Bullies

I thought of my past as encompassing the sundry experiences of youth, until fixating on headlines about bullying, about young people who go to therapy and take antidepressants, those who do self-destructive things and hurt other people because they had been bullied.

Nowadays, they have the bully-patrol in schools, and public service announcements about bullying.

It’s very scary. I’ve also read articles about adult bullies. I need to be on the lookout for bullies too?

“I didn’t know I was bullied. That was bullying that I experienced when I was in junior high school? Wow, I was bullied,” I said to my sister.

The media says that being bullied causes people to have syndromes.

People reading about these syndromes can measure themselves up against them, eventually determining that they have these syndromes and begin manifesting other behaviors outlined therein. I did.

Maybe I was just naive, albeit, one who had been called “Skeleton Head” and “Chester” because I didn’t have any titties – but I just thought getting fucked with was comeuppance for me because I said and did mean things to kids too.

But on days I’m digging through archives, feeling sorry for myself, I can focus on having been called “Chester”. Then I can watch Dr. Phil and learn even more about me.

The media influenced me to feel sorry for myself. It made a lot of money doing it. It defined me when previously I had no idea that I even had any syndrome.

I thought I was evolving into something new and different everyday. But now I’m in a cubby-hole, marked with an indelible stamp: “The One Who Was Bullied”.

At the end of this I realize it’s good to draw attention to bullying so that we think about it and grow eventually, as a culture.

But, could we tone it down a little, so that we can hear ourselves think?

 

 

Can’t I have anything!?

When I was 12, a friend said I’d get titties in the springtime.  I did.  Sort of.  I got A’s.  Wasn’t bad actually.  Had returning customers.  (No. I wasn’t a prostitute.  Maybe I should have been.  You know, charged money?)  But if my breasts were gonna be small I’d have a tight body I reasoned.  I exercised stringently and smoked cigarettes — crack diets didn’t come out ‘til later. The payoff was being skinny, which wasn’t always good enough.

I told my dad I was getting implants.  He said I needed to go explore, be around different types of people – I like to think he meant I needed to be around classy, arty people who were too deep, too brilliant to focus on titties — haha yeah, that’s what he meant — and my friend said smaller breasts are aristocratic; and my other friend said, Yeah, yeah, I like your titties like that – ah shhhhit yeah!  And as I’ve said before, if you have smaller ones all the energy is focused, you know, down there.

So at times I wasn’t bothered, though I wondered what it would be like to have big ones.  Summer would come and I saw how big women’s breasts were – wow – this is where mine went – these bitches got my portion!  I’d go in and out of feeling inadequate.  I regretted not being able to ‘have sex with my breasts’ or not being able to slap somebody silly with my titties.  Then it would be okay again because I was a waifish nymph, or a nymphish waif, or a nymph-waif-pirate drunk.

Now that I’ll be 50, I’m more relaxed.  I spent years going in and out of being skinny and nearly sick because of it, and obsessively weighing myself, because I valued myself that way.  It all came from being flat-chested.  I still exercise regularly, but it started out as an obsession having more to do with vanity than fitness.  I gained weight here and there, freaked out, and went on a holistic diet.  I thought of becoming a vegan not for health reasons, but because I thought it would keep me skinny.

Now I have fibroids that cause a slight protrusion in my abdomen.  Menopause, which is soon, may shrink them.  I don’t want surgery because I’m asymptomatic. Along with running and working out regularly, I do fifty sit-ups at least three times a week.  My stomach was flat until a couple of years ago.  Can’t I have anything?  I feel like all my effort is futile at times, just as I do with my other efforts that yield minimal results. Are my biorhythms off?  Did I kill somebody in a past life?

No, I just need to find my worth in areas that don’t require external approval.  Who I am is not any certification, degree, award, Pulitzer Prize, or drooling admiration. Unfortunately I didn’t get that until now.

23 Skidoo!

 

What’s that age where it’s okay for women to talk about how hot they used to be or to talk explicitly about sex in mixed company?  There’s an age where nobody gives a crap anymore, like that crazy old lady at the barbecue who takes her titties out and says “C’mere, suck on these!”  She’s the life of the party, the quirky old drunk broad. She’s not a threat to any of the women and nobody wants to fuck her so it’s okay if she says “I used to be a beautiful woman long ago who’s had sex with many many many many men, and boy what I would pay to suck your dick!”  “Oh boy, your Auntie Sandee’s a riot T!  She must have been something else back in the 20^th century!”  “Yeah, we know.”  23 skidoo!

Draaaaaaaaainage!

