Saturday, October 4, 2014

The Run



She noticed that she had a run in her stockings, and that was it. She had pretty much held it together until that point. The run, however, was her complete undoing.

She was sitting on the edge of a sidewalk on a side street in the dawning light of morning, shoes in hand, her teal blue dress muddied and looking far more worn than when she’d slipped it on the day before when she noticed the run and burst into tears. Heavy, racking sobs shook her body, snot spilled from her nose, her already ruined makeup ran further into every nook and cranny of her face rolling with the tears over her jaw line and down her neck leaving her pale skin looking like a depressed shade of zebra. If there was an entry on Urban Dictionary for “ugly cry,” there would be a gif of this moment, of her.

The thought of it made her laugh through the tears, but it was a sort of near-hysterical bark of a laugh that seemed to be both a release and a cause for concern all at once. It was enough to snap her out of the sobbing, though, and finally get her moving. She managed to get to her feet without much incident and decided then and there to rip the stockings off. There was no need to carry more evidence of this night with her the rest of the way home. She’d carry the scars with her long enough as it was. If she was a betting person, she’d bet those scars would last the rest of her lifetime however long it may be. If she lived to be 300, this night would never leave her. The wounds would never fully heal in a way that rendered them invisible to anyone who cared to know her well enough to see their lasting impressions, and she’d be picking at the scabs for a long time to come.

She left the ruined stockings on the sidewalk where she’d precariously balanced on one foot then the other to take them off. This street was already so littered with refuse that an added piece of undergarments really wouldn’t make much of a difference. She was tempted to put the shoes, her precious black Betsey Johnson pumps, back on, but with the blisters she’d already formed and ruptured from all the running she did, risking tetanus on the debris-strewn concrete was actually preferable at this point that putting those fucking things back on.

This is what you get for wearing heels, she said to herself.

Don’t start that blame talk bullshit, she thought right afterwards.

And then, I’m never going to be able to wear these fuckers again.

The crying started again. “My favorite shoes!” she wailed to the dying night with tears spilling down her cheeks once more. But she trudged on. No stopping this time. She tried pushing every thought that attempted to race across her mind like zigzagging wasps stinging and darting and stinging again back to the dark recesses from which they waited. For awhile that seemed effortless as she dodged broken glass and dirty needles focusing more on keeping her feet somewhat intact…more than she could stay for emotional stability at this point. But the further away she got from downtown, the less there was to dodge and those thoughts would sneak past all her defenses, stingers ready, poised, and menacing.

Why did I agree to this stupid date?

Why didn’t I listen to my instincts?

I shouldn’t have had that last drink.

I knew better than to stay after he tried to kiss me.

What am I going to do about it?

What if he calls? Why am I so fucking stupid? What if he has something?


And before long, all those thoughts ran together in a whirlwind of blackness that left her reeling and paralyzed on the sidewalk in the full light of morning facing the onslaught of onlookers on their way to work.

…..ishouldn’thavegonewhatwasithinkingdidisendhimthewrongsignalsdidhereallydidiimagineitwhatifheshowsupatmyhousedoitellsomeonedoigetdidhewearwhatwhenhowwhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhy.....

It took her hours to reach her apartment that morning, her feet sore from running. Her mind ragged and swollen from every dagger-like thought. Every muscle ached. She almost felt like she was outside her body looking down at an unrecognizable apparition of her former self. She turned the key in the door hoping that when she crossed the threshold into her own space that she would feel something besides the numbness and the buzzing panic that rippled below it. She hoped that when she turned around and locked the door behind her she would feel less vulnerable. That maybe, just maybe, she would feel safe.

With the door locked, she pressed her back against it and slid down into a crumpled pile onto her own floor with the realization that nothing changed when she closed the door to the outside world and like that stupid fucking run in her stockings, she’d never be the same again.

This time, she didn’t try to stop the tears.

Some flash fiction for Sunday Confessions. Hope you enjoyed despite me being a bit rusty in the fiction department. And, as always, check out the other contributions on More Than Cheese and Beer. I'm sure they're all awesome as always. 


Friday, October 3, 2014

ME Day



Welcome to a Secret Subject Swap. This week, 14 brave bloggers picked a secret subject for someone else and were assigned a secret subject to interpret in their own style. Today we are all simultaneously divulging our topics and submitting our posts.

My “Secret Subject” is:

"For one day, and one day only, you have no fear. No self-doubt. No limits (financial or travel), no obligations, and no one to worry about but yourself. What do you do?"

