Word Up, Sister!

What is so horrible about promiscuity?  If proper protection is used, and no one is physically harmed by the experience… What is it about promiscuity that gets everyone’s dander up?  Please explain this to me.

Subquestion:  Why is it that I only hear women being judged on their “promiscuity”?  Are men not subjected to the same societal hysteria?

Please, teach me a thing or two.

Cold Coffee reminds me of the more endearing qualities of my father.  His early mornings were grumpy, but real.  He was real before work.  And when he would leave, I would sit in his chair and drink what was left of his cold coffee and pretend that I got to spend more time with him that way.  He loved me when he was sober, but someone else always came home at night.  He was someone that was heavily burdened by the ways of the world and the pressures of … well… everything.  I have no idea what caused my father to drink so much because he started before I knew the difference between my toes and my fingers.  This was quite a long love life with booze, a sentence of 20-25. 

The more time I spend in the “real world” the less I value myself.  I am not worth what I was years ago, but I was a screw up back then, just had a skinny ass is all.  I thought it was big then.  Wonder the massive expansions waiting for me in the near future…  Will I look back on today wistfully, dreamily as though it weren’t as painfully draining and tiresome as it feels today?  It is almost certain that I am that type of fool.  I will look on today fondly as though it were the “good old days”. 

It’s funny how I can look back at my childhood as some wondrous time.  I wonder how I can look back and only see the few minutes a day when my father was my daddy and he loved me more then any.  The largest portion was actually quite painful, for a childhood.

To be honest, I don’t remember much about those mornings with my dad.  I only remember the taste of cold coffee fondly.

There has been a huge problem in my life that I can’t weed out no matter how I try. My body. Huge problem. I love women that don’t fit into gender boundaries and walk proudly. I love them because I don’t have the courage to be one of them. I walk proudly but I am a good actor. I am so tired of looking at myself in the mirror and wishing that I looked better, slimmer, sexier, whatever. I am never completely happy when my eyes tango with a mirror. I don’t want to believe what the mirror says and it never changes to suite my sensibilities. I could starve myself and be skinny for a while, but it won’t stay for very long. And I know I would never stop if it were made easy for me for even a moment. I wouldn’t quit until my clothes weigh more than me, then I might have a light snack. But thank Goddess it isn’t easy to diet or we as a people wouldn’t see curvy women ever again. Not one. They would all disappear down the drain along with tonights gourmet dinner. (Seconds anyone?)

I was taught in not-so-subtle ways during my formative years that I’d better not grow an inch wider, ever, or I’ll have a horrible life. Those teachings were absolutely ridiculous, but unfortunately they were right. I hate to admit it, but the fact that they taught me this makes them right. I will have a horrible life because I am larger then a paper weight. Now I shall spend a good portion of my money, effort, livelihood, thought, free time, and (worst of all) self-esteem trying to concoct a way get back to the size that I was in grade school (because THAT is the current fashion.) Although, I hear that fetuses are sexy these days so that might become an even less achievable goal for the average woman. When are men going to just admit that they fantasize about fucking children? Just get it out and over with, so that we can get you all some counseling, and women of the world can get back being a size 12 or so.

The disturbing thing is that, now that I think of it, I was given these guidelines by women. It has always been a woman that has made me feel lower than dogshit due to my dress size. Funny that! Additionally, the “knowledge” I recieve about my body usually comes from… My Family. I remember an x-mas many years ago where at the tender age of 16, I got diet pills in one of my shiny wrapped packages from “Santa” (my grandmother). Apparently she had gotten a really good deal on some locally made herbal diet pills (speed) and decided to spread the wealth. I was the only grandchild to receive them. I was also the only grandchild that weighed in “higher then she should”. I come from “athletic stock” and therefore I am huge disappointment to those that are supposed to love me and happen to share my DNA.

But my brainwashing must have started much earlier, because I was an unknown-to-be-suicidal child. I made suicide pacts with myself several times before the age of 13. I remember at 10 I was laying the bathtub one night, and decided that if I were to lay on my side in the tub and notice that my hips were taller than the tub I would kill myself with one of my mom’s razors. My hips have since spread to that of a full grown woman’s and have been taller than the tub ring on several occasions. I haven’t tried to kill myself, but this has arisen an odd tendency to carefully scrutinize the bathtub when moving into a new place. Your childhood affects who you are. (Sidenote: later on that same year, I made a pact to kill myself if I ever got pregnant. Once again, I haven’t tried to kill myself, but I’ve never been pregnant either.)

I’m tired. I am so tired of hating myself, and trying to push myself into the mini fridge. Even Ani Difranco pisses me off sometimes. She’s a great spokeswoman for women’s rights and common sense, but she is also 5′2″ and even pregnant, couldn’t have weighed more than a buck-o five at the time. She is small and gorgeous so people are more inclined to listen to her music and listen to her theories. Because she is a “woman”. That is a cruel thing for me to say, but I am hating myself right now and feel no reason to leave well enough alone. So, I won’t erase it and I won’t apologize. Besides, Ani isn’t aware that I exist. I highly doubt that she would give a damn for anything that I have to say. Fuck it!

