Kylie Jenner - The Real Issue Behind The Wheelchair ***NSFW***

Everyone is freaking out about this Kylie Jenner Interview photo-shoot, from Tuesday.  The most outrage being generated that an able-bodied Kylie was posed in a wheelchair for the magazine cover.  

What is disturbingly lost in the echo of outrage is that all of these photos were designed to be risqué and blatantly objectify women.  Kylie Jenner wasn't posed in a wheelchair as a spoof on people that use wheelchairs, she was placed in a wheelchair because she's being portrayed as a sex doll - NOT handicapped.  

Don't believe it?  Well take a gander at other pictures pulled off the internet that are two to four years old of a creepy ass dude pushing his sex doll around in public on a 'date' at the zoo:

Pulled from Reddit.

Bystanders in disbelief snapped these candid shots. 

Since all three of these photos are of the same guy from different years, he obviously thinks this normal to do. 

There's even creepy ass dudes in wheelchairs that totally dig sex dolls!  This guy put one on his lap and took her to Wal*Mart:

If that's his grandson...

Then there's a guy in the background of this sex toy symposium that's in a wheelchair:

Can you spot him? He's right above Andy Campbell's name, lower right corner.

So what's more disturbing?--an able-bodied young lady being photographed to look like a sex doll or a handicapped man riding around in public with his fuck toy?  The correct answer girls and girls, is the disabled creeper taking his cum dumpster for a...'stroll'.  You dig?

Because this shit is a *thing*.  Look:

Every single 'woman' in this shot is a fuck doll.  These men are reinforcing their abnormal behavior as normal when they meet in 'support' groups like this.  Or shop together and touch the artificial skin:

This doll is produced by TrueCompanion - she's called Roxxxy and costs approximately $6,995.00, you can order her off their website and choose from about 30 different hair styles and about 40 different hair colors.  Her makeup can be customized, including the thickness of her eyeliner. RoxxxyGold is TrueCompanion's premiere full size sex robot (which means she comes with arms and legs). RoxxxyGold can hear when spoken to and she does not just do "sexy talk".  She can listen, talk, carry on a conversation and feel touch as well as move her private areas inside all three of her anatomically correct holes.  She can orgasm!  RoxxxyGold is A.I.!  She has a "personality" but in addition to her base personality, RoxxxyGold comes with these additional preprogrammed personalities:

· Frigid Farrah – reserved and shy (aka rape victim) 

· Wild Wendy – outgoing and adventurous (aka slut)

· S&M Susan – ready to provide pain/pleasure fantasies (aka sex slave)

· Young Yoko – oh so young (barely 18) and waiting to be taught sexual explorations (aka underage virgin) 

· Mature Martha – sexually experienced and can teach the men a thing or two (aka MILF)

New personalities can be created out of the pre-existing A.I. Sickly the site boasts:

 "Share your girlfriends with your friends by swapping them back and forth online! For example, you lend your custom built girlfriend “Sexy Sally” to one of your friends online – but he can only “use” her until Sunday morning and then she needs to be returned to you! Until Sunday morning, he can “engage” your girlfriend by using your Sexy Susan personality with his Roxxxy sex robot! You also have the option of sharing your girlfriends with everyone in our forum if you would like. You will also have access to everyone else’s girlfriends, if they allow them to be shared!  This is the same as wife or girlfriend swapping without any of the social issues or sexual disease related concerns!"

I guess the social issues these fucking pervs are referring to is consent and self-respect, love, monogamy and having a real actual personality and soul???!!! 

Roxxxy also has a heartbeat and a circulatory system! The circulatory system helps heat the inside of her body.

So the wheelchair is a gimmick?  A potshot on the disabled?  Honeychilde, I really don't think so and it's because I really do think.

SHE IS SUPPOSED TO BE A SEX DOLL, that's the real outrage!

She's in a wheelchair because sex dolls can't walk--yet--so they get rolled around, because they really do get rolled around, in a chair that has wheels because that is how creepy dudes move their fuck toys around in public or just from place to place.  Probably because if a life like woman was being carried around someone would call the police, hopefully.

The indignation isn't that real women are being objectified (the process of becoming an object) but that objects are now becoming "real" women.  Think back to the original Stepford Wives, or in Soylent Green how kept mistresses were called "furniture" - even think of the recent film Ex Machina.

Is the perfect face truly airbrushed and lifeless?  

Please, read this excellent article by the fabulous Chris Hedges on how porn is the capitalistic perversion of love.  I saw an interview on him once, and he commented on how women nowadays in order to be found sexually desirable have to resemble a corpse, a face void of emotion and personality, crop-dusted with makeup.   

That's the true offense.  Even models complaining about how they can't get gigs because they're in a wheelchair on Twitter...it's not a dis on the fact they're in a wheelchair, it's a dis on them not being the epitome of the ideal woman.  It's all about looks, it's all very shallow.  It's all extremely disturbing.

She's chapping your ass for all the wrong reasons.

ALL of the Kylie Jenner Interview pictures are super disturbing but people are primarily upset she's in a wheelchair?  Seriously?!  Clearly the bigger issue is she's literally styled and shot to look like an inanimate sex doll?

