Blech

You think you got a stomach of iron?

I double dog dare you to click on this! Take that!

Muwhahahahaha.

Yet More Nuggets...

Apparently, I am now "bar family". It's nice to belong to something, but being family with the bar people? That's sooooo The Palace of Rock. But there I was, sitting with the owner, and he called me "family". And I got free shots. Now, I have bartenders who get me stools and ashtrays. Oddly enough, after I told them that I am no longer Mr AssHat's "girlfriend". Now I'm a celebrity. They always knew that I paid for the beer. I'm obnoxious occasionally.

But it still hurts.

"Girlfriend". Why did he have such trouble introuducing me as that? It was obvious to his friends, as well as complete strangers. Was I an embarassment? Did he not like me enough? What the hell? Once, he said, it was because he didn't feel we were boyfriend/girlfriend...because we weren't living together. Um, you can still be dating someone, not live with them, and refer to them as your girlfriend. What? Did he think his chances of getting chicks were worse by telling people that he had a "girlfriend"? God, that so annoyed me. Are we not dating? Or what? What do you think it was that we did? Just a distraction? Me, in quotes? Since he wasn't fucking me as often as I wanted, he wasn't a "fuck buddy" or "booty call". Both tems imply that the nasty is going on, on a regular basis, which it clearly was not. So then what was I? Thanks, I think, for eroding my self-esteem to that of a scone. That, if someone beat him over the head with it, he would concede that we were, at least, dating. Well, I'm so sorry I disappointed you. But you know what? That's why you don't get chicks. There's ownership, which is wrong, and then there's honesty, which isn't. Sorry that your definition of "dating" and "girlfriend" are so out of the norm of things that I couldn't possibly live up to that.

And if you ever try to kiss one of my friends again, I will kill you. It not only embarasses me, it embarasses them, and especially so if they're a lesbian. Maybe you're the Maxim guy who thinks that if you follow the tips, you'll score with a lesbian, and therefore will have more points than the other guys. To actual real women, you will be seen as mysigonist. Which, I really think, you are. The girl who left you because a guy convinced her that she was a vampire because he bit her neck? And that you're mad at him and not her as well? What? Do you honestly think we're all that STUPID?

Go on and search for your cow-like girlfriend. You'll be forty before you find the perfect 18 year old, and she grew up Christian conservitive upon that, thereby giving you full reign for whatever "naughtiness" your feebled mind could come up with.

What the fuck did you think I was? I mean that, and I want an answer. What the fuck did you think I was?

Just because I'm at a bar, and I'm "bar family" doesn't make me a drunkard or easily-taken-advantage-of whore. I've got brains. Those are only for the Zombie overlords, and if you're not anywhere near their calibre, then you treat me like a human being, and I know that you have trouble with that. Becuase unless they're you, no one is human. And then you're no better than the zealots.

What, for the love of god, did you expect?

More Nuggets

I did not realize, until that last post, just how much I hated Mr AssHat....

I messaged a friend, practically in tears, over how much I really resented him. I know that the last fight we had was over whether he wanted the "cow-like" girlfriend (hat tip to the angry lesbian over that phrase) he wanted. Because he wants adoring, not mindful. Really, he does. The whole way he shies from the truth about his past, plus his insistance at keeping his distance on conversations really leads me to believe that.

Think about it.

He can't contribute to the conversation, so he delves into his physics. The thing is, would it kill him to listen to someone say something that has absolutely no relevance to his life? In other words, he ignores these things because they don't interest him, but at the same time, he laments about how people don't have more discussions about what interests him. I'm willing to pay attention to someone as long as they pay attention to me. And that's not what Mr. AssHat is about, apparently, despite his defense. He just doesn't get it.

