to a family party. It might have been Labor Day or something. Marvin Gaye's Live At The London Palladium had just been released.

I remember being really uneasy about going to black folks' house, but once I got there, I found out that black folks were just, you know, folks. Like anyone else.

They played Got To Give It Up all night long. We danced and laughed and ate until I passed out in a lawn chair.

Something fundamental changed in me that night. I no longer saw it as us and them. They were people, just like me, no matter what my family may have believed. And? The more I heard the racism spew from my family's lips, the more I was disgusted with them.

Then there was my 7th grade teacher, Ivy B. She was the most socially progressive person I had ever met up until that time. She had us reading books like Black Boy and Native Son. She had us read literature from famous female writers. She wanted to expose us to the fullness of all cultures.

When I read Black Boy, I wept. I felt his pain. I felt his humiliation. I felt his RAGE.

I vowed I'd try to NEVER make another human being feel the way that young boy felt.

I didn't set out to fall in love with a black man, either. We were partners working on a private ambulance. It was just he and I for long shifts, alone with nothing to do but talk.

We fell in love and made two exceptional human beings. We lived and loved for seven years.

We were spat on. Harassed by Nation Of Islam members. Stared at in restaurants. Ignored in others. Threatened by rednecks. And we walked that walk TOGETHER.

And my empathy for people of color grew, because no one can say that as a white woman I don't, or can't, understand racism. I do. I understand it from the perspective of holding my crying children while they told me how they got off the bus only to be welcomed by swastikas. I understand it from the perspective of wiping someone's racist inspired spittle off my face. I understand the rage. I understand the inequality. I understand the frustration. I understand that most of the world wants to believe we left that shit behind with MLK Jr.

I wept the night Obama was elected the first term. I wept because, for the first time, I could HONESTLY tell my children they could be anything they wanted to be, even President.

And that's all I got to say about that.

Hi, my name is Annie.

2013-11-01T09:24:00.000-07:00

Hi, my name is Annie. I live in the dark recesses of the 'hoodrat's mind.

I ain't nothing nice. I'm dark and cruel.

Hoodie works really hard to keep me in check. She is my conscience, because I don't really give a fuck.

What she doesn't understand, though, is that I protect her.

All of that information she takes in that makes her so good at anticipating what people need? All of that perception she puts to use for good? All of that innate intuition and the information she gleans with it? I'm here filing it away, too. I see the chinks in your armor, and she loves you despite those chinks, pretending they don't matter.

All that blustering, snark and determination you see? That's hoodie donning my hat. She's way too soft to face the world. She's sweet and idealistic. She's prone to investing way too much of herself.

When you try and hurt her with some gaslighting type shit, or tear down her self-esteem, or otherwise act like a fucking jackass? I'm that bitch you have to deal with, and I know ALL your dirty, little secrets. I don't have to throw half-truths at you. I don't have to make you doubt yourself with innuendo. My aim is true in calling you on your bullshit. My words are meant to echo in your brain for years to come. If it hurts, it's because I meant for it to hurt. I will call you out on your hypocrisy and shatter your facade with truths, your feelings be damned.

So, don't ever take hoodie's kindness for weakness, because behind her smiling eyes I stand in the shadows. Watching, scrutinizing, and taking notes. Ready to deconstruct you on a moments' notice. Without restraint.

My name is Annie, and I'm that bitch your momma warned you about.

Nice to make your acquaintance.

Stay the fuck out of the way,

2013-11-01T09:15:00.005-07:00

It's a skill I've been adept at since childhood.

I went to 13 different schools between K-12, and? I skipped 6th grade. That makes one more school than actual grades attended.

Whether is was always being the new kid and wishing for the ground to swallow me whole, or whether it was safe haven from drunk, brawling parents in the nest of blankets, pillows, stuffed animals, and books that inevitably found their way into the back corner of every closet I ever had, or hiding from a whackjob serial killer ex, or being in jail and trying not to make waves, or tip-toeing around people I live with hoping I don't upset them in any way, lest my security be rattled, I've learned really well how to stay the fuck out of the way.

