Divorciversary

Posted on by
4

My American vagina says I was supposed to be super psyched for Valentine’s Day and desperately wish I had a beau. The gun under my pillow disagrees. Two years. Happy divorciversary to me.

dead bouquet

Stupid Crap I Tried Really Hard to Believe When I Was Married

“Your wedding ring is real.”

“I didn’t start that house fire.”

“I have a job. They just aren’t paying me… like the last job I had. ”

“I don’t know where your iPod/guitar/grandma’s bracelet/video camera is! Stop calling me a liar!”

“I wasn’t the one who wrote all of those bad checks.”

“You can’t call me at work or I’ll get in trouble.”

“I got fired, because you called me at work.”

“I paid the rent. They evicted us because we have a cat.”

“I don’t know where that $400 went.”

“I’m sorry your lost the hundred-dollar bill from your wallet, but it wasn’t me.”

“I had the rent money, but I got mugged… again.”

“I don’t know why they issued an arrest warrant.”

“I’m no longer welcome at family events, because they think I stole from them and I didn’t.”

“I have to work out-of-town… over night… for the job that’s not paying me… and I’ll need your car.”

“I’m enrolled in college again.”

“I don’t know why the dog dug a hole in the floor and is bleeding. I didn’t keep him chained up the entire time you were in Alaska with your mother.”

“I changed the oil. I don’t know why the engine exploded.”

“I fed the dog. I took him out. That dried urine he’s laying in must be fresh.”

“While you were working two jobs, I spent the whole day applying for work. That’s why I couldn’t clean anything.”

“My friend you’ve never met bought me those frozen pizzas from 7 Eleven. I didn’t steal your money.”

“My mother moved everything that survived the fire into storage for us. She didn’t throw it out.”

“I won $400 on a scratcher!” I later found out that this was his one and only paycheck from the gas station that ‘never paid’ him. He even tried to argue against the W2.

– Roses are red.
So is the dog’s blood.
You’re fucking crazy.
I hope you die soon. –

I’m not one for poetry.

Weiner Buddies

Posted on by
7

I awoke early this morning, because I had to be at the library by 8:00. I checked my phone and found an interesting Facebook notification. It was a friend request from The Musician. I immediately sent Gail a screencap, had a beat of thought and confirmed his request. Had I broken down that beat, it would’ve gone something like this:

That’s really weird. I should probably deny him. I bet I could make this worse, though. It’s likely that that would be a lot funnier.

:Confirmed:

This thought process is a major aspect of my personality and humor.

towelie
The Musician

The Musician was Gail’s recurring one-night stand for about a year. “Friends with benefits” implies that they’d ever have hung out for any other reason and they did not. He did a lot of recreational drugs and played Jazz. The only thing they had in common was that they interlocked. He was her one and only fuck buddy. I never cared for The Musician, because he wanted an exclusive Gail while he stored multiple brands of tampons under his sink and had a mirrored headboard. He’s seven years older than us and every time they got in an argument, he’d patrionizingly defend his actions with “You’re just used to dealing with boys. I’m not a boy. I’m a man.” We mock this to this day… like all the fucking time. Once, he and Gail were fooling around, while she was on her period (we tell each other way too damned much), and he pulled back to mumble sexily

“So how we gonna do this, Megan?”
“What?”
:beat of  silence: “How we gonna do this, Baby?”

I shit you not. Gail just went with it, because it’s not like she was there for the conversation any more than Megan was. Regardless, I root for her, because I will always root for her and it’s her vagina, so what-the-fuck-ever. They continued on and off until Gail met her current fella and still ocassionally text, but that’s all.

Okay. That’s Gail’s background with The Musician. Mine is shorter. I met him twice. I had one actual conversation with him a year and a half ago. He’d gotten Gail near to tears the previous weekend by implying she was a big ol’ ho for talking to other guys, while he called her Baby to keep his facts straight. There is no quicker way to get me or Gail to go Mama Bear than to make the other cry. I was drunk and told him he didn’t have a real job and that he probably wouldn’t tell Gail how many women he’d slept with, because he didn’t remember. Beyond this, he knew only what Gail told him of me.

So after deciding I could probably make this Funny Bad and accepting The Musician’s friend request, I went to work and forgot about it… until he messaged me. I called my Gramma after work to laugh about how he’d contacted me.

Gramma: “You need to stay away from him.”
Me: “Please, Gramma. My panties are like Fort Knox. Like I’m going to let a musician into them.”
I tend to be a total snob about men, rarely giving a second date, and have a lot of sexual hangups, so my magic number is still just the one.

I called Gail and refused to tell her anything until we met in person, only excitedly exclaiming:
“WE’RE GONNA BE WEINER BUDDIES!”

I also clarified:
“Hey. He messaged me. If you thought that I was above fucking with him for it, then you have greatly overestimated me as a person.”

*Sidenote: Gramma doesn’t like the phrase ‘Weiner Buddies.”

The following conversation is as much copy and paste as was possible for proper blogging. I shared it with Gail this evening in a Taco Bell. Just to be clear, my profile picture is of Gail and myself. The Musician knows I’m Gail’s sisterfriend, though he doesn’t bring that up.

The Musician:
You look to have had a makeover since I’ve seen you last! Nicely done. Hope yer doing fancy

Me:
Well, thank you very much for saying so. I’ve been well. You? How’s music?

– “Wow. You’re not fat anymore. I’ll make contact and inquiries as to your well-being… even though I’ve never done so ever.” Charming. No wonder he’s rollin’ in the pussy. On an unrelated note, don’t use that phrase over Thanksgiving dinner. You’re welcome. –

The Musician:
🙂 another day in paradise…music is going well. Sometimes I think my life is akin to being the like man with the most cigarettes in jail hehe

You should swing by a show sometime. Visit the city much?

– He does not know how to get into Fort Knox. –

Me:
That’s good to hear. I make it to the city every now and then. Been working and finishing up school. Where do you play?

– This was the point where I could’ve blown him off and ended the conversation politely. I, however, gave it some thought and decided that not only would it be funnier to not disuade him, but to actualy encourage him. –

The Musician:
We’ve been performing at the doll house downtown for the last year. (and no its not a strip club haha) I think my tenure with them is about over though which means we are back to the grind.

The city has some new venues worth checking out. Ill be at Grandads this coming thursday off the top of my head.

If you find yourself this way don’t be a stranger. I will always remember you riding in my back seat, firing off your mind lasers and sharing comical observations about the universe.

