Chakra
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Shit.
I’m sick of shit.
I’m sick of shit people.
I’m sick of shit friendships.
I’m sick of shit judgement.
I’m sick of shit opinions.
I’m sick of shit fairweather tendencies.
I’m sick of shit weather.
I’m sick of shit red lights.
I’m sick of shit drivers.
I’m sick of shit men.
I’m sick of shit relationship pressure.
I’m sick of shit feelings.
I’m sick of shit negativity.
I’m sick of shit closemindedness.
I’m sick of shits that talk too much.
I’m sick of shit lack of closure.
I’m sick of shit stress.
I’m sick of shit shit.
The End.
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I have spent my entire life
trying to overcome the fragility that you instilled in me. I could have grown up a happy, bubbly child but I was consumed by anxiety, and perfectionism from a young age because I had you whispering in my ear, always telling me that I was never good enough. I am a grown woman and I still shake and tremble whenever I hear you scream and throw furniture like some kind of a possessed animal. She just left paper on your desk. That is all she did and you threw a pocket knife at her. She is ten years old. Still too young for pinning against the wall and screaming in her face like you did me, only a few years older. Still too young to tell her that she is a slut, stupid, and incompetent. When you tell her that she is the equivalent of a harlot and a prostitute the first time she has a grade-school boyfriend behind your back, I will be there to put you in your place. I will be there to tell you that she wants a boy in her life to tell her she is worthy and beautiful. Something you could never accomplish as her father. So let her date. Let her act on her daddy issues, because otherwise she will never feel whole. When she lays down at night, she will have your serpentine whispering in her head, telling her that she will never add up. That there are so many kids who are smarter than she is, prettier than she is, more social, more functional. I saw in that child what I felt in myself for so many years. Little hands trembling, red face, and exasperated breathing. Sudden, swift movements, grasping for some kind of emotion besides the panic built up in her chest from the kind of anxiety that being screamed at two inches from your face and rattled around will give a child. The only thing she could do was pick up a napkin, wad it into a ball, and toss it at our mother, who stood by and let this monster rage on our innocence for so many years. I am proud of the fact that you made me a cold-hearted bitch. You are lucky that I took your unreasonably harsh criticism and I said, “Fuck you. I am not what you say I am.” And that I made myself a stronger, better person. Your other children may not have that strength. You will be lucky if they do not heel and become the very picture that you paint of them. I am proud of the fact that if it came down to you or an innocent person who I had no idea what they’d done in their lives or how they treated their daughters in a life or death situation, I’d pick them. I’d spare their life, because they wouldn’t be half the miserable bastard you are. You have depression? Anxiety? Fears? All humans do. Man up and stop drinking yourself into this violent monster that all of your children are learning to hate. Lead your family. Quit leaving that to me and God. I am twenty. I am not a housewife, I am not a mother. If I wanted to clean, cook, and care for this enormous house all on my own I would’ve married a 30 year old man who has one. If I wanted to raise your two youngest children so that I can somehow salvage them from the damage you’re inflicting, I would’ve had a baby earlier in life. But I am twenty, I am not married, I do not have children. I am trying to make a way for myself (one that is not easy), and I am trying to dig this family out of a hole, and that is alot of pressure on one person.
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Do my boobs make my personality look small?
Unlike most women, I don’t take tedious time and energy to primp myself into whatever I think men may like. I am happy being a sexually whole, confidant-until-I-can’t-fit-in-my-usual-size woman. I like smoking cigars, I like shooting firearms, I like going to the spa, and nothing feels better than getting my hair done. I like masculine men with facial hair, manly habits, that enjoy manly activities like hunting and fishing. Or splitting wood and building a log cabin. Insert sarcasm. But no, really, I like my men to look and feel like men.
I don’t consider myself “ugly” per se, but I’m not so vain as to say I’m pretty either. It’s that awkward moment where you’re evaluating your own appearance and you don’t know whether to be cocky or modest. I err on the side of modest, mainly because I don’t really care what I look like until someone takes a long hard look at me and gives me a reason to worry about it. I have a particular guy friend that always feels it’s necessary to give me his overtly honest opinion on my physical appearance whenever I ask him his honest opinion of me. I meant my personality and what he thinks of our friendship, but okay, telling me what he thinks of my ass is cool too. He told me that he’d never date me because I’m not tan, blonde, and I don’t have big boobs (they are normal sized, thank you). Nevermind the fact that I have a personality, as I mentioned before. Personalities were invented by God Almighty so that humans can bond on something deeper than cheap or deep sex. Way to think with your dick, muchacho. I don’t expect to be his type, he’s one of my friends. But I’m not all unlike him in the sense that I think some women think with their intuitions, respectively. So technically I can’t call him a shallow bastard. Surface-level attraction does exist. We are all human, and within the laws of human existence, we are given the uninhibited ability to be attracted to whatever gets our motor running. The smell of smoke or sweat on a man is enough to give me chills. If a guy smiles at me a certain way, with those little dimples that naturally occur around someone’s mouth when they smile frequently… that little tick is enough to make me notice them. This is applicable to the simple laws of attraction. Now to be so narrow as to say that you wouldn’t be with someone because they are brunette and not a blonde Hooters girl is stupid. I know that your choice type of girl in the porn you watch is probably a blonde Hooters girl. But who knows what the girl you’ll end up loving (or partially caring for) will look like — that is if you’re capable of loving someone with the right head. I seriously doubt that with this individual. He’s one of those guys that you watch everyday, listen to how he talks about women and scratch your head frivolously trying to picture how he’d handle commitment and no matter how hard you think, it just doesn’t seem plausible. Even on the off chance that he contracts a rare incurable STD and can’t be his hyper-sexual party boy self. He’d probably have to settle down with the woman who gave him this disease and have children (who will all wear chastity belts from birth). Yeah, seemed a little far fetched to me too. Anyways…
I’ve been with both blonde and brunette men. This usually depends on what hair color my ex had. I naturally gravitate to the opposite after a break up. Not a conscious decision. Just happens. But ever since this guy said that I’m not good enough, I’ve been looking at myself sideways in the mirror trying to figure out what the hell is so repulsive that one of the most shallow, surface level people I know would reject me. Also, I think it bothers me that people this shallow exist. I was all cool, trucking along singing “Jesus Loves Me This I Know”, then you had to go tell me that you think I’m not good enough. Way to drive a perfectionist crazy, asshole.
Likes
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I’m so fucking fabulous. I can’t even contain myself, damn.
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Holy Fuck
I leave for the beach today, and it’s just myrtle beach so it’s not that exciting. I’ve...
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oh Damn
That was public.