It's served me pretty well, yet, I'm pretty damned sure it's hindered me as much as, if not more than, it has aided me.

Hyper-vigilance. I'm acutely aware of every damned nuance. The least bit of tension? I'm the fuck out of the way. I cocoon myself in the closet in my head and I disappear.

Not such a great thing when you're talking emotional intimacy or day-to-day, meatspace interactions.

Withdraw. Hide. Get in the closet. Stay the fuck out of the way. Heavens to Mergatroid! Exit, stage left!

And? I'm not so sure I even know how to begin changing it.

"Drama!", "Personal Responsibility!", "Attention whore!", "Stupid cunt!"

2013-11-01T09:13:00.000-07:00

Gather 'round my lovelies and idiots alike.

Hoodie has a little story to tell you.

I'm not going to lie and say I don't come here for attention, because I do. Just maybe not for the reasons some of you may think.

By all rights, after what I have survived, I could be in some rubber room somewhere, but I'm not.

And apparently, that offends some of you.

I get it, though. Really, I DO. As long as you keep telling yourself that you're better than me, smarter than me, faster than me, that what happened to me could NEVER happen to you, you can live in the bubble of NeverhappentomeLand.

I will not be sorry for being alive and if that pokes holes in your safe little reality? That is YOUR issue to deal with.

I don't come here for you. I come here for me.

I am here because I have some fucking inspiration to share. There are people out there that GIVE UP, EVERY SINGLE DAY, under far less extenuating circumstances.

I come here for them. I come here for me.

I'm a blunt ass bitch from the motherfucking 'hood, and I keep shit fucking real. Believe it or not, some people actually appreciate that. Some people actually find something in what I have to say and when shit gets bad for them? They find some kind of something in my words that helps them hang on just another day, and to fight a little harder to get up the next day.

And, I'm not sorry for enjoying basking in that.

It is, after all, all I really DO have.

Through all the bleating about personal responsibility and due diligence and stupidity, not one of my detractors has stopped to think about one thing.

I am still alive. My children are still alive. And to be able to accomplish that on a daily basis, for two decades, isn't as fucking easy as you think.

Personal responsibility. I gots it motherfuckers. In goddamn spades.

I have several emails, none linked to my real name. None linked to my real address. I'm not too stupid to know how to ghost fairly well on the internet. I mean, I've only been around since the early 90's.
I also know how to put trackers on all my blogs. You know, IP trackers. As long as I know where my ex lives, I can always tell if he is creeping up on me, because you know, IP addresses. I monitor several accounts this way.

Sometimes, it's a false alarm. Sometimes it isn't.

But I do my due fucking diligence, and I take personal responsibility for my goddamn safety.
In the real world, I do the same motherfucking thing.

The first rule of living in hiding is UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES HAVE ANY ACTIVITY ON YOUR CREDIT REPORT.

I'll give you a minute to let that sink in.
....
....
Now, let's look at what that really means, mmk?

That means, no upstanding, verified apartments. Oh, no. THOSE people want to run a credit check. They want to verify I'm a good person. That I'll pay my bills. Except, my ex knows all of my information. As a matter of weirdly ironic fact? Our social security numbers are EXACTLY the same except for the last two digits. I was married to him, so, you know, he knows my mother's maiden name. He knows my first pet. he knows all my identifying information and accessing my report is as easy as signing on to freecreditreport.com. Before you get to prattling on about how THAT is my responsibility, too? I am flagged with ALL of the credit bureaus. I do my due diligence. I take personal responsibility for my safety.

It isn't just an apartment, though. It's a bank account. It's an electric bill in my name. It's a car registration. It's prepaid this, and load-on-cash cards that. I can't have any of these things legitimately. No, that would put me at risk. Does it stop me? Obviously not, because here I am. I do my due diligence to care for myself without much help from anyone. I take personal responsibility for my safety.

I don't ask anyone here for anything.

Rule number two, UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES OPEN YOURSELF TO BE PUT ON A MAILING LIST THAT MIGHT BE PURCHASED BY THE WRONG HANDS.

