Fee Fee CatPockets

It is going to be okay. I promise. 

[ohitsjustfee]

Why was I like that? Oh yeah.

When I was 13 I was talking to a 13 year old friend of mine about my weird need to do things before I was societally allowed to do them. I had this fucked up bucket list that I wore on my sleeve. Give a blowjob by 14. Lose my virginity by 15. Drugs and alcohol by 16. He asked me why I felt this way. and I didn’t have an answer for him. The closest thing I could think of was hormones and bad parenting. Maybe a pinch of “We live in a society.”

I wasn’t trying to rebel against my mother. I loved my mother more than anything, and I’ve more than made up for my teenage antics since. My puberty was a tornado between being a quiet baby, a sweet child, and a caring adult. My foundation was still sweet throughout my teen years as well. You definitely could match my actions to the wild teens on Maury, but you would have never seen me running out on a stage in a crop top, flipping off the audience, and saying “You don’t knooow me.” I wasn’t being wild for theater. I was just genuinely wild.

So one fine day on LSD I was looking at my hand and I realized the meaning of life, but I couldn’t write it down. Since I couldn’t write it down, I don’t remember it. I can tell you that it’s spherical, but what are you going to do with that?

I also realized that the only thing that comprises who you are and what you do is your DNA and everything you’ve ever been exposed to from conception until today, neither of which you have had any control over. Control is an illusion that is necessary to form a healthy society because without punishments or rewards, what incentivized us as a species to maintain order and strive for more? I can’t unknow that.

The only time I have ever told somebody this without horribly pissing them off was when I was 15 in an open garage with a kid who was fascinated with my rack, and therefore letting me smoke his weed. He took a deep inhale, held it as I told him my little theory, and then said “you just invented a fact.” I just invented a fact, guys!!! 

I didn’t. I didn’t invent a fact. I eventually opened up a history of psychology textbook and realized that Pre-socratic philosophers Heraclitus, Leucippus, and later Aristotle himself thought of this. You best believe I impressed the hell out of my Professor with my knowledge of the general theory, though. It’s called determinism.

So, what do we do with this? Well, everyone who has debated this with me has gone into a hysterical tirade of “choice, free will, free will, choice.” The other fact that I realized is that even if I know and can’t unknow determinism, I still have the illusion of choice programmed into me. I still feel guilt. I still feel pride, and I understand why both are there. I experience them fully. Then maybe once a week I’ll remember that free will is an illusion before diving right back into the human experience.

Even the most staunch determinists of today recognize that they can’t function mentally with present knowledge that they are not in control of every one of their actions. It’s a theory that has it’s place in discourse and has for millennia. It isn’t going to change anything. The ego reigns supreme. So, now what?

Well I guess at least I can explain to you why I was a wild teen without deep retrospective psychoanalysis. My genetics, which I didn’t choose, and everything I had ever been exposed to from conception until that point, which I also didn’t choose. Oh yeah.

[ohitsjustfee]

Russell Hartley

I’m high as hell. Let’s try to write. This idea is 100% inspired by the fact that I need something to focus on or I’m going to have a full blown panic attack. A stoned panic attack, at that. Pot has always been a roulette for me. Why do I risk this? Oh, right, the state of the world. Will this substance make me happier or throw me into an episode of existential despair? It’s 2020, let’s find out! 

I have nothing of value or importance to say at this time, so I guess now would be a good time to write about Russell Hartley. Oh, Russ. You know? Sometimes in life you just cross paths with the wrong bitch. It happens to the best of us, champ.

You see, back in the day my ex-Tinder date turned greatest confidant told me about how one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen, a dear friend of his, got dealt a traumatic hand when she went to LA to pursue her career. She is a gorgeous model, an amazing actress, and a downright seemingly stellar human being all rolled into one. Chef’s kiss. 

The details of how she got fucked over by this little baby bitch boy haunted me so badly that I would have paid at least a grand to steel-toe boot him into mulch. I’m clearly The Punisher in my daydreams, and much, much stronger than I am in real life. Will you open this jar for me? No, not you, Russell. You stay the fuck in your corner. 

Anyway, I was scrolling through my TikTok feed months ago and this guy that sounded and dressed like John Mulaney started walking toward his mirror, phone in hand. Yeeeeeeessss, Daddy, come closer in that suit and tie. Oh. He opened his mouth. Like a circus ring leader from the 1920′s his voice queefed “What it’s like to be a bachelor in real life, part 2!” A pick up artist advertising himself as a “confidence coach.” You know? Maybe it wasn’t the Elavil that killed my sex drive after all. 

Listen up! I’m about to tell you the exact hill that I’m willing to die on so that you can notify my mother in about ten minutes when this cotton mouth kills me. I firmly believe that the moment a girl turns sixteen that the book The Game by Neil Strauss should be required reading. It should be written into every High School curriculum. Honestly, they should just dedicate a semester to it. The Game is the powerhouse of the fuccboi.

Now, it’s not exactly an instruction manual on how to lower women’s self esteem so that you can use them as fleshlights and throw them in the trash. I’d describe it instead as a rather entertaining narrative (with random appearances from Courtney Love) that explains how the author learned how to lower women’s self esteem so that they’d be willing to be used as fleshlights to be thrown in the trash.

The Game gives young men hope that they may one day lose their virginity with the right amount of negging, and it gives women a complex that their worth is based solely on their breeding potential. Society hints at that a little bit here and there, but The Game really drives it home. 

Is this a good lesson for young women to learn? I’ll get to that in a minute, but let me just put my little disclaimer here that #notallmen. I wouldn’t even say that all men (boys, more likely) who use tactics from the novel are bad people. I’m sure there are plenty among them that just wish to find true love, and if mildly insulting a broad for a few minutes is what they view to be their ticket to a lifetime of romantic bliss, can I even blame them?

Yes. Yes I can and yes I did for a very long time. I went from the comfortable High School mentality of “Some men think we’re sluts.” to “Wait a minute, there are men that actually think I’m inferior to them. Oh my god. This makes so much sense! This is why we weren’t allowed to vote until 100 years ago. We weren’t considered people! We weren’t considered people? We weren’t considered people! OH MY GOD! WHAT THE FUCK?!”

Okay, so now you may be really wondering why I am still suggesting that you should curse your daughter with this piece of literary taint juice. Allow me to explain. I am a solid 8.323 out of 10. I have had several men in my lifetime approach me with the tactics espoused by Mr. Strauss, only for them to become visibly infuriated when I didn’t respond positively to their advances. 

Watching men scramble to break me down was an absolute delight to me. I could count down the seconds in my head until the diatribe would begin about how I had my life on “easy mode” and how I was a “friend-zoning whore” with “orbiters” because I wouldn’t give a nice guy™ who just insulted my nails access to any of my holes. Or fall in love with him. I don’t know, like I said earlier #notallmen. College had it’s fun moments.

So stick with me here. Once your daughter enters the real world she’s going to realize that there are still some men that don’t think she’s a person regardless of her appearance or accomplishments. Arm her with the warning signs and a one way ticket to cathartic bliss. It’s hard to be a person and not be regarded as one. Let her have those reassuring moments.

Speaking of fun, you best believe I trolled the HELL out of Russell Hartley. He has such alpha male confidence, you see, that he blocks everyone who disagrees with him, which is most of the internet. I think the comment that got him to finally block me on both Instagram and TikTok was when I asked him at what point exactly he let Neil Strauss jizz all over his entire existence. I don’t think I would have taken it quite that far, however, if I didn’t see a five year old picture of him standing unacceptably close to the goddess mentioned earlier. A picture that should have been captioned “HOT CHICK. I GET. BUY COURSE.” I was angered to see her being used as this proof of concept for the dating course he was selling. 

