Archives For Narcissism

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I want to write about sex.

I want to write about the glorious way it feeds my creativity, and how deep pleasure is balm to my soul. I want to capture the absurd dichotomy of my existence as both single mom and sexual being, in long wet delicious sentences.

But then I would be a sex blogger. And I’m not brave enough for that.

 

I want to write about the tug of war going on in my brain, my anxiety and depression and PTSD and Imposter Syndrome.

But then I would be a mental illness blogger. I don’t want to be mentally ill, let alone write about it.

I’m inflamed with unexpressed ideas. It feels like sickness. Tender, feverish, swollen.

I want to bite off more than I can chew and chew longer.

I want to navigate the jagged edges of all my experiences, dance among the wreckage, celebrate the joy and the hideousness of every mistake I’ve ever made.

I want to write about the grief and anger that are spinning out of control, that feel like ground glass shredding me from the inside.

Instead, I am a phony.

 

 

 

Long ago I learned abuse and neglect as love. I am addicted to feeling never good enough, and the sweet momentary high when I’m mining for love and hit right into a silvery vein of approval.

Because in our first exchanges, you either criticized or ignored my writing, you felt like home. But this time, I WOULD be good enough. If only. If only.

If only.

 

I was new to the online world. And didn’t know that unwanted attention is part of the experience for many women.

You said it was because I had a sex blog. And that no one would take me seriously.

 

I turned to Brenda at Burns the Fire. Two years later, I have not forgotten how she saved me.

She told me, LOVE. Just, LOVE.

Yes, you are provocative, she said, and what’s wrong with that? Just LOVE.

 

I’m disconnected from what ever it is that people feel when they read me. When I sit at the keyboard all I feel is fear. The blood pounds in my ear so loudly all I hear is a verbal dance of madness.

 

I want to write stories of horrific post partum depression, the kind that makes you want to drown your own child. And how I crossed over to a love so deep, I’m the one drowning now.

But how tiring it is, that I need to share everything, down to the last blood cell.

I’m not funny on Facebook.

My rock tees are silly.

Bad things happen to me because I seek pain.

My beloved project was only popular because misery loves company. I left it over a year ago and once an arrow shot into the heart, it bled out.

 

I’m not a writer. I’m simply part of a cult that writes little 1000 word essays for other WordPress bloggers.

Yes, that is what I am. I have no evidence to the contrary.

Is that a bad thing?

*dances in a cult-like fashion around a WordPress statue*

 

I only use profanity because I’m a lazy writer. Yes, it’s an easy way to get a cheap laugh. Suck my dick.

 

I want to breathe fire into these keys and tear apart every fucking idea about what a blog should be

I want everyone to know that I’m crazy, and find it thrilling because it means I’m doing great things.

I want to Write Free!

Freedom feels like a walk along the ocean’s shore, accompanied by the cry of sea gulls and the briny smell and the wind blowing cooler than inland.

Freedom feels like a month in a loony bin inpatient treatment center getting electroshock therapy to burn this out of my brain, for once and for fucking final.

 

The wrong person at the wrong time can build a nest right inside your insecurities and confirm for you that you are, in fact, nothing.

 

I have learned the hard, soul crushing way that writing your deepest tragedies leaves you open to pain almost as fierce as the tragedies themselves.

When someone you cherish asks for the fourth time why you moved out of NYC. Or asks you how your beloved brother died, when you spelled these things out in technicolor horror on posts they, in fact, commented on.

I learned the painful way that some of the people I love most don’t read what I write, and that sometimes, people leave comments to keep up appearances.

Which is like, inviting you to my brother’s funeral, and you showing up in a clown suit.

 

My posts are too long. I violated the formulaic 700 word rule. What’s the point in tapping out this sentence when everyone stopped reading by the time I wrote “sentence”?

 

This will be another story that I won’t publish, part of the daily bloodletting.

I write daily but publish infrequently.

I fear being ridiculed again, hearing you sneer that not everyone writes about shoplifting and heroin, you know.

Yes.

I know.

Here. Here’s a recipe.

Vanilla Chai Frozen Smoothie

  • 1 scoop vanilla chai protein powder
  • I frozen banana
  • ½ cup almond milk

Put everything in your smoothie maker thing. Turn that shit on. Eat it.

 

There.

 

I often sob while I write. Out of sheer relief that comes with sharing my truth as transparently and vulnerable as humanly possible

Self sabotage is my comfort zone. I squander my life on drugs and terrible choices and people whose need to make me feel small meshes perfectly with my need to disappear.

 

I have been force-fed so many different versions of myself, there is nothing left but everyone’s idea of me.

 

He did not break me. I was broken when he found me.

He was just drawn to the glittering shards and could not help but grind them down into dust.

 

Please refrain from disparaging comments. Be encouraging. 
I need positivity. Talk to me. I’m listening. 

 

Join me on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter . Or don’t. You do you. 

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I recently came upon an article, “21 tips On How to be a Perfect Girlfriend for your Guy.”

Women already work for less money than men, made the diet industry worth a gazillion dollars so we can be someone else’s idea of beautiful, and watch porn to learn how to completely suppress our gagging reflexes.