Message me sometime if you think you’ll be out. [His phone number] or Facebook me though sometimes it gets frozen and won’t work on me

– This is the point in the conversation that turned Gail’s laughter to screeching bird noises and mine to wheezing gasps broken up by clicking sounds. Not only does “back to the grind” mean “unemployed”, but I’ve never even seen The Musician’s car. I’ve only spoken with him once, when Gail and I went to a bar downtown and I was pretty damned clear on the whole not-liking-him thing. How many women does he sleep with that he’s actually confused The Bitch Friend of more than one? “I will always remember…” Apparently not, because that never fucking happened. The man just hit on me by reminiscing over an anecdote of someone else’s. That’s the best pickup line in the HISTORY OF TIME. I’m tattooing it to my fucking labia, because it is haaaaaawt. “Mind lasers”? Was he on some sort of halucinogen at the time? Was he during this conversation? –

Me:
Well, I’ll be sure and do that sometime soon. I’ve been wanting to visit the Dollhouse, actually. I’ve heard good things.

I haven’t even had a night out in ages with school and two jobs.

– No. I will not be sure and do that sometime soon. Yes. Ineed, I was fishing for him to ask me out… because it would be funny. Keep up. –

The Musician:
Well we gotta fix that lol! What are you studying and where ya working?

Me:
I graduate in May with my Masters in Library and Information Studies. I’m working at Shetland Schools and the library on the southside.

– No fucking way was I telling him which library. –

The Musician:
Librarian aye? Somehow that makes sense. Librarians are some of the most interesting people to be around I’ve discovered. Very mischevious.

If you see me out don’t tell the library… I have some late fees :O

Me: “I swear, the man has got to have a punch card and the only thing left on it is ‘Librarian.’
Gail: “What does he get when it’s full?”
Me: “I don’t know. VD? Syphillis that makes him blind?”
Gail: “So all syphillis? He gets BAD syphillis?”

Me:
Yup. Dream job. Just gotta do my final presentation.

Haha. Don’t worry too much about the fines. They disappear after six months.

-Nobody flirts like this gal. It’s like a striptease with words. Bow chicka wow wow. –

The Musician:
Really?! I’m going to the library today then:D What are you getting into this evening Miss?

Me:
That’s fines, not books, BTW. Lol. Not a lot. Probably more homework. Kind of broke and that’s free. You having crazy musician times tonight?

– And if so, would you invite me so I can giggle over it with my sister in every way outside of a CSI episode, whose ass you’ve been inside? –

The Musician:
Haha not so certain of that tonight. There are a couple shows around town I thought about checking out.
Hmm what to do, what to do. If you find your chair growing those kind of fast moving legs that carry you from your living room
To the burgeoning streets of the city-i will buy your first round lol
Me:
Lol. I’ll have to keep that in mind.
date rape
Me: “I should so go. I want to see what else I can get him to reminisce about. I’ll use information you’ve given me and make it seem like I know him. ‘Remember that time you bought me chicken on a stick? How’s Lola? She got hurt a while back, right? Such a sweet cat.'”
Gail: choking on laughter “You’re a horrible person. You can’t do that. I’ll feel involved for telling you his cat’s name.”
Me: :nodding with a huge grin:
Gail: “Do not give me that look! I played hard to get, too. If you meet up with him, he’ll get into Fort Knox. Fortunately, I’m off tomorrow and I’ll leave my ringer on so I can hear it when you call me from the breakfast place down the street.”
Me: “Psh. I can’t even have sex alone without crying, Gail.”
Gail: “Yeah. That’s why I’m picking you up in this scenario. You’re crying too hard to drive.”
Me: “Gail, is he really just that charming? He opened with ‘Dayum, you’re not fat anymore.’ How’s he going to get me to sleep with him? You’re forgetting that I don’t find him attractive even a little.” :gesturing toward my lap: “It wouldn’t matter if this were Vegas. He still wouldn’t be gettin’ in… and like you’ve ever played hard to get with anyone.”
Gail: “You say that now, but…” :pauses to think of an appropriate metaphor and lays her hand on the Kindle I felt I had to bring into a Taco Bell: “You have this Kindle and it hasn’t been charged in a loooong time. That plug-in right there might be dirty, but if you want to read badly enough… you’ll use it. This is actually turning out to be a really good metaphor for you. In fact, based on the stuff you like to read, it’s a really good example.”
Me: “That may be true, but it’s not gonna happen, because as much as I like to say ‘Weiner Buddies’…”
wiener buddies text

Alas, I did not take him up on it. I went home, wrote this blog and read. Perhaps, Gail and I have forever lost the chance to be Weiner Buddies. It is a bond we will never share.

crying friends

Paranormal Vs. Contemporary Romance: Why It’s Only Hot When a Werewolf is Pissed

Posted on by
11

Lately, I’ve been reading a lot of “contemporary romance”. What can I say? I don’t have cable and wouldn’t know what to watch if I did. You’ve had the chance to read my fifty rants on Fifty Shades, of course, but I’ve also read Bared to You, the Up in the Air series, and like 40% of the first book of the This Man series. Erotica really isn’t my thing and I don’t say that because of all of the dirty sinful sexy sex-sex. I say it because all of that often gets in the way of real character and plot development and then I can’t bring myself to give a shit. I read the above titles out of curiosity and actually liked Bared to You and the Up in the Air series enough to be excited for the next installments. This Man was the depiction of a horrible girl being assaulted pursued by a horrible guy, while living with a horrible friend… yet still, nothing happens. Seriously, I was able to go from dozing off to feeling as if I were witnessing anal rape in just paragraphs. I’m pretty sure the author just wrote a prequel to Sleeping With the Enemy. Amazon refunded my money.

The primary reason I read these books, however, was because I ran out of paranormal romance series suggestions. The sex scenes in these genres differ only in frequency and not in detail, just to clarify. The similiarity that has truly interested me, however, is the male romantic leads; more specifically, why I find them attractive in one genre, but not another. Gideon Cross, James Cavendish, and Christian MotherFucking Grey really just don’t do it for me and I think I’ve figured out why.

They’re not werewolves. They’re just really controlling and bossy men.

alcide
Oh, there’s no real point to this picture… just that I’d let Alcide Herveaux stick in my ear if that’s what he were into.

I love the Alpha Male thing, and I cannot state this clearly enough, in my fucking fiction and any man who actually tells me what to do will lose a gee dee nut. But it’s only fun for me to read in a paranormal world and until recently, I was unsure why that was. I’ll take one of my favorite paranormal Alpha Males, whom you don’t have to be familiar with to get my point, and compare him to a Contemporary Romance Alpha Male (CRAM).

