Stalking Optimism

The silver lining, she supposes, if there is one through all of this, is that she’s still alive, perhaps more alive than she’s ever been. That, in itself, shouldn’t feel like an accomplishment, but after the last few weeks, she has a new lease on life, a new motivation to enjoy what could be extremely short lived.

It started with a date.

Ok, scratch that.

It started with a dating profile.

She probably should have known better. But, instead of listening to the 20 or so people on facebook who were constantly complaining about the messages they got on those sites or the people they met, she kept coming back to that one friend she had who swore she met the love of her life on OkCupid, the one who got married to that supposed love of her life last year and was now pregnant with twins, the one who clogged up her news feed with nothing but lovey dovey melodramatic bullshit about her husband, the one whose life surely couldn’t be as insanely fantastic as she made it out to be on Facebook. That friend. Everyone has at least one… it’s that one friend who is the only person in history to ever be perfect and have a perfect life and never ever have a single complaint because everything is so fucking wonderful, the one who everyone thinks is likely miserable and coming apart at the seams behind closed doors….

Still…

She couldn’t help getting swept up in that. She didn’t mean to compare notes or wonder at times what was wrong with her that she was still alone, but those thoughts were there all the same. She had gotten caught up in the shoulds and musts, in the things she didn’t have in comparison. So, maybe she wasn’t thinking clearly when she made her profiles on Tindr and PoF and OkCupid.

Or maybe she was just lonely.

Either way, she made herself a spot on all 3 and considered her profiles to be fairly clever. She talked about her dreams and goals, the movies she loved, the music she needed. She displayed her veracious wit and threw up a few decent face shots, and that was that. The messages were rolling in with the vast majority being absolute shit from people that couldn’t possibly really be interested in her (she was not of the mindset that opposites really attract) as much as they were anything with a vagina, but every now and then, she would find a gem—a witty play on words in a decent introductory message that would make her smile and open up the possibility for more. Usually, her interest waned with twice the intensity and speed that it piqued, but she was mostly having fun getting to know people and defining more and more what about she wanted out of a partner.

Then she got THE message. She opened it with her usual half-hearted interest expecting to give it another exaggerated eyeroll before quickly hitting the trashcan icon to get rid of it. But, for once, that isn’t what happened. In actuality, she found a delightfully charming and inquisitive message. This guy quoted movies, complimented some of her tastes, playfully questioned some of her other likes . The best thing to come out of Clueless, he said, was videographic evidence to prove Paul Rudd’s seeming immortality, he had written. And of course she giggled. It wasn’t like she as proud of her love for Clueless (As If!). He asked about her love for old cars inquiring what would be her top 5 dream cars. He wanted to know who would direct a movie about her life. And what would be on the soundtrack. Everything about it was amazingly crafted and obviously not the typical copy/paste jobs that she was used to not to mention it was a far cry from the all-too-common oversexed pornographic narratives—the equivalent of trench coat flasher shaking his sad, flaccid wee-wee at old ladies leaving the grocery store. All in all, it was completely unexpected, and she couldn’t contain her excitement. She didn’t even look at his profile before she put together her response in which she said, with a bit of glee, that she had been ordering Paul Rudd’s tears on the black market and using them as face moisturizer…

From there it had gone like a whirlwind in just a few short days…long messages, flirting, then texting all day, then actual all-night phone calls with not a moment of silence. She felt like she was back in high school all over again. There was a rush to it, a heat… The chemistry was unbelievable. She was walking on clouds, smiling broader and brighter than she had in a long time, and for a little while, she had really began to wonder if this was what that one Facebook friend had been bragging about all this time. Surely, if this was the way she felt all the time, there was good damn reason for her to act like nothing in her life could ever go wrong.

It didn’t last though, the magic. In fact, it got bad, really bad, in a hurry.

A couple months into seeing him, she had to break a date. She wasn’t feeling well that night. Food poison, maybe, but whatever it was, she wasn’t in any shape to go out for mini golf like they had planned. So, she sent him a text between one of the many times she was hugging the toilet that night, sat her phone down, and forgot about it. She was too weak to do much of anything but sleep, puke, and beg unseen forces for sweet, sweet mercy.

The next day when she could finally sit up in bed without feeling like the world had transformed into a giant merry go round being pushed by the biggest kid on the playground, she checked her phone. 100+ notifications. Call after call after call from him. Voicemails. Texts. They started out supportive and calm. He was checking in. Did she need anything. Was everything ok. But the tone grew increasingly aggressive and paranoid. He accused her of losing interest, of being out with another guy, called her a slut and a whore and a bitch…It was endless. She sat their shaking in disbelief staring at her phone like IT was the traitor not him. In an instant, the whole thing shattered. The clouds had dissipated and dropped her squarely on her plump ass in the middle of a expansive pile of shit.

In hindsight, she realizes now that she should have changed her number, bought some extra locks for the doors, a bigger can of pepper spray and let it go, let him go. But, she couldn’t shake how good things had been to start. The sheer confusion she felt was so monumental she felt she might drown in it. So, she called him hoping that he might explain his behavior, hoping that something he said might redeem him in her eyes, but he was cold, distant, accusatory. This was a man she had known for just a few short months. There was no explicit commitment. No talk of what the future held. She didn’t understand at all what could possibly be provoking this sense of ownership and paranoia yet she found herself apologizing for not taking his feelings into consideration. She, the one who was sick and miserable, apologized to him, the man who called her a slut for being too weak to answer her cell phone.

Over the next few weeks, she tried to get things back to where they were to begin with, but nothing worked. Nothing helped. They had dinner, went to movies, hung out at her place, but the chemistry was gone. He was distant and suspicious, and she kept hearing the anger in his voice on those many voicemails calling her every name in the book. She couldn’t help wondering if he might snap.

So, she ended it. She told him in a text that she didn’t think the two of them would work out and that she didn’t want to see him anymore then she turned her phone off. She didn’t want to deal with it, with him, and she certainly didn’t want to face another post on social media about how fucking dazzlingly perfect everyone else’s lives were. It was all about Netflix binging and booze that night. That had been her plan anyway.

Instead, she ended up on the phone to the police after that asshole showed up to her place beating on the doors, threatening her, and using a baseball bat on her car. He was arrested but he made bail the same night. The police asked her what she did to make him so angry.

What SHE did to make him angry…

Not what his problem was…

not that they would do everything they could to protect her…

not any sort of recommendation on what to do next…

When she told them that she had broken it off with him and that she wanted to press charges for harassment, they told her it would be pointless until there was an established pattern following the breakup and to just let it go and not waste anybody’s time—they actually said to give the guy a break.

Give the guy a break for demolishing her car with a baseball bat because she didn’t want to date him anymore.

She went through the process of taking down her dating profiles, blocking him on social media, and blocking his number. She let her closest friends know what was going on and asked them to check in on her if they hadn’t seen her around in a few days. She changed the locks, added an extra deadbolt, and bought herself some pepper spray, and a taser—all things a woman shouldn’t have to do to feel safe in her own home just because she didn’t want to be a part of someone’s life anymore.

But the fun didn’t stop there. He changed his own number and started calling to harass her again. She called the police who advised her to keep a log of the calls for evidence in the future which meant she couldn’t change her number to avoid the matter…not if she wanted to get the proof that the cops so desperately wanted. She started finding written messages on the windows on her home, death threats in her mailbox. None of that could be proven to definitely be him so the police did nothing even when she found a dead snake in the mailbox. She had a real fucking bunny boiler on her hands.

She was terrified to leave home after she thought she caught him following her to work one night. If she wasn’t behind the safety of her locked doors, she was near panic, and even being in the house didn’t immediately quell her anxieties since he always seemed to turn up there. It seemed like every day she found a sign that he had been around with the cops acting more and more like she was hysterical and paranoid whenever she asked for help.

Then things escalated. Or culminated, she supposes, is the right word for it.

