anonymouslyshe

I'm not voting in this election for reasons that will remain private, but that doesn't mean I'm not biased. /Disclaimer

Moving right along:

It saddens me greatly when I hear people call themselves Christians and advocate the bombing terrorizing reckless and unwarranted abuse "liberating" of innocent people through the sacrifice of young American men in the same breath.

Sorry kids, but tats like Pink has are just not attractive. A pwetty widdle butterfly on your hip and a celtic knot on the small of your back and a line of music notes around your ankle and a rose on your tit... You look stupid naked. That's the end of it.

I think Mr.Wwtdd said it best when he called this sort of thing "poorly thought out". Sure, they may have sentimental thoughts behind them, but just meaning something doesn't stop them from making you look like a second grader's stamp collection. You can have a meaningful tattoo that's well worked and means lots of things. I bet all those stupid little pictures Pink stapled to herself could have been combined into one much better looking work of art.

Personally, I think tattoos done the right way - even if they don't mean something - are beautiful... and pretty darn sexy.

I mean, look at this guy:



He sure as fuck planned out his ink and it shows. Even if you don't find the subject sexy [Note: I do.] you can't deny how beautiful the artwork is. It was something he and the tattoo artist put a lot of thought into and it shows. He didn't walk into a tattoo parlor fourty seven times because, "lol tattoos make me cool."

Tattoos don't make you cool. Good tattoos make you cool. And bad tattoos make you look like an idiot. Forever. Remember that.

I'm going to go ahead and skip the excuses. I haven't updated this in a long time, but other things take priority yadda yadda ya. On to the content.

There's a thunderstorm right above my house, it sounds like. No rain, no lightning, just thunder and it's loud as all hell. Those are my favorite ones, the storms that snap and crackle and rattle the dishes.

Before my brother was born(he was deathly afraid of thunder), whenever there was a thunder or lightning storm my parents would sit me in my high chair facing out the dining room window. My mom would make a big bowl of popcorn and my dad would shut off all the lights and they'd come back to sit on either side of me at the dinner table to watch. They'd make a huge deal of the lightning and counting to the boom. It was a movie, it was a game.

It was also the last time I remember my family being happy together. I can't recall another time when we all sat around a table and smiled and laughed and enjoyed our little family.

I could cry when storms roll in, just remembering the warmth and closeness that was drowned out by hate and spite and stupidity and so many things... I miss that. And when I picture that pretty little scene in my head: the rain pouring down the window, my mother leaning over to point out a long streak of lightning, my dad refilling my highchair tray with popcorn whenever I remembered the number 5, which evaded me frequently, all inside the only pitch-black room I ever felt safe in... It makes me sad to think about what I missed out on.

I'm sorry I've been so lazy about updating this, but the truth is I'm sick as a dog and I'm only updating because something has been constantly bugging me.

Sushi places generally have some warning somewhere that states something along the lines of, "You're eating raw fish. It can make you sick." Well, I ate raw fish. And I got sick. Very sick. This happened on Sunday night and I'm just now reintroducing myself to solid foods, which are still making me queasy. I don't think I've ever been so sick.

I would never, ever want to be That Guy who sues the shit out of everyone; the guy who no one wants to operate on, no hotel wants to put up and no restaurant wants to serve. However, this whole ordeal showed me how many That Guys exist around me. As many times as I heard, "Get well soon," I heard, "You should sue."

Just recently that same restaurant got nailed by some parent suing them because they said her daughter looked too old to get the Kids-Eat-Free treatment. Only those under 12 qualified. She said they publicly embarassed her daughter by telling her she had to pay! It was discrimination! The family was ruined because they had to dish out an extra $15!

There was a time, long long ago, when being a lawyer carried with it an air of ...almost nobility. They were very highly regarded because it was understood that they put themselves through school, worked their asses off, and defended Lady Justice to the best of their ability. Not so much anymore. There's big money in suing the shit out of people who don't deserve it and it's taking all the honor out of the job. I'm not saying there aren't honest lawyers out there, but people aren't buying into the honest ones. They're paying the sleeze and scum to win them a quick buck so Tim doesn't have to work for a couple months or Gina can buy that house she always wanted or Sam can go to summer camp.

I don't need a million dollars from some sushi place because I puked my brains out for a week. I'd rather be able to go back there, confident that someone didn't defecate in my miso soup for paying for their food with money I took from them, and retain some semblance of my moral integrity at the same time.

I was sexually abused by my own father from the ages of 3 to 13.

Wait. Hold the phone. Why would I say such a thing?

The writer behind Violent Acres, who refers to herself only as V, had a horrid childhood as well. Her post today nearly moved me to tears.

