Okay, so I'm reading the BBC news site (me? reading the news? but really, I was) and I stumble across a series of stories about women (primarily women) abducting other, heavily-pregnant women, and slicing them open to remove the foetus.
Ouch.
I have to say, I've had 2 kids, and while it wasn't exactly a summer stroll along a sun-kissed beach--more that crack from that movie about 'pushing something the size of a watermelon through something the size of a lemon'--it at least had the benefit of not, well, killing me.
And there were drugs. Not very good ones, until the epidural (gas and air is probably a good way to get high if you're not in pain, but if you are, it's a whole lotta nothing, and pethidine DOES get you high and STILL does nowt for the pain) but they surely at least take the edge off. Labour, via the normal modern means is, while not what I'd describe as pleasant, more than bearable.
Unlike being carved up by a supposed friend's kitchen knife, so they can get to the gooey infant-sized goodness within.
!!!!!
I've honestly never understood the reason being pregnant is *such* a ridiculous faff; I kid you not, every waking moment of the first 3 months or so, you just lie there and pray to die. You are so sick, so retchingly, heavingly, stomach-turningly ill, you would genuinely trade your life for a respite from the unrelenting nausea.
Then, as soon as you begin to feel a bit better, you get hit with what the midwives unconcernedly refer to as 'ligament pain;' for the love of God, it feels like someone has every muscle between your knees and your belly button stretched to the breaking point on an old-fashioned clothes wringer, and they are cranking the handle randomly, upon a whim, whenever their own sadistic tendencies require. There is *nothing* that can be done for ligament pain. Lying still, sitting up, uncrossing your legs, taking a gentle walk, reclining in a hot bath (not too hot, because you'll faint and your blood pressure will skyrocket and nevermind your agony, THE BABY might be uncomfortable if they get too warm) none of this is *any* use whatsoever. You must just endure, as your legs and abdomen spasm, sometimes for the best part of an hour, until tears are gushing down your face and you are begging your partner, your mother, people walking past the car in which you're trapped, writhing, to bring you ibuprofen that you *know* you can't take.
But ligament pain, though it honestly feels worse than actual childbirth, is arguably not the worst bit... once it stops, and you've entered your final trimester, you become so tired. So. So. So. So. TIRED. I don't mean to repeat myself, but unless you've been pregnant, you cannot know the fatigue of which I speak. No matter how much you sleep at night (not that you can sleep through the night, by this point, seeing as how you're so heavy you can't breathe and so round you literally can't roll over, even with the energetic aid of a loved one and the careful positioning of 900 specially-made pillows) you are incapable of staying awake for more than approximately 2 hours in any one day. If you can manage to wake up feeling rested, put on yesterday's clothes which you've laid out by the bed, and make it all the way downstairs to the couch without needing to stop for air, you *know* you've done well. The thought of then staying awake for another half hour is ludicrous. It'll never happen.
And that, I have now realised, is the way the Good Lord designed pregnancy, so that, as a pregnant woman, you are programmed to stay in your house, doors and windows locked, moving only from bed to couch to toilet and back again, and never leaving the relative comfort and presumed safety of your own home. You're too fucked to walk to the door, so even if well-meaning friends drop by, you can't let them in--this is so that, in case they ARE baby-crazed-knife-wielding-lunatic-asylum-escapees (and you've not realised this, in all the time you've known them) you'll be protected by your own ineffectualness. Unless there's someone else present, someone with a vested interest in your well-being (husband, boyfriend, live-in lover, your mom) then there should, in theory, be NO WAY of getting to within 10 or so feet of you.
If, however, you are a freak of nature, and you're actually capable of going round someone else's house, unaccompanied, without a wheelchair or bag trolley or a circus strongman to ride on, well, what do you expect??? Obviously, you're an abomination, a genetic convergence of such awesomeness that you shouldn't exist, and you WILL be gutted like a fish and your offspring WILL be stolen from your very womb, because the sheer incomprehensible superiority of your DNA, flowing through said offspring, will call to those poor sad individuals who can't have children of their own, and even more than they covet every child they see, they will hunger and thirst after your baby with a passionate greed they cannot control.
And you'll wind up, skull bashed in, decomposing on some madwoman's apartment floor, as your 3-week-premature SUPERBABY trundles along, peachy keen, just fine thanks for asking, 6 days after being forcibly ripped from your body, with not a moment of medical care in all that time.
Thursday 30 July 2009
Wednesday 29 July 2009
General Update
Just what it says on the tin. This is a general update, done in the style of bulletpoints, for those rare and special few who actually read all this and give a flying frog how I am.
- I am nearly divorced. Should all be official on August 25th, and while there are *lots* of things to ponder with regards to that, I truly think it's for the best.
- My soon-to-be-ex-husband and I are actually getting along alright now. He's still a twat, and so am I, but we're trying to be downright amiable with each other, and some progress is being made.
- It's been long enough to tell now, and I feel confident in saying my kids are groovy. I will not claim that this is a result of my husband leaving; on the other hand, I'm less stressed now, and we have more company/visitors, and we occasionally go out these days, and I can see the benefits for the kiddlywinks. Fab.
- I was tortured by my GP yesterday (not his fault, he's a sweetheart, but the pain is very real even if he didn't mean to cause it) so I am a little unavailable; even when I'm online, I'm probably just sitting on a hot water bottle and window-shopping to take my mind off the excruciating agony (is that not overstating, a bit? what other kind of agony is there?) so no one be offended if I'm not around for a few days.