I personally found the photo where her hands were in high heels the most disturbing and offensive:

This is like fetish occult S&M porn!  The biggest message conveyed by these images is that women are handicapped and are only empowered through sex, it shows that women have to be modeled, molded, and manipulated by men, to the extreme degree where men want sex dolls to fuck.  All of these photos are so intensely insulting to ALL women, whether they're in a wheelchair or not.

Kylie Jenner's literally a serving waitress in a few shots, the whole thing reinforces that women are only good for their looks, sex, and servitude to men.  It isn't making fun of handicap people, it's making fun of women, implying we're disabled in some way and are unable to fully take care of ourselves so men have to carry us and literally push us around.

The Big Turkey - (poem)

The best of the worst,
thickly or thinly,
in last you're first,
gruesome grimly,
grimy & slimy,
lackluster shiny
I finally
state so blatantly,
             so calmly_____


     She'd go to a funeral, but not a wedding.
I'm an Impact, she's more of a Wing-Ding.
     She all Sing Sing, I'm all bling-bling,
I'm a Ring Ding, she a Ding Dong.
     I'm Koko, she's just King Kong.

But hey, we might be, a double wrong...

Nawh!--we rightly don't get along.

From Bike Face To Breast Cancer - The Psychological War On Women

I can't give you an exact date, the slow, painful, and still in process emancipation of the American female hasn't been adequately documented by the patriarchy.  That should really come as no surprise to anyone.  In the hashtag zeitgeist of "black lives matter", "all lives matter", "not all men", "yes all women" it can be daunting to the intellect and mournful to the soul, that even though our society is having truly passionate discourses in the only public domain we have left, "all female lives matter" is somehow slipping through the cracks.  Our story isn't told, it isn't elaborated on, the youth aren't rallied to fight against male oppression - let alone question it, the youth are taught stripping, makeup, and promiscuity is emancipation - it is so not; abortion clinics are getting shut down all over this country, Planned Parenthood is painted villainous, in media the Bechtel Test is rarely passed let alone a realized concept, The Smurffete Principle is still too often found.  This is not merely a world of men composed of men designed for men where women are reduced to maids, mothers, whores, and sex slaves continuously.      

So as such, since this world has dribbled on in its pre-cum myopic manner deluding itself of possessing rationalization and equity, somewhere around the 1890s chicks started riding bicycles and holy shit, did all the dudes freak the fuck out.  

That hat is awful.

 

The menfolk at the time were terrified of female autonomy. Freedom of movement.  Ladies began venturing out on their own.  The bike seat and road bumps were perhaps stimulating our clits, so worst of all, women were potentially experiencing sexual arousal independent of a man.  Bikes were the original vibrator. It also inspired change of dress for females, most likely due to design functionality but men took it as an officious affront. 

Because we started wearing pants. In what was supposed to be a man's game.            

The backlash against women for wearing pants and venturing outside the home by their own design and vehicle resulted in PSAs starting around 1895 in various publications cautioning women of the dreaded 'Bike Face' they would inevitably suffer from, making them bulging eyed hags. Unlovable and unwanted by men everywhere.

This episode of QI XL summarizes the Bike Face propaganda nicely at minute markers 17:02-21:35 and is, unfortunately, also a great example of The Smurffete Principle in action:

     

It's absolutely fascinating to know that women have been wearing pants for only about roughly 120 years, 12 decades, and that the impetus for women's liberation was the bicycle.      

Men may have invented the wheel, but women rode those wheels to their destiny.  

And the response to it...was BIKE FACE!  The male ego appeals to the female vanity to bend it to their whims, to this very day.  The patriarchy completely contributes to the foundation of female vanity which for women get repackaged as beauty, health, fashion, interior design.  There is a War On Women, a lot of it is psychological warfare.  That needs to be recognized and reckoned with.

Today women are harassed with all sorts of bogus bullshit propaganda, telling them what they should look like and aspire to be.  Thinking the best of us are the ones that manage to act like men.  But that's not true.  Females are left disembodied, disenfranchised, discarded, disregarded.  Continuously.  Almost internationally.  The human female has not been allowed to self-actualize because she's reared in the misogyny of men.  In that dysfunctional atmosphere, she learns to self-loathe and serial rapists are permitted to continue on their way to serial sexual killers aka serial killers.  It creates a market for porn where the female fantasy is hardly ever represented.  In which you get reduced to fetishistic orifices and focused hatred.  In the world of porn, nobody's really making love.        

But I digress. 

Females are told today that they have to have their pseudo-periods while on birth-control, are kept blissfully ignorant of continuous cycle and that male birth-control is a denied option.  Females are told today that abortion will give them breast cancer and infertility--both of which are not true.  Females today are taught that they better learn to suck a dick and take it up the ass if they want to keep their man, which is disturbing.  (Learn how to suck a clit and not maul a breast if you want to keep your woman).  But these physic threats against women, they are all in the same category of Bike Face.

It wasn't until just recently that masses of women started to know--as well as question why--that numerous photographs and adverts contain PhotoShopped imagery.  Literally creating unreal standards of sexiness and beauty.

