It’s so asinine.
This morning I deleted a post from a few days ago because a “friend” argued the validity of the post. It was a local news article. My reasons for deleting it were my own, since it’s my page.
This person proceeds to berate, manipulate (attempt), and ramble on via facebook message about how I need to adjust my way of thinking. He continues that I am too sensitive and need to realize … blah blah blah.
He’s “that guy”; a perpetual victim who will victimize himself in order to slither from focus OR to pull focus. Why the fuck I found it necessary to keep him on my page, I don’t know. I didn’t want to appear ablist or rude maybe. I’m not and will now delete this jerk.
End result… because I’m a woman who doesn’t let people walk on me but who does take things personally, I am berated.
My RA helped move a bin up the stairs from my moms car. As she did, she stumbled and dropped my secret stash of magazines, a dildo, and vibrators. I just stood there; both my mother and RA looked stunned. All I could say as I bent down to pick up my paraphernalia was “I know, right?”
*sighs* my first day at a private Lutheran university in middle America was fun.
"It’s not that I have become more comfortable being by myself; it’s that I have become more afraid of the outside world."
— My overwhelming anxiety
It isn’t OK to belittle yourself by comparing your body to someone elses.
It isn’t OK to belittle someone else by comparing their body to yours.
It isn’t a compliment, it isn’t your right, it isn’t your place.
I hate it. I don’t want it.
People are always going to ask me why I don’t just ‘swallow my pride’ and talk to her and I will always be polite and direct the conversation in a different direction because they will never understand how truly evil this person was. It took me 31 years to come to terms and move on, so how can I expect anyone to understand how my survival is more important than their opinions when they have only understood seconds of my situation? Yesterday I was ironically confronted with my ‘abuser’ and in a surprising twist, I am happy to say that it is liberating to no longer feel that fear or rage boiling inside me
His hands were dirty and his skin was overly tan from being outside for who knows how long. He smelled but not like a grown up living on the streets. He smelled like a kid who had been playing outside all day long. He had these really sad blue eyes. He clung to his stomach like it ached. It hurt to try to ignore him. Then he spoke and I wanted to cry. I couldn’t tell if he was dope sick or starving. I pulled all the money from my purse. $5.86 and the water bottle I had. I gave it to him and told him it was all I had. He started crying and I had to look away. I probably made it worse or maybe he could get a burger. I hope I don’t see him again, not because it hurts to see him but because I hope his folks welcome him back in or that he has friends to crash with. I’ll probably go look for him but then what…
I dreamt that my dad didn’t fight from a hospital bed. I dreamt he refused treatments and walked out. While on the phone to one of my brothers, letting them know that dad was ill again, he just showed up. He was his funny self; laughing and joking around while all I could do was treat him like a pin pulled grenade.
Just when I thought I had dealt with my emotions of his passing… This shit pops up and reminds me that I’m not there yet.
Remember that time when I wanted to grow up and buy a house? I didn’t want just any house though. I wanted a working class neighborhood. I wanted to live with like minded, hard working, blah blah blah neighborhood. I wanted an old house with charm.
I got what I wanted but I also got the full on cock smoking problems that come with a home that is over 60 years old. I’m 100% done with this hot water heater and the stupid ass problems that I keep discovering. A hole? There’s a fucking hole in my foundation?
*bangs head against the wall repeatedly*
It was weird because I blamed his upbringing, I blamed where he lived, and I blamed the fact that he always had it so hard; but Saturday night was the last straw. He asked me why I would wear yellow lip stick or blue lipstick. He asked if I knew that the lips on a girls face were supposed to represent the lips between her thighs. I was flabbergasted by his thought process. This was pretty much the overly stretched last straw. I told this friend to lose my phone number and that I was gone. He called me every name he could think of and it rolled off of me like beads of sweat. I’m pretty sure I would have punched him, had we been in front of one another so blessed be the distance between me and the pig. When I told Skokie what he had said to me his eyes got wide. I could see the rage behind his look but he took a breath and asked only one question. He asked if I was ok.
forkliftfoot saved me from this weird journey I had to take with this father like figure. She drove us straight into the ocean in this massive old Malibu. Then (it kept getting more odd) themamafox was our guide to getting back to our place to sleep. It was like Mario brothers man. Every time we would be confronted she would whip a turtle shell at the bad guy and we would have to jump down these tunnels to escape.
Like…. what? Hahaha thanks ladies for an awesome night of dreams!