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Why now?

Posted by Anntichrist S Coulter on January 8, 2012 – 3:01 pm

April 3, 1986  —  around 3:40 in the afternoon, after Teh Dick had made me almost an hour late for my yearbook photography assignment (last one I’d ever have) to WASH THAT CHEAP, PAINTLESS, FUGLY PIECE OF SHIT EXCUSE FOR A CAR (Nannie’d given them OVER A GRAND to buy me a decent used car, and they spent EIGHT HUNDRED on a beer can body with a cop car engine dropped into it, and neither one of them had ever even BOTHERED, not even REMOTELY, to teach ME how to fucking drive), after he’d made me GO BACK INSIDE that morning when I noticed that big fucking strap of metal that was supposed to support/protect the electrical wiring and brake cables, just FLAP! hanging down from one end under that ugly egg-shaped 1979 Chevy Monza From Hell that I only got to have for five weeks.  I had tried crawling under there myself to see what the fuck, and he (curiously late in the day for him to be leaving for work, as he usually left at before daylight) yelled at me to GET INTO THE FUCKING HOUSE, and that HE’D FIX IT.

Made it to school and back in one piece, and he and his precious Son King and the trailer-trash gutter-whore that he’d knocked-up all seemed pretty fucking pissed about that.  Not saying that Teh Dick never did anything for me, but the majority of it was in the last 10 years of his life.  We all already know what his SON did TO me, not FOR me, and how I hadda start life all over again, from scratch, at the age of 13.5, now knowing that everything I’d been told/conned/bullshitted by them was nothing but out-and-out fucking LIES.  Weird place to be, as you’re finally giving into the gut-conscious doubts about the cult you’d clung to so ferociously.

So I finally got to leave for North Park to take those damned pictures of every fucking sport at one time, the track, tennis, softball, baseball, you name it, and I got approximately 1/5th of a mile from that ranch-style hellhole house when the brakes went out.  I remember everything up until the moment of impact, even though I wish I didn’t.

And now, my neurologist tells me that while the poisoning by Ocshner’s “pain management” CHILD “doctor” on that fucking BACLOFEN, which must be frat-boy speak for POISON THE BITCH did paralyze me for 6 fucking hours, it didn’t leave any distinguishable marks on the old shriveling noggin.  BUT, of course, there are now BLACK DOTS on my brain that he has yet to explain or give me any kind of prognosis about.  Mostly in the left brain, the hemisphere that was the first-impact site during that car crash, as the bony prominences inside the skull made some pretty bad fucking damage on the mushy grey shit.  Some damage to the right side (I always WAS so right-handed that all I can do with the left is type and tie shoes, so that didn’t seem to matter much), but nothing like what it did to my science & math.  I was supposed to get a scholarship from the Air Force, y’know.  Yeah, I know, recruiters lie faster than they breathe, but my ASVAB scores were, for that time in way-back history, were pretty remarkable for a “girl” in the electrical/electronic department, and they SAID that they wanted to send me to engineering school and have me work on and develop jet engines.  Not a shabby fucking gig.  Yeah, I was a pseudo-nouveau-hippie back then, a pacifist when it comes to blowing up other people’s shit, but DAMN, I’ve always been fascinated by how shit worked and how to play with every electronic gadget I could get my hands on, from TVs to stereos to VCRs to stealing music off of MTV by running my VCR through my stereo, because I could hardly ever afford to buy 45s, let alone ALBUMS or full cassettes, except at yard sales, and later, vinyl record conventions.

ANYWAY, that’s what the U.S. gubmint told me that my brain was good for, and it sounded like a pretty sweet deal.  Until the brakes got cut.