  

These things that happen to us collectively as women, are done by those that have no true knowledge as to what the human female experience actually is.  Many young women today, once their hearts are broken, when they are walked out on, stuck caring for an unwanted child, when they get denied basic reproductive rights, and most, merely when they start to age, they slowly begin to seethe over the unspoken but blatant differences between mankind and womankind.  It's laughable when men state women rule the world, like this whole awful mess we're in is solely our faults, dudes, you've made it abundantly clear that when we stop being cute and fuckable, we're completely discounted.  Usually labeled crazy.  Laughed at behind our backs for our wrinkles and back-boob.

Once you realize the true surplus of violence is man against woman, typically men known and loved by them..

Just gets overwhelming sometimes.

But this fear of allowing women control over their reproductive rights, especially under the useless guise of religion that by default worships a patriarchal god, has less to do with what defines personhood and more to do with female autonomy.  This is about excursion of will. When a lady finds herself unintentionally pregnant, that's not an act of god, what it is, is a very expensive life-changing accident, one that could give her a pregnancy induced disease, she could birth a defective child, only adding to her burden, guilt, and expenses; her partner may not be a provider and her family may not support her.  She may even be poor or underage.  When a lady gets an abortion, she's not a murderer, she's a damned realist, that's what she is.  That is the single most sane thing a woman in dire straits could do.  Section 8 Housing is not a luxurious lifestyle.  The bravery involved to atone for a mistake is nothing for anyone to judge, it is a private singular conversation.  The mistake is not avoiding motherhood, the mistake is motherhood for some women and they should be allowed to express that freely.  To choose to self-actualize, should not be a crime or a sin. They free themselves from the shackles of their genitals.

Maybe start distributing male birth control as free and mandatory unilaterally?--and then shut the fuck up about abortions so we can move on and finally progress as a real society?--can we do that now?  May we please do that finally?

Do you know how fucked up everything is right now anyways?--why bring a baby into it, if you legit don't want to.  And to hammer it into people pure lies, meanwhile sex sells everything from hamburgers to wine, like fucking get over being brutes already.  Seriously.

You want a better society?--stop protesting in front of abortion clinics and go do some real productive shit mothah' fuckah'.

Since this all just descended into an unstructured rant, I just want to touch upon in conclusion, how fucked up it is that so many women disappointingly embrace makeup and interior design.  Guilty of this myself, I still know that symbolically that small allowance of influence limited to the face and living-room is a big fuck you to our intelligence level ladies.  Your mind is in a box that you're allowed to decorate.

Call me Pandora.             

"Daddy Issues" Episode #2 - The Cold Case of the Comic Book

Just got done reading Nancy Kilgore's book 'Girl in the Water', it's about sibling abuse.  Her sister Sherry sounded awful and so many parallels were present between them that were present between my father and I it was a discomforting comfort.  

Someone once told me to read 'A Child Called It', I did and it struck me as a very insincere memoir.  I didn't identify with that person in the manner I did with Nancy Kilgore (excluding her descent into insane-o fairyland) and unlike Nancy, I did ultimately assert myself and stood up to my father.  But I did that about 12 years too late.

I don't recall being molested.  I know I had a real fear that it could happen, mainly because of my mother.  Her angle in the divorce proceedings was the--false--accusation of child molestation against my father.  But you can't really blame my mother for thinking the way she was, quite frankly, there was some compelling circumstantial evidence.  And he did practice what's called "covert incest" very regularly.  That's not what I want to write about today though you pervs.

Even now my abdomen feels bloated and achy, almost like a period cramp.  I don't get periods anymore.  I do what is called "continuous cycle" because that week of shedding on birth control is completely unnecessary.  I am a woman and I don't want a baby nor do I want my period, so I take the required steps to ensure this will transpire for me.  When I was younger, I used to believe that that's all life really was, was taking required steps.  Filling out documents, turning them in in a timely fashion, a linear process of paperwork.  I learned about bureaucracies at a far too early age.  I also learned about how the callousness and inefficiency of others involved in a process that seems to ultimately be completely out of your control can screw up all your well plotted paperclips and reasons for endeavoring to advance in a system that specifically creates stagnated suffering, it doesn't alleviate it.  I learned that at an age too young as well, despite learning this I've continued to plod along in a system that I know is abusive, broken, and inept, hoping somehow it'll change one day.

I think of the US Government, the reining oligarchy, the corporate lobbyists acting in a confused collision killing us all very softly every day.  And I know that hope, it's like a small precious flower, maybe like the rose in 'Beauty and the Beast', you hope for freedom, for sanity, for fresh air (literally), you hope for sunshine and glad winds, you hope for peace, health, and prosperity for all, not just for a mere few.  You hope various technologies will liberate us from tyranny and bureaucracy.  But it's been a slow sad change.

I could go on but I am limited on time and am getting grossly off topic.           

