The Numbers


On my way to uni this afternoon I saw two teenagers chasing each other, the girl ran behind a give way sign, the boy dived at her, she went the other way, then they ran for a while, she stopped and they threw their arms around each other and hugged.

I know its bitter but that really gets to me, I should feel happy, delighted, but I feel envious that I never had the chance at that. As soon as I found a boy I liked that much it was all over, now years on I still can’t let go of that minute time with him when it was wonderful.

What I do want to do is tell them to go at each other with everything they have because it won’t last, fuck caution, appearance and duty. Forget about your reputation, what your parents say, or that you might get hurt, all of that is so worth it.

I was listening to Forty-six and 2*, that didn’t help.

Later on, after the black clouds had settled around me I thought haven’t I given up fast? Is this where my story ends? 7.14.15.16.18.19.22.23.25 that’s my puzzle, at first it has an element of sequence, then it gets much harder to understand, although by that stage you have all your data, you stare like Hurley at the dash of a Camaro and are appealed.

Fuckery, this stared with young love.

Stop, step back, reassess, you’re not that much older than those kids, eight – nine years?

I’m a summer girl, winter, solitude and vicarious thoughts depress me, I look across the tram to an older lady, seventy maybe? She looks out the window with the same look on her face, something lost, something past, leaden to her, a whispish hint to me, but I see it. Her age spotted hands, delicate in their way, wrapped in skin like badly made rice paper roles, they tumble around each other, past, present, need and that uncomfortable knowing that its a vain desire.

In the absence of motherly wisdom’s to break the spell I remember sermons on the couch.

Regret is an anchor, let it go, let it go, let it go

Says Buddha in Calvin Klein. Sometimes I think its worse that I listen, but its only wounded ego talking there. Funny no matter how much you punch these things they only get stronger for the acknowledgement of them, This is something i say to people when I want to impress on them how wise I am.

“God you’re so together, I can’t believe you are so young.” A year older now, I wonder how fucking old I’ll have to be until someone just says – true. I wonder if they say that to the old lady. I bet she knows what I am feeling and why it hurts to look at those two, why I’d rather look at a car crash. Maybe?

Let it go.

‘Like:
“Killed by the husband” …
“Drowned by the ocean” …
“Shot by his own son” …
“She used a poison in his tea,
Then (she) kissed him goodbye”
That’s my kind of story
It’s no fun ’til someone dies.’**

Is the ides like this for everyone? Significant things happen in the middle of the month, I go through my pre-launch sequence and shush the doubts, lingering blames and consciously pull the anchor in.

Another year in the life, one less I will get back, one day I’ll look back to this and regret it if I don’t do something with it. My mind plays on the rough bark of a tree and a boy’s breath on my neck, some people never had that, remember it as light not dark, re-asses, re-file, it’s harder to code than C-Triple-plus, not that i have.

Behind the lady, to the back is a boy, maybe 17, in a duffel coat and black jeans, he has heavy metal runners on and thick curly hair made unfashionable by rain and lack of confidence, I look at him square on. He has deep dark eyes, skin as pale as mine, like all of his ilk he hunches, so he won’t stand out, be noticed. He has bum fluff, what we call that wispy hair men get on their faces before they can actually grow a manly beard. He was staring, now I am, his eyes run away afraid and autocorrect straightens my back. He’ll sweat for the rest of the trip, face the ground, fiddle with his play list, occasionally it’ll give him the balls he needs and he’ll flick a stare.

“Boobs out, buttons in,”  thanks for the iron mum.

‘Learn to swim, learn to swim, learn to swim.’***

Funny how you can see and easily fix other people’s flaws, funny how they kick a person back into gear.

Everything that kills you makes you stronger. He reminds me that most people die at the first hurdle, give up, one punch in, fall to the floor and get the shit kicked out of them, I never understood that. Sure I did what I was told but at least I had to be beaten first, I know what hurts too much to do and what I can suffer with a smile. Poor boy, I wonder what it was, some girl at school, who laughed in his face? Domineering mother, father? Being on the outer, other guys? Or was it that he has too much in him that he can’t let out.

I feel vicariously stronger, I realise I am staring at him, its making him very uncomfortable, I can tell because he shifts so much, stares too intently at nothing and snaps his gaze this way less and less longer but more frequently. Bitch that I am I enjoy the surge of power and run it over my knuckles, I run out of bitch though and its my stop, I walk over towards him and run my hand up his arm.

