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.
I can be in the depths of hell. This is the depth of hell. Then something will hit me really hard. It’s a picture that can really get me. Sometimes it’s good. Sometimes it’s bad. So I do realize I emasculated a man last night. I really try not to do that all the time. I fight the urge to emasculate. Every now and again a man will do something to me or a good friend that allows me to harm his manhood. Like when jenny biscuit’s got humiliated by diaper boy and an internet web cam whore. As a good friend, it became my duty to emasculate for her while she cried and screamed. It was a hawthorne moment. Her fiance thought he was hot shit. Everyone has a secret. Her fiance had a motorcycle accident. He broke his dick and he shits himself all the time. Nonetheless, he’s still a man whore.
When he came to get his shit he was high on something. He had no idea. He didn’t realize what he was up against. He always looked at me and joked about fucking me. We were cool, until he stood there snide, high and ready to hurt my friend. I know how to degrade a man whore. The right combination of telling a man he fucks clams because he never had enough attention from mommy with the fact this abuse makes him want to fuck his mommy. Then the fact he’s only ever going to know whore’s like his mommy. When you leave a man wondering if he’s been trying to fuck his own mother because she’s a whore…they snap. I know I’m going to get hit one day.
Actually, it’s already happened with another one of jenny biscuit’s boyfriends. We had a fight so fierce he tried to choke me out. I know the moment some man is actually trying to choke me to death that I’ve pushed too far. In that moment when I’m being choked I have a natural instinct and ability to get my little fingers in some fuckers eyes. I’ll never have force behind a punch. However, when it comes to fighting like a woman…I’m down. All of a sudden my fingernails make me a female wolverine. I can pull, bite, scratch and wiggle my way out of being choked. Maybe it is a woman’s talent like childbirth. During a choke down we all become hellcats. He was the first person I bit. I’d wolverined his face and eyes enough to get him off my throat so he could punch me senseless. During the punches, he fucked up and got his hand near my mouth. For the love god don’t hurt me and stick your hand near my mouth. I’m going to fucking bite.
Every time I tell this story I actually relive it. It was the most traumatic thing I’ve been through. I realized some other bitch’s mule can bite you. We were in Jenny’s car I was in the back seat. It was a lesson from God. It was so random. They started arguing about something stupid while she was driving.
It wasn’t the fact she wasn’t paying attention to the road. Maybe that made me feel like she couldn’t defend herself. I don’t get in the middle of things. All of a sudden the fight escalated to the point he actually had to yell at her while holding out a hand to hit her. It was like watching a baby drown. All I had to say was ‘If you hit her motherfucker, I’ll fucking kill you.’ It will stay with me a lifetime. That’s what made him turn around to start choking me.
I think it’s jail. Completely. A new lynn rule. I won’t date you if you’ve done time or if you’re in and out like a revolving door. That’s a huge rule for me. I forgive everything. I don’t judge for past mistakes. However, I learn lessons from God. I have mega huge flaws like being insane. Nonetheless, I refuse to talk to anyone with a criminal record. If God drops a man in my lap. I accept all flaws. Until I think about the guy who choked me out, the nazi and NA dude. One didn’t even have to be my boyfriend to convince me I’ll never touch a criminal again. Just like people give up drugs, I’m giving up convicts. I don’t care if he’s as cute as the Don CeSar guy and
he has hayden’s personality… I will not associate with guy’s who’ve been in the system. Shawna, it’s your duty to help me keep my promises. It’s just as bad as me calling you in the night saying I need crack rock. You’ve got to be cruel enough to convince me when someone mentions the word jail I must flee like the wind.
Give the guy a break if he’s only done a year. To be honest, I could see myself snapping to the point I earn a year in jail. That night my cousin casey told the nazi that I let mexicans run train on me…I was going to set his car on fire. Most people say that in a joking manner. Only my cousin will understand I actually got out the lighter fluid and put on shoes. I don’t know how long you go to jail for burning cars. Only my mom would understand how keying a car could never give me satisfaction. Only my mom would understand getting mad enough at someone like Casey that I commit arson. I can’t promise my mom won’t set my car on fire. In all honesty when I was at the height of suicidal fury over Tim, I wouldn’t have been surprised if my mom burned his house down. If you told me he spent a week sleeping on his porch out of fear my mother would set his house on fire, I wouldn’t be surprised.