- Finally, I hope everyone is happy and whole and enjoying what passes for summer in the Northeast/Midlands. Those of you down South, you *may* actually enjoy something that is a bit like summer. The rest of us will imagine what it's like (though I'm actually a bit partial to rain and wind, myself) while cheering ourselves up with trips to indoor attractions (yay for Sealife Aquatic Centres).
I love you guys, and as always, I appreciate you reading my whingy little blog... even when you sign on under fake names, to post narky comments, you-know-who-you-are. Even then, I thank you for your time and energy. You're a splendid little bunch of blokes, really, and I'm continually pleased and surprised to have you about.
*group kiss*
Thursday 23 July 2009
Back in April
I composed a rant that touched upon the subject of people doing things that are wrong, even though in their hearts, they KNOW it's wrong. They use various justifications, mitigating circumstances, and, particularly, the degree of wrongdoing to rationalise this--yes, what I did was wrong, but it wasn't that wrong and/or you've done something worse, so it's fine.
I wonder, though--do some people *really* feel that way? To me, you can almost always look at a situation and see the right choice/wrong choice, and no amount of self-justification can change what you *know* to be the right choice. Whether or not you then act in the correct fashion is, not irrelevant, but not the angle I'm coming from; my point is, to me, you can knowingly choose to do wrong, but surely, once you've made that choice, don't you still know, in your heart of hearts, that you're doing something bad?
I've broken my marriage vows. All mitigating circumstances aside--like the fact that my husband's broken them too, if in ways that sometimes differ from my own--just looking at that one statement, I made a vow, and I broke it. I am in the middle of breaking it. I am tearing the fabric of my marriage asunder, or really, I am cutting the final thread of that fabric which still remains intact; in my heart of hearts, I know that the garment of wedded bliss was largely reduced to tatters *years* ago.
But. Still. However.
I lied. I lied. I lied and I lied and I lied and I lied and I lied some more, when you boil it down to the basics. I said I'd forsake all others, I said I'd love him with all my heart, I said I'd stay with him forever, and I'm not staying forever, and that means I LIED. About the biggest lie you can tell, really--I will love you 'til the end of my days--and I told it.
I know that I am a lying sack of shit, and I am disgusted with myself.
But that's in the part of me that knows that it's wrong to lie. Whether you mean to or not, whether you have reason to or not, to protect someone else or save someone's life or for any good intention, it is always wrong to tell a lie; to break a promise; to not keep your word. In some part of myself, I genuinely believe that.
Of course, this is the part of me that is so anti-abortion, I believe women who fall pregnant as the result of rape should just have the resultant baby, and if they don't want to keep it, just give it up for adoption, because abortion is murder and murder is wrong. My Mama taught me that there's only black and white, and nothing in between, not a single area of grey, and deep down, I still believe that. Really. Deep down, I do. Ideally.
On the other hand--mercy over justice. If something unbearably shitty happens to someone, ie rape, and there are unfortunate consequences, then the person who's been shat on has to deal with those consequences in the best way they know how, and I don't think anyone else has the right to judge them regarding that choice. Not that my husband's behaviour during our marriage was rape in a sexual sense; but between the pair of us, we fought and forced and took advantage and fucked up repeatedly and eventually ruined things, and I'm not evil through and through because I saw it first.
Even if I feel it, sometimes.
So. To recap my original point. I know I had 'justification' to do the sorts of things I did, as a married woman. And I was so unhappy, I'm not sure how I'd have stopped myself... but I did try. And I still knew then, and know now, that I was in the wrong.
I wonder if my husband realises when he's in the wrong?
And NO, that's not me taking a shot at him. He knows what I'm referring to, and he knows it was wrong... I think. Doesn't he?
My whole point is, I just wonder. ?
I wonder, though--do some people *really* feel that way? To me, you can almost always look at a situation and see the right choice/wrong choice, and no amount of self-justification can change what you *know* to be the right choice. Whether or not you then act in the correct fashion is, not irrelevant, but not the angle I'm coming from; my point is, to me, you can knowingly choose to do wrong, but surely, once you've made that choice, don't you still know, in your heart of hearts, that you're doing something bad?
I've broken my marriage vows. All mitigating circumstances aside--like the fact that my husband's broken them too, if in ways that sometimes differ from my own--just looking at that one statement, I made a vow, and I broke it. I am in the middle of breaking it. I am tearing the fabric of my marriage asunder, or really, I am cutting the final thread of that fabric which still remains intact; in my heart of hearts, I know that the garment of wedded bliss was largely reduced to tatters *years* ago.
But. Still. However.
I lied. I lied. I lied and I lied and I lied and I lied and I lied some more, when you boil it down to the basics. I said I'd forsake all others, I said I'd love him with all my heart, I said I'd stay with him forever, and I'm not staying forever, and that means I LIED. About the biggest lie you can tell, really--I will love you 'til the end of my days--and I told it.
I know that I am a lying sack of shit, and I am disgusted with myself.
But that's in the part of me that knows that it's wrong to lie. Whether you mean to or not, whether you have reason to or not, to protect someone else or save someone's life or for any good intention, it is always wrong to tell a lie; to break a promise; to not keep your word. In some part of myself, I genuinely believe that.