What I'm trying to say is that our system, The System, is exactly like an abusive authority figure.  We're born into it like hapless children (literally) and get our minds turned into creamed corn, some of us are so abused--they fail to even recognize what is happening--as being immoral, unethical, unconscionable, evil.  While these corporate vampires get our money, our blood, our health, we get problems, and all we have to combat those life problems sometimes is prayer, wishes, and hope.  We all have all kinds of problems but The System, instead of acting preemptively and with ownership consistently blames us for our own problems.  For instance: poverty, homelessness, domestic violence, childcare, healthcare, those are our own problems to navigate blindly through, not unlike a neglected child that doesn't know how to operate a stove and is reduced to eating cold bologna.  Your problems are your own problems because I assure you, nobody is going to help you out of the goodness of their heart anymore.  I feel like I'm in a warped world, surrounded by fun-house mirrors that stretch reality, it gets stretched so much, there's no more measure on what real reality is anymore.  The elders know what I'm talking about and the youths are stupid to think that something similar won't happen to them.  Eventually the font will be too small and you'll be too tired too.  Information overload?--oh, well, there's an app for that.

But we all hope that The System doesn't mean it.  We all hope that He'll change one day, He really loves us back, after-all, it's the only System we have, He's got to provide and reciprocate some real love eventually someday.      

It's not going to happen.  The System, not unlike my father, is a malignant narcissist.  The System doesn't care about you.  The System is toxic, poisoning you, and letting you die.

My dad cared about money way more than he ever cared about me, it's the primary reason why I have never gotten around to reading 'Rich Dad, Poor Dad'.  He made that clear on very many occasions.  Just as evidenced in the many social strata of America, money is paramount, not your welfare.  Our governance is that of an abusive parent.

After reading 'Girl in the Water' I felt inspired to write, not some fancy poem or some wannabe article, but really write, about real pain.  Because her story helped me, maybe my story might somehow help?

Lately I've been trying to pin down the exact moment my abuse started.  It's hard to do.  I can therefore identify with the women that claim there were no red flags in their adult romantic relationships for them.  Or the red flags came far too late in.  To those women, I believe you.  And sure while Sherry Kilgore did some very awful wretched stuff to Nancy Kilgore, I don't even know where to begin my story.

My father was awarded custody of me when I was six years old, he was a towering man at 6 foot 2 inches.  I loved him so very much as a child.  I thought nobody was smarter or more talented or funnier than my daddy!  He was everything I wanted to be: smart, creative, an awesome storyteller...  

He posed himself as someone that rescued me from my crazy mother, all throughout my life I was reminded of this.

I don't mean to downplay Ms. Kilgore's childhood traumas, I too readily identified with her but there is a difference in a family dynamic where there is literally only one adult father and one child daughter.  When the man is a towering pillar of flesh, almost like a demigod custodian of life and he displays what I now know is called 'narcissistic rage' but I didn't know this until recently.

Narcissists don't view children as a regular person would, a child is an extension of their own ego, a refection of self, a way to reflect themselves.  In this manner you are more a mirror than a child.  In their rages, you are a mirror that can become broken repeatedly with terrifying ease. 

I've narrowed down my first red flag that something was wrong with my father's disciplinarian approach not long after I moved in with him.  He didn't like me reading comic books while shitting because I'd take longer in the bathroom so he forbade me from doing so.  It was more like a sharp conversation so I didn't really think what he ended up doing would happen.  At this point in my life reading comic books while pooping was a type of habit so it was difficult to honor his request.  I was also a child and would forget things sometimes, that's how children do.  We got back from church, I still remember my outfit, have no idea how or why, it was a light blue velvet peasant dress, with some yellow embroidery over my undeveloped chest, white opaque stockings, black patent shoes with breather holes and silver buckles. I think I had a headband in my hair but I wouldn't have put it there, neither would have my dad.  His old live-in girlfriend Janette must have put it in my hair but she was absent for this incident.

Anyways when we got back from church I had to go to the bathroom and I foolishly took a comic book in with me to read.  I was almost done doing my thing when my father inquired on the other side of the door if I was taking longer than I should due to reading a comic book, my heart sank, I was already afraid of my father and of displeasing him.  I had forgotten this new decree of his already and was too scared to admit my transgression so out of fear I lied and indicated that no I was just about done and had brought no comic book in with me.  Then while the toilet flushed and the water in the sink ran, I shoved the comic book up my dress and down my pantyhose, the tights serving as a type of internal pocket, the dress covered the rectangle perfectly with its design.

I came out and stood proudly in the hallway, I was a good girl that wanted to listen to her daddy, what was a white lie to get his adoration and approval?  I swore to myself I'd never do either again: lie to him or read a comic book in the john.

He cooed approval at me and for some reason patted my belly.  The way you'd pat a dogs belly with approbation.  There was obvious paper resistance and a crackle that only newsprint paper could make.  His entire demeanor changed in an instant.  I can no longer remember the exact wording and this was an extremely dormant memory, one that required digging around in my mind palace to even find.  But it was like a sunny blue sky day immediately became boiling over with black clouds.  You lied to me?  No, go take it out, I want to see it.

I tired to apologize and explain that I had accidentally forgotten, I had only fibbed out of self preservation. 

I don't think he let me close the bathroom door to remove the comic book so it was extra humiliating.  I had to only turn my back to him and lift up my dress to remove the Duck Tales comic book from where it was stashed but he was fuming mad. My dad has hazel eyes and they would turn silver like mercury whenever his temper escalated to white hot rage.  I didn't know at the time that it would become a novel and predictable precursor, it would become an omen for his wrath.  