Accidents happen. It’s going to be rough Shawna. You’ll have to look up records. You know, I’ll never be wise enough to check a man’s background. Every time I meet a man I’m going to call you and say ‘Shhaawwnnaaa, I found a new critter.’ I’m so angry. If you have a dick and balls you’re just another critter to me. I have the weirdest night companionship with Hayden. He’s 3,000 miles away but while I’m writing I have the comfort knowing he’s playing on the computer with me. I send him the message:’analogies. I’m comparing men to critters. Im really into the word critter. If youre in my yard what kind of critter are you?’ In my loneliness and isolation knowing sometime before I fall asleep tomorrow that I’ll get a message and rationale behind what kind of critter he’d be.
It hits me. In this process of flirting with a boy that receives attention like it’s piss splashed in his face he made me feel like I manipulate men. I felt bad. Then I realized I was offering the same fragile and beautiful communication I have with Hayden. He can tell me the newest way the exwife his abusing him. I can tell him my mom hit me and we can discuss seafood buffets, death and critters. Two smart people with computers can entertain one another day and night. I wasn’t pissing on your face. I’m offering to be the girl that will love it when you are hit with sudden inspiration and I’ll listen. Hayden can just randomly blurt out “karma is not your cosmic bank account” and I get it. The fucked up thing is that I accept he’s at the all you can eat Sea Pussy Buffet and he’ll stand there patiently waiting for a fresh batch of hot clams. He likes shellfish and I’m trapping possums.
In my possum trap I’ll get all kinds of critters. I’ll be bringing shawna everything from squirrels to raccoons in my attempt to get the right possum. Sometimes, If I’m lucky I’ll trap an armadillo. The Don CeSar boy was an armadillo. I talked with the bff about the fact I’m half way convinced he was a celestial creature. He popped out of heaven and manifested at my hotel door. There were so many coincidences. There are things I don’t even talk about on facebook. He manifested himself into my personal view of perfection. He was tawdry enough to get my attention and stimulating enough to keep it. I realized that night no man has actually managed to stimulate me like that. It’s not just sex. It was his intellect and life stories. He’s a bartender going to school for writing. There is something so sexy about a witty, well educated cute boy with the street smarts of a bartender. It was the fact he could satisfy all my fantasies and make me the perfect long island.
If you’ve known me long if I could ask God for a guardian angel you know I would ask for a cute boy in a sweater. I wouldn’t want some amazing father figure or a little old lady. If I’m to receive divine intervention and guidance I would want to hear it from a cute boy in a sweater. Evil laughter only my bff or Hayden would understand. I knew he was my guardian angel because his teeth were just as beautiful as spikes. Even if he only reads it when I’m dead or engaged, Hayden will have the moment of laughter thinking about spikes teeth. You would have to know him. Spike is a cute colombian boy I dated. He had epically beautiful teeth. You could pay that boy to smile outside the dentist office his teeth were so pretty. He had me with the beauty of his smile. He was like a shark. I get the urge to log into my real face book and look at a picture of spike and his damn teeth.
I know my life his in the toilet. I know I’m and epic fuck up and a failure. Despite my mom trying to convince me I’m morbidly obese. Despite that I’ve totally quit eating and sleeping like a healthy person. Despite the kidneys I’m hellbent to destroy. Despite the fact my mom hit me and convinced me I’m trash. My bff can send me a message like ‘Don’t give up on life. Think about little brown boys with teeth like spike’ I will giggle. When I’m on the verge of flushing the toilet little things like spike’s teeth, keep me going. I’m just sticking around for communication with my bff and a few close friends. I learned a lesson watching Madmen. It’s a fact of life the more memos you send the less likely they’ll be read.
I know by writing a novel hardly anyone will take the time to read anything I post on facebook. If I could sum up my thoughts in one entertaining paragraph more people would give a shit what I have to say. By giving so much of myself, I’ve actually managed complete alienation. Like the guy sending out too many memos, I’m pissed off. Fuck people that are too lazy to read memos. Especially really important ones. I’m memo guy. All I’m trying to do is build an incredible agency and no one reads memos. I’m angry the world isn’t more entertaining. I’m fighting back. I don’t give a shit if the agency gets off the ground. I’m going to write some fucking memos that are legendary. Plus, as a double fuck I’m not reading anyone else’s goddamn memos. I know I’m a hypocrite. As an artist I will embrace hypocrisy and just announce I’m no longer reading my facebook newsfeed.
