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The L word.

We use it daily. We toss it out into the ether for the simplest of reasons. I love pizza. I love cupcakes. I love this shirt. I love lamp.
And I am just as guilty as the rest of you sheeple. Just yesterday, I expressed my undying love for my pot dealer. Several times, in fact. And with what some would consider to be an excellent reason. Justifiable maybe. But that doesn't make it any better.
Whatever way you look at it, the word has lost its luster. The shine has dulled. Maybe no amount of polish can ever restore it. Perhaps it never should.
It's an evolutionary step, an inevitability in this desensitized world filled with atrocities being committed every day in the name of misplaced faith. We've moved on from such silly sentimentalities. We are a new version of humanity. A new kind of crazy. And there is no room in such a place for something so pure, so we twist it. turn it, chew it up and spit it out, and turn it into something meaningless and commonplace.
We profess our love while perverting its meaning. We lie and cheat and steal and punch in the face as romantic ballads float from iPod speakers in smoke filled rooms and the objects of our affection beg for our mercy. Love leaks from every sweaty pore and bleeds from every wound. It is no longer a thing to strive for...a thing of peace and contentment and reckless abandon, but a thing to fear, revile, and avoid at all costs.
Which leaves me with a conundrum. How do I express this? How do I say how I feel? How do I let it out, this violently gentle feeling that I've submitted to wholly and completely?
I am, for possibly the first time in my life, truly at a loss for words.
I fucking surrender.


I feel like I'm going crazy. Every time he touches me, it's like the rest of the world just vanishes...like there's nothing but he and I...wrapped up together...nose to nose...exploring each other. And when he leaves, it's as if someone's chopped off one of my appendages. I feel hollowed out and all I can do is plod through my day waiting for the moment when he touches me again...


I'm not sure I like this feeling...


My life has changed immensely over the past 6 months. So much so that I feel like my head is spinning. I don't know where I'm going or why I'm going there. I just keep moving along as if I'm on some predetermined track from which there is no escape.


Funny that I use that word "escape". Like I'm in prison or something. It often feels like it as of late.


I think I want out of this relationship.


What relationship, you say? Well...that's a long, sordid tale. Suffice it to say that I met him, fell madly in love with him, and now I can barely look at him without wanting to punch his fucking face in.


When a relationship begins, it's hard to find fault with the person you're attaching yourself to. Maybe they're putting their best foot forward. Maybe you just want it so bad that you don't notice their faults. Maybe,,,just maybe...you don't WANT to notice their faults. Perhaps you are so in love with the idea of that person and of being in love that nothing else registers until it's too late. And, five months into this thing, it's definitely too late.


He used to make me happy. He used to listen to me and share his thoughts and always seem to know the right things to say and do. That, my friends, lasted all of a month before it wore thin.


I feel like I'm not respected. I feel like I'm just here to fill up space. He hides away a huge chunk of himself and keeps secrets and tells silly little lies. He compares me to his exes...and refers to women as "bitches" or "heifers"...making me feel like I'm lumped into that category along with all the rest of them. When I'm upset, he won't even let me finish a sentence as to WHY I'm upset. He just assumes he knows what I'm going to say...as if he's heard it all from the women before me and I couldn't possibly be any different. He says and does things that make me feel insignificant and used and unattractive.


And he keeps saying he loves me. When we fight and I ask him to please leave, he refuses to go. He just sticks around waiting for me to give in and be willing to try again and, like an idiot, I usually do. At this point, I think my giving in has less to do with the fact that I love him and more to do with me not wanting to go back to being alone.


I waited 8 years for THIS?


I don't trust him. I feel like I'm walking around on eggshells all the time...in my own home. I cringe when he moves too quickly...waiting for an explosion that, all too often, comes. My kids don't like him...most of my friends [who loved him in the beginning] no longer want to come around because they can't stand his company. I've reached the point where I am creating petty little arguments over the smallest things simply because I'm always so goddamn irritated. And, through it all, here I am. I'm sitting at this computer at 12:39 AM when I have to work at 5...all because I don't want to lay in bed beside him.


Am I crezy here? Have I just gone off the motherfucking deep end?


Somewhere inside there is a man that I adore. Smart, funny, gentle, kind, blunt, and amazing in the sack.


