Today is the start of a brand new life. My medicine arrived. A good friend commented that I should be on the stimulants for narcolepsy. I haven’t answered that comment along with so many others. I am finally off Adderall and on a medicine for narcolepsy. I am that level of bi-polar dependent on a whole lot of a rare anti-psychotic designed for PTSD. To combat the sedation I require medicine for narcolepsy. It costs 800 dollars a month. I had to beg the manufacturer to give me the medicine for free. I’m a very lucky woman to have good private mental health care. I have been basically sleeping for almost two weeks. I am suddenly awake and at my full potential. The first thing I did was go back to the very first blog and look for new comments to begin my replies.I’m still new to this site. The ‘my news’ section was a whole new thing for me. I replied to one man’s comment about his love of the way I described my panties. Even if I don’t reply I know who jumped on my blog and dived off. I asked him why I am a ‘flavor of the week.’ He laughed at me for not knowing he deleted me from his friend’s list. His explanation was he desired quality not quantity. You have to understand for one weekend I must have answered 20 page comments where he professed complete fascination with me. I slammed him with the truth he bitches about quantity but he threw me a shitload of redundant page comments. I moved on from the issue and reconnected with hotrocker. We chatted for hours. It was glorious. We worked through a miscommunication and bonded past the issue. That’s the kind of friend I want.
I checked ‘my news’ comment to see the man who bitched about quantity tried to tell me I was disrespectful and he was just honest. Then even though I didn’t respond he had to post one more comment. Stop now. If there is one way to piss me off it is by telling me to stop commenting on my own damn blog. I accept that men will consider me a ‘a flavor of the week’ and drop me. It’s nothing I’m doing wrong. I’ve been sleeping so much I’ve barely posted in this blog. People are simply rude. However, not all men are that way. I also must adjust my blast on accepting couples. I just explained to another supportive couple that four bad people should not make me dismiss an open-minded couple who want to enter my life. I let anyone have a chance. Most men will walk by the open door and slam themselves against a brick wall trying to get me to be free porn. I make it so simple. All you have to do is read and post a comment somewhere. My PM box is always full. I will miss your message if you send me a PM. I am busy making deep replies to lovely comments on my blog or page.
One man may have truly saved my damn world. I did pawn almost all my jewelry. It was enough for groceries not a computer. Scott in Australia was my salvation. Not only has he offered to donate towards a new computer if I need it. He went a step further. He fixed this one. I trusted him to remote access my PC and clean it up. He also did something else I needed. My skype ID was an issue. It was my real name. I have erased all evidence I can find of it. It was posted all over the place. It was not safe. You can google a name and pay a company to provide a person’s address. Details like pictures and my hometown help narrow the search. However, letting my name out was a huge mistake. I have a new skype ID now which is safe. It will remain safe because I will only give it out to people who have read this blog and now to treat me like a lady and not a masturbation source.
Scott asked me if I was really sexual. The answer is yes. I’m a very sexual creature. I love getting men off. I get requests from so many men it would be idiotic to do it for a stranger. If you read this blog you realize I offer quantity. But fuck the man who accused me of not maintaining quality. He liked mini blogs about my panties. He had no interest in learning about my past. Then there are men who really want to know more of my story. It did start with a ‘to be continued’ feeling. So this is chapter 3. The blue dress. I am writing this for a new friend I call my prince. Our friendship started with his criticism for me to make my work shorter and simplify it.
Poor boy, I unleashed wrath about judging a person’s writing when they don’t write. It is a philosophy I will teach so many people. If you can’t paint then don’t make critical statements about another person’s painting. If you can’t build a house don’t find fault in an architect who can. So what if his foundation is cracked? You can’t build a box. How dare you judge a creative endeavor unless you can compete with a person who can? I never bitch about a shitty meal because for the love of God I could burn down my house boiling water.
In art school during any critique there was an unspoken rule never to say one negative thing before you praised something worth merit. I can handle criticism once I know a person. Now my prince could tell me ‘baby you got too complex about this or that’ and I would learn from the mistake. However, he hit me with the length issue before we became good friends. Now, we are each building up one another. I let him know that he is a very intelligent young man. He is Arabic and his English is excellent. I will never stop bragging on him because I can’t learn a foreign language. I could try with all my heart to learn Arabic and speak gibberish for life. I can write. I can make art. He can learn languages. I am trying to engage him in writing. I try to do it for all people. I can teach someone how to do what I do. I can edit. I also know that writing in Arabic and translating it into English will make him so damn fluent he can pass for American.
The blue dress is in my pictures twice. I show men what I looked like as a teenager because it’s sexy to see how a woman grows up. I’m also damn proud I don’t look that different. I am very picky about clothing. My sense of style is pretty damn good. For high school buying a dress for an event was a big deal. The women in my family love to dress up and look good. That blue dress is probably my crowning achievement. When I buy a dress I go for timeless. In a way my prince hurt my feelings by asking me why I would basically let myself go. I have an answer. But first let me describe the dress. It is a size nine. It is strapless. It is the perfect color blue with a floral embroidery pattern in the material. All I can say is that my senior year that damn dress looked like it was tailor made for my body. I looked at it one week ago. It is an hourglass. It was built for huge tits, a waist, hips and it is short enough not to need hemming. The top has a lace trim and so does the bottom. To wear it I had to by a corset to support my massive tits without straps.
I have so few pictures of my teenage years. Two of them feature that dress. One when I had my signature orange crown of ringlets. One when I had my long black hair with bangs. My hair has always shifted from orange to black depending on my acting roles. I know my body looks banging in the picture where my hair is orange. I prefer the picture with my black hair and the name badge halina which is not my name. The reason I let myself go is the tall boy standing next to me with that blue dress and orange hair. His name is Tim. He destroyed me twice. It takes a lot to destroy me. When you pull it off twice you are officially a monster.
I was a happy teen slut that refused a boyfriend for one main reason. Back to chapter one where I started to describe what made me different. My dad got me a job damn near the day I turned f******n working at the crooked restaurant he was a prep cook. We were dirt poor. My brother was eighteen and he hadn’t worked a day in his pampered life. I have always been an overachiever. My mother shouldn’t have let me go to work. She did for one reason. When she was fourteenn to sixteen she worked at summer labor camps picking and processing tobacco. If you ever get a chance to read about the sixties movement to turn teenagers into hard labor during the summer at tobacco plantations you should learn about it. For my mother it was freedom from an abusive household. It let her buy nice clothes and feed herself. She wanted me to have that same freedom. It was not childd abuse. It was my mother teaching me how to be self-sufficient. My dad just knew it meant he could use me for drug money.
It was my secret life. I told no one about my job. It was highly ilegal. At that time a fourteen year old could occasionally score a job but was restricted by how much they could work. They had enforeed breaks and wages were closely monitored. My job was over forty hours a week. I worked every school night from five to ten. On Sunday I worked from six am until ten pm. Some weeks I worked all Saturday as well. I was a ‘busgirl.’ I wouldn’t think I was abused if I simply cleaned tables. No this was real childd labor. I greeted each customer, sat them, handed out menus, explained specials, took drink orders, filled them, prepared salads, soups, desserts, refilled drinks and then I cleaned the goddamn table. There would be five servers with four or five tables. I was in charge of taking care of every table in the goddamn place.
I wouldn’t bitch as much but the number one rule in a restaurant is that hot food gets out no matter what. Half the time a server didn’t even put the food on the table. I was also running the credit card machine. I was also taking orders. Basically I could wait on an entire table while another woman was tipped. For all the work I did my boss paid me three dollars an hour. Each night a server decided how much to tip me. No restaurant could pull off doing that to a fouteen year old girl anymore. The world has moved on and what my boss did would shut him down. I was paid in cash under the table. If I described that to a close female friend she would report me to ‘help me.’ What my spoiled little cunt friends didn’t realize is how much I learned.
I had little wanker call me out on being a malicious and deviant woman he underestimated. That job trained me how to get what I need in life by any means necessary.