Despite the fact he flinches like I was glowing red steel I know he’ll pleasure over that far longer than I will remember. And there is the grey of our lives, not good not evil, gifts that look like stab wounds, depending on where you stand. At the moment we are weakest, most fragile and like to break like the most delicate crystal we are hard as sheet carbon, dazzlingly, hauntingly, monstrously unbreachable.

Two worlds collide and out of the gloom a bauble is created, one becomes slave to it, the other forgets it instantly.

 

*Fourty-six and 2 – Tool

**Vicarious – Tool

***Ænima – Tool

Nadine the Liopleurodon. (Something absurd in the key of D)


I’m 6.39 meters long, some Aussie twit wrote me a song
My name is Nadine, I’m a fucking awesome Liopleurodon

I wish I was still alive, but I’m not, clusterfuck, I eat Megalodon
My name is Nadine, I’m a fucking awesome Liopleurodon

At least my arse in the mirror isn’t as big as King Kong
Some Aussie dick wrote me a song
I eat pterodactyls and Megalodon
I bet I could totally pull that bong
My name is Nadine, I’m a fucking awesome Liopleurodon

My head is big as a bus, My teeth are a cutlass, I’m not from London
My name is Nadine, I’m a fucking awesome Liopleurodon

An asteroid or comet fucked my shit up, now dinosaurs are gone
My name is Nadine, I’m a fucking awesome Liopleurodon

At least my arse in the mirror isn’t as big as King Kong
Some Aussie dick wrote me a song
I eat pterodactyls and megaladon
I bet I could totally pull that bong
My name is Nadine, I’m a fucking awesome Liopleurodon

I don’t wear knickers, bras, trench coats or even a sarong
My name is Nadine, I’m a fucking awesome Liopleurodon

I laugh at Spinosaours, Tyrannosaurs and wipe my butt with Iguanodon
My name is Nadine, I’m a fucking awesome Liopleurodon

I might have been drunk when I wrote this.

At one point everything was gay.


There were times in my life that if I had the magic switch that would have taken out the world with me I’d have flipped it. Context and situation I’ve come to learn is something that is blinding so is our ability or lack of to see reason particularly under stress, but understanding this has also made me a more balanced person in the end – I am egotistical enough to think. This small insight in mind I re-evaluated all aspects of myself and things around me, I’ve always thought I was smart but at my best friends wedding I made light of her and her husband’s unusual relationship so she told me to get out of her life. I did, years later the damage is still there, even though we have made up, that event was the kind of stick and carrot learning that most people thing they experience through the struggle of their lives but actually its TV telling them that they have it hard.

I’ve been fortunate to have been born white, middle class, western, with no pre-disposition to over-eating, drugs and so on, I’d have probably not have been as motivated to consider others unless the bad things I experienced in my life had happened, but they did, much to my distress I am forced to concede that even the monsters I have shaped of people in my past were human and fallible. Its hard to come back from that kind of hatred, it feels intrinsic to me, as though my blood, my bones all of me are alloyed of that, but that’s some deep part of me that is still too afraid to let go of the drives that kept me warm. Some of those people from my past I hate because the strength of emotion I had for them, I felt it was used against me and even more than the physical it hurt immensely, deeply and relentlessly. In seeing that, I can see the things people hate about ‘difference’, fear, its always fear, sometimes its want too, especially with the gay hysteria.

Somewhere in the deeply ignorant past someone came up with this idea of homogeneity, if you are different then you are evil, it sort of makes sense in an evolutionary context, but for a species that sees itself as at least semi divine then no, its utter bullshit. Is divinity just flying about in clouds? Zapping people who fail into hell? Surely divinity is a cerebral thing. One of the things I love about science is that everything, utterly everything is a multiplication or division of energy, matter and forces, but that isn’t a faith, or a belief, it is an ever changing pursuit for understanding, which is, in my humble opinion the very best of the human struggle.

I’m no philosopher, I’ve read some, debated, but its not concrete enough for me to bother with. In my course there was the option to go to psychology but really, I’m not that stable that I could deal with that kind of thing, in practical terms it’d have been a pursuit for knowledge but not a life’s goal. Again there I will defer to keener, more suited minds. Therein though lies the body of influence on the human mind, culture and aspiration, causal effects – why we are how we are. I prefer to do that on the couch with someone else directing me so to speak.

We take all these things now, our ways of seeing, of defining our world, place in it and lives and where do we proceed?

If I could be arrogant here, and I will be, human beings are possessed of a vast mind, all of us have the ability to reason great things, complex problems and intricate issues but the bulk of humanity either doesn’t give a shit or finds it too hard to do the work, we prefer to be told what to think, to be given a simple answer to every great question we have in life.