This means no nifty, little discount cards. This means no frills of shopping at Sam's Club, or Costco. And I deal with that. And I don't bitch. I pull up my big girl panties and i deal with it. I do my due diligence. I take personal responsibility. I figure out creative ways to make ends meet without these luxuries. Because make no bones about it, those things ARE luxuries.

So, go ahead and bleat on about drama, due diligence, personal responsibility, stupidity, bad decision making and I'll tell you about grace under pressure.

And? I will never be sorry that my survival offends you, or makes you doubt your own ability to survive under the same circumstances.

I will never be sorry that some of you will never get to experience the joy of being inspired, or having the rare, joyous opportunity to BE AN INSPIRATION.

This is where I came to actually have SOME semblance of a life. I do my due fucking diligence about it.
I'm still kickin', muhfuggah. In. Yo. Face.

I'm sorry your fear makes you hate. I pity you for hating me and people like me, but I won't let it stop me from singing MY beautiful fucking song.

And really? Fuck those that begrudge me that. I've got a big, 'ol, lily white ass, and those that do are more than welcome to kiss it.

I don't owe you a damned thing.

2013-11-01T09:05:00.000-07:00

"personally feel it's a bit rude to not reply, much like it's rude to not return a smile or greeting."

Yep, one small sentence and I am in a tizzy.

I'm an agoraphobe. On the RARE occasion I am actually out, I'm teetering on the edge of a panic attack.

So, you smile at me and expect a smile back?

Fuck you, I'm trying like hell to hold my shit together.

Before you started having expectations of me did you, even once, consider what my state of mind might be? Obviously not.

People, seriously, THINK ABOUT SOMEONE OTHER THAN YOURSELF.

There's a myriad of reasons someone might not smile back, or say hello.

Their mother may have just died. Their child might be in the hospital. They may have just finished a grueling 18hr shift at work. They may be agoraphobic. They may be depressed. They may just think your smile is fucking creepy.

The thing is, in all of your entitlement, YOU DON'T FUCKING KNOW THE REASONS and getting pissy because you expect to be acknowledged is just downright douchetastic and SELF-CENTERED.

The world revolves around the sun, not around you.

Think about that shit the next time you call someone stuck-up, or a bitch, because they didn't acknowledge your smile or hello.

Why MILF isn't a compliment in my world.

2013-11-01T09:02:00.001-07:00

I hate that acronym. MILF. Mother I'd Like to Fuck.

I learned fairly early on that just because someone wants to fuck you does not necessarily mean they like you.

So, you think calling me a MILF is a compliment? It isn't.

I have a vagina, getting fucked isn't really all that difficult. No, really, it isn't.

By telling me you think I am hot enough to fuck and neglecting the whole person behind the fuckholes, you insult me. You belittle what makes me a decent human being. You turn me into something not human. You turn me into a toy you want to play with. You reduce me to the sum of my breasts, ass and cunt.

MILF is not a fucking compliment, so, stop saying that shit.

Wanting to fuck me isn't a compliment. Wanting to get to know me is.

Battle cry of the entitlement brigade.

2013-11-01T09:00:00.000-07:00

"You're part of the problem!"

"Your sense of entitlement pisses me off!"

"You're not ENTITLED TO FOOD STAMPS! IT'S A KINDNESS! BE GRATEFUL AND NEVER EAT A STEAK!"

Well, folks, YOUR sense of entitlement pisses ME off.

See, I had 21 years of work history under my belt before I became disabled. I paid taxes for a lot of years. I paid into social security for a lot of years. I was FORCED to pay into these programs. I was forced so in the event I, or someone in my country, needed help to live it would be there. Like insurance. Sometimes you need it, sometimes you don't and you're damned lucky if you never do.

So, how many years is enough, you wailers of 'You're spending my money'? How many years is enough to pay in before it's ok to ask for it back without feeling guilty? Without being accused of being a drug addict and asked to take a test? Without hearing on a constant basis what a drain on society I am? How many thousands and thousands does one need to pay in order to not have to justify how I live my life? How much does one have to pay before they stop being accosted in the grocery store because one felt the desire for a steak?