He can't possibly concieve that a girfriend might tear him a new one now because in the first few months of them dating, he couldn't be bothered with that sex thing. Had to pay attention to the computer. Not that I didn't walk into it, but I walked into it going, "If you're not interested in me, my body included, then forget about it" and he told me it really didn't matter when apparently it did. Maybe that's why I was blamed for all of the "bad sex" that we had and hearing the lecture on how I wasn't trying hard enough to get off, which was the point of such intimate encounters. Whereas, being a woman of the 21st Century, I knew that sometimes those things just don't happen. I will never forget being yelled at because I was drunk and in a self-pity mood. I will never forget being yelled at in the middle of having sex. I will never forget that he kicked me in the leg for no real good reason, and he never really showed remorse for it. (Somehow, it was "my fault". If I hadn't been waxing philosphic about abilites I may or may not have, he wouldn't have done that. Yeah, and I didn't get a black eye. I'm not that impressed.) What, on God's green earth, is he thinking that none of these things would ever cause the resentment of years to come bubbling to the surface for me to yell to at?

But I'm the drunk and surly one. Apparently he doesn't remember the times where he was way drunker than me and that I had to deal with him and his temper. It came so close to the "Why don't you just commit suicide then?" comments, that I cried myself to sleep so many times. Did he remember it? Oh, no, and of course, because he was the drunk one, it was supposed to be forgiven.

Hate? That barely scratches the surface. Just once, I would like him to read this or any such rambling. Resentment? So much worse than outright hate.

Grow Up. Become a man. That's my only advice for the prideful waste of space he is. What could you possibly be prideful about? You have nothing....

No Wisdom

Dear Biker Guy At The Bar,

All I have to say is thank you for listening to a lonely woman. Even if you laughed out of embarassment, (which I didn't think you did), you made me smile once (many times), in a bar with friends and a poisionous ex-boyfriend whom I rightly dismissed. My friends, being adults, entertained themselves, and my ex mostly kept to himself. I have victrolic hate for him, but until you came along, I was mistaken that it was for all men and not just him. You, in your one moment of either pity or attraction or boredom, let me see that I can be actually be a person on my own terms and still engange the opposite sex in interesting non-sexual conversation and still have someone either listen to me or pretend to listen to me. Maybe illusion is great, but I would like to think that what I was saying wasn't all that bad or weird. You stayed until last call and didn't run away like you were scared, like so many horrible men I know -- I don't know how old you are, but if you're my age, I really admire that. People younger than me admire other people who are even slightly older than than they are, but still, you didn't indicate that you were going to bolt because I'm a damn liberal and can make funny jokes about the "Religious Nuts". And that I'm Northern born and bred, but can still understand honkey tonk, and don't really care if someone's experiences are so totally different than mine. For you, you may have been bored and in want of conversation with a pretty girl, and instead, you got me. Not that I'm not beautiful, but when a zillion gay guys tell you that, and the two men you've actually dated long term are split on that decision, as a women you may begin to doubt your attractiveness/intelligence in even talking to a random strager. Even if I never I never see you again (which is completely likely), or you never talk to me at that bar again (which, again, is completely likely), I would like it on record that I thank you for restoring just a smidgen of faith in me about men. After all, I have the guys I dated/slept with and The Rude Pundit to compare (the latter of which, from NYTimes review, seemed extrodinarily hot) other guys to, and most men don't live up (or down, depending) to that. By the way, I felt that you were really hot, even though most girls don't go for that Jacket/Headband/Long Hair thing. I'm a sucker for long hair, especially if it's brown in color.

When it all comes down to it, I'm just a girl, looking at a hot guy, and I guess the beer and your hotness is what made me talk to you. That, and the jacket. If I never you see or talk to you again (and I pretty much expect that), I hope you have the life you dream of. But thanks anyway for listening to a liberal girl bitch about the Redneck President. It meant a lot to me. One day, maybe, I'll get to kiss someone as hot as you are, but until then, I will just dream...

Sincerely,
The Infamous Bar Mouse

I Stop and Think

I once was a precocious child, curious and fascinated with life and why people do things. Heaven help my parents for some of the questions I asked must have left them wondering exactly where I picked things up. "So, what does that mean that guy on that movie 'kicked him in the nuts'? And why did Rick react like that." (I think it was before we lived on Downer, the second time. Maybe when we lived in Illiniois? Heh, maybe even when we lived on Maryland, when I was in kindergarten.) "So, what do people mean by 'red light district'?"