Hawke Snow, as seen in Kiss of Snow, by Nalini Singh. (Gail loves these titles, as she’s not a fan and thinks they’re hilarious.)
and….. Christian MotherFucking Grey, as seen in Fifty Shades of Grey and many a mugshot.

  • messed up childhood
  • position of power and authority
  • known to manhandle when he doesn’t get his way
  • violent temper
  • outsources people to keep an eye on his gal, without her knowledge
  • seen as cold and distant to many

In case you weren’t paying attention, they’re the same… the exact fucking same. However, Christian gets the middle name MotherFucking for it and Hawke does not. Why is that?

In a paranormal setting, such as the one referenced above, the Alpha Male grows up in a war-torn universe and/or is fighting for his species’ survival. Of course his childhood was bleak, as his parents were viciously murdered/abandoned him, leaving him in charge of the well-being of  everyone else (power and authority). He’s literally an animal, so he acts like one (manhandling and violent temper) and he’s charged with protecting aforementioned gal, because this is a dangerous universe and he’s kind of the boss. Additionally, a recurring theme in this genre is the idea of some sort of psychological or biological draw/imprinting/destiny between the romantic couple. She’s actually his, so the whole possessive thing is completely allowable. I know this sounds oddly specific, but it’s actually a really common layout for these books.

Christian MotherFucking Grey and company, though… well… they’re all just really mad. They had messed up childhoods, sure, but that doesn’t explain why they’re broken as people. I had a fucked up childhood too and I don’t want to pop the people I love in the mouth and masturbate with their blood.*

*Every now and then my mind goes to disturbing places, but seriously, read This Man and yours will join.

I’ve got to note, that I just don’t get the BDSM thing. I don’t think it’s a product of a fissure right down the center of your psyche or anything (cough: E.L. :cough). I just don’t really get it. I’ve been hit… a lot. It just hurts and makes me cry. Why is this sexy? It’s not for me. But the issue I have with CRAMs isn’t the bedroom adventures. No one likes Fade-to-Black Seventh Heaven sex all the time. Lovemaking gets old, y’all. Some people are into costumes and roleplay (and they don’t giggle), some are into hair pullling and spanking, some like group sex, swings, or being strung up like super sexy deer. Everybody’s got their preferences and that’s cool. Whatev.

sexy deer

Holy shit, ya’ll have no idea how desperately I wanted to use this picture again.

My issue with the CRAM is his tendency to act like a bag of dicks outside of the bedroom. My shapeshifters are usually super sweet and touchy-feely characters. Christian MotherFucking Grey and Co., withhold love when they’re angry… and they have piss poor reason to be. This is a terrible theme for romance. Whereas a shapeshifter passionately growls (hellz yeah, it’s a thing) and tells his lady she’s in grave danger for her disobedience, because Evil Entity will torture and kill her; Christian MotherFucking Grey emotionally withdraws from Ana, because… wait for it… she doesn’t like her steak.

growl of passion
Google Image Search: “growl of passion”… and it is haaaaawt.

My paranormal Alpha Males have legit reasons to boss their gals around, because pretty much everyone’s about to die. But the thing is… that’s kind of the only way it’s ever acceptable to be treated that way, even in my fantasies. I get that people fantasize things they’d never actually do, like lesbian sex and facials*. I really just can’t get on board with even the fantasy of being treated coldly and cruelly over trivial things until that person wants to feel needed and throws me a desparately yearned for scrap of affection. I’ve had that relationship for the majority of me life. I call her “mom”.

*Facials meaning when a guy finishes all over you, not when you go to the spa and they… wait… what do they do during a facial? Why do I know the former and not the latter?!?!

I’m all for the shapeshifting/vampiric/demonic Alpha Male plotline, because Disney gave me bestial Stockholm Sydrome and it’s hot that he wants to save his lady in this world fraught with danger. However, I just can’t get on board with CRAMs, because they exist in my universe where women carry pepper spray, manage their own finances, and have the option to go to the battered wives shelter.

Four Reasons I Shouldn’t Breed

Posted on by
Reply

So, I’m really not a maternal person. I used to think I was, but then I miscarried and Gail’s daughter, whom I adored, died six months later. Now, babies make me completely paranoid. I don’t even like to hold them, because they might choke on something and die in my care. If I’m invited to a baby shower, I don’t even look at the registry. I just buy glass bottles so your baby doesn’t get brain cancer from the plastic ones. I understand that you’ll probably return it, but whatever. I’m not contributing to the death of your kid and that’s just the same as giving a gift card. I hope that, one day, if I ever give a guy a second date and it eventually leads to marriage, he’ll be confident in my mothering ability and pressure me to breed, because I generally think I’d like to give that another go… when I’m like thirty… two. In the last few years, however, I’ve become convinced that I’m completely incapable of being a mom. It’s not even because I don’t like kids all that much. I’m sure it’s just other people’s kids I don’t like. Rather, I’m focusing on the trivial, background moments in life as a sign of something greater. For example…

I can’t keep a cactus alive.
That is not an exaggeration. I’ve killed several… and some ivy. For years, the weather would warm up and I’d think “Plants! Plants would look great on my patio!” So I’d spend $30 on the prettiest little full sun flowers Lowe’s had to offer and they would look great… for four days. Four days y’all! Inevitably, day five would hit and these pretty pink flowers would start to brown and wilt just slightly. I’d water them more, because the Southern sun was just too severe on the west side of my apartment complex. By day seven, they would be pitifully shriveled and I’d still be someone who worked two jobs and was in graduate school and I’d ultimately just say “Fuck it. It’s just a stupid plant.” A part of me, however, wouldn’t want to give in, so I’d just leave the flowers on the patio. I mean, I spent $30 on them! So, my pretty little patio with its white southern rockers and discount wind chimes was also adorned with dead plants. A year ago, I figured out the solution. I’m upstairs. You can barely see my patio plant life. That means you can’t tell that I just bought some fake flowers from The Dollar Tree and shoved them in some soil. You can’t do this with babies, y’all. You can’t just let them die and pretend they’re still alive and then replace them with dolls. People are going to notice.

dolls
My son and daughter… no really.

