I certainly know how to make life interesting, don’t I? Chinese curse interesting times, I mean. Lordy! I sometimes wonder how much this ticker I so profess to shoot from in my philosophy will bear until I too, like my mother – check out on a random Sunday afternoon because of sheer heartbreak.
“Men are evil” the English professor was telling me in his car on New Year’s Day. “Until you feminists learn to operate from that premise, you’ll always make yourselves vulnerable and suffer the consequences of this unfortunate truth”. I answered that this is true because of the patriarchy we exist under. The burden of responsibility for acts of evil are transfered to the survivor, as the perpetrator isn’t expected to be held accountable. Which is wise and true. But not useful. Men dump their anger in us. I must find a link to that article and learn how to link shit in a blog. I must learn how to write for profit too. Especially since my being is carrying around the heaviness of so many tales untold, dear reader.
And it’s a new year. For Isabel Allende, January the 8th is an auspicious date to start writing. I may as well make mine January the 4th. Today the first man I ever loved is 40. He is a story. Another story is ‘Voyeur’ or why I hate my father. Another one is ‘Snuff’, about that time Tanya Flowerday was tortured and raped in my mother’s house and my sister’s friend finally killed her and dumped her in Darrenwood – in a blanket my mother made with her hands. The heaviness of it all, the unshakable unshackable burden. I want it out of my system and thousands in foreign currency into my bank account. I want to stop living like my reality and my dreams are as remote as ground control to major Tom. Oh and I want to live. I want to survive the dog days and brag like Madonna did that I made it, the ultimate rebellion was my longevity.
It’s bloody well time too. It’s my time. My time to stop worrying who will knock on the door and remove my children from my care. Time to live in the home of my choice, eating what I feel is ethical and sound and a fucking decadent feast. A home adorned as I’m adorned in what is of my taste. My wonderfully cultivated eclectic thrifty taste, thank you very much.
I am filled with gratitude. Filled with thank yous. And yous and yous, as my neighbour likes to refer to others.
Ok I digressed purposefully. The title of this post relates directly to this boy wonder I fancy. I always want to blab here about the love interest. My mostly companion refers to the men in her life as welcome distractions and gentlemen callers. I love that. I love you, L. Tennessee Williams for king.
I want to talk about why I can’t just have a normal relationship! Why must this one be half my age? I guess when you’re forty and single the cougar thing ought to make sense, womxn come into our sexual peak and young men are virile. And he is adorable. But this is not based on any reality I can seek out. I’m such a mess.
Jesus do I have baggage. Four years after giving birth, NOW my tummy muscles separate. It’s like something out of that show ‘The spa of embarrassing illnesses.’ NOW I suffer prolapse. Not just pelvic but prolapsed haemorrhoids, for crying in the fuckit bucket! And this mess comes with pooper surgery I cannot afford. Jesus. NOW this happens. Now my nipples sink away at the top. My perfect breasts! Hell no. Thanks ex for letting me move alone after you had me evicted from our home. Thanks. All that heavy lifting broke my girly bits and my bum. Interesting times, y’all. Interesting times.
But I’m thankful. I’m thankful even though my brother and my son threaten suicide in their dark hours. I’m thankful that I’m not living in that godforsaken little town, miles from nowhere anymore. Thanks for freezing my accounts, stealing my kids for 5 days and giving me 18 days notice to find accommodation on 12 July 2016 exo. Fuck you. Shame, there are fires there at the moment. I’m thankful L and I are starting something wonderful this year, uncertain and expensive as this business venture is.
Even though my fingerprints got flagged for a DUI from 11 years ago (I don’t have a criminal record, just some random, lingering record of being fingerprinted) and I lost the only job I’ve been able to find in 6 months single, I’m thankful. Even though a random man sexually assaulted me at a friend’s house a couple of months ago and I had to live with the victim shaming from people who profess to love me, take ARVs and get so skinny. I’m thankful. Even though I get threatened with eviction from the only home I could run away to, I’m thankful. Even though my children fight constantly, my daughter has become proficient in the F word, I’m thankful. And it tickles me tremendously that a boy with a foot fetish is calling me Goddess.
Now I just need to get rich. Happy new year.