I have been dating this same Jewish douchebag for quite some time now. Call him Schlobo.
Schlobo, I thought, would be a one-night stand, but he immediately declared me his girlfriend, and I figured it was perhaps a good way to maybe be monogamous for awhile (even though I hate monogamy), because my amount of sexual partners was seriously getting out of control, and they were also getting to be more and more like human primates, and I was wondering what the fuck I was doing.
Alas, this has gone on so long that I think it’s too late to stop it. I'm just too lazy.
Music-impresario Schlobo is presently attempting to take songs that I write and perform and put them on tapes to sell to the public. He's making 150 tapes; I get eight. This is sick. Then he asks me for money all the time.
Last week, Schlobo threatened that if I did not go see him play with his gay toys at a show, he would deny me sex for a week. I could not stop laughing. He needs to stay away from me. What a diseased parasite now. Schlobo is just a terrible, degenerate plug who is no different than the Neanderthal dicks that I used to be pounded with each week after leaving a slimy bar.
But how do I get out? I'm not good at saying no, and I am certainly not good at breaking things off. Imagine some dill-hole denying me sex. YUCK. YUCK! It makes me puke to think about it.
I have never been one to care what others think but I am constantly barraged with questions as to why I am with this monkey, and I explain that I don't know how to end this shit.
Schlobo wears Old Spice deodorant, and whenever he comes over he leaves this manly scent on my bed and I feel like I'm going to fucking hurl everywhere every time my head touches some part of the bed where the man scent has touched. And he falls asleep with his condoms on. I know I have mentioned this in a previous column. I am not used to this. I don't think I've ever had any guy do this. But not only does he fall asleep with them on, which is so fucking foul, in the morning he starts bitching and whines, "EEEW OH MY GOD WHY DIDNT YOU TELL ME THAT I STILL HAD MY CONDOM ON??? I CAN'T BELIEVE I SLEPT WITH IT ON...AGAIN." As if I am supposed to check his dick for a condom?
It’s disgusting is what it is, and he's slowly putting me into some kind of mommy role because he has no job and no money and moved out of his parents’ house at age 30 and blames me for that.
Still, all Schlobo does is sit in his house and smoke pot and play Chef's Love Shack on the Nintendo 64 and watch his nine South Park seasons on tape, and like usually I'd think this was funny in itself, but it's not. It has lost its charm. Forever.
The worst thing is that Schlobo expects me to be a lady. He expects my shit not to smell. I mean, Jesus Christ, the high point of our relationship was when his retarded friend tried to rape me. I wish I could physically beat him. He is terrible. He talks to me about having kids and raising them. He has no clue.
I have developed a crush on someone else, though. This man is very strange, so strange that I suspect that he might be responsible for many people that are missing today. I think he is hiding them somewhere. He has an outdoor sale every weekend, I will not say where as to not reveal where he is, but he puts a huge sign out that says in big letters WEIRD SALE, and he hits the nail right on the head with that one. I don't think I've ever been to a weirder fucking sale. This guy sells used speculums. He sells 8 mm porn, some of it I suspect can be illegal even.
I don't know if it's a crush that I have on the Weird Salesman. It's more of some insane fascination. He is quiet. The first week he sold me one of the most awesome items I own. It is a slide projector that also has a TV screen that you can project the slides on. It really rules. But it was so hard to get him to talk to me at first.
I try to visit the Weird Salesman every weekend. I always wanted to know what he would say about the speculums he sells, because they were sort of hidden beneath all his crazy junk (oh, if you don't know what a speculum is, it’s one of those medical tools that they use to open a woman's vagina up. It sort of looks like a torture device or a duck), but I never wanted to ask him.
My roommate went up to him with two speculums and started making them talk to each other and asked the man how much they were, he seemed very angry/embarrassed and said five dollars. It was so cute.
What kind of man sells speculums and porn on the corner? He also peddles pictures of the Pope and broken figures of Baby Jesus. My roommate picked the Baby Jesus up and was holding it upside down, and the guy yelled at him and told him to hold the Baby Jesus like he would a baby. This guy is serial-killer material for sure.
I thought the Weird Salesman might be too weird for me even, but our weekly encounters have gotten more and more intimate. First, he helped me carry stuff to my car. Second, he gave me a free slide bulb and then changed it for me. The next week he gave me all this stuff for real cheap. Oh, and the final week he did the typical thing that guys do to find out if you have a boyfriend.
I was saying that I would have trouble trying to get this one thing to work that he was trying to sell me, and he said to me "I'm sure your BOYFRIEND would be able to help you with it, that is your boyfriend right, the other guy that comes here with you?" I of course took the hint and said "No way, he's just my roommate, I DON'T HAVE A BOYFRIEND" (I wasn't lying either, he is dead to me).
Yeah, I know what you're tryin' to do, Weird Sale guy, I thought to myself. I SCORED! Even though I still don't know his name, I know I'm in there. He could very well be a murderer though. He is very strange and it took weeks to get him to open up to me. But we'll see. It's a big challenge, and I like challenges. Plus he has awesome stuff. And my boyfriend now SUX. As I said.
Come on, I can't date a guy who will not allow me to spill drinks in his room, wants me to kiss him in public, introduces me as his "girlfriend" as if I have no name or identity other than being HIS GIRLFRIEND. He's also broke, wears Old Spice, and he REFUSES to read my columns (which is actually a great thing because I can write things like this about him and not fear him reading them). In addition, Schlobo talks WAY too loud, tries to take advantage of me and my crappy rap act, makes shitty fliers for shows, wears athletic pants only, eats Indian food, has taken me out ONE TIME in our six-month dating period, got me practical items for Christmas (such as socks, clean blankets, etc.). THAT ALONE should have made me dump him.
Oh my God, I just realized I've been dating him since before Christmas. This is depressing. I've got to jump off the Jew train onto the serial-killer train. Actually one of the only things that made me like him is that he is Jewish and he looks good. I'm so over that though.
If I am somehow missing in the upcoming weeks though, find the Weird Sale and go through the 8mm film stock and maybe you'll see me getting cut up or something.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Monday, June 19, 2006
Gimme An R!
For the past four months, I have had one, and only one, sexual partner. It is a far cry from my behavior of the previous two years, wherein I'd say I racked up about 80 different bedmates.
Eighty is only an estimate; it could be more or less. And I didn't make a damn dime. I figure if I went home with that many scumbag motherfuckers from bars, why the hell am I not prostituting myself? I could have at least made some money. I'm a fucking idiot. I asked for nothing. That's the world's problem. Everyone wants something. These fuckers got something. I feel gypped. All I got was genital warts.
Now that I am only fucking one person I feel like people are trying to take parts of me in other ways. Trying to fucking own me. My stuff. My brain. My thoughts. Stuff I make. Stuff I write. Stuff I do. Stuff I own. Everyone wants a fucking piece. Whether it's pussy or something else. Everyone's always trying to break off a piece.
They want to intrude into my thoughts, my time, my life. I don't spend enough time on the phone with someone. I am not being a good friend. Maybe if I just fucked them all they would be satisfied. Everyone's a fucking pervert. And everyone wants a piece. They know that they are incomplete so they think that they can complete themselves by using another person.
How do you rape someone that's allowed it? I feel like I'm constantly being raped but allowing it. People pick and pick at me and I let it happen. I don't feel sorry for myself, but I'd like for it to stop.
Fuck the games.
Get rid of the play-acting.
Let the real thing be sold.
How do you rape someone without knowing it?
Install a camera in the girl’s room and watch them piss and shit without them ever knowing that you're coming all over yourself at their expense.
I guess that's a way.
It's easy.
Talk to them, steal from them, their bodies, their minds, their possessions, and they will never know the difference. Because it is not the RAPE we see on the news.
I was not tied down with a gun to my fucking head by some massive, dark-skinned man calling me a bitch and holding me down and pumping my ass with his fat, uncircumcised, disease-addled cock.
But you are still taking from me.
There are no news stories about this.
It's not interesting enough, and far too common.