Of course, this is the part of me that is so anti-abortion, I believe women who fall pregnant as the result of rape should just have the resultant baby, and if they don't want to keep it, just give it up for adoption, because abortion is murder and murder is wrong. My Mama taught me that there's only black and white, and nothing in between, not a single area of grey, and deep down, I still believe that. Really. Deep down, I do. Ideally.
On the other hand--mercy over justice. If something unbearably shitty happens to someone, ie rape, and there are unfortunate consequences, then the person who's been shat on has to deal with those consequences in the best way they know how, and I don't think anyone else has the right to judge them regarding that choice. Not that my husband's behaviour during our marriage was rape in a sexual sense; but between the pair of us, we fought and forced and took advantage and fucked up repeatedly and eventually ruined things, and I'm not evil through and through because I saw it first.
Even if I feel it, sometimes.
So. To recap my original point. I know I had 'justification' to do the sorts of things I did, as a married woman. And I was so unhappy, I'm not sure how I'd have stopped myself... but I did try. And I still knew then, and know now, that I was in the wrong.
I wonder if my husband realises when he's in the wrong?
And NO, that's not me taking a shot at him. He knows what I'm referring to, and he knows it was wrong... I think. Doesn't he?
My whole point is, I just wonder. ?
Tuesday 21 July 2009
I Know This Guy;
No, actually, I don't. I don't know him at all.
But it's recently come to my attention that there's a certain type of person, who thinks that anyone with a blog, is a certain type of person.
I don't know the guy who made this statement. Therefore, he doesn't know me. He's not intimately aware of any of the relevant facets of my psyche. He's not close enough to perceive the innermost secrets of my soul. He's only sensible of my existence in the most peripheral fashion. He has no right to make judgments based on *one piece* of information about me. He doesn't know me AT ALL.
Now, if he were to read my blog, he would know me; and he'd see that I'm exactly the type of person who has a blog.
I am the type of person who thinks they have something to say. Who thinks other people want to hear it. Who talks a fair bit of bullshit (in a creative-outlet-I'm-just-getting-it-off-my-chest sort of way) all things being taken into account. If he were to read my blog, the gentleman in question would no doubt feel a surge of the most satisfying personal gratification, because, indeed, he is absolutely right.
At the same time, so am I.
But it's recently come to my attention that there's a certain type of person, who thinks that anyone with a blog, is a certain type of person.
I don't know the guy who made this statement. Therefore, he doesn't know me. He's not intimately aware of any of the relevant facets of my psyche. He's not close enough to perceive the innermost secrets of my soul. He's only sensible of my existence in the most peripheral fashion. He has no right to make judgments based on *one piece* of information about me. He doesn't know me AT ALL.
Now, if he were to read my blog, he would know me; and he'd see that I'm exactly the type of person who has a blog.
I am the type of person who thinks they have something to say. Who thinks other people want to hear it. Who talks a fair bit of bullshit (in a creative-outlet-I'm-just-getting-it-off-my-chest sort of way) all things being taken into account. If he were to read my blog, the gentleman in question would no doubt feel a surge of the most satisfying personal gratification, because, indeed, he is absolutely right.
At the same time, so am I.
You Guys Are Probably Right
Probably, I'm just on the rebound. Probably, I'm just getting my leg over. Probably, it's just that I haven't had sex in so long, I'm getting confused by all the happy fluttering endorphins and hormones swimming through my veins like Uncle Kracker (you know the song; ''All you know is, I make you free/and swim through your veins like a fish in the sea...'')
There's some danger of digression there. Moving on, and my point is--fuck you guys. No offence meant (lots taken?) but he's a little man-babe, and I'm having him, and if anybody gets hurt it wont be me because I'VE BEEN TOO FUCKED FOR TOO LONG, NOT IN THE NICE WAY, AND THERE'S NOTHING LEFT OF ME TO HURT.
That's the whole *point* of this blog. I started it because I was burning, and bitter, and angry, and yes okay a little bit of a whinge, and I needed to vent my rage, because I'd already cried myself out of tears.
I have cried myself out of man-tears (that's tears over/about/regarding men, obviously; I'm not implying that I shed particularly manly tears, which would surely be a contradiction in terms). The next guy I cry over will be my son, if he turns out to be A) autistic, or B) a prat. Other than him, well... I'm just not sure men are worth it, to tell you true. From where I'm sitting, you--and that is literally all men, really, pretty much every last one of you--seem to be one part uselessness and two parts delusions of grandeur, with a splash of self-righteous advice-giving thrown in for good measure.
Does that sound good to you...? It's not, really. In spite of my natural inclination towards you, you're not all that tasty a beverage, as a rule. And if I've found one of you I can stomach for even a few weeks, nevermind months or years or eternity, I'm gonna count myself lucky and drink my fill. That's all you can hope for, really, isn't it--fuck knows love doesn't last even when it IS real, and most of the time it's just lust anyway, and who even gives enough of a shit to learn to tell the difference? Not me. Not anymore. I'm just taking my thrills as they come, or cum, as the case may be, and not worrying about anything else. Besides.
Everyone's probably right. I couldn't possibly be in love with him.
There's some danger of digression there. Moving on, and my point is--fuck you guys. No offence meant (lots taken?) but he's a little man-babe, and I'm having him, and if anybody gets hurt it wont be me because I'VE BEEN TOO FUCKED FOR TOO LONG, NOT IN THE NICE WAY, AND THERE'S NOTHING LEFT OF ME TO HURT.
That's the whole *point* of this blog. I started it because I was burning, and bitter, and angry, and yes okay a little bit of a whinge, and I needed to vent my rage, because I'd already cried myself out of tears.
