I wrote a lot on the book today.  So I’m kind of anxious and fussed.  I went over to Pinterest.  I like not having to read.  But the wedding ones get me.  Mostly the pictures of the happy brides with their fathers.  Why do I have to compulsively talk about being an incest survivor?  Because it impacts every part of my life.  This isn’t something that happened to me one time.  I have not lost the rest of my life because I was raped when I was seven or eight or nine or or or or.

I hide in my house because my father filled my head with poison.  He convinced me that I was a worthless piece of shit.  He convinced me that I should present myself to people as someone who should be raped.  That it was my destiny.  That is what my parent told me to be.  My father wanted me to grow up to be a whore.

You want to know why I don’t follow polite social rules?  Oh good fucking grief.  When in the hell was I going to learn them?  In one of the series of schools where I was brutally beaten because I compulsively talked about sex and made everyone uncomfortable?  Or I was cussing.  Or my handwriting sucked.  There were a lot of reasons for beating me.  At home?  With the rednecks?  My ignorant family?  From my father?  Ha.

I think it is hilarious that people think that American culture is apparent and obvious and easy to follow.  I don’t know what the fuck you people want.  Other than to not be uncomfortable.  Well then don’t talk to me.  I may or may not be able to accommodate you.  I would apologize only I’m not sorry.  I don’t think it is my responsibility to ensure that everyone is comfortable.  My responsibility is to say what I need to say in order to get through the day.  If I don’t say what I need to say then I get bitter and nasty and carping and desperate.  I start breaking things.  I start cutting.  I start doing all kinds of other festive things.

I’m sorry motherfucker but you get to feel uncomfortable for a few minutes.  It’s your fucking turn.