living out loud

red-headed manipulators.

1- I worked on my story last night. I added THREE paragraphs to it. Go me. Tonight is research and some thinking. Tomorrow I’m going out with my sweet ESOL team – it’s a Good-Bye Amy dinner. Friday I’m going out with my women friends. My life, right now, is focused on feminine energy. Which is about 99.9% saner than masculine energy. And more uplifting, and it doesn’t ask anything of you other than maybe “Can I borrow a tampon?”.

2-I went private on Twitter and deleted it off my phone, and deleted the cookie to remember the password on my laptop (I have no idea what my Twitter password is at this point). Not because of the a-hole who was bothering me there recently (though I do hope his dumb ass fingers fall off while he’s typing on Twitter after masturbating, since that’s pretty much the only real physical love he’ll ever get that’s not fake and contrived), but because I got to thinking…that place is drippy. I’ve met some really really lovely people there, people I’m glad to know. The ones who matter are on my personal Facebook account…I’m willing to add a couple more, but they need to find me.

But Twitter also brought me an entitled man with some kind of personality disorder who scared the crap out of me and harassed me for almost a year prompting me to call the police, a sociopath Trump supporter who every now and then harasses me with stupid fake accounts attacking my looks, as if that’s all women are good for (because that’s how ugly, useless people think), and a person I love so very deeply who’s hurt me to my core. I feel used and led on. And lied to and manipulated. I almost feel like I was targeted for this, and this was part of some kind of sick game.

So yeah. Real over Twitter at this point. It doesn’t do a whole lot for me, and it’s too distracting. Taking a biiiig break. I’ll hang out here (COMMENTS CLOSED), and on my private Facebook and Instagram accounts. Eventually I’ll move this blog to a new location, and start the hell over. All the way over.

What I actually want to talk about right now is THIS:


keeping with the theme of when a boy is mean to you.

First off, let’s discuss the words in this meme. No, you don’t tell a daughter that boys who are mean are that way because they have a crush on her. When I was a 4th or 5th grader, a neighborhood boy named Andy was really cruel to me. I could never figure out why, and my parents both told me: he’s got a crush on you. No he didn’t…he literally hated me; turns out, I was in the wrong place at the wrong time and he blamed me for his parents’ decision to give his dog away (that dog was psycho…it was sent to a farm where it could run around wild and free, crunching little bunnies to death instead of small neighbor children). Later, in high school – I attended city, he attended county – Andy ran into me, literally. I was going into a fast food restaurant, he was coming out. “Ewwww….Amy. You’re still ugly,” he sneered. Bullies don’t mature. I bet Andy’s on Twitter right now, as a matter of fact, bullying some poor soul he views as weaker or whatever. Bullies don’t mature and they don’t change.

And that’s why not only do you not tell girls that…but you also raise your boys to know they don’t treat other people like that, boy or girl. You don’t abuse people you love. You don’t lie to them, you don’t use them, you don’t play games with them, you don’t call them names, you don’t manipulate them, you don’t guilt trip them, you don’t control them, you don’t take advantage of them. Period. EV. er. Because when you do? You turn nice people angry and mean. You make a mockery of whatever love and soft feelings they have or had for you. You’re a bad friend. Or a twisted person. And that fucks them up. And that ain’t right, so you better hope like hell that doesn’t come back on you.

Okay, that’s done. Can I tell you my meme-related story now?

3-When I was in 2nd grade, there was a little freckled, red-haired boy who really did have a crush on me. He actually wasn’t mean to me, but he was kind of rude. Rude in the respect he’d chase me all over the playground trying to kiss me…we’d play a card game together during Math and he’d try to kiss me…we’d be in line to go somewhere, and he’d try to kiss me. Let’s call him Todd, because I think that’s actually what his name was. Todd the red-haired little Casanova.

Lands, y’all. He’d piss me off so bad. I did not WANT Todd the red-haired boy to kiss me. Boys were gross. At recess I liked to sit quietly under a tree by myself and draw in the dirt. Or bring a book outside and read. I did not want to play chase, I did not want to run around the playground like a crazed chicken, I did not want to be kissed. He vexed me so.

One day, Todd, me, and another little girl went inside to get something out of our classroom. I guess in 1979 teachers just weren’t real aware of where or what the children were doing during recess. I bet recess was also a full 45 minutes long of free play. I know we didn’t do ANY math with missing numbers in it like they do in the 21st century now – that totally would have freaked me out; I already had Mathphobia starting on the account of problems like 17-8. We were NOT given enough fingers to do that kind of math.

At any rate, so we go inside and immediately Todd tries to kiss me.

“NOOOO, Todd!” I screeched and I ran behind some desks. Todd ran after me. So it was cat and mouse, all around the classroom. I’d try to fake him out but he was fast, too fast for me. Finally, he cornered me. He grabbed me so I couldn’t get away annnnddd…SMACK. On my lips.

Didn’t even think. I just hauled back and WHACK! slapped him right across his face.

I can still see the hurt shock on that little freckled face, his hand on his cheek.

“Why’d you do that??” he asked, “I just wanted to kiss you.”

“I TOLD you I DON’T want you to kiss me!!” I said, and I flounced away, back to the playground.

After that, Todd stayed away from me. All the way away from me. I don’t remember feeling bad at all. Dammit, Todd, I said NO KISSING.

Oh, to be that little 8 year old girl again. Where is she? Somewhere along the way between 8 and puberty and college and adulthood, I lost her. She was taken over by Ms. People Pleaser, Ms. I’m At Your Service, Men. Once upon a time, I was a little girl who said NO, meant it, and took action if my opinion wasn’t respected. I know she’s inside me somewhere, hiding, and I know exactly why she’s hiding but I’m not ready to publicly write about it. One day I will. But today? I just want her back.

It’s why I’m so angry at men, especially ones who very deliberately and carefully got me to trust them and took advantage of my big heart. Especially men who take their pleasure of me for months and months and then go, “Meh, I’m not developing feelings, bye…call me if you have a flat tire or something.” Especially men who love bomb me and then get all bent out of shape when I say NO and start setting up fake Twitter accounts to control and manipulate me and act like an abusive psychopath to the point I have to call the police. Especially men who like to set up fake social media accounts to fat shame someone (I do not weigh a ton, and I’m an attractive woman with two college degrees…somebody’s got manliness insecurity issues and feels better when he’s acting on his sociopathic impulses – if he continues, I’ll find his parole officer and send them screen shots of all of his online activity…pretty sure they’re a violation of his probation and the domestic violence restraining order he’s been under).

I don’t like being angry. Before I moved out of my house I wasn’t angry, just sad. But the more men I interacted with while on my own, the angrier and angrier I’ve gotten. I don’t even trust men now, to be honest. And that makes me angry too. And I don’t WANT to be angry. I don’t want to be angry at anyone. But I am seething with a very real sense of injustice right now–I’ve been kissed by a bunch of grown up little Todds, men who present themselves one way and then do something totally not cool, and that is just…I pretty much need a miracle to trust another man ever again.

And I’m NOT going back to my marriage, because that’s a man who likes to tell me what to do with a bunch of spreadsheets. I’m going to sleep alone for a really, really, really long time. I don’t manipulate or lie to myself, and all the games I play have sane rules and a sense of fair play. These effing selfish bastards. I don’t even have a libido right now. THAT’S how over them I am. AND THAT MAKES ME MAD TOO. I liked my libido, goddammit.

The End.