I didn’t know if they actually dated, though. She’s a beautiful woman. It’s only natural people would want pictures with her to pass off five years later as relevant in an effort to sell “confidence coaching”. Unfortunately, is my deepest sorrow to inform you that yes, he not only was her ex, but he was also that ex. How interesting is it that I once fantasized about kicking a man I didn’t even know’s head in only to see him on the internet without realizing who he was and immediately wanted to kick his head in? Wow. Small world. Truly astonishing.

I could doxx him with his real name, but TikTok beat me to the punch. I could give you all his real age, but eh... everyone is “30″ until they’re 40, low hanging fruit in the grand scheme of things. I could tell you the horrific thing he did to the woman whose time he did not deserve, but it’s not my story to tell. What I could encourage you to do, though, is search “Russell Hartley” on both TikTok and YouTube to see him get ripped to shreds left and right by people with millions of followers. Before you whip out your lotion and unbuckle I encourage you to go to the kitchen and get yourself a glass of something nice. I want you to really enjoy his downfall. 

Russell, darling, if you made it this far, all publicity is good publicity, right? That’s what you said when people first started making angry reactions to your god awful content. I don’t know if anyone besides you is even going to read this, and to be quite honest I don’t even care, because this is going to be one of the most satisfying things I have ever written to anyone:

The behavior that lead you to do what you did to that young woman is exactly the same behavior that caused you to lose your TikTok. It’s the driving force behind why you’ve become unanimously the internet’s most hated person, and why you need to make some serious amends if you ever want to be taken seriously on this planet. 

Oh, and by the way, the girl who “wasn’t allowed to dump you because you could basically be a model” has been in a serious relationship with a tech millionaire who all but worships her for several years now. Every time she posts a picture she’s on a private jet or in an exotic location, with a smile so bright it could melt your facade. Or what’s left of it, anyway.

[ohitsjustfee]

The New Normal

If there was one thing I learned in my year of being a G-list internet celebrity it’s that it doesn’t pay to be normal. With how over saturated the influencer market is, you need to pick a niche and stick with it. If you’re basic, you need to be in the top .01% of basic bitches. If you’re a regular middle class woman who likes, I don’t know, scrap booking, you better be the best at everything that entails. You are required to have a home so crunchy that essential oils sweat from our monitors when we watch you, or welcome to your 3 views and one like.

So you’ve soared to the top of the basic bitch pecking order. Don’t get your tits out and don’t even think for one second about any alternative form of candor. Chances are you already have a forum thread, made for Karens by Karens, and they’re picking apart your every move. They’re salivating over the thought of finding your imperfections. They’re like your nosey neighbors, waiting anxiously to measure your lawn in hopes that today will be the glorious day that they finally get to call the city on you. 

I’ve never been basic. I’ve always been the black sheep of my family which were the black sheep of my neighborhood. I take great pleasure in talking about my mental illnesses, which I just realized mid sentence is what I’m doing this very second. I’m doing this for fun. Let me be very clear about that. I’m doing this to entertain myself. 

People notice that. It’s interesting to see someone be so brazen, but this manic pixie dream hoe shit is cute until you’ve spread your personalities so thin that your followers start to forget which one they signed up for. The bitter Queen with Warrior down her arm? The retro fashion girl who can make victory rolls with a fork? The overly opinionated Democratic Socialist that 50 year old men use as an AOC punching bag? Bitch, pick a niche. 

So I asked Gabby to summarize my writing style to a man who was curious and unfamiliar. “Sad horny girl shit,” he said. That’s fair. I relate a lot to this meme that says “Me to people in real life: I’m really shy, but if you get to know me I eventually open up. Me to the internet: I’M HORNY AND SUICIDAL.” The problem with that though is that I’ve been on antidepressants so long that I forgot what my clitoris is supposed to feel like. Yeah, I’m still sad, but it’s 2020, who isn’t? We’re all Jack and Rose clinging stoically to the railing, hoping the ship wont pull us under for longer than we can hold our breath.

I feel like we have become so numb to atrocities that we barely have time to digest one before the next one comes along. One moment we’re absorbing the gut punch of 175,000 Americans dead. Next, we’re learning that Trump absolutely colluded with Russia. Somewhere between that we learned that Trump is blatantly defunding the USPS which will not only harm the election but small businesses in general. The Postmaster General has no plans to budge on this. Could it be that Amazon pays him dividends? Oh, nooo... surely no one is that greedy in this oligarchy. Has anyone ever figured out what happened to those protesters that got shoved into those white vans? Psssst... There is no ethical consumption under Capitalism.

So my clitoris is lifeless just like the rest of me, and by no means does that set me apart. Frantically reading the news? Check. Long spells of insomnia? Check. Trying to start a small business while broke and putting some serious consideration into starting an OnlyFans? Check, but Beyonce sang about it so that makes it okay. 

Gabby told me to quit with the TikTok and get back to writing. I suppose that means he thought I was keeping up with my TikTok. Jokes on you, UncleGabby, I’m too depressed to do either. So what can I contribute? Maybe nothing, and maybe that’s okay. Maybe I don’t need to take up real estate in people’s minds. My clit shut down, my mind sped up, and I’m living off of PopTarts. I am the new normal. I am, officially, a basic bitch. I guess I’ll go to Michael’s for craft supplies when I have money again. 

There’s some whores in this house. There’s some whores in this house.

[ohitsjustfee]

A Very Bizarre Grief Post

My sister did one of those Ancestry DNA thingies. I’ve debated it, but I don’t reeeeallly want to be cloned in the future for sex slavery, and my sister is my full-blooded sister so I figured I’d be getting the best of both worlds. I’d get my narcissistic curiosity fulfilled without the fear of little me’s being harvested by billionaires in the year 3000, if we make it that far as a species. 

That’s giving myself too much credit. The beauty standards will probably be astronomical at that point as CRISPR will enable people to design humans with proportions only achievable today if your mother is Kris Jenner. I’m so vain that I think I could give a year 3000 man a boner. 

Nah, but give me a time machine. I’ll be the hottest bitch in the year 1780. Maybe I could pass in Spain. I’d go there, bearing my ample bosom and futuristic knowledge of makeup. I’d enjoy the royal court, probably offering myself up as a courtesan to get there. I’d take in the culture shock, and then try to find Mozart simply so I could tell him that children’s choirs are singing his scatology songs to this day. I’d attend a few Operas, get piss-ass drunk, create a monument that says “Kill Adolf Hitler, invest in Apple, and buy Bitcoin”, and then hang myself from boredom.  

So the DNA test came back basically as expected. I expected a great deal of Irish and English, then the Spanish and Aztec. I was mainly interested to hear how much of my Mexican side was indigenous. Rumor had it that my grandfather was way more Spanish than Aztec, as Spanish was, and still to this day, considered to be of a higher class than my Native ancestors. Well, my grandfather’s brown-ass skin along with Ancestry DNA determined that was a lie. No, great gramps, you aren’t of noble Spanish blood, I’m sorry to tell you. But hey, today in the US people pretend to be Cherokee princesses so, enjoy?

I was expecting a little Northern African as the Moors were balls deep in Spain for a good 800 some years. That was there. West African? Ah, fuck. News to me. I’m not going to disrespect African Americans by concocting some type of forbidden love story to appease my white guilt. We all know how it got there. 

I’m disrespecting the dead by even writing about them on this medium. Oh, by the way, my dad sucked a lot of dick. A LOT OF DICK. Like, if he could suck three dicks at once he likely would haaaa- probably did. It took a long time for adult me to realize why my parents almost got divorced over his “friend” Brian. In elementary school I was constantly perplexed as to why my mom wouldn’t let my dad have a best friend. I loved “uncle Brian”! He’d play Pretty Pretty Princess with me. Remember that game? 