    If you were abused growing up, I’d like for you to tell people. In fact, I think it’s your responsibility to tell people. Now I’m not saying you should blurt out your life story to everyone who asks a polite question, but if someone really wants to know, stick with the truth.

The article on Violentacres.com

So if you really want to know, keep reading. If you want to pretend this shit doesn't exist, then here is a picture of a kitten

The first time I ever told someone, I was terrified. Absolutely terrified. Anthony was my best friend, my first real boyfriend, and I was convinced we were in love, but I was also convinced that telling him would ruin our relationship and he would never want to speak to me ever again. Even years later I only willingly told one other person, and that is the man I'm in love with.

This is not something I share on a regular basis and it's certainly not something I like having attributed to me. Hell, I have to hide behind this stupid journal to even admit to it. I know it's not my fault and I know I was the one who was wronged, but I hate people thinking differently of me. I want to be just like everyone else. I like people thinking I am so hateful toward my family because I never got over my teenage punk/rebel years. It makes me feel normal.

Anthony and I had been walking around my neighborhood and stopped down the road to get pizza at a place run by your stereotypical, greasy, hairy, dark-skinned Italian family. Anthony's family is full of old-world Italians, so he was picking up on some of their words and trying to tell me what they were saying, which got us into a conversation about the mafia. On our walk back toward my house Anthony admitted to me that some of his family has an affiliation with the mafia. I, being as obsessed with Law and Order reruns as I am now, brought up an episode involving the mafia and asked if his uncle did any of those things.

He replied, "Law and Order makes such a stretch sometimes with their plots. I mean, last night I saw one where some guy molested his niece for like... twenty years or something. I was like... come on."

"What do you mean, 'come on'?"

"That stuff doesn't happen."

"How do you know?"

"It's just not realistic."

"Why isn't it realistic?"

"It's impossible. Her parents would have noticed something was going on. Or she would have told somebody."

"Not necessarily."

"Why are you being so defensive?"

It was at this point, I think, that he noticed I was crying. He asked me what was wrong and I kind of shook it off and told him it was nothing, but I was found out. He, being the lanky track runner he was, took one step and stood in front of me, stopping me in my tracks.

"Why are you crying?"

"It's not impossible. It can happen."

He paused and did that little puppy head-tilt he does when he knows I'm keeping something from him.

"Look at me. Did this happen to you? Please tell me this didn't happen to you."

I hesitated, but he looked so anxious and so panic-striken waiting for my answer that I had to nod. He grabbed me by the shoulders. I thought he was going to shake me.

"By who? Who was it? Was it your uncle? Your neighbor?"

I shook my head and his grip got tighter.

"Who, then?"

"...My dad."

He stared at me a minute. He stared for so long, I thought he didn't believe me and he really would start shaking me.

Then finally, "Are you serious?"

I nodded again.

"Oh my god." And at that, I started sobbing like a newborn. He pulled me in so tightly and so roughly that I nearly lost my breath. I sobbed into his shoulder as he hugged me and buried his nose in my neck.

Even thinking of the last thing he said to me makes me well up.

"How could this have happened to someone as beautiful as you? How could you have gone through something like that and still turn out so wonderful?"

I don't know. Honestly, I don't, but I bet I have Anthony to thank for a lot of it. All of my friends were cause for my successful escape from what that experience could have made me, even the ones who I never told and still continue to keep in the dark.

I grew up in a beautiful home in an expensive suburb one hour away from one of the brightest and most spectacular cities in the world. I attended grade school in a very highly ranked district, I got excellent grades, and I had a healthy extracurricular/social life. I was young and bright and happy... and, of course, privileged.

But I lived something very, very different than what my history leads most people to believe. A nice house may look nice, but there are dark things happening behind those frosted-glass doors. I wish I could save them all, but I have no idea who or where they are. So I'm hoping my or V's or anyone's story reaches them in time. I hope they can gather up the courage to save themselves because I'm sure with almost all of these cases, no one has any idea what ugly monsters they're fighting. But grim as it may seem, they're not alone. I wish I could tell them that.

When I dress up, generally my classmates are more inclined to either A) absorb and react constructively to my cynicism and severe sarcasm or B) Let it run off them because I'm a silly girl. If I scrub out, I'm immediately the annoying, brainy, talks-too-much bitch of the class and the number of eye rolls increases exponentially.

In the philosophy class prior to this one, I wore jeans and a t-shirt, no makeup, curly, unkempt hair. I made my argument to the teacher... I think it was law vs. morality... and got either nasty looks or words of disdain and disapproval from the class. Today I'm in heels, my hair is done, I'm wearing a dress.. and suddenly I have all the right answers and the other students are engaged in the discussion and hands are waving in the air, all anxiously awaiting their turn to shout words of approval and support for my standpoint, which - if I may add - is almost exactly the same as the point I made in the class before.