It must have happened, she figures now, when she went out to check the mail. The mailbox for her place was at the end of a pretty long driveway. She hadn’t ever wanted to lock the door on her way to check the mail because she wanted to be able to get back inside easily if she happened to see him. What a fucking rookie mistake, though. Since he used that window of opportunity to sneak inside and wait. She still doesn’t know how he waited in there so long, tucked in the hallway closet, before making his move without her knowing. Hours without eating, without drinking, and seemingly without so much as urinating. It’s like he did made all the essential plans to make sure he wouldn’t have the need beforehand. In fact, the blood tests that were conducted later said he was so severely dehydrated that there were some doubts he even could have had the strength to do any of it.

Yeah, even caught red-handed, people were on his side more than hers… Even after what he did, what he tried to do, there was still doubt, still some blame being thrown her way.

She went about her usual routine that day. Yoga, a little Netflix, some cleaning, laundry, she made dinner and ate it with her cat on the couch—some baked salmon and red roasted potatoes with spinach and feta. She’ll probably never be able to eat any of that again now. She was cleaning up her dinner dishes when he surprised her. She heard the hall closet open, but it didn’t really register as anything other than the cat at first. Then she felt it, the weight in the room, the tension. She whirled around, gasping at the sight of him. His hair stuck out in crazy angles. He was filthy, unkempt, a sweaty mass of fury.

He lunged, grabbed her by the throat, and threw her against the wall next to the kitchen counter. She was situated directly between her counter and the doorway leading out of the kitchen. Her mind raced trying to figure out what she could do, how she could stop him. She pulled at his hands, scratching his arms. She pushed her thumb into his eye at one point, but he pulled away and tightened his grip, screaming in her face that she deserved this for leaving him, for hurting him. She had reached for the counter then scrambling for anything she could hoping for a knife or something heavy to hit him with but she found nothing and was slowly losing her strength. The room was spinning, growing darker…

Then she remembered the pepper spray in the pocket of her cardigan. With all the fight she had left, she reached for it. The small tube got caught in the fabric, but she managed to yank it free. The first shot missed, but the second hit its mark. She gasped for air coughing and sputtering, but it felt like freedom. Her focus started to clear, but the room still swam around her. He was writhing on the floor screaming, “you fucking bitch” over and over, groaning in pain between the words.

She fell to her knees, choking, nearly fainting, but she pulled herself up and made it to the opposite side of the kitchen where her phone was charging giving herself ample room to avoid him. She hit the button to bring it to life and used the emergency dialer to contact 911. The operator assured her the cops would be there in a hurry, old her to lock herself in another room of the house and remain on the phone.

She started to move towards the back of the house to hide in her bedroom, but clarity hit her at that moment. Fuck that, she thought. Fuck . It. If she hid in the bedroom, he’d manage to escape and she’d never be able to prove it was him. This would just keep going on and on and on. She had lost her job. She hadn’t left the house in ages, and goddamn she could not live like this anymore.

She chose, instead, to hang up the phone and arm herself with the biggest kitchen knife she could find then stood in the only exit out of the kitchen. Surely, she though, the police would arrive before the effects of the pepper spray wore off.

She overestimated the cops. As usual.

5 minutes ticked by. 10. 15. He started moaning less and tried to get up. 20 minutes. He finally managed to stand up slowly taking note of the knife in her hand and stood on the opposite side of the kitchen against the fridge.

“What the fuck are you planning on doing with that?” he demanded.

“Making sure your crazy ass goes to prison this time, fuckhead.”

He sat for a moment stunned that she would dare say such a thing to him then rushed at her, growling and screaming obscenities.

In the moment, she hadn’t realized what happened until he fell against her. She watched his face change, felt him go semi-limp then the warmth surrounded her hand. The knife had sunken into his abdomen to the hilt when he went after her.

He fell back against the kitchen table, falling into one of the chairs just as the police busted in the door.

Her story never wavered no matter how many times she was interrogated over the last few weeks. He didn’t make it. The knife nicked his intestines. With the weakened state of his body, he never recovered from the infections that set in and eventually succumbed to them without ever really fully giving his story.

It was her word against no one’s, but the cops sure tried to make it like her word, her constant calls, and attempts to get help meant absolutely nothing.

Still, she was in the clear. She had her life, and every day she was slowly getting better which is something she never would have done if things had gone differently, if he were still alive to get out of jail and stalk her some more.

Given that, she was sure that if she had it to do all over again, she would have stabbed him as he lay there blinded and vulnerable.

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As always Sunday is for Sunday Confessions. Hope you enjoyed the fiction I laid down. Let me know in the comments. And be sure to check out the rest of the contributions this week over at More Than Cheese and Beer. Oh, and the prompt is Silver Lining

When Satire Becomes Hate Speech

I can’t remember how exactly it happened but almost 2 years ago I started following a page on Facebook about a little girl with Down’s Syndrome, Leah, who was also born with esophageal atresia—her upper esophagus wasn’t connected to her lower esophagus/stomach which made it impossible to eat by mouth without surgery. I’ve watched her grow from a tiny little preemie to a pouty lipped toddler through Facebook posts on her page and a blog run by her two mommies. As cheesy as it sounds, it has really been a life changing experience in many ways. Every time I see that kiddo’s smiling face, it warms me to my core. She has gone through so much in her lifetime already but she keeps on trucking and laughing and pulling cat tails. She’s huge inspiration in a tiny,sassy package, and you can’t help feeling some affection for her and her mommies just from following the posts.

Through her page, also, I learned about an organization called The Butterfly Fund which helps families of children with high medical costs. Most of the children there have something called Epidermolysis Bullosa (but Leah is also one of theirs). That particular disorder is extremely painful and causes blistering and sores on the skin with even slight pressure or touch. Those who have it are said to have skin as fragile as a butterfly’s wings. I have donated when I can to several different families buying medical supplies and toys for the kids (because I want to help with bills but also help with smiles). I’ve followed pages for other children who belong and a couple of other pages for children with Down’s who donate or try to help in some way. All in all, being a part of this community in even a small way has been a big deal for me.

So, I was phenomenally pissed recently when I saw a post by one of Leah’s mommies about a sweet little girl named Adele who had her pictures stolen and used by a page that captioned them with a rant about vaccines causing autism. The page also had several other photos of children with Down’s that said things like “mommy doesn’t love me” or “mommy said we were going fishing now I live in a home” and blaming vaccines. (see the originals posted by Adele's mom here: http://aperfectextrachromosome.blogspot.ca/)

Phenomemally pissed is actually probably an understatement. I was fucking livid.

In response, I did the only thing I could do and joined in with the community to report these photos to Facebook as abuse of community standards. We all reported the photos as hate speech which targeted people with disabilities because that’s, indeed, what it was, but Facebook was fine with the photos turning down report after report until the parents of the children finally reported theft of intellectual property as the reason for having them removed. The page itself was removed for these thefts but has already sprung up again with new photos of different issues.

The page itself is called Disciples of the New Dawn. You may or may not have heard of it. I hadn’t at the time, but have since researched it quite a bit. The general public seems torn on whether or not it’s a satirical page with most believing assuredly that no one could actually believe the garbage that gets posted there. There’s nothing definitive, though, from the people who run it to say with certainty whether it is or isn’t meant as joking social commentary.

Does it really matter whether it’s satire or not? No…but also yes.

It doesn’t matter in the context of theft. These parents have pages for their children because the support, even from strangers, aids in their journey. They face some difficult obstacles and, I imagine, just knowing that other people take joy from seeing their child’s smiling face or knowing that other people are rooting for them is a big deal. To know that someone trolled their pages, though public, and stole their child’s photo to use as the butt of some sort of joke must feel like an assault. And, it’s utterly appalling. If it’s not satire, it’s appalling on many levels simply because of what’s being said on those photos and on the page. But, to steal the photos to make a joke that no one else is really privy to? Somehow that seems even worse. It’s certainly more callous.

On the other hand, it does, in a way, matter whether the page’s intent is satire or not. For one, as mentioned, the theft in the context of satire seems even more of an assault. But, also in the context of satire, where do we draw the line? At what point does satire lose its effectiveness and its punch? Certainly if no one is aware the intent is satire, it has missed its mark entirely and pretty much become devoid of purpose, no? Of course, it also says something about our society when even something this extreme isn’t obviously satirical. This leads me to wonder--does satire of this type have a purpose and a place? In all honesty, I don’t think the person who runs this page is intending to be funny at all. Either he/she is absolutely insane enough to believe the shit that he/she posts or it’s meant to troll, to cause arguments so the page owner can sit back and laugh at it all. I wouldn’t be surprised if that person had other fake accounts from which he or she comments just to keep the arguments going. Do we really have room for this sort of thing in our society? I would hope not, but apparently Facebook doesn’t agree with me. Facebook was perfectly fine with photos of children with Down’s Syndrome being used in obviously malicious ways. In fact, I don’t think that Facebook considers anything to be hate speech since I’ve reported memes and comments with the N-word only to be told they’re not a violation of community standards.