My boss was smart and everything in the place was handmade. From the salad dressing to the French fries. It didn’t have a menu. It had a book of food options. You could get a hot dog as big as your leg. You could also get chicken marsala, veal, scallops, wine and gigantic steaks. He made the best fucking marinara you could imagine. He made the best chicken salad you could dream of. My dad did a lot of the cooking but he couldn’t handle the line. He made sauces, soups, rice pilaf, potato salad and coleslaw. If you lived in that town and ate there once you came back. Servers knew better than to leave. It was so oldschool they had to wear jean skirts.
They were mostly old ladies on meth. I loved them all. They loved me. I was always willing to go above and beyond my job to help them do their work. I made a shitload of money. My dad bitched from day one that his fourteen year old daughter made more money than he did. It was one of the reasons he hated me.
You have to understand my father never saw me act or sing. He refused to attend one recital or play. My pedophile boss showed up and I had to sing lollipop while he perved out on me so hard I wanted to die. Then like he didn’t stalk me I had to walk up to him and let him rub a hard dick on me to ‘hug me’ and tell me how great I was. After that day my name officially changed at work. No one called me lynn. I was lollipop to everyone. I always broke dishes. If you heard something break everyone stopped and screamed lollipop. Customers learned my name was lollipop. When I got yelled at I was even called lollipop. New servers were schooled not to fuck with lollipop. They were warned that I would get their money. They were warned to tip me right. Each bitch tried me. It was a whole array of possibilities to take them out. I am no thief. I never took one dollar off a table. I didn’t have to.
Most of the time honesty was my only scheme. I would spot a new wealthy flier and see easy money. I told them I’m only fourteen so I can’t be your waitress. I don’t get money left on a table. I will probably do everything but handle a cash payment without getting a tip. I could make it so brutal. I could slam a new waitress and tell her customers that she was outside smoking a cigarette and I am doing her job and she has no intention of tipping me for my work. Customers were drawn to me because I was pretty, sweet as sugar, eager to please and I could remember what they wanted if they were regulars. I could get a table’s drinks without asking them what they wanted. Because I had a whole restaurant at no point was I not working. The servers would stand there and chit chat. It was so obvious that wealthy customers did way more than hand me five bucks. They spent thousands on airplane fuel for that meal. It was no big deal to give me a hundred bucks and leave a server nothing.
It was no big deal to give us both a hundred bucks. That’s why servers never left. You couldn’t find a better place in town to be a waitress. I worked men. Men training to be pilots ate their near daily. They wanted to date me. They wanted to fly me around. They wanted to be around me. It fucked with their head that I was just fourteen. So they tipped me hard. I was not a normal girl told not to get in cars with boys. My rule was not to get on an airplane with grown men. Sundays were our biggest day. We could have a line at the door from seven am until three pm. You can’t imagine busting your ass so hard to turn tables. I had to learn how to carry three coffee cups on a saucer with one hand. I had to learn how to stack hot plates up and down my arms. I felt like each Sunday would kill me. By two o’clock I had a breakdown. I went in the bathroom stall and cried five minutes. The head server saw me do it and she did something a lot of people will never understand.
She offered me meth. I knew they all used it. My dad was such a meth head. Everyone in the place did the work because of meth. My life would’ve been very different if I accepted her ‘medicine.’ I refused. I let her know that I wouldn’t use drugs. My mom worked like a man. She worked with men who depended on meth to get shit done. She did it drug free and so could I. I went home each Sunday and collapsed. My mom had to watch me bawl from my feet hurting and my muscles aching. In some ways I will never forgive her for watching me work that hard so young. My money bought groceries. Most of all my money bought my dad meth and I thought it would earn his love. You can’t buy love. However, he would’ve probably shot me if I ever refused to give him money. In the end that was our true nightmare. Money did eventually equal a gun.
That’s why those first two years of high school I never really had a boyfriend. A boyfriend would bust me in a heartbeat for working a job as a full grown woman. That’s why my sexual adventures happened in the auditorium. I would never have left that job until it got scary. I was sixteen and my pedophile boss told me to come in the cooler and get my Christmas turkey. He shut the door and tried to forcee himself on me. I screamed, fought and went insane. He freaked out. He had no words for himself. He just said here ‘take a ham too.’ I left that day with a turkey and a ham and never went back until I was older. I was screwed after that. I was making around five hundred bucks a week. Suddenly I had to bust ass and find a minimum wage job. All the kids in my drama department worked at boston market. I joined the club.
Since no one knew I had previous employment they thought I was some slacker kid. Cunt bitches had no clue that first I went to school. I stayed after until 4:30 for drama practice. I was at work at five until ten. When I got home I fucking read and talked to boys. Homework was not an issue for me. It was all busy work. I had no time to do some lame handout. I copied it all. I was notorious. I was also absent Monday or Friday. I didn’t ask cunt friends to copy. I let boys who wanted to date me do my work. I dished out my secrets on facebook some of the boys I relied on for homework. I floored girls.
I made my reputation before I started high school. In eighth grade I took an algebra class that equaled high school credit. I hate math. The teacher gave us so much homework it was ridiculous. I rotated who I copied from. She busted me because I would have wrong numbers and the right answer. It was such a big deal she announced to the class anyone caught letting me copy homework would also be kicked out of the class.
She got my mother involved. She demanded to take the issue to the principle. I had never been in trouble my whole life. My mom was pissed that some teacher had an issue with me. It was like a bad soap opera. I live in a small town. My mom was that cool smart chick who partied in high school. My math teacher was the band dork who no one liked. When she realized I was my mother’s daughter and they were about to battle it was a big deal. The teacher demanded I be removed from her classroom before the principle. My mom told her she needed better proof than a few mixed to numbers. She told my teacher she had to catch me before she declared me cheating. My teacher actually cried while my mom berated her. The principle agreed with my mother. Unless she caught me copying and saw it with her own damn eyes then I could stay in the class. I can memorize formulas and pass tests. I just refuse busy work. It got even better because the whole class worked as a team to even let me copy extra credit.
I couldn’t sneeze in that class without being screamed at. Of course I passed with a B. I giggled because all four semesters she gave me an F in conduct. So I started high school with a reputation for copying homework. I still could get A’s on tests. I held a full time job, did drama, missed one day a week and stayed in the gifted program.
At boston market I met a boy who was different. For one thing I had a reputation for hooking up and dropping hot boys. Stu was fat and he had this lame blonde pony tail. His real name wasn’t even stu. He truly got nicknamed for looking just liked the beavis and butthead character stuart. I don’t know why I fell for him. I knew I hated that damn job and he was so good to me. He mopped the floor for me and helped me debone chickens after work. That earned his chance to be my boyfriend. We dated a long time. I was cruel. I wasn’t sexually attracted to him. I couldn’t give him an orgasm or even kiss him really. He was being courted by one of the girls that started out my friend and ended up my enemy. I called her the wildeb**st. She was enormous. She was way over six feet tall with a huge ass. She had buck teeth. She had glasses. She was also still heartbreakingly in love with stu’s best friend. Tim. Stu fucked up. He fucked the wildebeast. I went ballistic at work. She was also my boss.
I nailed him in the head with an industrial size can of pam. I was so pissed I told a sweet old lady at the drive-thru ‘here’s your fucking change.’ Luckily she drove off confused. I decided I needed to leave. I went in the kitchen to tell the super cute dishwasher what stu did. He was one of the most popular boys in the school and dating this really hot chick. He told me that he would rather hold my hand for a lifetime before he would fuck the wildebeast. Then he busted out with ‘oh my god, can I please see your titties.’ I said fuck yes. I got topless for him and played with them while he stood in complete satisfaction. Then I plotted my revenge on stu and the wildebeast.