How do I feel? At the moment I feel like a feeble, simpering idiot with no obvious sense of priorities nor self worth. I feel that I have wasted my time and the time of anyone that has taken the time to read this pile of garbage. But then again, I get the feeling that I am not alone. And that someone out there feels the same way. Maybe we could find a cure for self-hatred together, and surprise attack the world at large. Goddess knows that we haven’t been able to do it alone. Know what I mean?

I can’t help it.  I keep expecting to see you somewhere in the crowd.  I could swear that at any moment you’ll surprise me, we’ll embrace and you’ll ask me what I have been up to for the last year. And you’ll tell me about your latest project, or get rich quick scheme, and all of it in one sentence.  You’ll have this new trick to show me or a hot new girlfriend to introduce me to.  You’ll tell me about how your truck is running and how Shelly’s doing in med school.  “What’s the theme for Burning Man this year?  Have you talked to Rose?  Yeah, me neither.”

And of course, you’ll have a tale to tell much taller than the one you had last time. I’m never sure if they’re true.  Like when you followed the dead across America for a year and smoked a joint with Jerry Garcia.  How you lost your tuition money at one poker game in Vegas, but was happy because the drinks were free.

You never talked about the drugs. You never mentioned how the coke felt so right at the time, but cost you your daughter.  You never told me the tale of cold nights spent alone with the whiskey that kept you company and filled the emptiness in your home, in the backyard, and in your soul for a moment.  But you had it together when I met you with fistfuls of ginger beer and big league chew. 

I kissed your shoulder once.  You noticed and stared at me with a question on your mind that you never spoke aloud.  It was meant to be an expression of warmth, but your skin held an electricity that I didn’t expect.  But with it you had a coolness that shrugged it off as an accident. You really had your shit together, on the surface.  I never would have guessed that your foundation rocky.

You’d still be around if you truly had the world in your grasp, as you’d projected.  You wouldn’t have bought the whiskey.  You wouldn’t have bought the drugs.  You wouldn’t have been found 3 days later safely nestled in your own rot amongst the blankets after so long sober. Wasn’t it like 4 years or so?  I’m sure you could have told me the days.  You wouldn’t have crushed every friend you’d ever made.  You wouldn’t have broken my heart with your absence.  

With every death the light of life gets just a little dimmer.  Now I know why humans don’t live for very long.  A person can’t live in darkness alone.  The shit of it is that I can’t put it down.  I have certainly tried.  If only I had known, had a clue, been less surprised.  You had such a love for life, it never occurred to me that the junkie doth protest too much.  But your toothy grin is definitely gone, all for the sake of one last hit.  And when I shrug off this world like an accident I know that I will see you somewhere in the crowd. 

One of my few certainties is that I will die.  It is a fact.  But how will it happen?  I feel cheated by death already, because I know that I won’t get to see the last scene of the movie that I am such a part of.  The packing up and moving on scene that wraps everything up and gives the viewer a sense of completion and closure.  I want my money back! Or at least a hand in the writing process. 

The idea of death has brought me to the thought of my funeral. Ugh!  That could go badly!  So badly.  You cannot fathom the bad.  First of all, the prep for the funeral. This is where my relatives go thru my house to “clean up” and fight over my meager possessions.  And they inevitably find instead my staggering collection of dildos and other sex related paraphernalia.   Whips and chains and candlewax, Oh MY!  ***If any of my dear friends are reading this … take note.  Should I kick the bucket.  Break into my house and grab my sex toys.  Distribute them amongst  yourselves, first cum first served rules apply.  Consider it a keepsake that could only come from the likes of me.  *smirk. 
But keep the naked pictures of me and post them on the bulletin board at the funeral when no one is looking.  I would really enjoy that!  Especially the ones of me spinning fire topless.  I am quite proud of those. If you can’t find them, I am sure that Brandon still has copies. 
Things I would like to see happen at my funeral…A bar fight…Should my family insist on a christian style funeral…I want the preacher to leave with a limp and a bloody lip, my friends and family exchanging blows and howling at the moon. “Where is the cooler?  I need a beer and some ice before I go back in there to kick some more ass.”  People are angry in general and never have the opportunity to express it!  Let this be that opportunity.  Take all the anger that you acquire on a daily basis, take that fuel, beat someone over the head with a hymnal and light a fucking match!
 I want people to show up naked.  I want my friends to get arrested at my funeral for indecent exposure and plead guilty proudly.  Cover yourselves in mud and wrestle, winner gets all of my worldly possessions (with the exception of the sex toys.  See above).  And some tricky bastard should tumble the coffin.  It’s just an empty, freshly embalmed shell with no further use anyway.  Give the folks in the back row a laugh, for Goddess sake. 
I want a drum circle at my grave, and some Irish bastard to holler drinking songs about booze and tits and blue ribbons, thru a keg.  And bagpipes!  I want some fucking bagpipes, played badly! 
I want blunt honesty…I was a shithead so don’t paint your face with regret and talk about how much of an “angel” I was.  The most flattery I could expect is for everyone at the “party” to share a moment when I made them laugh. That is something consistent about me.  I have made everyone I know laugh at some point or another. Sometimes it is laughter thru frustration, but it still counts as laughter, right?