How You Doin’ Blondie?


I AM JACK’S BLEEDING HEART

My senior year of college, a month before I was supposed to graduate, I got a letter from the bank that had issued me my student loans. The letter started out very friendly, almost like the bank president was on old friend of mine and would like to do lunch someday. It explained that everybody at the bank was really proud of my accomplishments, and they couldn’t wait to see what I did with my future! They also said that, because we were friends, they were going to bestow unto me a one-year grace period, starting the day I graduated, during which time I did not have to make any payments on my student loan debt. Then at the veeeery end of the letter they explained, in excruciating detail, exactly how much I was going to owe them. I believe I almost experienced total organ failure.

I sat down and crunched some numbers and I realized that unless I moved in on the Columbian drug trade, I was going to be making payments until I was well into my 50’s. So I started exploring my options, and one of them was to enlist in the Army Reserve. Although at the time we were officially at war, we hadn’t reached (or at least no one was revealing we had reached) a troop-shortage crisis yet, and the Army Reserve was offering, in addition to a $20,000 signing bonus, 100% student-loan reimbursement. So I figured that next to the Navy (which I had already ruled out because I get as seasick and as claustrophobic as a motherfucker), the Army Reserve was a pretty good way to reap the benefits of the GI Bill without having to see any actual combat.

Then I started doing some research, read some fine print, discovered words like “stop-loss” and “Improvised Explosive Device.” I started seeing pictures of soldiers missing the lower half of their body, or the main portion of their face. I started reading about the disgusting things local insurrectionists did to the bodies of US Soldiers…and that’s when I realized, the US Armed Forces was probably not for me. I realized that I would be the angriest, most pissed off motherfucker on the eastern seaboard, if I got my legs or an arm blown off and all I had to show for it was 20 large and some tuition reimbursement.

So I didn’t enlist. But I realized then that there was a whole group of people out there who did, and they did it in spite of the potential cost. I also realized then that there were people who had already paid the price, who had already made the sacrifice. I realized that those people, the ones who had already paid – the lucky ones in that group were the ones with a fake foot or only one eyeball. The lucky ones were the ones who went home and pushed their kids on the swing-set or made love to their spouses with pieces of shrapnel still in their skull. The unlucky ones were the ones who never made it back alive. The unlucky ones were the ones who were honored for their bravery and courage – posthumously. The unlucky ones were the ones whose families opened the door one day to two somber looking soldiers in a black Lincoln towncar who said nothing other than, “May we come in?” The even unluckier ones never made it home at all. They’re the ones whose families keep that battery-powered candle in the front window, or that yellow gift-wrap ribbon tied to the tree out front, in hopes that one day their loved one will come home.

I realized all this, and I cried. I remember sitting on my bed in my apartment, about two weeks after graduation, and just crying. And it wasn’t one of those Miss. America crying jags, the ones you could almost mistake for laughter if not for the streams of tears running down her cheeks – it was one of those major cries. It was the kind of crying that you don’t expect, the kind that suddenly hits you with a fierce blow and finds you totally unprepared – I was crying like that, for people. I was crying like that for human beings. Humans that sign up to do super human work. I was crying for soldiers. I was crying because you can throw in all the body armor and 21st century technology that you want, but a soldier is still a human, just like everybody else. I was crying because these soldiers suffer unspeakable loss and shoulder impossible burdens, and sometimes it’s dismissed as “just part of their job.” And I was crying because yeah, it is just part of their job, but their job is a great one, and it’s too much for one man, or one family, to try and carry alone.

Since that day, I’ve been very actively involved in organizations whose goal is to support deployed and injured soldiers, and their families. Although there are several, there is one organization I’ve publicly supported the most, chiefly because there is no “organization extraction” – 100% of the purchase or donation price is given directly to troops and their families.

Regardless of your political affiliation, please don’t confuse the war with the warrior. Please support our troops.

 

 I’ll get off my soapbox now.



I am Jack’s Broken Heart
May 22, 2008, 11:24 pm
Filed under: Break Ups, Life, love, relationships, sex | Tags: , , , ,

The guy I was dating, the one I called my “friend”? He ended things today, said that “everything was getting too crazy”.