I think it’s time to demand a change. Despite the fact that I’ve been told there are real problems Facebook employees have to deal with, I don’t feel this is a petty issue. Discrimination and hatefulness of any kind only contributes to the kind of extreme social issues we see as a society right now. Targeting an entire group of individuals even for satire’s sake is not something I can get behind especially when theft of intellectual property is involved. If you see anything of that nature, I implore you to report it and keep reporting it. In the case of Disciples of the New Dawn, the page may keep springing to life like a festering sore that won’t heal, but at least this time, when it did show its ugly face again, those stolen pictures weren’t part of the page anymore.

Small victories lead to bigger ones.

Thank you.

 

I'm also including links to Leah's Facebook page, The Butterfly Fund, and a couple others. I can promise that you won't regret following and/or donating. 

https://www.facebook.com/babyleahvalerie?fref=ts&ref=br_tf

https://www.facebook.com/sonomabutterflyfund?fref=ts

https://www.facebook.com/ButterflyFundFamilyWishLists?fref=ts

https://www.facebook.com/aperfectextrachromosome?fref=ts

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Sunday Confessions day. I chose to skip the fiction this week to talk about something pretty important to me. I hope you'll check out the pages I shared above as well as the More Than Cheese and Beer page! Thanks for reading. 

Days Like This

The water trickles slowly into the bright green, Mario-inspired mug bringing with it a waft of steam and a sweetly bitter smell that makes her mouth water at the thought of the creamy warmth that will soon blanket her taste buds. She’s too eager to take the first sip to let every single drop find its home before she takes the almost-too-hot-to-touch mug from its place. It slips into her hand like a familiar lover’s. She lets the heat get so, so close to unbearable before she sets it down again. She adds a couple spoonfuls of Splenda from the vintage yellow canister on the counter and stirs in the extra extra creamy creamer changing the dark brown to a smooth caramely color.

Perfection.

She travels with the mug, then, back to the couch setting it carefully on the table before she takes her

his hair is actually much longer now

place tucked safely into the corner on the left side. The boy giggles from the red chair on the far side of the room, the chair he always sits in when he’s playing his games and living the carefree life that children should. She watches him for a moment and smiles that smile that mothers have when the love feels like it might burst from every pore, surely it must radiate from her like a disco ball shining in his presence. He looks up at her then, his laughter still fresh on his lips, and asks, “what?”

“Nothing,” she says.

He shrugs his shoulders and goes back to his game while she reaches forward for the coffee that will now be just right or so she hopes. The first sip is like sunbeams on her tongue, warm and full of life. She sits back then, mug in hand, and blows a little on the still warm liquid before inhaling the aroma of the banana and caramel undertones in the coffee. The second sip hits her taste buds and is even better than the first.

She flips the television on looking for something to fill the silence but not in the mood for a record that would only distract her like music tends to do. Her favorite tunes would consume her instead of provide background noise which is not what she needs at the moment unfortunately. Looney Tunes will work, she decides. The boy sends her a thumbs up of approval. It’s the new show not the old classics. Fun, humorous, but also easy to ignore. It’s still somehow familiar though and just adds to the ease of the day.

With the remote settled back into its place on the coffee table, she grabs her fuzzy throw—the gray one covered in black bats—to cover her legs. The cats know that blanket all too well and are snuggling together on it in groups of 3 as soon as she gets it in place. The added warmth and the vibrations from their purring is more than welcome as she takes another sip of her coffee and watches them for a moment lovingly bathing one another like furry best friends do.

She stays like that lingering in the semi-quiet moments. There is so much left to do this day. The house is clean, the animals are full and sleepy, the laundry is in the wash, the boy is done with schoolwork, but her day is far from over as the mug of coffee may suggest. It’s time to get to work on her own schoolwork, her blogs, her letters. It’s somewhat of a never-ending cycle, but she takes joy in being busy, in the words that flow from her fingertips to the white screen filling it up one after the other in academic pursuits, deep conversations, stories that beg to be told, and reflective essays.

As much as she sarcastically jokes about domesticated bliss, there’s comfort in these routines and the way she can sink into life like it’s a big comfy, purring, fuzzy couch and enjoy the little moments that make the day something unique.

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I'm not sure why I decided to write about myself in 3rd person, but it felt right. I actually started this as a first person narrative, but it felt off. So, here we are. This was another installment of Sunday Confessions with More Than Cheese and Beer. The prompt this week was comfort. Thanks for joining me in my comforting routines every Sunday. Be sure to check out the MTCAB blog for the other linkups!!

Dream a Little Dream

There is blood everywhere. So. Much. Blood.

Just a few minutes before, I had been relaxing on smallish black inner tube floating down this massive, muddy river. I didn’t remember how I got here exactly, but the rush of the tepid river water on my bottom made the heat of this scorching day a little less oppressive. I had trailed my hands in the water in some sort of daze wondering if any fish would mistake my fingers for wrinkled worms and lazily pulled them out every now and then to watch the water droplets bead on the top of the tube before quickly fizzing out of existence in the harsh sunlight. Maybe this was a metaphor for life, I thought…this inner tube drifting towards an unknown destination with my dreams fizzling out one by one just as quickly as those tiny worlds of water on the top of this expansive blackness.

All around me there were other people dressed in solid-colored swimsuits just like mine. Black ones, orange ones, a royal shade of blue. Each of us on a plan black inner tube. It felt like some sort of Great Migration, all of us here in our similar garb traveling downriver, but I wasn’t sure. I had been trying to push past the haze to figure it all out when I heard the screaming. I tried to sit up in my panic, but my head was too fuzzy, and I was way to off balance on that fucking tube.

First one person then another and another until there were a chorus of screams ahead of me.

That’s when my tube floats through the blood--a vast crimson that tinted the murkiness seemingly without end.

There is blood everywhere. So. Much. Blood.

I try to get a look ahead of me peeking my head up as high as my dizziness will allow like a drunken tortoise attempting to peek out to see where he ended up the night before and if, perhaps, there’s something waiting there to eat him. Something brushes against my ass—the ass still floating along in blood and I give a little screech. I have no idea what that might have been feeling my panic increase to astronomical amounts. I’m absolutely terrified to be in water where things with teeth dwell—a fear I’ve seemed to forget about until just now when clarity finally pushes through the fog that has blanketed my brain and kept me docile in my travels.

There is a fucking head. A head! Floating by on my left.

I don’t really have time to process what could have happened to that person before I’m being lifted out of the water, fast and hard, from underneath the tube. Now, it’s me who is screaming.

I can’t readily identify what it is that I’m basically sitting on, but it looks like an alligator. Size-wise,

though, it makes the monster from Lake Placid look like a baby. He’s powerful and tosses me like a ragdoll over to the bank of the river. I hit hard and get the breath knocked out of me but don’t lose consciousness. In a second, I push myself up and run faster than I’ve ever run in my life.

There is absolutely no where to run.

Then, like some kind of miracle, I see my own home, the house I grew up in, beyond the mist in the distance. I can hear the beast behind me crashing onto the back, growling, and it fuels me even harder. I’m running and running, but it doesn’t feel like I’m making any progress. No matter how hard I push myself, I’m not getting any closer. I can almost feel the damned thing’s breath on my back before I finally make it to the front of the house. I push through the front door sure that the monster is on my heels. I haul ass through the living room and make a sharp right turn down the hallway and an immediate left into the bathroom. I’m barely inside the door when I hear the crash coming from the living room.

There’s no way I’m going to live through this. Absolutely no way.