I really don’t want to single out religion here, one thing I will readily admit is that I don’t understand the thing, probably because I either lack the inspiration or maybe I am lazy towards it as those that take its wording are to exploration. But here too, that isn’t the case for everyone, I’ve read Milton’s Paradise lost, Dante’s inferno and some of the poets – Mostly the romance ones – like Blake, but this doesn’t make me a theologian, or an expert.

What I am getting at is that we need to question, or at least learn how to reason rather than take what we are told and except it, we are all aware of biases, chiefly towards the things we hold dear, but what of our biases, are we sure that we are right. I look through this place and see a lot of righteous anger but very little reason, even when an argument is presented as such. From plain verbatim quotes, cherry-picked with – Google no doubt – to ridiculous circular logic tricks there is a mountain of utter stupidity masquerading as truth. Some who have a level of eloquence mask lies in flowery, self important speeches. Others bang on about their right to be a bigoted arsehole because that’s tradition and that made ‘us’ who we are, really?

This miasma revolves around the supposed unassailable truths minted in the past during a lauded golden age, founding of nations, the dictation of the words of a god to some blessed mortal scribe and just plain you’re a woman women have always cooked, get back to the kitchen type of logic.

These people, these are the enemy, they retard our species, they are the ones that cause war, poverty and dictatorships, not those who struggle for independence and the rights to pursue universal suffrages and the due rights of humanity.

So I look at the struggle of same sex marriage as one of these issues, there is no actual truth to it being an abomination, that it will lead to anything terrible at all, other than the proper distribution of basic rights. I am disillusioned by the assertion that any group, linguistic, racial, sexual, national or other being inferior to another as a mass, it makes no sense. Yes, leaders, the hard liners, enforcers of these possibly are corrupt and have undesirable agendas. But please put the flag, gun and your low brow down, none of these are reason and reason we all agree makes our species different, though for a great deal of the time that looks as though its wishful thinking.

What will change in your life if two men marry, adopt a child, get insured as a family? If your neighbourhood isn’t uniformly white? Is it not a good thing if our nations spend more money on education and health and less on war machines? Are we not striving for civilisation?

I’m not naive enough to think this little ramble will change anything, its just my view of things, I’ll admit a tiny bit of optimism lately though, hopefully true freedom and justice is infectious.

300 followers! How can I say thanks?


Yes, significant bloggers have thousands, tens of thousands, millions, possibly even several bajillion* followers, but I’m not very good at the networky, socialist thing and I think 300 is pretty damn good considering I knick of unexpectedly to do things I fail to explain to you all.

I was telling a friend recently, a non online friend that I have almost 300 people following my blog and she was gobsmacked, “Ermergerd thats an audience!” As strange a comment as I thought it the time I guess it is, how odd for someone who has spent so much time skulking in the shadows.

To be realistic though, that 300 contains a few duplicates of friends who like to change ID’s, people who no longer exist, bloggers who hit follow and never come back and stalkers. I was wondering how many people read but don’t comment out of those, I know my visit rates aren’t huge, not by a long shot but thats ok, some of the people I follow have a huge readership and I know full well from asking them what it takes. I don’t have that in me.

I imagined what it would be like to stand up and prattle as I do in front of 300 people, I’ve done similar at uni, to a larger audience, on topics that have nothing at all to do with me. I don’t think I’d be very good at that, most of what I write I do off the cuff, no edits but I do get the chance to delete paragraphs that are so long the point I was making at the start has vanished, and that are longer than any mammal has the lung capacity to recite.

Once in a dream I was invited to talk about my blogs, I got up onto the podium and this guy I used to argue with about gun control shot me, paranoid much?

I know I’m hard work, I’m not a real writer, I’m sometimes overly childish, immature and yet wordy and bad grammerful, which I even do to just be cute, that must grate on people? My opinions change, I despise most sides of politics and make fun of them, without having any answers ready, that surely has to annoy people right?

Mostly I do it for fun, I can’t imagine not blogging though, even if now with uni I have very little time to do it, in fact I am avoiding an big fat maths assignment as I type, and I like maths. So This is just a note to say thank you to all of you who do persevere, I admit I’m hard work and I wonder what’s in it for you?

My 300th follower is Dodgysurfer, thanks Dodgy can I call you that? Dodge? D’ster? And to the rest of you fine people thank you. I started this blog to talk about my life as an Escort, but now I’m not one and sometimes I wonder what I should be blogging about.

So I’m asking you now, what would you lovely people like to know, hear or have me prattle about in a barely intelligible way?