Fuck that. “Everything was getting too crazy” always means one of two things; either 1.) “The wife is onto us” or 2.) “The sex isn’t as explosive as it used to be.”

I’d like to think of something sarcastic to say about our relationship, but the truth is,

I actually liked him.



Search Engine Terms Part IV
May 21, 2008, 4:07 pm
Filed under: Epic Fail, Fail, funny, Humor, Image, Life, Search Engine | Tags: , , , , , ,

The two newest terms to make my “Personal Favorite Search Engine Inquiries That Have Returned My Blog” List:

“blondie stripper pics”

and

“www. can you please find me a date”

…Congratulations on your

 



The Other Half Of My Heart Is In Iraq
May 20, 2008, 11:23 pm
Filed under: Family, Honor, Life, love, USMC | Tags: , , , ,

So my brother gets on the phone with me tonight, and we’re in the middle of discussing the Philadelphia Flyers when I hear one of my brother’s friends, Jason, shriek in the background, “Ask her if she’ll autograph my cast!” Then I heard something crashing and what sounded like a young Marine making a very hasty exit. I asked my brother what Jason was talking about and he tried to be evasive, but eventually I got the whole story out:

 Apparently, my brother and a few of his fellow soldiers were watching an Ultimate Fighting Championship DVD and one of the guys recognized me as the ring card girl. According to my brother, Jason made an offensive remark that my brother refused to repeat, but said that it involved my breasts and a sex act…anyway, after Jason made the remark, my brother dove on top of him and proceeded to engage in hand-to-hand combat. Jason now has a broken wrist and is missing a tooth. 

That’s my little brother, bad ass to the bone. And always faithful, of course.

 



Game Over
May 20, 2008, 2:36 pm
Filed under: John Wayne, Life, Music, News, Politics | Tags: , , , ,

 While I was getting a pedicure today, I picked up a recent issue of “The New Yorker” and started thumbing through it. Just by chance, I happened upon a little 5 inch blurb sandwiched between two advertisements, written about the poster boy for Social Consciousness, David “The Game” Banner. Although I’m sure “Rhodes Scholar” was your first guess, Banner is, in fact, a rapper. The article was about Banner’s newest song, “911 is a Joke (Cop Killa),” whose primary focus is the New York shooting of Sean Bell. Apparently, the three detectives that were brought to trial on various charges related to the case were acquitted. Of the acquittal, “The Game” was quoted as saying this:

“I think one of the problems with America is that we’ve adapted Bush’s cowboy mentality to everything. With the Sean Bell situation New York is basically saying, ‘Fuck niggers.'”

Sigh.

No, Mr. Banner, what New York is saying is, “Fuck large, rowdy groups of people in night clubs of ill-repute who are involving themselves in altercations and threatening the use of firepower.” 

If that’s a cowboy mentality, yippee-ki-yay, mother fucker.



Too Many Mother Fuckers Fucking With My Shit

There are several things I dislike, and one of them is people who dispense well-meaning advice. They assume that I don’t know any better, and that I will be greatly enlightened by their pearls of wisdom…the jury is still out on whether they’re aware they’re being condescending or not, but that’s not the point. It still irks the hell out of me. It’s almost as if they impart their genius out of pity, like “Oh you poor misguided idiot, you.” I’m always shocked in these situations, shocked that someone would have the nerve to talk to me like that…and I’m always so shocked that I revert back to my debutante upbringing whereby instead of confronting the problem, I smile sweetly and then gossip viciously behind the offender’s back.

Which of course begs the question, can one gossip viciously on a blog where the gossip-ee has immediate access to the gossiper’s content? That would just make it a sort of passive-aggressive throwing down of a  gauntlet, wouldn’t it?

Well, be that as it may, a friendly word of advice to all and sundry: assume nothing, and don’t underestimate me. Should you choose to dispense your delicately disdainful advice anyway, do so at your own risk, mother fucker.



