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Scroll On, Citizen

January 26, 2019

 

​Welcome to my creative recovery--the peeking out of a few glittered toes from the shadows. I've been lurking here a long time, playing alone with my toys and my oversized middle-finger foamies after getting the crap kicked out of me on several stages I was never built to dance upon. Injury (blessedly) booted me off of them. 

 

While I healed, I decided to design my own theater.

 

Creative recovery often involves a lot of anger. During my decades as an artist I've learned that beneath this face of my rage is usually a terrified little girl, and beneath her, a pool of grief. Deep, glass-smooth, silent. 

 

I've also learned that critics are usually in far worse shape than I am. The compassionate side of me gets that, and I feel for you.

 

That doesn't give you any right to smack me around just because you're feeling insecure about yourself, or because you have no idea who you are and can't stand the sight of someone else daring to explore that question in themselves. As such, I give you...

 

 

A LETTER UNTO THE...*INDIVIDUALS*...WHO LOVE TO PAT ME ON THE HEAD, ROLL EYES, AND FLASH CONDESCENDING SMILES WHILE FOISTING UNSOLICITED ADVICE UPON ME BECAUSE YOU "HAVE A DICK AND KNOW HOW GUYS ARE":

 

 

In case there is any uncertainty of whether or not that stupid, naive little girl who composed the last short story still exists inside me…yeah. She does. 

 

Unfortunately. 

 

But rest assured, I work to obliterate her every day. Every time I go into the gym, every punch I slam into something that won’t break my fist, every hour I spend learning how to wield weapons including and especially the ones I came out of the womb with…every mental THWACK of the rubber band on my wrist the second I entertain the inconceivable notion that my genital cavity would have the slightest value to anybody who might wanna prod it…that my silly, idiotic, gullible dreamer’s heart might have the capacity to affect my would-be-wooers beyond making me easier to bang…that my precious, precious kiss could ever make any impact beyond its ability to assist in a blown load…

 

Yep. You can untwist your nickers and cram your "well-meaning" concern up any orifice of your choosing (except mine), because I'm going to be just fine. I promise. With every passing year--in fact, with every week--I succeed in annihilating that intolerable little twit a bit more.

 

She gets me thrown across rooms.

 

She gets me thrown out windows.

 

She gets me thrown away like trash after single-serving use, which is better than big, meaty hands around my throat to slam the back of my skull into brick walls.

 

(Oh. Too much? You said you wanted to talk about the reality of my romantic experiences.)

 

She gets me instantaneous letters from government offices saying, “Do not pass Appeals (you don’t even need one), do collect $200, go directly to Disability,” because “I love you” is best demonstrated with a fist to the face resulting in a year of seizures and five years of aftermath trying to recover from them.

 

So, yes, since you asked. It does occur to me. EVERY. FUCKING. WORD. Every look, every touch, every smile, and especially every kiss. I don’t believe jack squat anymore. That operating system crashed--had to get a new one.**

 

 

But you know, every once in awhile, it is kinda nice to experience physical contact with another human being, especially a male one who smells nice and is easy on the eyes. Every-every once in awhile, I get to enjoy this with someone who comprehends the meaning of the words "friend" and "connection" and "respect," in spite of the fact that I'm not interested in ever remarrying. 

 

Mostly I'm serviced (in truth, mostly I'm celibate). Services vary in their satisfaction guarantee, but, come on. I'm just a belly dancer, right? Not a "quality" woman. What more could someone like me expect?

 

Since I exist neither in the marriage-potential nor hookup camp, I adhere to full disclosure about what I want and what I don't. But I guess honesty makes sex un-fun, so when I'm still idiotic enough to buy into false advertising, I pay for it with another piece of my swooner’s heart. Thank every star in every universe, because it hacks off another insufferable sliver. Hopefully someday my happy ass will be incapable of swooning. 

 

Maybe then I will ever stand a chance at having what my heart truly desires because—yes, I can hear your feathers ruffling from here, and you’re right. #NotAllMen. That word is actually the difference. MEN vs. damaged little boys in men-sized-panties who are irresistible to the damaged little girl in me.

 

But all y’all, clucking over there in that corner…Historically, this treatment from someone whose opinion I valued (read: past tense) would send me slamming the portcullis down to scurry into the writer’s closet once more with a migraine-caliber vulnerability hangover. I might have stayed there for months. Maybe even years.

 

Today? Nope.

 

Must be a testament to my badass tribe and all that hubud.  (If you don't know what that is, the link will take you to a demo. And lookie…even a version filmed to a drum solo I love. How very appropriate.) Fear not for poor widdle wilting me, m'kay? Because all these douchey-bags give me wonderful practice in self-defense. Where the body goes, the mind will follow, and vs. versa.

 

So we're not going to clam up today. 

 

Instead, I think we should throw the doors open a little wider, yeah? 

 

One of my dear friends expressed her wish that my rosy little memory I turned into the first short story I got up the guts to share since high school was the beginning of a book. Unfortunately, unless I decide to write some more steamy, gory fantasy, all I have to offer on that account is what happens next. 

 

What happens to that doe-eyed little empath who has been told over and over, since she was four years old, that what she feels and sees and hears with something beyond eyes and ears is false. 

 

What happens to that once-sweet ingenue who believed that love, forgiveness, compassion, and kindness were not weaknesses—who believed in it so hard that she found herself standing on the Bong Bridge in December, wondering if the impact of her body crashing into the ice would actually kill her or just make her life worse. 