I keep my dog alive… because he reminds me.
Okay. So the plants are hopeless, partly because I don’t notice I suck at plants until they’re half dead, partly because of my “it’s just a stupid plant” mentality, and partly because I could kill a fucking redwood. I’m just a really busy person. I don’t have time to keep anything alive unless it’s cute. My dog, however, is five years old with the same energetic spirit he had when he chewed up a pack of pens at 9 months, happily giving me his puppy dog grin with ink all over his mouth. Clearly, I can keep something alive and healthy, right? You see, Jude and I have this little… routine… it’s more like a skit really. I go to wash my hands and he barks and howls at me. It’s fucking adorable. It’s also because I forgot to give him water. In my defense, I’d probably remember if it weren’t for our little play. At this point, I’ve just accepted the fact that if he’s thirsty, he’ll tell me. He free eats as well, meaning I give him a huge bowl of food and he just eats it as he wishes over the next several days. Then he bugs the hell out of me when I have food to remind me that he’s out… or that he’s just spoiled and wants table scraps. It’s an imperfect system. He may even get into my bag looking for food (even if he has some) and chew open a pack of bullets or eat my headphones. Yes, we’d make a great sitcom about an inept dog owner who let her puppy eat a pack of pens… and possibly a bullet. I can’t even imagine that ER visit with a child.

I abused an electronic doll.
The graduating class of 2006 was the first to try out the new Baby Think It Over dolls. The edition before this required the user to jam a key in the doll’s back with enough force that it couldn’t be duct taped until it stopped crying… just like a real baby? I don’t know. I don’t have children. Anyway, the 2006 version required diaper changes and bottles placed to the lips. It sounded like a real baby that eats way too loudly and only breathes periodically. Our school didn’t have a fantastic budget for this program, however, so we got to take it home for just one day, while the neighboring town requires four. It pretty much taught me that babies are absolutely fucking adorable and everyone wants to hold them, so I’ll get tons of attention for having one, too. Fantabulous. The point of the project was not to just stay inside and chill out with no other responsibilities, however. You were supposed to take the baby out and multitask to care for it while old ladies in the grocery stores gave you dirty looks. Since I lived for shock value at 16, Gail and I had a ton of fun with this assignment. Then I got my grade. If you’ve read anything I’ve written, you should know about the time I wept over a 98.5%… like six months ago. When I got my 92% on the baby project, I was upset enough to ask why.  “A low A?!?!?! Why did I get a LOW A?!?!?!” The teacher explained to me that while she’ll excuse one head drop (the baby had a wobbly head you had to hold up), she had to take off points for the second one… and the child abuse. Apparently, not only did I drop this child’s head twice, but in my attempt to quell the baby’s cries in the milk aisle, I tried to burp it too enthusiastically and the computer registered this as if I threw the poor thing up against a wall. While this project taught me that babies are the most fun a 16-year-old girl will ever have and child abuse isn’t that bad, I’m still a paranoid person. I accidentally abused a hypothetical child. What if it wasn’t while burping it? What if I blacked out? Oh, God, what if I have some kind of neurological issue that makes me hit babies?!?!

I killed my water baby.
Come to think of it, that wasn’t, in fact, the first time I abused a tiny pretend person. It could be neurological! Okay, I have to stop joking about that or I’m going to find myself crying uncontrollably in an MRI machine. The first time, I was four years old. Water baby was the most awesome toy on the planet after the umbrella we used to hold while jumping out of trees in an attempt to fly. I had a really unsupervised childhood, which might explain why I had free usage of dangerous kitchen equipment at fucking four. The best thing about Water Baby was that it felt like a real baby when you filled it up with warm water. I, however, couldn’t get the plug out of its back on my own (an admittedly ideal feature) and my mother wouldn’t just refill the baby every time it cooled down. Some mothering instincts she had, huh? So, I decided to take matters into my own hands. Please do not misunderstand this. No part of me was worried that my baby was feeling uncomfortable cold. I was just frustrated, because I wanted my doll warm. Purely selfish reasons. Ask any four-year-old how they make something warm quickly. The answer is obvious. Microwave it. Yes, yes, I did blow up my baby doll. Not only that, but I didn’t even realize until later when I asked my mother what happened to my Water Baby and she explained that it had a hole in it. I wasn’t even concerned. I just wanted a new one. Again, you can’t do this with real children. You don’t just get another one after microwaving the first.

water baby
Just add radiation.

Summary: If my baby can make it out of my hostile blender of a uterus, I may leave it out to die in the elements, forget to feed it, accidentally kick it in the head, and then pop it in the microwave. Anyone need a sitter?

… but superheroes do it.

Posted on by
Reply

Coworker B: “But sometimes in a marriage, you’re 80/20, 60/40, or 90/10. Everyone has days like that. You’ll learn.”

Coworker B has never been married. I was married for four and half years of Hell. Therein lies the downside of accidentally creating a secret identity at work. I know right? You wouldn’t think there’d be one.

Most days it looks like this:
circus

But some days it looks like this:
anger

Sidenote: The Google Image search for “fun at the circus” turns up a lot of pictures of clowns. I felt that would give the wrong impression. Rarely is it ever scary as fuck.

I’ve detailed the whole secret identity thing before, but the short version is that my coworkers know me as a country girl from a wealthy and super functional family. They assumed. I let them. They’ve no idea I was ever abused, married, pregnant… none of it. It is fucking awesome. I’m like Clark Kent with boobs.

clark kent with boobs

Don’t get me wrong. I understand, logically, that this is unhealthy and totally insane. For one, I have Jiminy Fucking Cricket as a best friend and Gail is perpetually willing to tell me I’m a lunatic for creating the persona she calls “Winifred”, even if it was by accident. I think she’s more concerned that I totally intend to keep this up even after moving to another branch one day. She’s so irrational. Just like a woman. Head pat, Gail. Head pat.

Honestly, at this point, I’m pretty amazed that I haven’t run over Winifred with a truck yet. I almost slip at least a couple of times a month, such as when I was talking to Coworker S just the other day about my brother’s jealousy over my weekly lunches with my dad.

Coworker S: “But your brother’s also married and that makes a big difference.”
Me: “Yeah, but when I was… at lunch with my dad…”

I’ve no idea what the rest of that sentence even was. I just remember a roaring in my ears as I almost plowed right over Winifred.

Me: “If I ever get married ag…:cough:…”

No one’s caught that… any of the 27 or so times I’ve done it. It’s like I have some kind of guardian angel protecting my secret identity.

alfred

Sometimes, it’s super funny to encourage this… “misguided image” my coworkers have. My personal favorite:

Coworker S: “Well. I just don’t think I’m fond enough of marriage to ever try it again, anyway.”
Me: “Yeah. Me neither.”
Coworker N: laughingly “You never tried it in the first place.”
Me: hearty laughed tinged with a little madness.

Other times…

she hulk

Coworker B: “You don’t know how to make mashed potatoes?!?”
Me: “Why would I? I don’t like them.”
Coworker B: “What happens when you get married and your husband wants mashed potatoes for dinner?”
Me: “Then he can make his own danged mashed potatoes.”
Coworker B: “That’s not how it works girl. You’ll learn.”

