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3 fucking days

Posted by Anntichrist S Coulter on September 26, 2006 – 5:30 am

That, apparently, is how long it takes to get biopsy results back in Montana.

I suppose that the nearest lab is located somewhere in ALASKA.


I’ll try to post something newsworthy tomorrow.

In the meantime, here’s an old rant:

Clit-Power Mercenaries

Don’t look at me to be your clit-power spokesmodel, because I’m just as fucked-up as you are. Don’t nod your greying head at me and pat me on my greying head and think that I’m just some poor, fragile little goth princess that needs to be rescued from her own tragic misleadings. I dug all my own holes, even the ones that are filled with manure.

We like to play-up the angry victim schtick, don’t we. We’ll even fuck the ugly little Nazi-faggots, just so we can have an excuse to be touched by a human hand. Because we have to have an excuse, don’t we? An escape-hatch scenario, to ask for affection. But when they get up and walk away, when they slither on down the road, exactly like we wanted them to, it gives us the chance to break our own hearts. It gives us the chance to play out the desertion melodrama we’ve already rehearsed in our own heads. It gives us the chance to miss them before they’re gone.

Because it’s so much easier that way. Unrequited “love” or lust, or whatever—gives you something to think about when you’re stuck in traffic, or wandering through Wal-Mart, or masturbating. Fantasy fucks don’t have to be cleaned-up after. We are the mercenary bitches who will sit and compare our unrequited/asshole/being dumped/being-treated-like-an-orifice stories, like mangled war vets, giddy at the remembered taste of their—and our own—blood. And everybody’s got a story. Everybody’s suffered, everybody’s carrying a big, fat grudge.

And how often do we listen to stories from our fellow wounded because we really care. And how often do we listen only as long as it takes us to flip through the mental Rolodex® and come up with a better story? And how many of us listen because we figure our empathy will get us laid?

I question everyone’s motives, hypothetically, because I question my own. Yeah, it takes big, brass ovaries to get up here and bitch about the way other people treat me. But considering that my ovaries haven’t exactly done anything in ten goddamned years, thanks to modern chemistry, anyway— all my threats and screams are just as empty as my uterus.

And I bitch and moan and complain about how I can’t even support myself in this city, and I can give you the calibrated time-line of how my once-promising career was assassinated—even as I’m wondering if I love my grandmother because she’s my friend and my Nannie, or if it’s just because she’s spent so much money on me. My sister could have had a house, but she won’t. And what the fuck did I ever do to deserve anything? It’s enough to make me miss those months I lived in a squat.

Summer Camp Of The Damned. But it was free. Fiscally and spiritually. And my neighbors then were ever so much more fun than the ones I have now… but then, you’ve seen the Xmas cards. Probably why I remember them so fondly.

I was asked, not so long ago, would I have fallen in love when I did, with whom I did, had he not been an incredible lay. And I really did have to stop and think about it. Granted, I have fallen in love with two guys that I never fucked, but that was, of course, all in my head, anyway. And then there was that girl.
But she just kinda laid there. I get so tired of doing all the work. ‘Course, I don’t think we’ve ever had an honest discussion, anyway.

And, of course, if you’ve been following along with your home-game handbooks, we’ve all figured out by now that the last one’s not gonna go there again. But I can’t help hearing that horny little voice in the back of my head, the one that remembers. And he can’t help being just a little bit paranoid every time he’s near me.
If only he’d left when he was supposed to. One or two hours, I’d have been happy. It was weak acid, I was in a cordial mood. But no, he hadda hang around after those first thirteen hours were scorched into the granite in my head like the Ten Commandments. And yes, I wound-up cooking for him.

It’s that long-term exposure that fucks everything up. One-night stands, provided my jaw survives, are usually SO much easier. There’s no “getting over” a one-night stand. They get their little rocks off, I get the physical contact I biochemically crave, transaction done, no need for discussion. It’s the ones who hang around after you’ve fed them that start to look cute and adoptable, like stray cats. You just can’t tell them to fuck-off-and-die. Well, you can, but it gets harder with time. Like, a year.

And if, like me, you’re really sick, you start to need them, you start to depend on them, you even miss them when they’re not there. Because they just won’t disappear. They didn’t leave on cue, and now you’ve got all this shit to deal with.

See? I can make ANYTHING somebody else’s fault. Elementary, really—Militant Victimization 1001. A non-credit course, of course, but it’ll really keep you busy. Shit loads of homework.

So, yeah, it takes big, fat, hypothetical cajones, and an enormous euphemistic cock to get up here and question everybody’s motives. To dare you to answer honestly. Because I can’t answer any of the questions, either.

(C)1998, J.E.B.

This post is under “Uncategorized” and has 5 respond so far.
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5 Responds so far- Add one»

  1. 1. andrew Said:

    You just can’t catch a break, can you?

    Hang in there. The lovely yet talented Mrs and I are pulling for you.

  2. 2. amerikan_psycho Said:

    my entire body is crossed for you.

    keep us posted ASAP, xxxxx

  3. 3. Anntichrist S. Coulter Said:

    Thank y’all. I’ll keep everybody alerted as I find out.

    Hoping for fibroid, so if you need to uncross, darlin’, aim at that one.

  4. 4. BlondeSense Liz Said:

    Holy shit. Great blast from the past.

    Waiting anxiously to hear what’s going to go on with you and your sister.

  5. 5. Anntichrist S. Coulter Said:

    Soon to post on same, darlin’.

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