It's not only me getting raped, it’s not only women, it’s men, it’s everyone.
Rape is a buzzword.
The honesty can be claustrophobic.
But you're all taking from me. I call it rape.
It makes people uncomfortable when I say that.
I am a parasite too. I will not deny that.
But right now, I feel like I am being pulled in too many directions by too many people and decisions are getting harder and harder to make.
Maybe that is what success is.
Maybe that's when you know you're succeeding, when everyone wants to rape you.
But like I said it's hard to rape the willing and I am weak and often willing.
I want to vomit all the time.
Everything comes at a price.
I never noticed all of this until I stepped back and stopped thinking about rape in a sexual way. But it can hurt. I see it happen to people all the time. Watch out, my friends.
Parasites are everywhere. And we are all victims and perpetrators. This is a warning to you all. Be careful what you are doing, and be aware of what is being done to you.
Rape is a serious word, but sometimes it takes a buzzword like RAPE for people to understand exactly what they are doing.
Eighty is only an estimate; it could be more or less. And I didn't make a damn dime. I figure if I went home with that many scumbag motherfuckers from bars, why the hell am I not prostituting myself? I could have at least made some money. I'm a fucking idiot. I asked for nothing. That's the world's problem. Everyone wants something. These fuckers got something. I feel gypped. All I got was genital warts.
Now that I am only fucking one person I feel like people are trying to take parts of me in other ways. Trying to fucking own me. My stuff. My brain. My thoughts. Stuff I make. Stuff I write. Stuff I do. Stuff I own. Everyone wants a fucking piece. Whether it's pussy or something else. Everyone's always trying to break off a piece.
They want to intrude into my thoughts, my time, my life. I don't spend enough time on the phone with someone. I am not being a good friend. Maybe if I just fucked them all they would be satisfied. Everyone's a fucking pervert. And everyone wants a piece. They know that they are incomplete so they think that they can complete themselves by using another person.
How do you rape someone that's allowed it? I feel like I'm constantly being raped but allowing it. People pick and pick at me and I let it happen. I don't feel sorry for myself, but I'd like for it to stop.
Fuck the games.
Get rid of the play-acting.
Let the real thing be sold.
How do you rape someone without knowing it?
Install a camera in the girl’s room and watch them piss and shit without them ever knowing that you're coming all over yourself at their expense.
I guess that's a way.
It's easy.
Talk to them, steal from them, their bodies, their minds, their possessions, and they will never know the difference. Because it is not the RAPE we see on the news.
I was not tied down with a gun to my fucking head by some massive, dark-skinned man calling me a bitch and holding me down and pumping my ass with his fat, uncircumcised, disease-addled cock.
But you are still taking from me.
There are no news stories about this.
It's not interesting enough, and far too common.
It's not only me getting raped, it’s not only women, it’s men, it’s everyone.
Rape is a buzzword.
The honesty can be claustrophobic.
But you're all taking from me. I call it rape.
It makes people uncomfortable when I say that.
I am a parasite too. I will not deny that.
But right now, I feel like I am being pulled in too many directions by too many people and decisions are getting harder and harder to make.
Maybe that is what success is.
Maybe that's when you know you're succeeding, when everyone wants to rape you.
But like I said it's hard to rape the willing and I am weak and often willing.
I want to vomit all the time.
Everything comes at a price.
I never noticed all of this until I stepped back and stopped thinking about rape in a sexual way. But it can hurt. I see it happen to people all the time. Watch out, my friends.
Parasites are everywhere. And we are all victims and perpetrators. This is a warning to you all. Be careful what you are doing, and be aware of what is being done to you.
Rape is a serious word, but sometimes it takes a buzzword like RAPE for people to understand exactly what they are doing.
Monday, June 12, 2006
Make Mine Thalidomide
Once, when I was a kid, my dad had bought this doll for me and it was missing an arm and a leg, and he told me that it was my "thalidomide baby."
Being five, I had no idea what thalidomide was, and I'm sure that many people now are unfamiliar with it. Thalidomide (tha-lid-o-mide) was first marketed in Europe in the late 1950s. It was used as a sleeping pill and to treat morning sickness during pregnancy. At that time no one knew thalidomide caused birth defects. Then they started popping up. These birth defects included loss of limbs and fucked-up skulls and brain defects.
Regardless, I carried my baby around with pride and told everyone that it was my "Thalidomide baby" and I loved it. It was one of my favorite stuffed dolls. I had hundreds of stuffed animals and, at 25, I still will not let my mother get rid of them, although I know she secretly tries to sell them at garage sales and then throws them away. There's nothing I can do about it. It's tragic.
As part of my childhood obsessive-compulsive disorder, I'd assign personalities to inanimate objects, not only my dolls, but chairs and refrigerators and other weird appliances and things. And I still assign personalities to all of these stuffed animals that I had owned and played with as a child, so I can't bear to throw them away.
The "Thalidomide Baby" was of course a stuffed doll, since I hated all regular dolls and would put them in cages and throw them in the garbage. Dolls were for girls and I never considered myself a girl. In fact I would not allow anyone to refer to me as a "little girl"; I didn't want to be referred to as a "little boy" either. I knew I wasn't a fucking boy. So I decided "little guy" would be the best way to refer to me. Thus, I made my parents introduce me as their "little guy."
It must have looked weird, my parents calling me a little guy and all, but I was a weird child, and considering all the shit I was going through at the time, and how fucking weird my family was, it made sense. I still have problems thinking of myself as a "woman." I wish people would still refer to me as a guy or some non-gender-specific term, but there isn't one.
I know I'm a "woman." I have a pussy. I bleed every month. But I don't feel like a woman. I don't like shopping for shoes. I'm not happy that Star Jones has lost 600 pounds. I don't eat bonbons. And I hate women. But I hate men too. I like scum. I like shit. That's what I'm attracted to. Turds. Thalidomide babies. That doll I think shaped my whole life. My dad did so many things to mold me into the most socially awkward being, I can't believe I was ever even able to enter the real world.
The school system further alienated me by putting me in these "gifted" classes for smart kids who were all social retards, and I could never fit into any group. It was just as demeaning as being in the "retard" class. At least if I was fat or had some sort of physical disability I could understand why people thought I was so weird, but on the outside I looked normal. People just tried to stay away from me.
For one of my gifted classes, I did an in-depth study on McDonald's. I actually visited the first McDonald’s restaurant in Des Plaines, IL, and I made this crazy puppet show and educated everyone about McDonald’s.
The following year, I did a report on voodoo. Such a funny contradiction between the two subjects, but they are actually similar in a way. I don't want to turn this into some political essay or go on some diatribe about how McDonald's is its own religion, but that's what I mean. But my voodoo presentation caused some major controversy because I plastered the walls of this room with a bunch of photos of Haitian women with big floppy naked pancake titties doing voodoo rituals.
When the parents came to look at all the work their young children had done, they were forced to look at a lot of black-lady tits. But man, the tits weren't the point. I had done a lot of fucking research, but all of the damn pictures had fucking naked women in them. Still, my parents were proud.
I was always forced into these smart-kid classes and I hated it. Everyone else got to be in different classes with different people all day and I had to be with the same group of smarmy "smart kid" fucking rejects all the time. I didn't think I was better than any of them. I just hated them and thought they were all assholes. I can't complain, though, I guess. I grew up in suburbia.
Unfortunately I was just a little bit too old for the whole school-shooting fad, otherwise I think that would have brightened up my days a lot. I remember seeing the movie Heathers and I remember fanatically watching how Winona Rider and Christian Slater blow up their school, and I wished so badly that I could have a boyfriend who would help me do that.
There was a boy named Tom who had written his own manifesto. He was extremely intelligent. I believe he would have shot up the school but he was not interested in girls, and I think he'd have thought of a girl as a hindrance. He was very conceited, especially for someone who hated himself so much. I had myself made frequent and obsessive lists of whom I would kill and how I would do it. If it was three years later and the school found that shit out, I would have had to go to extensive stupid counseling.