*I do science now, so yes, there is such a number, or will be after I make a wikipedia page for it.

iSucker


I’ve written blogs about how random strangers have come up to me and lectured me about my choice of phone and or tablet, which is the Apple versions, so I won’t bore you there, I also have other apple products, making me a fanboi because apparently there is no fangirl, geeks never get laid, so they have no use for gender other than insults apparently. 

 My favourite Apple thing is the MacBook Pro, shiny, silver, nice screen, fast, easy to hook up to a network, easy to back up, easy to troubleshoot, easy to update.

 Yeah, no. 

 All of those except the last three, no I haven’t been updating with time machine because it takes hours, so my fault there, no I have no idea how to fix it but I do know what went wrong the last TWO times it’s that the update freezes mid update progress bar and sits there. 

 First I tried to sit it out. After dinner, which is when it started, I peeled myself away from the internodes and dusted off my iPad which I never use, so why do I have it? I keep my photos on it and when I had broadband I watched Youtubes in bed with it. 

 So I found something online where the previous system was freezing mid way with iMacs and I tried that, bingo! Nothing. Then I sucked it up and installed the system again, which nerdily I have on a usb stick, and I used the terminal to make that too, she says polishing her nails on mer boobs. Note to self, put some clothes on if you want top do that. 

 This Worked, I downloaded the combo update at a friends place and I had my MacBook fixed, after I re-established my iCloud, Installed Java for my school apps, my antivirus wHich apple thinks is a dodgy app. I could go on but even I’m not interested, you are probably thinking I should go porn, she’s getting old and boring.

It happened again when Apple sent a fix for the fuck up that was OS X Yosemite 10.10.3 to fix the start up issue, only it caused my lovely shiny and expensive machine to freeze mid update, now I have to wait for someone with more nerd than me who carries OS X usb installers everywhere they go to save me, or I drive home. 

 Anyway, I wrote some blogs, which I can’t open because they are on my iCloud in a different app than pages so I have to write on this which is shit, I should go out and get a Bluetooth keyboard but it’s cold and I’m just not in the mood today. 

 So if anyone knows an iPad app that opens text edit .rtf files can you save me please? I’d offer you sexual favours but you are too smart to fall for that right?

No, I’m not getting a PC, yes I have used them before, that’s what school is for, for making the decision, am I a Mac or am I a PC and then being biased for the rest of your life. Actually a friend bought that joke that is the Microsoft version of the iPad, then she asked me to help her network it, and I am pretty ok with networks, but I gave up in the end and called for help, he couldn’t do it either. 

Yes I complain about this kind of thing then I go do it.

La la la not listening.

School yard lessons to ignore.


Lesson one, being something is a matter of letting life draw you along, like a leaf in a gutter when the rain comes, it might be bias, I admit I am, to me most people let this happen to them, to my mind the world is full of devices to let a person do this very thing.

For what feels like forever I have looked in at society from the outside, as a child I felt distance from it, I didn’t want to be what my mother expected of me, it was at odds with what I wanted so I grew sullen, removed, belligerent even. A child has little ability to say no otherwise, and she wore me down, so we reached a compromise, I did what she wanted, behaved as she wanted and worse what she wanted – if. The if was that I could indulge myself with what intellectual pursuits I wanted and did as I pleased in my own time. I wasn’t lazy, this was not about doing chores or not, nor was it about being haughty, had I been she’d have approved. But I did sneer at her lifestyle, those of her friends and more importantly her friends’ daughters, the last thing I wanted was to be like them. The major conflict that arose from this was my behaviour at school, she felt that I should be participating in what the ‘other girls like you’ do. I should be with what the Americans call the ‘mean girls’ we don’t really have a term for it, and Australia is fast becoming another state of America so it’ll do.

I did try it, but I didn’t like where they were going, vain jnr. bitches, headed for a life of – well becoming like their mothers. It was all about how you looked, where you lived, what your parents did, what you wore out of school and how much of a bitch you were.

One small revelation I discovered, in time was that the girls I hung out with, the nerdy less attractive crowd was that all their scorn for the popular – mean girls, it came down to jealousy. As I said more than once, I was a smart kid but I was naive, I thought that most people spoke their mind, did as they wanted best to do and made the kind of friends that they wanted to be around.

Around the time of puberty some of my chubby friends suddenly developed the usual eating disorders, I say usual because it was almost inevitable where I come from, maybe where you do too?