Anyway, I remember my dad getting his right ear pierced and sauntering off with Brian when my mother initiated the divorce. What I didn’t remember was that he was wearing a leather vest atop a maroon and blue striped shirt. Lucky am I to have an older sister that remembers the finer details. A leather vest layered atop a striped shirt? Heavens, father! That’s just being a bad gay.

Whatever, I’m bisexual and it’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine. I’m fine. It’s fine! I don’t miss the soft silky hair and skin of women at all. I’m perfectly content to never run my hands along the sway of a woman’s back again.

I’m sorry, but I don’t enjoy being bisexual. It makes me feel guilty. My dad certainly didn’t enjoy wherever the hell he fit on the sexuality spectrum. He eventually came back, pretended he never liked dick, and buried his urge for it in so many different substances that I couldn’t list them all if I tried. He used a combo of them to take his life. I wish he would have just moved to San Francisco and lived it up, leather vest, striped undershirt, and all. 

Look, my dad was a shit head. He was abusive in a variety of sadistic ways until his passing, but if I could go back in time I would have told him that liking dick is cool and he should do more of it. I would say that I accept that part of him. Only that part, but still. 

I can’t, so here it goes. Maybe the consciousnesses of the dead are plugged into a storage cloud like that ultra-gay Black Mirror episode. Dad, fuck you for like literally everything, but it’s cool that you sucked dick. Totally normal. Baptism is stupid, you were right to leave the church. Come back so I can beat the hell out of you, introduce you to some music you no doubt will think your taste is too refined for (but secretly love), and then drop you off at a gay bar. Trust me, mom will be better off for it. I’ll never stop loving and hating you regardless, you fucking woman beating pussy. Also, you’re part Inuit somehow. 

[ohitsjustfee]

Oscar

May 19th 2018 Subject: Oh little lady. You are a Warrior.

“ Let me say it again Fee. I missed you so much!!! I missed you. I missed you. I missed you. And I glad to have found you. Alive and hustling. There is so much to tell you beautiful lady. I have been through some shit. Some really good shit.but also some really bad shit. I followed you on Tumblr. I check your instachat. Glad you are not letting a bad relationship dictate your future. Dude is a fuck stick and I don't get it, but you fell in love. The heart wants what the heart wants. Will you send me a way of contacting you outside of this? I missed you.”

I gave him the direct link to my Facebook. He sent me a request and I immediately added him. I had missed him, too. More than I could possibly say, and now I get to spend the rest of my life missing him. I hope he somehow sees me writing this. I hope he has seen my tears. I hope he knows I care about him. One day I was severely emotional on Facebook and he sent me the following:

Will you be okay, Fee? I don’t know how to feel if I were to ever get not good news concerning you? I’m serious. There is a part of me that is kinda tied to you. Let me know how you’re feeling. Okay?

I hate that it took me so long to let him know I was okay. I hate that the last thing I ever said to him was a television show recommendation. I hate that someone so sweet and loving had to have cancer. I hate.

I don’t know how to honor him. I want more people to know how amazing he was. How he overcame a life similar to mine with a severely abusive father, and then overcame opiate addiction. How he learned how to NOT behave toward women from his father when so many men learn the opposite. He was a good partner to his wife, and a good father. He was stronger than I feel I can ever be, but I aspire to be. 

It took him two months to even tell me the reason he had an eye patch. I kept gently nudging him to tell me, but he was afraid of worrying me. I hoped and prayed that it wasn’t cancer, but when he told me it was I burst into tears and sent him a voice message crying. I don’t want to dwell on the negative, so I’m going to go through the year+ long Facebook chats we had and present some of the things he said that were more positive, or more uniquely him. I no-doubt will cry my eyes out in the process, but well, that’s why I’m here. To cry.

“My daughter was born on August 21, 2015. She was 5lb of beautiful, metamorphic, capitulating, ball of inertia that entered our lives. Let me know if you want to check out a baby pic. BTW, I just checked out the latest selfie you posted and might I say, your eye makeup is on fleek. Your eyebrows are on fire. You look stunning and amazing. You’re thebomb.com. “

“Its not that bad after losing an eyeball. I still have a valid driver’s license and can still get it on. As long as I have cars n’ women, life’s alright.”

“I went to the Lego store at one of the malls here in town and they had these pirate patches on clearance for like $2.50. I got one and I kinda dig that one. Even though it was meant to be some kid between 6-12′s Halloween costume. My little girl loves Legos.”

“Misery loves company. On the real, I am a little worried. The left side of my face is swollen. And it is more pronounced as time has passed. This would be a more common area for adenoid cystic carcinoma to be found.”

“I’m a borderline agnostic myself. IF I could convince myself to believe in the power that created the cosmos.... I dunno. Would it make a difference? Hope is hard for me to find. Maybe that’s the difference. I’d have more hope and serenity.”

Okay, that’s enough. I’m done. Tell the people in your lives that you love them. Tell them now. I love you, Oscar. I hope you’ve found peace and serenity. 

[ohitsjustfee]

Felina Marquez on Instagram: “A mental exercise that can put your life in perspective and guide you in a more positive direction. #selfcare

216 Likes, 20 Comments - Felina Marquez (@ohitsjustfee) on Instagram: “A mental exercise that can put your life in perspective and guide you

My first ever vlog-style video! Hopefully this trick will work for you as it does for me.

[ohitsjustfee]

Faygo

Jealousy is defined as “a feeling of discontented or resentful longing aroused by someone else's possessions, qualities, or luck.” I get jealous of people’s career successes, and in some instances people’s pregnancies and/or babies. It’s never someone I’m not connected to. I’m not jealous of Jennifer Anniston. It has to be a person in my social group’s success in these areas that arouse any type of feeling of jealousy.

I also recognize the importance of this feeling. After a certain age you are able to step back, look at it objectively, and understand that if jealousy wasn’t an important emotion we would not collectively experience it. Jealousy is a necessary motivator; a feeling hardwired into our brains that tell us to get our shit together as it forces us to benchmark our successes, or lack there of, to that of our peers. I can’t for the life of me understand why this word is used in a romantic context.

In my last post I went into depth about the type of pain that occurs when someone you’re in love with objectifies, or seeks out, other women. Everyone in my life describes this feeling as “jealousy,” so for the sake of communication sometimes I will as well, but I always feel disingenuous doing so. The only time I’ve ever truly related to someone on this topic was in high school.

My best friend at the time, Heather, was in a tumultuous, soap opera of a high school relationship with a boy that went to a different school. He was constantly chipping away at her self esteem by putting her down for her weight (she was what the kids now call “dummy thicc”). One day her blonde cheerleader friend (who wasn’t dummy thicc) confessed to Heather that Heather’s piece of shit boy child was calling her at night and hitting on her.

I sat next to Heather that morning and watched her absorb the absolute gut punch of a blow that this news delivered to her. She looked like she was going to spew all over our desk. I expressed my condolences and told her I understood how jealousy feels. “Jealous?!” she snapped. “I don’t feel jealous at all. Who am I jealous of? I feel like fucking shit. I feel sick.”

YES! Yes, finally. Someone agreed with me that the use of this word in this context doesn’t make sense at all. Meditating on it now, I’d wager a guess that what people describe as “jealousy” in the context of a romantic relationship has very little to do with jealousy at all. I’d say it’s one part anger, the type of anger that makes you dizzy as your heart races and your fists clench. One part of it is grief, as you absorb the reality that the person you thought wouldn’t betray you has done just that. One part of it is a deep feeling of worthlessness.

When I was 13 my first love broke up with me for a beautiful Native American girl named Brianna. She was a dancer and her family was rich. We were both little, tiny brown things, only her hair was way better than mine and she was significantly less socially awkward. I wasn’t jealous of Brianna. I didn’t feel connected enough to Brianna to feel any kind of jealousy, as it’s traditionally defined. I felt like Faygo.