I just can't see that man anymore. And I'm not sure I'm willing to wade through all the fucking bullshit until I catch a glimpse of him again. I'm not so certain that he's worth it.


Does that make ANY sense at all?

I almost made a big mistake today.

I almost became the very thing I've always abhored...that lowliest of creatures...the very thing that repeatedly broke my heart and left me so battle-scarred and road-weary that I gave up completely for the past eight years.

I was almost "The Other Woman".

How stupid was I...and how desperate to be wanted...that I even allowed myself to get to the point where I was a mere breathe away from doing something so heinous that I can barely find words to fit it?

For a moment there, I wasn't a person anymore. I was a PEOPLE.  Hell, I even spent my evening last night readying my apartment for that moment...marinating steaks, mashing potatoes, dipping strawberries in chocolate. I am such a crazy idiotic cunt.

Maybe I should just quit again.

I mean, what has it gotten me...this foray into the world of relationships, flirtations, and desire?

[lists what she's accomplished in the past month]

1. A brief romp through the land of FuckBuddies...where I sort of attempted to hook up with a co-worker who was stupid enough to say things like "You're looking so good today, girl! You're lucky I don't rape you right here in this parking lot!" and "Can I put my gun in your cockholster?"...and actually mean them. That came and went quickly...and I do mean quickly. It never even began before it was finished.

2. A couple of random nights with a guy who kind of blew my mind...and then, with very little fanfare or explanation, vanished from my life. He was just such a perfect fit for me. We both just needed a bit of training and a hell of a lot fewer trust issues. He would have been just right for me to...shall we say..."soil the sheets with" for a while. Hell...given my history...for a long, exhausting, imcredibly fucking barbaric while. There was a connection there on a primal level. I just wanted to tear him apart and lick the blood from my fingers and, judging from the bite marks he left on my inner thigh that are just now finally fading, he was pretty much having a similar thought about me. My biggest regret will always be that we never actually got to have sex. But then, if we had, I probably wouldn't be sitting here writing this. I would more than likely be spending most of my time handcuffed to something...with breaks for our work and meals and bathroom visits thrown in there of course. It's been so long since I've had that. And I've found over the years that it comes quite rarely. It was just what I needed...for a moment...and then, it was gone. And. damn it, now I'm off on another tangent.

[puts down the pipe and steps away]

And 3. Ah, 3...An old friend who just popped back into my life and kind of threw me for a loop. This is exactly the kind of guy who, in a perfect world, I would have ended up with when I was young. Smart, funny, sweet, an incredibly loving father, an all around good guy. There was just one problem.
Why and how did I let it get to this point? This flirtation, carried on through text messages into and beyond an innocent lunch last week has quickly reached a fever pitch. Dirty talk interspersed with the small talk of every day life turned to picture messages that left pretty much nothing to the imagination which turned to a mutual plan to meet for lunch again today...this time in my house, a meticulously planned meal and whipped cream chilling in my fridge. Gods, I've escaped within an inch of my sanity. I can't believe I'm going to say what I'm about to say. It's going to come out sounding all wrong, like I'd wish harm on a kid or something, but that's just not the case. However, it still needs to be said.

I'm glad his son got hurt playing football.

When he texted asking if we could reschedule because he needed to pick up his kid, I read it and took a deep breathe. In that moment, in the cold harsh light of a late Arizona morning, I had a moment of complete and total clarity.
I don't know her. I've never met her nor laid eyes on her aside from a thumbnail picture on Facebook. But she exists...and, although he rarely mentions her and then only in passing...this is the first time I've really allowed myself to completely realize that she exists. She's the same girl that I was when people cheated on me. She's a younger girl [divorced men and dating young chicks...I'll never get over it] and probably nowhere near as jaded as I am.
I couldn't be the one who turned her into me.

She was this creamy young virgin sprawled upon the alter and I was the ancient, cold blooded nosferatu bent on giving her the curse of immortality. And it is a curse, make no mistake.  It's long years alone and starving and aching for something that maybe isn't even out there anywhere; searching and searching for the one thing that you can't ever have...peace.
My teeth were on her throat., mere seconds from piercing her flesh. Oh, fuck. No way. I may be fucking broken, but I still have a spark of humanity in me somewhere. My inner Dale hasn't been put out of its misery just yet.