It was submitted by: http://sparklyjenn.blogspot.com/

_____________________________________________________________

A day for myself. Just for me? I….hmmm…this is so foreign to me that I have literally spent days thinking about this. I would have to stop myself at some point because I would be crossing out options thinking “there would be no one to take care of the animals if I travel” or I would be thinking about doing something that would realistically be for someone else instead of just for myself. This has been one of the more difficult prompts I’ve faced. It’s just not my nature to do something solely for myself. Even when I buy something that is JUSTFORME like a new dress, I always throw something in the cart for the kid, the pets, and a friend. It’s standard practice. When it comes to my time, something I value far more than possessions or money, that need to share is even stronger. So, in the spirit of that, I think that’s what I’ll do…

First of all, I have to make the most of this day so there will be no sleeping. This starts at exactly 12:00 a.m. I’d take my kiddo, Evan, out for a huge campfire/smores session. We have the perfect backyard for this. Living in the country affords us the best view of the night sky, AND we have a pretty awesome telescope. Most nights I’m incredibly busy preparing his schoolwork for the next day and with doing my own schoolwork, so we rarely have nights when I can just chill and relax with him with no obligations. He’s a huge fan of smores and I’d be lying if I said I’m not.

By 1, we’d be full of marshmallows and chocolate (dark for me and milk for him), but we’d also smell like smoke so quick showers all around. I’d get ready in the brand new Jetson’s style Makeup/Dressing machine that takes all the work out of putting on my clothes and face, take him to his Nana’s (which she would agree to since there are no limitations but she would never actually agree to do at 2 am), and get ready to start traveling. As noted in previous blogs, I have a few pen pals that don’t get many visitors, so I would drive to the airport in Tallahassee and a chartered flight would be waiting to take me around the country to visit with my friends. I don’t get to travel much and never get to fly. I also hate crowds and being around a bunch of strangers so a private chartered flight makes the most sense. Spending my day with people I am rarely or never able to see that take up so much of my free time with letters is just about the best way I can imagine to spend it. There would have to be 5 stops: Livingston, TX; Helena, GA; Graceville, FL; Ione, CA; and, Waverly, VA. I suppose that there may not be an airport in the exact place I need to be so I’d also hire a driver at each airport to take me where I need to go. That would be preferable to the treatment I sometimes get when visiting the Polunsky Unit in Livingston on my own. I know without a doubt that most people assume I write letters to inmates and help with cases and do what I do solely for the people I write, but if I agreed with that sentiment, it would be a total lie. I get a lot out of this myself. It has taught me a lot about myself, made me stronger, made me a better person ultimately. I learn a lot about any variety of topics from physics to werewolf lore to the Crusades to video games. I make real connections that aren’t based solely on the fact that I’m trying to do something good. In other words, these visits wouldn’t be altruistic in any real sense and just as much for me as for them so I’m totally counting them for this trip. It’s my day; I’ll do what I want. Right? Right.

I wouldn’t be able to afford my friends too much time each since there are 5 stops and flights between each stop, but short visits are better than none. I’d start on the east coast going from Graceville to Helena to Waverly then flying out to Texas then California. Hopefully the time difference to California is enough after the longer flight to squeeze me in before visiting hours are over, then it would be tattoo time. If I’m already in California, why not? I’d pick up a drawing from my friend there in Ione who is a most excellent artist and find myself a place to get it done. Money is no object and with no limitations I’d be able to walk in ahead of any current appointments and get whatever I want, so why not? I’ve been wanting a quill and inkwell to symbolize my love of writing, but there’s also a chance I’ll be getting a pretty rad Tank Girl pin up to symbolize my take charge, rebellious nature. (Tank Girl from the comic not the movie though I do love the movie). Of course, I’d have my best friend, Brandon, with me to hold my hand and keep me laughing through all the pain, so maybe I’d ask the artist to finish his Velma pin up while we’re there. By then, it would be getting pretty late on the West Coast but I couldn’t have a me day without hitting a concert. And since there’s no limitations I’d put together my own line up. Time Machine and Teleporter needed.

Top 5 no limitations concert list:

1. The Allman Brothers Band with Duane Allman back from the dead but not undead.

2. Graveyard

3. The Black Keys (so I could make out with Dan Auerbach).

4. Janis Joplin with Big Brother and the Holding Company with her final number being Mercedes Benz.

5. 90s era Stone Temple Pilots but not on drugs. Is that possible? I guess if bringing back Duane Allman from the dead is possible for this blog then I can perform the miracle of making Scott Weiland not a junkie.

So, then I would stop time with another machine for approximately 6 hours so I could also add:

1. The Jimi Hendrix Experience

2. Nirvana. I mean, this is obvious for someone my age, but fucking hell it has to be done.

3. Derek and the Dominoes. I’ve already brought Duane Allman back from the dead so why not?

4. Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings.

5. Buddy Guy playing his entire Sweet Tea album. Very critically underrated in my opinion. And, of course, he has to do a duet with Sharon Jones.

6. Baroness with Summer Welch still on bass and before the release of Yellow and Green playing mostly songs from the First and Second EPs. Yes, it has to be this specific or no go.

And for a bonus, let’s throw in Layne Staley era Alice in Chains.