Stu’s best friend was Tim. Tim was the wildebeast’s high school sweetheart. Tim’s little sisterr was one of my cunt ass gifted friends. I didn’t know why she did it. His sister’s name is Robin. I guess she knew tim needed an intervention. She picked me and my two gorgeous and wicked smart friends to come over and offered us to him like a buffet. He was fucking hot. He was about six foot seven. He just flopped at boot camp and landed in a bottle. That night I dressed to kill and planned revenge. It nearly didn’t happen. He was belligerent d***k leaning against the fridge on the floor. Me and my friend becky immediately worked like nurses to get him off the fridge and get some liquid in him. His s****r just stood there while we took over the situation. Of course he hit on becky and not me. It never fails that a man goes for my friend first.
He drank milk ran outside and puked his brains out. I’d never seen someone that drunkk. Becky and my cunt friend hauled ass. He was at least prepared with what any teenage girl required before the year 2000. It was the only reason I stayed. He had zima in a cooler. If you don’t know what zima is it’s basically the first version of a wine cooler designed for women. I wasn’t leaving without at least drinking one zima then I planned to haul ass. He was so socially awkward and drunkk we couldn’t really talk. I asked him if he wanted to walk me to my car. He got half-way there.
He stunned me in a way that no man can repeat. He grabbed me. He picked me up like I weighed a feather. He wrapped my legs around his waist and gave me the best kiss I’ve ever had in my life. That kiss was the moment when I fell madly in love for the first time. He had a tent in the yard and it was winter. We spent the whole night making out like we were devouring each other. He didn’t try to get me naked. He just enjoyed me. I am malicious. I stayed with him until I knew it was time for boston market to open. I was rumpled and dirty from nearly fucking on the ground. I walked in and got a drink like I owned the place while the wildebeast looked at me like she was triumphant. I was high on love. I sat there and giggled like I was drunk and stoned. I can’t even remember if I walked up to her and told her I had tim last night. Most likely I did. Stu was devastated. He lost his girlfriend and his best friend.
I went to see tim again the next night and we started talking. We shocked each other. I have talked about my mongoloid cousins. I grew up playing with all little boys. One of them was really tall. It was tim. He was raised as one of the familyy. He knew as much about my familyy as I did. He remembered the pretty little cousin. I remembered the pretty tall boy. After that we were united. We could only wait two weeks before we had sex. I always said I wouldn’t put out until I was at least sixteen, driving and truly in love. I kept my vow. Our families loved that we came together. We all planned our marriage. My junior and senior year I was basically married. I was in love. That first picture of me in the blue dress standing next to him with orange year was my senior year homecoming dance.
We probably would’ve got married but life wasn’t easy for me. It started two days before my senior year began. My mom made my dad go to the doctor because she thought his eyes looked yellow. There is a reason why I know so much about the VA. We all used to hang out in the denny’s parking lot each night as a group of misfits. I just got a cell phone. One of my first calls was my mom calmly telling me to come home. I know my mom is fucked up sometimes. She could’ve waited a few hours until I came home like normal. Instead she decided to tell me over the phone. It was simple. My mom said your father is dying of pancreatic cancer. It can’t be treated or cured. It is a death sentence. He may live three months to a year at the most. It is also one of the most painful ways a human can die. Then she hung up the phone.
I loved my dad so much. He was such a funny cool motherfucker. He didn’t love me. He never did. All we did was fight. He loved my b*****r dearly. He refused to look at me. I always thought as I grew up he would grow to love me. The devastation about his diagnosis was that would never be an option for me. That first day my senior year I was signed up for college credit courses in English, American history, European history, Chemistry, Psychology and my free pass drama. I had my mom write a letter to the office what would happen. I told each teacher my dad could die at any point. Every single one of them told me to go ahead and graduate and be with him. I refused. I told them I would be absent all the time. I told them I would keep up. I told them I could pass the exams and earn that college credit. I was no spoiled brat who would go to college on daddy’s money. I had to earn a full scholarship and all those free classes. My father dying was not stopping me.
The biggest issue was that my father was dying and I was a minor. I received a check from the government before he began getting paid. I didn’t have to work my senior year. That money could’ve gotten me killed. My father got his money and went on a meth binge like no one can imagine. He demanded I give him my check. I refused. He demanded I split it with my brotherr who was not a minor. I refused. I needed that money to survive while I took a full load of college courses to earn a scholarship. Yes he threatened to kill me over it.
We all knew he was dying from agent orange. Research the link between pancreatic cancer and agent orange. It is a government cover-up not to admit that is what happened to men like my father. Life was so scary but the confirmation that it was agent orange happened at the right time in the right way.
I will get back to what it was like as he died. I will just say it ended with me in the VA hospital in a waiting room. I adore Stephen king. It was just like a relief that he had a book out that took me away from my situation. His books always fix my problems. This one I blocked out. I can’t tell you one thing about ‘hearts in atlantis.’ It was about Vietnam. I sat in that hospital and went on a journey that my dad wouldn’t discuss. He was in a coma for a week.
I remember one thing from the book. It announced that the government knew damn well that men were dying around fifty from pancreatic cancer because of agent orange. The book proclaimed it was so clear that it had to be covered up. Too many kids like me would’ve earned compensation because weed killer killed our fathers at fifty. It would’ve bankrupted the VA hospital. It could also have devastated the whole damn economy if it wasn’t covered up.
I closed the book after I read those words. I walked into the room of death. My aunt myrtle forceded me to kiss him goodbye. I had never hugged the man. Kissing his near death corpse was cruel.
The VA was smart for covering it up. Nothing should bankrupt free health care for veterans. They also knew how to handle the epidemic of pancreatic cancer. You get an unlimited supply oxycontin. Veterans need to know that the VA does supply pain management any normal hospital will never provide. They also do radical expensive procedures to prolong your life. My dad lived longer than most men because he had two serious operations to create ducts for his body to function. Recently my mom tried to tell me the anatomy of the disease. Your intestines fuse and you truly shit out your organs.
That year I was on the brink. The biggest issue was the smell. My dad lived on the toilet. He was a cruel man that never seemed satisfied with a family who loved him. In the end he had one comfort in life. A can of air freshener that smelled like peaches. The smell of shit and peaches in our house was so rank a normal person wouldn’t be able to take it five minutes. Me and my mom both have to laugh about it
Death does get comical. My dad couldn’t handle the smell of his own shit. He constantly sprayed that can. We bought three or four cans at a time. He could kill a can in one day. I still giggle when someone sprays an aerosol can. You couldn’t walk in that kitchen without hearing him spray with all his fury. Eventually you do break down and tell a dying man to cool it with the goddamn peaches. You hate being that mean. We spent our lives being mean to each other. So asking him to please stop the peaches was a normal fight. Screaming out ‘you’re making it worse with peaches for Christ sake’ comes flying out of your mouth. To this day the idea of eating a peach or smelling one makes me gag.
My dad was always a drug dealer. My mom had finally decided to leave him weeks before his diagnosis. She couldn’t kick him out. Our house became the town zone to get meth or oxy. Oxy was brand fucking new. I know we got lucky. If he had those pills now we would be in serious danger. My mom worked nights. He kept his activity going as soon as she left. Then he sold his pills for meth. He would disappear and junkies would bang on the door until I answered with no way to defend myself.
We had junkies living in tents in our yard. My dad started an eternal bon-fire to party with every meth or pill head who wanted to play. We had so much oxy I watched my dog pick something off the floor and instinct told me to check his mouth. I never checked his mouth in my life. God watches out for me. I pulled an oxy out of his mouth. They were scattered all over the place. If that drug killed my dog I would’ve probably just ended it all. I can honestly say I loved my dog one thousand times more than my father.
Things might have been okay if it wasn’t for my brotherr. He was mopping the floor while it rained. He bitched at me for getting mud on the floor. All I said was ‘I’m so fucking sorry’ like a sarcastic bitch. We were standing on the kitchen stairs. He punched me upside the head. I beat the fucking dog shit out of him. I have worked hard and I’m stronger than a lot of men. I beat him unmercifully. He fought back. I remember him screaming out like a pussy ‘you broke my glasses.’