[for those who didn't catch that, it was a Walking Dead reference] Gods, I'm just so full of allegories today. And every story has to fucking have a damn moral, doesn't it?

Usually when I voice this next phrase, I'm saying it in annoyance at the damn possessive, overbearing, douche of a poodle that I inherited from my mother.

I am never getting laid again.

[bangs head on desk repeatedly]

Maybe I should just stop. I'm no motherfucking good at this shit.





Hell, I don't even know why I bother blogging this shit. No one reads it or comments on it anyway.

Wednesday, February 29th


Eight years.

It's been said before, hasn't it? That little two word phrase that will mean nothing more to most of you than a span of time. Maybe a span of time in which you grew a little older, got a little fatter, drank a few too many beers, fucked a few too many of the wrong people, lost a little bit of hair [or gained it, as the case may be], and just generally aged.

Me, I spent it taking care of the one person who had always taken care of me. My mother.

She was the person who taught me just about everything I'll ever know about anything that matters. She taught me that laughter is the best medicine, but a capful of Nyquil can't hurt. She taught me that every moment in life should be cherished...because those moments will soon be gone and nothing can ever bring them back and every moment brings us closer to death end of, which is the end of all those moments. She taught me that you can't teach an old dog new tricks.  She taught me to always stand up for myself and to know when to stop standing up. She taught me that skinny men have bigger dicks than fat men[Don't blame the messenger, tubby. It's a proven fact. I should know.].

There was a time when I was...how shall I put this...less than virginal. I tried everything I'd ever even thought sounded interesting sexually. I'd been with men, women, pairs, groups...just about every combination your dirty little mind can think of. I'd tried bondage, veourerism, roleplay, dominating, being submissive, blood play...the list goes on and on. I was quite the popular girl.

And all while raising two children.

I lived a bit of a double life, you see. My mother kept my children every other weekend. I spent that time going to clubs, hanging out backstage with my friend's bands [I miss you guys from Shattermask most of all. Goku hair and Tekken and clown makeup and the weed fairy. And your afterparties...let's not even talk about the afterparties...makes my ass hurt just thinking about it. Priest can fly. He's a fucking blackbird.] I danced in mosh pits while people poured beer all over my tits. I licked beer off other people's tits.I had a hell of an interesting bedroom. To the untrained eye, it looked normal. But, if you opened up drawers or peeked in the back of the closet, you found all sorts of new and interesting possibilities. Polaroid snapshots of me in stockings and boots and very little else...whips and things in all different sizes and shapes...rolls of rope tied into intricate knots...it was a veritable sex shop.  I dated so many cute, verile, nubile boys...and yes. I do mean boys.
Nearly every single one of them was at least 3 years younger than me. I was THAT fucking good. My friends envied me. My mother was amazed by me. I spent those weekends living out my fantasies and having a blast. And on Sunday night, my kids would come home and tell me about the awesome weekend they had with grandma and I would bake cookies or pop popcorn and we'd watch a movie before bedtime. It was an exhausting life. I was like two people. It was a tough life to keep separate from my kids. Every so often it bled through.

I really wish that it hadn't.

My last relationship was with this guy I'd been seeing on and off for a while. He was a recovering drug addict and not always the brightest crayon in the box, but he was a free thinker...and amazing in bed. For a while, at least. Then he started doing the shit again...and it quickly wore thin. He constantly accused me of cheating or other transgressions. During our time together, he had hurt me so many times...but always when I wanted it and with a safeword in effect. He started to just...hurt me. We fought constantly. I tried so hard, but it was like the meth was the other woman, you know? Even worse...I could compete with another damn woman. How could I ever compete with the high? It all built up, like a bomb about to explode. For days, it was like you could hear it ticking...he'd walk in the door and the sound of his steel-toed boots was this tick,tick,tick across the hardwood floor that I'd worked so hard to strip and refinish. Tick, tick, tick until one night he hit me. He grabbed me by my hair and spun me around...and almost threw me through a glass door.