I have cried myself out of man-tears (that's tears over/about/regarding men, obviously; I'm not implying that I shed particularly manly tears, which would surely be a contradiction in terms). The next guy I cry over will be my son, if he turns out to be A) autistic, or B) a prat. Other than him, well... I'm just not sure men are worth it, to tell you true. From where I'm sitting, you--and that is literally all men, really, pretty much every last one of you--seem to be one part uselessness and two parts delusions of grandeur, with a splash of self-righteous advice-giving thrown in for good measure.
Does that sound good to you...? It's not, really. In spite of my natural inclination towards you, you're not all that tasty a beverage, as a rule. And if I've found one of you I can stomach for even a few weeks, nevermind months or years or eternity, I'm gonna count myself lucky and drink my fill. That's all you can hope for, really, isn't it--fuck knows love doesn't last even when it IS real, and most of the time it's just lust anyway, and who even gives enough of a shit to learn to tell the difference? Not me. Not anymore. I'm just taking my thrills as they come, or cum, as the case may be, and not worrying about anything else. Besides.
Everyone's probably right. I couldn't possibly be in love with him.
Friday 17 July 2009
Unbelievable
I am in love.
That's it, that's all, there's nothing more to say.
I am in love.
Oh GOD I'm scared now.
That's it, that's all, there's nothing more to say.
I am in love.
Oh GOD I'm scared now.
Nervous - Part 3
And again, ignore my *last* post.
I am nervous. And I do hope everything is okay.
I've done all I can do. I've written a little letter, I've said a little prayer, it's out of my hands now. All I can do is sit back, wait, and shit a few more bricks...
Times like these, I just want my mom.
I am nervous. And I do hope everything is okay.
I've done all I can do. I've written a little letter, I've said a little prayer, it's out of my hands now. All I can do is sit back, wait, and shit a few more bricks...
Times like these, I just want my mom.
Thursday 16 July 2009
Nervous - Part 2
Nevermind my last post. I've changed my mind.
I am sick, absolutely *sick* of my Bastard ex having a go at EVERYONE who's currently a significant part of my life.
We'll start with a friend of mine who, because she doesn't want her personal details splashed all over the web, I'll neither name nor describe in detail. I will say that she's pregnant, and there are *all kinds* of issues going on with her... and my asking Bastard to watch HIS OWN KIDS an extra couple of hours on Sunday so I could visit her in hospital amounted to a seemingly-endless rant (a bit in person, and more on his blog later) about how she's a shit friend, and I have an attitude problem, and so on and so forth, et cetera et cetera et cetera.
That's it. That is purely the last fucking straw. He's just mentioned how fucking much it bugs him to be 'guilted' into having the kids on his 'every day off' one time too many, and I've just had enough. Assuming things go alright tomorrow, he can celebrate by having the kids this weekend--if he wants them. If not, he can wait until the first weekend of August; I'm not having any more of this. I am just not having anymore. He can have the kids every other weekend, like every other divorced father in the history of the world, and he can just be damn grateful for what he gets. Pissed off about my new bloke seeing them more than you see them? That's just too damn bad. You complain every time I 'guilt' you into taking them, so you can just take them less, and he can occupy the role that you've abdicated.
I'll *try* to remember to correct them, when they start calling him 'Dad' instead of you.
And. On the subject of 'him'--I'm glad they'll have a decent male role-model to look up to. I'm *ecstatic* that I've found a guy I think is worthy of spending some time with my kids. I can't wait to see how much happier, healthier, and just nicer they are in the long run, as a result of his influence. I look forward to the day when I turn around and thank him, for his part in the fact that my kids have grown into kind, thoughtful, honest individuals. I look forward to some of his integrity and willingness to work hard and general usefulness rubbing off on them.
I literally cannot wait to see how much better they turn out, for having a decent father-figure in their lives. God knows they'll be better off without their biological father's spiteful, vindictive, fantasy-based, misanthropic mutterings in their ears.
Finally. Just to return to my pregnant friend--I want to apologise to her, for sharing any of her details with my Bastard ex in a misguided attempt to call on any sympathy or decency he may possess. Clearly, he has none of either, and is just low enough to stoop to taking pot-shots at heavily pregnant, seriously ill women who already have far too much on their minds and don't need his self-obsessed SHIT on top of it. Again, I'm sorry--you and I both know you've always been the best friend you know how to be, and if you've ever fallen short of the mark of perfection, well, that's what people do. They fall short of perfect.
And GOD KNOWS I've fallen short of it, yeah? You know what I'm talking about. The time of Secret Sandwiches, etc. I was such a dick then. I blatantly *deserved* you being a shit to me afterwards.
Not that you *were* a shit--we have our own lives, we drifted apart for a bit and then YOU made the effort to get back in touch with ME (and I'm so glad you did, I missed you, you know?). And even if you *had* been a shit--what you are going through is unimaginable. I am so, so sorry, once again, for mentioning ANY details of your plight to my Bastard ex, or his Bastard family. They think I'm the anti-Christ, well, they're about to find out just how fucking evil I can be. Don't stress yourself out. Too much has been said, and none of it's meant in a nice way, and he/they won't get away with it.
I'm not being vindictive. I just don't want my children associating with that class of people any more than they have to.
I am sick, absolutely *sick* of my Bastard ex having a go at EVERYONE who's currently a significant part of my life.