For the sake of bitter irony I’ll call her Ana. Ana was a reasonably attractive, not ugly, girl of Chinese extraction, smart, lively and quite witty. Over the summer break she went from chubby, not fat but chubby to a size 8, which is not thin according to my mother’s lobby, not as thin as I was but it was dramatic and that changed her, dramatically. I noticed an aloofness, almost instantly. Her and I were school friends, meaning that I didn’t see her out of school, she was from Balwyn which is difficult to get to from where I lived, I mean you had to change lines, and it was in the ‘zone two’ of our public transport system as it was then, how remote.

I noticed she paid more attention to our enemies, the meanies, bitched about them less, which was significant for her, she being a major complainer. School yards are about as political as life is, in fact I have this theory that the school ground stays with us though out life, and I’m sticking to it, it makes us, or at least leaves an indelible mark on us for life. Ana ate like a horse, one of my early observations about girls who were not thin was the speed at which they ate, and that mainly came from her and two other girls I hung with. Oddly she would vanish right afterwards, for the loo, not something that particularly set off alarms until one day I needed to pee right after she vanished and that’s when the other one in the one plus one equation looked stupidly obvious. She’d become bulimic, we had a nice term for that ‘mia’ for bulimia, as though it was something nicer that way.

Lesson two, the more attention the better. I was beside myself, and here in came a series of revelations, the first being that people who get little attention soak it up like a sponge when it does happen. And I immediately paid her more attention, I tried desperately to try and save her, in a stupid kind of pre-teen way, I thought reason would work. I thought if I tell her, don’t eat as much, that’s what I do, then you won’t need to ‘purge’ you should do this slowly, but even if you don’t I still think you are pretty, yes, I was that naive. Nothing worked, I went to her place, hung out with her, but nothing mattered, she’d cry, hug, swear to God and do it all over again, sometimes in front of me.

I felt like a failure, and more and more I became obsessed by saving her, finally I decided she needed intervention before her teeth were eaten away and she died of throwing up or whatever, which is my version of medical science age about 11 or 12. I told my mum, who told me it wasn’t my concern and I needed to find less stupid friends, her only real reaction was-

“You’re not doing that are you? Do I need to take you to the psychiatrist?” I was insulted, and I pressed her to do something, “Like what call her mother?”

“Yes!” I pleaded, she eventually relented, I’ll give my mother that, she was no coward. But as it turns out her mother said nothing to her, glad that she was finally not chubby. The real and only effect was I lost her as a friend and ended up being labelled a traitor. My school life, less that fun out of class got worse, my group dwindled, as Ana’s grew, until the went to hospital for the first time, not that this helped me one bit but I felt vindicated.

Which is typical of me to think about myself first, life lesson three, everyone thinks of the universe revolving around themselves, no surprise Galileo was imprisoned for trying to convince the pope otherwise. From that point onwards I gave up on my foray into aiding other humans, in fact it solidified the already firm belief that I was different.

I wasn’t able to reconcile the causality, I tried hard to help, it made things worse and now everyone hates me, a notch up from the non-thing I was. During the period where I was trying to save Ana I remember her ranting to me that how could I possibly understand what it was to be her, that everything about my life was a gift, the way I looked, that being chief of God’s gifts, and apparent cruelties to her and those like her. Lesson four, the not pretty are cursed by the pretty, its the fault of the attractive that life is like this, this I don’t believe but everyone who is plain, chubby or otherwise physically not beautiful deep down, they hold that as a grudge. Most will deny it but I’ve heard this a lot, I read it between a lot of lines.

Why can’t I be beautiful, its plastered all over the internet and what do you say to it?

Lesson five, everything is someone’s fault, its society, the media, God, Darwin or you, you being an individual or the masses.

I can understand, when I’ve been hard done by I wanted to hate, and have created my own idols to hatred, my mother being my chief demon, yes, I realise that, but does it change a thing, no, it’s irrationally deep, I have cause of course but murderous hatred it is nonetheless, and believe me that’s not over emphasising.

People are like clay, if you squeeze them the mark stays, we all have these, being conscious of them helps but they in no small way mould us, pardon the reliance on clay.

How do we escape this? We don’t that’s what I have found, we have to live with the markings, or put make up over them, if we are so disposed, but, come night time you need to pull it off and there you are in front of the hateful mirror, still you, still imperfect. The only answer I have ever come up with there is that you need to both work at changing what you are – inside and come to terms with what you are on the outside. Or get surgery, which I’ve done too, sorry to disappoint you but its fairly minor – cough. I’m vain, and not without a point were I give in, though as I get older this seems to be hardening, I have the funds to go nuts in the vanity department but having lived as an obscene object of desire in my work life, I’ve become somewhat blasé about it.