For those of you who aren’t from Michigan and have been spared the education on what the Insane Clown Posse is, Faygo is a Michigan based soda company that has many sodas that are knock-offs of more well known sodas. There is a Faygo Cola, a Faygo Mountain Dew called Moon Mist, and even a Faygo Hawaiian Punch which was actually pretty good, but in true downriver Detroit fashion we stuck to Moon Mist when we couldn’t afford Mountain Dew, which was often.

Moon Mist tastes really similar to Mountain Dew as you drink it, but it gives you this weird, almost medicine-like after taste. It is truly the poor man’s choice. As my first love told me that the “only reason he was with me is because I was the closest thing he could get to Brianna”, a deep feeling of Faygo permeated my existence. My friend Maria ended up making me a beaded bracelet with the word Faygo on it, as she loved my analogy so much. I embodied the feeling of Faygo so much that if it weren’t for the fact that people would think I’m a down-ass juggalette (mad mother fuckin’ clown love y’all, don’t come for me), I would get it tattooed somewhere.

Juggalos love Faygo because it is such a great representative of Detroit culture, from which Juggalo culture spawned. It signifies finding pleasure and identification in belonging to the lower class, to poverty, and the strength it gives you for enduring it. When I think of Faygo, I think of $5 Hot-n-Readys and dime bags of weed. I think about the concept of settling.

The Insane Clown Posse identifies with Faygo so much that they will spray their audience with two liter bottles of the stuff. It’s part of the experience, like going to a Gwar show and getting sprayed down with fake blood and bile. If you don’t leave the concert an absolute mess, you didn’t get your money’s worth.

I’m getting off track here. What I’m saying is that there needs to be a word for the relationship type of “jealousy” that some people experience (and by “some people” I mean me) that more closely matches the actual feeling. Let’s see if the Germans have one. Germans have a word for everything.

Wow, not even the Germans seem to have this one nailed. So I propose that we turn Faygo into an adjective as well as a noun. For example: “I just feel like faygo right now! Do you understand how faygo this made me feel?” It’s perfect, at least to me.

Anyway, Brianna wanted nothing to do with my first love so after three obsessive months of chasing him I got him back and eventually we exchanged virginities. I didn’t grow tits until I was almost 16, so chasing was a necessary part of my dating life. He tells me to this day that he can’t stand the word Faygo because of how I used to use it, and the feeling of guilt it still instills in him. That’s what you get, mother fucker.

On the next episode of “I want to make a YouTube channel but can’t because I keep writing all of my ideas into this dumb-ass blog” we will be discussing the concept of forgiveness and how I have no clue what it actually means. In the meantime, tell me, do you think “jealousy” is the correct term for the feeling you get when you are betrayed by a lover? Do you have a better alternate word suggestion than Faygo? Are you all Juggalos who wants to murder me? If it helps, Psycopathics From Outer Space Volume 2 is a so-bad-it’s-good masterpiece that I occasionally revisit to this day.

I can’t believe I just admitted that.

Oprah please come and slob me down. I be like, “Steadman, how you like me now?”

[ohitsjustfee]

This one’s for the ~ladies~

If you’re a woman and you found my Instagram from your man looking at me I wish to extend my understanding of the pain it caused you, along with an apology. There were two phrases that scarred me in my youth:

Behind every beautiful woman is a man tired of fucking her.”-Unknown &

“Men are only as faithful as their options” -Chris Rock (God bless his ex-wife.)

I don’t mean to make a generalization, but as a woman I have noticed through my perception (and the candor of my female friends) that when we watch porn (if we even do) we have this subjective way of removing ourselves from the porn itself. A lot of us think “Woo! Look at them go! I’d love to try that position! Yeah!” After which a lot of us immediately switch our focus back to general life stuff.

I’m sure there’s some women that look at the naked male form and think “Mmm yeah, I want to fuck him. I wish my husband’s dick was that size.” Sadly, for the most part we just enjoy the context and setup of pornography and how it could be applied to our individual imaginations. I don’t know many women who can get off to a picture of a man. This difference in wiring can cause us heavy confusion.

Trans YouTuber Natalie Wynn who came to earth when Einstein nutted a load into Mozart’s bussy, and was shat out while Mozart received a rusty trombone from Vincent Van Gogh, has some great insight into this. The trans community in general really sheds some insight into this schism. When she was still in a male body with male hormones she was able to be aroused simply from a picture. Deep into her transition she realized that estrogen therapy altered the way she became aroused. For Natalie, now it is more about the connection and context of her crush, and she needn’t orgasm to enjoy sex.

Alright, so we have two notes from this for straight men to take:

We don’t need to orgasm in order to enjoy intimacy. For the love of god stop pounding away until we’re raw because you won’t feel like a man unless we affirm you with theatrics and rhythmic kegals. Sometimes we just like being close to you, all cuddly up inside and stuff.

Women don’t tend to get visually aroused to the extent that men can. This is why you will often hear women complain about “dick pics.”

Most women, if they’re over 25 at least, have reached this conclusion on their own. So here marches in the harsh reality that men are biologically wired to want to fuck a variety of women, and so when they look at imagery of women on Instagram they are very likely fantasizing about bending her over. Or perhaps they fantasize about having their heads squished between the woman’s thick, strong, meaty thighs. I don’t kink shame. Either way, they want them. Sincerely. In real life. And they would.

We see our men hastily try to close the browser window of some scantly clad Instagram chick, and GOD DOES IT FUCKING HURT, but if you admit it hurts you are coined as irrational or expecting too much, which isn’t far off considering the harsh reality that we discussed earlier.

That doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt like hell for a lot of us, so what do we do with that? Get angry? Irrational. Cry? Have a go at it, but you’re still being unrealistic. Bottle it up inside and let it slowly chip away at our feelings of self worth like some sort of Chinese water torture? Yeah. I guess that will do.

Ladies, I’m an IG thot and I’m sorry. Take solice in the fact that I have a network of IG thots that I speak to and we tend to talk about how much we’re hurt by our partner’s proclivities. As hypocritical as that might be, I’ll throw myself under the bus to make you feel better.

The pain of knowing your men fantasize about humping random IG strangers is like a dagger in the heart. Understand that I’m an IG thot who has felt that very dagger and seen the room spin on several occasions. Let me recruit my ex boyfriend Christopher for this discussion. I’ve caught him jacking off to my friend’s pictures more times than I can recall. (Seriously. Their Facebook pictures. When real porn exists, and is free.)

Christopher: “I mean... it’s just that we need variety. We’re wired to like variety. That doesn’t mean we don’t love you. It’s just like if I were to eat steak every night. I’d get sick of it, wouldn’t you?”

Myself: “God, that doesn’t help at all. Now I feel even more like a boring and disposable piece of meat.”

Christopher: “Well, think of it this way. We may fantasize about fucking them, but we don’t fantasize about going grocery shopping with them.”

So, there you have it. That’s about as much comfort as I can personally squeeze out of this blog. I should make a disclaimer that #notallmen and #notallwomen have these drastically opposed wirings that lead to heart ache. I hate painting with broad strokes. But, you must admit, enough of us feel this way that it justifies the existence of this blog post.

Your body is fine. Your body is fine. Your body is fine. Your man is just still wired to spread his seed. There’s nothing wrong with you. He isn’t fantasizing about taking the woman to Target, at least, remember? If you were a half naked Instagrammer with a following you’d still have to deal with this pain because of BiOLoGY. Remind yourself of that the next time you see a “Hot Girl™” on your man’s device.

Your body is fine. Your body is fine. Your body is fine.

Rocking back and forth hugging my knees in the shower

MY BODY IS FINE. MY BODY IS FINE. MY BODY IS FINE.

[ohitsjustfee]

Charity Case

“Hey, man. I really appreciate this. Can I reimburse you? I can even give you some extra if you want.”

“Oh, no. Your money is no good here. I know you’d do the same for me.”

“Are you sure? It’s not a big deal.”