That's just one example. I'm amused by the different reactions. I wonder if they think I'm the same person.

Those are two of the pit bulls rescued from Michael Vick's dog fighting ring. They're affectionate, wonderful pets now, even after the horrible things that they went through.

The problem isn't the breed, it's people who do stupid shit. Even someone as fucking idiotic as Michael Vick can't beat the love out of these guys.

But I'm sure after this picture was taken, they both turned around and ate these women's faces off. Yeah. Ferocious killing machines, I'm telling you.

Something very, very sad is happening to one of my best friends right this very moment. I just dropped him off at a hospital where his father is in a bed with multiple organ failure, dying. This will hopefully be the first and last time my private journal and my public one cross paths.

I, thankfully, could be there this afternoon to console him and talk him through this. At first, he was bent on not going. His father's liver finally gave in to years and years of alcoholism two years ago and he's been dying ever since. For the last two weeks, however, things have been particularly bad. He's been in and out of the hospital, watching his father supposedly die, only to see him recover and return home days later. Lather, rinse, repeat. It was no wonder he didn't want to go back just to go through the same emotional rollercoaster. When you are told someone is going to die, there is certainly grieving, sure. But after that, you're able to make peace with it to some degree, to accept it.... My friend had that sense of stability ripped from him each time his father recovered and came home. He was given a new hope, only to have to come to terms with his mortality several days later when he'd be back in the hospital. It was heartbreaking for him.

Not only that, but - We'll call him Danny - Danny has no sympathy for his father. Danny felt the dying man lying in the hospital had failed him and his entire family as a father. He was cruel, uncaring, and drunk and that was all he was. Or at least that's what Danny told me right up until he got the second phone call from his mother, "Your father has been unconscious since his last cardiac arrest and he's under DNR. He is going to die today. Please come home."

And that's when he completely broke down, which threw me off a bit. While I know him to be a bit of a softy, despite his bad-ass demeanor, he never cries in front of other people. Never.

"Alcoholism is a disease. I have to forgive him for what he's done. He couldn't help it. It's a disease."

Fuck that.

Cancer is a disease. Polio is a disease. Autism is a disease. Alcoholism is as much of a fucking disease as being fatter than a bakery truck is. But I digress...

Cancer patients, mostly, didn't knowingly put the cancer into their bodies. Now I mean people with brain tumors, throat cancer .. not the shit tanning booths and cigarettes will give you. I mean the kind you don't know about until it hits you in the back of the head. Maybe literally. The kind that makes people question God. Why would he let this happen to them even though they led such a wholesome, healthy life?

Alcoholism is an addiction. Addiction is not a disease. It is something a person brings upon themselves by knowingly taking to excess. You know when you are drinking yourself retarded. You know when you ate way too much cake. You know smoking is bad for your lungs, yet you keep on keeping on.

That is not a disease. That is poor impulse control. That is pure, unabashed weakness.

If alcoholism is a disease, then so is being a cowardly piece of shit. They're exactly the same.

This man gave up his family and his entire life for booze. He knowingly and willingly drank it, no one forced that glass to his lips, and he destroyed his fucking family to keep the good feelings comin'. It makes me furious that people can even think to refer to alcoholism as some sort of medical condition that is accidental, that it is totally out of the person's control. The whole thing makes me sick.

Recently, I got an anonymous comment on my public journal calling it "total shit" and ripping apart that particular post because my first line "didn't hook the reader in."

At first I was excited, to be perfectly honest. A stranger? On my journal? How exotic! I thought I'd start up a discussion, by chance the person would give me an answer. I'd argue that it wasn't my readable journal, that I had another. I'd challenge him/her to go find it and tell me it wasn't something different than your average "blog"....And just as quickly as it came, the fun succumbed to an onset of, "Jesus Christ, what kind of person has the time to even care?" I don't even know who this person is, yet he/she feels the need to read my journal.

Why does this happen?

Because the internet is for losers.

While we may find a rare gem here and there, people come online to find people who are like them. They need to, to validate themselves and their opinions, because they can't find it anywhere else. Or, they're here to find people who disagree so they can belittle them and inflate their Penis of Self-Esteem. They're different and they want to be assured that there are other "different" people who don't think they're a loser. They hide behind their pseudonyms and chat-speak, witty signatures and declarations of "n00b!"...And why shouldn't they? There's a million miles of fiber optic cable separating them from everyone else. No one will ever know that you like kittens a little *too* much.

Don't get me wrong...I'm not immune to this accusation. Why else would I be hiding behind an anonymous journal? I won't tell you I like to fuck kittens, but I sure as hell don't want people knowing some of the things I will say.