Thank you, thank you, thank you! I’ve been wondering what the secret to saving my marriage was! If only you’d gotten here sooner!

mashed potatoes
When blended just right, I hear they’ll pay your rent and bring all your pets back to life.

Yeah. Winifred was almost viciously gang raped and left to bleed out in a ditch that day. You can never accuse me of lacking in imagery.

Other times, of course, I wonder if I should just come clean, much like how Clark Kent doubts whether or not he should just come out as Superman. There have been entire movies based on it. How did they usually end, though?

dead lois lane

With a dead Lois Lane. That’s how. So really, this is for the good of all mankind… or um… just Lois Lane… only the library version. I’ve had this job for a year and a half. Even if I didn’t tell them to call me Winifred, they did and I’ve kind of been responding to it for all this time. I’d just look crazy if I admitted it now.

crazy superman
Shut-up, Gail. That one’s too easy… like you.*

*She loves those jokes. She thinks Hallmark should use them.

Fortunately, no one has ever caught on about how defensive I can be of divorce, thinking my negative marital views stem from my parents’ divorce, which I’ve barely mentioned… cuz that’s the saddest thing that’s happend to me. :Giggle:

Coworker S: “It depends on why people get divorced. Some people get divorced just because they don’t want to be married anymore.”
Me: “You never know what’s going on in another person’s marriage. There could be plenty they aren’t telling you.”

You see, though. I’m defending divorcees all over the world… undercover. I’m like some special Amazonian heroine…

wonder woman

You’re fucking welcome y’all. You’re fucking welcome.

The Top Five Ways He Broke Me: A Valentine’s Day Tribute

Posted on by
4

I was never huge on Valentine’s Day. I always thought it an excuse to either exclude single people or make your spouse (usually the husband) try to top whatever romantic thing he did last year. You can’t do something nice for your love just any ol’ time, such as when the restaurants and movie theaters aren’t packed? But, I used to participate anyway. It was just harmless fun.

Then Gail’s daughter died the day before Valentine’s Day, right around the time I had begun to suspect my ex-husband was cheating on me.

Then, three days after the following Valentine’s Day, my divorce was finalized.

Fuck Valentine’s Day.

There’s nothing to make you apprecieate being single like your Divorciversary and looking back. So in honor of Valentine’s Day, I post the top five ways he broke me. Keep in mind these are only the top five. The other day I almost threw out my only glass baking dish… because he once touched it.

i hate you sweet heart

1. I am a food hoarder.
It’s true. After spending the summer of 2010 eating free movie theater popcorn and explaining to the neighbors that I didn’t know why my dog’s ribs were showing, I will never go to bed hungry and neither will my beagle. I’ll never know for a fact that there is literally nothing to eat in my home. I have a framed receipt for corndogs on my bedroom wall, because corndogs were $4.95 for a box of 16 and it was the most food I could get for $5. It’s a reminder of how far I’ve come. It’s symbolic. Duh. My ex-husband constantly complained that it’s all we had, though he still wouldn’t get a job. I had to start carrying unperishables around in my car, so he wouldn’t eat them, leaving me nothing. I will never go back to that. As a result, my kitchen looks like that of a mom of three… or a doomsday prepper. I take care to buy canned and frozen items, because they won’t go bad before I get the chance to eat them and throw out anything that does. At the time of writing this, though, I had:

3 pounds of chicken
2 pounds of turkey franks
2 pounds of ground turkey
1 pound of breakfast sausage
3 pounds of turkey lil’ smokies
1 pound of ham, two pounds of cheese
2 dozen eggs
8 bags of frozen vegetables
1 container of fresh spinach
2 onions
2 avocados
4 cans of soup
4 cans of spaghetti O’s
4 boxes of cereal
2 loaves of bread
2 bags of frozen fries
1 bag of oranges
1 pound of grapes
5 pears
5 cans of fruit
4 cans of tuna
2 cans of beans

I. Live. Alone.

2. I panic whenever someone is at the door.
From the time I graduated high school in 2006 until I moved to this apartment in 2011, I moved 10 times. Literally. Nine of them were in only three years. Once, I just came home to a housefire and his suspicious lack of tears. Though he swore he was paying the rent, I had an anxiety attack every time the doorbell rang and would have my ex-husband answer. Ocassionally, it was someone telling us to get the hell out… now. I never knew where we’d go. Once, it was his mother’s house, for several months. Then, it was a motel room for a month and a half. We lived below a registered sex offender, who’d committed offenses against children. I was far away from my Gramma and Gail. I cried myself to sleep at night or drowned myself in fiction and alcohol. It was bad. Though I’ve been settled and able to pay my rent for about two years now, my heart still jumps into my throat whenever I hear a knock at the door. A part of me will always be unsettled.

3. I can’t even masturbate without crying.
Psh. I won’t even tell my therapist the details of this one. I’m kidding, of course. I don’t believe in that voodoo crap. Feelings and animal entrails gross me out equally. I just talk to Gail, who majored in that Black Magic for 9 days.* Regardless of the cause, however, the result is the same. I can’t do anything sexual without crying most of the time. I’ve yet to try it with a man, but explaining that sexual hang-up should be haaaaawt.

*I believe in therapy plenty, which is the precise reason I’m not letting anyone crack my head open and take a shit inside.

4. I cannot sleep without my wallet.
During the last year of my marriage, a lot of things went missing, such as my iPod, that cherished bracelet my Gramma bought me, the video camera I bought my senior year, my guitar, $600 in cash, a jar of pickles from my car. Incidentally, the XBOX never disappeared. On the night of my four year anniversary, the car even vanished, just before I sliced my hand open on a broken candle. I was alone and bleeding and had no way to get to the E.R. He didn’t return until morning. I began stuffing my keys in my pillowcase at night and leaving any valuables in the car. I forgot once and noticed my wallet wasn’t in my bag, where I left it, and realized the last $15 I had for gas and food had disappeared. I called my Gramma screaming and crying as if someone had died. She couldn’t even understand me and immediately promised to give me $25 once I “quit yelling.” Then I threw up from crying so hard. It was glorious. Soooo, after that, I began keeping the keys and the wallet in my pillowcase every night and to this day cannot sleep without my wallet in reach.

5. Sometimes, I sleep with my gun.
I was defenseless when I was married. I never will be again. Some nights, I wake in a panic or in tears. The next night, I sleep with Cecile, my guard issued Smith and Wesson 681 revolver in its bright pink gun sock, with home defense bullets in the side pocket, which were personally reloaded by my daddy. The gun’s not loaded. But if anyone ever threatens me or my puppy again, it will be. I’m damned accurate with Cecile and with .357 home defense rounds, it wouldn’t matter if I wasn’t.