I close the bathroom, lock the door and look anywhere for a weapon. There’s nothing but a plunger. A fucking plunger of all things. I grab it anyway because something is better than nothing and get ready to barricade the door. It’s there, on the other side, I can hear it breathing. So, I grab the plunger harder, ready before it begins nosing at the door. It’s almost unreal like it’s fucking teasing me slowing splintering the door jamb so it can ease its way inside. The door is threatening to swing open so I sit on the ground and push back against it with my feet, but it’s a futile effort. I’m already getting weak and the door is falling apart. I catch glimpses of the blood-stained, yellowed teeth that are bigger than my legs, the cold, dark eyes…I’m as good as dead, but I can’t give up. There’s a cabinet to my right. I swing it open searching frantically with my right hand while wielding the plunger in the left and keeping my legs on the door, but all I find is some Scrub N’ Bubbles spray. Fuck it, I think, and start spraying it into the beast’s eyes.

He disappears.

I feel a great sense of relief and a strong urge to pee.

I roll over then in the pregnant light of morning, still dazed with my heart racing, and look at the clock. 6:12 a.m. I momentarily groan that it's so close to time for me to get up for the day and trudge begrudgingly towards the bathroom replaying the nightmare and wondering just what the fuck is wrong with me. 

Today is another Sunday Confession with More Than Cheese and Beer. The topic this week was "dream" so I thought I'd write about one of my strangest ones. I suppose the river really was a metaphor for life and the the beast was a symbol of some stress I was under the time especially since I had to battle him in my old childhood home which is a common theme in my nightmares as it was a source of great stress when I was younger. Thanks for reading and be sure to check out the rest of the link ups over on the MTCAB page!

So, Maybe I Do Care 'Bout My Bad Reputation

I’ve seen the phrase “what other people think of you is none of your business” quite often.

As an upwardly mobile woman with a unique sense of style and a long-standing rebellious streak, I wholeheartedly agreed with it for a good long while. In essence, it was a variation of my rebellious tendency to shout that I didn’t give a fuck about what anyone thinks of me. A classier version, albeit, but something pretty similar all the same. Who would really argue with that? That part of it, the face value aspect, still rings fairly true, doesn’t it? A person should unapologetically be who they are without asking for others’ approval to be, to own their space in the world, to live without guilt.

But with self-awareness comes a need to look at that statement on a deeper level, to turn it over and examine all the cracks and crevices in the full light of day to see it for what it really is and not just the pretty package you get when it’s sitting in the shadowed corners of dusk. A lot of things sound good, look good, and get quoted when they’re left in the dark. For instance, I look pretty decent without makeup in the middle of the night, but put some fluorescents on me and whoa… run for cover, man, and wait until I put on my face. Words are like that. Words are like that more than we fully realize with so many of us sharing silly inspirational memes after a second’s thought that aren’t so applicable to anything remotely rational or inspirational or good once examined a little harder. There’s this one Marilyn Monroe quote that comes to mind that I’ve seen more than a time or two. It says, “A wise girl kisses but doesn’t love, listens but doesn’t believe, and leaves before she is left.” If you don’t think about it much, surely that seems like badassery. But on further inspection, all it says to me is that she probably had borderline personality disorder because for fuck’s sake that’s exactly what people with said disorder do and say. Is that really meme-worthy? Hardly.

When you dig a little deeper concerning that sentiment that another person’s opinion of you isn’t your business, it doesn’t have as much value. At least, it doesn’t to me. It doesn’t have to be about you not being allowed to be your true self. But, when you’re on that path to self-awareness, a difficult and time-consumingly emotional process, isn’t it important that the person you are inside match what people perceive you to be? Isn’t it worth understanding whether the image, the you that you project to the world—to your contacts, your associates, acquaintances, friends, loved ones—is the same as the you that you are striving to be, the you that you want to be?

I watched SLC Punk as a teen. It was one of those films that left its mark on me. I wasn’t in the punk scene in the 80s by far, but I related to those characters being a rebellious teen in a conservative area

that was unaccepting of anything perceived as even remotely different and like Stevo and Bob, it made me rebel even harder. Stevo said some things in that film that I couldn’t relate to at the time being so entrenched in my own acts of defiance, but the more I’ve grown as a person, the more self-awareness I’ve gained, the more they’ve come back to me almost like the sucker punch Stevo got with Bob that changed everything for him. He said, “And so there I was. I was gonna go to Harvard. It was obvious. I was gonna be a lawyer and play in the God-damned system, and that was that. I was my old man. He knew, so what else could I do? I mean, there's no future in anarchy; I mean let's face it. But when I was into it, there was never a thought of the future. I mean we were certain the world was gonna end, but when it didn't, I had to do something, so fuck it. I could always be a litigator in New York and piss the shit out of the judges. I mean that was me: a trouble maker of the future. The guy that was one of those guys that my parents so arrogantly saved the world for, so we could fuck it up. We can do a hell of a lot more damage in the system than outside of it. That was the final irony, I think. That, and well, this. And "fuck you" for all of you who were thinking it: I guess when all was said and done, I was nothing more than a God-damned, trendy-ass poser.”

He grew to that point that he understood change isn’t made on the fringes. I’ve seen that myself for a long time now. He also saw the changes he made wouldn’t exactly be approved of by his younger self or by young punks and old ones alike, but he was okay with that. The fact that someone else didn’t approve of his choices wouldn’t change those choices In the process of self-awareness, though, that look into another person’s perceptions is needed to grow, to really become okay with what you’ve made of yourself or to realize what else needs to change.

It doesn’t really matter one way or another if a person likes the way I wear my hair or thinks I have too many tattoos unless that person is hiring me for a job, but it does matter the overall image I project. That is my business. The person I feel like on the inside should match the person I show the world otherwise I have a whole lot of work left to do. To assume that the outward projection isn’t my business is to fail at awareness altogether in favor of something easier and lazier. It lets me escape half the journey, and what’s the fun in that?

_________________________________________________________________________________

 

Skipping the fiction this week for Sunday Confessions in favor of something that's been more or less on my mind for awhile now. Thanks for reading and be sure to check out the other posts today on More Than Cheese and Beer!

Target Practice

PULL!!!

I bring the shotgun to my shoulder and aim carefully making sure to slow my breathing and visually

track the arc of the target within the sites of the gun. When I lock onto it, I pull away accounting for the velocity of the “bird” before pulling the trigger. The blast recoils the butt of the gun into my shoulder but I don’t take my eyes off the prize. Above me in the sky, I see the novel obliterated into confetti that rains down on the ground around me. Book burning really isn’t my thing, but the rush I get from literally exploding a copy of 50 Shades of Grey is priceless. 50 Shades of Abuse should really be the name of this piece of poorly written garbage but somehow it swept hordes of women into some kind of contract-desiring spell. I’ve hooked up with 18 year olds who had a better grasp on sexuality than the author of this series. Watching small chunks of it fall on the grass with a thud as bland as the plot itself is almost as satisfying as well-earned spanking.

PULL!!!

The next target arcs through the sky above me and the process repeats itself again. This time it’s Beyonce’s latest album. I know, I know… How can I despise this pop cultural phenomenon and icon? She claims to be feminist, right? And all kinds of other garbage? I can’t be a good feminist if I criticize her, you say. Oh, fuck that noise. Feminism is a state of mind. It’s not just a label you hide behind so you can flaunt your sexuality on a stage or in a video without getting negative attention or so that when you do get negative attention you can shout out loud that it’s not feminist to stifle someone else’s sexuality. Puh-lease. Does that mean Nikki Minaj is a feminist just because she brought Baby Got Back back from a grave it wasn’t even really in just so she could horribly disfigure it, kill it, and set fire to it? No. Her big ass crawling around on screen doesn’t make her a feminist either. Miley certainly doesn’t get a pass on this either. More or less, you have to do more to further the cause than pave the way for people to gyrate in public without guilt (even though to some degree I do agree that’s part of it). So, why don’t we just make this a 3 for 1. As inspired as I feel to destroy all their things, I’m sure I can make all three shots in one pull. Go ahead and make my day.

PULL!!