But in a way, I'm different from those people, too. I am interested in other people's opinions. That's why. Not just ones that will make you feel like you have the bigger cock or inflate my own, but really honest, constructive, conversation/arugment starting opinions. I care what people think. That's right! I said it! That's the taboo of the internet, isn't it? To claim you care what people think about you and your opinions? I digress...

I want you to tear me apart. I want you to tell me I'm great. If I make someone say, "Hey, wait a minute. Fuck her." or, "Yeah, good point." then I did my job.

But that's not what my personal journal is for, so stay the fuck off it.

This afternoon, my mother treated me and my sibling to lunch out at the new Chinese place around the corner. It's a hole in the wall run by a small family - the husband and possibly his brother or business partner worked the kitchen while the wife worked the register and her toddler-aged daughter colored at one of the tables. It was pretty obvious that this was intended to be a take-out type deal rather than a dine-in establishment, not only because of the limited waiting staff, but also the fact that there were only six tables in the whole place.

Regardless of this, the woman in line before us decided she was going to be treated like royalty. She decided that she was going to share her egg roll with her two kids, so she demanded of the cashier that it be cut in thirds. These were your regular lunch-sized egg rolls, not sized for sharing, so the cashier very sweetly and in very broken English informed the woman that she couldn't do that.

"What," snapped the older woman, "You don't have a knife back there?"

To which the other woman gracefully rebutted, "You have a knife. You can cut it."

We received our food and sat down at the table across from the demon woman. As she was stuffing her face full of sweet pork and rice, she suddenly became aware of the fact that the cashier didn't supply enough napkins.

"Excuse me!" she yelled to the counter from her seat, "Could we have more napkins?"

The Chinese woman pointed to the box of napkins on the counter. It couldn't have been more than ten feet from her fat ass, but the customer made a huge display for the rest of us, sighing and rolling her eyes.

So I got up from my own damn seat, picked the stack up, and walked them over to her. The woman snorted, which I guess was a thank-you, and said, "We won't be coming back here again, huh!"

Without thinking, I answered, "Actually, you're being extremely rude and you're embarrassing yourself. I don't think you should come back. If I were them, I'd spit in your noodles."

And then I walked back to my seat and continued my meal, but not before my own mother chided me for being such a bitch.

Yeah, I guess that was pretty bitchy, but I hate seeing people being treated like shit. Call me the Robin Hood of Douchebaggery.

Porn, porn, porn.

Actually, I have zero problems with the porn industry. Not the kind filmed in back alleys with kids and animals and shit, but the actual industry where the women are paid and the scripts are horrendous.

Kinky doesn't bother me. I don't think it should be on late-night HBO, but the fact that people shove their partners' feet up their ass or piss on eachother doesn't make me mad or upset. There's some seriously gross shit out there, but as long as they're not making me like it, look at it, or do it, I don't see what the big deal is. Then again, I guess I feel that way about a lot of things... Gay marriage, abortion, violent TV, drug laws... Now if that doesn't make me a dirty liberal, I don't know what will.

But I digress. Who the fuck are these women parading around proclaiming that porn is degrading?

You know what's degrading? Sitting alone at your computer in the dark, yanking your wee-wee to a great looking woman who fucks for a living, yet would never fuck you.

The women in those videos know exactly what they're doing and why. It's a great feeling, to know people want you and get off to you and will pay money to see you. There's power in that. A good looking woman has a certain power over males, and also over less attractive females. No denying it, in a lot of cases a great rack will get a girl farther than a great test score.

The first subject I feel I must touch upon is the reason why I find it necessary to start an anonymous journal.

Well, there is one obvious reason: So no one knows who I am and therefore cannot hunt me down. While I am sure there are ways to check my IP and see the sites I visit and dig through my garbage via the lovely internets, I can't imagine anyone caring enough to go through all that trouble. If you want to, be my guest. I can't promise I won't think less of you.

Another is that I want to share my life experiences without hurting those they may involve. I do have my own written journal as well as my own public journal (Go look for it, my stalker friends), but the former prevents me from letting my story and my opinions get out there while the latter puts me and anyone in my stories at risk. Also, it increases the likelihood that those in my stories will find out I'm writing about them, which I think would be a very, very bad thing.

Whatever the reason, here I am and here I will stay. I don't know how often I'll be updating this thing. Probably every time I have something worth ranting about.

What you will not see here:
1. Pictures
2. Any real names. I'll be changing every single one. I may not use the same one more than once.
3. Emotional outbursts, descriptions of my daily activities and how boring they are, etc. We'll leave those things to my regular journal.

What you will see here:
1. Sarcasm, brutal honesty, and the occasional philosophical breakthrough.  

Feel free to comment, but I will not reply. I'd rather keep this open forum and not have to worry about screening things, so you can discuss amongst yourselves, but I won't be joining in.