We'll start with a friend of mine who, because she doesn't want her personal details splashed all over the web, I'll neither name nor describe in detail. I will say that she's pregnant, and there are *all kinds* of issues going on with her... and my asking Bastard to watch HIS OWN KIDS an extra couple of hours on Sunday so I could visit her in hospital amounted to a seemingly-endless rant (a bit in person, and more on his blog later) about how she's a shit friend, and I have an attitude problem, and so on and so forth, et cetera et cetera et cetera.
That's it. That is purely the last fucking straw. He's just mentioned how fucking much it bugs him to be 'guilted' into having the kids on his 'every day off' one time too many, and I've just had enough. Assuming things go alright tomorrow, he can celebrate by having the kids this weekend--if he wants them. If not, he can wait until the first weekend of August; I'm not having any more of this. I am just not having anymore. He can have the kids every other weekend, like every other divorced father in the history of the world, and he can just be damn grateful for what he gets. Pissed off about my new bloke seeing them more than you see them? That's just too damn bad. You complain every time I 'guilt' you into taking them, so you can just take them less, and he can occupy the role that you've abdicated.
I'll *try* to remember to correct them, when they start calling him 'Dad' instead of you.
And. On the subject of 'him'--I'm glad they'll have a decent male role-model to look up to. I'm *ecstatic* that I've found a guy I think is worthy of spending some time with my kids. I can't wait to see how much happier, healthier, and just nicer they are in the long run, as a result of his influence. I look forward to the day when I turn around and thank him, for his part in the fact that my kids have grown into kind, thoughtful, honest individuals. I look forward to some of his integrity and willingness to work hard and general usefulness rubbing off on them.
I literally cannot wait to see how much better they turn out, for having a decent father-figure in their lives. God knows they'll be better off without their biological father's spiteful, vindictive, fantasy-based, misanthropic mutterings in their ears.
Finally. Just to return to my pregnant friend--I want to apologise to her, for sharing any of her details with my Bastard ex in a misguided attempt to call on any sympathy or decency he may possess. Clearly, he has none of either, and is just low enough to stoop to taking pot-shots at heavily pregnant, seriously ill women who already have far too much on their minds and don't need his self-obsessed SHIT on top of it. Again, I'm sorry--you and I both know you've always been the best friend you know how to be, and if you've ever fallen short of the mark of perfection, well, that's what people do. They fall short of perfect.
And GOD KNOWS I've fallen short of it, yeah? You know what I'm talking about. The time of Secret Sandwiches, etc. I was such a dick then. I blatantly *deserved* you being a shit to me afterwards.
Not that you *were* a shit--we have our own lives, we drifted apart for a bit and then YOU made the effort to get back in touch with ME (and I'm so glad you did, I missed you, you know?). And even if you *had* been a shit--what you are going through is unimaginable. I am so, so sorry, once again, for mentioning ANY details of your plight to my Bastard ex, or his Bastard family. They think I'm the anti-Christ, well, they're about to find out just how fucking evil I can be. Don't stress yourself out. Too much has been said, and none of it's meant in a nice way, and he/they won't get away with it.
I'm not being vindictive. I just don't want my children associating with that class of people any more than they have to.
Nervous - Part 1
Just what the sign says. I'm nervous. Specifically, I'm nervous about something that's happening tomorrow. If you know me, you may know what it is, and if not, you don't know me well enough for me to tell you. It's not my personal business, as such; therefore I can't run about telling my friends all the gory details.
Suffice it to say, I'm *appalled* that the best I can come up with is 'nervous'. What a slap in the face that is... and I *know* it's a slap, and believe me, if tomorrow results in an avalanche of shit smacking the fanblades and flying about coating every surface within flinging distance, I will be so, so far beyond nervous. I will feel *completely* *TERRIBLE*. I cannot overstate it. I will feel like the worst person who ever walked the face of the earth--I will want to harm myself, I will be in a state of near-total, horrified, guilty despair.
That being said, all I can do is wait and see what happens. How the cards fall. Which way the wind blows. Etc, etc.
But oh, have I done it this time. Have I finally managed to do something I'll have trouble living with? Have I finally, after years of playing it safe, intersected periodically by mad bursts of impulsive self-destruction, finally managed to do something I'm going to regret for the rest of my life?
I hope everything's okay. For me, but not just for me. I just hope everything goes okay.
Suffice it to say, I'm *appalled* that the best I can come up with is 'nervous'. What a slap in the face that is... and I *know* it's a slap, and believe me, if tomorrow results in an avalanche of shit smacking the fanblades and flying about coating every surface within flinging distance, I will be so, so far beyond nervous. I will feel *completely* *TERRIBLE*. I cannot overstate it. I will feel like the worst person who ever walked the face of the earth--I will want to harm myself, I will be in a state of near-total, horrified, guilty despair.
That being said, all I can do is wait and see what happens. How the cards fall. Which way the wind blows. Etc, etc.
But oh, have I done it this time. Have I finally managed to do something I'll have trouble living with? Have I finally, after years of playing it safe, intersected periodically by mad bursts of impulsive self-destruction, finally managed to do something I'm going to regret for the rest of my life?
I hope everything's okay. For me, but not just for me. I just hope everything goes okay.
Tuesday 14 July 2009
Fairytales
I've been thinking about them a lot, lately. Whether or not they come true in real life, if they do are they as gruesome as their literary form, what's the alternative to a fairytale ending, etc. Somehow, that's led me to the Legend of King Arthur, or, as one translation was entitled, The Death of Arthur.