The O’Reilly Factor has to go, man. It has to. I don’t know how I can absolutely destroy this paradigm of inflammatory “news” programming, but it needs to be done. I follow several resources that fact-check news hosts as well as politicians, and I must say for someone who thinks he’s so fucking right all the time, most of his “news” is complete and utter bullshit. You can research that for yourself. So, in essence, he’s no better than a terrorist. He incites others to believe propaganda that enforces closely held beliefs that are not based in any sort of fact whatsoever and calls them to action based on complete dishonesty and a type of brainwashing—the kind of people who believe Bill O’Reilly typically are more likely to believe their falsehoods even more strongly when shown evidence to the contrary. He’s not the only one to do it, and certainly both sides of the spectrum have these issues with the truth, but I do think he’s the biggest cuntopotamus of them all, so he can be my lesson to everyone else.

PULL!!

TLC has got to fucking go. Let’s look at the lineup: 19 Kids and Counting, My 600 Lb Life, Sex Sent Me to the ER, Sister Wives, Angels Among Us, Buying Naked, 3 fucking shows with the guy from Cake Boss as if he and his family weren’t annoying enough on 1 damned show. I mean, garbage, garbage, garbage. Let’s not forget that this channel also gave us Honey Boo Boo. TLC is supposed to stand for The Learning Channel. Learning. All we’re learning on this channel is that people with problems are supposed to be watched like Side Show acts and that even a bakery is so filled to the gills with drama that it needs a television show or apparently 3. Reality TV is terrible enough by design but TLC has this special ability to make people feel like they need a shower just by flipping past the channel much less stopping to actually watch. We get extreme archtype characters from these shows. Who the hell thought it was a good idea to give assholes like the Duggars or the Honey Boo Boos (whatever the fuck they are really called) are fascinating enough to mainstream them? It’s not about them being relateable. At all. And that’s the sad part of it. TLC, The Learning Channel, put these shows on the air so that the average American can say, hey…my life isn’t THAT bad! Look at those FREAKS. You know, really…if your life is to the point that watching some other family with a host of problems on television is what it takes to make you feel better about yourself then you need to work on that instead of mindlessly indulging in TV. TLC is feeding into a lifestyle where people can get out of working on themselves as long as they’re not as bad as people with idiotic lifestyles on television. What does that say about our culture?

PULL!!

Man, I could do this all day. The lineup would probably include some more “artists.” Kanye will not escape this pop culture demolition derby. Beck who plays 14 instruments should respect the artistry of someone who needs that many people to write her songs for her and who plays no instruments? Fuck. Gamergate is on the list. That whole movement where guys carry semi-automatic rifles into Target or Chipotle has to go too. OOOO….Michael Bay movies. All of them. And maybe that whole thing where people take movies we loved long ago and turn them into TV shows because TV revolutionized the way we view stories in the past several years….I mean, I get it. We used to have sitcom-centric television, but the advent of things like The Walking Dead changed television. Things are so much different now. But, seriously… Fargo, From Dusk til Dawn, Bates Motel, Hannibal, 12 Monkeys…fuck’s sake. Leave movies alone that we already know the end to and focus on bringing us new stories. I’m okay with that. I think other people are okay with that. Twilight. Got to go. And, while we’re at it…the word “smoothie.” I cringe every single time someone says it.

So, in al seriousness, I wrote this is fun, but there’s some underlying sentiment there. I think there are some barnacles on American culture that distract from potential, that hold us back or even act like parasites draining the remaining resolve that people have to be better. Some of those are serious issues like this blanket of entitlement that seems to keep young men from realizing that women have choices and that those choices don’t involve sleeping with whoever pays them attention. Rape culture is a strong issue to tackle. But, in the same token, there are some more light hearted issues that don’t seem like that big a deal on the surface, like 50 Shades of Gray, but really are just another weight on the pile that’s already drowning us in a sea of idiocy. And, I think talking about it maybe breaks the cycle of brainwashing or has the possibility to do so.

So what would you put on your target list?

Sunday is all about the confessions! Hope you'll stop by More Than Cheese and Beer to read all the submissions.

The Negotiation

“Before I do this, I want you to know I never meant it to be this way.”

He holds the gun on her, but his grip is loose and hand shaky. It isn’t the ironclad grip of a black heart. Maybe he means what he said. Maybe that gives her some leverage. It’s worth a shot anyway. At this point, she really has nothing to lose.

She pauses for a minute really looking at him this time. She had been afraid to before, afraid that if she really saw him, he’d never let her go, but she realizes that was the wrong approach. Right now, if she is going to live through this and fuck did she never realize just how much she wanted to get old until tonight…if she is going to make it, she has to get personal.

He has long, brownish hair that needed a good wash. His face is lean, gaunt really, like he hasn’t been eating too well for quite some time, but the baggy, ragged clothes he has on kind of hid the rest of him from view. She can’t tell just how thin he is. His hair hangs around his ears almost touching his shoulders. There is some patchy fuzz on his face that can’t really be called a beard, dark circles under his sunken eyes. His cheeks are pock-marked and a band of sores wrap his brow with more on his chin. He isn’t well. Drugs, maybe. Meth? Crack? She doesn’t see track marks on his arms. No scars. No tattoos that she could locate. His clothes are stained, black in places, worn, ripped. If she had to guess, he has no job, no ability to get one, no food, no money, and a hell of a need to get his fix, whatever that fix might be.

“Don’t look at me. I can’t do this if you’re looking at me like that. You’re creeping me out. Turn your fucking head.”

She doesn’t do what she’s asked and makes eye contact instead. He’s the one to turn away from her, and she thinks that’s good. She doesn’t think he’s done this before. He certainly doesn’t act like a killer not that she’s ever kept company with one to know. She thinks maybe he would be more deliberate, less hesitant, less shaky if he really wanted to do it, if he started this with the intention of doing it. If it wasn’t a big deal, he wouldn’t care if she looked at him. He wouldn’t even see her as a human being. In theory, at least. She could be wrong. She hopes not, but she could be.

Her words come out in stutters when she finally says to him, “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

“I don’t know anything, bitch. And neither do you. You’re all banged up. You’re tied up. Just how the fuck am I going to get out of this if you’re alive?”

“I would tell you that I’ll never call the cops, but that’s what they always say in the movies and it never works.”

“Do you think I’m stupid?”

Even in this moment, she is about to burst with sarcasm. Her mother always told her that her mouth would cash a check her ass couldn’t handle one of these days, and this was almost it. The words were almost pouring out of her mouth faster than she could blink. She closed them off, almost painfully, and thought for a second trying to gain her composure.

“Okay, look…I know you think that killing me is the only way to solve all your problems, and believe me, if I could have avoided coming home, there’s no way I would be here right now. You could have it all. All of it. Take it. But, what if you kill me and it doesn’t solve things? What if you kill me and you get caught like a lot of people get caught then you go to jail for like, I don’t know, forever. for life. No parole. Or executed. Doesn’t this state have the death penalty? I don’t think you want to die any more than I do. Think about it. We can come up with a solution for this where both of us don’t end up dying because my date was a total shitbag…”

He starts pacing then. Full on pacing back and forth, shaking his head. She watches him more scared than ever. He was slapping himself in the forehead with one hand mumbling thinkthinkthink under his breath. No sane person would be doing this, right? And how was she ever going to rationalize with a mentally deranged man.

“There’s no way anybody would ever figure out it was me. No fucking way.”

“There’s CCTV several different places along this street. You aren’t wearing gloves; do you have a record? You have long hair. I’m sure some have fallen out. Don’t you watch those CSI shows? I mean, that’s not the way things really work all the time, but there’s ways. It’s possible. More than possible really. You might get lucky and get away with it, but think about it. Really think about it. You’re not cut out for prison, man. I can look at you and tell.”

“Bitch, you don’t know a fucking think about me.” He pauses, stops pacing for a minute. “What the fuck is CCTV?”

“Closed cameras or whatever. The couple of stores along the street on the way here have cameras that show every minute outside. There’s a bank, too. And the apartment building across the street has some too that show, I think, the entrance to this place. It might not, but it’s possible. And they’ll end up getting all the tapes and trying to figure out who was in this neighborhood that didn’t belong here during the time they figure I died.”

“What if I don’t leave your body here, cut it up and throw it in the woods somewhere or put you down in the river?”