At this point, I would use the time machine that brought Jimi, Janis, Duane, and company back from the dead to the venue to go back to the East Coast earlier in my Me Day so I could hang out with Ash from More Than Cheese and Beer for awhile (we need to make plans for our Halloween-themed hetero-lifemate wedding) then hit a taping of the Daily Show with Jon Stewart. I would spend the rest of the time I had after said taping either convincing him to marry me or having sex with him (which might actually convince him to marry me).

Yes, I know he’s already married.

No, I don’t care. It’s Jon Fucking Stewart.

*drools*



Here are links to all the sites now featuring Secret Subject Swap posts. Sit back, grab a cup, and check them all out. See you there:

http://www.BakingInATornado.com Baking In A Tornado

http://themomisodes.com The Momisodes

http://spatulasonparade.blogspot.com/ Spatulas on Parade

http://stacysewsandschools.blogspot.com/ Stacy Sews and Schools

http://berghamchronicles.blogspot.com The Bergham's Life Chronicles

http://www.eviljoyspeaks.wordpress.com Evil Joy Speaks

http://dinoheromommy.com/ Dinosaur Superhero Mommy

http://www.silenceofthemom.blogspot.com Silence of the Mom

http://climaxedtheblog.blogspot.com Climaxed

http://sparklyjenn.blogspot.com/ Sparkly Poetic Weirdo

http://www.someoneelsesgenius.com Someone Else’s Genius

http://www.crumpetsandbollocks.com Crumpets and Bollocks

http://thethreegerbers.blogspot.ch/ Confessions of a part-time working mom
http://www.smalltalkmama.com Small Talk Mama

Monday, September 29, 2014

The 6 Thoughts I have While Walking My Dog At 2 A.M.



Given that I’m a night person, walking my very demanding Great Dane at 2 a.m. happens more often than you might think. He’s also scared of the dark so while it may seem like I have the perfect guard with me while I’m out there letting him do his business, he’s actually a big-ass Scooby of a dog who would piss himself and go running for the house as soon as he saw anything that doesn’t belong in the yard.

1. This is how scary movies start.

If a zombie apocalypse started, I’m pretty fucking sure it would be in the cities where congested populations live and cough and snot and things on each other all the time instead of out here where I barely have to speak to anyone throughout my day except for said demanding dog (and the other animals here…and the extroverted kid that never stops talking). But, you really couldn’t convince me of that at 2 am when I hear every little thing in the pine forest across the road and imagine an undead figure stumbling out of the trees wearing a hockey mask and carrying Freddy’s clawed hand under one arm and a hatchet in the other. Whispering “what the fuck was that?????” to the dog like I’m going to get a reply in English doesn’t really do much to help me feel better either.

2. Why do I always forget my pocket knife in the house?

I bought myself a pretty teal Kershaw pocket knife just because…well…you never know. I never remember to have it with me in situations where you never know like if a knife-wielding maniac in a Scream mask came rushing out of the forest. And, let’s face it—even if I did manage to have it on me, I’d probably stop dead in my tracks and piss myself along with the dog before I’d ever even think to grab it and become the knife-wielding dog walker in pajamas.

3. I need pajamas that are less revealing.

I never PLAN on walking the dog at 2 am even though it happens quite often, so you’d think I’d have taken care of this by now. Perhaps I’m hoping I can mesmerize any gun toting mad men with the jiggle of my not-entirely-covered ass cheeks. Perhaps I realize the futility in trying to buy pajamas anymore since the last time I bought anything, my ass cheeks still weren’t covered and the nightgown turned out to be quite sheer ( I swear it didn’t look it in the store). Either way, I’m just hoping the nearby neighbors aren’t insomniacs because they’re getting an eyeful if they are, and I don’t think the old guy’s heart can take it.

4. How the fuck do you even piss that much?

I’m not sure how big exactly my dog’s bladder is. It’s not something I ever felt the need to look up, but it must hold at least 17 gallons of urine. He pees before we even get into the yard all that well…an entire river of yellow. He pees on this spot and that spot and another spot. I scream “not on my fucking trees” 500 times. He pees again. And again. We’re not just talking about marking either because he has a different stance for each. For marking he does a lazy, old man half-mast leg hike (he’s old and has arthritis…poor guy can’t do a full lift) and for regular urination he does this weird half-lean, half-point pose that gives him much more gravitas than he deserves considering the puddle he’s making. But either way, marking or no, I am pretty sure his entire body is a urine cavity while I’m stuck with a bladder the size of a thimble (just ask anyone who has ever gone on a road trip with me). So while I’m waiting on a skulking monster to come streaking onto my property, the dog is leisurely peeing for what feels like 300 hours. It does not bode well for my nighttime-walk anxiety, and I end up yelling “couldyoujusttakeyourdumpalreadyFORFUCKSSAKE??”

5. Did I really just step in that?

Well… that’s the great part about living in the middle of nowhere… You get all the beauty of the stars in the night sky because there are really no lights out here to detract from the view. It’s gorgeous. It really is. But that also means that it’s blacker than Sean Hannity’s cold, cold heart some nights and no flashlight can really give me a good view of just exactly where I’m stepping especially when most of the time I’m using said flashlight to scan the tree line for hipster werewolves in torn skinny jeans and flannel shirts—the scariest of all werewolves.