I never wanted to spawn.  I have baby’s fathers though.  They’re men I’d be biologically compelled to spawn with:  Jimi Hendrix, Patrice Lumumba, Andre 3000, Nat Turner, D’Angelo…  Forrest Whitaker used to be one but he married a woman who’s too pretty.  He should’ve married a regular-looking sister like the president, to show he has character.  (I’m just jealous.)  Malcolm X can’t be on my list because I respect the marriage that he had – he was righteous!  Of course there is Peter Steele, Rod Serling, Charles Bukowski, Clark Gable and Bill Clinton.  I didn’t mean to list the blacks with the blacks and whites with the whites, I swear!  My list is segregated – oh my!

My one now is Daniel Day Lewis.  I watched There Will be Blood again.  He plays Daniel Plainview in it.  I want to be Daniel Plainview for Halloween.  He’s the meanest, well, besides Nurse Rached.

Shianwrites wrote a cool post on catch phrases.  You should check it out!  To follow-up, here are really mean Mr. Plainview catch phrases, including one video:

–  “I can’t keep doing this on my own with these…people.”  He says it like people are roaches!

–  He says this to his estranged son:  “You’re just a bastard from a basket!  Just a bastard from a basket…”

–  He’s drunk, collapsed, sitting on the floor after beating the simpy minster to death.  His servant comes to witness the bloody scene, and Daniel Plainview yells:  “I’m finished!”  Then the dramatic staccato Brahms’ Violin Concerto in D Major plays – it’s so cool and dramatic!

– “Draaaaaaaaainage!  I drink YOUR milkshake!”  Check it out:

Dainiel Day Lewis is a great actor.  I include fictitious characters on my list of baby fawvas too, so Daniel Plainview would normally be on there, but I don’t know if it would work because he hates people.  He’d have to screw me with a bag over my head and through a hole in the sheet — and I’d gladly have him with his mean ass!

The Sloan Kettering T**ty Smashing Machine and Other Tragedies

I am mean?  No, I am not mean.  But there is no way that I would have been able to tolerate what I witnessed behind the front desk at the Sloan Kettering Breast Center as I waited for my breast screening.  In the past as an office worker sentenced to sit next to some of the most hideously unprofessional people I have ever had the displeasure of working with, I have had the task of asking them to please keep their voices down when talking incessantly to coworkers instead of working, and to please turn down hideous pop music blaring from their cheap radios.

A worker behind the desk at Sloan Kettering had some holy roller preacher blaring on her computer.  Yasah, Jaysus-sah – praise Gawd!  Because ya see Jaysus loves ya, yasah!  Unbefucking-lievable!  This should never be tolerated in a place of business.  Another woman sits at her chair behind the desk and starts singing – OVER the other woman’s holy roller station!  And she’s singing a gospel song!  I’m thinking how rude this all is, and at the same time she’s singing music which would imply that she would be respectful to her fellow God-fearing man.  So she then turns on her computer, which is less than two feet away from the other woman with her holler roller station still on.  Her computer comes on, and ta-dahhhh, she plays gospel music on hers!  So we’ve got competing gospel stations on and one bitch singing!  And this is a place of business.

But, they seemed all kumbayah about it as the two competing gospel women began a conversation.  The one who was singing turned around, and I saw that she wore the tightest pants on one of the cottage cheesiest of behinds.  I could see the holes of her butt through her pants.  She says to her competing holy roller friend, “I thought these pants would be too tight.  But I lost a lot of weight.”  Her friend smiles beatifically and says, “Oh so they fit now.  That’s good.”  They weren’t religious rivals after all, but supportive friends and coworkers.  Who knew?

There was a third woman behind the desk who seemed oblivious to it all as she sailed through her work without a twitch, except for a questionable glance in my direction, which might have been interpreted as “Help me…”  She was a saint I tell ya!  I don’t think I could’ve dealt with that shit.

What I did have to deal with was having my already nearly non-existing breasts smashed to pieces in that God-forsaken machine!   The wig-wearing technician was a sadist!!  “I have to make this a liii-tle tighter,” she says, turning the knob further around.  “Seriously,” I tell her, “I never had this thing turned up so tight before.”  I left out of there screaming, I swear, “My titties hurt!”  I think I scared her.  Maybe she didn’t want to get fired.  In the dressing room, when I couldn’t find my glasses she ran over to help me look for them trying to be all nice and everything.

Lastly, the show on the TV in the second waiting room, the one away from the front where all the women wear robes, was a breast cancer awareness program.  I realized that one of the actors in the film was an ex friend of mine!  Ahaha!!  Could this day not be any more interesting?  She played a sympathetic family member.  (What a joke!)  I thought, well at least the bitch is getting some work.

Lopsided T**ties with Scabs on Them

Perhaps a series of images and sounds gathered in your subconscious during the day lead you to remember this bitch who visited your boyfriend in the hospital while you were there.  Aforementioned bitch walked right by you and said nothing.  Your recovering boyfriend was in the hospital bed on the phone.  He looked up briefly, scared as shit – he darted his eyes quickly down to the receiver.  He knew that you knew who she was.  Said bitch didn’t even bother to introduce herself.  So you said, “My name is Sandee AND YOU ARE?!”  She answered so innocently but you knew what the fuck her name was just as well as she knew yours.