“Well…they’ll probably still figure out who I am and then where I lived. Depending on when my body is found, the CCTV might have been recorded over, so you might be safe. Might not. It’s still a risk.”

He paces again. She marvels at how she is keeping calm while saying things like my body, while he talks about maybe cutting her up into little pieces like a bad horror flick.

“I can’t just leave you to it. I walk outta here and 10 seconds later you call the cops before I even got a chance to get off this block.”

“I won’t if that means I’ll live. But, I don’t know how I can convince you of that which is ultimately our dilemma and that’s what we need to come to an agreement about.”

“Miss, just what the hell do you think you can come to an agreement about with the man who beat and robbed you?”

“If I knew that already, I would have said so. But, I’m thinking. If you mean to kill me anyway, why not give me 10 more minutes to work on it. Like a dying wish. Do you grant those?”

He stares at her for what feels like forever almost staring through her. “I ain’t done this before.” It’s almost a whisper. “But you got 10 minutes against my better judgment.” He barks a laugh then. “Who am I kidding? I don’t have good judgment any other time. Might as well keep the tradition alive.”

She watches him sit down across from her. He looks exhausted. Her brain circles maddeningly searching for a solution, for THE answer, for anything that might save her life. But there was nothing. She circles and circles, a whirlpool of thoughts threatening to pull her down into the exact state of panic that would end with him shooting her. She is reaching frantically for a branch that might keep her from drowning and seeing nothing much at all except an occasional rock that would surely quicken her exit from the world. And then out of nowhere she finds something. It’s a twig really. Nothing stable for sure, but the words are out of her mouth before she really even thinks it through all the way.

“I’ll give you a job.”

His brow furrows. He looks at her like she must have looked at him when he was slapping himself in the forehead.

“What in the fuck are you talking about?”

“I own a shop in town. Like a thrift store. I don’t need someone full time, and obviously right now you can’t handle the money side of the business, but I need someone to help me put out stock and go with me to pick things up because I want to start getting some bigger furniture pieces. I need help keeping the place clean and doing little odds and ends.”

“What’s it pay?”

“Do you really have room to negotiate?” A bit of anger flared in the pit of her stomach before she could control it.

“Do you?”

“Point taken. It would be…I don’t know, man…like $8 an hour…..” He starts to interrupt her but she barrels through, “but that could be negotiated later on. And here’s the thing, I’d send you to rehab too. I have some money saved up. Maybe it’s not what you want to do right now. But, you look like you need help. I don’t think you meant for all this to happen. I don’t think you’d be able to live with yourself if you kill me tonight at least I hope not to be honest. And this is a chance at a full, clean fresh start. Sometimes people need that, you know? And maybe if you take a chance on this and I take a chance on you, we’ll figure it out as we go.”

He sits there for a long time. Quiet. Head down. The gun is at his side on the floor now and that’s good she thinks but the quiet scares her more than anything. Her head has never hurt her as badly as it does right now. He clears his throat. She looks up at him then. His eyes are swimmy, she notices. He opens his mouth then stops getting choked up a bit.

“Why?” he finally manages to ask.

“Why not?” she says.

This has been another Sunday Confession with More Than Cheese and Beer. The prompt was "before." Sometimes when I sit down to write, I don't know where the story is going or what's going to happen. The words just tumble onto the screen in an outpouring with my hands flying fast on the keyboard...so fast my brain can barely follow the story. The ending is just as much a surprise to me sometimes as I imagine it is for people reading it or at least hope it is. Anyway, hope you enjoyed it. It might not be terribly realistic, but as someone who has a lot of contact with offenders and who wants a career working with offenders, it's interesting to consider just how much getting a fresh start would mean to someone who has nothing. Thanks for reading. Be sure to check out MTCAB for the other blogger link ups and the facebook page for some other confessions. 

No Time for the Classics

There’s some mild to insanely heated debate (depending on where you’re looking) about what makes a novel a classic. Some contend that quality of writing is a major factor. The language should be forceful, expressive, and colorful. There’s also the issue of morality. Classics often come with a lesson, an overarching theme intended to teach readers, guide them. To Kill a Mockingbird, for example, discusses the existence of good and evil and how it coincides within one person rather than people being either purely good or purely evil. Then there’s the idea of universality—for the novel, the story, and the characters to be relatable across time periods. These stories are timeless. Like pencil skirts with sensible hemlines. With universality also comes truthfulness. No matter the fantastical nature of the story involved, like with Frankenstein, the storyline and ending seem inevitable--believable for those characters and those situations. Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy belong together and it seems all too obvious that they’ll end in love as Pride and Prejudice goes on.

With that status of “classic,” there comes a pressure for a regular, avid reader to digest these novels, to take them down like a pint of Ben and Jerry’s after a bad date and relish them at least twice as much.

Ben and Jerry’s Americone Dream. Vanilla ice cream. Fudge covered waffle cone bits. Caramel

swirls.

CARAMEL SWIRLS.

FUDGE-COVERED. WAFFLE CONE. BITS.

So, you know, most of the classics that I’m supposed to be enjoying so much, avid reader that I am, don’t even compare to fudge covered waffle pieces, man.

I can’t help it. I tried. I tried to read War and Peace. I’ve tried to get through Dickens’ works, and every time I ever had to read Death of a Salesman for a class report, I had to fake it. For fuck’s sake, I have nearly lost my will to live just reading the fucking thing which is a tad ironic given the ending of that tale. I did enjoy To Kill a Mockingbird and at least most of Frankenstein. Pride and Prejudice was decent, but when I read it, I just didn’t see what the big fuss was about. Honestly, you couldn’t pay me to read it again.

Tom Robbins, Christopher Moore, Cormac McCarthy, Chuck P., Chuck K., King, Hunter Thompson… Those are my classics. I return to those authors and those books time and time and time again. I devour them, relate, underline passages and write in margins and dog-ear pages going back again and again to quote them in letters or conversations. The political statements and commentary on humanity is so good in those novels, modern as they are. I used to kind of beat myself up about not having the taste that I “should”—not reading things that everyone else says is so fucking necessary for everyone who really loves books. I worried that I “should” be more cultured. That I “should” experience those novels and force myself to finish them because of the classic status they have. But,what’s a “should” anyway? Why should I force myself to get through things I absolutely don’t enjoy.

Life’s too short, man…as cliché as that sounds.

Life’s just too short not to do what you enjoy.

As soon as I’m done confessing, I’m going to finish Revival. It’s King’s latest novel. Then I’m reading the next installment (the SECOND book) of the Veronica Mars series which picked up where the Kickstarter funded movie left off.

And I don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks of that.

This has been another Sunday Confession with More Than Cheese and Beer. Go on over to her blog to check out all the other link ups and maybe check the Facebook page for anonymous confessions. Let me know in the comments how much I suck for not liking the things I "should." ha. Thanks again for reading. 

Top 6 Men to Avoid on Dating Sites

I’ve been on dating sites for a number of years now. I’ve never expected to meet my one and only true love on these types of sites. Some people do. More power to you on that. You found a needle in a haystack the size of the Empire State Building. It’s really quite an impressive feat. For me, though, it’s been good for meeting a few good friends and more than a few good laughs. After years of experience, I can safely say that the people to stay away from, the red flags, far outnumber the interesting, decent guys. You want to avoid these guys at all costs:

1. The Whiner—You might be able to spot The Whiner right away. He’ll have something in his headline, perhaps, about how he’s about to delete his profile since no one responds anyway or he’ll whine that there’s no one real on these sites. In the text of his profile will be a lot of complaints about how many women he’s been out with that turned out not to be who they say they are or any number of whiny issues that make you roll your eyes hard enough to risk them popping right out of your fucking skull. The Whiner always wants a woman to be honest with him but then when she is, he whines that he didn’t get his way. It’s a never ending circle of whininess that really leads nowhere at all much less to Sexville or even to a first date for fuck’s sake. If he messages you for any length of time, eventually you’ll hear all the whining about how he’s really a nice guy, and he’s always in the friendzone. Look, whinebags, our vaginas instantly become more arid than the Sahara Desert as soon as you whip out phrases like “nice guy” and “friendzone” especially since we were already treading on dehydration from all the whiny ass bullshit to begin with. It’s absolutely not attractive to listen to a guy whine about how women aren’t just falling into his lap. Get the fuck over yourself already. You aren’t entitled to any woman’s vagina. You aren’t entitled to sex. Recognize that fact.