What I remember most, about reading those stories and books as a child, was how I felt completely torn between Lancelot and Arthur, yet had NO sympathy for Guinevere whatsoever. I *hated* her, with a burning, angry, intense passion. I wanted to slap her face. I wanted to push her off a balcony. I could have garotted her with a piano wire. And I just wanted to hold Arthur and stroke his weary brow and listen to the details of his stressful day and comfort him in ways which, as a ten or eleven year old, I didn't even understand... and at the same time, I wanted to fling myself into Lancelot's arms and kiss him and bite him and scratch him in a fury of greedy desire (yes, at ten or eleven, lol).
I remember understanding how wrong it was, that Guinevere, with the best man in the world by her side, should yearn for his best friend. It seemed good to me to wind up with Arthur OR Lancelot--either one would have been acceptable--but to claim both? Sheer greed. Sheer unfairness. Sheer unfathomable luck. She had two of the best men in the world (albeit fictional versions of them) and I just knew, I would have been better for either of them.
I was so jealous. Reading those stories, I was half-mad with jealousy, that a fictional character (and not even a very good one, just a pretty, indecisive, silly female) would have two such fine examples of man to choose from, and I had nothing. I knew then, better than I could explain, that there were no lion-hearted kings walking this earth, no white knights riding out of the mists, just skinny gawky teenage boys with bad skin and worse manners. I wanted to weep; I wanted to believe I was weeping for Arthur, or even the destruction of Lancelot's morals, or the whole sad sorry ruination of men in general; but I knew it was for myself.
That was more than half my life ago.
Nowadays, I've been around just enough (literally *just* enough--our survey says, I've spent much less time shagging about than most people my age) to have proved myself right. Maybe I've only had intimate contact with a handful of men, but it's taught me more than one lesson I'm not likely to forget soon.
Men are pigs. Men are liars. Men are unfaithful, and undisciplined, and unknowingly destructive. They are greedy, and selfish, and shallow, and stupid, for the most part. They are generally not worth the time and effort you put into them, and they are almost always too dense to even be capable of understanding their own flaws.
And I think I've found one I want to keep. Unbelievable.
What I remember most, about reading those stories and books as a child, was how I felt completely torn between Lancelot and Arthur, yet had NO sympathy for Guinevere whatsoever. I *hated* her, with a burning, angry, intense passion. I wanted to slap her face. I wanted to push her off a balcony. I could have garotted her with a piano wire. And I just wanted to hold Arthur and stroke his weary brow and listen to the details of his stressful day and comfort him in ways which, as a ten or eleven year old, I didn't even understand... and at the same time, I wanted to fling myself into Lancelot's arms and kiss him and bite him and scratch him in a fury of greedy desire (yes, at ten or eleven, lol).
I remember understanding how wrong it was, that Guinevere, with the best man in the world by her side, should yearn for his best friend. It seemed good to me to wind up with Arthur OR Lancelot--either one would have been acceptable--but to claim both? Sheer greed. Sheer unfairness. Sheer unfathomable luck. She had two of the best men in the world (albeit fictional versions of them) and I just knew, I would have been better for either of them.
I was so jealous. Reading those stories, I was half-mad with jealousy, that a fictional character (and not even a very good one, just a pretty, indecisive, silly female) would have two such fine examples of man to choose from, and I had nothing. I knew then, better than I could explain, that there were no lion-hearted kings walking this earth, no white knights riding out of the mists, just skinny gawky teenage boys with bad skin and worse manners. I wanted to weep; I wanted to believe I was weeping for Arthur, or even the destruction of Lancelot's morals, or the whole sad sorry ruination of men in general; but I knew it was for myself.
That was more than half my life ago.
Nowadays, I've been around just enough (literally *just* enough--our survey says, I've spent much less time shagging about than most people my age) to have proved myself right. Maybe I've only had intimate contact with a handful of men, but it's taught me more than one lesson I'm not likely to forget soon.
Men are pigs. Men are liars. Men are unfaithful, and undisciplined, and unknowingly destructive. They are greedy, and selfish, and shallow, and stupid, for the most part. They are generally not worth the time and effort you put into them, and they are almost always too dense to even be capable of understanding their own flaws.
And I think I've found one I want to keep. Unbelievable.
Wednesday 8 July 2009
My Ex's Blog
Is just a pure pile of unbelievable SHIT. I have never read so many lies, half-truths, made-up nonsense, and absolute fantasy all rolled into one mediocre journal entry. Many of the entries are nearly as imaginative as the one I read today, but that one seriously takes the Cake of Ridiculousness.
First of all. FIRST of all. First of ALL.
WTF does my boyfriend-in-waiting's name have to do with the price of crack in Sunderland? How is this remotely relevant? What does it matter? He changed it when he was 8 years old, for godsakes; I hardly think he was a hardened criminal by then. And even if he had been, it would have been a juvenile record, and no one would be able to find out anyway, so there'd be no reason to change his name in the first place.
As it happens, there are personal, family-based reasons for the change. NO, he was not molested--he's on good terms with both his parents, all his assorted relatives, he calls his mum and uncle at least once a week and his dad when possible--but, well basically, he's taken his mum's surname following his parents' divorce. His first name? He flat didn't like it, and it is WAY too common in this country, so he changed that at the same time. Hey presto, a name you can be comfortable with; and it's nothing to do with being on the wrong side of the law.