It’s Primary Charm Is The Chorus…

…which goes, “Blondie blondie blondie blondie blondie blondie blondie…”



One reason not to kill yourself: Because –
May 19, 2008, 3:06 pm
Filed under: Humor, Life, Picture | Tags: , ,



“36-24-36? Only if she 5’3…”

I took Cody for a walk today, and I actually spent the bulk of it running. He goes crazy over puddles, he loves to splish-splash around in them to his little Husky heart’s content. The problem is, his leash is like 6 feet long, and the puddles are like 20 feet wide…so not only do I get wet, but I have to run like crazy to keep up. And I do not like running. It could be a Southern thing…it’s always too damn hot down there to even move, let alone run (a true Southerner won’t even run in the face of imminent danger, that’s what the right to bear arms is for)…or it could be a laziness thing.

Regardless, I don’t like running. In fact, I don’t like working out just for the sake of working out at all. I’ve tried to, I’ve joined two separate gyms in my lifetime with the intention of becoming one of those super-toned 21st century Playmates, but I never stuck with it. The biggest problem I had was with the gym clientele in general; it was always Tiffy and Rex in their super-tight spandex checking out each others rock hard bodies. I was always in some old t-shirt and shorts.

The other problem I had was actually a specific incident as opposed to just a general complaint. There’s a new gym that opened up a few blocks away from my house, not so close that I could walk to it, but close enough so that my fall-back “it’s just too far away” excuse wouldn’t work. So they have a membership drive, and I figure, ok, alright, let’s do this. So I go in there and say that I’d like to sign up and they assign me to a “fitness mentor” named Gary. Now Gary looked to be about 16 and in addition to having the body of Jose Conseco, he was also wearing a black t-shirt he apparently purchased in the children’s department. So Gary takes me over to his little “station” and he asks me a few general questions and he asks me what my overall fitness goal is and I say, “Oh, just to tone up.” Then Gary gives me a skeptical glance which he tries to cover up with a used car-salesman smile and says, “And maybe a weight-loss plan, too?” That was strike one. So then I step on the digital scale and Gary looks down at the numbers and says “That’s more then I expected.” Strike two. Then Gary whips out the measuring tape and proceeds to take my measurements. When he’s finished, he glances at his little clipboard and he says, “Well Suzanne, I think we can put together a great work-out regime for you. We’ll cut about 10 pounds and trim off some of those inches, how does that sound?” Well that was strike mother fucking three. My reaction was a little delayed, because my first instinct was to inwardly beat myself up about not being in perfect shape, but then there was little something that just went off.  The real me, the me that would’ve had Gary for breakfast after strike one, woke up and said, “Hey, why the fuck are you letting this little dick mother fucker talk to you like this? Get the fuck out of here! You don’t need this shit, Suzanne, you’re a bad bitch!” So I look Gary in the eye and I say, “You know what, I think I’ve changed my mind, I don’t think this program is for me.” Gary, who has clearly been caught off guard, starts back pedaling like a mad man and says, “You’re probably right, you’ve got a great shape, you don’t really need to exercise, but everybody likes to stay healthy, right?” I snorted, thanked him, and then walked away.

I’m done with gyms, fucking done. And you know why? Because I am five feet and ten inches tall, I weigh one hundred and fifty five pounds, my measurements are 36DD-27-38, I wear a size 8, AND I FUCKING LIKE IT. When I look in the mirror I LIKE WHAT I SEE, and I couldn’t give a FUCK LESS if it’s not good enough for Gary. I don’t care if my tits don’t look like the gym rats’ do, mine are REAL and JIGGLE and SAG A LITTLE BIT. I have cellulite on the back of my upper thighs. My triceps wobble. AND I LIKE IT. I FUCKING LIKE IT.

FUCK YOU GARY. And not only Gary, but FUCK EVERY MEDIA OUTLET THAT CALLS FAT GIRLS CURVY AND MAKES THE GENUINELY CURVY GIRLS FEEL LIKE THEY NEED TO LOSE WEIGHT. FUCK ALL OF YOU ACROSS THE STREET AND AROUND THE CORNER.

Ahem. Rant over.



