I suppose I should start here, as she is the greatest lament of them all. Wow, imagine that, huh? How Freudian.

What are the odds?

At this point I suppose it would be appropriate to say that she was the greatest lament of them all. She finally got around to killing herself “the right way” in February, 2015. By which I mean, this was not her first suicide attempt by any means… but it was however her first successful one. She finally resorted to freezing herself to death. At one point not long after her second failed attempt there was an awkward moment in which we were watching a movie or a TV show in which somebody exclaimed, “you can’t even kill yourself right!”  We were all like 😯 . Talk about the elephant in the room.1947 elephant_skeletal

I’ll have to detail her first failed half-assed joke of a semi-suicide attempt later, elsewhere, as it is one hell of a big hairy mess on it’s own and in some ways it is more related to my laments about my Grandmother, but have no doubt, the whole situation fucked me over very, very badly.  In fact, it cost me my long-promised inheritance. It’s such a surreal and ridiculously fucked-up story that it’s hard to be sure which of them was more at blame for the situation. (I’m leaning very decidedly towards mother). When I have written about that godforsaken mess I will link it HERE.

It is also hard to believe that the story is  even real and that there are actually people that fucking stupid out there, and I am a direct descendant of not one, but two consecutive generations of them. God help me, I am fucked even at the genetic level. I am fucked in pretty much every way, in fact, except for the most literal.

For her second failed suicide attempt, she attempted to hang herself. On Mother’s Day.
She waited until after both myself and my sister had made our perfunctory, obligatory calls to do it. She errantly attempted to obstruct the doors of her old rented farmhouse with heavy furniture, and she used talcum powder on the floor in order to make sliding the furniture across the old wood floors an easier process.  She opened up her gas main and then attempted to climb up onto a table and into her noose, but slippery talc on her feet caused her to fall before getting the noose around her neck, and she only managed to  break her hip and give herself a concussion instead of dying.  The gas didn’t even get her, because the old farmhouse is quite large, (2 stories, 9 rooms), and well over 100 years old. It was way too drafty for her to have done anything other than waste the gas. She had sent a letter via snail mail to her mother, my grandmother (whom I currently live with and take care of). My grandmother then called my mother’s landlord, who lived right next door to my mother. He called the cops and they proceeded to bust the door down and “rescue” her from the spot where she lay unconscious and crumpled on the floor. She spent a month or so in the local disabled/elderly care home and then was sent back home. 

In the last 5 or so years of her life that remained after this happened, she often lamented that when she got home nobody had even so much as taken the noose down, and that if only she had not busted up her hip, she could have just crawled right back up there when she got home and tried it again. She lived there for about 3 1/2 more years before she managed to bust an ankle falling in snow whilst trying to bring in firewood. Social services got involved at that point and she was moved into an apartment in a neighboring town, where she lived for little over a year before deciding to go out one February night in -14 °F, hide herself behind a dumpster so she would not be seen, and wait it out. She mailed letters to my half-sister and to my uncle, and she had notes of intent pinned to herself, negating all doubt that it could have been an accident. It was very much a deliberate and premeditated act of suicide.

I was remarkably underwhelmed by it all. I wept briefly, only once, on the night of receiving the news. I wept because my sister was bawling like a bitch down the phone into my poor, addled ear, and I wept because that was it, a done deal, that rotten bitch was the mother that I had gotten and that was it, that was all that I was ever going to get. It was never going to get fixed and it was never going to get better. It was done, it was what it was, (and what it was was a festering cesspool of shit), and as Duddits once famously proclaimed, “a done bun can’t be undone”. I had already been estranged from her miserable, bony, hate-filled ass for about 3 1/2 years by the time that she got around to killing herself. I’m frankly relieved that she is gone.  At least now I can go into town without feeling punched in the stomach for three hours, should I accidentally see her from across the store (that actually happened once).

This particular blog entry will most likely be the longest and the most complex. I don’t want to re-write it all from scratch, so I am going to copy-paste, and then revise, something that I wrote about her a few years before she died. I had written it intending to post it on the Experience Project website, it was just too huge.  No matter how much I edited it down or cut out it was too big, it just wouldn’t post. So, I gave up. It had been intended for the “I Hate My Mother” experience thread.