This particular essay is all over the place, I know. I just decided to highlight some of the defining points of my life. I'm trying to figure out why I am the way I am. It's so bizarre, these events that I choose to remember so vividly that I guess I have chosen to forget about for so many years. I wish I could find my Thalidomide baby. It's disappeared. Maybe I'll find some psychotic Christian Slater type someday and we can have our own Thalidomide baby.
Being five, I had no idea what thalidomide was, and I'm sure that many people now are unfamiliar with it. Thalidomide (tha-lid-o-mide) was first marketed in Europe in the late 1950s. It was used as a sleeping pill and to treat morning sickness during pregnancy. At that time no one knew thalidomide caused birth defects. Then they started popping up. These birth defects included loss of limbs and fucked-up skulls and brain defects.
Regardless, I carried my baby around with pride and told everyone that it was my "Thalidomide baby" and I loved it. It was one of my favorite stuffed dolls. I had hundreds of stuffed animals and, at 25, I still will not let my mother get rid of them, although I know she secretly tries to sell them at garage sales and then throws them away. There's nothing I can do about it. It's tragic.
As part of my childhood obsessive-compulsive disorder, I'd assign personalities to inanimate objects, not only my dolls, but chairs and refrigerators and other weird appliances and things. And I still assign personalities to all of these stuffed animals that I had owned and played with as a child, so I can't bear to throw them away.
The "Thalidomide Baby" was of course a stuffed doll, since I hated all regular dolls and would put them in cages and throw them in the garbage. Dolls were for girls and I never considered myself a girl. In fact I would not allow anyone to refer to me as a "little girl"; I didn't want to be referred to as a "little boy" either. I knew I wasn't a fucking boy. So I decided "little guy" would be the best way to refer to me. Thus, I made my parents introduce me as their "little guy."
It must have looked weird, my parents calling me a little guy and all, but I was a weird child, and considering all the shit I was going through at the time, and how fucking weird my family was, it made sense. I still have problems thinking of myself as a "woman." I wish people would still refer to me as a guy or some non-gender-specific term, but there isn't one.
I know I'm a "woman." I have a pussy. I bleed every month. But I don't feel like a woman. I don't like shopping for shoes. I'm not happy that Star Jones has lost 600 pounds. I don't eat bonbons. And I hate women. But I hate men too. I like scum. I like shit. That's what I'm attracted to. Turds. Thalidomide babies. That doll I think shaped my whole life. My dad did so many things to mold me into the most socially awkward being, I can't believe I was ever even able to enter the real world.
The school system further alienated me by putting me in these "gifted" classes for smart kids who were all social retards, and I could never fit into any group. It was just as demeaning as being in the "retard" class. At least if I was fat or had some sort of physical disability I could understand why people thought I was so weird, but on the outside I looked normal. People just tried to stay away from me.
For one of my gifted classes, I did an in-depth study on McDonald's. I actually visited the first McDonald’s restaurant in Des Plaines, IL, and I made this crazy puppet show and educated everyone about McDonald’s.
The following year, I did a report on voodoo. Such a funny contradiction between the two subjects, but they are actually similar in a way. I don't want to turn this into some political essay or go on some diatribe about how McDonald's is its own religion, but that's what I mean. But my voodoo presentation caused some major controversy because I plastered the walls of this room with a bunch of photos of Haitian women with big floppy naked pancake titties doing voodoo rituals.
When the parents came to look at all the work their young children had done, they were forced to look at a lot of black-lady tits. But man, the tits weren't the point. I had done a lot of fucking research, but all of the damn pictures had fucking naked women in them. Still, my parents were proud.
I was always forced into these smart-kid classes and I hated it. Everyone else got to be in different classes with different people all day and I had to be with the same group of smarmy "smart kid" fucking rejects all the time. I didn't think I was better than any of them. I just hated them and thought they were all assholes. I can't complain, though, I guess. I grew up in suburbia.
Unfortunately I was just a little bit too old for the whole school-shooting fad, otherwise I think that would have brightened up my days a lot. I remember seeing the movie Heathers and I remember fanatically watching how Winona Rider and Christian Slater blow up their school, and I wished so badly that I could have a boyfriend who would help me do that.
There was a boy named Tom who had written his own manifesto. He was extremely intelligent. I believe he would have shot up the school but he was not interested in girls, and I think he'd have thought of a girl as a hindrance. He was very conceited, especially for someone who hated himself so much. I had myself made frequent and obsessive lists of whom I would kill and how I would do it. If it was three years later and the school found that shit out, I would have had to go to extensive stupid counseling.
This particular essay is all over the place, I know. I just decided to highlight some of the defining points of my life. I'm trying to figure out why I am the way I am. It's so bizarre, these events that I choose to remember so vividly that I guess I have chosen to forget about for so many years. I wish I could find my Thalidomide baby. It's disappeared. Maybe I'll find some psychotic Christian Slater type someday and we can have our own Thalidomide baby.
Monday, June 5, 2006
Hey! It's Jay!
Rarely do I get the chance to be with multiple members of my family in one place at the same time. It is reserved for funerals, weddings (which are usually very soon followed by divorces), graduations (which almost never happen), and very rarely on some holidays.
This past Memorial Day was one such occurrence, bringing me together, all at once, with my father, my brother, various nieces, and a bunch of other members of the Royal Princess clan. The stories that I could write from this six-hour encounter are endless, but I want to concentrate on my half-brother's half-brother. His name is Jay.
I have memories of Jay starting when I was five years old. He worked at Disney World (still one of my favorite places). My parents used to take me there to visit him. He was about 22 and he lived in a small apartment with this 500-pound woman named Ginger. Jay had found her sleeping in the laundry room of his apartment and had taken her in to live with him.
Being five at the time, I had no idea what "gay" was or how a stereotypical homosexual man acted, but I knew that Jay was not normal. Plus I was very confused about his relationship with this Ginger, who was probably the fattest human I had ever seen at that point. Regardless, Jay was so sweet and I was very comfortable around him, so I loved the trips we would take to Disney World to see him.
In time, Jay moved back near Wisconsin where his brothers and sisters and mother lived. I next saw him when I was ten, and I knew then that he was flaming. Then I heard that Jay had HIV. This was when the news first broke about the disease AIDS, so I was devastated. I was sure he would die very quickly.
I didn't see Jay again until I was 15, and I was worried about how he would look. I was used to images of Tom Hanks covered in lesions and sad gay men crying about their emaciated AIDS-inflicted friends. But when I saw Jay, I didn't see emaciation or lesions I just saw this man--a flaming homo to be sure--but not the "typical" person with AIDS.
As a teenager, I befriended Jay all over again, as he was one of the most amusing and bizarre people I had ever met. You see, living in Florida and working at Disney World and having a quarter-ton female best friend is a pretty typical life for a male homo. I swear, it totally is. But moving up to the ass crack of rural Illinois near Wisconsin and being probably the only openly out-of-the-closet homosexual in sight is a bit weird. Especially since there is only one gay bar in a 100-mile radius.
But that's my Jay.
At our family gatherings, we are surrounded by charmers with swastika tattoos and Nascar shirts and "Git 'er Dun" hats. They are the last people on earth that anyone would think could accept homosexuality. And they don't. But they have to deal with it because Jay's whole family accepts him and the fact that not only is he homosexual, he is a flaming homosexual. He doesn't advertise the AIDS thing, but he doesn't keep it a secret either.
Jay taunts our relatives, too. He talks about how men are while in the company of burly homo-haters and never gets his ass kicked. Sure, comments are made behind his back, but this motherfucker is tough and will fight anyone. And no one wants to make Jay bleed because they're all afraid of his disease.
Not only is Jay on a heavy regimen of HIV drugs, which have intense side effects, he also regularly consumes valium, narcotics, marijuana, and booze. For some reason, everything balances everything else out and he's been fine, at least until he gets some alcohol in him. Every time I see Jay he has like six more stories for me about when he got drunk lately.
At the Memorial Day barbecue, there were hardcore Navy guys present, which prompted Jay to go on and on about how sailors parade around in drag and all buttfuck each other. I saw fire in one of the navy men's eyes--either out of anger or the fact that he wanted a taste of Jay for himself--but since Jay was surrounded by family, this man could not do anything.