 

2. Abs Guy—This is the guy that always has a bathroom mirror pic with his shirt pulled up or completely off that only shows his very muscular midsection. His profile talks about how much he loves to work out and says very little else if anything at all. The messages will either be indicative that he never read your profile such as “hey wanna chat” or “ur hot” or be some sort of attempt at describing in detail what he would like to do to you. All in all, the messages and the profile are indicative of the guy having no brain which is probably why he put his abs on the profile pic to begin with. Those are probably the most functional part of his body, dick included.

3. The Pick Up Artist—Let’s just get things straight right from the start. This guy is a major misogynist. He might be a frequenter of men’s rights forums, but he’s definitely read a thing or two about how to pick up women because, as he will bluntly tell you, all women like to be treated like shit, love bad boys, and adore assholes. All women should, all women need, blah blah blah blah blah. It never ends. He starts out the messages with something obviously negative. Sometimes, it’s a comment such as “You have great lips, and I guess the rest of you isn’t bad either.” If you reject him, he instantly tells you that you’re a fat, ugly bitch and that he didn’t want you anyway. If you don’t respond to him, he messages you to ask you why you’re scared. His entire tactic is about making you look bad or weak because that’s exactly what he thinks of women in the first place.

4. Loverboy—This guy is looking for love and he doesn’t even care who its with honestly. He likely jumps from relationship to relationship because he definitely mistakes crushing and lusting for someone as love. He doesn’t read anything at all about what you’re looking for on your profile. If, for example, you say that you want to date casually or are just looking for friends and short term dating, he will message you about looking for his soulmate. To him, you don’t know what you want. He’s not necessarily an overt misogynist, but he firmly believes that you just haven’t met the right guy yet and that no matter what’s going on in your life or where you are or what you want, if you just give him a chance to show you what “real” love is like, you’ll totally change your mind. He also wrongly assumes that the only reason you aren’t looking for a long term relationship is because you’ve been hurt by other men which he promises in message 2 never to do to you because he can talk to like he’s never talked to anyone before. Ever. Just be careful or he’ll end up watching you outside your bathroom window while you shave your legs.

5. The Flasher—This guy, like Abs Guy, often sends you messages stating, in very explicit terms,

exactly what he would like to do to your body. He doesn’t think of you as a person at all which is where he differs from The Pickup Artist. The Pickup Artist knows you’re human but by way of having a vagina you’re a lower form of human than anything with a dick. The Flasher completely ignores your personhood. Instead, you’re a tool for getting off. Much like the weirdos who have exhibitionistic paraphilic disorders who flash their sad, flaccid wee-wees at old ladies in grocery store parking lots, these guys are only in it for the thrill of showing you what’s under his metaphorical trench coat. He knows when he sends you the message that you’re not going to respond favorably to it, but he’s already jerking the gherkin when he hits the send button anyway just imagining your face when you read it, so no worries there. Women on dating sites are the equivalent to a Kleenex to these dudes.

6. Creepo—This guy acts like there’s no reason why you shouldn’t feel unsafe to meet him at his home. He offers to let you hang out with him in his very first message before you even know his name and even tells you he’ll be happy to supply the alcohol! He thinks it’s a nice offer and if you protest, he’ll assure you, like so many others, that he’s a nice guy and that there’s nothing to worry about. Yet, here he is offering to ply a complete stranger with alcohol at his apartment without even knowing if you drink. Something’s wrong with this picture. People who meet men on dating sites without vetting them first are often being raped and murdered. Craigslist killers have been fairly commonplace. And you’re just supposed to go get drunk at a complete stranger’s house with no concerns because he reassures you he’s not the creep you think he is. This is the same guy that will often refuse to meet you in a public place first because it’s just too inconvenient or he doesn’t really have the time. STAY AWAY or you could very likely end up having to file a police report if you even live through the date at all. 

As you can see, none of these guys are good news. You're better off cutting out your own heart than ever consider even so much as replying favorably to one of these guys. Do yourself a favor and RUN whenever you find them in your inbox. 

This has been another Sunday Confession with More Than Cheese and Beer. Check out the other linkups over on her blog and the Facebook page for anonymous confessions. 

The Interview

“I knew something was wrong for a long time, but I couldn’t admit it. Not out loud anyway.” She sighed, picked up another cigarette out of the pack sitting on the table in front of her, lit it, and took a deep drag sighing again as she exhaled a thick plume of smoke. She’d been chain-smoking since she got into the fluorescently-lit, cold interview room, but those were the first words she’d spoken. She stared at the two-way mirror on the wall across from where she sat. She wanted her observers to know she realized they were there.

She pushed her honey blonde hair behind her ear and leaned back in her chair. She was too thin and haggard, dark quarter moons punctuating her sunken eyes. It was obvious that something had been weighing on her for quite some time, but it wasn’t impossible to see that she was beautiful—high cheek bones, oceanic eyes, a creamy complexion with a button nose and a smattering of freckles across it that kept her looking young even though she was pushing 40 despite how worn she looked in those harsh lights wrapped in a thick cloud of her own smoke.

The bulbous detective seated across from her gave her a long, silent, sterile stare. It was intended to make her talk, but she was tough. She returned the stare with an unrivaled iciness that told everyone behind the mirror that she wasn’t putting up with any shit. Not today. Not here. Not from them.

He was the one to break the silence first. “What do you mean you knew something was wrong?”

She shook her head seeming both absolutely exhausted with all of this and amused at the question all at once and barked a short laugh.

“I know why I’m here and why you’re the one that’s ‘interviewing’ me instead of some young, fresh-faced guy with half as many wrinkles that hasn’t seen as many tragedies and still has some warmth left to his eyes. If it were that guy, I’d be getting the sympathetic ear of someone who understands I had no involvement in what my husband has done. But, it’s you in here with your stony glares, all attitude and demands and a face hardened by too many long nights dealing with dead kids beaten lifeless by their own parents and rape victims thrown out of cars and left for dead in ditch somewhere like their mothers’ worst nightmares come true. You sitting right there with your arms crossed and that grimace slashed across your face tell me that you already suspect I might have known all along and helped that piece of shit with his handiwork. Am I right?”

“Ma’am…”

“I’m right. You don’t even have to say it.” She blew the smoke from the last drag of her cigarette out the corner of her mouth, stubbed it out into the too full ashtray sitting in front of her, and immediately lit another one. She tapped the lighter over and over again on the surface of the table staring straight ahead, gaze never wavering.

He huffed and shifted his considerable weight on the chair, but he didn’t say anything. He stared her down yet again attempting to wait out her explanation.

More or less, it was a Mexican Standoff.

A half hour later, the rest of her cigarettes gone, she asked for another pack.

He huffed again but this time he leaned forward tapping his finger onto the table gruffly and stated matter-of-factly, “You can fucking forget it until you talk.”

“Listen, Porky, you can get me those cigarettes or we can sit here all fucking night. The choice is yours. And, I’d recommend, if I were you, sending them in with someone who isn’t such a dickwad because as long as you have the attitude you came in here with, you’re not getting shit from me.”

He sat back, red-faced. She figured if she spit in his face right then, it would sizzle, steam rising into the air above him. He grumbled unintelligibly under his breath but pushed his considerable weight out of the chair. His knees nearly gave out on him but he straightened up and made the short walk to the door slamming it behind him.

She looked around the room bouncing one knee needing another cigarette. She rarely smoked anymore, but she could not take this pressure right now without a nicotine rush. It would take forever to get the smell out of her hair. There was nothing remarkable about the four walls. A few paint chips. A spider web in one corner. The tile needed buffing. But all in all it was pretty depressingly whitewashed and bland. She supposed it was intentional to keep people from getting distracted or from distracting themselves anyway. The feeling of being watched wouldn’t change though even if there were a mural of fluffy bunnies and rainbows painted on the walls.

The door opened and a female detective with auburn hair pulled back in a tight bun waltzed in and sat the pack of cigarettes on the table between them before taking a seat. The detective pulled the chair in close to the table and gave her a long look. There was nothing assuming or pretentious in that look though which put her at ease a little.