My boyfriend knew my brotherr beat me my whole life. He was in the drive-way in his truck. I was busted up and bloody. I told him what happened. He was silent. I begged him to go in my damn house and tell that cocksucker no one would hit me again. I begged with all my heart. He claimed to be such a badass. He was six foot seven and strong as a bull. He refused to confront my brother. He forceded me to drive out of my driveway bawling because nobody ever helped me defend myself.
My mom has her moments. She let him get away with slamming against walls before he was eighteen. Finally when he hurt me at 21 she declared war. She was not letting her teenage daughter get hit by a grown man. He got kicked the fuck out. My dad went into a murderous rage. My aunt jonell saw how bad I beat him up and felt sorry for him. She paid for his new glasses, set him up in an apartment, bought him new furniture and even a new tv. He was rewarded for hurting me. My dad entered a near lunatic style attack on me for hurting his son and taking him away. His new mantra was I’m going to kill you, your mother and then myself. I’ll tell you exactly what I did. I started taking oxy to cope with the fear.
I went on a five day bender. I missed a full week of school so high it was probably nearly an overdose. My parents did one thing right. They tried to hide the pills from me. I will never be able to tolerate the company of someone on opiates. I went through dope sickness. I searched the house looking for more drugs. I had to get over it and I learned my goddamn lesson.
Eventually they stopped hiding the pills and I only took one every four or five days. They are memories of happiness and relief for me. I remember being high and seeing paisleys and pink elephants. I don’t think I could have coped without the oxy. But I’ll never be a drug addict.
I nailed competitions that year. I won’t bore you with details but I picked killer scenes that made people cry, freak out and give me way more than a standing ovation. I was the best actress in the school and it was my choice to pick my last play. I was told it couldn’t be done. I told my teacher to try me. I wanted more than a play. I wanted a book. I wanted ‘the crucible.’ My dream role was to be Abigail the historic villain that started the salem witch trials. I had to beg the administration to let us perform a four plus hour play. It was so intricate my own damn teacher was an actor. I nailed that role. I make an amazing villain. I hoped my dad would go but he had no soul. Any normal father would die to see his daughter star in something that epic.
I did miss half the year in absences. I had to start taking anti-depressants. That my prince is one of the main reasons I don’t fit into that blue dress. Anti-depressants cause weight gain. It can’t be avoided. If I had to pick the worst day of my life I know it by heart. I was getting ready to star in the crucible. I thought my dad had days to live. I don’t need much in life. I’m a strong fucking woman. I needed him to do one thing for me. I can give a motherfucking speech. He made me give it on one side of his locked bedroom door or I would have forceded him to look at me.
I begged him to do one thing for me. I begged him to say he loved me one time.
I drove to my best friend’s house. I won’t bore you with how much I helped her that year. When I need help I go to people that I’ve helped. We knew by then she would be the valedictorian. She no longer needed me for a ride to school. She no longer had to act like a normal human. I knew her secrets. She was daddy’s little fuck doll. I showed up at her house hysterical. She let me in and showed no emotion. I still had to tell someone what I just lived through. I’ll never forget it. She stood at the stove methodically measuring and cooking grits. She had her back turned to me.
I poured out my anguish. I also poured out another secret. To be on stage I entered a psychotic Atkins diet to shrink my tits. I did it twice. I was truly in a state of starvation and not thinking straight. That was her moment. She didn’t mention a word about my father. She turned around with a spoon held up like a weapon and declared ‘lynn it’s about goddamn time someone told you to get on a fucking treadmill’ At thirty two I would bash her skull in for those words. At seventeen I left broken and went home and nearly overdosed on oxy.
I lost the goddamn weight. The dress my grandmother sewed me had to be pinned back I was so little. That is the dress that I’m wearing when I’m in a puritan costume. That picture makes me giggle. All I see is my whore orange hair and these giant tits. I love that picture. I know these tits were meant for a character like Abigail.
When it was time to study for my college placement exams I entered a state of dedication you can’t imagine. I had the study books to read once and memorize. I could score a three on the test for one semester of credit. Or I could score a four and earn a full year of credit. I giggle because I knew kids like the cunt valedictorian went every day and couldn’t get a four on those tests. I beat her at history so often she did finally say ‘you really are just smarter than me.’
When I want something I get it. I wanted all fours. I wanted almost two full years of college complete and a full scholarship anywhere in florida plus the cost of books. I got all fours. My senior year I was tested and I got through death with straight A’s. I talked about dresses a lot. It was important for me what I wore under that graduation gown. It had to be timeless. It had to be perfect. I found the perfect sleeveless little black dress by calvin klein in a size eight.
Yes my prince, I will fit in both those dresses and it will happen quickly. I swear there were 500 kids graduating with me. I was ranked 42. It is my favorite number. If you read the ‘hitchhiker’s guide to the galaxy’ you would understand. It is a book about satire. They create a machine that is built to answer the question what is the purpose of life. It spit out the response ’42.’ The only reason I didn’t rank higher was failing PE, health and not taking a college math instead of drama.
I truly thought my dad would go to my graduation. He had his second duct operation and he could’ve gone. He watched me cry and beg him to go after I worked so hard to make it. He refused. He deserved a can of peaches.
That summer was nothing but a death watch. Me and my mom talk about it. It’s no joke if we had access to a gun we would have killed him. My boyfriend had no choice but to move in. My father wouldn’t even let him sleep in my bed. He only let him move in because he needed someone with a gun to protect us from a home invasion. Too many people knew he was dying and we had a stock pile of oxy and meth. My father needed a strong man in the house to protect his drugs. My boyfriend was smart enough to hide the gun from me and never let me have it. By then my father was insane. He would stand there berating me with a fist held up to my face. I egged him on and said hit me you old dying fuck so I can beat you down.
We stopped the hostility for a few days that summer that haunt me. My dad loved his parents so fucking much. His father was his best friend. His mother was the only woman on earth with value. He was too sick to drive himself. He had no choice but to ask me and my boyfriend to drive him three hours away so he could say goodbye. It’s true that sometimes people know they are going to die and they can’t explain it. My grandfather was the only man in the world who loved me. He was my world.
He knew he wasn’t going to live longer than my dad. He had never met my boyfriend before. Tim realized my dad was a piece of shit but my grandfather was a master carpenter and a wonderful man. He made him promise to take care of his little girl. Tim made that promise. My grandfather made us listen to an old country song where a man tells his family goodbye. He sang it to us. I just wept. In my mind I thought he was trying to reach out to my father. No he knew he would die in a few days and he sang us goodbye. He was a wonderful musician. Sure enough he went in for a routine procedure and died on the table a few days later.
My father suffered for what he put me through. He should’ve been spared his father’s funeral. I needed Papa to help me get over losing my dad. In some ways I don’t think he could handle his son’s funeral. In many ways that first funeral was too much for tim. I could sense him having a breakdown just trying to love me. I enrolled us both in a damn good school within driving distance of my house. I didn’t have the money for a dorm. I was also not leaving my mom to go off to college when I could live with her and drive to one in thirty minutes.
Tim was two years older than me. I told him he was a fool for not going to college after earning a full scholarship. I told him I wouldn’t marry a man that refused a free education. We went to orientation together and we prepared to start our life.
My dad was fine five days before school started. That final day he was suddenly non-responsive in a coma. We called the ambulance and watched him wheeled out of his room for the last time. God works in mysterious ways. That day his junkie friend showed up. I asked him what all drugs my dad took. He told me he did all drugs. From crack, to heroin, to meth, cocaine. I was enraged. I told him I would fucking kill him if he showed up at my house again. I warned him I would beat his ass if he showed up at the hospital or the goddamn funeral. I was so mad I refused to get in the car with my mom and my brotherr to go to the hospital.
It was a miracle. I just knew I wanted to drive my damn self. I was in the waiting room when my mom called me. They got hit by a drunk driver and the entire back seat of the care was torn off. They were seriously injured from whiplash. If I had been in the car I wouldn’t be typing this.