Secondly--WTF is my soon-to-be-ex-husband smoking? Because my BIW has never had a previous girl, he's going to turn into a crazy, uncontrollable, bad-tempered jackass because he might have a little more responsibility than he used to in the past? Oh, husband, grow the fuck up. Talk about viewing *everything* through the narrow, tainting, misanthropic lens of your own sordid feelings and experiences. Just because YOU can't cope with the reality of what everyone else calls 'life' doesn't make everyone else equally incompetent. Learn to be a fucking man, you spineless, mindless, whingy bastard, and if you can't, at least learn not to take shots at someone purely for being more of a man than you.
YES, I said it. Floppy fringe, gay accent, general Southern fairy behaviour notwithstanding, he is so much more of a man than you are. Moreover, he's a good man--and that in particular is something you'd know nothing about.
Oh, husband-who-we'll-call-Pedro-for-the-purposes-of-the-blog. Pedro. You misguided fuck. Will you never understand?
If you had been *half* the man he is, I'd never have looked elsewhere.
Moving on, to my third point; how much do you NOT understand this, at all? ''Seducing my wife;'' he couldn't seduce a newly-divorced 40-year-old with the lowest self-esteem imaginable, much less a young, pretty, reasonably confident woman. He'd crap his pants if he tried. He'd piss himself. He'd be a shaking, nervous, gibbering wreck--which I'd know, because I kissed him on the cheek once and he nearly fell over, OMG-WTF-RL-GRRL-style.
Don't kid yourself. Seduce your wife, indeed. You wanna look at that from the appropriate, and completely opposite, angle?
And, for my fourth and final point. "He's no Prince Charming...."
Too bloody right he's not. A prince would be like you and your useless brother, a couple of spoilt, selfish little kids, who sit on their lazy backsides while their mummy runs around after their 30-year-old asses, cooking and cleaning and making packed lunches and ironing their shirts and just generally shielding them from the harsh unfairnesses of life. A prince might be someone who, when he can't be arsed to work, goes on the sick for 6 months at a time, or lets his wife forgo university to get a full-time job while he's on the dole, or who can't fix a goddamn broken toilet seat for 2 years straight. THOSE are examples of princes. God forbid that I should ever, ever be stuck with one of those again--because princes don't want princesses. They want slaves.
Like fuck am I anyone's slave.
And like fuck am I some blushing maiden in a tower somewhere, while we're on that subject. I'm a WOMAN, in all the best and worst incarnations of that word. I am, in no particular order, a compassionate shoulder to lean on, a friendly conversationalist, a great fuck, a fun night out, an arguably more fun night in, a spirited debater, a tease, a good laugh, a possibly talented writer, a relatively logical thinker, a realist, a pragmatist, a dreamer, a romantic, a mother, a daughter, a sister, a friend, a lover, and potentially one of the finest examples of life partner anyone could hope to snag. I am beautiful. I am unique. I am capable and intelligent and interesting and likable and shaggable and so, SO many things you never took advantage of; yet all the while, you very much took advantage of ME.
Never again. That will just never happen again. I've managed to find someone who *sees* me, as I am, not just my good points, but also my flaws, and he sees them as they are. He sees the minutiae composing all the smaller facets of who I am, but he doesn't miss the way it all fits together. He is concerned with the little details, but he doesn't neglect the bigger picture.
I can well believe that someone like you, would have trouble understanding someone like him. But I'll try and put it into perspective for you; think back, 7, 8, 9, nearly 10 years... there was a girl, a sweet, shy, trusting, thoughtful, perceptive, intelligent, moral, unique, interesting, potential-laden girl, a girl like no one you'd ever met before, just waiting for someone to give her a chance to show them how fantastic and amazing she was, underneath all that shyness and lack of self-confidence.
Now imagine that it's not a girl, but a grown man, whose worst vices are a touch of Japanophilia and his love of a rousing game of Left 4 Dead, and whose attributes include all of the above, plus a hell of a work ethic, a sense of personal responsibility, and more general kindness than any man I've met before or since... and you'll kind of understand what I see in him.
No Prince Charming? No shit. He's more of a white knight; but instead of trying to sweep me off my feet and whisk me away, oh-I'll-handle-it-dear style, he's actually not rescuing me--he believes in me enough to help me rescue myself.
Don't you get it? It's not about whether he drops me in the shit or not, in the end... it's the fact that he knows, if he did, I'd just handle it. Because I am. Capable. Of running my own life.
He doesn't try to isolate, or bully, or manipulate, or coerce me into needing him--he wants me to *want* to be with him. Not because he thinks I can't make it on my own, or because I'm just a little woman and I need a big strong man to look after me and sort my life out--but because he's aware that I AM getting my life in order, and I'd like someone equally pleasant, and bright, and capable, and likable, and just plain fun, to share that life with.
And now I've found him. I have finally, maybe, no-chickens-counted-but-fingers-well-and-truly-crossed, found him.
And everyone who's got a problem can just FUCK RIGHT OFF.
:)
First of all. FIRST of all. First of ALL.
WTF does my boyfriend-in-waiting's name have to do with the price of crack in Sunderland? How is this remotely relevant? What does it matter? He changed it when he was 8 years old, for godsakes; I hardly think he was a hardened criminal by then. And even if he had been, it would have been a juvenile record, and no one would be able to find out anyway, so there'd be no reason to change his name in the first place.