“Listen, Mrs. Parker, we’ve got to make progress here. We’ve been here for hours. You’re tired. We’re tired. Can you please explain what you meant by your earlier statement that you knew what was going on but couldn’t admit it?”

“First of all, get it right, okay? Let’s set the record straight right now. I said I knew something was wrong. I did not ever say that I knew what was going on. Get it down. Record it. Make sure all those motherfuckers back behind the glass have it written down because this goes nowhere. No. Where. Until that’s straight. Got it?”

“Does that mean I can record this and you’ll give your written permission for that?”

“Sure, if that ensures you’ll get the story straight instead of screwing the shit up the way you assholes always do. Bring it out. Tape recorder. Video recorder. I don’t care. Do what you need to do.”

The detective turned abruptly to the mirror told them to set it up and made a hand motion. A young uniformed cop brought in a sheet of paper and sat it on the table. She took it and looked it over. “Give me a pen…”

The female detective obliged pulling a plain black bic ballpoint pen out of a pocket inside her blazer.

She took the pen, signed the paper with a huge superfluous signature.

“Thanks, Mrs. Parker. Now, why don’t we start from the beginning? What exactly is it that you couldn’t admit?”

Of course, this has been another edition of Sunday Confessions with More Than Cheese and Beer. The prompt this week was admit and since I'm so fucking obscenely candid on this blog at times, I have no real admissions to make so here's some fiction. Hope you enjoy and as always let me know what you think! 

Beat It. Or Her. Or Those Guys.

This year has been filled with news stories to read about celebrities that have made mistakes, grievous ones.

War Machine’s domestic assault/attempted murder of his ex-girlfriend

Resurfaced accusations against Woody Allen for molesting of Dylan Farrow

Alleged sexual assaults, so many assaults, by Bill Cosby dating back decades

Adrian Peterson’s child abuse charges

Ray Rice knocking his then fiancé out cold

AC/DC’s drummer arrested for some kind of murder plot

The former drummer of Cake sentenced for child molestation

You can hardly go through a week without reading a story about a celebrity or politician who has or has potentially hurt others in some unimaginable way. But what do we do with this information once the heat has died and the sensationalism has passed on to the next story?

Not much, it seems.

Mark Wahlberg is one perfect example of our lack of concern for what celebrities have done in their pasts (and often in their presents). In his early life, he was in legal trouble at least 20-25 times. At 15 he was committing hate crimes against minority children including throwing rocks at kids on a field trip and calling them racial epithets. By 16 he graduated to attempted murder. In one day he beat a Vietnamese man with a wooden stick while yelling slurs at him then blinded another later that afternoon. For those two crimes, he served all of 45 days in prison despite the attempted murder charge. And that wasn’t the end of it. He got in trouble again years later for another unprovoked attack only this one wasn’t racially motivated like the others. In 2006 when these issues came to light, he stated publicly that he has done his time and has no guilt for his crimes. Even though he never even so much as apologized to the man he blinded for life, he recently applied for a full pardon for his crimes… A full pardon. Just let that sink in. In this country there are men serving life in prison for possession of marijuana in 3 strikes states, but Marky Mark wants his record to be wiped clean after serving basically no time in prison for a hate-driven, attempted murder, and let’s face it, it’ll happen because he has money and this country is addicted to celebrity-worship. He has acted in 44 roles and has been a producer 22 times since he nearly killed two men for being different. Currently, Wahlberg is worth approximately $200 million.

Perhaps the most ironic example comes from an expected place but not for the reason you’d guess. Audiophiles like myself can hardly conduct an internet search without seeing an ad for Beats

headphones by Dr. Dre. Did he pick this name because he beats women? I suppose Dee Barnes would agree with that statement. Barnes was a rapper in the hip-hop group Body & Soul going by the stage name D Zire. She also hosted a hip-hop themed show on Fox called Pump It Up! It was this hosting role that got her into hot water with the good Dr. She interviewed Ice Cube during the pinnacle of the financial issues between him and the other members of N.W.A. drawing Dre’s ire for making the group “look bad.” I suppose he didn’t understand they’d already made themselves look bad enough with no one’s help and decided the thing that would fix it all is to beat the ever-loving-fuck out of the woman while his bodyguard threatened anyone who tried to help her with his gun. I don’t mean that he simply punched her and was done not that it would make it any more excusable in if that were the case. He did, though, slam her head and body into a brick wall, attempt to throw her down a flight of stairs, kick her repeatedly in the ribs, then chase her down when she managed to run from him and proceed to punch her in the back of the head. His response and those of other N.W.A members was “bitch had it coming.” The court wasn’t too concerned either considering Dre spent no time in jail and had a petty fine and some probation time. Barnes sued but the case was settled out of court for an undisclosed amount. I can’t look at a pair of Beats headphones the same. $169 a pair at the cheapest to line a man’s pockets who “beats” women when he doesn’t like what they say. Since selling Beats to Apple, Dre will be pretty close to billionaire territory with many pegging his net worth at nearly 800 million. He’s the richest man in the hip hop industry which is already rife with misogyny and violence much the way the film industry is and any other music genre and television and apparently the NFL as well.

I get that people aren’t their pasts. If that were true, I’d still be an angsty weirdo with a penchant for black lipstick and mainstream metal. Instead I’m just a weirdo. But the thing is…neither of these men feel any remorse for what they did. Dre nor Wahlberg ever really apologized to the people they hurt and instead feel like the world fucking owes them just because they had tough lives as kids. And we continue to fall for that shit. It’s not like Jay-Z stabbing a record executive for bootlegging his albums. Because apologized and wrote candidly in his memoirs about never wanting to get back to that place, to be the kind of person who would do such a thing. That, I can get. But why do we still continue to laud people like Marky Mark and Dr. Dre? Why do people continue to defend Cosby no matter how many women come forward? Why is that when someone we’ve watched in movies that we don’t know personally, that we’ve never met outside watching the characters they play does or has done something heinous, we’re far more forgiving that we are for people in real fucking life? Where’s the logic?

I’m sick of seeing Ray Rice apologists claiming that everything is fine now that he told his wife he’s sorry. All abusers say they’re sorry. It’s part of the cycle. Would you say that if it was a stranger who punched your sister, your mom, your daughter, your niece? Would you accept that apology as the truth every time right up until he kills her in a murder-suicide like many of these relationships end? I’m sick of people thinking that just because a woman didn’t step forward when she was raped, that she is no longer credible. I’ve been there. It’s hard to admit, to talk about… It’s even harder when every single person who hears your story picks it apart and finds a way to put the blame on you instead of where it belongs. I don’t want to hear that leaving lashes on a child’s leg is just punishment for being a child. If your son or daughter came home with those marks on their legs given by a parent that no longer lives with you, I doubt it’d be so fucking kosher as it is when a coveted football player has done it. I don’t want to hear reasons why Mark Wahlberg is different. I want to see him apologize. I want to see Dre fucking crawl on his hands and knees and beg forgiveness from that woman for being such a cowardly piece of shit. Where’s the fucking accountability with these people? Why the hell are we so worried about violence on tv and film and in songs when real violence is being perpetrated by the players themselves while we continue to worship them like patron saints of misogyny, entitlement, greed, and criminality?

If we’re going to read these stories about celebrities and get caught up in the drama of it all and get angry over their bad behaviors, we need to stop sweeping them under the rug when it’s no longer an interest piece on Huffpo or in Rolling Stone or on Slate. When the story isn’t top news on CNN, it’s quickly forgotten while these assholes are left to make millions, to become beloved icons, to be memorialized and idolized…while we’re left wondering why our culture is so often depraved, greedy,and violent. At least part of the answer is right there in the "news" stories we read.

As always, thanks for reading another edition of Sunday Confessions with More Than Cheese and Beer. Be sure to check out the other contributions. And a special thinks to a very talented friend of mine who recommended I tackle the Dr. Dre issue in writing. When I really started thinking about this week's prompt, I knew this was the right time to put my thoughts about that situation in print.

And since that talented friend is an artist, please check out some of his work here: http://instagram.com/santosian  He's amazing at what he does and one of the coolest dudes I know.