Reviving The Old Art Of Lying
May 18, 2008, 2:49 pm
Filed under: Dishonesty, Family, Friends, Humor, Life, love, relationships, sex | Tags: , , , , , , ,

I hate parties. I never know what to say. And I hate introducing myself to people. I can usually solve this problem by only going to parties as the date of some guy, that way I don’t have to worry about starting conversations by myself. Every once in a while though, I think to myself “it sure would be fun to have a little soiree with only my closest friends.” And then I remember that, strictly speaking, I don’t have any. I do have friends, but they’re friends that I could never in a million years have in the same room as each other, because then they’d eventually unravel all the little lies I’ve told. I lie a lot when I meet people, not to impress them – mainly just to cover shit up.

For instance, I have one category of friends, and they’re known as “Friends Who Have Seen My House.” This group consists mainly of people in the neighborhood (so I’m using the term “friends” here loosely), but there’s also a couple of people from the Garden of the Month club in there too. The lies I’ve told this group were created in an attempt to explain why a young, single woman who spends far too much time around the house to have a traditional 9 to 5 job and who keeps very, very odd hours; can afford to live in a 6 bedroom house. The lies vary from “My husband is an officer in the Marine Corps, he’s currently in Iraq,” (which is actually my favorite and the easiest to remember) to “My uncle died and left me this house,” (which I only use when I’m talking to a man who could possibly ask me out and all other good lies have escaped me).

Another group of friends is “Friends Who I’ve Met In An Academic Capacity.” These are people I either went to college with or met through some University alumni function (this group also contains my old Mathalete team mates). In addition to the “personal” lies I tell the “Friends Who Have Seen My House”, I also tell this group “career” lies. For the most part, my friends in this group are all in the same tax bracket, so living a life of luxury, in itself, is not going to raise many eyebrows. But these are the “elitist” friends, the “intellectuals” – so they don’t necessarily care what you have, but how you used your superior education and brainpower to acquire it. To these friends, I’m a mathematician crunching stats and formulas for a defense contractor (which serves the dual purpose of impressing them AND preventing further questioning, because you know, defense contracting is all hush, hush).

And the problem with all this lying is not the big lies that I’ve told, but the tiny little “supporting” lies. Because if you want to really sell your story, you’ve got to have background information…and I get a little carried away with my “background” information. I can’t even remember all the jobs I’ve had, men I’ve been in relationships with, or reasons I’ve moved to the area. I should have started writing it all down so I could reference it all in a pinch, but I didn’t, and now I just have to avoid small talk. And parties.



It’s Not The Fat Kid Who Cracks Me Up, It’s His Mom
May 18, 2008, 1:46 pm
Filed under: Amusement Park, Humor, Life, Parenthood, video | Tags: , , , , , ,

Seriously, my sides hurt.



Enjoy It, Just Enjoy It
May 17, 2008, 11:18 pm
Filed under: Dancing, Humor, Life, Vogue | Tags: , , ,


Search Engine Terms Part III
May 17, 2008, 9:02 pm
Filed under: Humor, Life, Search Engine | Tags: , ,

“small gay balls”

Nice.



I Was Reading “Men’s Health” In The Bathroom Today…
May 17, 2008, 2:25 pm
Filed under: Beauty, Hope, Life, love, Marraige, Men, relationships, sex | Tags: , , , , , , ,

…and I stumbled upon an article written by Hugh O’Neill entitled “The Hottest Sex Tip Ever: Don’t believe what you’ve heard. Your lifetime of great sex starts when you stroll down the aisle.” The article’s main focus was debunking common myths (and fears) that men have about marraige; “Myth 4: She Has To Have It All” is what made this post-worthy (though it could be argued, by citing numerous posts of mine, that I really don’t have very stringent guidelines for what makes it into a post and what doesn’t…but I digress…)

“Many a man balks at pulling the marraige trigger because he appraises a woman the way he’d size up an applaince and then decides she just doesn’t have all the features he’s looking for. Well, here are the answers to those questions tumbling around in your head. Yes, she’s pretty enough. Yes, she’s smart enough. Yes, she’s funny enough. Moreover, all those questions are irrelevant. It’s like asking if a car floats. Most often, your anxieties are less about her then about how others may view your choice of a partner. A woman doesn’t need great beauty or brains or wit to be a fabulous partner and a person very much worth loving throughout your life. Think of it this way: if she’s less then perfect, well, that’s just something else the two of you have in common. Everthing that’s beautiful is cracked, Leonard Cohen wrote, and that’s how the light gets in.”