If that money could have gone into an account of my own, managed by someone I trusted to make it grow, I wouldn't need to be in a program. We're not given that choice, though. We're made to pay into these programs, and then expected to never take advantage of them because...
ENTITLED BITCHEZZZZZZZ!!!!1111ONEONEELVENTYBAMILLION!!!

Fuck you, I paid my fair share.

You don't call the person pulling their money out of the bank entitled.

You don't call the government entitled for taking that shit and fucking it off.

You'd call a bank a thief if they took your money and then said, "HOW DARE YOU ASK FOR WHAT IS YOURS YOU ENTITLED CUNTS!"

You call me entitled, but you're awfully entitled telling me how I should spend what I gave my government in case some shit went down.

Maybe you should call yourself entitled the next time you file an insurance claim. Same shit, different smell.

Don't call me entitled for expecting what the fuck I signed up for when I signed my W-fucking-2.

And? Quit hating on my fucking steak.

How much are you -really- worth?

2013-11-01T08:55:00.001-07:00

I have a Cree friend I follow on Facebook. He posts many things on Native culture. He speaks of how they lived, how no one was left out, how everyone served a purpose, had a place in the community. I won't claim Native blood, but I can say that something deep within me resonates deeply with the culture.

It isn't that way anymore. Every man for himself. Fuck the little guy. Sucks to be you!

You're only worth as much as the sum of your stuff.

I watched the TED Talk with Amanda Palmer and she was speaking about her stint as a human statue who would move when someone dropped change into her hat and she'd hand out a daisy and make prolonged eye contact with the person. She spoke about people yelling at her to get a job. Being a human statue WAS her job. She went on to talk about how she would make eye contact with these people, and she'd make a connection. That for those few seconds of interaction, two humans made a connection. These connections MATTER.

So, yeah. That mime is doing their job. That human statue is doing their job. That street musician is doing their job.

And? That older, disabled lady down the block who doesn't work, but bakes cookies that make people happy, will babysit in a pinch and always has a meal for someone hungry? She is doing her job. She teaches the young women to cook. She's the the neighborhood equivalent of a medicine woman. She remembers all the old, home remedies. She's the keeper of traditions.

So is that homeless guy. His job is to remind you, if nothing else, that that could be you and to show some compassion and feel some gratitude.

Stay-at-home mom's get much of the same vitriol as the so-called dregs of society. Except instead of being accused of leeching off the system, she's accused of leeching off of a man.

There's always going to be a certain percentage of the population that cannot work in a traditional sense. That doesn't mean they don't contribute to society, and it doesn't mean we should look down on them, or let them remain homeless or hungry or completely miserable in their lives.

Worth isn't always about dollars and cents. I wish more people looked beyond the earning capacity of a person and saw their inherent value behind their jaded perceptions.

FDR was a pretty smart cookie coming up with that whole New Deal shindig. He recognized the importance of insuring that in our society, no one has to ever go without. That we, as a society, had an ethical responsibility to our fellow human.

We're losing that, though, and no one seems to want to stop and think about what we're losing with it.

As Americans our ancestors committed what could not be called anything less than genocide on Natives. People who lived for thousands of years, successfully as complex societies, and they took care of their own. Everyone ate. Everyone was housed. Everyone was clothed. Everyone had a PLACE in society.

They we're nearly annihilated and were replaced with what we have now.

You're only worth as much as your paycheck.

And we called them savages, and we call ourselves civilized.

I don't think those words mean what folks think they mean.

Yo, Mr. Bigot.

2013-11-01T08:48:00.000-07:00

I've been pondering folks like you who screech about LGBT's.

"I don't want those kind of people around my children! GOD says BLAHBLAH!!"

All I am left thinking is, if your faith and indoctrination are so right, if you've done what God told you to do, why are you so insecure about it that you have to shield your children from it? To the point you want to ban any expression of a sexuality not biblically approved? I mean, according to your bible, Jesus sat on a rock in the desert and faced the devil. If you want to be Christ-like, be Christ-like and shake that shit off. If a little "temptation" makes you weak, you weren't very strong in your faith to begin with.