Most recently Jay, who's now 43, told me that at one point he walked into a bar, started drinking, and when he came to, he was covered in water and shackled in Greyslake jail. It turns out that he got into a huge brawl, went to jail, and when they placed him in his cell he ripped out the sprinkler system for the little jail and it flooded and they had to evacuate the whole place and take all the prisoners out until they could fix the problem. And Jay didn't remember any of this.
Two weeks later, Jay was getting loaded again and called 911. He felt very bad about what he had done as far as ripping the sprinkler system out of the jail and flooding it, and even though his court date had not come up yet, he demanded to be arrested again. The cops would not take him seriously and just told him to hang up and leave them alone. After about the thirtieth time Jay telephoned the Greyslake police department demanding he be rearrested, they decided to comply and came to his house and he ended up in jail...again.
The entire police department knows who he is. I like to think of him as the gay G.G. Allin. Well, I guess G.G. Allin could be considered gay, but he was everything (like me). Either way, Jay is a genius. I wish more people recognized it. I don't know why there are so many amazing people in my family. Like I have said before, I'm pretty sure it's due to inbreeding and severe childhood abuse, but Jay is definitely one of a kind.
He was raised by a horrible, mean father. His name was Jack and he was beaten to death with a baseball bat at a bar by a bunch of Puerto Ricans to whom he owed money. Jack once locked my brother in the trunk of a car for eight hours straight on an extremely hot day and almost killed him. Jack also used to take the kids to the park and sit on a bench and shoot heroin right there in front of them all. He was a very short man, about five feet tall, and seemed to have one of the worst cases of the Napoleon complex of anyone I've ever heard of.
Thank God I never had the chance to meet Jack. He molested little girls. My dad almost killed him and eventually was responsible for throwing him in jail for a lot of years after he found out about how badly he was abusing Tommy and Patty, my brother and sister. This man was Jay's father and namesake. Jay and I were comparing our prescription drugs and I looked at the label on Jay's prescriptions and they were under the name of "Jack Thorson." When I saw this, memories of stories I had heard about this man flooded my head, and I suddenly realized that Jay was subject to all of this horrible man's abuse.
It is no surprise as to why a lot of my family members turned out the way they did. This is another reason Jay is a hero to me, growing up with that type of abuse, living through that, living through being a homosexual way before rainbow flags and pride parades, being one of the earlier people diagnosed with HIV(in the pre-Magic-Johnson years). And I love Jay's stories, and the way he floods jails and fucks the system. A lot of people feel bad for him. I look up to him. In my opinion he's one of the bravest, most humorous, and angelic people in my family.
This past Memorial Day was one such occurrence, bringing me together, all at once, with my father, my brother, various nieces, and a bunch of other members of the Royal Princess clan. The stories that I could write from this six-hour encounter are endless, but I want to concentrate on my half-brother's half-brother. His name is Jay.
I have memories of Jay starting when I was five years old. He worked at Disney World (still one of my favorite places). My parents used to take me there to visit him. He was about 22 and he lived in a small apartment with this 500-pound woman named Ginger. Jay had found her sleeping in the laundry room of his apartment and had taken her in to live with him.
Being five at the time, I had no idea what "gay" was or how a stereotypical homosexual man acted, but I knew that Jay was not normal. Plus I was very confused about his relationship with this Ginger, who was probably the fattest human I had ever seen at that point. Regardless, Jay was so sweet and I was very comfortable around him, so I loved the trips we would take to Disney World to see him.
In time, Jay moved back near Wisconsin where his brothers and sisters and mother lived. I next saw him when I was ten, and I knew then that he was flaming. Then I heard that Jay had HIV. This was when the news first broke about the disease AIDS, so I was devastated. I was sure he would die very quickly.
I didn't see Jay again until I was 15, and I was worried about how he would look. I was used to images of Tom Hanks covered in lesions and sad gay men crying about their emaciated AIDS-inflicted friends. But when I saw Jay, I didn't see emaciation or lesions I just saw this man--a flaming homo to be sure--but not the "typical" person with AIDS.
As a teenager, I befriended Jay all over again, as he was one of the most amusing and bizarre people I had ever met. You see, living in Florida and working at Disney World and having a quarter-ton female best friend is a pretty typical life for a male homo. I swear, it totally is. But moving up to the ass crack of rural Illinois near Wisconsin and being probably the only openly out-of-the-closet homosexual in sight is a bit weird. Especially since there is only one gay bar in a 100-mile radius.
But that's my Jay.
At our family gatherings, we are surrounded by charmers with swastika tattoos and Nascar shirts and "Git 'er Dun" hats. They are the last people on earth that anyone would think could accept homosexuality. And they don't. But they have to deal with it because Jay's whole family accepts him and the fact that not only is he homosexual, he is a flaming homosexual. He doesn't advertise the AIDS thing, but he doesn't keep it a secret either.
Jay taunts our relatives, too. He talks about how men are while in the company of burly homo-haters and never gets his ass kicked. Sure, comments are made behind his back, but this motherfucker is tough and will fight anyone. And no one wants to make Jay bleed because they're all afraid of his disease.
Not only is Jay on a heavy regimen of HIV drugs, which have intense side effects, he also regularly consumes valium, narcotics, marijuana, and booze. For some reason, everything balances everything else out and he's been fine, at least until he gets some alcohol in him. Every time I see Jay he has like six more stories for me about when he got drunk lately.
At the Memorial Day barbecue, there were hardcore Navy guys present, which prompted Jay to go on and on about how sailors parade around in drag and all buttfuck each other. I saw fire in one of the navy men's eyes--either out of anger or the fact that he wanted a taste of Jay for himself--but since Jay was surrounded by family, this man could not do anything.
Most recently Jay, who's now 43, told me that at one point he walked into a bar, started drinking, and when he came to, he was covered in water and shackled in Greyslake jail. It turns out that he got into a huge brawl, went to jail, and when they placed him in his cell he ripped out the sprinkler system for the little jail and it flooded and they had to evacuate the whole place and take all the prisoners out until they could fix the problem. And Jay didn't remember any of this.
Two weeks later, Jay was getting loaded again and called 911. He felt very bad about what he had done as far as ripping the sprinkler system out of the jail and flooding it, and even though his court date had not come up yet, he demanded to be arrested again. The cops would not take him seriously and just told him to hang up and leave them alone. After about the thirtieth time Jay telephoned the Greyslake police department demanding he be rearrested, they decided to comply and came to his house and he ended up in jail...again.
The entire police department knows who he is. I like to think of him as the gay G.G. Allin. Well, I guess G.G. Allin could be considered gay, but he was everything (like me). Either way, Jay is a genius. I wish more people recognized it. I don't know why there are so many amazing people in my family. Like I have said before, I'm pretty sure it's due to inbreeding and severe childhood abuse, but Jay is definitely one of a kind.
He was raised by a horrible, mean father. His name was Jack and he was beaten to death with a baseball bat at a bar by a bunch of Puerto Ricans to whom he owed money. Jack once locked my brother in the trunk of a car for eight hours straight on an extremely hot day and almost killed him. Jack also used to take the kids to the park and sit on a bench and shoot heroin right there in front of them all. He was a very short man, about five feet tall, and seemed to have one of the worst cases of the Napoleon complex of anyone I've ever heard of.
Thank God I never had the chance to meet Jack. He molested little girls. My dad almost killed him and eventually was responsible for throwing him in jail for a lot of years after he found out about how badly he was abusing Tommy and Patty, my brother and sister. This man was Jay's father and namesake. Jay and I were comparing our prescription drugs and I looked at the label on Jay's prescriptions and they were under the name of "Jack Thorson." When I saw this, memories of stories I had heard about this man flooded my head, and I suddenly realized that Jay was subject to all of this horrible man's abuse.