And now, 25+ years later, my hands can’t hold onto a cold drink or a cigarette without dropping ‘em sooner or later, my “jewelry-making” shit has fallen to the wayside because my hands can’t concentrate or co-operate on ANYFUCKINGTHING, even the sewing machine, my legs get the dropsy sometimes and as I’m walking along, one will just STOP and drag behind the other, and I almost face-plant every fucking time.  And I’m sorry if I’m boring  y’all with my bullshit medical whining and so forth, but fuckit, nobody reads this shit anymore anyway.

But those black dots are mostly concentrated on the left hemisphere of my brain, and a lot of the damage that’d been ascribed to 10 years with no relief from that herniated disc in my neck pulling my spinal cord out the back of my neck and then pushing on those nerve branches that control hands and feet  —  may not be that simple, or ever going to recover, even if I *do* finally get the bone mechanic shit fixed PROPERLY this time.  Why now?  Why the fuck NOW?!?!!?

I can’t have a fucking SECOND of fucking HOPE, just once in my life, that I could possibly, just maybe, GET SOMETHING OF MY FUCKING SELF BACK, even for just a little while?!?!?  I can’t even fucking DANCE anymore, dammit.  I never was that good, never learned to dance with a partner because nobody ever let me learn, and when I was old enough to go out, nobody ever asked except for horny drunk losers who didn’t wanna know my name or my face.

Speaking of whisky dick and wasted hope…  I retired from fucking, flirting, all of it (in “polite” company, I call it “dating,” but who in the FUCK ever asked ME out on a proper fucking DATE?!?!  2 guys.  In my entire life.  And both of ‘em were sorely disappointed, of course.), back in July of ’06, when I could no longer stand the humiliation, the pain, the cruelty of being cheated-upon by another closet-case, WITH A DUDE SO FUCKING UGLY IT WAS EMBARRASSING THAT THAT WAS THE “OTHER WOMAN.”  The lying thieving asshole part of it, where he lied about taking his schizophrenia medicine and then faked “conversations” with his “voices” just to mock me and hurt me, that shit didn’t help either.  I tried to be compassionate, I didn’t want to be a fucking hypocrite, I’m bisexual too, so I couldn’t turn ‘im down outright because 99.9% of all bisexual men are diseased sociopathic PARASITES who only fuck women (especially long-single FAT GIRLS) to keep a roof over their heads and food in their ungrateful guts.  Let whomever runs the cause nowadays vilify me for being sick and fucking tired of bi-boys, I don’t give a fuck, I’ve MORE THAN EARNED THE FUCKING RIGHT. 3 in one lifetime is MORE than enough.

Anyway, so I retired.  I didn’t give up that magnificent Toshiba Magic Wand that Robin sent me when Ol’ Faithful finally died, I ain’t DEAD YET, but I finally learned how to turn it all off, the rest of it.  The pheromones, the automatic response to attractive males and females, the craving of the touch of another human being, of just being HELD, of meaning something, even if it was nothing more than a half-assed orgasm (for THEM, of course, never FOR ME!), just for a minute, to another living breathing human being.  I was burnt the fuck OUT.  Dead.  And damn if I didn’t fucking LIKE IT THAT WAY.

I’d been wanting to be neutered since I was 5 years old.  I was already sick of being the sex slave of the heir apparent, tried to off myself in a swimming pool and got busted for it, but dammit, I didn’t want my CUNT telling me to OBEY ever the fuck again, ANY MORE.  I’d been looking for saltpetre all of my fucking life, to arm myself against the pathetic neediness that was so fucking cliche’ freudian it made me sick to think of myself being used as a cum-dumpster, even though that’s all I ever was.

So I finally got what I wanted.  I’d been dead inside for so long, it was such a relief to feel dead THERE, and there, and there, and all of the other places.  I felt like my heart might actually regrow a cell or two, now that I was a neuter-by-choice.  Maybe it did, I dunno.  I poured myself into artsy-fartsy shit, even though the narcotics killed the right-brain that had always let me WRITE, when I could do nothing else, I could still WRITE, but not anymore.  The drugs had stopped being “fun” a long fucking time ago, but being A DEAD-HEAD of the wrong flavor, that wasn’t any fucking fun.  Y’all have been here, you’ve seen the decline and fall.  But at least I fucking TRIED to get my brain back, to get my body fixed, to somehow, someday, have a fucking LIFE again, once I finally got back to what was supposed to still be “civilization” again.  Ha.