There was no safeword that could have made it stop. There was no pleasure in this pain. I had trusted him...with everything in me. And he betrayed that trust.
He left with his balls in his throat and a threat to call the police on my lips. I could think of nothing else to say, but I know now that I would have sooner killed him than called the cops. And that, my friends, scares the hell out of me.

But even more frightening...he left with all the sex toys...stole every single one of them. He even took the Polaroids. I can't help but wonder if, right now, there's some 15 year old boy out there somewhere jacking off to those photos. It kind of creeps me out.

So, I quit. I just plain quit. I stopped calling my friends back when they wanted to go out. I started spending my weekends at the zoo or the science center or the museum with my kids. We went hiking and we camped at Meramec Caverns and we told ghost stories around campfires. And, aside from my ever present best friend, Dina, my kids were my world.

And then Mom got sick and that was the greatest and most convenient excuse to keep going on that path. I was too busy. Between taking care of her and raising my kids and holding on to my sanity by a thread...there was just no time for anything else.

Eight years.

Seven years into that time span, my mother died. December 15th, 2010. A part of me died with her. She'd become my best friend. my lifeline. We had shared this huge adventure together by moving across the country. Just packing up and going because we both needed the change. Because of a great job offer that didn't last as long as it should have...a better health care choice for her...and a chance to escape.

I had run away. And, now that my partner in crime was gone and it was time to stop running and look in the mirror at the person I'd become, I had to admit that I was older, less attractive, and painfully lonely. But I didn't know how else to be.

I could hear the ticking again. Only it wasn't the ticking of a bomb this time. It was the ticking of time as it flew by.  It was the ticking of a clock on an old worn down mantlepiece, over a cold hearth, in an empty room.

For so many years, I haven't felt much of anything. I went through life one day at a time, plodding methodically from one chore to another, taking care of everyone but myself. Now, my kids are grown up. They don't need me as much anymore. Even with everything I did over those eight years, the scars of the past are upon them...reminding me of every mistake I ever made.

It was a rough time for a while there after Mom died. Dina and my brother begged me to come home and, oh, how I wanted to. We sold almost everything we owned, keeping only those things most precious to us. Everything else could be replaced. I had a job waiting for me...a place to stay all lined up. We were ready to head back across the country. Back to St. Louis. Back to HOME.

We found out my daughter was pregnant. Her boyfriend decided to go along with us.

We made it as far as Mesa before everything fell apart. Literally, everything that could have gone wrong...DID. We ran out of money. Daily job hunting was our occupation. Donating plasma became our main source of  income. We were homeless for much of her pregnancy...hanging out in a motel room and living off sandwiches and water. I worried constantly. I cried every night.
I met some people. These were the most unlikely sort of people...people whom you would think would be of absolutely no help in a situation such as ours, but they knew their way around the area. They introduced me to other people who could help. They gave me connections.

Right now, at this very moment, I could tell you where to find the best resources for just about anything you could ever want in Maricopa County. I could tell you where to find the best drugs. I could tell you where to get the cheapest drinks. Hell, I could lead you to an all night high stakes poker game in the back room of some shitty little  dive bar. Those connections led me to my job...to the apartment I'm living in and the SWEET deal I got on it...to the cheapest cigarettes in the county...to everything that's brought me to this moment where I'm sitting on my bed and my bills are paid and my beautiful granddaughter is asleep in the downstairs apartment with her parents and I have nothing better to do than sit here and pour my heart out to a group of virtual strangers.

I can feel again. And, oh, it's so sweet. Every touch, every breath, every moment is like something completely new again. I really want to let loose.

But I don't really trust anyone.  Not anymore. Not after what he did. Not after that pivotal moment when my shoulder hit glass and cracked it into shards.

I don't know how to interact like a normal person. I talk too much. I squirm. I get pushy and overbearing. I say crazy things sometimes just to be saying something. I've made a lot of friends, but I still kind of feel like I'm on the outside looking in. I've started dating a little bit again...and I'm finding it more confusing than anything. I never know the right move to make...the right thing to say. Everything that used to come so easily to me now feels like a constant struggle. I don't want to make the same old mistakes. But at the same time...I totally do. I want to feel the things I used to feel. I want to feel powerful. I want to feel weak. I want to feel wanted...needed...used up. I had bite marks on my inner thigh once that brought a grin to my face. Damn it, I want that again.