It is no surprise as to why a lot of my family members turned out the way they did. This is another reason Jay is a hero to me, growing up with that type of abuse, living through that, living through being a homosexual way before rainbow flags and pride parades, being one of the earlier people diagnosed with HIV(in the pre-Magic-Johnson years). And I love Jay's stories, and the way he floods jails and fucks the system. A lot of people feel bad for him. I look up to him. In my opinion he's one of the bravest, most humorous, and angelic people in my family.
Monday, May 22, 2006
She Came Out Through The Bathroom Ceiling
This is a weird memory of mine, but it recently shot into my head and I thought it was so weird that it was maybe a little bit repressed, because it was not that tragic, but it was such a weird thing to happen, and it makes me remember what a bizarre child I was.
When I was about seven years old, my mom rented The Rocky Horror Picture Show for me to watch. After I saw it, I became obsessed (I am only okay to admit this because I was ONLY seven; I wasn't some high school or older theater geek. I HATE Rocky Horror fanatics).
I got the soundtrack, memorized it, memorized the whole movie, and then my mom took me to see the movie in the theater on Halloween, where I remember them having a "FUCK YOU" contest between the two sides of the audience, yelling "fuck you" at each other and trying to get the sides to yell the loudest. I, of course, could not participate because I was with my mom, but she was mortified that she brought me there and blames this experience in my youth for how mixed-up and insane I am today.
Soon thereafter I got my best friend Beth into Rocky Horror. And we used to get to school early and sneak into the bathroom, when all the lights were turned off, and I had this little Fisher-Price tape player and we'd listen to the songs over and over, alone in the really dark bathroom and sing along to them, softly, so we wouldn't get caught.
Thinking back on this, it was such a bizarre thing to do. And it didn't happen just one time. It became a ritual. We knew where and how to get in like 45 minutes early and we'd never miss a morning doing this. Then somehow it became a weirdly sexual experience. I mean we'd never touch or anything, but it was undeniable to both of us that it was.
Well, it does have to be argued that we were rather intimate friends. Beth would have her cousins come over while we'd pretend we were prostitutes and her cousins would give us back massages and stuff until I thought it was getting a little weird, but she'd go further with her cousins.
Beth also had a pool in her back yard and enjoyed taking shits into her hand and throwing it over the edge of the pool rather than getting up wet and going to the bathroom. I just threw that in because I really liked that she did that. She was trashy. Later she got fat and turned into real white trash.
So my relationship with Beth was weirdly sexual to begin with, and this Rocky Horror ritual thing became very important to us. I remember we finally got caught one day by my second-grade teacher, Mrs. Murphy, a gangly old Irish lady. I really can't fucking imagine what she thought of two girls hiding out before school in a dark bathroom singing the Rocky Horror Picture Show soundtrack, nor did I even know if she knew what we were listening to, but she very sternly told us to get out of the school and never come back in early like that.
After that I started to like to spend a lot of time in the bathroom at school. I figured out how to climb around the stalls and spy on people peeing when they didn't notice, and mostly I attributed it to the fact that I liked to climb, and the bathroom was fun. The school had one of those cheap panel ceilings like most institutions do, where you can push the panels up and they're made of this crappy cardboard stuff. One day I noticed that one panel was slightly broken, and I climbed up by the ceiling and started pushing it up and down and moving it. I entertained the idea of going up into the ceiling, but I pussied out...that time.
Later I pushed the panel all the way over and decided I'd do it. I'd go up into the ceiling and climb around and see where I ended up. I was a very skinny kid, so I figured it would support me, if my dream was not interrupted by some stupid tattle-tale bitch who I guess was taking a pee at the time and I did not notice her leaving. But I did notice when some fat ape of a woman teacher came in yelling at me to get out of the ceiling. I thought maybe I could run, in the ceiling, and not get caught. I could escape. But I was used to listening to adults so I came down. Right when I was so close to what I wanted to do.
They took me to the principal's office for this, and I had never gotten into any trouble (at this point) so it was really weird for me. The principal asked me weird questions about whether I wanted to escape something and about whether I was being abused at home, and what would make me want to go up there.
At the time, I figured it was just because I liked to climb and was curious.
Oh, yeah: The school authorities also got the obviously pedophile janitor to come in and yell at me about the damage I caused to the ceiling. He really screamed for a long time. I'm sure he totally got off on it. He never got to yell at any of the kids. I think he was living out his fantasy. Fucking perverted janitors. Who would get that job unless he was a pervert?
Anyway, I thought at the time I just liked climbing and that's why I went in the ceiling, but when this all popped into my head the other day I think the principal may have been right. Maybe I was trying to get away from something.
Whenever people asked when I was a kid what I wanted to be when I grew up, I could never think of anything to say. I saw One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest when I was about eight, and I saw Jack Nicholson get a lobotomy. After that, I decided I always wanted a lobotomy. My home life was so bad. I never wanted to get married. That seemed terrible! I would always say I wanted a lobotomy when I grew up. That would freak people out. Except my father, he loved it, because of his sense of humor.
I think back to sneaking into school every morning with my incestuous best friend and secretly listening to the Rocky Horror soundtrack and then trying to run away into the ceiling and I realize I've always been like this. I always wanted to escape in some way but I didn't know how. I still do, and I still don't know how.
My small bedroom with walls covered in clown paintings and a floor littered with Dunkin Donuts cups and cigarette butts and the TV constantly blaring serves as an escape for me now. I spend progressively more and more time in there. I'm positive I'm becoming agoraphobic. It's an escape from all these fat know-it-alls, and all the creeps that troll around me and hit on me, people that follow me and suck the life out of me, as well as my mother's constant nagging and my father's endless talk about death.
My room is also my respite from disgusting bar life, noise music, roaches, decay, daily dealings with mental degenerates, etc. etc. etc. ad nauseam. It seems to never end. I don't know why this all hit me recently but I think it's important for some reason.
I wish now that I could try to climb into one of those cheap panel ceilings, just because now I'm adult and I know if I were caught people would think I was crazy, but I wouldn't care.
The other day I was in Dunkin Donuts for my daily visit, and this little girl started talking to me. I talked back to her. She was cute. Then she turned to her mom and said, "Mom everyone is so nice, I love everyone!"
I almost started crying.
Then I said goodbye to her and started walking to the door, and she asked her mom if she could come give me a hug and before her mom gave her an answer she came up and hugged me. It was really weird.
Now I'm not going to go all Michael Jackson and talk about how children are so beautiful and innocent, but it was a sweet moment. I wish there were more like that.
At the very least, I wish I had more moments like I used to have with Beth listening to the radio in the dark, or swimming in her pool and watching her shit in her hands and throw it over the side. Those are the moments that make life worth living and make me not want to hide all the time.
When I was about seven years old, my mom rented The Rocky Horror Picture Show for me to watch. After I saw it, I became obsessed (I am only okay to admit this because I was ONLY seven; I wasn't some high school or older theater geek. I HATE Rocky Horror fanatics).
I got the soundtrack, memorized it, memorized the whole movie, and then my mom took me to see the movie in the theater on Halloween, where I remember them having a "FUCK YOU" contest between the two sides of the audience, yelling "fuck you" at each other and trying to get the sides to yell the loudest. I, of course, could not participate because I was with my mom, but she was mortified that she brought me there and blames this experience in my youth for how mixed-up and insane I am today.
Soon thereafter I got my best friend Beth into Rocky Horror. And we used to get to school early and sneak into the bathroom, when all the lights were turned off, and I had this little Fisher-Price tape player and we'd listen to the songs over and over, alone in the really dark bathroom and sing along to them, softly, so we wouldn't get caught.
Thinking back on this, it was such a bizarre thing to do. And it didn't happen just one time. It became a ritual. We knew where and how to get in like 45 minutes early and we'd never miss a morning doing this. Then somehow it became a weirdly sexual experience. I mean we'd never touch or anything, but it was undeniable to both of us that it was.
Well, it does have to be argued that we were rather intimate friends. Beth would have her cousins come over while we'd pretend we were prostitutes and her cousins would give us back massages and stuff until I thought it was getting a little weird, but she'd go further with her cousins.
