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June 2020

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this morning

June 30, 2020


(Author’s note. Original publishing date was June 2020)

“It’s happening again.”

The Giant from Twin Peaks is on a loop in my head with the same angst and urgency as when Maddie died.

I do not feel good.

I got a courtesy email from Kijiji yesterday, addressed to Final Boss. No idea why it didn’t go to the junk folder, but it didn’t.

51 weeks ago he was laying in my bed, in the room I made for his comfort asking for help looking for an apartment. I did it. I helped, and he ended up in a trap house anyways.

And it’s happening again.

I do this every fucking time without fail.

I don’t see reality.

I really gotta talk to my therapist about this.

I only see potential, never who they really are. Then the truth comes out and I am blindsided. Devastated. And I get to play a fun game over months called ‘what did I do wrong this time.’ And you dear readers get to walk along beside me on my quest to be a better girlfriend/partner by dissecting myself until there is nothing left of me. Followed by a soft delete wherein I decide I made everything up in my head and they didn’t really say or do those things, they didn’t really love me it was just me seeing things that weren’t there.

But invariably a memory or an email from Kijiji shows up and I am right back where I started and faced with the truth that no, it was real and it doesn’t matter anyways because it’s over regardless.

Nina Simone said, “you have to learn to get up from the table when love is no longer being served.”

I never do.

I buy the food, cook a beautiful meal full of love and exotic delicacies, set the table, serve, maybe take a couple quick bites for myself, dish out seconds, then dessert, then clear everything, wash all the dishes and wipe it all down and wait for scraps. Meanwhile they are off eating junk food burgers served up by plastic girls in polyester uniforms.

This time I saw the signs a little.

Still ignored them.

The one thing that keeps looping in my head is when he said that I shouldn’t deny myself the now discontinued vape pods that we both love so much, that I shouldn’t save them for when I see him. My brain whimpered “donuts”.

I don’t know why that is the thing my mind is latching onto; I know my gut rolled when he said it a month or so ago. Maybe I did really know then, what I am about to find out now.

I got the ‘we have to talk’ message earlier today.

This is me in real time, trying to calm down, to not vomit, not cry.

I write things down to get my head on straight, it is what I do.

And I plant flowers in graveyards and sing songs about the ghosts who haunt here.

He seemed real. Like really real.

And it isn’t like I didn’t know what I was getting into.

There have never been lies here.

I don’t think Final Boss or any of the other ones ever lied outright either. Not on purpose.

I seriously think I am going to throw up.

I was talking to my girl earlier.

With much bitterness in my voice I said I am used to this.

And I am.

I show up. A ball of unconditional love and support. And they bask in it for a while.

Then, invariably end up leaving to go back to mediocrity.

Is it more comfortable? Do they need the nagging?

I don’t understand.

I tried reading that book, Why Men Love Bitches. Some of it made sense. I liked the first few chapters about being your own person and having your own life. It’s important. But then it bled into manipulation and lying and I can’t. I want to be loved as is. Freewill, not by force or obligation or false pretenses.

Maybe I set the bar too high.

And I can’t bring myself to be a bitch.

I don’t want to be worshiped for something I am not, I want to be loved for what I am. It took me a long time to get here.

I am friends with an amazing mega dominatrix online and I adore her. But I know I can never be like her, or the majority of my friends. None of whom are like me.

I listen to their advice about what I should do with my life, but I know. I will always be ruled by my vulnerable heart with my vagina cheering her on from the sidelines and my logic just rolling her eyes and prepping for the worst.

I actually really believed everything I have been through and everything I have learned finally had a purpose.

Truth be told, I have toyed with that idea before, but this time it felt real.

The stove is always hot, even if it’s a different stove.

I keep thinking if I stay true to myself and fine tune things and continue on my quest to figure out how to love that someday someone will see me and know I am the one they have been looking for.

And, they have.

Problem is to be with me they have to be a little better and do a little better and get used to new things. Unlearn old ideas of what relationships look like, and I get the fear of the unknown, the unstructured, the new.

And some of them have tried, bless their hearts.

But invariably it becomes too much so I am too much, and they settle back into the muck of old routine masking as comfort.

There is a huge re-offense rate with criminals, life out of prison is scary and hard when that’s all you know.

I know I can’t expect or ask anyone to change any more than I can magically turn into a bitch.

If I was going to, I would have by now.

But this is the 46th verse, same as the first.

I suppose now the silver lining is that I don’t beat myself up quite as bad as I used to about it.

I would rather be too much than not enough.

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The Ugly Truth about White Privilege

June 24, 2020

It will be a month tomorrow since George Floyd died.

White privilege is real, all lives matter was stolen by white people to undermine black lives matter and those hangings were not suicides.

We all caught up now?