“Yeah I’m sure. It was nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“Can I pay you half? Here, at least let me give you half.”

“Nope. I mean it. It’s fine.”

“I’m really not good at this.”

“At what?”

“Just taking from people.”

“We all need someone to do us favors sometimes.”

“It’s humiliating. It reminds me of when people would give my family canned food on holidays.”

“You need to get over that. I’m just trying to be a good friend.”

“Be kind to me by letting me pay you back.”

“Do you think I’m going to hold this against you or something?”

“No. Well, maybe. It just feels... weighty.”

“Well you should know me better than that. It’s really not that hard to accept a favor once in a while.”

“Handout.”

“What?!”

“You say favor, I hear handout. Can’t I just strip for you or something?”

“WHAT?!”

“I mean, it doesn’t have to be in person if that’s too awkward. I can text you nudes.”

“Are you crazy?! That’s not who I am! Besides, I’ve already seen you naked on the internet. Get a grip, Fee. I’m not going to think of you as a charity case just because you accepted a favor I am vehemently insisting upon.”

“I’m triggered.”

“How?!”

“That phrase. Charity case.”

“I’m trying to tell you I DON’T think of you as a charity case.”

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!! JUST TAKE MY FUCKING MONEY!!!”

Throws wad of twenties and runs into nearby woods.

/friendship

[ohitsjustfee]

Vapetard

Hi my name is Fee and I don’t know how much nicotine I consume a day. I’m not exactly keeping track here. I put the vape juice in, I blow the vape juice out. I screw a coil in, and I puff it all about. I’m not sure if it does a thing except for keep me from withdrawal. That’s what it’s all about!

So I started smoking when I was 15. It was a step down from poking myself with safety pins, blasting Lateralus from my DVD player on repeat, and writing bad poetry about my how my high school boyfriend dumped me every other Friday. The funny thing about Brian was that once we discovered pot it replaced the utter turmoil of our high school push-pull and gave us more stability. We didn’t even officially break up, we just enjoyed our new vice together.

Vice, that’s all it is. “You just love clinging to your vices” yelled a more erratic teenage era ex of mine. Big talk from a guy who later became the suburb’s highest pot dealer. He once gave me a choice between “candy cloud” and a strain called “train wreck”. I asked him what the difference was. He said one was called candy cloud and the other one was called train wreck. On that basis, it was an easy decision.

A few years ago I was his platonic +1 for some sort of pot dealer wedding. I heard “When is the next shipment of wax coming in?” more than I heard anything about the bride and groom. I like to stay friends with my exes when possible.

Sadly pot didn’t take me away from my nicotine fixation. In fact, smoking while stoned was my favorite passtime. I quit smoking about five years ago using e-cigarettes which now people constantly mistake for a pot vape.

I don’t have many haters. I’m not there yet. But what I do have are honest blokes that tell me I need to stop vaping and using self deprecating humor. I understand the first one, but sometimes you just need to talk about what a dumb bitch you are so you won’t dwell as much on what a dumb bitch you are.

Vaping isn’t attractive to most people, but I’d like to think I don’t care if you find me attractive. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I want to be seen as aesthetically pleasing. I just don’t know if I care to attract people who would judge me for having a vape.

One formative teenage day, Brian burped loudly and because I had no originality at the time I tritely said “attractive.” He put me in my place by saying “I’m not trying to attract. I’m being myself.” It hadn’t dawned on my brainwashed-by-the-‘90s child-mind that I was allowed to prioritize being myself over being attractive. The more you know.

Regardless, there are many reasons why I should quit vaping:

Whether it’s smoke or vape, nicotine is an unnecessary chemical that I’m putting into my body. I have this fear that, just like with cigarettes, we are going to find out the hard way that vaping is bad when people start dying from it.

I’m spending at least $60 a month on coils and replacement vape.

I walked into the shower on my birthday and handfuls of my hair came out into my hands. As it was happening I realized that screaming is something people usually do in these situations, but since no one was home to hear me scream I made the conscious decision to not be dramatic. It hasn’t happened since, thankfully, but if vaping had anything to do with that moment, I’m done. I don’t know if it did or if it was the side effect of the stress of moving so I’ll just list this as “possibly made some hair fall out.”

It highlights the fact that I need to self sooth constantly, thus thrusting in everyone’s face that I have PTSD. I’m not ashamed of having PTSD, I just don’t want that to be they lense people see me through, because I’m far more than that. A dumb bitch only being one of my many attributes.

It keeps me from stress eating and I like to be on the thicker side of things. It makes me feel healthy to have leg fat to jiggle, and that’s what’s in style these days regardless. Jiggling everywhere except the face, arms, neck, and mid section. Men are getting spoiled by people who can afford plastic surgery. Why, yes! I am quite bitter!

It only really creates an anticipation of vaping. Once I’m done vaping, nothing has changed. I don’t feel calmer. I don’t feel more at ease. All I did was make the anticipation of vaping go away for a second. My vape addiction’s only purpose is to sooth my vape addiction.

It makes me look like a degenerate when I’m outside. I like to BE a degenerate, I don’t like to look like a degenerate. I like to look like a classy young lady who eventually discusses with you just how naked she is on the internet, and how she used to poke herself with safety pins while listening to Lateraus. I need to find healthier coping skills in general.

Reasons I don’t want to quit vaping:

I’m a dumb bitch.

The mouth feel.

I’ll quit again, just give me time.

[ohitsjustfee]

Oh, Instagram...

One day I playfully posted on Facebook for everyone to go to Instagram, because Instagram has butts. “So many butts”, replied a friend. Just... all of the butts.

The truth is, I don’t really like looking at female butts. I also really like looking at female butts. My specific bisexuality is weird. I have all of the body image issues of the typical woman who doesn’t fit the Kim K mold, with all of the drive to look at butts as someone who really likes butts. So really, looking at Instagram was a semi-masochistic practice for me. Can’t beat ‘em? Join ‘em. @ohitsjustfee on IG.

I stared at all of the butts with the intense vigor of 1,000 sexually repressed bisexuals, but yet I resented the girls with butt implants, especially the ones who showed you how to “properly do” the outer leg lifts that I already knew exactly how to do from pirating Beachbody’s Brazilian Butt Lift. 

Listen, ladies, no amount of squats is going to give you an ass the size of Kylie Jenner’s. Don’t believe me? YouTube search “buns of steel.” When flat booties were in style in the ‘90s, the same exercises were demonstrated as the route to the Pamela Anderson un-butt as they are being used today to represent the path to Khloe Kardashian’s miraculously expanded “gym” butt. Money is the best gym. 

Alright I needed to get all of my facetiousness out of the way before I turned this whole blog post into a rant about butts. Trust me, I could write you a book about butts. Butts are mainly irrelevant to the topic of this conversation.

OR ARE THEY?!

Observe, a girl who is a self-proclaimed “loli-girl,” pressing her bare buttocks against a glass door:

Okay, so... I understand that I had to take some artistic liberties with this. Tumblr made an announcement about their change of policy some months back. All I remember from it was thinking “Huh, that’s stupid, but maybe they’ll still thrive on their shockingly large Twilight fan-fiction community.” I also remember musing on how stupid the phrase “female presenting nipples” is. Thanks for including trans-women in your sexism, Tumblr. 

Nipples aside, I’m not sure if butts are allowed on here. I have yet to investigate. I have Instagram for that. Besides, she calls herself a “loli girl”, so that surely means she likes lollipops a whole lot and would approve of my addition. She most definitely isn’t insinuating that she is trying to emulate the image of a lolicon girl, henti’s version of child pornography, right? She just likes to show her appreciation of traditional henti, and likes to call people Daddy because that’s in fashion with the youths, right? She opted for metal braces as an adult instead of the invisible alternative because it would prevent her from consuming too many lollipops, right?