I did it like a duty. I enjoyed every picture of people’s kids. I heard about your dinner. I saw pictures of your dog. I did it. I have some amazing facebook friends. Unfortunately, no one I know does anything on facebook that is actually entertaining. If anyone mentioned one story about missing keys, boyfriend drama or something funny that happened in their life facebook would entertain me. Yawn. You people fucking bore me. Your memos suck. Fuck your dog. Fuck the inspirational quote to your best friend. Most of all, and I say it with love, Fuck your facebook game.
Hayden gets it. We were able to bitch about the fact our newsfeeds are lame. We both know great people. Yet our newsfeeds are about as entertaining as reading the daily flyer. Life could be a novel. I’m reading ads for free couches. It’s like an ad for a job you know is just a pyramid scheme. Facebook makes me think of an ad trying to get me to buy supplies to make beaded earrings for money. I fell for the ad. I’m following the directions making my damn beaded earrings. Yet when I go to sell them back to the company, my earrings are never perfect and they refuse to buy them. I realize I’ve been scammed and ass raped for my time and money. I call bullshit. Fuck that company. It was worth it. Now, I know I love making earrings. I’m reinvesting in supplies, doing it my way and selling my earrings on etsy. I realize wordpress is my etsy. I also realize I can get the cheapest beads from the company that ass raped me.
I will buy supplies from facebook. Each post is my bead earring. It takes time, energy, and enthusiasm to make a fucking earring. Rational people scream get a fucking job and stop making earrings. I can’t explain it to someone who doesn’t create. Making earrings, posts and analogies is my drug. I need it. I want it. I have to have it all the time. Since I have no ties and I’ve chosen to live like Emily Dickinson I have the luxury of making earrings. My selfish urge to write isn’t hurting my loved ones. No babies are going hungry because I’ve lost my mind a bit and I choose to write. I also have money. Aunt Jonell managed to leave me enough to start over. Some people will get it. Even if it’s only comparable to staying up really late to finish a great book or an amazing movie. You know you’re going to feel like shit the next day. Yet nothing can stop you until you see how it ends.
I took a break from school and fell in love with writing. The way some people like to dance, cook, make music or art and act. Most people would be content to slightly indulge these new loves. I’m screaming I have to dance and you can’t stop me. There comes a time for every person who says ‘I have to dance and I can make it work’ when they are judged by everyone they know. Every ballerina wonders what other ballerinas think of her dancing. I doubt my own ability. If I was a ballerina, I would be a fat ballerina. I would have the beauty and poise. But, I’d just be too fat.
Right this moment I feel like a fat ballerina willing to risk going to Juilliard. Even my own damn mom tells me how fat I am every second of the day. I can relate to a fat ballerina. I made the decision not to go back to nursing because I can dance. Fuck what anyone says. I’m rough around the edges. My grammar is shit. I know I need an editor. I know this is going to be as humiliating as being twenty pounds overweight at Juilliard. I have to write. NA guy hurt so bad because he slammed having a dream so hard I almost doubted myself. Every ballerina is going to get called a ‘silly dreamer.’ There is an insanity to the devotion that I have compared to my actual rewards. No one needs to rub it in my face that I do it for free. I know there is no grand high paying job guaranteed after Juilliard. I know it may mean I end up homeless and hungy. I know I gave up a sure thing.
But you know what I would do if I were a fat ballerina. I would face ridicule and embrace the challenge. If I were a fat ballerina I would probably be dancing naked for money. I would do moves on a pole that men thought defied gravity. I would dance 20 hours a day. I’d stop eating garbage. I would get liposuction on my thighs and go directly to the studio. Somewhere in this strange world there is a fat ballerina trying to explain why she’d risk a hard life just to dance. Some poor fat dancer is probably thinking ‘damn, I wish I could just write a book.’ She could understand sitting in my attic with a simple mission to tell a story. Like any great creative endeavor, some people will never get it.
I asked my bff if she ever had ‘hippie moments’ when she felt like declaring I believe in peace, trees and all things beautiful and free. She gets it. I will be a fucking hippie. I believe in dreams and protests. The fact I can finally have a voice and the freedom of my body has made me revolt against anything that confines me. My dad was a hippie that went to Vietnam. If I go back to nursing school I’m reliving his mistakes. I have this fiery spirit and nursing is literally like putting me in Vietnam. I’ll stand there with my gun and tell you why the war is fucked up. I would hold the needle in my hand and I would see healthcare as the ugly institution it really is and I would hate my existence.