I think I buried this memory because of how uncomfortable this pseudo undressing in front of my enraged father was.  I think in my child mind, as I had double disobeyed my dad with a lie and infraction, this was an unshakable deserved punishment.  Reexamining it as an adult I now can finally recognize his gross overreaction.        

He was yelling at me about the double disobedience.  Insanely demanding my comic book, I wasn't moving fast enough for him.  Unlike Nancy Kilgore that entered a fairy land, I went underwater, the world was slow, I was calm, my father was fast, my father was angry, I just shut down, I didn't feel anything other but a dull curiosity over what helped create his outbursts and when they would be over.  I learned it was best to not move, look around, look at him directly, not to cry in an obvious or loud fashion.  I cried quiet for years after obtaining freedom.  The loudest moans you could imagine on mute.  I would let snot run out my nose, wiping away snot, or snorting or sniffling was a sure sign of crying.  He did not like nor allow me to cry during his rages and I learned this early on, but not on this day.

I handed him the comic book, he angrily and very snarky lectured me on the virtues of honesty.  Him and the entombed cartoons hovering feet above me.  His head wildly bobbling, eyes gone silver - and this part fascinated me most, distracting me from the full realization of his anger, I mused over how it could happen, the bright shining chrome of daddy justice.  It felt supernatural. 

He bowed down to my level, but not how a good father would on one knee speaking kindly to me, but leaning over, bending at the waist, his upper torso with his head forming more of a backwards 7, holding and shaking the comic book in my face, spittle flying--as it often did--the familiar colors of his eyes, the brown, the green, the grey, replaced by this metal.  Demanding complete honesty from me always and my entire obedience to all of his degrees, as he was my father.  And much to my horror, as I still wanted to finish reading my new comic, he started to rip it slowly and methodically to shreds in front of my face, so close to my face his actions were making me flinch despite my not getting hit yet at this point ever by him.  He stood up and proceeded to shred the comic only more quickly, he balled up the comic book, walked to the kitchen, threw it away, and went into the living room.

There was no discussion, no time to apologize, to reason, no love in that discipline, I learned nothing other then to be terrified of my father that day.

I had never been spoken to in such a manner by him or anyone else, I was floored.  I had never seen anyone so very enraged, nor have I to this very day, to the degrees of violence my father could achieve. 

I remember how dismayed I was over him destroying a prized possession, I remember feeling like small meat he could easily pickup and tear into so many strings.           

Now I realize what occurred was a narcissistic injury, I greatly despite how unintentionally offended the mighty ego of my father.  I lied to him, I almost even outwitted him and that I think all these very, very many years later, was the real culprit that a child almost outwitted him is what led to that particular fit.  The daughter he told his ex-wife to initially abort.      

I despise I am his descendant.  Often throughout my life, I've ached for amnesia.  I wonder what person I might really be if I hadn't endured about a dozen years of total humiliation and denial of self needs. If my father had never decided to call me a stupid dumb little bitch or cunt like they were nicknames.  If he didn't insist on urinating while I was taking a shower behind a semi-translucent shower curtain.  If he wasn't so enamored with my wonderful tits or weight gain or loss.

The human female condition is still a pretty awful condition to be in overall.

This song reminds me of my dad.  His fluctuations. 

My head is killing me.
     

"Daddy Issues" - Episode #1, THE BROKEN HOLLY HOBBS JEWELRY BOX INCIDENT

SCROLL DOWN TO TITLE TO SKIP The Disclaimer:

I promised myself that this wouldn't become a personal blog, I had one of those on MySpace.com that I was actually particularly proud of until Myspace devolved into the cesspool it is today.  

I actually had considered this a "gutter-blog" for awhile, being exceptionally ill for a time with an unknown cause that I was terrified was colon cancer. 

It's not colon cancer.  Or cancer.  Yet.

So my gutter-blog was for poetry posts.  I was scared I was dying and I just wanted to shoot my spiritual flare into the ether void that composes the interwebs and the multiverse.

Then I angrily linked it one day to a Facebook Admin page I had created, outraged that some Facebook Admin pages glorified Creepshots, candid shots of YogaPants, and even more infuriatingly the FB page dedicated to hating on "12 Year Old Sluts", so I had made a page in response called "12 Year Old Rapists" - which basically showed a few various male creepers, like this 19 year old dude that made friends with a 12 year old boy through Xbox Live and met up with him to sodomize him.  Because fuck you for saying a 12-year-old is somehow inherently a slut.  Fuck you for looking and for taking a picture and for putting it on Reddit so other creeps could "flap" or "fap" or whatever the hell that disgusting word is for man-boy masterbation via Erape.

But then my FB Admin page evolved, as did my blog, and Pintrest boards, I became a legit for sure for shit cyber-feminist.  So please know, I don't consider this bit an evolution, this is a necessity.  

I'm more than sure me admitting I see a therapist surprises no one.  

My therapist recommended I start documenting some of my more traumatic memories to cleanse them from my psyche.  Permanently.   

So I figure, might as well just blog about it when I have to, yes, as part of my therapy.  This is for a few reasons: I'm a writer and I'd be writing it down anyways, so why not let it be read, especially if maybe it can somehow help someone else out there somewhere that might be hurting from bad memories.  Or even help you tell your own story, maybe people will realize in a nation full of single moms as head of household how truly hurtful it can be to label a domestic violence survivor someone with "Daddy Issues" because honey-childe daddy is the motherfucker that has issues.  He projected his issues on you, you were the focus, not the culprit. 

