Monday, January 27, 2014

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

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

Monday, January 20, 2014

Don't want you. Damage is done.

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.

Friday, January 10, 2014

Dear Beautiful & Talented Penis,

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-


Monday, December 30, 2013

My InnerCunt: ALL. THE. POINTS. YAY!

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.

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.

Wednesday, December 18, 2013

Choices.

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.

Thursday, December 5, 2013

When laser tag imitates life.

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