RIGHT?!

Ah, fuck. Well, okay, so I’m not here to yuck anyone’s yums. My kink may be kink shaming, but I’m from Detroit. We don’t knock people’s hustles in Detroit. Get that hebephile coin, girl! Plus she’s pretty and her never ending supply of wigs is giving me ideas on how to style my hair so... get it, girl.

I think. I don’t know. I’m not exactly the moral authority here. If she’s a grown woman wanting to emulate a pubescent child, then technically no children are getting harmed. I think.  It’s the same debate as to whether or not we should have child sex dolls. Would they fuel the desire for the more action-prone pedophiles to molest kids, or would they satiate it? I don’t know! I don’t think anyone knows, probably because it would do some of both given that people with that inclination are all individual people and there is no blanket solution to be found. All I know is that it makes me feel “icky,” and feeling “icky” is not a good foundation to build a logical argument on, so I’m going to move on now.

The reason I bring this up is because I have a sizable IG following. Allow me to dust off my shoulder real quick before remembering that in the world of IG thottery, 17.1 thousand people really isn’t that much. It is apparently enough to put me on IG’s radar, though. 

One day I woke up and couldn’t get into my IG account. I had been deactivated for being too lewd. I was horribly confused. Trigonometry meme confused. I hadn’t really done anything that thotty. Certainly not on the level of Cardi B, Lena the Plug, Kim Kardashian, all of her sisters, Belle Delphine, and every person attached to the butts I had been staring at for the past year of my IG adventure. 

Side note: I just checked my feed and saw singer Lizzo swinging her bare tits outside of her hotel window. It was pretty rad. The Lizzo part, not the being deactivated part, especially because at the time I was going through some shit and my IG friends were keeping my head above water in the DMs. 

I checked the IG thot guidelines to see if there was something I was missing. It read as follows:

“We know that there are times when people might want to share nude images that are artistic or creative in nature, but for a variety of reasons, we don’t allow nudity on Instagram. This includes photos, videos, and some digitally-created content that show sexual intercourse, genitals, and close-ups of fully-nude buttocks. It also includes some photos of female nipples, but photos of post-mastectomy scarring and women actively breastfeeding are allowed, nudity in photos of paintings and sculptures is OK, too.”

Alright, so my profile should have been fine, right? I didn’t do any of what was listed above. No close up buttocks, no sculptures, no “female presenting nipples,” I was utterly confused but not at all surprised. 

For months I have seen, and continue to see, profiles that say something along the lines of “last profile deactivated at 125 (or some arbitrary large number) thousand.” I did ask a few how they got deleted, and they told me they didn’t know. When IG takes down your profile, they don’t give you any concise information as to why. They don’t say “this image right here crossed a line,” and I had not disobeyed any of the guidelines.

When something weird happens to me I search my brain for a person who would have the most information on the topic to help. I happen to know a guy who ran a 500k strong IG page that consisted of scantly-clad, yet guideline abiding, models. I asked him how he got his profile back the last time his profile was taken down.

He didn’t. After three take-downs and resurrections he finally gave up and switched his efforts to the warm, raunchy embrace of Twitter. He pointed me to an article in Tech Crunch which explained the whole phenomenon. The title of the article is “Instagram now demotes vaguely ‘inappropriate’ content.” I guess the title says it all, but if you want more elaboration than I can provide, look up the article.

I may have some inside dirt that will make me sound like a conspiracy theorist nut-job, but I trust my tech-geek source. After all, he runs a thriving web business. He knows his shit. 

1. They’re destroying discoverability. One of the ways they are doing this is by “shadow banning” men and women alike that they consider kinda lewd, but not guideline breaking lewd. This means that once these people are identified, they are no longer able to utilize hashtags.

Sure, they can put hashtags on their posts, but they’re not going to show up under those hashtags, nor are they going to show up on the explore page of people who are interested in those hashtags. This doesn’t just apply to thottery. If you have an edgy meme page, you better hope you don’t offend anyone, or you’ll be shadow banned for hate speech.

If you want to check to see if you’re shadow banned, just make a post with an obscure hashtag and see if you come up under that hashtag. I don’t come up under the hashtag #billyblueballs so I guess it’s safe to assume I’m shadow banned.

2. They’re very aware of their “secksi girl” image, and they don’t like it. They want to be more advertiser friendly. God forbid an advertisement for a payday loan app shows up next to a woman with an S curve. Then people will associate payday loan apps with Jessica Rabbit, and that’s just bad marketing.

3. They have an AI/bot policing system. These bots will delete images and take down profiles if their AI senses an S-curve posture, an open mouth, and a finger in one’s mouth to name a few. A guy friend of mine had a food blog that was deleted. All I can guess is that his food formed some sort of S shape. 

Well, Instagram isn’t nice enough to do what Tumblr did and give their user base a heads up about their policy change. They could have been like “Hey, we don’t want curvy women, edgy memes, or sexy food anymore!” But seeing as how their platform is image based, and I’d wager a bet that most people are there for all of the sexy, I can see from a shady marketing standpoint that it would have been detrimental to their business to make such an announcement.

I have a marketing degree from a shady college, so I’m well poised to make this assumption. Instagram is owned by Facebook, a publicly traded company. An announcement about their distaste for sex appeal and edgy memes could cause a drastic tank in their user base and a lot of controversy. Their stock could take a hefty blow. You thought Elon Musk taking a hit of a joint was bad?! The thotpocalypse would put that to shame. So that brings me back to the famous IG thots.

Belle Delphine stans, please forgive me. The image I posted above broke 2/3 of the only guidelines they give us in terms of expressing adult sexuality. Her buttocks are fully nude, and pressing them against the glass revealed a hint of her unbleached *applause break* anus. I reported it, but only so I could get this image:

The picture currently has over 600,000 views, and her page has 3 million followers.

Alright, this is already getting into TL;DR territory so let me just state the obvious. They don’t want Kim Kardashian’s millions of fans upset. I don’t even want to imagine how mad a truly dedicated hebephile fan of Belle could get. Instagram doesn’t want to deal with that. So here’s the cold truth:

You see the top creators on instagram, and you think that’s attainable. Maybe five years ago, but now Instagram has secret guidelines that they’re not disclosing. They delete girls in bikinis while letting girls emulating Lolita smash their bare asses against glass, simply because they’re already famous. 

When they delete your profile they will tell you that you were demonstrating “sexual intent.” Vague enough to hopefully shame you into slinking away, even though you did not violate the guidelines you have access to.

I’m not a slinker. I submitted four tickets telling them that I would be a good little whore so that they would reinstate my profile, and now I’m risking permanent deletion by speaking out against them. HEY INSTAGRAM, SLATHER YOURSELVES IN CRISCO OIL AND CARTWHEEL NAKED THROUGH A FIELD OF DICKS. Everyone else follow me on @ohitsjustfee while I last, and sign my petition.

Yes, I made a petition. I’m insufferable. I go on my little crusades. Here, just look at it: https://tinyurl.com/yypg88a5 Sign it. Pass it around. Show them this blog post. Send it to famous people. Send it to semi-famous people. I’m too tired from writing this to harass famous people right now. Maybe tomorrow. Right now I’m just annoyed. 

To be clear, I don’t mind obeying rules. I just need to know the rules. I just like rules to be uniformly applied. So, IG, darling, grab your nut-sack real tight and make a call to the press about your new guidelines like Tumblr did. Then, we can all truly be good little whores for you. You’re already billionaires. You’ll be fine. Do the right thing. 

Or, just keep letting people spend months and sometimes years building a following based on what they believe are your rules only for their hard work to be pulled out from underneath them.

Lollipop, lollipop, oh lolli lolli lolli...