I feel on some level that posts of this nature will be disappointing to some and that you will not enjoy them.  That's okay and I don't want to just write about childhood trauma henceforth, so I'll potentially be starting a sub-series via my Zizzer-Zazzer-Zuzz Blog entitled "Daddy Issues" to differentiate between normal societal deconstruction posts and my therapy posts.  

Please keep in mind that I am a real person, living my life currently and my occupation is not yet that of a professional writer or blogger, albeit that would be a dream come true, but I have a job, I cope with physical and emotional aliments, have family and social obligations sometimes these will all impact on my ability to blog, as well as what I blog about.

But I am proceeding to write now about the night that I think my father would have beat me to death...

DADDY ISSUES - Episode #1, THE BROKEN HOLLY HOBBS JEWELRY BOX INCIDENT  

I had a very mild crush on an older boy in my apartment complex as a kid.  He was really funny and I was friends with his little sister.  Anyways her family had invited me to what I think was a church event, there was a fun snowball fight, good food, I came home very happy.

Dad wasn't really in a good mood.  At that time he was going to a community college for art classes and he was working really hard on some watercolor book he was painting for class.  He seemed pretty annoyed that I came home in general, especially happy.  He demanded that I go to bed early almost immediately, but I was amped up from the days fascinating activities, I wasn't tired.  I wanted to stay up and watch a special he had recorded on the VCR about aliens and have a hot cup of tea after playing out in the cold and dark for what felt like hours.

As I write this, in retrospect, as an adult now, I realize that either I should have gone to bed as asked OR had my father not been such a malignant narcissist he would have expected my homecoming, been gradatory, already had a cup of hot tea waiting or made it for me himself.  Especially since I was so short, and you know, fire.  But I was like oh 11, I think 11 when this happened.  And dads aren't moms, amirite?!

So I weaseled my way into staying up, watching the alien special, and drinking some hot tea.  Only none of that got to really happen.  See I was excited, in a good mood, a happy kid pumped up on sugar probably, and I was just moving too fast so when I went to put the chair back that I had used as a stool to reach the tea that Dad put in the highest cupboard  pushed back under the kitchen table, I did it too fast, and accidently bumped his feet.  Which according to him ruined what he had been working on for hours (ah, it's watercolor, I grew into an artist, using watercolors and oils myself, so now I know that he could've just oversaturated the spot with more water to dilute the mark, eventually erasing it completely or in a pinch--there's fucking white pigment watercolor for just such mistakes, so I didn't really ruin it).  But he got SO pissed...

You dumb little bitch you ruined it

Go to bed, NOW!--you should have gone to bed when I told you

Now you dumb cunt, you ruined it

I scramble to turn off the VCR tape and tv, turn the teapot off and it was there he cornered me, towering over me, screaming so hard spittle sprayed out at me, his hazel eyes turning silver as they always did when he got that mad, he didn't look human to me than.  I even wrote a short story once--I'm remembering just now as I write this--about a girl who grew up on an isolated farm with an abusive father who falls in love with a young farmhand and after learning of the father's abuse they plot together and replace the father's heart with that of a pig's; I wrote it because I always thought he looked like a pig, the way his face would scrunch up into itself as he went fucking nuclear.

Silver-eyed-pigman-face descended upon me, towering over me, stalking me down the very short, very narrow hallway in our crappy Section 8 apartment, down the diarrhea shit brown carpet, I was walking backward toward my bedroom.  Facing him, feeling completely vulnerable.

You dumb little fucking bitch

You fucking should have gone to bed when I fucking said so

At this point the watercolor page he'd been working on had already been ripped out of the book and he crumpled it into a ball with both hands and threw it hard at my forehead, getting into my face, fucking just I don't even remember what he was saying but it was like heat coming off a car in summer after a 50 mile drive, radiating hatred. 

What happened next?  I have PTSD, I get mixed up sometimes about stuff.  This theraphy sucks. 

I think I was apologizing, trying to convince him how sorry I was, that it was an accident.  

Anyways, he hit me, he balled up his right hand and kinda sledgehammered into my left shoulder.  That ended up being the worst bruise I've ever had to this day.  I was afraid he had broken something, or tore a muscle or something, that bruise ended up turning every color, every color, yellow, red, green, blue, black, purple, orange, even white.  I couldn't raise my left arm for like over a month.  It hurt too bad.  I realized at some point after this incident, I needed to ice it.  I put a bag of frozen brusselsprots on it because I hate brusselsprots.  And Dad first asked me why I was doing that.  My dad would get so mad sometimes he'd blackout and apparently he was abusing painkillers and always had a huge jug of cheap long island iced tea under the kitchen sink and a large jug or box of pink wine, or whatever wine in the fridge itself. So that was always fun, trying to explain the aftermath of his wrath to him, because his self...didn't remember?  He told me I didn't need the ice pack because I didn't have a bruise.  Like he just didn't believe me, so I put it back in the freezer, closed the door, showed him my arm and demonstrated that it had been weeks and I still couldn't raise my arm above shoulder level.  I had learned this by accident, when I tried to raise my left arm to answer a question in class, realized I couldn't and suffered extruicating pain. That incident I didn't hid so well and some of my girlfriends found out, told me to tell on my dad, show the teacher, Tara was super mad.  It wasn't like I hadn't tried to tell other adults and friends before, it's just nothing really happened and I was too scared to be an early adult, I didn't want to get a job at 14 and work for an apartment.  I wanted to go to college, fall in love, live with a good man instead.  Not by myself amongst so much uncertainty.  So I don't think I told that time because I knew my dad would probably get into some serious shit for doing that to me.