As it happens, there are personal, family-based reasons for the change. NO, he was not molested--he's on good terms with both his parents, all his assorted relatives, he calls his mum and uncle at least once a week and his dad when possible--but, well basically, he's taken his mum's surname following his parents' divorce. His first name? He flat didn't like it, and it is WAY too common in this country, so he changed that at the same time. Hey presto, a name you can be comfortable with; and it's nothing to do with being on the wrong side of the law.
Secondly--WTF is my soon-to-be-ex-husband smoking? Because my BIW has never had a previous girl, he's going to turn into a crazy, uncontrollable, bad-tempered jackass because he might have a little more responsibility than he used to in the past? Oh, husband, grow the fuck up. Talk about viewing *everything* through the narrow, tainting, misanthropic lens of your own sordid feelings and experiences. Just because YOU can't cope with the reality of what everyone else calls 'life' doesn't make everyone else equally incompetent. Learn to be a fucking man, you spineless, mindless, whingy bastard, and if you can't, at least learn not to take shots at someone purely for being more of a man than you.
YES, I said it. Floppy fringe, gay accent, general Southern fairy behaviour notwithstanding, he is so much more of a man than you are. Moreover, he's a good man--and that in particular is something you'd know nothing about.
Oh, husband-who-we'll-call-Pedro-for-the-purposes-of-the-blog. Pedro. You misguided fuck. Will you never understand?
If you had been *half* the man he is, I'd never have looked elsewhere.
Moving on, to my third point; how much do you NOT understand this, at all? ''Seducing my wife;'' he couldn't seduce a newly-divorced 40-year-old with the lowest self-esteem imaginable, much less a young, pretty, reasonably confident woman. He'd crap his pants if he tried. He'd piss himself. He'd be a shaking, nervous, gibbering wreck--which I'd know, because I kissed him on the cheek once and he nearly fell over, OMG-WTF-RL-GRRL-style.
Don't kid yourself. Seduce your wife, indeed. You wanna look at that from the appropriate, and completely opposite, angle?
And, for my fourth and final point. "He's no Prince Charming...."
Too bloody right he's not. A prince would be like you and your useless brother, a couple of spoilt, selfish little kids, who sit on their lazy backsides while their mummy runs around after their 30-year-old asses, cooking and cleaning and making packed lunches and ironing their shirts and just generally shielding them from the harsh unfairnesses of life. A prince might be someone who, when he can't be arsed to work, goes on the sick for 6 months at a time, or lets his wife forgo university to get a full-time job while he's on the dole, or who can't fix a goddamn broken toilet seat for 2 years straight. THOSE are examples of princes. God forbid that I should ever, ever be stuck with one of those again--because princes don't want princesses. They want slaves.
Like fuck am I anyone's slave.
And like fuck am I some blushing maiden in a tower somewhere, while we're on that subject. I'm a WOMAN, in all the best and worst incarnations of that word. I am, in no particular order, a compassionate shoulder to lean on, a friendly conversationalist, a great fuck, a fun night out, an arguably more fun night in, a spirited debater, a tease, a good laugh, a possibly talented writer, a relatively logical thinker, a realist, a pragmatist, a dreamer, a romantic, a mother, a daughter, a sister, a friend, a lover, and potentially one of the finest examples of life partner anyone could hope to snag. I am beautiful. I am unique. I am capable and intelligent and interesting and likable and shaggable and so, SO many things you never took advantage of; yet all the while, you very much took advantage of ME.
Never again. That will just never happen again. I've managed to find someone who *sees* me, as I am, not just my good points, but also my flaws, and he sees them as they are. He sees the minutiae composing all the smaller facets of who I am, but he doesn't miss the way it all fits together. He is concerned with the little details, but he doesn't neglect the bigger picture.
I can well believe that someone like you, would have trouble understanding someone like him. But I'll try and put it into perspective for you; think back, 7, 8, 9, nearly 10 years... there was a girl, a sweet, shy, trusting, thoughtful, perceptive, intelligent, moral, unique, interesting, potential-laden girl, a girl like no one you'd ever met before, just waiting for someone to give her a chance to show them how fantastic and amazing she was, underneath all that shyness and lack of self-confidence.
Now imagine that it's not a girl, but a grown man, whose worst vices are a touch of Japanophilia and his love of a rousing game of Left 4 Dead, and whose attributes include all of the above, plus a hell of a work ethic, a sense of personal responsibility, and more general kindness than any man I've met before or since... and you'll kind of understand what I see in him.
No Prince Charming? No shit. He's more of a white knight; but instead of trying to sweep me off my feet and whisk me away, oh-I'll-handle-it-dear style, he's actually not rescuing me--he believes in me enough to help me rescue myself.
Don't you get it? It's not about whether he drops me in the shit or not, in the end... it's the fact that he knows, if he did, I'd just handle it. Because I am. Capable. Of running my own life.
He doesn't try to isolate, or bully, or manipulate, or coerce me into needing him--he wants me to *want* to be with him. Not because he thinks I can't make it on my own, or because I'm just a little woman and I need a big strong man to look after me and sort my life out--but because he's aware that I AM getting my life in order, and I'd like someone equally pleasant, and bright, and capable, and likable, and just plain fun, to share that life with.
And now I've found him. I have finally, maybe, no-chickens-counted-but-fingers-well-and-truly-crossed, found him.
And everyone who's got a problem can just FUCK RIGHT OFF.
:)
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