6. I should have done this BEFORE I had a drink.

I’m not a major drinker…not daily or anything. But on occasion after a long, frustrating day, a glass of whiskey and ginger ale hits the proverbial spot. It seems to me that these are the nights that the dog always, always has to go. These are the nights when I would most definitely fall down while trying to run like every woman in every horror movie ever if anything did actually appear in the yard like the multitudes of coyotes I always hear or a human-flesh-loving Sasquatch or the neighbor’s unsocialized and scary pit bulls (that have gotten loose more times than I can count over the years and even pinned me in a vehicle on occasion like that fucking scene out of Cujo…yikes). And of course by the time I get him out there and he pees 98 gallons worth of whatever he’s been drinking out of the toilet and the sink and my cup then I have to pee and it’s just a big fucking fiasco.

The dog is going on 8 years old which is senior citizen status for Great Danes, and I have yet to see a knife-wielding maniac running from the tree line from the horde of zombies being smashed by the Sasquatch that was just attacked by a hipster werewolf in a hockey mask, but I’m not betting against it. So, think of me when you happen to wake up at 2 am to pee and hope that somehow I mesmerized those fools with my jiggly ass cheeks long enough to get out my trusty little teal pocket knife that I finally remembered to bring with me since we all know the dog left me standing there in his dust to beat me to the house.

Sunday, September 28, 2014

Quiet Thoughts and Neverending Yammer

I am an introverted mother parenting the most extroverted child.

There are times when I feel like I am completely out of my league on this. To say I get "overwhelmed" would be like saying I only roll my eyes on occasion during football season on Facebook... With those statements we're getting out of understatement territory and into outright, bold-faced lying.

[sigh.]

Anyone who really knows me knows that I love my son immensely, and most of my world is him. But, until I became a mother I didn't know that a person could actually physically talk this much without passing out from lack of oxygen. His mouth never stops. On the toilet, in the shower, in his sleep, while he's watching television, playing a game, and while he does his schoolwork....it never, ever ends. He has never figured out that some things can be thought without being said aloud, and sometimes I'm pretty sure he'll never figure it out. This is simply who he is.

To add to that, he hates being in his bedroom or anywhere that doesn't involve being around another person. At times, a pet will substitute, but there always HAS to be someone in the room or with him to listen to his nonstop chatter. I bought a desk for him to do his schoolwork (we homeschool) and every single day I have to remind him that schoolwork should be done at his desk. He will bring his workbook into the kitchen where I'm washing dishes and even though he's too short to do so comfortably, he will damn sure try to complete the work on the counter. Out loud. Even as I start wiping the counter off that he's working on...  After his work is done and has been graded and I have requested some "adult time" to peacefully write letters or work on my own school work while he does his own thing, he would literally rather sit in the living room on the laptop wearing headphones and turn a chair around to face the wall (if I decide to watch something he can't) than deal with being in his bedroom alone. This was actually worse when he was in public school. You'd think that being around children all day would give him his social fix, but he was forced to be quiet and sit still most of the day with no exceptions which honestly wreaked havoc on his brain. It was the ultimate torture. Every single day is spent with him essentially all up in my personal bubble filling it with all the words.

Here's where a lot of people might think that I should have thought about all this before I had a child, but see, that's the thing. You can't predict personality. All children aren't the same, and at 25, when I had him, I didn't really understand the depths of my own introversion either. It's not shyness. It's not a thing I can get over. It's part of WHO I am. Being social and being around others especially in crowds is exhausting to me. It's not that I never want to socialize--I do enjoy it. On my own terms. But, when I do, it wipes me out even if I only visit with a couple friends for a few hours. I prefer my own company most of the time. I loathe small talk and can be kind of intense when I really get into the depths of my conversations. I have a constant inner dialogue, avoid interaction with strangers when possible as much as possible, and I really start to get stressed when I've been active or overstimulated for too long without down time. And that's the key thing right there...It is physically and mentally painful for me to be too overstimulated. I reach a point where enough is more than enough.

My kiddo on the other hand GAINS all his energy from being active and from socializing...and, man, does his energy fucking build just by being in the same room as me. I have come to terms with the fact that just being within inches of my body means he actually absorbs all my energy through osmosis like some sort of life-essence sponge. He can talk to anyone, anytime, anywhere, about anything. He thinks aloud, plans aloud, dissects problems out loud. That's the way he works best. His ideas aren't even fully formed yet, and they're already spilling from his mouth in a sort of word salad...and often it's like the kind of salad a drunk college kid would make when he comes home from a night of binge drinking and throws together whatever he can find in his dorm--cheerios, vienna sausages, powdered donuts, and spaghetti-o's. Oh, and some ramen for texture. That's how his ideas form though... He's not talking to me so much as at me...that's something I had to learn. He surely talks TO me way beyond my comfort zone, but there are just as many times that the conversation is taking place all within the air between us with him having no desire for a response.