So, if little Billy decides he wants to be called Wilamina and wear a dress to school, and that's what makes him happy, he should have the fucking right to pursue it. It might threaten your carefully crafted bubble, but it doesn't harm you.

This little gem popped up somewhere on the Intertubez and it just..I shook my head.

"There is no reason anyone should be forced to tolerate people"

To this ignoramus I say:

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness."

Just so there's no misunderstanding, here's the definitions of unalienable and liberty:

unalienable: un·al·ien·a·ble, adj.
Not to be separated, given away, or taken away; inalienable

lib·er·ty: noun \ˈli-bər-tē\
1: the quality or state of being free:
a : the power to do as one pleases
b : freedom from physical restraint
c : freedom from arbitrary or despotic control
d : the positive enjoyment of various social, political, or economic rights and privileges
e : the power of choice

Which means, yes, you stupid motherfucker, there is a reason. First sentence, second paragraph, Declaration Of Independence. All men are created equal, and that includes the ones wearing a dress.

Take a damned civics class and STFU.

If your belief system, your guidance, your faith, and your God aren't enough to fortify your children against differing views, maybe you ought to reevaluate your views, or buy a fucking island and separate yourself from humanity.

-drops the mic-

Because emasculation.

2013-11-01T08:43:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking a lot about what happened last night. Trying to get at the root of why, besides the obvious, disgusting racism, things like this disturb me so much.

I think I've finally put my finger on it.

It's the instantaneous emasculation that happens when a POC man gets confronted with 'Teh Man'.

I've watched both white men and POC men deal with authority figures. The power wielded seems to hit the POC men harder. A white man can buck and speak of his rights and be HEARD by these authority figures, who in turn, back the fuck off that heavy-handed shit. That doesn't happen with POC men. They buck a bit, speak on their rights, and get their asses beat.

So, what I witnessed last night infuriated me. It infuriated me to see these young men, heads hanging, doing their best to appear meek, mild and cooperative, because after all, they're just black boys and he's a white security guard. It infuriated me to watch them choke down their rage. It infuriated me to watch them not exercise their rights for fear of being abused. It infuriated me to watch them...being forced to submit for nothing more than playing a game of dice.

So many people want to wail and scream about consent. They wail and scream about submission being a gift. They wail and scream about how slavery isn't WEAL OR TWOO. They wail and scream that we all have choices.

Then, I see young, proud men, hanging their heads and feigning subservience just to keep themselves safe and out of jail and it makes me shake my head at the delusional fucks who bleat on about consent, and fail to see the daily instances where those involved don't have, and haven't given, consent.

Get off my fucking lawn, Rent-A-Cop douchebag.

2013-11-01T08:40:00.000-07:00

I've noticed a disproportionate amount of racist, white fucks here in Arizona.

I mean, those real racists. The ones that have no fear, or compunction, about letting that word-that-shall-not-be-named pop out their foul mouths. I've been here 6 months and have pulled back more mouth shots than I care to count. Yeah, hoodie don't play that racist shit.

Anyway, there's a couple of young men that live next door, brothers. They're good neighbors. They look out for me. We commiserate out on the walkway. The edgiest thing they do is shoot dice out front. There's never any arguments, or yelling, or fighting. There's no drug dealing or gang-banging. Just a bunch of young guys having fun.

No big deal, right?

Well, apparently for some folks, it's a HUGE deal. Huge enough to come and stand in front of my door, at nearly 11pm, screaming at the top of their lungs. Their speech riddled with swearing and disrespect.

There was much posturing by Mr. White-Man-Rent-A-Cop, who claimed the entire apartment complex as his domain and personal property. I could almost picture this guy, Ninja-style, pissing all over the complex and marking his territory.

This is MY PROPERTY! UG UG!

Me, being the cunt that I am, opened the door and gave the frothing guy what-for.

"Um, excuse me, but you're here, scolding these boys who haven't bothered me once ALL NIGHT, at a volume that is completely inappropriate for this time of night. I understand you're trying to do your job, but you can do it with less noise and more respect because, you know, right now you're in front of my door, disturbing my peace."