I don't care much if I'm loved. All that comes with time. I don't want someone to move in with me or spend all their time with me or pay my bills or marry me or even say that they're never going to leave. I probably wouldn't believe it even if they did. I don't want someone who's perfect or who has it all together. I don't want to have it all together. I just want to FEEL.

And I want to trust again.

Everything else in my life right now is up to me. And all of those decisions have been made. I go to work and bring home a steady paycheck. I'm waiting for my tax return right now and then I'm signing up for online college and applying for buckets of grants and student aid. I'm gonna earn that degree and it's going to take me where I want to go. Not just home, but to all the places I ever wanted to be. Right now, I'm not leaving my daughter and the baby...but soon enough, they won't need me so much anymore and, baby, this bird is ready to spread its wings and fly.

After going out to lunch with my friend today and spending some time with my granddaughter, I went to the workout room at my apartment complex tonight and I  let off some steam, burned some energy, released some frustration.  I texted with my friend throughout it all and he gave me a much needed boost of confidence.  I came home exhausted and feeling like I could take on the world.

After my workout, my daughter randomly handed me a stack of condoms. She noticed that I've had one particular guy around and she sees me becoming myself again.  It's like she's giving me her blessing to go get laid or something. I find it hilarious...and strangely touching...that her biggest concern in all this is whether or not I'm safe. She doesn't care what I do. She just wants me to be happy.

There are a few people out there who will get what I'm about to say. We all need to get our lives together. We all have to make the best of what we've been given. We all have to know when to hold 'em and know when to fold 'em. But wouldn't it be so much easier if we helped each other? Wouldn't it be nice to just let it all go?

I bought handcuffs the other day. The start of my new collection. They're hanging from the metal post of my bed...dangling there and making little clinking noises as I shift in my sleep. Holy fuck, but I love that sound. Maybe someday I'll trust someone enough to let them slide those cuffs onto my wrists.

I'm ready.

I'm waiting.

I'm fucking going to bed.

It has come to my attention that I'm just a teensy bit SCARY.





I think I like it.

Eight years.


Eight years of nights at home, friendships lost, empty beds, and sleepless nights.


Eight years of worrying about everyone else before myself.


Eight years of doing without all the things I've ever wanted just so that we could have all the things we need.


I feel liberated.


I want to dance. I want to sing. I want to come home from work every night bone-weary and ready to drop and sit down to write again...and really mean it. I want to smoke, I want to stay up all night on purpose, I want to start a new corset collection and fuck 'til I lose 20 pounds.


I want to belong to someone. I want to be wanted. I want to be owned.


I want to step out onto my front porch and cry out to the moon and the stars, give it to me now...I want it all...and whatever you do, world, just...please...make it HURT.

I had a terrible, awful, no good, very bad day today. I woke up still exhausted. I dragged myself out of bed and practically crawled into the bathroom to get ready for work. I called my best friend to see how she was doing [a lot of family drama there...not really my place to say] and she was upset so I had to be there for her. After the conversation, I was concerned about her and a little bit more down. I hung up the phone just as I was walking into work...and beginning a day filled with the most fucked up, frustrating, mentally draining phone calls ever.

I hate people.

But yesterday...ah, yesterday...

I thought I'd never get to have another girl's day without my daughter along. My roommate and I went to the naughty store and bought a few things [giggles maniacally], had Chinese food for lunch, and had our nails done. It totally reminded me of things I used to to with my best friend. Long weekends on Vince's farm as she proudly displayed the newest contraption built for her dungeon and crazy Saturday afternoons racing around St. Louis and Jefferson County while Dina scared the fucking hell out of me as she drove, talked on the phone, and smoked a frigging joint all at the same time. Talk about multi-tasking.

I can never quite be that girl again. That 20 something chica with the Misfits bandana over her long braided hair and the black wife-beater fit snugly over her tits. I'm older. I'm wiser. I'm fatter and sassier. I'm way more jaded.

I've dealt with the best and the worst that humanity has to offer. Mostly the worst. I've spent years surrounded by rednecks, cheaters, liars, tweekers, and lowlifes.