There was a time not so long ago that I thought I could impart wisdom from where I’ve been, decimate my thoughts and events that might help others, but I look at myself as a girl and remember how close minded and stubborn I was, I have changed that much, but the school yard, that’s just bigger now, its the same outside the gates as it was inside. The people that might do something with it are not going to listen and as a good friend pointed out to me – you are the choir, and all I am doing is preaching to you. Lesson six.

Memingless blogs


I’m not good at social media, its a lot like parties, I don’t like getting cornered by ‘talkers’ – but unlike being on an aeroplane at a party I can say “Sorry, I need to get a drink, no, you needn’t come it’s an excuse to leave.” So when my feed gets spammed, I’m going to leave, please don’t take it personally, I just like to read things I want to read, its a busy time in history and I hate lol cats, you know what I’m saying don’t you?

Ok fine, make me spell it out, you are boring me, I like you, don’t get me wrong, you are a lovely person, it’s just all those pics with sayings on them, they are like ads on TV, important to you, not so much to me.

After returning to blogging I found that people who followed me, which I followed back for the sake of being decent blocked up my feed with 10 posts in a row, I’m a millennial, I just don’t have that kind of ability to concentrate. I’m sure those memes mean a lot to you, but can’t you write it out yourself? The rainbows and unicorns give me vertigo, my mind automatically engages sceptical mode, then annoyance mode then – find an excuse to leave mode.

So I’m sorry but this afternoon I un-clicked five of you, I’m bitchy that way, I have this snobby idea that blogging is about writing and not about the posting of what amounts to junk mail.

I know I should read longer posts too, but I do that when I have time, and my friends who write those are getting lost in pics of babies with stupid phrases written on them, that’s child abuse, and part of the reason I’m not going to squeeze one out.

Feel free to dump me, you won’t be the first, I’ll try to get over it and not stalk you demanding why.

Many things I read I also don’t have anything intelligent to say so I don’t, I think, egotistically of course that this course of action is a noble one, I mean I am blonde for heavens sake what are you expecting, depth? You have the wrong girl, Ms Wistful-Witty-Smythe lives next door, I’m Ms Potty Mouth.

There is so much interesting, perceptive and challenging stuff to read, I find that often now, I just think, yeah totally and can’t think of something less douchfully to say so I don’t mar your works. Other times I’m moved, I have something to relate and/or I just want to say – By Darwin I wish I’d thought of that!

I do laugh at the odd meme, but usually its cruel and sarcastic, so I rarely post them other than to add to something I’m already being mean in. At the moment I’m not feeling mean at all, I’m feeling all light and positive so expect even less.

Why is it that the first thing I see is bad skin - then the mole, then her nose then think, Chanel isn't great at red.

Why is it that the first thing I see is bad skin – then the mole, then her nose then think, Chanel isn’t great at red.

I’d have written something in lipstick on your mirror, but good lipstick is hard to find then they discontinue the colours that I like so carry on, its me not you.

Pretty woman it ain’t, but its not the gutter either.


Whoredom here in .au is all in a rage after an article appeared in http://www.mamamia.com.au – which has been pulled, before I could snarl at it, sigh, I’m always late to the party. What was it about? Apparently it was saying how the movie ‘Pretty woman’ glorified sex work, (dafuk?) and completely glossed over the gross horrorfullness of whoring. Yeah, OK, I hate the crap out of that movie and I did want to snot that actress who I shall never name, but, its not all needles and AIDS, in fact its not very much that – apart from the obvious street work. Which I have done, under age mind you but I did, and it didn’t make me ugly, herpes infested or grow a hump. It was a shocking place for to spend your early to mid teens but it happened, I got out and it spurred me to work my arse off – cough – to stay the hell away from that.

Not every whore is desperate, not all of us were abused or put up with that. Sure Mr Ferrari driver doesn’t come around (often) to sweep you off your feet but quite a few of us have told him –

Thank you but, no fuck off I make more money than you thanks love, I’d sooner not be your live in bit of fluff, that’ll be $1,000, cash or card?”

You know when they say all generalisations are false? That’s true of sex workers as well, and while you are trying to do that thing on the soap box to protect all us helpless girls, you might want to know, we aren’t all helpless girls, in fact, piss off, I can speak for myself.

More bad, the article was lifted from “Exodus Cry” a Christian .org that is trying to bring and end to sex trafficking, I know they mean well, but, here in my country it’s a legal activity, closely monitored by the government, the cops, the tax man and our own association.

True, there is abuses, I’ll put my hand up for that, but my story isn’t the rule here, it might be where you are, but then you have that ‘zero tolerance’ thing right – now say that slowly and think about it.

