So… and mother fucker k. The way I figure it, I can either deal with this fucking bullshit… this whole fucking Granddaddy goddamn issue… yeah, that sounds manageable, but the facts, the facts dude… and come on, the last time I decided on this approach I kinda thought I was mother fucker nuts… I’ll never deal with this on any real level enough to make peace with it and quit allowing it to paralyze me. But, you know what… I was wrong. I fucking dealt with it. It may still be a can of worms and no I aint in love with it, it still gives me shit… but its more predictable easier to cope with shit cause at least those worms are now in some reasonable, recognizable order. This shit though. This shit I have no fucking grasp on at all… it causes the rooms to turn to bugs, the bathtub to turn pink, and glass is in all the food. I’ve got to grasp it. I can and I will. Will I bitch? Will I whine? Yes, and fuck you, I have a right to, it sucks. The whole goddamn problem here is that it fucking sucked too much to be born. Yet I bore it. And, I am standing on the other side of it. And, I’ve tried suck it up. Suck it up and act like it don’t matter. Cause that’s a lie. It matters every fucking day. When there are times that all I can do is be still for the next minute, when that is the only way to survive my life when, come on mother fucker really… it aint that fucking bad. In fact, it aint bad at all. There is shit that aint right, things people do that piss me off, but, I’m not being abused. At all. it’s a life free of abuse. Of any kind.
So…
Anyway….
Guess that’s enough talking about it…
And, like before, random unordered shit. Whatever is on my mind that I don’t feel too chickenshit to tackle at the time.
So… what the hell am I gonna do first.
This mother fucker. Sometimes, I just get so overwhelmed by full on rock out fuck you mother fucker revolted rage that I find myself unable to even focus on anything when I think of this bastard. I hate what he tried to do to me, what he did do to me… I live my life based on him and his ideals still. Everything I do has to be weighed, carefully to figure out if my original reaction to it has any basis in reality because I can’t ever fully trust myself not to drop back into that animal. That fucking thing. That thing that I gotta love. Cause its still me. And self contempt is completely counterproductive to living any kind of productive, positive, useful enjoyable life. Cause really,
Quit stalling chickenshit.
I didn’t come equipped with painslut training. This is a bitch ass fact of life. Jack taught me that, gave me that beautiful gift. Taught me how to be pretty, and make it natural, and truly own the worlds best fuck you. Billy taught me to love it. To enjoy their pleasure, my pleasure, to accept… and Bryan taught me how to use it to make love. But, before that… getting fucked was pretty much a bitch. A big old fucking mean, ice cold, rock hard bitch. And, I pretty much hated it, every time. I perfected the art of ignoring it with Jimbo Hamilton. He was okay about that, and so I just, ignored him while he did his business… as long as I pumped my hips or whatever, remained cooperative, he didn’t hurt me more than was necessary. That made life easier. I can ignore a ridiculous amount… These days, I generally choose not to, because its not fucking healthy dude. Its just not. If something hurts, and I let it build up, the bill comes due. And, that’s usually ugly. Best to keep the tab low wherever possible.
I’m stalling again. I know I gotta quit. I am scared.
Scared that if I open this can… I’ll drown in fucking worms. But, the mother fucker is gonna pop open. The four o’clock nightmare. Its after four now… I could go to bed, I could chickenshit out on this… I could even use the excuse that its late, I sleep all day, blah blah blah… but that leaves me still here. I gotta fucking do this. I’ve simply got to.
I have not lost the will to change, nor will I shut the world away. I will get the fuck over this and be a goddamn productive mother fucking member of society. There is a time for everything. Survival is the bottomline but you have to have your eye on something bigger or that’s all you ever do, survive. Fuck that.
He was a cock sucker and he hurt me. And, I can face that. I lived through the shit, I can deal with the fucking aftermath and I won’t let it eat me, I will not drown in mother fucking worms, cause HE CANNOT FUCKING WIN. I WIN MOTHER FUCKER I FUCKING MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
AND ONE MORE TIME
I WIN
I MOTHER FUCKING WIN COCKSUCKER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
That out of the way, I’m going to talk about the dehumanization.
He got that shit right. Like, I’m talking real right. Right to the point that I just got, just like, within the last six months, that I really, really am a person just like every other mother fucker on this god forsaken ball of dirt.
I don’t really know how to explain it, I don’t even know if you can comprehend it if you aint been there. I bought in. Early, and completely. I was his cunt. And, to me, that didn’t necessarily mean the thing that I had between my legs. That was just a hole, just a tool to be used. I was a tool to be used. Aspirations to be a good pet were the ceiling. The best to hope for, to get the chance to be a good and useful thing, a thing with enough purpose, that created enough of a positive emotional response to be allowed the privilege of things that are basic needs like food, and sleep, and shelter from the elements, oh for the love of christ drink… to know that they were going to come, that was a almost impossible to attain goal. I knew I was disposable. Worth no more than the cats he tortured, made me torture, petted til they purred and then skinned alive. I knew.
I was whatever he wanted. And, what he wanted wasn’t human. It wasn’t possible to be human and be that. And, I don’t know how to tell you what it was like. I don’t know how to say it so it doesn’t just sound… pathetic. And, if it was, I’ll accept that, but that’s not what it was. I am facing it and I’m saying that while I can see what a pitiful creature I really was, how boo hoo heartbreaking and all that shit it is… when I look at Sunni and form the pictures in my mind with her in my stead, as my shrinks have instructed me to do, to be fair to myself, okay yes, that’s pitiful, that’s enraging, that’s … horrible. But, from inside my head, in my memories, it aint like that. From in here, it was… yes, terrifying… but, also… just fucking life. When you take all the drama boo hooing out of it, and approach it from there… its just different.
Fuck. Okay, I didn’t manage to tell a story, but I’ve been writing forever. I’m exhausted. And, I still think this was productive. I’ve picked a direction for the week. Extremely young, earilest memories of the acceptance and buy in to the (now I know its false, but at the time, for all intents and purposes it was a fact) fact that I was less.
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