And, you know what?

My fucking life is FUN.

Well, at least it's fun often enough to keep it interesting.


So, yeah...give it to me. The laughter makes the tears more bearable. The taste of the food is worth the hours of cooking. The heat of the tequila makes me tingle. The beat of the music soothes my soul. The pain reminds me that I'm alive.

I am invincible.

Come on, world, make me your bitch.






I get it.


I totally get it.


That's cool. That's CHILLY like WILLY. That's just positively glacial.


Thaw it out a bit, will ya?


I've realized some things about myself recently and, for some absurd reason known only to the monster that lives in my brain, I feel the sudden need to share.


I'm that girl. You all know the one. I'm that girl who wants to be taken care of...who wants to be told what to do, but is just way too proud to admit it without one hell of a fight. I've become so accustomed to controlling everything...whether I want to or not...that the entire concept of letting go and handing the reins over to someone else scares the living shit out of me.


That doesn't make me want it any less.


So, last night, I used my new handcuffs to secure myself to the metal bedpost and tossed the keys to the other side of the room. And I just lay there, eyes closed, unable to think of anything but the position I was in. Prone, vulnerable, helpless. I breathed in and out in a constant state of panic for about the first 20 minutes as the darkness of my room enveloped me and the cool air from my open window washed over my bare skin. Hot tears spilled from the corners of my eyes and, unbidden, rolled across my cheeks and down my bare neck into the tangle of my hair. I wanted to scream. I wanted to thrash back and forth and pull at the metal that bit into the tender flesh of my wrists. I wanted to curse the course of events that led me to this moment. I despised myself for allowing such vulnerability...for letting anyone, even myself, to take that control away. Still, I stayed silent. I wanted those keys, but wouldn't allow myself to even attempt to reach for them.


And then, just as suddenly and as violently as the episode of panic began, it was gone. My breathe came in even measure, my muscles relaxed, my eyelids fluttered, and my mouth spread into a wide, insane grin.  I could feel the muscles of my face working to stretch to their fullest capacity. The tears flowed again. Only this time, they weren't tears of panic. They came from joy. Joy at knowing that, even after all these years of constant rigid control...even after all of the time worrying and waiting and taking care of other people...I could still let go. I could still be that girl that wanted to be taken care of.


I have a short list of people in this world that I care about. I surround myself with them daily. Amber, Nick, Stevo, Arian, Cody, my kids...my granddaughter. Friends and family, all. I would do just about anything for any one of them.


But there's one...one...ONE...person I would give that control up to, besides myself.


It's just too bad that he doesn't seem to want it anymore.

I'm really not a bitch.

Ok...so maybe I am.

But I want to say this...I've been paying some attention to the political goings on in this country as of late and I am much disturbed.

#1. Donald Trump's attack on Obama. You know, even though it ends up getting me in all sorts of trouble, I read the pulse thing on here...and certain people are calling Trump a racist because of his opposition of the president. In fact, I've noticed that they call ANYONE who opposes even the smallest thing that Obama does a racist. I'm left to wonder...what does any of this have to do with race?

The Donald speaks out against Obama because he himself is looking to become president and is willing to go to just about any lengths to achieve that end. While this doesn't necessarily inspire my respect, I don't look at that and think it is racist. It's opportunism. There have long been questions about the president's birth, among other things, and Trump is merely taking advantage of that. Why is it that there is always some faction of the black community in the U.S. [and no, I don't mean that to come across as racist either] who is always at the ready to jump up out of their seats and cry "racist" when it comes to someone not liking what Obama is doing? Why does it have to be about the color of his skin? I didn't frigging like George W. either and he was as pure and white as the cocaine he reportedly liked to put up his nose.

Sidenote: To be frank, the last president that I actually somewhat liked was Clinton. He may have been a pervert and an occasional liar [I never inhaled...I did not have sexual relations with that woman...that sort of thing], but he had our budget balanced. We weren't in debt for the first time in the goddess only knows how long. Our economy was booming, prices were reasonable, jobs were plentiful, and the rest of the damn world didn't hate our guts. Even now, he's a skilled ambassador and people round the world adore him.

But back to the subject at hand...

