***less Prick

Sometimes I feel like I’m challenging myself to a pissing contest with my problems. I delve back into the piled up, hardened turds that are responsible for making me who I am and my brain suddenly pipes up with “Oh, you think that was bad? Wait until you remember this!” Naturally, due to my ongoing anxiety problems (basically a cool, soulful way of saying that my hands shake constantly and I’m always one hardened look away from a mental breakdown), another part of my brain will cry in a shrill voice: “NO. You have it so good. You’ve never been molested! Your hair is clean and shiny! You haven’t got burns on 95% of your body. Let it go! Chill the fuck out, little darling!”

Chill the fuck out indeed. It’s a wonderful world we live in, where our own brains will betray us and call our issues meaningless because it’s already been desensitised to so much worse. And yet at the same time, we have a scourge of whiny teenage girls overloading suicide hotlines because they can’t decide whether they really love their boyfriends or not. Give me a fucking break. If you think you’re sexually incompatible and make fun of his weight, you obviously aren’t invested in him. Make a clean break and go attempt to fuck someone else up. Just quit bitching to me about it.

Here is an example of the kind of idle chit chat I must feign interest in for the sake of removing all possible friction from my limited social setting:

WHINY BITCH: lol my boyfriend and I never talk becuz I never have credit so I’ll get jealous of you if you spend more than five fucking minutes talking to a person you love and then fight him about it because I’m that insecure

ME: Aw. Well, that sucks.

WHINY BITCH: Also if you even talk about doing stuff with your friends I’m going to complain about how nobody likes me or gives me enough attention even though it’s my own fault because all I ever do is tell people about my fuckingimaginary problems and never even pretend to take on board what they’re saying back. If you looked up “selfish, self-centred bitch” in the dictionary, there’d be a picture of my face.

ME: Well, actually, dictionaries rarely have combination phrases, or pictures for that matter-

WHINY BITCH: I THINK I’M INTO GIRLS LOL NOT REALLY LET’S TONGUE KISS WHEN WE’RE DRUNK.

ME: Fuck.

And so on and so forth. This may be part of the reason that I talk almost exclusively to men. Of course, I can’t say that without feeling more than a little sexist. I’ve also talked to my fair share of stupid, annoying men and from this I’ve gathered that when a man is thinking with his dick, he’s a fucking idiot. Similarly, women that think with their vaginas are also idiots. I know. I’ve been there. But at least I can safely say I was very drunk at the time.

CREEP: lol hey

ME: … hey.

CREEP: So sorry to hear about your break up! Hey, do you know what’s great? Casual sex!

ME: … I just got out of a long term relationship two days ago. I don’t think so.

CREEP: You know what will make you less stressed? Casual sex!

ME: I’m really not looking for anyone at the moment, and if I was, I have far better options [At this point, I sigh wistfully and think of a beautiful French man with a very high libido who I would gladly surrender my entire life to, let alone settle for a casual fling.]

CREEP: You know how you can meet people? Casual sex.

ME: I’m beginning to think you’re simply going to respond to whatever I say with the phrase “casual sex” in the hope that I’ll either forget you’re repulsive orchuck you a pity lay to get rid of you.

CREEP: Casual sex!

ME: … indeed. [Logs off.]

I’m such a poor little fucking white girl. I sometimes laugh at how typical I am. They could make an indie movie about girls like me. Hilariously dysfunctional family? Check. Interest in a variety of nerdy activities? Check. A tendency to drink too much and stash my underwear in my purse when I need to piss on a children’s playground? Check. Please don’t put me on the sex offenders register, officer, I swear, I just really needed to piss. Also, please ignore my buck-naked friend currently rubbing his testicles on the community barbeque.

None of my problems are what I’d consider to be “edgy teen angst” worthy shit. As far as I know, none of my friends or relatives have ever had a heroin addiction, although yay for the rampant alcoholism and manic depression that plagues my bloodline! As I’ve mentioned before, I have never been molested (as far as I know, there’s no telling what may be locked up in the back of this crazy motherfucking brain), although I find it completely fucked up that many of my nearest and dearest have been. I guess I was almost raped… once? I can say that casually because I drove my heels into his balls and got away. That’s my signature move, by the way, going for the balls. Both in a fight and in bed. Oh baby.

I’d say that almost being raped or molested is almost a rite of passage for women, no matter how awful and misogynistic that sounds. Or maybe that’s just my hardened, fucked up perspective. I hit 18 and all of a sudden I was fair game for all the fucking freaks and geeks. It was like my young age previously cast a protective ward around me that sheltered me from things like almost being forcibly fingered in a club bathroom by a complete fucking stranger and having a man old enough to be my father attempt to pick me up with free verse. Or perhaps I was a fucking ugly youngster. We’ll never know. Facebook that shit.

Dear that creep that held me down by my fucking wrists so I couldn’t get away from you while your hand was scuttling up my inner thigh, I hope your balls still hurt, you stupid fucker. I hope the next time you came while jacking off into your little sister’s panties, blood shot out of your dick instead of cum. I hope I kicked you so fucking hard that I gave you a vasectomy. And to that bouncer who completely ignored my terrified screams for help- well, shit, man. One day, someone will be raped right under your nose and you won’t even fucking care. Get another job, because you clearly can’t manage this one. If anything, I wish I’d kicked you in the balls too.

I read Tina Fey’s autobiography and she stated (I’m parphrasing, of course) that most girls only realise that they’re becoming women when a dude does something unpleasant to them. In her case, it was a guy yelling “nice tits” to her out of a car when she was eleven years old. In true Tina Fey fashion, she screamed back at them to “suck her dick”. I realised I wasn’t a little girl any more in a similar fashion.

My mother used to work in a shop that exclusively catered to hipsters- okay, no, I’m being facetious, it was a store that sold “retro” (i.e expensive second hand) clothing. Every week, she’d disappeared into this odd portal that beamed straight into the 1960s, complete with beaded curtains and a strong smell of pot and incense. One fateful day, I was hanging out in her car with my ex best friend (long story that shall be saved for another time, because that is also a goldmine of emotional wreckage. Truth be told, she was my first ex. More on that later), changing my shirt for whatever dumb reason a fourteen year old has for changing in the back of her Mum’s car with the window open.

As I yanked a spandex singlet over my bountiful b-cups (sarcasm is crazy awesome), my friend froze and grabbed me, gesturing towards the window. Some fat, boozing bastard with broken veins and watery blue eyes was sliding across the side of the car, his face practically pressed against the window. The fucker was practically licking it. I almost expected to do a Silence of the Lambs and hear him whisper “I can smell your cunt!”. As he came to a stop, his arm resting inside of my car through the open window, we recoiled, pressing ourselves as far away as possible. And then he began to speak.

“Hey you girls want to come get a drink? Whaaaaaaaatcha doin’? Come get a drink with me. I knooooow people. Ask my wiiiiife,” he slurred, his cheap wristwatch flashing in the sunlight. He stank of stale beer, sweat and something that instinctively made me want to open the car door and run for it. He was still staring at my top, like if he looked hard enough, he’d see the tiny pubescent bumps underneath. Perving on a fourteen year old. I know we all dress like sluts, but Jesus.

Eventually, he moved on, as I again and again alluded to the fact that my mother was only next door and would certainly hear my screams if I was to be brutally raped/murdered. So he left. But not without trying to trail his hand across my hair as I locked the door.

You can blame the sexualisation of the media, the length of shorts, the predatory instinct ingrained in the male consciousness that makes them crave younger mates. All I know is that was the moment. That was my moment. I was a woman now… and naturally, that meant that every creep in a five mile radius would try to fuck me if they could.