Once upon a time I had the luxury of thinking that racism existed behind closed doors with elderly family members sprung from the old folk’s home for Thanksgiving dinner, saying inappropriate shit while the younger generation rolled their eyes. Or in little pockets of humanity buried in the deep south, or northern Georgia where white boys wouldn’t go to That gas station because it was for the others. They used that word that makes my mouth taste like soap liberally, sprinkling it in with fuck, as a curse and a slur.

But that was just Rome, Georgia right? And Alabama. I went to a flea market and it was peppered with wooden signage praising the lord and flags praising confederacy.

I grew up watching Dukes of Hazard every Friday night at 8pm. We sat on the popcorn blanket and watched the General Lee drive recklessly when Daisy Duke was a character on a show, not the shorts she wore.

I was 5. I didn’t know.

I remember wanting a cabbage patch kid doll so badly when I was 8. My mom asked my step grandma to bring us the dolls up from the states because our tiny town couldn’t keep them in stock. I was so excited for them to visit. They came empty handed because the only ones she could find were black. I remember how she spit the word out of her mouth like a curse word, and I remember thinking “but it’s still a baby and I want one.”

I didn’t understand then.

I am 46 now and I know. I also know there is more to learn. And I also know no matter how much I read or watch or listen I will never really know. I had to accept this.

I did the hiring for a strip club for a year. First question every fucking time I brought up a new girl was, “is she black”. What bearing does that have on how beautiful she is, how sexy she is, whether or not she does a good stage show, whether or not she shows up for shifts or how she is with customers? None that I could think of, but I kept my mouth shut and hired her anyways.

I worked at another club where the black girls were limited to 5 a night, so they were there before the club opened to secure a spot, while white girls like me could waltz in 6 hours later and pay the same amount of money while being spared the half a shift of dead time. I quit working there. Not because of that, although in retrospect I wish it was. Too many fights, young blond strippers pulling each other’s extensions out and dudes in affliction shirts smelling like whatever new stink Axe body spray had come up with this month. Spray tanned and greasy looking, all of them.

I have concluded, over the last 3 terms of American presidents, that racism is alive and well.

My white skin gave me the luxury of not noticing. That is white privilege.

You know, language is so important.

Scientists fucked the planet in the 90’s by calling climate change ‘global warming’. Every fucking winter it’s the same thing. Global warming isn’t real, it’s snowing. We are an ignorant and shortsighted species.

Racism has become for me, like the blue car phenomenon. Start noticing blue cars and suddenly they are everywhere.

I joined a few Facebook groups for outing racists with the intent of having them fired for racist behavior. I scroll through my feed now and every 4th post makes me sick to my stomach. I can’t look away. This is real… and honey, you gon lose yo job.

It isn’t just blatant dudes hiding under bedsheets anymore. It’s the ‘colorblind’ folks, the ‘all lives matter’ peeps. Well ya, all lives are supposed to matter, that is the ideal, but we don’t live in the ideal and here is a thousand examples, charts, videos facts and figures as to why we aren’t there yet, so please stop saying it.

The collective hive mind got together and decided it was a form of racism. Catch up buttercup.

There are 2 sides to history right now. We’re in it, and the only way out is through.
Racists have had their day and their way for far to long.

Its rampant, its a disease and its debilitating to all women, minorities, anyone who isn’t a straight white male…and ESPECIALLY to BIPOC.
The police are killing black people for sport.
People are getting lynched

Basic human rights are being denied and violated.

The veil is torn, there is no more hiding from this.

I’m terrified. I’m angry. I’m confronting a lot of unpleasant things about myself and the horrific state of our countries.
But I am glad to be alive now.

I’m fighting for my god children and all the other children who are going to benefit from this chaos now.

Something happened yesterday.

I read something and it took the air out of my lungs from the sheer truth of it.

I posted the most dumbed down version of an explanation for white privilege I could find.

“White privilege doesn’t mean you have an easy life it means it isn’t harder because of your skin color.”

This is as non-debatable to me as 2+2=4

But…

Every time I post about white privilege all the white people start screaming “my life is hard too”.

Ya and?

All I hear is global warming isn’t real because it snowed.

Social scientists should have called it something else.

All comes back to snowflakes though, doesn’t it.

I’m doing mental gymnastics trying to figure out ‘why’ white people are racist.

Came up with a few things.
Sports
Porn
Spices
and this

Jade is my superhero

White people (in general) need someone to oppress so they feel superior. There is no such thing as white culture. We are parasitic. We are Borg. We invade other countries and insist they assimilate to be more like us, but what are we really bringing to the table? Mayonnaise?