Time may heal most wounds, but in some ways, I will always be the frightened 23-year-old driving around with her Gramma’s jewlery in the car. The perfect Valentine’s Day gift is a giant Reese heart, an equally disproportionate box of ammo, and respect for the fact that I don’t fucking do Valentine’s Day.

Divorce is not an option… you know… until it is.

Posted on by
3

Ah, Facebook trends. Guess who’s about to go on another No-One’s-Divorce-Is-Any-Of-Your-Fucking-Business Rant?

…as I did in Toasters, Marriage, and the Good Ol’ Days and Your ONLY marriage? Why didn’t I think of that?

no divorce again

The Facebook status update I made much later was:
“The wedding pictures you posted last month are a lot cuter than the judgemental little sayings you’ve been posting about divorce ever since. You don’t know anyone else’s pain.”

What I wanted to say in direct response to the above, was:
“Oh, suck my big fat furry dick, you’ve been married for eleven damned days, you twit.”

Once again, this shit implies that the rest of us went into our marriages considering divorce an option, because we just don’t value the sanctity of marriage as much as you do. It’s nice that you’re an adorable couple and you get along. I’m truly happy for you. Now fuck off.

divorce cake

You mad? Take your ass in the other room and calm down, cause we gone work this shit out.

Yeah. That’s why we all got divorced… because we got mad that one time. Not to mention, if that’s how he talks to me, no wonder I’m mad.

Grammatical errors aside, that is not the solution to real divorce-inducing problems.

“You have been on that couch for four damned years!”
You mad? Take your ass in the other room and calm down, cause we gone work this shit out.

“I had the rent money right here. What did you fucking do?”
You mad? Take your ass in the other room and calm down, cause we gone work this shit out.

“You shook our baby?!?!”
You mad? Take your ass in the other room and calm down, cause we gone work this shit out.

“Look at these bruises!”
You mad? Take your ass in the other room and calm down, cause we gone work this shit out.

“You killed the dog on purpose?”
You mad? Take your ass in the other room and calm down, cause we gone work this shit out.

“Kiddie porn?!?!”
You mad? Take your ass in the other room and calm down, cause we gone work this shit out.

“You molested our daughter!!!!”
You mad? Take your ass in the other room and calm down, cause we gone work this shit out.

Divorce is not an option… you know… until it is. On that day, I hope people are more understanding of your pain. I’ll even withold my “I told you so”, because I know it hurts that fucking much.

The blog post is coming from inside the bathtub.

Posted on by
Reply

So, Gail finally came back from North Carolina. We hadn’t hung out in a week, exactly, and I was getting the shakes. She quickly pointed out, however, that that might have been for another reason entirely.

Me: “I found the best blog while you were gone. You should have read this at your dead grandma’s funeral. It would have been a lot better.”
Gail: “Wow. I can tell you haven’t really been sleeping lately.”
Me: “Whatwhy?”
Gail: “Because the less you sleep, the faster you talk.”
Me: “Huh. Iguess I hadn’t reallythought aboutit. I didgoto bed ataround 3:00, 2:30 lastnight?”
Gail: “And got up at, what, 7:00?”
Me: “Um. Yeahactually.”

I’ve since realized that I must just be really stressed over the whole graduate portfolio thing… so much so that I needed Gail to tell me so. That might also be why I haven’t been eating. Is that not the coolest fucking stress reaction ever? I get a Masters degree or my life is over and I get skinnier?!?!? So it begins… my stress-induced insanity. I’m not exaggerating when I say that the summer of 2011 required I be medicated from a concussion to get any sleep during finals. The spring semester of 2012 ended with me propped up on a bunch of pillows, trying to drown out all distractions as I worked on my final project… from behind the closed shower curtain in my empty bathtub… sucking my thumb and crying. Seriously. If you’re thinking about getting a master’s degree: stop it. The thing is… that was in May. It’s fucking February, y’all. I deliver my portfolio in mid-April and I have already taken up my post in the empty bathtub, where my blog can apparently still distract me. Psh. Whatev. I only care about the ends. Fuck the means. Apparently, Gail and I have funnier conversations when I’m high on exhaustion and we haven’t hung out for a week. We had a late lunch (a side salad for me) and visited the art supply store today.

Gail: referring to demands on her time “They all get a piece of Gail.”
Me: “We’ve known that for years now.”

Me: “I’ll give you $5 to bark mid-orgasm the next time you have sex with Terry.”
Gail: laughing “It’s not like I can control whether or not I bark mid-orgasm…”
Me: laughing hysterically “Can I quote you on that?!?! ‘It’s not like I can control whether or not I bark mid-orgasm.’ Abigail Frederickson.”
Gail: “That’s not what I meant!”
Me: “It’s not like I can control whether or not I bark mid-orgasm. Really, though, Gail… can any of us?!? That’s going on your dad’s quote of the day calendar.”
I’ve been threatening to make this calendar for ages.

huge mirror

Me: “Why would you want this one? Is it for when you get really fat and tall?”
Gail: “I like the really sizable ones. Okay, get ready to say ‘We’ve known that for years now.’ I like them sizable.”

pretty bathroom

Gail: “Why would you hang a picture in your bathroom of a prettier bathroom?”
Me: “Maybe you could get a couple of the mega mirrors and make it look like you are in that bathroom.”

not plush egg

Me: “Oh, my gosh, these look like they should be plush and I just felt a moment of complete rage when I realized they weren’t.”
Gail: “You’re insa… oh, my gosh, they do look plush.”

glitter testicle

Me: “Ohmygosh. I have the strongest urge to just go all out and decorate for Easter in glitter testicles.”

Me: “That beef jerky had better be made out of fucking unicorn meat for $10. I doubt you could eat unicorn meat, though. It seems like it would be like polar bear meat and just be toxic to your system, because it’s mythical and you’d die.”
Gail: “Wait. What? You can’t eat polar bear meat? Says who?”
Me: “Everyone. That’s like a thing everyone just knows.”
Gail: “No it isn’t.”
Me: “Yes it is. Just because you don’t know it, doesn’t mean everyone else doesn’t know it.”
I google it, because smartphones are bomb.
Me: making a placating guesture with my hand “Polar bear liver. I’m sorry.”
Gail: incorrectly imitates hand motion “What, is that some kind of ‘nuh-huh!’ gesture?”
Me: “No. That’s ‘calm yourself’. But see. I was right and you’re just stupid. You die if you eat polar bear…” :drop voice to a whisper: “livers.”
.
still scrolling through phone
.
“Polar bears aren’t able to force geese into extinction and science is really upset about it! Or they’re taking note of it. I guess it doesn’t elaborate on their feelings. They should be upset about it. Wait. If polar bears are some kind of natural predators to geese, we need to get us some fucking polar bears up in here!”
Gail: “Oh, my God. Are you listening to yourself? You are insane when you haven’t been sleeping. ‘We need to get some fucking polar bears up in here!'”