 

Thankfully, those things aren’t weakness. They are some of her superpowers so she doesn’t ever jump. Instead, she learns to live happily in dichotomy. She practices hubud. And she makes a lot of art.

 

There's a reason why I write fantasy. Because I believe in it like Jane Austen and J.K. Rowling. If I'm not writing fantasy and fiction, what do I have but bullet-lists and memoir? Did the four of them probably live right around the corner? Was it a well-honed circus act they performed in tandem with both waitresses and the bartender to bolster tips and egos? Did they strut down that sidewalk, laughing at me and high-fiving each other for the theft of another kiss from some stupid, dupable touron? 

 

Maybe.

 

And maybe fucking not.

 

Did doubtfulness occur to me, even that night in 1997? Sure. I had just come from SCAland, don't ye know? Society for Creative Adultery. How about Scoundrels, Creepers & Assholes? Huh. Sounds like my backyard, too.

 

But rest assured, I felt what I felt from that shut-down heart, no matter if his pain was acquired across an ocean or two blocks away. That's another superpower, and it has never once been proven incorrect when it thrums like that.

 

EVER.

 

So forgive me for crafting a vivid memory into a story that dares to voice my belief that Boho Rev Beauty, Truth & Love might be able to send ripples into reality and change one damned thing. That one random moment of kindness could be so powerful as to alter the trajectory of a life headed for implosion. That violence isn't a cycle that must be perpetuated by having more hatred poured onto it, like gasoline on embers that almost had the chance to die.

 

Yet you read that story and THAT'S your takeaway? Snickers and disdain you can't help but contain and must vomit into my inbox and all over the hallway amidst our mutual friends? Well, that's pretty sad. I think that says more about your own heart than it does about my idiocy.

 

Your condescension cuts me deeply. If you were just some anonymous troll, I wouldn't care. But we're supposed to be friends, yet you keep looking down your nose at me, needing to educate me about the reality of my experiences because you know so much more than my cute-but-naive self since you possess a penis.

 

Are you really sure you wanna open that Tupperware container with me?

 


You should probably stick with my fiction. In fact, when my shit comes up, you should probably just scroll on, citizen.

 

Because now that you've brought it up, yeah, let's take the red pill tonight, shall we? Let's talk about the reality of my kisses and what I know of "how guys are" when it comes to women like me. It'd be the same if I was a lesbian or a pansexual world-famous drag-queen. Heck, it'd be the same if I was a badass dude with a stupid, starry-eyed little boy lurking in his heart. 

 

I'd still probably spend my Friday and Saturday nights inside writing fantasy. Or vomiting about reality from my perspective.

 

 

 

THAT

 

i want that

had that

got that

got sucked by that

fucked that fine piece of meat

 

do i truly want her?

shit, no

i just taunt her

and haunt her

and do a l’il jaunter

keep dancing her ‘round on my line

jig-jig

tug-tug

my twig in her mug

do i care that she really is fine?

 

Of course!

My friends all Applaud

My Name they all Laud

(i am a big clod)

But I’m Boss

 

Why?

 

‘cause i banged that

screwed that

laid that

paid that thing mind ‘til it chomped

ooh, my shiny lures

(not at all true-ers)

got the hook down nice and deep

(i know I’m a creep)

i was just nice ‘til we romped

 

then i smacked it

whacked it

hit it

quit

it bit down on my bullshit manwich

 

Look at Me, I'm the Shit!

     (dude, i’m a cowardly-ass pisspot)

When I squeeze that tit!

     (scared of my own shadow)

I am the Bomb!

     (hatin’ that thing i see in the mirror)

I’m one Badass Dom!

     (can’t even master my own laundry)

 

so i call that

poke that

text that

sext that cum-slut with the Texas-sized heart--yee-haw!

it’s always so sweet-o

tells me i’m neat-o

in a thousand and eighty-five ways

i can get in my fix

don’t even need licks

on my dick’s head or gettin’ me off

it’s the ego, you see

the stroking of ME

since i feel like a hideous chud

so i call

and i bawl

‘bout my life

and them all

who keep wah-wah they hate me wah-whine

but when a smokin’-hot, smokin-smart, huge heart looks up at me like that and smiles and touches me and laughs at my stupid jokes and says, “I believe in you...” and i see it in her eyes that she truly means it and all the guys ask how in ten acid-burned HELLS a shit-bird little turd like me got something like 

 

THAT?!

 

when i see that

feel that

hear that

cheer that gives me an actual spine

then just for a Second

just that fraction of an Instant

 

I believe in me, too.

 

And that’s all I need.

It has no more worth.

After all, it’s nothing but a slab of fuck-hole and honey.

 

Hey.

Hey dude.

See that?

Yeah.

Yeah, I tapped that.

 

 

 

This one's for you, sweet-cheeks. And you over there. And especially for you. *smooch*

 

Toldja I'll be okay. Is the name of this blog beginning to make sense yet?

 

**Photo Credit: Dancer's Eye Photography

 

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Adventures of a Writey-Fighty-Dancer Gal surviving Traumatic Brain Injury and other trips to the Underworld. Come heckle--ermmm--watch the performing monkey tricks as she navigates her life using her arts, her rawr, and obscene amounts of glitter! 

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