There have been whores since there has been people, probably before, you can’t ban, legislate or guard against it, the only way to deal with it is to bring it out of the shadows and into the light, that way the women/men/trannies that do it can have rights which they can pursue if they are harmed. Given healthcare, and all the rights you normal people have its not a hot bed of disease, drugs and abuse. But hey, don’t take my word for it, I only spent a third of my life doing it, you go ahead and believe you can fix the problem, publicly – same time at 8 – your place?

In summary, Pretty Woman – it blows (giggle), its not very accurate but nor is the idea that we are all ugly, diseased and meth smoking zombies. Prostitution is like all free markets, lucrative for those that have youth, looks, experience and so on to sell, no its not all giggles, its work, it was my work and I treated it as such and I did very well from it, I think you’d be horrified by not only my bank balance but my investment portfolio. I never aids, I never did a lot of drugs, certainly a hell of a lot LESS than my contemporaries do. I have issues sure, but they happened before, and I know a lot of women who have none at all. Other than this sort of thing coming up regularly.

Here is the original ‘article’ its more a small rant: http://exoduscry.com/blog/general/the-ugly-reality-of-pretty-woman

I felt the comments were particularly interesting, OK stupid, especially from Obama_sucks2 no shock there.

Pics of ladies of the night protesting can be found in the tag of hash at #FacesOfProstitution

I’m way too paranoid to get involved in that, plus I’m a sweet and innocent uni student now. Why do I keep coughing?

Inferno


Here I go, picking at sores

I’m not one of those people who can leave well enough alone, sometimes I will bury a problem until it comes back to deck me though, I have a few of those issues, long term ones that were the root of my last undoing. I like to think of myself as fearless but I know I’m not, self preservation is stronger and I confuse it with strength, will even. I’m aware of it, it’s not like I have repressed memories making me loopy, but I don’t like to bring some of these things up, to myself. There in lies disaster, and its the third time its hit me hard, the last being worst, by an order of magnitude.

I know the drill now, doctor, witch doctor (councillor), therapy, hard work and pills. Though this time I feel different, like I’ve turned some corner or found some part of me that I can grow in, by that I mean move forward and not slip down the slope again. Even as I write that I wonder if I am not kidding myself. How do you truly know yourself, its sometimes even harder than working other people out. There is nothing that knows your weaknesses as your subconscious, and mine is very creative in its attacks, one of the things I am most glad about stopping my happy pills is that they make dreams more vivid, and if you could see mine you’d never need to go see any horror movie again. These have subsided a great deal, I’m even having stupidly light hearted dreams now, I’m happiest about that I think.

My mood is so much calmer now, but I’ve seen this giddy happiness before, and I struggle with letting it take me, I keep expecting the ground to give way and hell to open up, ‘welcome back, we missed you!’

How did I manage it?

It was bloody difficult, maybe not as hard as leaving my ex, but it hurt, I left my former life almost entirely, anything that might trigger the worsening of my condition. I moved out to the middle of no where, which I think now was good and bad, good that I got away from the city and its temptations, bad in that I was alone for a very long time. I think the first few months I got worse rather than better. I wandered around the forests on my own, in the rain with my camera, trying to come to terms with small parts of the world. Distraction, I shut myself off from the world, distraction, I wrote a lot about what I thought was wrong with the world and everyone in it, distraction.

I think it was summer before things started to improve, when I got to know some of the locals, as my friendships solidified I allowed myself to see what these people saw in me, OK I was never honest about what I did in the past, and I have never spilled what happened to make me do what I did. But I got to explore a me that wasn’t my past, what I had become. I spent less time with my vanity, which I’m sure my bank appreciated, less time driving like a wannabe F1 driver, I guess I’ll live longer this way. I started to take convalescence seriously, as opposed to being bitter and begrudging about it.

The biggest thing was letting go of all the things I’d wound up tight against my heart, I stopped bothering trying to change the world to make it suit me and to try and understand other people’s standpoints. I thought that would make me weak, I used to relish what I thought made me smarter than other people and learned to not only listen but feel.

It was painfully gradual, and there were days I really did wish I’d never been born, its difficult to not take life personally, but I think all people feel that way, the trick, for me was not to think – ‘you have no idea what real pain and suffering is’ and the understanding that its more than likely that they do, perhaps not in scenarios similar to mine but pain, self doubt, worthlessness, the whole deal, its relative to all of us.

Then what to do? Its fine and good to come up with some theory but I needed a life, something to do. Having new friends, reconnecting with old ones, and the occasional fling was fine but, what should I fill my time with?