Ahhkh, it’s a long story…  I had an issue with her not only because she was pretty.  She was a supposed ‘platonic’ friend of my boyfriend.  He had shown me a picture of her.  I said, “Hell no!  She’s just your friend?  Come on!”  Okay so while I’m not ridiculously jealous, I’m also not that evolved.  The issue wasn’t just her looks — it was some of the things he had told me about her.  She favored husbands and boyfriends of other women.  Her character was shady, besides that.

He tried to convince me that it was all good.  He had shared enough anecdotes, due to my prodding, that I was able to deduce that she was an unprincipled twat.  “Why would you want to be friends with somebody like that?  She’s the devil!”  I said.  How stupid me, yes.

He told me that while they never had sex, she actually did show him her twat.  “She has big titties.  Why didn’t she show you those?  That’s weird,” I said.  “Hey but you know that’s, kinda cool,” I said after reflecting for a moment.  “Funny,” I continued.  “Yeah,” he said, nodding.  “She showed you her pussy – ha!  Like how?”  I said.  “She just lifted her skirt and pulled her panties to the side.”  “Wowww…”

He also told me that she liked metal, and if you’ve seen my last few posts or my ‘About’ page, you’ll see that I’m a death metal enthusiast.  “Hm,” I said when he told me.  She liked metal and uniquely flashed her vagina, while a common woman would have gone for the obvious titty-flash.  This brought another dimension to the situation, to their relationship.  I wondered about who this person might be.  So I fleshed her out to be maybe a little more than just a common twat.  But then I thought, maybe she showed him her vagina because she had lopsided titties with scabs on them.

I Don’t Need Titties Because I’m That Good

 

I like it when people tell you that you don’t have any titties.  I forgive them.  My sister, who’s 18 years younger than I am, was only 10 when she pointed at my chest and said ‘you don’t have NO tit-tays!’  And my mom, she’s extremely complimentary regarding everything about me, so it didn’t really count when she said, while I was getting dressed:  “Oh my, you didn’t get any at all.”  At the café where I work, as I approached the register with my grilled Panini, my friend, the worker in the cafe teased, “where your titties at girl?”  So I told her with a bravado-tinged inflection, “I don’t need titties because I’m that good.”  Sometimes when I see a sexy flat-chested woman (Hey, buddy, they do exist!) I’m thinking, wow, you know it’s kind of cool to not have any because all the energy is focused you know, down there.  Well, this is what I tell myself.

I do have something there.  I’m not flat as a board – they just might not be that noticeable if you’re standing far away from me and your vision isn’t good.  Maybe then I could be mistaken for a man.  Back when, I used to get really thin for a period of time – I’d smoke lots of cigarettes, run, walk and ride my bike everywhere – you can do that in your twenties without keeling over.  My figure might have been described as boyish.  A woman quite a few yards away in the locker room at the gym yelled out “There’s a man in here!” as she pointed in my direction.  I have a sense of humor so I didn’t cry over it.  As a kid, the boys called me “Chester.”  But damn if I wasn’t confused when the neighborhood early-developed girl with the big ones said, “Wait, they call me “Chester.”  These little dudes needed to get their shit straight – how in the hell do you recycle an epithet like that?!

When I was eleven I was with my little friends who talked about just getting theirs after winter.  It was springtime.  My one friend — this is so sweet — she says to me, nodding, “Don’t worry, you’ll get yours too, probably after next winter…”  Well, I’m waiting.  Though I hear that there is time because sometimes in menopause they grow.  But then it would be too fucking late!

I had at one time, long ago in my youth, thought about breast implants.  I figured God didn’t program me for big titties because it would be too much for people to take, why, with me being such a nymph already – I jest!  But seriously folks, I learned not to give a damn, which is the attitude most older people have to take about shortcomings, because we’ve reluctantly accepted that we don’t have a @#*! choice anyway!  Dad told me not to get breast implants.  He said that I needed to surround myself with different types of people and to expand my mind and to be more creative about the way that I perceived myself – I really only just added that last part – because it seemed to be in the gist of what he was saying anyway.

The titty-less thing happened when I put a curse on myself.  When I was 11, I told my cousin Nay Nay that when I turned13 like she was then, mine would be bigger than hers.  Somebody shoulda tol’ me — could this not be more hilarious?!  My cousin didn’t let me live that one down for a while!  I guess my cousin could say that karma’s a bitch, but I’ve got another word to the wise for the prepubescent girls of America – okay now look this up – it’s hubris!