I was cured, at least, of my cunt.  Yeah, I missed the smell of a man, the taste of a woman, the touch of a human being who really hated my guts but who wanted to say that they’d planted a flag here (you’d be surprised at the “old college friends” that you run into later, when none other old college friends are around, who suddenly DO wanna fuck you, but then give you NOTES on your PERFORMANCE!!!), you never stop missing that, no matter how old or damaged you get.  And yup, no matter what I appear on the surface: scarred, sagging, totally-top-teef-toofless, irreparably broken, what THEY always see, no matter how “interested” or repulsed they may be, is ALWAYS a giant, Schlitz-Light-neon-style sign that screams, “DAMAGED GOODS!!!  Come one, come all, Losers, Users & Abusers take yer shots!”

And then, the Sunday before the fake-ass xmas date, I was in The Dungeon, which no longer exists as I have known it the past 17+ years (more on that later), sitting on those tortuously-unpadded barstools, with my meager offerings of gothling jewelry, cheap purses out of fabulous fabrics, etc., on the ass-ledge thingamabob attached to the wall next to the upstairs DJ bar, with its miniscule dance floor that I used to fucking RULE, back when I had a spine and a neck and a pelvis.  Not even ONE taker, nobody even LOOKED for a last-minute gift that was better than a fucking GIFT CARD, nuttin’ honey.

Four or so hours of this shit, spending money I don’t have that I hadda bum offa Redcane, as per the usual, in walks this guy, about my height (pre-spine-height-losses), young, SO fucking YOUNG, but pissed-off and adorably trying to appear all cynical and bored.  Brilliant ginger hair, and then it hit me  —  THOSE EYES. Like a fucking hypnotic magnet.  Biggest, bluest eyes I’ve ever seen on an actual human/living creature, including anime’ and E.T.  Blue eyes are a rare thing in the non-old-money/nouveau-riche-white-trash-klan-wannabe neighborhoods of this state.  And as I shot the shit with the female bartenders, other chicks looking to bum a cigarette but not buy a damned thing, there he was.  Standing there, waiting for the chicks to disperse.  Said that he was 31, I called bullshit, he admitted to 27.  Should’ve demanded I.D.  Smart, funny, Scots-Irish, politically aware, and he just kept STARING AT ME.  Like I was something special or something, not like he wanted to drag me behind a dumpster & slit my throat, which was the usual “come-on-look” in Miami.

I told him, eventually, that I was “retired,” that I’d not let another human touch me (though I’d come close to committing homicide mere moments before he arrived, on a fat aging fucktard who thought that he was the love child of Meatloaf and a wild boar, and that’s really insulting Meat AND wild boars!) in any meaningful or intimate way in over 5 years.  But damn, he wanted to kiss me.

And I know where every single surveillance camera in that building is located and aimed, and wasn’t any way in HELL that I was going to provide the new oughta-be-in-New-Zealand-as-an-extra-in-the-next-Hobbit-movie motherfucker down front with the entertainment.  So we adjourned to the “front” of the Dungeon bar (a separate entity that Chicky absorbed into the main structure, at least thematically & fiscally), where I had, by gauging the cameras & their angles, figured that we could make out & flirt, etc., with relative “privacy.”  For a bar.  In the French Quarter.  Shut the fuck up, it can TOO be done.  I just didn’t pull it off entirely THAT night.