My story does read like fiction. My first morning of college two things happened at exactly the same time. My alarm clock rang as the phone began ringing. I knew what the call meant. I answered the phone that he was dead enraged. He fucked me all the way up to my first day of college. He made the alarm into a phone call he was gone. I wasn’t missing my first day of college for that motherfucker. It was hilarious. My boyfriend had a class that started one hour before mine. I was having a nice chat with god. I have mentioned my town revolves around strawberries.
We have a festival. Every year some senior high school girl gets a crown and becomes the strawberry festival queen. I had known the girl since seventh grade. She was the most stuck-up cheerleader on earth. She was that girl you couldn’t even be nice to she was so haughty. Of all the people on earth she saw me sitting on a bench and had to talk to me. She wouldn’t look at me in high school. Suddenly the day my dad died she had to start talking about her crown, her glorious new boyfriend, and her sororiety options. I swear if I don’t google up how to properly spell a word then I loathe it. I can’t spell sororiety and I don’t want to learn it.
I talked about it with friends. I had a free pass. I was in a state of shock. I was visualizing beating her down with my textbook as she was speaking. I have never been so close to a homicidal rage. We have discussed the topic and I should have beat up the strawberry festival queen just in principle. I wish I had. I only refrained by focusing on the fact I may hurt her bad enough she required cosmetic procedures.
The very next day we had his funeral. He didn’t love me but I loved him. We cremated his ass. Yet I couldn’t bear the thought of not even having a casket to look at. That night I did something beautiful. I went through what few pictures we had. I used a scanner to blow them up. I mounted them on poster board. I had seven or eight photo collages that represented his life. I had pictures of his beloved dog. His time in Vietnam. His yearbook photo from st.croix. I blew up his damn driver’s license. I documented his life. We only had one photo of all four of us together. I was a one year old baby. But damn it I made us look like a family. It touched my grandma so deeply she kept those boards. I didn’t shed a tear. I was happy. It was over. Or at least I thought it was over.
I will never be able to fully trust a man. It was the day of the funeral and the man I planned to marry refused to come home with me. He was so full of shit he claimed he had ‘homework’ from one day of an astronomy class. I knew what he really needed. He needed a bottle of jack daniels. Timing for our demise was correct. He always told me that he cared for one other female in the world. She just flunked out of college and showed up back in town. She was even working at boston market. At first she had a boyfriend and we hung out as two couples. I knew when she left her boyfriend she had tim.
Irony is the night my dad died we raided his shop to see what the fuck he had in there. We found his tackle box of drug needles, an ounce of pot and his pipe. We also found a porn magazine collection of such epic proportions it was truly a full truck bed of everything from swank, fox,gallery, barely legal, hustler, penthouse and playboy. He had strange ones like Asian nymphos. It was classic. I inherited enough porn for three hundred men to whack off with.
The day after the funeral me, my mom and my grandma went to Atlanta just for a much needed vacation for two days. While I was gone he smoked my dead dad’s pot with the girl he planned on leaving me for. He was a carpenter and he built me a three story tower. It was where we spent every evening together. With his new woman he ripped out every centerfold in each magazine and collaged the tower in 80’s pussy.
He couldn’t leave me right away. He wanted us both. He bounced back in forth enough for me to lose track. The first time he bounced to her I busted him showing up at boston market and punched that motherfucker hard enough to bust his lip open. We got back together and he had to tell me I have a damn good right hook.
The next time he bounced back to her I showed up at the tower and poured out a brand new bottle of jack and got it in his eyes. He came back to me. I let him know I couldn’t be with a drunk. I had him two years sober. I would not have him drunkk. We fucked. He called me the next day to tell me that our mutual friend told him after we fucked he got black out drunkk went to sherry and fucked her too. I puked. Then I got angry.
Our song was always lynard skynard’s ‘Tuesday’s gone’ I took a marker and wrote ‘Tuesday’s gone with the wind’ as big as possible across the wall. I moved my best friend in with me. Pot saved my damn life. I had at least a thousand oxy or an ounce of pot. I chose the pot. It got me through some serious grieving.
My male friends took me in. They knew I lost my dad and my boyfriend in one day. Most of them were former lovers. They threw me some parties that are legend. My male best friend is a boy named brent. I love him like a brotherr. We talked about it recently when his wife left him and I was ready to take her place. He was the only boy that wasn’t sexual with me ever. He is not attracted to me at all. I finally asked him why. He says he always thought my face looked too young.
I let him know his friendship kept me off opiates. I let him know that one man choosing to be my friend and not my lover is priceless. He thinks I’m such a slut. I love it. I made his brotherr cum in his pants. I fucked his dorm roommate. His roommate was damn good sex. We ended up fucking in the shower, the bathroom floor and then against the toilet. Brent had enough when he heard the slamming of porcelain against his bedroom wall. He busted in on us fucking against a toilet and told us to get our shit together and fuck in a bed and not on a fucking toilet.
But my prince this is part one of why I don’t fit in the blue dress anymore. I went asexual. I had my heartbroken so bad I stopped giving a damn what I looked like.
I did occasionally hook up with men. They got me when I was in a vintage t-shirt with my hair a mess. I didn’t want to be pretty anymore. I stood out for not trying. I still do. I became an artist. I entered a whole world where no one cared about pretty. I was one of the boys. To pull it off I wasn’t skinny. I didn’t wear anything pretty. I didn’t wear make-up. I truly was a printmaker. I stayed covered in ink. It is all oil based and it stains. I had black fingernails from ink not polish.
I wore rags that were purposefully covered in ink. Most people assumed I painted houses. I had a life of all female company. Men still chased me and I shut them down. I could’ve married my professor. We were in love. We loved each other’s art. He pursued me hard. I couldn’t risk another broken heart. I preferred to lose him than let myself be hurt again.
I told you that the boy in the picture next to me in the blue dress nearly killed me twice. This was how the first time happened. We did have our moment in the tower with a gun. We contemplated double suicide. We were in love. He just loved two women. The other woman became one of my best friends after she married the man who should’ve married me.
She left him after eight years. He came right back to my door. The next chapter is about round two and how he actually did hurt me far worse than leaving me the day my dad died.
There is a fairytale after all this horror. I made it. I need to drop twenty pounds to fit in that dress. It’s going to be easy with a stimulant that makes me unable to eat. I will shrink like I’m melting. Most girls can’t wear a dress like that once. It is about having huge tits and a set of hips. I’m going to wear it at 32. Time stood still. I will fuck with him. When I get back in that dress I’ll have pictures made. His wife is one butt ass ugly drunken monster. I will mail him my picture and show him how I got better than ever. Wearing his favorite blue dress with my hair the color of tangerines he will feel remorse.
That jeep taught me so many lessons I needed to learn. My uncle could have set my hundred dollar bill on fire in front of me to further prove his point. You have to pay for something to really appreciate it’s value. He didn’t teach that to Apryl. He didn’t teach it to his step daughter. However, he knew I could appreciate that lesson and incorporate it into my life. It also gave him his first opportunity to meet me and determine my potential. He terrified me. He terrified our shrink. He became a millionaire because he was a terrifying man to contend with. I impressed the shit out of him. But, I kept him at arms length just like any male authority figure that could control me. He didn’t just take my money and send me on my way.
Each month he had a new lesson for me to learn. And I gave him joy because I was the only biological connection capable of being his pupil. He didn’t know about my past being fourteen and fighting child labor and blatant exploitation. I got tired of not being treated as an equal with women who used me to do their work. I took the pay cut to end being treated like a sex toy for my boss. Boston Market is where I landed. I went from being loaded with cash to scrambling for a hundred dollars each month to pay a millionaire for a car I considered a triumph against all dumb girls that have it easy because they had daddy’s unlimited bank account. He could’ve given me any car. Money was no object. He was determined that he would not turn me into a spoiled brat like the two daughters he was forced to support. He was determined to make me better. He did. Even though he terrified me into silence. I learned from him every month.