I found, finally a job at a factory in a town not too far away, that was a big part of it, feeling normal, doing something everyone does, laughing loudly at my pay packets, then appreciating that what I’d done to earn it, mostly, was appreciated.

Going back to uni has also helped, but most of all its company, meeting people, having fun with them, and listening to them. I’ve yet to work out why, but I seem to draw to me people who I’d never expect, which is something I am grateful for as well, I like new things.

On the tram last night coming home I was listening to Bullet with Butterfly Wings, it was old school Wednesday after all – and I was thinking about  the line ‘”What is lost can never be saved”’. I don’t mean saved as in the biblical sense, although my new friend and Hillsong advocate would argue with me, but that sense of self damnation that I’ve been stabbing myself with ever since – well as far back now as I care to remember. Are not all of our deepest wounds at least partly us picking at them, not giving them both the space and medication that they need to heal?

I watch and listen to her talking about the saving grace of God, but I can’t help but think she is just repeating something she has been ordered to think. Don’t get me wrong, I actually think its a good thing about religion that people find absolution in, but I can see a young me in her, clinging to something that she hasn’t begun to understand, I’ve known her for weeks now and I haven’t heard her mention anything that might need saving. Sure she believes she is and we all are sinners, but again, that’s other people telling her. I hope for her sake she doesn’t need to use that, from my experience though – there will come a time when she will question, and I hope it works for her.

Therein is my peace with religion, a mechanism for self healing, one I sadly lack, she would say, and if it were possible that it’d worked for me that would have been lovely. Mine was a different path, but I won’t be dismissive and say harder, its never easy, that’s an insight I’ve come to, all of us, the godless, brave, pious, believers, emotional, stoic, whatever no path is straight, no path is entirely lit or obvious. One day we will all find ourselves in the dark woods, afraid, confused, alone and desperate.

“In the middle of the journey of our life, I came to myself, in a dark wood, where the direct way was lost. It is a hard thing to speak of, how wild, harsh and impenetrable that wood was, so that thinking of it recreates the fear. It is scarcely less bitter than death: but, in order to tell of the good that I found there, I must tell of the other things I saw there.”

Dante’s Inferno.
Inferno Canto I: 1 The Dark Wood and the Hill

There are two kinds of men. (probably part 2)


Yesterday I tried and failed to put down something about two types of men that I’ve seen a lot of, this will more than likely not be my last or definitive blog on the topic, as I have nothing in the way of solid opinions, accept for the prime minister of Australia, he’s an utter lying, self interested bastard puppet of Murdoch.

Where was I?

Men who love women and men who devour women – Right, not quite right either so details please…

I tend to box people its easier to make snap judgements and its a habit I have that’s saved my skin and ingratiated me in large proportions. So two guys I have seen a lot of that people might think are the same thing, I want to separate them, and I am lost for a label so I’ll do a description, that might be more useful.

The kind of man who utterly adores women, spends extravagant time, affection and interest in them, this man is actually quite unusual, for a working girl, outside of work I have encountered more. This type of man seldom need to buy company but in some instances ‘he’ does and there is were I first encountered ‘him’. There is no hatred or resentment, no mummy or daddy issues here, this man adores, even worships women, but the kind of love that we think of isn’t so much there. He lives for beauty, but isn’t so hung up on a type of woman, but should another cross his path that piques his interest, say good bye girlfriend.

Women both love and hate this kind of man, for the time you are with him you are central to him, and that my dear boys is the difference between you and him, he knows how to snare a woman, utterly. He is confident, stylish, enchanting, sometimes funny, sometimes sarcastic but not sardonic, accomplished and knowledgeable. He might not be rich, famous or even employed but there is one thing he is very good at and its you.

Number two is a womaniser, you might think I’ve just described one but no, the one above is entranced when he leaves you, he will even be genuinely sorry but he will go. Contestant number two is just after better pussy than you, or more, while he is with you. He’ll do you, your sister, your cousin, best friend and boss and doesn’t feel remorse when you bust him. In fact it’s probably your fault, silly girl. Number two is a harvester of women, its more a juvenile mind that never got over porn, he is what women think men are but aren’t, just after one thing.

Number two is often harsher with you, but that’s OK, right? I mean I like it, you probably do too, its also something ticked off in the primordial brain, but there is little in the evening out part later, make me a samitch type of thing. One difference in these two is that number two will string you along, keep you as a booty call, where number one, he’s sailing the seas chasing that je ne se quois and nor does he.

Both are dangerous, or fun, but the are not as I said, all men, far from it, thy are unusual.

This probably will not be my last blog about this, but it might be closer than the last.