But that's not all that happened that night.

When he sledgehammer punched me, my right side was thrown into the dresser in my bedroom, I lost my balance, I fell down.

I felt so undignified, so humilated, all this, over a simple accident.  Tearfully, I screamed that I hated him, it was my first admittance of this from me to him directly.

Oh you HATE me?!--You hate me?!

YES!!!--I hate you!!

Well I fucking hate YOU!!!!

With one giant swooping gesture he swept everything off the other dresser to the immediate right of the bedroom door when you first walked in the room, this including the breaking of quite a few breakables.  Most noteworthy a lamp and a Holly Hobbs jewerly box my paternal grandmother had made me, that shattered into more pieces then you could imagine.  Some larger chunks gouged the plaster out of the wall, I think one piece even got stuck in there that I had to pull out like a splinter from the wall furtherst from the dresser, so great was this one sweeping gesture with rage.  

As he told me he hated me too, he started kicking me, in the stomach, which I eventually curled up into to protect, sobbing the entire time, and he kicked me more in my legs and my ass.

I think I started screaming for him to stop and then he did suddenly, just as suddenly as he started.  This was my normal for a decade.  Dad sat in the dark in the rocker chair he had, rocking, but quick 'cause he mad.

Told me to clean up my mess.  I went to get the sweeper but he told me no, said it was too late to use it, the noise would wake the neighbors, to pick the pieces up by hand.  I had the brazeness to complain that it would take too long if I did it that way and weren't we being loud enough.  He yelled at me with a threat that was enough to scare me shitless.

So that's what I did.

I picked up the pieces.  All of the pieces of my broken heart.  See the jewerly box was a white heart with Holly Hobbs painted on the top, the lid was a heart, and since my grandmother made my dad the black sheep of the family, that's all I had of her, they had disowned us.  So I put really important shit in there.  My mom wasn't around.  It was just me and my dad.  But these pieces, some were dust.  All parts sharp.  Since I could tell that my dad was still murdeously angry while he rocked like a mad man, I shook the entire time picking these pieces up by hand.  Cutting my palms and fingertips, I shook so, for he was muttering to himself about what a dumb little stupid cunt bitch I was.  And I didn't want him to come back into my bedroom.

I hated it when he was in my bedroom.  He kept the cordless phone's charger in there and would use it as an excuse to come in my room all the time.

I had this all as a type of flashback last night, I haven't thought about it in years.  I can't believe it happened to me.  I know I didn't want it too.  I also didn't plan on writting about stuff like this until after my dad was dead.  

I was hoping this would be cathartic but it's just embarrassing but I'm going to post it anyways because I can't accept this happened for no reason and I realized during the rehashed flashback that my dad could have easily killed me that night, he was that angry and I was that afraid.

But he didn't kill me, and I don't scare like I used to.  

*~Namaste~*    

The Top Ten Things Wrong With America And How To FIX Them - Starting With #s 1 Through 3

Caution: this post is purely antidotal rhetoric without factual basis beyond my own experience and powers of observation.  In no way is it supposed to be presumed that I am correct.  But I do encourage you think about what you think the top ten things are that are wrong with America and how you'd go about proactively changing things without hurting anyone, because the Lord Almighty knows, far more than then things are wrong with America, but here's a few to start some dialogue, featured in no particular order:

1). WE WORK TOO FUCKING MUCH

Jesus H. Christ, we work all the fucking time when we can find the work and then it's still not enough for The Man, we have to clock mandatory OT or get a second PT job.  Chicks work through their labor pains not to lose their base pay scale.  This shit happens and it happens here, in America.  I have seen travesties committed against my own people.  The employer-employee social contract is tainted and corrupted for the most part.  We are consistently overworked, underpaid, underemployed, undervalued and dehumanized.  It is done systematically.  We are in the belly of the leviathan at all times, we are enslaved for a wage and call it freedom.  We should never settle for the term "working poor" to be anything other than an oxymoron.  Trickle down economics is a fucking pyramid scheme.  It's all bullshit, the great majority of you hate your jobs.  You know it's a joke, you're just another cog or crank of a capitalistic beast gone out of control.  But not just any capitalism, you are under the spell of predatory Janus-face capitalism.  It manufactures the consent of your children to bow to this bogus system (see the quickly approaching number two).  It's sole purpose is to create the malleability of your will, stealing your hard earned wages through taxes, fees, necessary commodities, and manufactured needs.         

This idea of the "welfare state" and the "welfare queen" is utter total bullshit and many a cat has gotten fat on the restriction free legit "corporate welfare nanny state" our paid for government endorses.  As we erroneously pretend a corporate entity is a human blood person.