I knew I couldn’t do it with Terri Pazdell in the nursing home. I watched a little old lady with a broken hip not get fed because they didn’t have enough staff to take thirty minutes to feed her. She was fine when she was able to feed herself. As soon as she became another mouth to feed she simply didn’t get fed. She dropped weight like she was in a concentration camp. ‘The nutritionist’ at the facility has received the full karmic slam of my wrath. If you make me furious to the point I pray that one day you will be punished. You are the scum of the earth. When I talk to God I don’t ask him to reign down fury until I meet someone like ‘the nutritionist.’ Me and Terri were trying to feed the poor woman. Because of student nurses sometimes hungry old people get a meal. The nutritionist accused of us of feeding the woman laying down. I can handle getting my ass chewed. It was what happened next.
The nutritionist says family members are demanding a meeting because the poor little old lady looks like she’s starving. She tried to feed the lady. In five seconds she decided that she could tell the family that the old woman won’t eat. What happens next was the only bright moment I felt trying to be a nurse. We got her to start eating. I’ve never fed someone whose starving. I did that day. It took an hour but we managed to feed this lady that ‘refuses food’ according to the nutritionist. What I remember the most is that she couldn’t get enough tea. God told me that I was in Vietnam when I made damn near five trips to the kitchen to refill her tea. As I made those trips down piss smelling hallways I realized the fact that no nursing home is going to be staffed to the point where everyone gets fed. No one but a student nurse is going to go to the effort of refilling tea five times. Welcome to America. We don’t bother feeding people in nursing homes.
I’m a rational person. I asked my professor in fury how the nutritionist couldn’t see that this woman needed some fucking ensure? I can accept they don’t have the time to feed her. I made the assumption that we live in a world where a nutritious milkshake is not a luxury. When my teacher explains it takes a doctor to order ensure like a drug. She explains to me that people don’t get ensure because it’s just too expensive. I realized that American healthcare is the most fucked up problem I could ever discuss. American Healthcare makes Vietnam seem like a good idea. Everybody in my clinical rotation got to see me lose my shit. I was so pissed off all I could do was cry and shake violently. That post-conference made me feel like I was trying to describe what it felt like to kill my first enemy in battle. The simple truth is that I can’t kill people. I don’t care what I’m fighting for… I can’t pull the trigger when I see the enemy. Like my father, I don’t believe in war.
Ensure. Don’t think just because your grandma is at a nursing home she gets ensure. If you do have a grandma in the nursing home and you don’t bring her ensure. FUCK YOU. It’s as simple as people starving to death. Yet, no one sees the problem. It comes back to people like jenny’s boyfriend. Healthcare is that moment when someone raises a fist to strike. I’ll never make it as a nurse because I can’t keep my mouth shut. When the nutritionist is raising her fist at some defenseless old woman I’m going to do something. In many ways, I would’ve been more proud of myself if I actually confronted the nutritionist. If I had thrown a monumental fit over ensure to the extent that keiser students were no longer welcome in that shit hole nursing home, I could stand with my head held high.
If Uncle David hadn’t eaten a bullet, I wouldn’t have ever grown the balls to walk away from Vietnam. I would have spent all my time in the military. I would learn to look the other way when people die. It wouldn’t bother me. That could’ve been my life. It would reach a point when principles like ensure don’t mean as much to me as the pursuit of posting my status in the latest Farmville. I could’ve been ‘that girl.’
If I’m a life’s equivalent of a fat ballerina. I’m going to dance. I don’t care if the people I love the most choose never to watch me perform. I dance for strangers. Strangers watch me dance and they don’t just see some awkward fat girl. Strangers view me as a ballerina. It doesn’t matter if I’m fat. Strangers walk past my open window and they sit and stare. There is something so fundamentally beautiful about a fat woman who isn’t afraid to dance. Her friends and family may be mortified at the way she dares to move her hips. But, there are men like my Don CeSar angel that make fat women feel beautiful. In that moment of watching women dance he is mesmerized by the excess jiggle of a fat ass. If you can’t tolerate watching the pleasant jiggle of fat, you’re never going to read my stories. Even if I loose the weight at Juilliard, I will always dance with the passion of a fat girl with confidence.
This latest confrontation started with something lovely. A love song from Nico which made me reach out and confess a secret crush. It could’ve ended there. But, I’m a fat ballerina that likes to dance. NA guy doesn’t ever get to watch my fat jiggle. He can stand in front of my window. He can watch me dance. But, he’ll never see the rhythm of my flesh close enough to actually see my fat jiggle. He just knows it’s there taunting him like a beautiful woman giving him a lap dance while wearing a sweat suit. He called my love a drug. I’m not something dirty like a drug. I’m something beautiful like a fat girl dancing. I can’t help it if you can’t stop watching. I can’t stop dancing.