Beth also had a pool in her back yard and enjoyed taking shits into her hand and throwing it over the edge of the pool rather than getting up wet and going to the bathroom. I just threw that in because I really liked that she did that. She was trashy. Later she got fat and turned into real white trash.
So my relationship with Beth was weirdly sexual to begin with, and this Rocky Horror ritual thing became very important to us. I remember we finally got caught one day by my second-grade teacher, Mrs. Murphy, a gangly old Irish lady. I really can't fucking imagine what she thought of two girls hiding out before school in a dark bathroom singing the Rocky Horror Picture Show soundtrack, nor did I even know if she knew what we were listening to, but she very sternly told us to get out of the school and never come back in early like that.
After that I started to like to spend a lot of time in the bathroom at school. I figured out how to climb around the stalls and spy on people peeing when they didn't notice, and mostly I attributed it to the fact that I liked to climb, and the bathroom was fun. The school had one of those cheap panel ceilings like most institutions do, where you can push the panels up and they're made of this crappy cardboard stuff. One day I noticed that one panel was slightly broken, and I climbed up by the ceiling and started pushing it up and down and moving it. I entertained the idea of going up into the ceiling, but I pussied out...that time.
Later I pushed the panel all the way over and decided I'd do it. I'd go up into the ceiling and climb around and see where I ended up. I was a very skinny kid, so I figured it would support me, if my dream was not interrupted by some stupid tattle-tale bitch who I guess was taking a pee at the time and I did not notice her leaving. But I did notice when some fat ape of a woman teacher came in yelling at me to get out of the ceiling. I thought maybe I could run, in the ceiling, and not get caught. I could escape. But I was used to listening to adults so I came down. Right when I was so close to what I wanted to do.
They took me to the principal's office for this, and I had never gotten into any trouble (at this point) so it was really weird for me. The principal asked me weird questions about whether I wanted to escape something and about whether I was being abused at home, and what would make me want to go up there.
At the time, I figured it was just because I liked to climb and was curious.
Oh, yeah: The school authorities also got the obviously pedophile janitor to come in and yell at me about the damage I caused to the ceiling. He really screamed for a long time. I'm sure he totally got off on it. He never got to yell at any of the kids. I think he was living out his fantasy. Fucking perverted janitors. Who would get that job unless he was a pervert?
Anyway, I thought at the time I just liked climbing and that's why I went in the ceiling, but when this all popped into my head the other day I think the principal may have been right. Maybe I was trying to get away from something.
Whenever people asked when I was a kid what I wanted to be when I grew up, I could never think of anything to say. I saw One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest when I was about eight, and I saw Jack Nicholson get a lobotomy. After that, I decided I always wanted a lobotomy. My home life was so bad. I never wanted to get married. That seemed terrible! I would always say I wanted a lobotomy when I grew up. That would freak people out. Except my father, he loved it, because of his sense of humor.
I think back to sneaking into school every morning with my incestuous best friend and secretly listening to the Rocky Horror soundtrack and then trying to run away into the ceiling and I realize I've always been like this. I always wanted to escape in some way but I didn't know how. I still do, and I still don't know how.
My small bedroom with walls covered in clown paintings and a floor littered with Dunkin Donuts cups and cigarette butts and the TV constantly blaring serves as an escape for me now. I spend progressively more and more time in there. I'm positive I'm becoming agoraphobic. It's an escape from all these fat know-it-alls, and all the creeps that troll around me and hit on me, people that follow me and suck the life out of me, as well as my mother's constant nagging and my father's endless talk about death.
My room is also my respite from disgusting bar life, noise music, roaches, decay, daily dealings with mental degenerates, etc. etc. etc. ad nauseam. It seems to never end. I don't know why this all hit me recently but I think it's important for some reason.
I wish now that I could try to climb into one of those cheap panel ceilings, just because now I'm adult and I know if I were caught people would think I was crazy, but I wouldn't care.
The other day I was in Dunkin Donuts for my daily visit, and this little girl started talking to me. I talked back to her. She was cute. Then she turned to her mom and said, "Mom everyone is so nice, I love everyone!"
I almost started crying.
Then I said goodbye to her and started walking to the door, and she asked her mom if she could come give me a hug and before her mom gave her an answer she came up and hugged me. It was really weird.
Now I'm not going to go all Michael Jackson and talk about how children are so beautiful and innocent, but it was a sweet moment. I wish there were more like that.
At the very least, I wish I had more moments like I used to have with Beth listening to the radio in the dark, or swimming in her pool and watching her shit in her hands and throw it over the side. Those are the moments that make life worth living and make me not want to hide all the time.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
69 Reasons Why I Should Have Been Aborted
Valerie Solanas has long served me as an inspiration. She may be most famous for shooting Andy Warhol, but she was also a great writer. Her best known work is The SCUM Manifesto.
SCUM stands for "Society for Cutting Up Men".
If a man wants to join the men's auxiliary version of SCUM, he must take an oath. The oath starts with "I am a turd. I am a lowly abject turd. And these are the reasons why I should have been aborted . . . "
I thought it would be both therapeutic and interesting to do this for myself, so I have written 69 reasons why I should have been aborted. I hope you enjoy them. I also recommend this exercise to everyone. It's fun!
For parents, it's a good exercise to have your children do. Have them write down 50 reasons why mommy and daddy should have turned them into a big bloody miscarriage. There I go getting gross again. One of my many flaws. I hope you enjoy.
I am a turd. I am a lowly abject turd. And these are the reasons why I should have been aborted:
1. My house is a shitpile.
2. My boyfriend is a gay pussy turd.
3. My toilet doesn't flush.
4. I have genital warts.
5. I am a coward.
6. I cannot remember things.
7. I forget to wear socks (even in the winter).
8. I did not get an oil change on my car for two years and almost destroyed the engine.
9. I forget people's birthdays.
10. I lose things.
11. I spill drinks a lot.
12. I have bad eating habits and table manners.
13. One of my teeth is half black due to the fact that my orthodontist fucked up, so I guess it's really not my fault.
14. I have killed many times. Mostly cockroaches.
15. I spend large amounts of time performing rituals for my obsessive compulsive disorder (e.g., touching walls, turning lights on and off, counting, and too many others to list).
16. I have not yet been on a reality show.
17. I have had sexual intercourse with some of the most rotten, disgusting trolls that Mother Nature has ever birthed out of her large, bloody pussy.
18. I have bad body odor (although I like it, so I don't wear deodorant).
19. I seem to be constantly living in "bad" situations.
20. People have told me I am delusional or paranoid; although I must disagree with them because I justify all of my paranoia.
21. I can get pregnant.
22. My mother already had an abortion before me, about 20 years before I was born. She was young and the baby was half black; if he was aborted, so should I have been.
23. I don't respect my father as much as I used to.
24. I can't stop making fun of fat people.
25. I flush my tampons down the toilet, and it gets clogged.
26. I don't shave my legs.
27. Sometimes I'm too lazy to buy tampons so I use toilet paper, or sometimes just drip. (But not PEE! I never drip pee!)
28. I am obsessed with reality shows.
29. I am dirty, physically and mentally.
30. I'm not sure about the way I feel about religion.
31. I say mean things.
32. I am very lazy.
33. I sleep a lot.
34. I wish I could get a man pregnant and then leave him to deal with the baby.
35. I use the guy down the street to fix my car for free, then I promise to go out to dinner with him and I never do.
36. I have randomly sent nude photos to men on death row (although I don't think this is bad, most people might).
37. I screen all of my phone calls.
38. I have not talked to my dying father in five months. Especially on those really cold days when you’re supposed to be checking on the elderly. He could be dead right now, I don't know.
39. I need to wash my hair.
40. I am only attracted to men who have severe substance-abuse problems (again, I don't think this is a problem, but others do).
41. I wish I knew better revenge tactics.
42. I don't know how to fight.
43. I don't own a gun.
44. I am not as good at mind control as I should be by now.
45. I am not as famous as I should be by now.
46. I can't figure out when will be the proper time for me to die so as to preserve my reputation and be remembered for the longest amount of time.