Even though I think the overall gist of the paragraph was “it’s ok to settle” (which, once you reach a certain point and you’re that just-a-little-to-old-to-be-in-the-club guy, I guess it is), I really liked that Leonard Cohen quote; “Everything that’s beautiful is cracked, that’s how the light gets in.”

Weird, the places hope derive.



What is my mother going to say?
May 16, 2008, 11:15 pm
Filed under: Discoveries, Life, sex | Tags: , ,

Oh shit. I think I have a crush on T.I. How did this happen? I was a Southern beauty queen! My first boyfriend drove a pick-up truck with a Confederate flag affixed to the rear window!

This isn’t good, this isn’t good at all.



Never Had So Much Fun In Yo Life
May 16, 2008, 11:07 pm
Filed under: Humor, Life, Music, sex | Tags: , , ,

I have come to the realization that, deep down on the inside, I like rap music.

At least 3 of the 10 available memory buttons on my car radio are programmed to hip-hop stations.

I can accurately sing the lyrics (in the correct tempo) to multiple rap songs, usually without the aid or accompaniment of the song itself.

My favorite rapper is T.I. who began his illustrious career as “Tip” but due to his heavy Southern drawl,  “Tip” was often misheard as “Chip”. He began pronouncing each letter individually, and became known as “T.I.P.”, which was later shortened to “T.I.” T.I.’s newest song is actually a collaborative effort between Young Jeezy, Usher, and himself, remixing Usher’s recent hit “Make Love In This Club.” I experienced difficulty attempting to upload the music file to WordPress, so I found the song on YouTube and posted it instead. The man you hear sing first is T.I.  (and in the video, T.I. is the one on the far left with the chain around his neck). Sigh, what a wordsmith.

 

 

I am not so far gone, however, that I actually purchase any albums that would in anyway contribute to the financial gain of any of these “trap stars” [trap star: verb/young man or woman who is successful in the urban trade of illicit goods]. I figure, if I don’t actually buy the music, I’m not actually supporting their greedy, misogynistic endeavors, right?

 



“Just a small town girl, living in a lonely world…”
May 15, 2008, 9:29 pm
Filed under: Gossip, Jealousy, Life, Rumors, sex | Tags: , , , ,

There’s a scandal brewing in my neighborhood, instigated chiefly by a single post in the “missed connections” section of Craigslist. The original post reads as follows:

We’ve both caught each other checking each other out so the question is…where do we go from here?

Even though we’re neighbors I don’t know anything about you, other then the fact that you look really, really yummy without a shirt on. I don’t know if you’re married or involved, I think there’s a woman that lives with you, but I don’t know what your relationship with her is…but that’s not really important. What is important is this: I want to fuck you. Well actually, I want you to fuck me, nice and hard, from behind. The tricky part is figuring out how to bridge that awkward gap between “admiring each other from afar” and “you drilling my brains out.”

Ordinarily, I would just casually walk over one day and ask to “borrow a cup of sugar”, but the problem with that seems to be the fact that with my luck, your wife/girlfriend would answer the door. And I’m not interested in fucking her.

So where do we go from here? I think the first step is a clear signal from your direction…find a reason to talk to me, any reason – and find a way to work in the topic of sugar. I don’t care what context you use, just be sure at some point you mention “sugar.”

If you’re willing to do that, I promise it’ll be worth it – I want to fuck so hard I won’t be able to walk right ;-).

The backlash from this post has been absolutely amazing, probably because although we are geographically located within 5 minutes of Philadelphia, we are still a very, very small town. But the best part of all this hasn’t been the shock and horror all my fellow resident’s have reacted with, but with the new kinds of stares and glances I’m now recieving. I’m the newest addition to this little ass-backwards town, ipso facto, I’m also the most mysterious (wiggle your fingers and say “Oooooo”, here”). I don’t socialize with the locals, not as a general rule, but because no one has really made an effort to get to know me. So no one knows much about me other then I live alone in a big old house on the corner of the street, and you could set your watch by my dog-walking schedule.