Even knowing that I wasn’t going to “put out,” he wanted to come home with me.  He was weird about some things, very self-protective, but hey, he was the first human in 5.5 years that I thought that I could actually TRUST  —  I gave him the leeway.  We had a lot of fun, or so I thought.  Until his fucking cell phone alarm goes off 3 hours after I go to sleep, minus the cuddling that I’d craved.  Wham, not so much bam, and no thank you ma’am, he was OUTTA HERE.  Told me to call him, didn’t mean it.  The usual shit.  Except this time, it actually fucking HURT.

I was THE HUNTRESS, back in the day, I used THEM up, chewed ‘em up and moved on immediately.  I always left the theoretical door open, gave even the biggest losers that I’d sunk to dragging home with me the opportunity to treat me like a  human being, or at LEAST gracing me with a fucking COURTESY CALL.  Rarely did that happen, and the very few times that it did, I turned into a fucking DOORMAT, as those familiar with my rants will attest.  Dunno why, but I was a pathetic loser, every fucking time, and every fucking time, they turned out to be the parasitic, ambition-free, uncaring little penitos that I knew, ohhh, how I fucking knew, them to be already.  But I was too fucking stubborn, too fucking proud, to admit defeat until THEY fucked-up badly enough for me to “justify” the eviction from my house and/or life.  I was tough enough to take ‘em all on.  Even the crackhead bi-boy (“Bisexual,” my fat tattooed ass, he PREFERRED MEN, ESPECIALLY IF THEY BOUGHT HIM FUCKING CRACK!!!!!!  And  yes, I actually WAS, back in ’99, stupid/naive/affected-by-prednisone-and-vicodin ENOUGH to take him for “JUST an alcoholic.”  Fuck, I’d had to fucking RAISE the alcoholic who allegedly spawned me, I was USED to THAT shit, right?) who tried to kill me in my own bed.  I saw all of the big ol’ billboards of warning signs flying past, and ignored every fucking one, as the worst example of a “feminist” who ever fucking lived.  And we all know what I got out of THAT.

And then, outta nowhere, this redheaded kid, almost young enough to be my spawn, with those HUGE BLUE EYES, convinces me that, despite the younger, skinnier, possibly healthier bitches in the bar, including the hot bartendress in the Venus bar (“barmaid” STILL pisses me off!), HE wanted ME.  Yep, he was THAT drunk, and THAT good of a salesman.  I wish that I’d been able to be drunk enough to see through him, as apparently, my narcotic-inflicted sobriety has destroyed my bullshit radar for good.  Maybe he really did mean well.  Maybe he really WAS attracted to me.  But those whole 10-minute phone conversations afterwards did NOT support his initial assertions.  He was just being “polite,” I s’pose.  But then, I’ve NEVER been the girl that anyone takes home to Mother, unless he’s a flaming-queen schizophrenic trying to convince Mama & evil-prick Step-Daddy that he’s “straight.”

And I’m sure that this boy has NEVER had to convince anyone of his heterosexuality.  He just wouldn’t ever want to have to explain to anyone why on EARTH he’d ever be seen in public with the likes of ME.  It shouldn’t piss me off, it shouldn’t hurt, it shouldn’t leave a mark, but it does.  I’ve been over this shit for DECADES, hence The Huntress persona, the one-nighters that I always initiated with nothing more than one determined moment of eye contact across a crowded bar.  And hence the retirement, not from a feminist stance per se, as I’d used that as my reasoning for having more sex than all of my platonic guy & gal friends could EVER get in college, to prove some retarded point that I really can’t recall right now.  I’m TOO OLD FOR THIS SHIT.

So… since this was before I knew about the black spots in my brain, what made me so weak and so stupid?  Dain bramage from multiple attempted murders?  Dain bramage from 14 years on and off of fucking narcotics because of hack “surgeons” and “titanium” hardware that never holds?  Or was I just so weak and lonesome because this was my first no-longer-an-aunt/not-even-a-FALLACY/PHALLUSY of a “family” “HOLIDAY SEASON” since MY SON, yes, a fucking CAT, MY BOY died? It can’t just be those eyes, or that hair, or that voice, or the words that were all lies.  I can’t have regressed THAT badly, to where I actually FALL for that shit again, can I?  Yeah, yeah, we’re all human, we all fuck up, blah blah blah fucking blah.