[ohitsjustfee]

Victim, Victor, Tomato, Tomato

When I was about 15-24 I fancied myself this dark, brooding soul. The ‘00s were very much the “pain is beauty” era. Girls posted cutting pictures on Livejournal, emotional lyrics in their AOL away messages, and enjoyed music with actual instrumentation in it. Ya know, so totally gawth. 

I loved the song Bottom by Tool because of the repeating phrase “dead inside,” which I felt was what I was, but looking back on those times, despite legitimate trauma, I was full of a spirit I had taken for granted. I sure like playing the victim, don’t I?

I remember bouncing down the stairs of my dilapidated apartment stoop so fast that the wind from my rush to his car swept back my hair to reveal this little flower I had pinned behind my ear. In retrospect, I don’t think women without spirit put little flowers in their hair to impress a man.They certainly don’t spend all night painting their nails to look like the galaxy, either. 

I practically floated into his arms to smell the Virginian sun in the crease of his neck. He had been driving up for weekends for months. The 7 hour trek from Richmond to Detroit. We’d lay facing each other in this $80 a night hotel. I’d hold his ear like a child holding her teddy bear, and rub my thumb along the scruff of his beard. 

The drip of the ceiling into the bucket next to the bed mimicked the tempo of the ticking clock and laid perfectly beside his voice while I laid beside him, tracing his cheekbones with my eyes. The man loved to hear himself talk, and I loved to listen. In the months leading up to our eventual face-to-face meeting, we would talk on the phone for five hours each night. Sometimes I could set the phone down to paint my finger and toenails as he rambled, without missing my cue. 

I wasn’t bothered by this. Quiet girls are rarely bothered by such things. Quiet girls often feel insignificant, Quiet girls often don’t feel like their words have value. Quiet girls are often just relieved to have a break from the gears turning in their heads at hamster wheel speed, each gear representing a different trauma. I sure love playing the victim, don’t I?

I love you. I’ll save you. I’ll marry you. I’ll give you all of the normalcy you never had but always craved. I will find you beautiful when you’re 80. Similar sentiments repeated in different ways again, and again, and again, slowing down my gears and reaching around them to push the buttons for oxytocin, serotonin, dopamine, and whatever neurotransmitter makes women horny. I got so god damn high off of him that I swear to this day I was able to watch myself staring  at his features from the ceiling.. 

As soon as he officially moved to Detroit I moved in with him. Partially because my frontal lobe hadn’t fully developed, but mostly because days without him just didn’t feel like days at all. My days were Game of Throne marathons, food binges, cuddlying, sleeping, making love for hours on end, and being told how loved I was. Pure passion with no foundation, an extremely misguided bid for happiness. 

Then, slowly, the long rambling proclamations of love turned into lectures about everything that was mentally wrong with me. “Just tell me what you want me to be and I’ll be it!” I said out of exasperation. He shot up from the bed we were in and with the most scathing glare and tone said “You sure love playing the victim, don’t you?”

I don’t know if that shut me up. I’d like to think I stood up for myself, but my memory became a haze after that, because, you know? He wasn’t wrong. The problem was with me, I was just crazy. The product of childhood molestation, abuse, neglect, and poverty. A victim.

I was clay to be molded into clay to be molded into even more malleable clay that, the quicker I molded into the shape of the woman he said he would marry, the quicker my life could begin. 

I guess I don’t have to tell you guys that he had no intention of marrying me in the first place, but the real kicker to me was that to him, I wasn’t even human. I may always be “the quiet girl,” but my best friend Amanda had shown me what it was like to be strong through pain. I took a step back, looked at my newly molded personality, and realized I didn’t have a god damn clue who I was anymore. I only saw the spirit I didn’t know I had turning grey, when color was draining from my world.

I broke up with him like a heroin addict flushes their supply. I wasn’t done, I just really, REALLY wanted to be. Every reward system in my brain longed for that person he pretended to be for the first 6 months of our relationship. The one who treated me with perceived respect. The one who touted how socially liberal he was. The one who cried at the end of Lincoln. Certainly not the one who said the N word constantly. Certainly not the man who lectured me 95% of the time he was speaking to me. 

The addiction was strong. I texted him one night. He came over to take me out. We were going to talk things out and make things work. I thought. That was my intention, anyway. We went to dinner. He bought food for my mother and sister. We past the turn-around to go to my apartment. “Wait, where are we going?” 

“Just come over and see the dogs for 15 minutes or so. They miss you.” I missed them. I missed him.

I’m going to spare you the gory details. It was 10 PM when it started and 1 AM when it stopped. It didn’t feel like 3 hours. It felt like a hurricane. Crying my heart out I ran to the living room to put back on my thong. He took me by the arm and sat me on the couch with him. I begged him to take me home. I begged him to just let me get him off with head. I told him he was “being rapey,” and that’s when he said one of the worst phrases ever uttered to me from a man’s mouth.  

“I’m not raping you. I know rapists. Real ones. Ones who rape in alleys and shit, and I hate those guys.”

Eventually he finished inside of me and passed out drunk. I didn’t sleep. I laid next to him in the worst mental torment I had experienced to that point. At one point I went into the kitchen, opened a bottle of peanuts, ripped off the seal, and downed a handful. I hadn’t eaten that day. I rocked back and forth naked on his bathroom floor just envisioning all of my hope sinking to the bottom of the ocean in a nailed down coffin. 

He texted me two weeks later to tell me he found the jar of peanuts and that it made him miss me. The idiosyncratic way I open packaging like a wild boar. Every compliment was an insult. If only he knew the state of mind I was in when I opened that jar. 

It was over. There was no coming back from that. He had proved to me that night that he didn’t love me, and that the person I had loved never existed.

Still, I was desperate. I called him and begged him for any explanation that might make what occurred okay. He reprimanded me for making him feel so bad about himself. He didn’t believe what he did was rape. I don’t know if I did either. I don’t know if a lot of rape victims do. 

I could have tried to rip his balls off. I didn’t. I could have tried to gouge his eyes out. I didn’t. I could have just ran naked into the street. I didn’t. Still, if a friend were to describe these details to me if they occurred to her, I would tell her it wasn’t her fault. I wish we could do for ourselves what we do for others.

If you really focus on the words in nursery rhymes you might notice how incredibly dark they are. The London Bridge is Falling Down. Ashes, Ashes, we all Fall Down. I think we do this to subtly prepare children for the dark struggles that lay ahead of them. I wish, though, for once, we would warn children that sometimes they won’t realize Jack’s crown is already broken until they’re laying shattered at the bottom of the hill their damn self.

I hugged him months later before he moved back to Virginia. He spoke very optimistically about how we’d get back together in about 5 years. I told him to look me in the eyes as he spoke. I didn’t realize how rarely he looked me in the eye. His eyes were cold, vacant, with tiny pupils that made him look lost, cold, deranged. I saw his sickness clearly for the first time that day. I still feel stupid for not noticing it before.

Count the time as it passes you by

With the soothing tick-tock of a nursery rhyme

Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water

He slipped on a rock, and broke his cock, 

and his crown then turned to shatter

When Jill found out, she high-tailed out, and never tumbled after

There, fixed it.

I stayed in love with my rapist for a year. A YEAR. Raise your hands if you were ever in love with a man who brutally assaulted you, and can relate to the feeling of your brain turning into a ping-pong table of bartering with yourself in a desperate, grief fueled search for hope.

I sure love playing the victim, don’t I?

[ohitsjustfee]

Lovely

I have never liked the phrase “I love you more and more each day.” It’s so unrealistic and selfish of me to be bothered by this phrase, but I am. I can’t help it. I have to be honest with myself. I feel like this phrase implies that love is fluid, and that love can be added and subtracted. One could argue that it’s a cold fact that love can wane, but I hate it. I hate that fact with a burning passion.

I want love to be an indestructible part of us all. 