The fact that I don't really have to talk back half the time doesn't mean that the constant drone and chatter doesn't wear me down eventually. By the time I sit down to write or work on a class assignment, I'm actually begging for peace and quiet. No exaggeration. He doesn't understand that I could actually want to be alone. With myself. In my own world. His brain doesn't work that way and he can't possibly comprehend why I don't work the way he does.

It's a constant struggle. I reach my limits, ask for peace, he tries to be quiet, reaches his, and we're back to square 1. I don't know the quick fix right now... I don't know how to make it work better than it is. We're working on it, and we'll figure it out eventually. But, I think the important thing is to highlight that struggle because I'd be willing to bet that someone reading this knows someone who goes through the same thing who is constantly being told her (or his) child will grow out of it or that it will get better or that she should have thought about all that before having kids...basically, she's not getting to vent, she's getting no support, and her very real issues are being largely ignored by people who very likely treat her like she has a disorder instead of understanding that it's just part of WHO she is... So to you, dear readers, don't be that dickhead who doesn't try to understand. Capeesh?

And when you see a mother, maybe even a mother like me covered in tattoos with short hair and a long-haired, endlessly chattering boy in tow, don't judge her for not responding to every little thing that boy says. I've seen the looks when I'm in Target trying to get things done and some other mom rolls her eyes and sighs like I'm the worst fucking human being on the face of the planet for not responding to every little thing. I can assure you that I've talked to that kid more than you possibly could imagine in the time leading up to our shopping trip, and I can also assure you that he's not going to shrivel up and die because he's not getting my undivided attention so that we may get what the fuck we need to get done and get out so he can talk some more. There's always more to the story, obviously, than what you can gather in passing a person in the pet food section...


This has been another Sunday Confession with More than Cheese and Beer. Please, please, please go check out the other contributions on the MTCAB page and the anonymous confessions on the Facebook page. Also, check out the Halloween Giveaway (pee-wee scream) that I'm taking part in with this blog and several others. Details here, on Facebook, and on the MTCAB page :)


Sunday, September 21, 2014

The Art of Exposing Douches



As many of you probably already know, I have a second blog that I co-run with Ash from More Than Cheese and Beer called DoucheArt. If you’ve never visited that particular site, in a nutshell, we take messages we receive on dating sites (and reader submissions) that are oversexualized and awful and turn them into kitschy art with a little commentary following the images we post.



This has not always gone over well with male readers. Some comments that we’ve gotten include:

· If you really wanted to help, you could use your time to do so much more.

· Why don’t you just block those guys and not worry about it?

· Isn’t getting revenge on stupid people a little petty?

· Making fun of people who don’t really know any better isn’t productive.


Let me address all those in one big lump. Because they’re all relatively linked and all bullshit.

I’m not sure why the assumption is the only people who send awful messages are stupid, socially inept, and don’t know any better. The facts are that after years of being on dating sites, these messages come from people of all races, ages, socioeconomic classes, intelligence levels, and genders (though from my personal experience, they come from men far more often than women). They aren’t coming from stupid people who don’t understand how to talk to others; they come from people who purposefully send such messages because they have issues. Having issues and not knowing any better are two very different fucking things, and the former doesn’t need to be excused. It needs to be highlighted more often and understood in the dating site context.


See, the thing is…we are trying to help on an issue that far too often goes ignored because so many people feel ashamed and guilty for receiving these kinds of messages over and over again. It can be frustrating, sure, but at the core of it is a very big issue that is ever-present in our society. It’s not about revenge, not in the least. It’s about shining a light on these sorts of messages instead of sweeping it under the rug. It’s about making a statement that this shit is not fucking acceptable, not in the least, and that when a message like this happens, it's evidence of the fucked up views of society manifesting in some asshole with too much time on his hands.

What happens when a man (or woman) sends a message detailing the sorts of things he (or she) would like to do to you without ever having talked to you first is tantamount to sexual assault. It’s not any different at all than a man in a trench coat flashing his flaccid little weewee at old ladies in a grocery store parking lot. That message is sent without respect for the person who reads it and is sent for the thrill of sending it just like the flasher shows off his sad little pecker for the thrill of doing so and not with the idea that it is going to win him a date with double-couponing octogenarians. Blocking the person after the fact is like telling your horrified grandmother to just erase the memory of the tragedy that lived beneath the trench coat AFTER she was flashed. It doesn’t fucking work that way. The damage has already been done.

According to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders-v, the criteria for exhibitionistic disorder, one of the paraphilic disorders detailed in the manual, includes the following:

· Over a period of at least 6 months, recurrent and intense sexual arousal from the exposure of one’s genitals to an unsuspecting person, as manifested by fantasies, urges, or behaviors.

· The individual has acted on these sexual urges with a NONCONSENTING person, or the sexual urges or fantasies cause clinically significant distress or impairment in social, occupational, or other important areas of functioning.