47. I am bad at eBay.
48. I have not yet captured Lara Flynn Boyle, tied her down, and broken every one of her skinny little limbs, and then cut her little breasts off and sent her to the hospital.
49. I cannot trust anyone (although I think this is a good thing).
50. I cannot do my own taxes.
51. I have terrible credit.
52. I keep getting parking tickets for parking more than ten inches from the curb. You'd think I'd learn by now!
53. I can't pee standing up.
54. I lie.
55. I steal (not just material things, ideas as well, and anything else).
56. My behavior has been dubbed grotesque and unbearable.
57. I have little to no dignity.
58. I have a fibroid growing inside me.
59. I have too many nightmares.
60. I am "out of control".
61. I dye my hair.
62. I fall asleep with lit cigarettes and burn myself. Luckily I have not yet burnt the house down.
63. There are more but I cannot write them down here.
64. Another secret.
65. Another secret.
66. Another secret.
67. Another secret.
68. Five separate people claim that I have single-handedly ruined their lives.
69. My childhood was not the best, so maybe I would have been better aborted.
SCUM stands for "Society for Cutting Up Men".
If a man wants to join the men's auxiliary version of SCUM, he must take an oath. The oath starts with "I am a turd. I am a lowly abject turd. And these are the reasons why I should have been aborted . . . "
I thought it would be both therapeutic and interesting to do this for myself, so I have written 69 reasons why I should have been aborted. I hope you enjoy them. I also recommend this exercise to everyone. It's fun!
For parents, it's a good exercise to have your children do. Have them write down 50 reasons why mommy and daddy should have turned them into a big bloody miscarriage. There I go getting gross again. One of my many flaws. I hope you enjoy.
I am a turd. I am a lowly abject turd. And these are the reasons why I should have been aborted:
1. My house is a shitpile.
2. My boyfriend is a gay pussy turd.
3. My toilet doesn't flush.
4. I have genital warts.
5. I am a coward.
6. I cannot remember things.
7. I forget to wear socks (even in the winter).
8. I did not get an oil change on my car for two years and almost destroyed the engine.
9. I forget people's birthdays.
10. I lose things.
11. I spill drinks a lot.
12. I have bad eating habits and table manners.
13. One of my teeth is half black due to the fact that my orthodontist fucked up, so I guess it's really not my fault.
14. I have killed many times. Mostly cockroaches.
15. I spend large amounts of time performing rituals for my obsessive compulsive disorder (e.g., touching walls, turning lights on and off, counting, and too many others to list).
16. I have not yet been on a reality show.
17. I have had sexual intercourse with some of the most rotten, disgusting trolls that Mother Nature has ever birthed out of her large, bloody pussy.
18. I have bad body odor (although I like it, so I don't wear deodorant).
19. I seem to be constantly living in "bad" situations.
20. People have told me I am delusional or paranoid; although I must disagree with them because I justify all of my paranoia.
21. I can get pregnant.
22. My mother already had an abortion before me, about 20 years before I was born. She was young and the baby was half black; if he was aborted, so should I have been.
23. I don't respect my father as much as I used to.
24. I can't stop making fun of fat people.
25. I flush my tampons down the toilet, and it gets clogged.
26. I don't shave my legs.
27. Sometimes I'm too lazy to buy tampons so I use toilet paper, or sometimes just drip. (But not PEE! I never drip pee!)
28. I am obsessed with reality shows.
29. I am dirty, physically and mentally.
30. I'm not sure about the way I feel about religion.
31. I say mean things.
32. I am very lazy.
33. I sleep a lot.
34. I wish I could get a man pregnant and then leave him to deal with the baby.
35. I use the guy down the street to fix my car for free, then I promise to go out to dinner with him and I never do.
36. I have randomly sent nude photos to men on death row (although I don't think this is bad, most people might).
37. I screen all of my phone calls.
38. I have not talked to my dying father in five months. Especially on those really cold days when you’re supposed to be checking on the elderly. He could be dead right now, I don't know.
39. I need to wash my hair.
40. I am only attracted to men who have severe substance-abuse problems (again, I don't think this is a problem, but others do).
41. I wish I knew better revenge tactics.
42. I don't know how to fight.
43. I don't own a gun.
44. I am not as good at mind control as I should be by now.
45. I am not as famous as I should be by now.
46. I can't figure out when will be the proper time for me to die so as to preserve my reputation and be remembered for the longest amount of time.
47. I am bad at eBay.
48. I have not yet captured Lara Flynn Boyle, tied her down, and broken every one of her skinny little limbs, and then cut her little breasts off and sent her to the hospital.
49. I cannot trust anyone (although I think this is a good thing).
50. I cannot do my own taxes.
51. I have terrible credit.
52. I keep getting parking tickets for parking more than ten inches from the curb. You'd think I'd learn by now!
53. I can't pee standing up.
54. I lie.
55. I steal (not just material things, ideas as well, and anything else).
56. My behavior has been dubbed grotesque and unbearable.
57. I have little to no dignity.
58. I have a fibroid growing inside me.
59. I have too many nightmares.
60. I am "out of control".
61. I dye my hair.
62. I fall asleep with lit cigarettes and burn myself. Luckily I have not yet burnt the house down.
63. There are more but I cannot write them down here.
64. Another secret.
65. Another secret.
66. Another secret.
67. Another secret.
68. Five separate people claim that I have single-handedly ruined their lives.
69. My childhood was not the best, so maybe I would have been better aborted.
Tuesday, May 9, 2006
Dirty Words
The Nazis were horrible and all, but how could a person really hate them?
I was watching this program on the History Channel today about the different crazy weapons of destruction that were made by them. The most impressive was this one that consisted of two speakers that let out so much noise that the pressure from the sound would extend a full half mile and destroy anything in its path.
The resulting force was equivalent to what you would feel if you were 10,000 feet under water. You blow yourself to smithereens. It was amazing. Another cool Nazi weapon was a gun that shot around corners. There were so many more.
They had such amazing engineers, those Nazis, that it's a shame that they used so many of them to kill all those Jews. My father, of course, has always insisted there weren't even six million Jews on the entire planet during World War II, so therefore the Holocaust could not possibly have happened. I don't know. I was not there. The photos are sexy. But I tend to think that the Holocaust happened.
As for the rest of Nazi lore, I just like the weapons. I have nothing against Jews, except for the guy I'm dating and his mean hippie parents.
This brings me into what I actually want to sound off about. My main job is working with homeless and "at risk" youth. That means sex workers, drug addicts, homeless people, hungry people, fat people, trans people, gay people, et cetera.
It's a nonprofit organization, and we have recently opened a "drop-in," which is a place where all these degenerates can hang out, and the degenerate who's writing this has to regulate shit on Fridays.
For months, we had no problems there and we have every type of youth in the world coming there. It's really a utopia, almost. People who would be called "ghetto" can be seen hanging out with loud trannies, which you would never see on the streets, and then chatting with artsy drug-addict hipsters and the others. Get this: They all even agree on movies and television shows. The O.C. seems to be the popular one that surpasses age, race, gender, sexual orientation, and everything else . . . go figure. So anyway, everything was going along well.
Until the language police barged in and busted up everybody's good time.
One of my genius roommates, who also has the same working position as I do, decided to go to an event highly populated by trans, gays, "people of color" etc. and sing a song that had the word "nigger" in it about thirty times.
I was just waiting for him to get assaulted, but I was also glad he did it. When it was over though, nothing seemed to happen. No repercussions. Nothing. We thought. This lasted for about a week. Then the shit started hitting the fucking fan.
Now we are no longer able to say anything. AT ALL. EVERYTHING IS REGULATED. We are now going to be a "SAFE SPACE" where you cannot say even the most miniscule word that could be taken the wrong way.
Most people would come to the conclusion then that you wouldn't be stupid and use the hot-button key words, like nigger, faggot, whore, he-she, honky, half-breed, lardo, cripple, bugaboo, mr. bojangles, loonie, junkie, sheenie, beaner, sand nigger, ho, dyke, etc. (Jesus, I love writing those down).