I have an intense Once-Cried-at-the-Zoo-at-Age-23 fear of birds, particularly geese. We have too many fucking geese here.

Fuck. I am being super unproductive. Even in the bathtub.

studying in bathtub
Where might one come by some cocaine?

Excuse me while I rock in the corner and chew my own hair.

Posted on by
1

I’m gonna let you in on a little secret….

and this is super privileged information, y’all…

I’m a little high-strung.

I’m a smart person… book smart that is. That being said, I can become so single-mindedly obsessed and tightly wound about something that I become phenomenally stupid.

Tonight, I left work at 9:00. There’s a strict rule about walking out together as employees, not just because the handbook says so, but because I work in the ghetto. Within the last few months, there have been multiple shootings around my workplace. Jay once texted me to ask what the zip code was for this location. I told him and he confirmed that I was in prime rapin’ real estate for the city, in a much more serious tone than that. It is bomb.

So, I drove home, chatting on my phone to my dear paranoid Gramma, who has taken up calling me every night to make sure I got home safe since I work “in a bad part of town” about 20 minutes down the highway from my wealthy horse-themed suburb.

driving on phone

I told her I was safe and she went to bed. I went upstairs, got undressed, microwaved some vegetables and got out some lunch meat for dinner (thank goodness for that bachelor’s in home-ec) and grabbed my Kindle to sit down and read while I ate.

What!?!? Where is my Kindle?!?!?! It’s in my bag, right? It has to be in my purse. Maybe I left  it in the car. Maybe I should put on pants before I check. It’s not here! I must’ve left it at work. I WAS IN THE MIDDLE OF THAT BOOK!!!!!!!!!!!!!

dramatic scream
I’m also in the middle of two other paperbacks, that I totally could’ve read. I’m really not sure what possessed me to do this, but I threw on my dress pants, the heels I’d worn to work (sans hose), a hoodie over my nightshirt, and my ID badge, tossed my food in the fridge and bolted out the door like my life depended on it. Telling no one where I was going, I spent the last two dollars in my checking account (until I get paid tomorrow) on gasoline and started the twenty-minute, all darkened highway drive to work… in dense fog… going ten to fifteen over. I was convinced that the key fob that allows me in the door couldn’t be set to no longer allow access at immediately 9:00, since we sometimes have to stay later. There was a slight possibility that it was set for 10:00. I was absolutely sure that I had to get there by 10:00… to enter the building without permission and get my Kindle. (In hindsight, I’m lucky I have a laidback manager.) I sped the whole way, looking for lights in my rearview mirror, not even considering what I’d say were I pulled over. I turned into the parking lot, actually seeing a speeding cruiser behind me, and not even acknowledging the confirmation that this was a terrible damned idea when he sped right past me, because this is the fucking ghetto. I parked right next to the back door and bolted out to try my key fob. Red lights informed me that access had been denied. I was crushed. I’d have to make this drive again tomorrow, even though I don’t work, because there was no way in hell I’d leave my Kindle for two days. I planned to get up early and hope to get there at 7:50, bolt in with the first arrivals, and somehow teleport to my local high school to substitute. It was a brilliant plan. As I passed the front door, I started to realize how insane this had been… but was immediately interrupted by the sight of the cleaning man washing the windows, on the other side of the shady guy camped out beside the door.

Well. I came all this way. I doubt shady guy will do anything. There’s a non-English speaking witness right there.
homeless man“Excuse me, Sir. I just left my Ki… uh… my gun. I just left my gun.”

Yup. I did. I parked the car again, ran across the parking lot, flashed my badge and entered the deserted building alone with the cleaning man to grab my Kindle.

OH! I left my Diet Coke, too!

On the way home, I realized I was out of gas again, but thought it would be unwise to stop at the 7 Eleven next door so late. Yes. That would be unwise. I tried to calm myself on the way home, adrenaline still pumping from The Great Kindle Emergency of 2013.

Slow down. Breathe. You have your Kindle now.

I drove at a far more reasonable speed through the pitch black and fog.

I got closer to home and pulled into Wal-Mart to get gas. That’s when I realized…

I didn’t have my wallet. No money. No ID. No gasoline.

Luckily, I did make it home and  the wallet was on my couch, though it had managed to give me almost as bad of a shock as realizing I didn’t have my Kindle. On my way to get gas, so I wouldn’t run out in the morning, I began to think of what I’d have told an officer had I been pulled over for speeding… and not had my wallet.

pulled over

“Well, I’m trying to get to work. I left something and I’m not sure when the doors will automatically lock me out. It’s important…”

“Well… um… my Kindle…”

“Were I lying, don’t you think I’d come up with something better than that? Kindles are expensive and you see, I substitute teach in the morning and that’s a whole day of doing absolutely nothing and I was right in the middle of this new book and I didn’t even finish the last chapter and it stopped in a… this is only sounding lamer and lamer as far as excuses go, isn’t it?”

The fog began to lift… figuratively, it’s like a fucking B movie out there…. I started to see the light…

crazy woman

That’s the new photo on my ID badge.

Note: Photos used were exaggerative.

In defense of E.L. James… from an unlikely source.

Posted on by
11

So, if you follow my blog, you know it’s no secret that I, like many bloggers, enjoy a good Fifty Shades roast… and by that I mean:

roast

/rōst/
Verb

Cook (food, esp. meat) by prolonged exposure to heat in an oven or over a fire.

burning books

If you follow my blog religiously, you are awesome. You are also aware that I was abused for a good portion of my life; so, I fully recognize the abusive relationship chronicled in this swill. I recognize that it triggers  survivors and it’s painful for them, because the “murcurial” moments of Christian Grey stressed me the fuck out and that whole belt scene was just damned hard to read for personal reasons. I seriously almost stopped reading the first book, despite my curiosity, because it was making me physically sick and giving me nightmares. So I get it.