Why not also mold yourself into a brainless Malibu Barbie?

Want to know how painful it is to get anal, jailhouse style? Read these. I added my responses.

 

1. Look great for him. Men are visual.

Yes, that’s why he’s addicted to YouPorn. Unless you have another chick and can deep throat a python, you lose.

And what about how jacked up he looks? Splashing your dick in the sink to get a blow jay does not count as hygiene.

2. Smell Great for him.

Never mind that sleeping in the same room with my Ex was like Weekend At Auschwitz. Welcome to the Gas Chamber. Between him and my son I risked asphyxiation daily.

3.  Stop nagging and complaining.

I’m sure you’d love it if the only tine I opened my mouth was to fellate you. I wouldn’t nag you if the garage didn’t look like we stumbled onto an episode of Hoarders, what with that important paperwork from the 80’s and all.

4. Love him. More than anything.

Ohhh, now we’re trapped in an Erectile Dysfunction commercial. The gorgeous mature couple are laughing and frolicking on the beach and it doesn’t matter that he hasn’t slipped her the high hard one since the Bush administration.

Fuck that. Smother him in his sleep and sport fuck the 25-year-old trainers at the gym. They get hard ons when someone opens a can of tuna.

5. Love Yourself. Be secure and radiate positive energy, smile every day.

Better yet, VERY SINGLE SECOND. Pop Xanax like Tic Tacs so you can resemble an escaped mental patient.

6.  Be devoted.

Focus your energy obsessively on him until he’s at the point where he fantasizes waterboarding you.

Blind devotion is creepy. The next thing you know you’ve given away all your worldly possessions, shaved your head and you’re dancing around Los Angeles International Airport playing your karatala with Hare Krishnas.

7. Like his friends.

Even if they’re imbeciles, like his best friend who tried to finger bang you in the kitchen during Super Bowl Sunday. And then peed on your floor.

8. Be a sex goddess.

Did they really tell you to fulfill all his fantasies? Do they know he’s into acrotomophilia? (sexual attraction to amputees) Are you gonna chop your legs off for this motherfucker? And never shoe shop again?

And you forget you chopped off your legs, and you wake up Friday morning, all, “Hey, it’s the weekend, I’m gonna go dancing!” and then you are like, “Ohh. That’s right. I can never dance again because I have no legs.

9.  Cook well. Or at least try.

I happen to love to cook. It relaxes me. But a lot of women DO NOT.

So, if he’s an asshole,  poison him slowly, over a month. Just put traces of cyanide in his food as he grows progressively weaker. Then one day, he keels over.

Bon appetit, jizztrumpet!

10. Love is in the details. Give him gifts, massage and pamper him.

I’m not gonna massage your hairy back, Sasquatch. If you’re nice I’ll give you a handjob – that counts as a massage in my book.

11. Appreciate him.

Yes, because it’s so nice of him to hold your hair back during his morning blow job.

12. Stroke his ego.

Because his narcissism has only partially destroyed you. Let’s feed that monster until your soul is crushed irreparably.

13. Make him feel like a man.

I have a better idea. Why don’t you just come fully formed as one already? How long do you get to be a boy? Isn’t there an expiration date on that shit?

You get to put your dick in my vagina. If that isn’t manly enough for you, then go build something. Or kill a deer.

14. Help him grow by being his partner, not his enemy. Help him fulfill his potential, maybe even his destiny.

Well, aren’t WE lofty. You neglect your dreams and ambitions and pour all your energy into someone who will exploit you.

This is straight out of the Ike Turner “How to Treat A Bitch handbook.

15. Have a life and a passion.

Not so that YOU can flourish. But to be a better girlfriend for HIM.

Hear that horrible creaking death rattle? That’s Betty Friedan rolling over in her grave.

16. Be better than all of his ex’s combined.

As if women aren’t competitive enough. But you’re the new and improved version. Which means you have to pay the price for every crazy bitch his dick ever fell into.

17. Give him space.

Sure, give him space, give him the whole galaxy. Just know that what he’s doing with that space is fucking your friends.

18. Have a pleasing personality.

Is it just me, or does this one just makes you want to bludgeon him to death with your own amputated leg? (see #8) How about if I stick you in a cage, cover you in birdseed and let a bunch of agitated birds peck the shit out of you? Does that please you?

19. Don’t take him for granted; don’t be lazy.

Never mind that his toenails are a deadly weapon and his inner ears are dotted with sexy blackheads. Or that he thinks a date is him belching to Netflix.

20. Work out regularly.

Guess what? This has everything to do with me wanting to be strong and nothing to do with looking good for you. Doesn’t this work both ways? I don’t appreciate having to lift your stomach with both hands to find your dick.

21. Be feminine.

How about I grab this girly feminine pink pistol I purchased and shoot you in the throat? I’m pretty sure that’s legal in the South.

 

There was actually more advice, but I can’t continue. I need to do something less excruciating, so I’ll be giving myself a urethral catheter.

 

Do you have other suggestions on how to be the perfect girlfriend?
Does this article make you want to projectile vomit?
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

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