Blow This

 

This year comes to an end
    with minds on dreams, old plans, and friends.

We watch as things change sometimes more than we'd like
    while other things go that we wish we could fight.

Though they never go as far as it feels
    those glimmers of somethings that grow into new deals
    with cross quiet pushes giving bigger things wheels.

Would you change what made room for the next big to-do?
    Dwell in a place that is no good for you?
    Eat the pound cake before the beef stew?
    Admit you can't tell the them from the you?

Here's to killing the frown
    playing the clown
    and not stepping back
    but staring them down
    and repeating your sound
    until it levels that sleepy old berg to the ground.

They still hear the song and picture you.

Happy new year!

Worship what?

I got a camera. What did you get?

So far my go at writing has gone like this: I recall a situation from my childhood where I was hurt and I start writing about it, moving and changing things to hide identities (one was as insignificant as being forced to give away a tee shirt, and yet). Then I go somewhere to discover someone has taken a message from my web presence, rewrapped it in spite and threw it in my face, crashing my story structure by backhandedly telling me I deserved whatever happened so STFU.

When I was nine I was thrown to the frozen ground, hitting my head.

As I recovered, the person who threw me looked around that city park smiling 

to see if anyone noticed their skill.

According to at least a few of my neighbors it is dishonorable to judge the event, much less write about alternate behaviors. They imply I should be grateful for the pain even if it means I fail to make anything of my life. Through mockery and spite they try to force me to carry hurt that should have died years ago.

Yep.

Can you imagine taking up writing only to discover what looks like a bunch of your neighbors enacting an elaborate and forced, "NO YOU'RE NOT GOING TO FUCKING FORGIVE THAT AND TELL EVERYONE!!" hurtfest just to shut you up? It feels like an army of faceless hate trying to empty me of courage and honor someone else's ego to only their benefit. Then there are the locals who are going along with it for the sake of having someone to point at who is supposedly shittier than they are.

To me their behavior says it's okay to mangle peoples lives when they champion scapegoated children who, as adults, demand we change how such situations are viewed so their former drama doesn't happen to anyone else. If their parents made mistakes they are just and forgiven and the irreverent offspring should worship that punishment no matter how many times it has made them wish they had no one to leave behind.

It hurts like hell to know they want me used up or at least silenced, and the extent of their effort is sickening. You'd think someone was handing out candy with instructions and a map of my wounds, creating minions who announce my presence to the things that eat happiness. To Munising with their excuses and to Austin with their labels. I want nothing to do with people who think they should force shame into strangers.

Killing kindness in the name of blindness so all your wrongs look right.

Get this, chosen ones:

No part of me is your savior. No part of this exists to be manipulated or harvested or played with for your benefit unless I choose it, and I don't owe anyone a goddamn thing. Stop treating me like you have been trained to treat yourselves. You don't deserve it either. People don't hurt you because they love you. They hurt you until you resemble them, then they love that. They can't fucking see you. The sooner you stop paying their bullshit forward the sooner we all stop feeling like trash.

Is your daughter fit for a king?

Maybe I'm being hysterical. Maybe I should like being treated like public property.

Oh, wait. I live in a world where women are conditioned until having our genitals regulated in public like bitches to be bred is normal, and where many media voices say every female should be ready for - and at least know how to fake looking like we enjoy - the treatment. We are told so by people who say it is an honor to expect public breedability checks because our parents taught us to label those parts of ourselves trash in order to appear more 'civil' and therefore worthy of more resources. That's what children are in this world - family mating preference loudspeakers. It's every child's duty to positively portray their parents bullshit as if standard bearers at the fucking Olympics. That's why we hit them until they obey. If children don't try to impress their parent's heroes then they aren't worthy of any of the hard-earned resources they helped gather by carrying around old people's outdated breedlore like identity-less pack animals.

Like Old King Cole said, if you can't fuck em, fuck em.

That would be selfish.

My solution to end this war is simple: Pretend none of those Iron Age rules became obsolete once we created ready access to hot and cold running water and soap. If you have a child, maintain your place in society by forcing centuries old, obviously no longer relevant, tent dweller sanitation rules and the sexual preferences of dead politicians into your children's underwear.

It's loads of fun.

Now for shit's sake go smell like new stuff. It's the holidays.

A flower for you

Dear Desperate Dirt Diggers,

If all you can offer is more masturbation jokes, stop touching my experience 

and grow the fuck up. This is mine.

Harpy Holidays!