I imagine that’s what happening is one by one, each gossipy little housewife is reading this post and talking about amongst themsevles and they’re saying, “It’s that blonde little whore on the corner.” I base this assumption on several factors: 1.) I’ve read the responding posts, there are little clues these women leave that indicate they think it’s me and 2.) There’s been a decided shift in the neighborhood dynamics, from the women and the men, it’s very tangible.

I’m not mad, per se…I’m more amused. Their judgement was amazingly swift and final. Like a capital murder trial in Texas. Done. Finito.

I guess if an angry mob shows up at my door, I’ll know that’s my cue to ride off into the sunset.

 



Spare Me The Righteous Indignation, It’s Just Funny
May 14, 2008, 10:32 pm
Filed under: Humor, Life, Picture | Tags: , ,



Bitter? Oh, juste en peu
May 14, 2008, 10:16 pm
Filed under: Freedom Fries, International, Life, sex, Translation | Tags: , ,

So check this out: someone used the Google Language toolbar to translate my post “Once Upon A Time, There Lived A Princess,” into French. My anger has gone international, I have truly arrived.

A few fun facts: there is apparently no French equivalent for the word “bitter” when it is used in place of “resentful”; the French word for “fucks” (when used as an action verb) is “chevaux baise; and the phrase “in the ass” in French is “dans le cul.”



Allow Me To Say, With All Sincerity:
May 14, 2008, 9:58 pm
Filed under: Ads, Cinderella, Dry Humor, Life, thoughts, Walt Disney | Tags: , , , ,

Mother FUCK you, Walt Disney.

They do not all come true. Mouse-eared mother fucker.



Well Said, Good Sir
May 14, 2008, 9:45 pm
Filed under: Beauty, Life, Quotes | Tags:

“Butterflies do not wax nostalgic about time they spent as caterpillars.”

Moore, Christopher. Practical Demonkeeping. New York City: Harper Collins, 1992.



Just Drifting Through
May 11, 2008, 8:55 pm
Filed under: dirty, Life, Life Experiences, lust, Media, Music, Quotes, Random, random musings, sex, thoughts, Volvo | Tags: ,

“Where do all the porn stars go
When the lights go down?
I wonder where all the porn stars go
‘Cause when you need one, they are never aroundI think they moved out to the suburbs
And now they’re blonde, bland, middle-class Republican wives
They all have blonde, bland, middle-class Republican children
Blonde, bland, middle-class Republican lives

Where do all the porn stars go
When the lights go down?
I think I know where all the porn stars go
They all become Volvo-driving soccer moms”

 

Sometimes, though, there are such things as Volvo-driving porn stars. I substantiate this claim with the red Volvo S40 currently parked in my driveway.



Jump-roping Son of Gun
April 27, 2008, 11:32 pm
Filed under: Children's rhymes, fun, games, youth | Tags:

Miss Susie had a tugboat
the tugboat had a bell
Miss Susie went to heaven
the tugboat went to
Hello operator please give me number nine
and if you disconnect me
I’ll kick you from behind
the refrigerator there was a piece of glass
Miss Susie sat upon it and cut her little
ask me no more questions
tell me no more lies
the boys are in the bathroom zipping up their
flies are in the meadow,
the bees are in the park
Miss Susie and her boyfriend
are kissing in the
D-A-R-K
D-A-R-K
D-A-R-K
[fast] DARK, DARK, DARK
dark is like a movie
a movie’s like a show
a show is like a TV screen
and that is all I know
I know I know my ma
I know I know my pa
I know I know my sister
with the 40 acre bra

Other people I’ve spoken to remember this as being a chant they used to skip rope to. In my day, this was just a way my girlfriends and I could get away with saying almost-bad words in front of our teacher without earning a phone call home. The “Miss Susie” rhyme was a particular favorite of mine because as a girl, I envisioned any woman note-worthy enough to earn her place in the annals of recess lore to be one BAMF, and I aspired to live up to the standards of being a Susie. 