Anyone with sense would avoid those words, but recently someone said they got "gypped" and was reprimanded. You know why? Because the word "gypped" is derived from the word "Gypsy," and that could hurt the feelings of those who tell fortunes and wear lots of jewelry and steal things.
More recently I mentioned that I felt like I was "going crazy." I got jumped on and asked what the word "crazy" means to me and don't I think that someone could be offended by that and what was wrong with me etc. It's sick. I can't say anything anymore.
The Powers That Be keep repeating, "We don't want anyone walking on eggshells." I'm afraid to open my mouth anymore. It's impossible to even say anything that may not be taken as offensive.
This is ruining everything that we stood for in the first place. These kids who are homeless, sex worker, drug addicts have a lot more to worry about than if they use a certain fucking word and make someone "sad".
More importantly, the only person concerned with language is a "feminist" who is responsible for all these regulations. One funny aspect is that, as a woman, I am allowed to say and write whore, junkie, and anything I want about rape, very graphically, but since I'm a honky, I can't write or say anything about people of color or anything else.
I'm also not allowed to talk about fatties, because I'm not fat. FAT is one of my favorite words! I say it all the time. I'm going through withdrawal by not being able to call my roommates fat at work. This shit makes me sick. I think I am going to become a fat gay transexual black Arab who whores out my body and is mentally ill and crippled and, of course, a woman. Then I'll be able to say whatever the fuck I want.
Crap like this is why I do not like being equated with the feminists. There were plenty of feminist geniuses, but the feminists are also the first ones to outlaw porn. It's sick and dangerous. Some feminists are more dangerous than the fucking right-wing conservatives.
I know this is a little more political than I usually write, but I want to point out the danger that can come when people start censoring our words. Regardless of whether they are "liberal" or "right wing," I hate them all. NO ONE has freedom of speech in mind. Everyone's main goal is to shut "the other side" up.
I started this by pointing out how lovable the Nazis were for inventing such great weapons. I really want the sonic blast one. I would round up all feminists, Christians, and anyone else that wants to stop me from saying words like fat, fag, turd, plug, degenerate, junkie, troll, decay-stinking fat-asses, rat-breath cripples, socket face, mental degenerates, sperm stench, cottage cheese cum, prepuce, thick shaft, sand nigger, abuse, plow, slam stroke, slither, wretch, slop, pull one off, pulsing, crawling, gypsy, seeping, tight hard ass, fat monstrosity, shit chewing rat, flea infested garbage dump, cock-sucking crack whore, pedophile waste-case, immense blob, sickening nigger, old tang, clam sauce, half breed, etc. and place them all within a half mile radius and blast "Happy Together" by the Turtles and watch all of their bodies explode into a million pieces from a videocast while I am safe at home.
That would make my day.
I was watching this program on the History Channel today about the different crazy weapons of destruction that were made by them. The most impressive was this one that consisted of two speakers that let out so much noise that the pressure from the sound would extend a full half mile and destroy anything in its path.
The resulting force was equivalent to what you would feel if you were 10,000 feet under water. You blow yourself to smithereens. It was amazing. Another cool Nazi weapon was a gun that shot around corners. There were so many more.
They had such amazing engineers, those Nazis, that it's a shame that they used so many of them to kill all those Jews. My father, of course, has always insisted there weren't even six million Jews on the entire planet during World War II, so therefore the Holocaust could not possibly have happened. I don't know. I was not there. The photos are sexy. But I tend to think that the Holocaust happened.
As for the rest of Nazi lore, I just like the weapons. I have nothing against Jews, except for the guy I'm dating and his mean hippie parents.
This brings me into what I actually want to sound off about. My main job is working with homeless and "at risk" youth. That means sex workers, drug addicts, homeless people, hungry people, fat people, trans people, gay people, et cetera.
It's a nonprofit organization, and we have recently opened a "drop-in," which is a place where all these degenerates can hang out, and the degenerate who's writing this has to regulate shit on Fridays.
For months, we had no problems there and we have every type of youth in the world coming there. It's really a utopia, almost. People who would be called "ghetto" can be seen hanging out with loud trannies, which you would never see on the streets, and then chatting with artsy drug-addict hipsters and the others. Get this: They all even agree on movies and television shows. The O.C. seems to be the popular one that surpasses age, race, gender, sexual orientation, and everything else . . . go figure. So anyway, everything was going along well.
Until the language police barged in and busted up everybody's good time.
One of my genius roommates, who also has the same working position as I do, decided to go to an event highly populated by trans, gays, "people of color" etc. and sing a song that had the word "nigger" in it about thirty times.
I was just waiting for him to get assaulted, but I was also glad he did it. When it was over though, nothing seemed to happen. No repercussions. Nothing. We thought. This lasted for about a week. Then the shit started hitting the fucking fan.
Now we are no longer able to say anything. AT ALL. EVERYTHING IS REGULATED. We are now going to be a "SAFE SPACE" where you cannot say even the most miniscule word that could be taken the wrong way.
Most people would come to the conclusion then that you wouldn't be stupid and use the hot-button key words, like nigger, faggot, whore, he-she, honky, half-breed, lardo, cripple, bugaboo, mr. bojangles, loonie, junkie, sheenie, beaner, sand nigger, ho, dyke, etc. (Jesus, I love writing those down).
Anyone with sense would avoid those words, but recently someone said they got "gypped" and was reprimanded. You know why? Because the word "gypped" is derived from the word "Gypsy," and that could hurt the feelings of those who tell fortunes and wear lots of jewelry and steal things.
More recently I mentioned that I felt like I was "going crazy." I got jumped on and asked what the word "crazy" means to me and don't I think that someone could be offended by that and what was wrong with me etc. It's sick. I can't say anything anymore.
The Powers That Be keep repeating, "We don't want anyone walking on eggshells." I'm afraid to open my mouth anymore. It's impossible to even say anything that may not be taken as offensive.
This is ruining everything that we stood for in the first place. These kids who are homeless, sex worker, drug addicts have a lot more to worry about than if they use a certain fucking word and make someone "sad".
More importantly, the only person concerned with language is a "feminist" who is responsible for all these regulations. One funny aspect is that, as a woman, I am allowed to say and write whore, junkie, and anything I want about rape, very graphically, but since I'm a honky, I can't write or say anything about people of color or anything else.
I'm also not allowed to talk about fatties, because I'm not fat. FAT is one of my favorite words! I say it all the time. I'm going through withdrawal by not being able to call my roommates fat at work. This shit makes me sick. I think I am going to become a fat gay transexual black Arab who whores out my body and is mentally ill and crippled and, of course, a woman. Then I'll be able to say whatever the fuck I want.
Crap like this is why I do not like being equated with the feminists. There were plenty of feminist geniuses, but the feminists are also the first ones to outlaw porn. It's sick and dangerous. Some feminists are more dangerous than the fucking right-wing conservatives.
I know this is a little more political than I usually write, but I want to point out the danger that can come when people start censoring our words. Regardless of whether they are "liberal" or "right wing," I hate them all. NO ONE has freedom of speech in mind. Everyone's main goal is to shut "the other side" up.
I started this by pointing out how lovable the Nazis were for inventing such great weapons. I really want the sonic blast one. I would round up all feminists, Christians, and anyone else that wants to stop me from saying words like fat, fag, turd, plug, degenerate, junkie, troll, decay-stinking fat-asses, rat-breath cripples, socket face, mental degenerates, sperm stench, cottage cheese cum, prepuce, thick shaft, sand nigger, abuse, plow, slam stroke, slither, wretch, slop, pull one off, pulsing, crawling, gypsy, seeping, tight hard ass, fat monstrosity, shit chewing rat, flea infested garbage dump, cock-sucking crack whore, pedophile waste-case, immense blob, sickening nigger, old tang, clam sauce, half breed, etc. and place them all within a half mile radius and blast "Happy Together" by the Turtles and watch all of their bodies explode into a million pieces from a videocast while I am safe at home.
That would make my day.
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