But what happens when we are presented with glaring, undeniable proof that we have every advantage…

Well, we have to confront our own shortcomings with the added caveat that we had less hurdles in the first place. The monopoly board was stacked 400 years in our favor. So, if you didn’t accomplish anything not only is that all on you, you started ahead in the race and you still failed.

If your life sucks it’s beyond your fault and if it doesn’t suck, you still aren’t as accomplished as you thought you were there sugar.

Mind boggling isn’t it.

But it’s true.

I have to sit in that reality and deal with my own inadequacies. Been doing a lot of that lately. Reading disturbing history that we were never taught in school. Filtering through and deleting 1000’s of racist comments on my page.

I hear the phrase ‘make racists afraid again’ thrown around often.

I think they are already afraid. Just like incels want to blame women for their own failures and sexual insecurities. Racists are afraid of things they don’t understand, and that they may have to take some responsibilities for their own lives.

Small dick energy either way.

They’re terrified.

Most everything I have posted lately I use a very white tone, speak only to white people. I can only speak from my own experience and to my own people. I don’t get to tell oppressed people how to react to what they have been through, I haven’t been through it. All I can do is reach in and pull as many white people to the right side of the fence as I can and stop giving a public platform to the ones who want to remain on the wrong side of history.

I repeatedly use the phrase ‘do better’.

And that is what it is.

We have to do better.

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Dear White Women (yet again)

June 5, 2020

I have hesitated to write anything, and this one won’t be long.

It’s not my turn to speak.

I usually write about sex, love and relationships. But that seems trite and unimportant in the wake of everything that is happening. I usually post about those things too plus poetry, astrology, witchy shit.
And lately I have stopped. I no longer feel comfortable being complacent.

Being non complacent is not comfortable either.

I am trite and unimportant, and I am okay with that.

It isn’t my turn to speak.

I went back and read an old post I had written when Roy Moore almost got elected.

63% of white women who voted decided a pedophile was better than a democrat.

Wow sis.

I hesitated to go back and look at the article I wrote in the time called before.
It was 2017 and I did not know then what I know now.
I was worried I had been offensive towards POC.

I stand by every word and I have a few to add.

I have banned and deleted over 800 people since I watched George Floyd being murdered.
Here is why.
He was murdered, by a stone faced racist police officer who believed in that moment, for 11 minutes worth of moments and for 4 days after the fact, that he would get away with it.
This is a fucking problem.
Nothing that has transpired after is as important as the series of events that lead us to a viral snuff film of a cold blooded murder.

All lives matter was created AFTER Black lives matter to undermine their issues.
I get that a few people are mistaking it for love and light, but I am telling you right now, it fucking isn’t. There have been 100’s of analogies as to why it is bad, and if you ignore that and continue to preach this, you are part of the problem.

Same with the not all cops are bad. Enough of them are, and the good ones don’t stop the bad ones. Guilt by association.

I just keep thinking back to #metoo and seeing my mom post it, and the little girls I used to babysit and every one of my friends.

And the seething shrieking rage I would feel when some douchey dude (who you know full fucking well has done some questionable shit) piped up with not all men.

Like fuck off and let us talk.

IF YOU DO NOT WANT TO LISTEN… FINE, SHITTY AND ARROGANT BUT FINE.

DO NOT TRY AND MAKE THIS ABOUT YOU.

I can imagine it feels something like that for POC, but times a thousand.

There is a glaring difference, and an important one. I know, as a woman, the dread of being tipsy, leaving the bar and the danger that comes in that space between the bar and the cab. I know how terrifying it is to walk home after a late shift. BUT if I am with a group of other women, or escorted by male friends, the danger decreases exponentially. POC, don’t get that “luxury”. The danger never decreases.

The world is built for white male comfort, rallies around the ‘protection’ of white women and spreads fear of black men.

That woman who called the cops when she was the one breaking the law by having her dog off leash basically pulled a gun on that man.

We already have power, and this is how we choose to use it?

Nah sis. Do better.

Any time you hijack a BLM post you are diluting it to talk about your opinions and your problems and your life, you are part of the problem.

You are contributing to racism.

For the first time since my ancestors landed here I’m being asked to sit down and listen.
Not for the first time, but this seems to be the first time it really worked.
If you are not helping, you are in the way.

My decent or even not so good experiences with police officers do not fucking matter at all.
No one is talking to me or about me. And that is okay.

It is not my turn to speak.

It was a very strange sensation to realize that whether or not I had something to say, it didn’t fucking matter. I realized I am used to being heard. I realized I have benefited from a system designed to be comfortable for people with my skin tone and realizing that really fucking hurt. I felt shame and guilt and confusion.

But here’s the thing…

I struggled with this.
I felt like I needed to be different, special, forgiven.
Then I had a profound moment when I realized that this has absolutely nothing to do with me or how I feel.
And that my friends is the entirety of the point.

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