I get furious when people seem to think that the average American is a stupid, selfish, lazy simpleton.  The average American has been misguided and lied to all their lives.  They are under a grand deception of sorts, they are bred to accept the illusions of Hollywood, commercials are the new pulpit.  They cling to religion with the best of intention, but it is a limp empty teat, bearing no more milk for them.  They starve spiritually.  A lot of our children drink too much, drug too much, and fuck too much.  They don't have big thoughts.  They're taught to regurgitate memorized 'facts', not to deconstruct in our schools.       

So we are worked too much, we commute too much, we are separated too much from one another, we are alienated.  We're forced to drink the corporate sponsored red Kool-Aide and say it tastes great, it makes us so fulfilled and happy. When for most of us, homelessness is a mere one paycheck away.  We are not rich, we are enchanted by bullshit fluff.  

We could work 20 hours a week, 15, 5 -- or even NONE, we could enact a mandatory living wage of $35,000 annually to each American citizen making working an option, not a socially manufactured obligation.  Giving rise to meaningful work and a truly skilled labor class, a glorious creative class.  Nobody says we have to live this way.  The rules can be fluid, we are all connected.  We just have to want more for each other and ourselves.

The automation age is coming soon and there's bound to be more job displacement than we've ever seen.  Baxter Bots will take the worthless jobs, nobody really wants anyways, but then they'll grab the helm of specialist positions formally reserved for the intelligent human, robots will replace physicians, surgeons, teachers, because robots won't demand a pay scale or benefits or try to unionize, and do as they're programmed.   

If you're poor, you're best off embracing working only as much as required since your labor is making someone else rich.

There is so much human misery in this world, much of it over acquiring money, so what if some of that pressure is eased?--it would eradicate homelessness, reduce prostitution if we had a base guaranteed income just for existing as a member of the human race.  This would do much for the everyday person.  There is also so much more uncertainty in this world and such a need for so many to have an opportunity to start over.     

The funds for such a venture are there, they've just been misallocated.  Too much money is fed into our prison and entertainment and sports industries.  These things are hollow distractions and excessive life-altering punishments when it comes to penalization over trivial transgressions.  

Speaking of which, I digress.

#2). STOP ADVERTIZING TO PEOPLE 

Just fucking stop it already.  None of this bullshit matters, you're wasting trillions of dollars on advertising, nobody gives a shit anymore.  Funnel that money on better-spent ventures that would benefit all of America.  Start trying to see how many eating disorders fall off the radar after a couple of years of no adverts whatsoever.  Trust results and word of mouth as ways to sell your product.  Be ethical in your business decisions, stop trying to poison the fucking planet and rip people off.  And for Christ's sake, stop selling to the children, stop pimping your damned products to the kids, stop selling them toys, clothes, sexy dolls, stop all the horseshit, back the fuck off and get out of our psychosphere you fucking psychos.  

We are under a constant physic barrage of infotainment that cripples our souls.  Since birth.  My generation is the generation that knows our cartoons existed merely to sell us toys.  And now you sell pink pretty princesses to our young women and you sell guns to our sons.  It's created a horrid rancid quagmire of homogenisation, both of places and personalities.  It's awful.  Advertizing ought to be illegal.  We can seek our own information and determine on our own if a product is good for us or not.  There is an over saturation of false diversity when we all go shopping and it is known that humans are depressed when presented with too many choices, the entire shopping experience is an illusion of choice and imagined wealth.  It's not real.  You are fed the machine so you can feed the machine, but you should be raging against it.  You should be exorcising all the demons from the hallways.   

You should be demanding more, by demanding less.  I am under the personal belief that we need advertising in our lives about the same as we need warfare, that is to say, not at all.  It serves no higher purpose in the aspirations of mankind, other than the serving of the profit motive of the very few, at sometimes the cost of great spiritual oppression of the very many.  

Which leads me to number three...

#3). LEGALIZE DRUGS   

You know what creates drug addicts?--an emotional wound, abuse, molestation, poverty, chronic anxiety, chronic pain, but drugs don't create addicts, if they did, everybody would be addicted to every single drug they've ever tried which is just not true.  A victimless crime, is no crime at all.

In Canada, employers are not permitted to drug test their employees since they rightfully recognize that it is an infringement upon their personal liberties and should have no impact on work performance.  What is any entity corporate, government, or otherwise, having anything to do with what I personally wish to ingest in my body?  Now when it becomes problematic and endangers others, yes, then I should be jailed and restrained.  If a certain drug is known to cause such issues, it should be studied fairly and deemed a real danger or not to society.

But the issue of pot, when both cigarettes and booze are legal, two of the most lethal substances you can ingest long term are somehow socially acceptable--you gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me!!  

There are so many good, good reasons to legalize drugs, I can't even list them all, I know it might sound shocking at first, but it's really the only way to regulate such things, take money from out of the hands of terrorists, from gangs, and drug cartels, you take away their fuel, their fuel is illegal drugs, the attraction for a lot of people is the notion of illegal.  They feel they are doing something naughty, but if that notion is eliminated, they can finally see it for what it really is, without prejudice and determine if it's actually just stupid.