Exhibitionistic disorder is highly associated with antisocial personality disorder which is characterized by complete lack of regard for others, manipulation, criminal behavior, lying, conning, and impulsivity. Psychopathy is a subtype of antisocial personality disorder.

I provide that information to illustrate that getting aroused by showing off your genitals to random people really isn’t all that different from sending unsolicited dick pics (which happens. often. Some people even try to beat the bots and use dick pics AS THEIR PROFILE PICTURE) and it’s not all that different from sending a woman a message detailing all the perverted things you want to do to her. She didn’t ask for that information. She is NONCONSENTING. The person who sends those messages, as with the person who flashes his weewee, has no respect or concern for the person who sees. He (as almost all clinical exhibitionists are male according to prevailing studies) has no regard for what the other person wants or for the other person altogether. It’s a sick motherfucker who gets online and jerks off while sending a quantity of random women perverse messages. And make no mistake—that is exactly what is happening. It’s not about her or about how attractive she is. It’s about getting off because it’s a thrill to send something like that and imagine the woman’s face when she opens the message. It’s a new era of exhibitionistic disorder that needs to be studied for future inclusion in the paraphilic disorders of the DSM.

And when you get right down to it, this is all an extension of rape culture, of the sense of entitlement some men have to do whatever it takes to get off even when the other person has absolutely zero desire to be involved. It’s about the attitude that, for men, women are here for their enjoyment especially their most base pleasures and that we, women, really don’t have much say in the matter. The Internet has made this mode of thinking (and yes, I know, #notallmen) even easier to capitalize on because there are relatively NO consequences for this kind of behavior and plenty of websites that promote and celebrate it.

This isn’t about revenge as has been said to us. It’s not petty. It’s not about making people look like idiots. This is about highlighting a serious issue that is basically treated, as always, as the woman’s responsibility and her fault. I can’t tell you how many times that Ash and I have heard “if you don’t want to deal with that then why are you on those sites?” like we’re ASKING FOR IT just because we want to network outside of our very limited local social circles. We’re asking to be abused because we have a profile on a website that is not designed specifically for fetish behaviors, hookups, or casual sex but for dating and getting to know people? Right… I’m tired of being told to just ignore the messages and block the person because in the end, that dude is sending out dozens more to dozens more women who all have to deal with it themselves. I’m tired of being told to report it (like I don’t) when I know each and every person who gets reported just makes a new profile. I’ve gotten messages from the same guy who always talks about how much he wants to dominate me with his 10 inches from at least half a dozen different profiles over the last few years.



This needs to be treated like the serious issue that it is and while we sometimes write from a humorous point of view on DoucheArt we do maintain that the Internet community needs to be more aggressive about this issue. The scariest part of this is that sexual offenders often escalate in their crimes. A person who starts out as a flasher or as an Internet scumbag who sexually assaults women with his explicit messages may very well end up a repeat sex offender as the thrills of *just* flashing recedes and the person in question needs more and more to achieve the same state of arousal.

And, even when the person is not messaging a detailed list of all the things he wants to do and he sincerely propositions a woman in the first message, it's still that same sense of entitlement that makes him think it's okay to do so. We really don't fucking care if you have a huge dick. We really don't care that you want to suck on our tits. We don't have any desire to meet you for drinks and a little fun because you want to show our clitorises a good time. When you have no respect for us on a dating site, why the fuck would you respect us when we said "no" in person? And by then it's too late, isn't it?



So, are there really bigger issues I could tackle or more important ones or more than I can do on my “silly” little blog? I suppose we could always do more and strive to be better, but I’m quite proud of what we’re trying to do here and will continue despite the naysayers.

This is another Sunday of Confessions with More than Cheese and Beer (link above). Please feel free to check out all the other submissions and see all the tales of revenge that should follow. Oh and Please feel free to check out this funny older post of mine involving the time my son got revenge on our cat here.


Revenge Or Is It? (Guest Post)

My friend Ryan sent me this story for this week's prompt! Hope you all enjoy it as much as I did!

Revenge Or Is It? By: Ryan Hone

Gus Miller, age 47, a man who has it all. He was the first in his class. He was made junior partner at a prestigious law firm. He married his high school sweetheart. He is the father of 3 children. What drives a man to revenge? How does it end? Gus Miller found out the hard way that revenge is a dish best served cold...or is it?

You are now entering the...well you'll know if you saw the show.....

Gus was getting ready to end a long day at the law firm when his cell phone rings.
"Hello.", Gus answered.

"If you want your family to live you will listen to what I have to say." a man says on the other line.

"What are you talking about? Who is this?" Gus responds.

"It doesn't matter who I am Gus. What matters is what you are going to do for me..." says the man.

"What are you talking about? I'm not going to do anything for you." Gus says.

"Oh Gus, you don't even remember my voice do you? That's ok though. I bet you know your wife's voice." the man says.

This is followed by a woman's voice that says pleadingly, "Gus baby." It sounds like Gus' wife. Then Gus" hears a high pitched scream.