Then came third grade, and with it, the incessant teasing that marked my grade school life until about eighth grade. I kept so much hidden within myself. It's so hard to explain the utter pain and hopelessness that occurrs. When I see on the news of a fifth grader committing suicide, I have to cry. I cry for that poor child...and myself. That could have been me. I cry for their parents, who didn't know that it was that bad. Of course, the child probably tried telling them, but not in the most effective way, because he's a child. Heaven knows I tried to tell my parents. They didn't understand. They didn't understand that when the parents looked away, they tourtured me. "Ugly dog...Fat Cow...You're really dumb...Why don't you just go and commit suicide so that we don't have to see you." (Yes. Someone actually did say that last one. It's burned forever in my brain, said to me when I was sitting at lunch.) How do you even fight back? I tried, but when it's 20 to 1, it's rather hard. For all of the hours I spent in my room comtemplating suicide, I didn't want to. But I felt I had to, just to get rid of this enormous pain. I wanted faries or angels to come whisping down from the heavens and help me up, meanwhile bitchslapping the offenders. I wanted to run away. I would oscillate between wanting to kill myself and wanting to kill them. But then -- a really sad fucking cliche, but for me, it's true -- I listened to the word of God. The words of Jesus. How hard it must have been, knowing that you probably would get executed for some stupid reason, and to not just start wielding knives like it's nobody's business. Maybe it isn't true, and the man we know as Jesus could be a criminal condemned or he died a rather unexciting death and it's all just trumped up. But if it's true -- a guy who really wasn't saying anything radical but the teachings among his group had caused a stir among the Romans, a guy accoused of a crime he didn't commit, trumped up charges against him to silent a movement, even leaving out the "died for our sins" stuff -- it's amazing. Somehow, I found the strength to pull myself together. If they wanted me to die, I wouldn't. If I'm so damn worthless, then why did they waste all that time and energy to destroy my soul? That's pretty darn pathetic when you get down to it. Wouldn't you just be fine with ignoring me? Would that not be easier than to expand all of that time and energy to berate me? And suddenly, I started laughing. They were the stupid ones, really. They're doing all this -- for what? What the hell are they trying to accomplish? If they're trying to make themselves look better to prop up their fragile egos, that's not only sad, but laughable. With the billions of people on earth, picking on one kid makes you better? Oh, please, tell me another! By eighth grade, I was done with it. In fact, I was done with the whole thing. Pretty much, just shut the fuck up if you don't have anything of value to say. I didn't -- and most of the time, still don't -- give a shit what people think of me. You can hate me, you can love me, I don't care what you do. I like who I like and I love who I love and I just don't give a shit about the rest. You wanna spread rumors about me? Go right ahead, I don't care. Rumorwhores will spread it around and around, giving a shaky straw prop to their glass ego. Anyone worth a damn won't automatically assume it's true and maybe will ask. Secretly, it actually amuses me what people will come up with. Man, if my life was as interesting as the rumors about my activities....

People always say, "Oh, it looks like you've lost weight." "Thanks," I reply, smiling. Why? 'Cause I don't give a shit. Maybe I have. Maybe I haven't. If I do, well then, that's fine. Only I know the answer to that one, and you know what? It's no one's fucking business. If I loose weight, it's only for me...and me alone. I am already beautiful, in all of my fatty glory. If I choose to loose weight, well, I do it for me and not some preconcieved notion that the world will be handed to me on a silver platter because I'm thin. I am beautiful because I'm a thinking, feeling human being. And if you don't like me being fat, well, Fuck Off. Like I say, I don't give a shit (let alone two) what you think. You're just a person, over there, who doesn't know me and refuses to see unmanufactured beauty in its own right. You don't have to look at me. If you can't stop staring at me because I'm fat, the problem is not me. It's you. So just shut the fuck up. Like short jokes. I know I'm fat and I know I'm short. And yes, I have heard every possible fat and short joke and insult that your feeble mind could possibly come up with. Like working at the flower building. Do you honestly think that I haven't heard the "Do you have any cannabis displayed?" joke before that idocy fell from your lips? Ha. Ha. It not that I don't laugh because I don't like you; I don't laugh because I don't find it funny, and really, am not about to laugh at something that I don't find funny because you embarassed me or thought that it was a good joke. I don't want to encourage you to tell another, although that never stops you. And I don't care if you think I'm an angry bull dyke bitch for...well, anything really. Because I don't care what you think about me. And my weight? It seems as if the standard greeting among certain parties is "It looks like you lost weight." You know what? I don't care. I'm not friends with hunks of muscles and fat stiched onto a skeleton with ligiments. I'm friends with the one muscle on which I judge most people: the brain.