“I love you fully.” When I love, it feels at full capacity. The person becomes the center of my world. I have my own interests and identity, don’t get me wrong, but I have no shame in holding someone above myself. I don’t feel like I’m betraying my gender by cleaning up after someone. To me, it is all a part of making love. I make love to a man when I hold the screen door open so he can more easily unlock it and let us in. I make love to a man when I fix his cup of coffee in the morning. I make love to a man when I order him pizza, and scratch his back because I suck at massages.

When it comes to romanticism my perfectionism can be my downfall. I know more than anyone that I am flawed. I have an addictive personality. I have an anxiety disorder. Sometimes I go through depression spells so severe that I feel like running into traffic. Sometimes I wake up from nightmares having just vividly seen some of the most gruesome and horrifying imagery a subconscious could conceive of. I have to continuously remind myself that I am worthy of love, or I will sabotage it. It’s taken me many years to learn to stop sabotaging love, and it will likely remain a work in progress.

Philosopher Alain de Botton has stated that the worst thing you can do to someone you love is show them your full self. We expect too much from partners. He believes that romanticism is a new age concept. Marriage used to be something that was a matter of convenience, child rearing, a pragmatic partnership. For sexual fun there were mistresses. For regular fun there were hobbies. Now we expect our partners to be completely sexually fulfilling, have and raise our children, maintain finances with us, keep their areas clean, and be our greatest confidant. That’s a lot. Alain argues it’s too much. He argues that the romantic period ruined us, in a sense. We expect too much from each other.

As smart as Alain is, I’m going to have to disagree with him on romance not being an innate part of human nature. I have always been fascinated by ancient graffiti, and that is all you really need to turn to to prove his theory invalid. Scribbled across the wall of the preserved-by-tragedy Pompeii is a phrase, written 2,097 years ago, that translates to “If you are able, but not willing, why do you put off our joy and kindle hope and tell me always to come back tomorrow? So, force me to die since you force me to live without you. Your gift will be to stop torturing me. Certainly, hope returns to the lover what it has once snatched away.”

All heart broken people are poets, and to romanticize is to be human. There was no romantic period that corrupted us. We simply have reached the comfortable place on Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs where we can enjoy it. We don’t need cold and pragmatic partnerships. As long as we have food in our stomachs and medicine in our cabinets we can chase this whole love thing. We can spend years yearning for it, dissecting it, philosophizing about it, and beating ourselves up over it. 

I have always been a Tina Belcher type character. I don’t remember a time where I wasn’t fantasizing about love or dwelling on it. I would walk home from school my freshman year of high school and take a break on this bench along my trek. I’d sit there and think about my first boyfriend, turned first ex-boyfriend. I’d wonder where his love for me went, and how it was even possible for love to die. My passion for him died a slow, slow painful death whereas he seemed to move on with ease. I put him on a pedestal I thought I’d never be able to remove him from. 

A few weeks ago I decorated cookies with his step son, my nephew’s best friend. Life is truly funny. 

I guess that explains it all. I saw a man’s passion for me die very early in my life, and now I can’t stand the concept. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not going to be a dramatic little twat about it. If a man were to tell me he loves me “more and more each day” I’d take it as it was intended, to be high praise, but in the pit of my stomach I would feel this pang. For when I love, I love fully, and I have the privilege of being a spoiled little poet about it. Romanticism. It’s innate within all of us isn’t it?

My passion for passion has caused me great harm in my life, but I can’t imagine a life without it. It has almost killed me, but it also has made me feel more alive than I’ve ever felt before. My first kiss was skillfully awful, but it sent me home on a cloud of sunbeams. I didn’t feel my feet as I moved, I floated. I laid in bed at night and felt the electricity shoot through my body as I re-imagined his kiss on the corner of my mouth. I still to this day think about laughing with my ex-girlfriend as her tiny Asian ass picked me up and held me like a baby. I think about her putting her cold foot on my stomach and how we would fall over laughing constantly. I think about how beautiful she looked when the wind whipped her hair, and those long skirts she used to wear. 

I think about when this lovely man kissed me, and the shock I felt at a man’s lips being so soft. I think about when I was with a terribly unlovely man, but was so in love that I wanted to scream it from the mountain tops. I think about love.

I’ve had the great privilege and horror of being built, broken, and remolded again and again by love. I need it to stop being this fluid thing. I need it to be set in stone that I love a person, and that person loves me, fully, lest I go insane from it and bore you all with pretentious poetry (let’s be honest, I probably will anyway.) 

This was a heavy post, so I’m going to leave this on a lighter note. This is one of my favorite pieces of graffiti from the ancient ruins of Pompeii, left on the wall of a brothel: “ Weep, you girls. My penis has given you up. Now it penetrates men's behinds. Goodbye, wondrous femininity! “

We’ve always been clowns. Lovely, loving, romantic, poetry writing clowns. And we always will be. 

I’m sorry I haven’t been streaming lately. I’ve been overloaded with work as the holidays draw near, and suffered a depression spell a few weeks ago that left me sort of wanting to isolate for a bit. I hope to stream today (Sunday). If I am not graced with your company, I want to wish you the happiest of holidays in advance. I’ll ramble at your sassy asses later. 

 “Do you recall it's name As it suggested beck and call? This face and heel Will drag your halo through the mud Ash of Pompeii Erupting in a statues dust Shrouded in veils Because these handcuffs hurt too much “ - Cicatriz Esp, The Mars Volta

[ohitsjustfee]

Hello again

Perhaps this isn’t the best time to start a new blog. I just remember that I used to be witty, before everything happened, and I desperately want that back again.

Fiona apple (whom is a goddess that I would give a kidney to, if you can’t tell by the frequency of which I play her music in my chat room) once said that the reason her music is so dark (yet brilliant) is because when she’s happy, she is off enjoying life. I feel the same way about writing. I only want to write when I need to vent. 

The unfortunate consequence of that is that my last blog became an absolute dark pit of despair that resided in the 7th circle of hell, which is where I also resided at the time, and where I’m currently revisiting tonight, hence the writing. Ironically I deleted that blog because it got too dark, and yet here I am again.

A fan of mine got angry with me about how vulnerable I was on here. He was afraid that I was going to be attacked for my vulnerability, for the openness I had about such a dark and stigmatized situation. That really impacted me. Hi, BigBallsMcGoo, if you’re reading this. That really impacted me. It made me incredibly embarrassed to be myself. I still love your screen name, though.

The reality is that most of my fans from back in the day still visit me, still like me, and still find me attractive. I’ve been doing this cam shit on weekends (mostly) now for about 6 months almost, and I get a lot of company from the people who know about what happened. To them I say thank you, thank you so much. I don’t know how you still find me attractive with all of the pain I spewed, but thank you so much. And to my new fans, I am so happy to have met you. You are all absolutely amazing to talk to. You introduce me to new music and just make me feel so damn fine.

It’s a weird dichotomy. I feel attractive and yet I don’t. When I was younger I thought that when I got older that I would turn into a raisin and no one would want to look at me, but visually I feel more attractive than I ever have before. Some days, when I have my hair done all Dita von Teese, and I have my mascara and eyebrows on fleek, I look in the mirror and think “damn... that is one BAD bitch.”

But intrinsically I feel like I live in a bubble, like I am a sexual invalid now... despite the fact that I’ve decided to make my weekend hustle turning guys on again. It’s such a weird feeling. It is so hard to describe, yet the purpose of writing is to describe. I am failing at this now. I hope a few of you understand what I am saying.

Anyway, hi, I’m back. Some of this will be dark. I’m hoping some of this will be sexy. I’m hoping some of this will be witty. I’m hoping some of this will be empowering. Yet... I know, I just know, that a lot of this will be dark. So if you can’t handle that, do not follow this and just focus on my sexy pictures on IG, my cam shows, or my SnapChat if you’re subscribed.

I forgot how to put pictures on here. Let’s see. How do I put pictures on here? .  

Hello again.