I will never be Emily Dickinson. But, I choose to live like her. In my bedroom with nothing but my writing and my correspondence I can relate. Nonetheless, I have the brain of Sylvia Plath. It is my blood. It is my brain chemistry. I will admit I’m probably going out with my head in the oven. However, till I actually check out I’m going to do my best to be entertaining and disturbing like The Bell Jar. I’ll always be something that women can relate to even if they don’t understand. I will satisfy anyone that joins my ad agency. I’m fighting to build something. I’ve been thinking about my memos. I can be Emily Dickinson or I can be Sylvia Plath. I may have started writing with the simplicity of Emily Dickinson but the entire existence of NA guy turned me into Sylvia Plath. If I could put a title on a memo this one would be called YOU DON’T FUCK WITH SYLVIA PLATH.
I will emasculate you with words. When Jenny’s fiance earned my wrath all he could retort with was ‘You’re fucking fat.’ I’ve never met a man who could resist the urge to call me fat. It doesn’t phase me. I can make someone feel ugly. Or I can burn with the brilliance of Sylvia Plath and destroy. When I went on an intense tirade on a man that wears diapers… I became a legend. I stood in front of two police officers and came up with every way to destroy the soul of a man with a broke dick that shits himself. The police will never forget it. I had them practically rolling on the floor in laughter. When I started to call him ‘huggies’ one of the officers actually stopped me to say ‘huggies, damn your good.’ Till the day he dies I will call him diaper boy.
This is for NA guy. When Emily Dickinson reached out and you responded with ‘mermaids are seasluts,’ you earned the wrath of Sylvia Plath. I have self control. However, in one stupid honest moment when I reached out to you as a friend because I realize I’ve probably destroyed my kidneys you actually shit in my mouth. Rarely, has anyone taken me at a weak moment and shat in my mouth. I checked his page out of curiosity and I’m blocked. He can still stand in front of my window.
When I take a glance through his window he holds up one single picture. The picture is something I’ll be able to see in my head and giggle about for a lifetime.
It’s a picture of NA guy standing between two men hugging them. It hits me that I always date men who are kind of gay. I love male bonding. I can see a picture of three men and not think sex. However, it’s the fact that anyone who remembers me from high school has had one clear thought… ‘Someone, stop lynn from chasing after that boy that fucked the lion in ‘the lion, the witch and the wardrobe.’ My closest friends know about you. As they’re reading this they’re thinking I can’t believe Lynn went there. I’m opening the motherfucking wardrobe. I could’ve gone a lifetime without mentioning it. But there is a special place in my hell you have earned by taking my moment of my emotional weakness and turning it into some way to make me feel like a junkie slut. I may be facing organ failure. But, I still have fire in my soul. The combination makes me take risks like opening the wardrobe. I’ve got nothing to lose.
If you don’t know me from freshman year of high school, let Sylvia Plath weave you a story. I was so happy to have a part in the school play. Drama was new and exciting. It was a shit storm of hot young boys and I was a teenage whore. NA guy was one of my first experiences having a boyfriend. Things were great. Then the rumor hit. I wonder who had to sit me down and tell me that everyone I knew had heard that my boyfriend fucked the lion. I was probably the last person that heard the rumor. Kids that never knew the school had an auditorium seemed to know about the lion fucking before me. Like a rumor it spread like wildfire. It was everything from a blow job to anal rape. Then everybody needed to tell me new details.
It’s been so long I can’t remember if I broke up with him or if he just disappeared. I’m surprised my teachers didn’t consul me. All I knew is that suddenly I was the girl with the gay boyfriend. It wouldn’t have been so funny if it hadn’t been the lion. I can laugh about it now. Back then it was mortifying. It was soul crushing. It also made me a legendary fag hag. After NA guy left I think I dated every man in the school that questioned his sexuality. It was like my duty to determine if a man liked boys, girls or both. I just went downstairs and took a long shower. I actually thought of all the men I’ve dated. Holy shit, I could argue that every man I dated besides tim was a little gay.
What it all boils down to is I let some lion fucker call me a junkie slut. Dude, you fucked the lion…and you leave me the visual of you hugging men. The irony. I’m done for the night. One final thing, I just got another random life insurance check for five grand. Sometimes, when you live like a fat ballerina God actually rewards you. Tonight, I made damn good money making beaded earrings. Watch me dance you dirty Lion fucker.