Trespassers Beware: Tit for Tat

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My usual cool zen space I begin blogging in is shattered at the moment. Saw a comment this morning that ticked me right off.

I was pretty fucking shook up yesterday. My own words haunted me for most of the day, a tell tale sign that my brain wasn’t finished processing everything I wrote. I kept coming to tears; do I really not understand what being a woman is supposed to be like? Scary thought. I’ve got used to all this womanly shit; the boobs, the vagina. I lived thru the fucking monthly cramps and mess. But I don’t often feel like a “woman” – whatever the fuck that is. I is what I is, to paraphrase Popeye.

So to get some crap ass comment about the horrors of external genitalia and sweaty balls just ramped up my irritation meter. Especially after laying my fucking SOUL down for all to read. Hey idiots, if you want to make a humorous comment be sure to leave a tell tale smiley face somewhere in it – :). Most of communication is non-verbal, so when you post a fucking comment to me about the HORROR of being a man – especially when it comes not from a man but a woman making fun of men – WITHOUT a smiley face it comes off shitty. Catty. Like you’re making fun of what I poured my heart into. Like you’re belittling the struggle I felt ALL DAY YESTERDAY. Um, FUUUUUUUCK YOOOOOOOU!

I’ve even got another window open right now. I’m looking at my post that elicited the comment. I reread it; was I flippant? Did I inject my post with my acerbic irony? No. Straight up honesty and pain. I talk about my fear, my anger, my confusion. And this elicits an ‘oooo, the horrors of hairy sweaty balls’? Again, fuck you. If I haven’t said it enough, fuck you again.

I did not make this space for you to make shitty comments on my post. I made this space for me. It’s my safe space. It’s where I let loose with everything I can’t say to anyone else, ever. For you to put that up on my post felt like the biggest diss – hell, how’s this one? YOU SOUNDED LIKE MY FUCKING CUNT OF A SISTER. How DARE you? How DARE you belittle anything I feel? You’re not walking in my fucking shoes. I don’t need your flippant comments; I lived with a fucking narcissist for fucking years and I know a goddamn shitty comment when I read it. What? Did you read my words and think I needed a fucking joke? What, in all my words about pain and fear and anger, prompted you to send me that? Huh? I can only assume it’s your own ignorance and fear. Ignorance on how to handle such a topic and fear that it hits a little too close to your own fucking home. Go fucking chew on your own fucking balls and think about that!

Don’t bother looking for said comment. I trashed it. First I wrote a reply. Then I posted it for about 3 seconds before trashing it. I don’t have to explain that; I am Queen here, absolute ruler, and I decide what comments go up and what comments get trashed (and even what comments go up and get trashed in the next breath). My space, my rules. These are my boundaries. Trespass at your own fucking risk.

Good goddess, I’m sounding like Zoe on Trash Diaries – not a bad thing! I admire the way she lets loose with everything, and her turn of phrase can capture a moment for me like no other blogger (thanks, Zoe). I appreciate all the comments from people who struggle with their own shit every damned day and let me know when I’ve hit a nerve with them. I appreciate all the ‘I feel that way too’ ’cause it makes me feel like less of a freak. Even the days I can’t take the words in, I appreciate them. Because if someone commented, that means for a split second they were thinking about me. What I said mattered to them. I mattered. And that’s a really fucking hard concept for me to grasp – that I matter, my life means something, I make a difference. But I’m not letting myself get walked all over. Not again, not anymore. Sorry, you missed that fucking train. Should have been there when I was 12. You could have stood in line with my fucking mother and sister to berate me. THEN, you could have got away with it. I would have taken it lying down. I would have walked away and felt bad.

FUCK feeling bad for your shitty thoughts. I’m not that little girl anymore. I’m not just going to walk away or be ‘diplomatic’. I know I want to EVENTUALLY reach a space of inner calm where words like yours can never touch me again. I also know I’m not there yet, and if you’d bothered to fucking pay a little more attention to me you would have known that, too. I WANT to be angry right now, to get it out, and baby! You just triggered the fucking mother load.

And if ye of the comment is still reading this (Oi! You KNOW it’s you!) then I suggest you take a long, hard look at your own fucking phobias and biases. Sounds to me like you spend your free time bashing men for fun, a sport no less despicable than bashing women for the same fucking reason. What the fuck are YOU afraid of? I’ve read a couple of your posts. Pretty easy breezy. Don’t read YOU getting down to the nitty gritty; oh, no! YOUR post is all sunshine and flowers with a little ‘my thoughts are running too fast’. Oh, fuck you! If you were really into it you wouldn’t be fucking posting such (as Zoe so eloquently put it) RAINBOW FARTING UNICORNS. What, are you a faker? ‘Cause that’s the way your fucking blog reads to me. I read no struggle, no pain. I see no tears. I hear an echo of excuses, that’s all.

So how’s it feel to be bashed, to have your inner thoughts called into question? That’s the way you made me feel. Tit for tat out here.

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