"I'll be done in a minute, ma'am." --bugs out his eyes at me and goes back to yelling--

"Uh, dude, you're DISTURBING MY PEACE. STOP YELLING IN FRONT OF MY APARTMENT. STOP HARASSING THESE YOUNG MEN AND PLEASE SEEK SOME KIND OF ANGER MANAGEMENT."

--bugs his eyes at me again--to partner--"Call the police."

"Yes, let's call the police so I can file a report for you DISTURBING MY PEACE. Then, you and these boys can all ride to, and sit in, lock-up TOGETHER."

"You guys just take this inside."

Yeah, that's right Mr. Has-To-Posture-To-Feel-Manly, GET THE FUCK OFF MY LAWN, WELL, CONCRETE WALKWAY.

And take your shitstain attitude with you.

"Compliments build self-esteem." ...ORULLY?

2013-11-01T08:33:00.000-07:00

So, there's this young lady who has a photo up of herself in a bikini. She proclaims she is 'perfection'.

I was reading through the wreckage that is the comments section and someone made a remark to the effect of, "maybe she just needs to boost her self esteem a bit, get a few compliments, we all, including you, need that from time to time."

Yeah, no. I'd really rather not be complimented on my appearance. I don't need self-esteem boosts based on things like my looks. You know, shit that fades, sags, gets dimply, gets stretch marked, et al.

Women have worth beyond how good they can make a man look by being on his arm, no matter how bombarded you are by images that say otherwise.

So, yeah, it really kinda bothers me when I see women putting themselves out there and begging for attention all in an attempt to feel ok with who they are; in an attempt to find some self-esteem.

I went a lot of years lacking self-esteem. I based my worth on my looks. I based my worth on how worthy I was of a man's attention.

The thing is, it never built my self-esteem. It merely inflated my ego, and as we all know, egos are fragile things. Easily burst by one guy with a need to neg on you.

See, I don't think self-esteem can be built with compliments. I think it gets built by finding really good fucking qualities in yourself and by being the kind of person you'd give your trust and love to, because those are things no one can take away from you. These things make you loveable, desirable, and goddamned sexy.

Those qualities are yours and not subject to criticism because of a mole there, a scar here, a muffin top over the top of your jeans, or a crooked eye that looks north. They're based in things that don't change the way looks change.

Honesty, integrity, loyalty, empathy, compassion...these are things to build your self-worth on, not how awesome you look in a fucking bikini, because, baby, at 80, you're not going to be fucking 'perfection' anymore and your belly button ring will be a clit tickler.

So, you might want to think about building your house on something other than the sand of your looks.

Ramblerambleramble

2013-11-01T08:28:00.000-07:00

I don't know where this writing is going, but here goes nothing.

I don't know what's up with me lately. I'm different. I feel different.

I've always had a childish sense of wonder. I loved pink. I loved coloring. I loved princesses. I remember the day I bought myself the Disney Princess collection of reusable stickers to put on my wall.

I didn't have much of a childhood. My dad was one of those guys that thought giving me the gift of a step stool on my 8th birthday so I could reach the stove to cook, the sink to wash dishes, and the washer to wash clothes, was a GREAT idea. I was changing my brothers' diapers and making bottles before I could do multiplication. I had bad attendance from having to babysit my brothers and nurse my mother through hangovers.

Barbie dolls, art supplies and frilly socks were niceties I was rarely afforded. Besides, there was work to be done and straight A's to be maintained, there wasn't time for that stuff anyway.

Down deep, that little girl was always there, always with me. She helped me remain silly and open to others as well as the world. Even through the darkest of days.

For a few short moments last year, she had a chance to shine. Unfortunately, it was short-lived.

I remember pulling down the Disney Princess stickers and tossing them in the trash. I remember feeling like I was throwing away a huge piece of myself with them.

The pink is gone from my life. No more princesses or glitter. Serious hoodie is serious. The giggly girlwoman has been replaced with business only, and I feel so old.

That little girl spark was a respite from the weight of my life, and I think it really has left the building. Right along with Elvis.