I realized how important it is to achieve respect from everyone you encounter. People hated him he was so blunt. He once told angie and some of my other friends to get the fuck away from him because they were breathing his air. At sixteen, I thought that made him a dick. At 31, I know at some point in time, I will become frustrated to the point where I declare that someone has no business breathing my air. I’m surprised I haven’t said that line already. I think he had to eat a bullet to catapult me into the self esteem it requires to make that statement. The funny thing is when I go hawthorne and make that declaration, I’ll probably say it to a man with a snide expression on my face that makes him want to beat the shit out of me. Being around him gave me pride in the blood running through my veins. I’ve gone into blind rages against men that no one ever knew about. It’s all related to that damn car and our monthly chats.
When jimmie broke chris’s jaw I was furious. I learned a lot about jimmie. Now, he’s a good friend’s brother. When he got jealous seeing my best friend with chris and busted his face. I went into a supreme rage. At the time angie and chris were my two best friends. I was around so much that I was a part of their relationship in a non-sexual way. They accepted me as a third wheel. Chris will always be special to me. He was the first boy in elementary school I had a crush on. I can picture him at ten years old just as easily as I can picture him now. It was hard watching my best friend fall in love with chris. We shared weird things. His grandma lived in the same neighborhood with aunt jonell. He was the boy on the bike that was always smiling. He’ll always be one of my favorite people because he has an infectious grin. The fact he was dating my best friend was perfect.
I was in a freshman whorefest and no man could’ve controlled my conquest of cute boys in sweaters. Not even chris could beat the temptation of a whole new world of older boys that kept me constantly entertained. Glenn Bauer alone was completely enough to prevent my whorefest. He is magic. When he disappeared, I just had a steady stream of foreplay. I spent so much time with angie and chris it was about as close as real dating as I managed. It made me and angie closer. and I finally got to be friends with my childhood dream. Chris and his whole family bonded with my family while flea marketing at the silver moon drive in. My dad never said much about my life. but, he declared that I needed to marry chris. I’ll never forget it. That was pretty much the only advice he gave me. He told me to marry the smiling boy that we always ran into on sunday morning trips to the flea-market. I explained that he was dating my best friend. It didn’t cause me jealousy. I didn’t declare to my dad that my desire to kiss every man at once was enough to prevent me from jealousy.
I can only say every day after school I enjoyed his company and that made me content. There company together was adorable. Chris is always going to fall into the category of men I prefer friendship with over sexuality. I’m not saying sex wouldn’t be amazing. Some men that meant the most to me were so valuable as a friend, I wouldn’t taint our relationship with teenage sex that ends in heartache or marriage. The day jimmie hit chris I became furious on levels. One he royally made my best friend lose her shit. He punched someone I considered practically a brother and a childhood friend. And he punched him so hard he fucked up the best fucking smile in the entire high school. It was also a senseless act of violence that is guaranteed to make me do some shit my uncle would pull. God loves irony. He could’ve just gone home after he threw that punch. I know at the time he was fucked up. I just thought he was jealous because angie dropped him like a wet turd when someone like chris entered her life. I learned enough about what he was really going through to know I placed myself in a situation that damn near guaranteed a solid beat down from a strong man.
I still would’ve done it. Nothing would’ve kept me from verbally destroying kenneth for punching becky. Nothing would’ve kept me from verbally destroying jimmie for punching chris. Especially when I found out the severity of the facial blow chris took. When I enter a rage, I lose time, memory, fear and logic. All that matters is calling out the person that hurt my friends and making them feel like pathetic trash. For me, it becomes more than just ‘you don’t deserve to breath my air.’ I become a tornado with black eyes like my mother and there is no telling what will come flying out of my mouth. I saw him strutting through the mall. We were alone. In a lot of ways, entering that state, I fixate on targeting my prey and saying things no one should have the balls to say. He only knew me as angie’s sidekick. He didn’t know my ability to reach way down in my soul and project the ultimate form of a true cunt that destroys with words.
I was wrong when I guessed kenneth was my first real black out rage. My brother was my first opponent. He thought he could pick me up by the neck and slam me around when I was just starting high school and he had just graduated. My brother was stronger than me when I was 14. I learned to fight with words. I have no memory of what I say, especially after hitting the wall, but I come back fighting. And I could destroy him by simply pointing out most boys graduated and had real lives. They don’t beat up a sister four years younger. In that moment I probably told him I thought he was a pervert that decided to beat me instead of fuck me. I go places, better left unsaid when I enter a rage. There is one aspect of my rage that doesn’t change. I tell the truth. That’s what always hurts the most.
Jimmie would’ve walked by me with a smirk if I just simply called him a dick. I hate rumors. I hate repeating them. The first rumor I heard about his punch was that he only did it because he was fucked up on something. He was either on a world class ego trip or he was as high as a kite when I confronted him. Not pleasant heroin high. The scary drugs make me invincible high. The logical solution was to stay far away from him and run/walk to avoid his path. Call it bipolar, call it genetics, call it growing a set of balls to rival my uncle, I forced a confrontation. I tend to be quiet. When I rage out and tell a guy he’s pathetic because he can’t ever find a girl like angie, that his best chance to date is to go back to tomlin, that only a pussy throws a blind punch and runs from a real fight, that even with my cunt I’m more of a man than a loser that only scores cheap blows. That’s some of an edited variation of the shit I threw at him. I think he expected someone to confront him. I think that was his whole purpose for standing in the mall like he was looking for a fight.
I’m not joking when I say I have no fear of physical pain. I know he fucked up chris’s jaw and his teeth. But, when I’m truly pissed I go so far it could kill me. I dared him to fight me. I dared him to punch me in the face and see what happens. Chris is someone that doesn’t need someone to fight his battles. In a fair fight, they both would’ve been bloody. Actually having a fourteen year old girl beg him to pull that shit on me and see what happens left him pretty fucking silent. My eyes don’t play. When I dare a man to hit me, you look into black eyes that truly show no fear. I don’t care how much meth is in your system, when I make that dare, the truth is men have to face getting clawed, kicked, bit, and loosing testicles. I have tiny hands and my punches will never hurt.
But,the fact is when you hit me, one thing happens I’m on top of you and I have no rules. Fighting my brother I learned how to attack and damage balls using damn near every part of my body. I knew jimmie was furious. I called him out for a pussy punch that even a girl has more respect to pull. Just letting him know I have a cunt and recognize a coward on a power trip. because compared to chris he looked like a mutt that belonged tied up to a tree. The truth hurts he wanted to hit him in some macho event where he could call him a faggot for having long hair. I let him know he didn’t fool me. He dreamed of being with angie and chris’s hair will always be sexy. Calling him a faggot over his hair is just as obvious as admitting that chris’s hair made him so jealous he felt the need to bust up his face. I don’t think he thought anyone would tell him what we all were thinking. He didn’t expect it from me. Men in that state never expect the harshest insults to come from a woman. They assume all women fear getting the shit kicked out of them for stuff like I say.
I know chris had male friends that loved him but avoided that confrontation because jimmie throws punches that break faces. He has no idea I did it. I doubt angie remembers I did it. If my story travels around this town, then they’ll know. I don’t care if I lose every tooth in my face, no school yard punk is going to hit one of my friends without facing my scary wrath. In that moment my goal is to get hit. It was a win-win situation. If he hit me he would go down as a pussy that hits girls, and he’d also realize just how hard I can annihilate a set of balls with one swift slam with my kneecap. Punching couldn’t keep my brother from beating me down. But I mastered the opportunity to crush his balls when he fucked with me. I was the little sister from hell. I can’t believe he fathered children. He couldn’t hit me in the face. I took awkward blows to my broke arm, my tits and steady punches to the kidneys. Getting punched in the kidneys hurts in a way, you don’t hesitate any chance you get to mutilate testicles.