"Sound familiar Gus? I can see you breathing heavy so you must believe me now." the man says.

Gus responds, "Please whoever you are, I'll do whatever you want."

"What I want is to not have spent years behind bars for a crime I never committed but we are way beyond that now, " the man says.

"Way beyond what? What do you mean?" Gus says

"What I want is revenge. And tell you what, Gus, inside of your top desk drawer under the file folder is a knife. Grab it." says the man.

As Gus searches through his desk drawer he says, "A knife, but I don't keep a knife in my desk." Gus' hands move the folder aside and sitting there is a Gerber tactical knife.

"How in the hell? I never put this here." Gus says.

"You're right Gus. You didn't. I put it there when I was in your office. Here's what you are going to do. In the next thirty seconds if you haven't cut off your pinky finger on your right hand, I will cut the same finger off your wife's hand. Remember I am watching and time starts now." the man says.

Gus yells, "Wait. How do I know that it's really my wife that you have? Let me speak to her!"

Gus hears some movement and a woman's voice says "Gus, Help me." To Gus it sounds like his
wife.

The man comes back on the line, "Alright Gus this is how it's going to go. Don't look around for me because I can see you, but you can't see me. You have 30 seconds starting from when I hang up this phone to cut off your finger. I suggest that you do it."

The phone line goes dead.

Gus quickly weighs his options. He opens the Gerber knife. Breathing heavily, his heart racing, Gus places his hand upon the table. He lays the blade against his pinky finger. He closes his eyes and takes three deep breaths. On the third breath he pushes down with all the force that he can muster. Surprisingly there is little pain...until he opens his eyes and looks at his hand and the blood flowing from his severed finger. A deep throbbing ache begins, and Gus gives a moan.

Gus, shaking uncontrollably, grabs a scarf that is hanging from a hat rack and wraps his hand tight with it. Right when he is finished his phone rings again.

Before Gus has a chance to say anything the man says, "Good job Gus, I see that you used something to wrap your hand up. Careful those wounds can be nasty. Don't think that this is the end though. Now the stakes are going to be raised. I'm going to send you a picture just to show you that I'm serious. After you get this picture we will talk, " the man says.

Gus receives a picture on his phone, and it's of one of his sons with a blindfold around his eyes.

"Alright, I know that you have received the picture. I hope you realize how serious I am. Now as soon as I hang up you will have 30 seconds to cut another finger off either hand. I'll let you choose. After you do this I will let one of your children go. Let's just say the one you just received a picture of.. I am a man of my word unlike you," scoffs the man just before the line goes dead.

Gus can literally feel his right hand throbbing where he cut off his finger. He takes off the scarf from his right hand and almost immediately the blood starts to flow from his severed finger. He places the bloodied Gerber knife against the ring finger on his right hand. Once again he closes his eyes and pushes down with all his might. This time Gus yells out from the pain. In doing so he almost passes out. The room gets darker and little points of light swirl in front of his eyes. Any more of this, he thinks, and he'll never be able to save his family.

Gus curses out loud and grabs the scarf with a shaking left hand to wrap his hand with both of the severed fingers. The scarf is soaked a dark red. As the phone rings Gus grabs the phone with his left hand and yells out, "Let my son go. I did what you told me to."

The man answers, "Yes you did and I'm surprised that you didn't fall over from shock. I said I'm a man of my word. I'm sending you a picture to show you that . Wait one minute and don't do anything stupid. We wouldn't want the fun to end now, would we?" Gus can almost hear the smile in the man's voice as the line goes dead once again.

A minute passes by as Gus tries to hold the scarf tighter to his hand to slow the blood flowing from his hand. The phone begins to buzz. Gus looks down at it and sees that a picture was received. When Gus opens the picture it shows his son with the blindfold now around his neck right in front of a police station. Tears of relief spring to his eyes.That feeling is quickly replaced by dread as the phone rings again.

When he answers the man says, "Don't worry. Your son is now inside of that police station, and I'm sure he is telling them what he knows. This will be long over before that is a concern for me, so I really don't care. I don't want to harm your family, but I will if you don't comply."

"Now it's time for the grand finale. Alright, Gus, here's what you are going to do. I want you to leave your office and go up to the roof. I'm sure that you can make it. I've already made sure that you can get up there. So leave right now," the man says before the line goes dead once again.

Gus says tiredly, "I'm going right now." He walks out the door to his office and makes the short trip to the stairwell already out of breath. He goes up two flights, and in front of him is the door with red letters stamped across that say Roof Access. Gus notices that the lock that has been keeping the door closed has been cut and hangs loose. Gus undoes the cut lock and pushes the door open. Almost immediately a gust of wind pushes the door back in. Gus the door open and steps out onto the gravel layered roof.

As soon as Gus is completely out the door he looks up at the night sky. A sense of clarity comes to his mind through the fog of pain, and he wonders how things could have gone so terribly wrong. Who was this man?