 



Protected: I Did My Best, It Wasn’t Much
April 21, 2008, 3:12 pm
Filed under: Life, love, Pain, relationships, Sadness, sex | Tags: , , , ,

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Pretty In Pink
April 19, 2008, 10:11 pm
Filed under: Anger, Life, Lonliness, Loss, love, Pain, Reality, relationships, Sadness, sex | Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

I went to Barnes and Noble’s today, and for the first time in my life, I was disgusted by books. Disgusted. Everywhere I looked there was pink and white and cursive script and cutesy designs; “Blonde” and “Sex” and “Beautiful” and “Affair”; skin and breasts and lips.

It made me so sad. And so angry.

Every author was competing for the coveted distinction of being the most renegade, the most taboo.

“Oh, Oh, I know! I’ll write from the perspective of the ‘other woman’!”

“Well I’ll write from the perspective of the current wife, who approves of the ‘other woman’!”

“Well I’ll write from the perspective of a single woman who has anonymous sex with multiple partners!”

“Well I’ll be a kept woman”

“Well I’ll be a stripper!”

“I’ll be an prostitute!”

“I’ll be a porn star!”

And on and on and on and on until I just wanted to stand in the middle of the bookstore and cry. I wanted to sob, big heaving sobs that rack your whole body and make you gasp for breath and send torrents of wet, hot, salty, tears running down your cheeks and your lips and your neck.  I wanted to destroy; I wanted to tear each and every single book off of the shelf and rip the pages from their bindings and shred each word, each paragraph into little tiny pieces of confetti and then spit on it, I wanted to spit on all of it. I wanted to cause destruction and turmoil and pain. I wanted those authors to see the fruits of their labor – their lifeblood – desecrated and defiled. I wanted the authors to be hurt, I wanted them to feel violated. And I wanted to stand in the middle of the chaos and scream at them

“ENOUGH! THIS IS NOT A GAME! You take the one thing that brings me joy, you take my one escape, you take the only constant that I have to cling to and you USE it, you USE it and you CHEAPEN it. You CHEAPEN it in the name of your precious creative genius. You enclose yourself in your edgy little writer’s retreat and you say to yourself, ‘How can I be dramatic? How can I be poignant? How can I be utterly unique?’ And you start to brainstorm and the wheels start turning and you start thinking ‘outside the box’ and you start to think about what’s hot and what’s fascinating and how can you really grab someones attention, really force them to look at you and suddenly you think, ‘Sex!’  You think, ‘One of the most forbidden topics!’ You think ‘I’ll write about sex and sluts and prostitutes and adultery, but I’ll disguise all the turmoil and strife and make it cutesy and humorous and lovable, even! I’ll be a real insurrectionary!’

BUT YOU’RE NOT. Are you listening to me? YOU’RE NOT. You write about all these things that you know nothing about and you make your busty blonde protagonist sarcastic and witty and sometimes insightful and largely happy go lucky, as if sure, she knows she might not lead the most normal, average, lifestyle, but she’s happy because she knows what she’s doing isn’t wrong, it’s just different.

And then your book hits the shelves and people love it, they go crazy for it. You’re on Oprah and The View and Good Morning America and The Late Show and people are just in LOVE with your book! How could they not be? Just look at what you’ve done! You’ve made them fall head over heels for the whore of Babylon! You’ve made them root for Delilah! And you’ve done it all without making them feel anything unpleasant, no despair or defeat. You’ve romanticized everything. You’ve cleaned it up. You’ve made it digestible. You ‘left out’ the part where the ‘other’ woman cries herself to sleep at night over the unrequited love she has surrendered her soul to. You ‘forgot to mention’ the part where the prostitute falls in love with a regular guy but watches the relationship deteriorate before her eyes because she doesn’t enjoy making love to him, she’s not even sure what ‘making love’ is.

You make it acceptable and understandable. You rob it of it’s realism. You’re a liar, a thief, and a whore, in every sense of the word.”