I’ve also read reports of E.L. James’s response to the claims that this book romanticizes abuse, which pretty much amount to “Nuh huh!” before she blocks them. This and… oh, I don’t know… her writing… are proof that she’s an insensitve moronic twat. I am intensely enjoying this hilariously spot on, chapter by chapter analysis over the entire series. So… maybe I just made a really good case for the execution of E.L. James. All that being said, however:

All she did was write a book…
I’m certain I’m not the first to say that E.L. James did not create domestic violence. Sure, it’s super disturbing that she thinks it’s sexy, but apparently, so do a lot of women. I did read the trilogy, from the library’s e-media collection, because I didn’t want to touch the paperback. I didn’t purchase the book or any of its paraphenalia (I saw that display in the sex store), because I didn’t want to further support E.L. James in her degradation of women, but I was curious. I pretty much came to the conclusion that Fifty is just sexy to people who’ve never been abused or manipulated ever, because I didn’t get the appeal… at all.

Where’s the personal responsibility in the Fifty Shades of Domestic Violence discussion, though? I am absolutely not referring to the idea that women need to be more vigilant about not-getting-hit. I’m referring to the fact that we’re grown ass women. We schedule our yearly gynecological visits, report the broken faucet to maintenance, pay our bills, make sure there’s food in the kitchen and the oil gets changed, do something-with-children if we’re moms, and oh, I don’t know… hold full-time fucking jobs, but we’re not capable of putting poorly written erotica into perspective and realizing that it’s only good in a fantasy? It’s like when you fantasize about something that would make your grandma cry while you masturbate, but in actuality, you know you’d feel disgusting and degraded if you did that in real life. Fifty Shades of Grey is exactly that… unless you’re stupid and irresponsible.

How is it the fault of a woman who couldn’t come up with another word for “crap” with a gun to her head that our teenagers are secretly reading what has always been dubbed “erotica” cough:: porn:: cough on their Kindles? How is it the fault of a shitty fan-fic writer if we fail to further research the whole dom/sub thing before giving it a go with that guy off Craigslist? If the concern is that this is “normalizing” domestic abuse, then we need to be talking more about what constitutes abuse in society, so people can differentiate fantasy from reality and realize that this book is not a fucking how-to guide. It’s been advertised as one, but again, we’re at fault if we don’t understand how advertising works.  We need to monitor our children’s media better and sit down with them and ask what they’re getting out of Twilight and explain what’s wrong about it. However, we also need to let adults take responsibility for what they’re reading and the ideas they’re getting from it, because they’re fucking adults.

“So help me God, Anastasia, if you don’t eat, I will take you across my knee here in this restaurant, and it will have nothing to do with my sexual gratification. Eat!”

I don’t even kind of fucking get what’s so hot about that, even in a fantasy, but in an actual restaurant, it’s a reason to blow that rape whistle. I think the majority of women who read Fifty do get that.

… that’s been written a hundred times…
This is my biggest defense of E.L James. Sure, it’s been a few years since we heard the whole dom/sub thing, but the Alpha Male shit is prevalent across most romance novels and every other media. It’s not new. From Darrin Stevens to Edward Cullen, this shit is hold fucking hat. Samantha Stevens literally gave up the power to provide for herself so Darrin could feel needed. That’s from an actual damned episode where she conjures herself a fur coat and he’s livid. Edward Cullen regularly told Bella what she was and was not allowed to do and she swooned. E.L. James adding some handcuffs to the mix, doesn’t create a new genre. Men have been abusing women to cheering crowds since caveman days. Does that make it right? Fuck no. It also doesn’t make E.L. James any worse than all of those other authors of books, spanning all genres, where men overpower women who secretly want it. Such as in:

Twilight – young adult
Club Dead – mystery: Bill fucking rapes Sookie in this book and it slips her gee dee mind.
A Hunger Like No Other – paranormal romance
Dark Lover – paranormal romance
Bared to You – erotica (to be fair, this one came after Fifty)

Those are just off the top of my head, but let’s see… how about every single book on this Good Reads list titled “Alpha Male“?

The fact that this book is BDSM related isn’t what makes it abusive. It’s the way he talks to her and treats her and threatens and belittles her. Sadly, though, E.L. James is still no trailblazer in this.

… and that no one was forced to read.
Fuck yeah, it gave me nightmares and made me want to vomit… because I chose to read it. I saw the movie The Collection with the guys not too long ago. It was absolutely disgusting, but I sat through the whole thing, because they were watching it and I wanted to know what totally anatomically implausible thing would happen next and couldn’t stop wondering what the popularity of this gore said about society. That right there is exactly why I read Fifty Shades of Grey. It was offensive and upsetting and I’ll admit, it was a trigger for me in a lot of ways. I could’ve put it down. I didn’t. That is not the fault of E.L. James. That’s the fault of the moron who started it in the first place, knowing what it was after Googling it and loudly asking a coworker “What does BDSM mean?” even though she’s twenty-fucking-five. I swear, I may as well be a virgin.

Ultimately…

Fifty Shades is one of my favorite things to hate, as you can tell, since I said so here, here, here, and here. This post, however, was brought on by reading some blogs trashing E.L. James. Don’t get me wrong. I read what she said about domestic violence and her book…

James says she “freaks out when she hears people say that her book encourages domestic violence. “Nothing freaks me out more than people who say this is about domestic abuse,” she says. “Bringing up my book in this context trivializes the issues, doing women who actually go through it a huge disservice. It also demonizes loads of women who enjoy this lifestyle, and ignores the many, many women who tell me they’ve found the books sexually empowering.”

… and I’ve read reports of her just refusing to discuss this issue with the people who’ve basically said “Um… I don’t feel trivialized by those people. I feel like you’re high-fiving me in the black eye.” I find her horribly inconsiderate. I’ve also been convinced for a while now that she sold her fucking soul to make these books popular, because they’re not even good porn. There is no plot, which is standard for erotica, but even the sex is redundant and awkward. As someone who’s been there, I can admit that yes, it’s upsetting when people call abuse sexy. However, E.L. James is not responsible for domestic abuse and has never actually compared the battered wives shelter to a brothel. Sure, it might be nice for her to come out and say “This book is not a how-to guide. It is meant for your enjoyment, not your replication,” but credit should be given where credit is due.

It’s not the porn industry’s fault that your marriage collapsed. It’s your ex-husband and his chafing dick that resulted from all of those downloads.

It’s not Alpha Male erotica that punched you in the kidneys. It’s a husband with anger problems who needs professional help.

Teenagers are not misinformed about sex because of an inaccurate erotic novel. They’re misinformed because their parents let them read it at 13.

It’s not the fault of a poorly written and irresponsibly advertised novel that someone ended up in the E.R. after misusing a spreader bar. It’s their fault for not taking advantage of the wealth of instantaneous information to research possibly unsafe bedroom activities.