His thoughts are interrupted by the ringing of his phone. "Gus, you shouldn't look at the sky when there are more important things on the ground," the man says coyly.

"What do you want from me? I've done everything you have asked. Please let my wife and kids go. I'll do whatever you want," Gus practically sobs out.

"Yes, Gus, you will. Walk to the edge of the roof" Gus walks to the edge of the roof holding his scarf wrapped hand close to his chest.

"Good. Now, Gus, I want you to stand up on the ledge." Gus stands up on the ledge as the wind gusts against him.

"I told you I'm a man of my word, but here's what going to happen I will send you a picture to show you what I mean." Not soon after he says this Gus receives a picture on his phone. It's of his wife and two children with blindfolds around their eyes and men standing behind them with pistols against their heads.

"Please don't do this." Gus pleads with the man.

"I won't do this if you jump off that ledge. Yes, you will die, but I swear that your family will live. My quarrel is with you. It was never with them. I will have my revenge." the man says.

"At least tell me who you are? What did I do that was so wrong to you?" Gus says.

"It doesn't matter anymore. What matters is right now, I'm watching you, so if you want your family to live, you will jump. I want you to say you will. Are you going to do it?" the man says.

"I'll do it. Damn, you. I'll do it." Gus says with conviction.

"Then this is goodbye, Gus. You will have 30 seconds after I hang up, and I don't have to tell you what the consequences will be if you don't jump." the man says as the line goes dead for the last time.

Gus looks up at the sky. Then he looks at the ground. He sees cars going in both directions and the sights and sounds of the city. Gus closes his eyes and knows that he must do this for his family. As a tear comes out from under his eye, he takes a deep breath and jumps. He thinks of his family, and as much as he doesn't want to open his eyes he does anyway. An involuntary scream comes from Gus' lungs as he falls to the busy street below.

Right when Gus is about to hit the asphalt, his vision blacks out, but he is still screaming. Gus can hear a mechanical whirring and computer-like sounds. He feels goose bumps all over his body.

Gus says almost hysterically, "What is this? I'm dead. Am I dead?"

Gus feels a suction cup sensation against his face as the mechanical whirring quickens. A light enters his vision, and he feels whatever it is being removed from his face. The light blinds him momentarily causing him to blink rapidly. As his vision comes back into to focus, he is able to see where he is.

Surrounding him is an auditorium style seating in a half ring around him. In these seats are what look like humans, but they are clearly not. Their motions are too jerky, and you see blinking lights under there skin. To Gus they look like machines. Eerily Gus can tell that he is being observed by all of them.

"What is this? Who are you? What am I doing here?" Gus says as he tries to move but is unsuccessful. Gus looks down at himself and realizes that he is strapped to the chair and that he is plugged into numerous monitoring devices.

"What is this? Someone please tell me what is going on." Gus pleads out loud.

Gus hears a human-like voice say, "Human subject ready for next phase of testing. Next emotion to be tested is Fear. Testing will commence in one minute."

When Gus hears this he tries to move, but can't do anything; he is too secure to the chair.

"Please don't do this." Gus pleads.

One of the human-like machines approaches Gus and begins to extend its right hand. The right index finger on the machine opens up and a syringe extends out filled with a blue liquid.

"What are you doing? What is that?" Gus pleads with the machine.

The machine doesn't slow down and the syringe jabs into his arm. As Gus begins to get light headed, he hears the whirring he heard before but he can't even speak...or scream. As something begins to block his vision and the lights start to fade he hears, "Fear test in 3, 2, 1...."

Then the light fades completely.


Guest post for Sunday Confessions today. I hope you enjoyed and as always check out the rest of the submissions over at More Than Cheese and Beer

Monday, September 15, 2014

Witchy Halloween Giveaway!!!


I am participating in a totally awesome Halloween Giveaway with the ever lovely Ash from More than Cheese and Beer. Several bloggers are joining up to send out some wicked Halloween awesomeness. Check out the original post on MTCAB here.

How to Win:
Use Rafflecopter to....
Like the Facebook pages of the bloggers involved
Follow on Twitter
Subscribe to blogs via email or on Bloglovin’.

Fans and followers can earn 2 entries by “Liking” each Facebook page, and 2 Entries for following on Twitter (4 Entries if there is only a Facebook page). 

“Subscribe to” blogs via email or through BlogLovin’ for an additional 4 Entries (I WILL be emailing bloggers for verification of this). 

The giveaway opens for entries September 15th and Winners will be randomly selected and announced on October 20th on my Facebook Page More Than Cheese and Beer, tweeted (if possible), and emailed. 

Giveaway is limited to the U.S (Sorry!)

Prizes will be shipped by Halloween (October 31st, 2014).  Winners will have until noon CST on October 22nd to respond to my email, and I will forward their contact information to the person offering the prize.  If winners do not respond, bloggers can do what they want with the prize.  Participants are not eligible to win their own prizes, but are eligible to win prizes offered by others.



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