I need empirical EVIDENCE, I need a fucking EXPLANATION.  WHY NOW?!?!?!? It wasn’t just those huge blue eyes, dammit, and it sure as hell wasn’t the 10 pounds of corseting and bustier to make me look like I still have tits and didn’t have to wear the hideous back brace for a change.

It may finally be time to put me in The Home, kids, and divvy-up Annti’s belongings, ’cause apparently, I can no longer be trusted to take care of myself the way that I have to TAKE CARE OF MYSELF. 3050 WORDS for this shit.  Fuckit, at least it helped ME, or it might in the future, somehow.  I’ll never be a part-time half-assed dominatrix again, I didn’t really enjoy anything but the outfits about it before, anyway, but dammit, if I can’t KICK ASS TO SAVE MINE anymore, I’m ready for The Home.

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3 Responds so far- Add one»

  1. 1. Terrible Said:

    Sometimes I think I almost wish I would lose sexual arousal.

  2. 2. gappy Said:

    Hell, I wish I could FIND sexual arousal……menopause ain’t for sissies and unfortunately it’s inevitable for women.

  3. 3. Anntichrist S Coulter Said:

    Gappy — vitamin E, a little ginseng in the mornings, and you DO have yer own dirty old man on the premises, I’m sure that he’ll think up some disturbing ideas… fresh lavender under the sheets, your favorite slutty perfume, mebbe read some dirty books or watch “Two Moon Fever” (I *think* that that’s the title, it came out in ’87 or ’88, and was the closest thing to full-frontal male nudity that a bitch could get during the reign of Tipper Gore! — anyway, DROOL-DROOL, SLOBBER, SLOBBER, built like a brick shithouse and STRAIGHT!), you HAVE an imagination, woman, it’s not like you don’t know how to USE IT. And I’m sure that there’s a lovely right-off-the-interstate porn store that y’all could visit for shits & giggles, as long as you don’t need to bring your firearm to get in and out safely. No, not porno THEATERS, ugh, gag, gross, STORES. Toy stores, clean & brightly-lit, a porn-flick selection, some ridiculous hooker-gear “lingerie,” etc. You know where to find ‘em. Yes, it’s the exact OPPOSITE to what the International Bibul Of Office Sluts (COSMO) would tell you (all the queens who write that shit ever say is “HOW TO PLEASE YER MAYYUNNNN!!!”) — do what *you* like, find more stuff that you like, and have fun with that dirty old Gargoyle.

    Terrible — if that’s what you REALLY want, you just do it. Just give up. That’s all I did, when I evicted Dullard McDumbass 5.5 years ago. But make damned sure first that that’s what you REALLY wanna do. I’ve been wanting it since I was 5, so it wasn’t even a decision for me. Just make sure first, is all.

    Did y’all know that us non-breeders lose our tits after 41? Yup. Nobody warned me about THAT shit. Almost shriveled-up a cup size. Took a helluva lot of bustier and boning for that horny little redheaded boy to think that I had anything to “offer,” so to speak. And nobody will give me estrogen for SHIT. Granted, estrogen would prolly make me horny again, but I can kill that easily enough, I just want my TITS BACK, DAMMIT!!! They’ve always been depressed, staring at my shoes… all I’ve ever wanted, aside from world peace, a time machine that would give me my spine & nervous system back & an end to bullshit phony “famine” that is nothing but CORPORATE GENOCIDE (lookin’ at YOU, Monsanto & Con-Agra!!!), is for my tits, for once in their lives, to STAND UP FOR THEMSELVES. Is that asking so much?

    Pitiful. Just fuckin’ pitiful. I’ve seen perkier basset hounds.

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