In my rage not only are you going to get a deep blow to the balls, I’m twisted enough to pop out an eyeball. I wish I could remember how he responded. That’s what sucks about a true rage is not having a full memory. The typical response a man can muster is ‘you’re a fat bitch’ it happens like clockwork. It only instigates me further and gives me amusement. I will always be a fat bitch even at an ideal weight. I’ve had the stigma of being slightly overweight my whole life. I embrace that shit. Not being as thin as a lot of girls worked to my advantage. I got away with murder. Guys like alex ameyot tried to tell me I’m just a little too fat to get the guys I want. He said it because we had numerous nights of serious foreplay but I refused to fuck him.
He knew I fucked other people, but he wasn’t getting his shot. He was a great kisser. He also had a shockingly small penis. It’s hard to get me off. I don’t see how he could even properly penetrate me, much less make me come. Men are sensitive about dick size. Most are so average. Some men have nothing to work with. I was dying to tell him I would’ve slept with him but he had the smallest dick I’ve ever seen. I let him call me fat. I knew informing him I didn’t think sex with him was even possible would’ve got me hit. He’s one of the only men I pissed off to the point he held out a fist to hit me. I still couldn’t resist the urge to grin and dare him to do it.
Me and my father lived in that state where he raised a hand to hit me and I begged him to do it. I know jimmie was dying to pound my face. I think he was also realizing he was going to be paying some major medical bills for his cheap shot at the greatest smile in the high school. Maybe he just viewed me as another medical bill and one final blow to his reputation. Maybe I scared him into remembering how painful it is to feel like your balls exploded. It’s pain that leaves a man clutching his crotch while leaving his face open for me to dig my tiny little nails into eye jelly.
My brother only has two functioning eyes because he was protected by glasses. And I still managed to scrape his eye so bad he had to see an eye doctor. When you also throw in the fact I bite like a pit bull and rip out chunks of hair. We reached a point as siblings when he knew he couldn’t touch my face but when I fight there are no rules. He learned I could destroy his balls and I was only irritated when he threw body punches. I don’t think my brother intended to punch my tits. But, our fights were no holds barred confrontations and I’m little enough that he just took any blow he could. Since, my tits have always been massive, hitting me always ended in a tit blow that made him feel like a pervert. When I took a solid tit blow I considered him a pervert.
By middle school me and my brother beat the shit out of each other whenever no one was looking. We were never alone without fighting. I think he was determined to stop getting mangled by his much younger sister. I was fighting off an older brother who trained me to fight after years of violence. No one saw it as a little girl finally fighting back against an older, stronger man. Nope, I left marks. I clawed his face open frequently. I always got in trouble for leaving visible signs of violence. So many times I wanted to flash my dad and show him one of my bruised tits. It wouldn’t have mattered in our house he could hurt me anyway possible without fucking up my face. That pissed me off and I went for his face every time.
I was always in trouble for busting his glasses. We had to live in separate houses. I came home on the weekends. He went to aunt jonells on the weekends. In my dad’s warped world my brother was a victim of my brutality. He hated watching me kick the shit out of his son who was a complete dork. I thought fighting my brother would be the only time as a woman a man could attack me and feel justified. When jen’s boyfriend tried to choke me out I entered the ultimate rage. I wouldn’t stop hurting him.
She never thanked me for being the friend that told her boyfriend ‘if you hit her, I’ll kill you motherfucker’ she was embarrassed he choked me out and bashed up my face with no warning. However, the way I fought back she truly felt it was a fair fight. In a fucked up way I had to know she’s got fucked up views of abuse. But, in that fight I destroyed him. He had permanent scars on his face and I bit his hand so hard he permanently lost feeling in his hand. That fight was so intense we both got out of the car to keep on fighting. I was screwed because he ripped out both of my contacts. That pissed me off to a point I would’ve fought him totally blind.
Jen pulled the ultimate betrayal on me. I demanded to be let out of the car to call the police. I was ready to walk across memorial road completely blind to call for help. She refused to let me out of the car. I always give friends a second chance if they hurt me. Making me trapped in the backseat of her sports car and not getting me help was something I should never have forgiven. Her only concern was getting him to a place where he could run from the police. I was his third strike and I planned to send him to jail for life. I was naive I could have sent him to jail for life and I could’ve locked her up for imprisoning me with someone who attempted to kill me. She deserved a felony record for trapping me in that car.
He choked me to the point I had no air. Digging at his eyes saved my life. I bit him and destroyed his hand for pure revenge. I couldn’t eat real food for a week I hurt my jaw so bad. He could’ve choked me to death. For him he just wanted to prove he could keep me from breathing and speaking. He couldn’t do it to jen because it might cost him a woman that paid for him to live. As her friend, I was the perfect outlet for his constant urge to choke her. He didn’t expect a fight. He didn’t know what happens when I black out and fight. He stopped choking me when it became difficult. It’s also not easy to strangle someone sitting behind you. That is an ignorant move. You can’t properly choke someone at that angle. The fact he tried and inflicted my first genuine feeling that someone was killing me. Made me go insane.
He stopped choking, I started fighting. I clawed open his face like he fought a wolverine. It didn’t matter that he stopped choking me. I started fucking him up with blows to the head. I ripped down jen’s sunroof. I think that was the only part of our fight that she couldn’t tolerate. We fucked up her sports car. In her eyes we were equally responsible and she had an upholstery tear to prove it was an equal battle. When I tore open his face he beat my face black and blue. If he managed to tear out both contacts I took serious facial blows. I felt nothing. I just continued clawing flesh and I had my heart set on the satisfaction of ramming my finger deep in his eyes. To get my contacts out he was on a similar mission. Punching me in the eye won’t pull out a contact. I had trouble getting those fuckers out all the time
. jen’s boyfriend knew, laura found out, my brother knows, I’m sure I’m forgetting someone major. It doesn’t matter how hard you hit me. I will get your flesh in my mouth and refuse to quit biting. All three of them cut off my air and when I’ve got a chunk of your flesh in my mouth, I bite hard enough to gain control and stop the violence. Jen’s boyfriend was screwed the instant he wasn’t whaling on me and he put his hand in biting distance. It was such a moment of triumph. I know what life is like with a damaged hand. I don’t know how I got him. But, it was deep and I had half his palm in a death grip of teeth and jaw strength. It was an act of justified evilness.
There are so many levels of pain. A punch that breaks bone and teeth hurts in ways I can’t fathom. But, I can fathom the pain I inflicted on that fuckers hand. I could feel it happening. I knew what I was doing to his hand would fuck up his world. I could literally feel my jaw and teeth moving tendons and nerves. Nothing would’ve released my death grip when I could feel the satisfaction of truly ruining his hand. All I know is I had his right hand and he had no angle to land a solid left handed punch that would make me stop biting. Then I got the rush of him screaming in true agony. I took solid blows to the face that should’ve knocked me unconscious. However, I think it’s an aspect of being bipolar, I don’t get knocked out.
He tried to knock me out because I was tearing his face apart and I know he took scratches to his cornea. You can feel it when you finally get into an eye. He scratched my eyeballs so bad I couldn’t just put in a fresh pair of contacts. I’ve also stabbed my own eyeballs enough to know the eye doctor tells you it heals in time. Actually, bashing my face doesn’t hurt, I’m in an adrenalin rush with no sense of pain. But, I knew how sensitive hands are. I knew he was screaming in intense pain. I only wanted to make him scream harder. I wouldn’t stop. jen and her boyfriend begged me to release his hand. I finally stopped when my jaw couldn’t take any more pressure. As I let go I saw the deep indentations from my bite and I knew I made a scar that he would see every time he looked his hand. I also know I shifted tendons and nerves. I knew not only did I inflict agony. I knew he needed a professional to repair what I did. For me it felt like going full circle.
Throwing a bad punch destroyed feeling in my left hand. It fucked up my world. To be able to destroy someone’s right hand made me so content. I don’t know how many blows I took to the head and face. I would be black and blue for damn near a month. But, I felt his hand being destroyed. I reminded myself I’m not an easy girl to beat. Punches heal. Hands don’t. I quit biting because I never dreamed jen would trap me in a car. and deliver him to safety so he could run from the police. I was blind without my contacts. When we got out of the car to keep on fighting because he listened to me verbally assault him for an entire thirty minute car ride, I saw what I did to his face.