The rest is just window dressing.

Interesting.

Read this post about Men vs The American Evil Feminist Influence.

I remember, having a discussion with Mr AssHat. One of the things he didn't like about me was that I am overweight. Oh, that didn't take away from the respect he had for my mind [insert a loud, resounding HA! here]. Oh, and he didn't like a post somewhere because the post pretty much talked about all of the mysigonistic characteristics of the Men Who Like Asian Women. Because, you know, he likes the Asian Woman. She's short, thin, and smart. But the whole smart thing, that Asians are smarter (or more math and science geared) than Americans, is a myth, too. Given that I've dated him, I also think the "won't challenge my brilliance and will put up my ridiculous shit" part appeals to him as well. Women are women, fer chrissakes. Some of us will give men blow jobs just so we have a crack at freedom (or just crack, but that's a whole 'nother story...). Others just won't put up with your shit. Women are women everywhere, and don't think that just because it's on the other side, that the grass is any greener (or if you're creepy, nonexistant). Women in Nigeria threatened to shame a company and the men by stripping...women demand respect for their rights the world over. Our message: We got what you want, and don't FUCK with us, motherfucker, and we know you are. We talked to her. How long would any patricarchial system last if every single woman in the world refused that seemingly basic desire? What if we, even in our horniest moments, refused to give out what some men so desperately seek? What if every single one of us carried a sign that read, "We Won't Put Up With Your Shit".

What does it take to get every single man on earth to realize that we are fucking people, too? Not the good ones, who know that we are, who are forced to raise their voices to defend us because other men won't listen to us. I want a world where these guys don't have to do that, where I can express an opinion without another person calling me an "angry lesbian", and that the guys who get it don't get called "pussies".

What does it fucking take?

Missive

I read and I see the ramblings of people whose depth is only skin deep. I envy how one can just skate through life, periodically and shallowly touching upon that brief idea that maybe life isn't their happy story, and Oh! to be happy! before they slowly slide back into their ignorant bliss. What shallowness for mind must release them from the tribulations of their morality! Would I not want to be blessed with such graceful and effortless shallow? That Love is simply silly things, a random occurance of touch and smiles? How I envy the shallow! For Love's sweet breath touched me but once, kissed lightly my cheek, a fair fairy with the kiss of a butterfly, with breathless wonder and I saw in that moment our lives forever intertwined, her smile showing the future of my indended and I. Try as I might, the fairy has not returned to bestow her blessing upon me, my heart heavy and my soul torn asunder. But to be shallow and never have recieved a visit from the fair fairy? Oh, such bliss! To remain ignorant of a real love that takes roots in the heart but transcends time. Such bliss to leave my dignity and identity at the threshold of the house, all for the sake of a shred of comfort that one would give me, the shred of comfort that I will not allow myself. It would be nice to walk the Earth in shallow, to roam the countryside without thought nor care of my personal being, to give up that which is solely me, so that I may have what all others want. Yes, to be shallow in love and life, to appease myself and my conscience. Alas, my heart has been torn, and now I must deal with just the reminants of love, reaching for tatters of hopefulness among the cloths of despair. If only I were graced enough to be shallow. ...