Taking the oath of office did not make Obama perfect and omnipotent. At the end of the day and regardless of skin color, he's only a man...a man who is taking advice from other men...and, as such, privy to making all sorts of mistakes. For heaven's sake, are we not allowed to point those mistakes out?

#2. The death of Usama Bin Laden. Now, while this fellow may have been one hell of a bastard...a veritable pimple on the arse cheek of humanity...he was still a human being. And, IF he's dead [no photos have been released and he was immediately buried at sea...the conspiracy theorist in me cringes at the thought], he can no longer defend himself. He can't go back and repent any of his deeds. He can't change history.

So, could someone please tell me why, after all these months in which no one gave this man a second thought nor bothered to utter his name - hell, we'd pretty much forgotten about him, hadn't we? - everyone is jumping on the "celebrate Usama's death" bandwagon? Did these people know him personally? Did he sneak cookies out of their cookie jar in the middle of the night or something? Yes, I know what he's been reported to have been responsible for, but that was years ago...and while the effects of that event still haunt us, is there really any need to keep jumping down the man's throat now that he's gone and can do no more damage?

Maybe it's just my view, and I said the same things when Michael Jackson died and the jokes about him were in abundance [I always thought MJ was innocent and mentally a child himself, but that's a whole other subject], but do we really have to disrespect the dead? No matter what he did or did not do, the man had absolutely no peace during his time on this earth. Are we going to be unwilling to grant him peace now that he's dead and buried as well?

I'm preaching on forgiveness, I suppose. Just as when I watched the hanging of Saddam Hussein and was moved to tears by the fact that we were, at that moment, showing ourselves to be no better than he was. We were torturing the man and relishing his pain. We were lowering ourselves to his level while purporting to be better than him. I wept for humanity...or the lack thereof. I wept because joy was being found in the death of another and, really, aren't we supposed to be above all that? How can we condemn these men the way that we do when we have shown ourselves to be just as depraved?


This is me, people. Longwinded and opinionated and saddened by the state of the world.

And, by being me, I seem to have caused more drama in the pulse. Because I was crazy enough to say these things to someone who kept posting over and over about both subjects. I wasn't trying to be a bitch. I was looking to share opinions...to invoke my right to free speech...to open the subjects to debate and maybe make some headway.

But, instead, I was called a "godless heathen witch trying to spread her hellish ways"...and all because, at the end of my post, I wished the person a blessed Beltane.

Go figure. LOL.




Edit for clarification purposes:


I am glad that he can no longer wreak the havoc that his actions wrought. I do agree with that. And I did not mean that his actions...or what came about because of them...had been forgotten...but when it first happened, everyone was up in arms and his name was on the tip of everyone's tongue. I had heard little to nothing about him for months before now. It was as if he were some fantasy figure who had somehow vanished from everyone's minds.

The horror of 9/11 never vanished, of course. But talk of that man did.

Still, I don't see the point of hating him when he's gone. Perhaps it's just my nature. Life's too short to hold onto something like that...no matter what was done. We lost loved ones. I, myself, have friends who reside in NY and I spent an agonizing 3 days not knowing if they were alright or not. We lost so many things. But we gained a lot as well.

We gained a spark that, as a country, we'd lost before that day. People stood up and cried out "NO MORE!" and the U.S. banded together as one entity in a way that we hadn't even come close to doing since WW2. In the midst of our loss and our pain, we became proud again...if only for a time.

Personally, I do not believe that our troops [no matter what the individual soldier believed] were sent over there simply to hunt him down and fight terrorism. They were sent there more so to preserve our oil supply and as a show of strength. Because of these things, I worry about future attacks from other factions and other nations...because much of the world has come to hate us...to see US as the aggressors...to see America as a bunch of cocky fools who think it's their duty to police the entire world.

I suppose my point is that, now that he's been pronounced dead, why can't we just leave the man alone? Are we going to spend eternity mourning what we lost and hating a dead man for it? I couldn't bear it if we were.




BTW...the same person who called me a "godless heathen witch" also alluded that she was shocked to see me showing the ability to string together a coherent sentence because all she'd ever seen out of me was gibberish because I was so...and I quote...STUPID.


Ok...yeah...I think she thought I was someone else.

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