He fucked up because I had a full set of fake nails and I clawed him so hard I ripped half of them off and didn’t feel it. The motherfucker probably had to pick chunks of acrylic gel from the bloody disaster I turned his face into. He did hard time in jail. I’m sure he experienced some beat downs. What I did to his face and hand made him so irrational he wanted to get me at good angle and attempt to do half the damage I did to him. The irony is he wasn’t going to be able to punch me with a right hook. I doubt he ever threw a punch with that hand again. I was still aching for a fight. For me, he got off easy because he doesn’t how swiftly I can deliver a blow to the balls that developed with years of training. The best part of a boy versus girl fight was dropping my brother to his knees and beating the shit of his head unguarded because he was clutching his balls.
I always knew my punches would be weak. But, I also know my hardest blow to an unprotected ear hurts like a motherfucker. I only got to beat up my brother. A justified opportunity to do it to another man is dangling candy in my face. To do it to someone with time in prison that choked me breathless was nearly an impossible opportunity to pass up. I also found it fascinating to meet someone I hurt so bad they expected to throw down in a parking lot like he wasn’t bigger, stronger and fighting a little chick. I’m not even 5’4. I could understand fighting me in private. He didn’t care if an entire apartment complex saw him beating a woman. If you looked at his face and neck combined with the way he clutched his battered hand to his chest. A lot of people probably thought he had a psychotic girlfriend that truly deserved a beat down.
It takes time for bruising to happen. You couldn’t tell he fucked me up hardly at all. I managed to make his face look like it went through a paper shredder. He was such a vain guy. He knew I scarred his face with broken acrylic nails that slice through flesh like butter. I was very clear I planned to bust my ass to see him serve life because he tried to be some terrifying man dumb enough to choke me when sex wasn’t involved.
Then jen who studied criminology manipulated me so bad during that car ride. I knew I got choked and I fought like a demon. I knew I was a victim. I was also naive about laws. And from the moment it happened she said because he was far more injured than me to the point he needed to go to the ER we would both be punished. In fact she pretty much convinced me I would end up paying his medical bills. I was in shock she even tried to tell me it was domestic abuse and both parties face equal punishment. I wasn’t dumb enough to think another girl’s boyfriend could choke me and it was domestic abuse. But, she focused on the only thing that concerned me
. I know the system is screwed up enough that I could probably send him to jail but he was fucked up bad and I was terrified of being forced to pay for his expensive and vital time with a hand specialist. I also knew she picked a side when she wouldn’t let me out of the car. If I stumbled into a citgo blind and bloody the way I demanded he would’ve served life. In thirty minutes I realized she was the third party describing the assault. It broke my heart to realize not only would she deny the truth that he attacked me and made feel like he was going to kill me. She would paint me as a lunatic that attacked him with no provocation. She wouldn’t have hesitated. He would press charges on me with a third party witness. And ultimately I would’ve been sued for hand recreation surgery and scar removal treatments for his face. Plus, a bonus lawsuit for ruining his ability to have a normal life because ruining his hand would put him out of work and he could probably score bonus money for pain and suffering.
That night when she convinced me to get back in the car rather than beating him down with a mangled hand. I knew that would’ve landed me in jail for fighting in public. I still regret not doing it. I was ready to show the motherfucker I may fight like a woman but I know how to get him on the ground and kick him with tiny feet that deliver precise blows to something like a nose. Also that day I was in heels. I know where to apply pressure with a heel in ways a normal girl wouldn’t think. I know nothing hurts quite like a swift kick to the adams apple. My brother taught me how to fight. He taught me that all of our fights were not going to be situations when I had to fear random acts of violence. I became a source of random acts of violence.
Really young I was never safe. He was ten and his sick pleasure was stroking knives in front of me like a serial killer. When I learned to fight, He learned his first lesson in shock. He learned to stay out of reach. One solid kick in the adams apple taught him I was a threat and he didn’t scare me. I got good. He couldn’t punch my fucking tits like he did from the time I grew them. He came near me and I started to kick the shit out of him. Walking in my path became a process. I waged war on his kneecaps. I can’t punch but sitting close to me was an invitation to get a sharp kick in the face. My parents didn’t discipline but I got yelled at for kicking him in the face at every opportunity. He could reach for the remote and I would seize the opportunity to kick him in the side of his head.
B sends me a message not to text him because he’s hanging out with Jenny Biscuits. She was my best friend. They dated. I was his mistress. I shared him with someone besides jenny biscuits. So, if this girl tells my secrets, I’ll tell hers. B would do anything to date jenny biscuits again. He loves her. He also wants to fuck her best friend on the down low. If you were close friends with this girl, you would want to fuck her boyfriend. All the mean little thing she said just got filed in my mind in the file called ‘reasons I fucked your boyfriend’ If they get back together I may lose it a little bit. Hopefully, she just uses him to vent. B’s like a damn woman. He will tell me details. He’ll also misquote anything related to his role in her life. I’ll be put in impossible positions where I lie about B. We both enjoy the thrill of getting caught. Some of our best sex was when we could’ve been caught. that happened with the girl that plays games on her phone. She doesn’t bother me. She just sits there and plays her games. She will be his roommate. They’re not together but neither of them is supposed to hook up in the house. I’m going to enjoy every night I can spend there before she moves in. I will watch netflix all night. I will do dishes in between episodes. I will clean his sink. Then I’ll go back to ‘breaking bad.’ That night after we did what we do and he passed out, I felt free. I had an endless amount of laundry to clean. I stayed there until ten am watching ‘breaking bad.’ I was a woman obsessed. It was one of the nicest nights I’ve spent there. I even had fun being stuck in a car with him in a bar parking lot. I’m so lucky he’s responsible for losing the keys or he would rag me about it till the day I died. I’m still convinced losing the keys was divine intervention. Someone, is watching out for me. I had fun that morning. He was worthless. I paid for everything. I don’t even want to know what our bar tab was at bobolouies. Jager doesn’t affect me like most liquor. I act normal but I’m actually blacked out. I’ll have no memory of events. I just sit on the bar stool in an amnesiac state. I know that’s bad. I don’t know how I act. I’m in a state I won’t remember. I don’t remember cashing out. I have no idea how much I tipped this guy it could be anything from two hundred dollars to five dollars. I know I could check my bank records but I’d rather not know. I hope drunk lynn at least remembered to tip well. My electronic key operator is busted so I just leave my car unlocked. I knew we didn’t need the keys to get in the car. I’ll never forget the hours buster snored and I frantically searched for the keys. But, I was also relieved that I didn’t have to drive. I’m going to put cab companies into my contact lists. I’m also going to get B’s address in case he passes out on me again. I’m good at staying awake when everyone is passed out. I didn’t even get drunk when I was watching ‘breaking bad.’ I didn’t even need to drink. That poor bastard she’s going to break his heart. And she’ll enjoy every second of it. Someone like me will get a call at 3am to pick him up from a bar. Maybe they’re having sex right this moment. The world works in mysterious ways. My luck I’ll end up a bridesmaid at their wedding. That would be my punishment for a torrid affair. I know one day jenny biscuits is going to punch me in the face. I accept that. But, she went around saying she wasn’t worried about me because I was too fat for B to fuck. That he would have no desire for me.Then I would meet up with him and think about that statement. I thought about it during sex. I thought about it when we were just hanging around. She shouldn’t have underestimated the fat girl. I’m on my own tonight. My bff is sleeping and she deserves the rest. B is trying to seduce jenny biscuits. I need more friends. But, I want them to come to me. I’m happy when I’m entertaining people in the attic. If my mom goes away I will throw a party. It will be a hawthorne party. Everyone except us cousins will pass out. Casey may actually physically pass out. But, he’ll be talking till the moment he’s out cold. I only pass out if I take my horse tranquilizers.