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Spoiler MATURE *** This blog entry could trigger you, it may be disturbing to some *** Spoiler MATURE

It’s difficult to hear this song now and see the video. I once loved this song. It’s like a room I have in the back of my mind that I felt comfortable in. That room that holds the 7 foot pile of p0rn0 mags that we use to play on in the morning and read in the afternoon when I was 6. It’s like the vaseline at my father’s desk that was so old it turned a caramel color and looked like ancient rubber cement. The smell of mold and uncleaned s3xu@l trysts. 1970s d!ld0s, the ones my 13 year old friend’s Mom had under her bed. The things we did in the woods that we were too young to have knowledge of. Precocious sounds like such a mature word especially when it was brought on by backward hillbillies. Sick, I like to be sick it’s home. That is one side of me. The one I deny because no one in the family wants to acknowledge it. It made s3x so dirty and so subversive, s3xy in it’s hidden promise of passion and anger and power and rage.
I think that’s why I started hating him. He was. He was degenerate. He drank from the sour glass. He c@me into his pillow and slept on it. His beard was taken from s@t@n’s cr0tch. The crusted sweats, the busted shoes with orthopedic lifts, the mustache he’d twist. I touched that. I can’t deny it. My self esteem was so low.
Of all the things about him that disturbed me most he told me he wanted to f^ck me when I cried. He was aroused by my pain and weakness.
Did I tell you he wore diapers to work. He’d call me from Washington D. C. to ask me to be his Mommy. I did it for a while. Did I tell you we were going to get married? It was beyond a sick joke. It was beyond my considering being a dominatrix.
He collected Pokemon. He collected code. His Amiga was his real love. Eventually he collected some Australian chick off the internet and I was off the hook. This kind of twisted is difficult for me to shake. I feel in my damaged soul that I deserve someone like this who disgusts me to my core. My best friend felt sorry for him because his mother was an overbearing cretin. I never told her of the back room antics. I’ve been kind to the people that I’ve loved for very long periods. The others I find ways to treat with soft cruelty. I never told anyone I was an angel or even that I was a pleasant person. I’ve actually told many people that I’m the opposite. I don’t know, they seem to think I’m being self denigrating. It’s probably because I don’t show people the side of me that has no bounds. When I start to scream because the hatred can’t come out fast enough. People are surprised that I can hug until it hurts. Being silent means not proving to people that they are stupider than they think they are. It’s always better if they think they’re smarter than you. They overlook so many clues.

Why is this on my mind? He’s dead. He died down the road. I had stopped talking to him. I hated him. I hated the pure degradation of the whole situation and my ability to allow myself to sink to that spiritual and emotional depth. Yes I was cruel. I can admit it. That is who I am.

His mother said he died of a ruptured blood vessel. He was prostrate on the couch and the blood pooled to his back. He’d been there a week or so, so she said. I hated her too but was shocked and went to the funeral. I wished him gone but not dead. She wrote me a letter telling me she always cared about me (of course she did, she was a bully and she enjoyed working my @ss off and paying me in cr@ppy used items.) She wanted me to write her back. I ask my Mother for some advice (a rare thing for me to do.) She told me that $500.00 was a good price to not have a harridan like that in my life. I didn’t write her back even though I’m tempted to tell her she’s an awful human and a disgusting parent. And she was just as ugly as her soul.

I wonder if I am as ugly as my soul as I fear.

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