Ok… well, fuck! Fuckity fucking fuck! <—(The Walking Dead Compendium 3 has been a woefully bad influence on me.  I ripped that straight from Negan.) Imagine my surprise! The “I Hate My Mother” document that I typed and saved to my hard drive (a couple of years ago) and expected to copy-paste here is gone! Just… gone! Gone as shit! I do not recollect deleting it, (why would I?) but … it is gone. It’s not on my external hard drive either!

Well shit on a slice of toast. I guess I WILL be re-writing this bloody mess then, if I wish to blog it.

Damn it!

This may be a blessing actually. I have only so much courage and strength, so this may be a far less detail-rich version of events. Or maybe not, as I do admittedly tend to get bogged down in rich, but sometimes incoherent detail. Let’s get to it, then.

In 1970. my half-sister was born to my mother and some hippie dude called “Banjo”. Surprisingly enough, their union failed and my mother went back home to live with her momma, baby in tow. The man I think of and refer to here as my grandfather, genetically, was not. Grandma was a bit of a ho. Only one of her 4 children were his. My mother was not the one. He raised them all as his own. Grandmother claimed that he went to his grave believing that all 4 of those kids were his, but you know what? I kind of doubt that.

Anyway, grandpa was not too fucking happy about my mother moving back in, nope, not at all; in fact he was livid. But he allowed it because my mom and my grandmother both insisted upon it, and after all, there was that wee chubby golden brat that shone like the fucking sun, and her tiny welfare had to be considered. So, this living arrangement went on for about 4 years and then my idiot of a mother went ahead and got herself knocked up with me. It was straight up carelessness; he was the town drunk, sure, but back then he was so wild and charismatic, an (ew!) Italian Stallion (or so I hear. Based on what I eventually saw I am hard put to buy it). Anyway, who can be bothered with anything so trivial as a condom? That is far too complex, right? Especially when we already know that fucking sans rubber (or any other kind of birth control for that matter), often results in wee screamin’ babbies! Who knew? My sister certainly had not been any sort of a clue.

So, when I was conceived, she could not go home and say “Daddy, I am a most unfortunate combination of idiot and breeder, and I done gone got my silly ass plum pregnant with the town bad boy’s brat!”  Oh no no no she couldn’t possibly do that. I don’t know why she was so terrified of my grandfather. Oh yes, he was a screamer; he could scream until the skin was peeling back offa ya face; he could scream until the cords were bulging on his neck, his eyes were spiraling, and his ears were pouring smoke. But did he ever lash out and physically strike? My understanding is that when it came to his (pseudo-)children and his (pseudo-)grandchildren, he never did. Not once. His wife, my grandmother, however, was a different matter. He hit her maybe 2 or 3 times ever in their lives, it was certainly not regularly or severely. It would be a single whop that he’d give her, not a beating. I am not endorsing his behavior, I am explaining what he did. He was not a harbinger of true bodily harm, for the most part what was truly at risk was your eardrums and his blood pressure. So, I really don’t know why the fuck my mother was so terrified of him that she had to do what she did. You see where this is going?  Right?

Yeah, she was a waitress at a cocktail bar, just like in that damned song. She made up a story, no, a flat-out blatant LIE – about how she left work after closing, late one fateful night, and about how she was attacked and dragged into a car, and sexually assaulted by a rowdy customer who had been drinking heavily and giving her the hairy eyeball all night. She took this story home to mom and dad, and of course, it was never reported to the local PD. My mother knew, and capitalized on the fact that my grandparents totally bought into a rape culture mindset. Grandmother insists that grandfather (and his friend!) used to co-rape her regularly back in the 1940’s. Ew! At any rate my grandparents did not make my mother report the alleged rape, they, in fact, seemed to prefer that she did not. So, her sick story, somehow, flew.

When I was 3, we had moved from the small town where I was born (and where my mother was was allegedly raped), to an entirely different part of the country, back to the East Coast where my grandparents had met and where they considered to be their “home”. They had only ever moved from there in the first place, to the place where I was conceived and born,  in pursuit of steady work for my grandfather. Eventually he retired and the high altitude was giving  him breathing problems, so they decided to go “home”. When we first arrived back to their home state, we spent about six months living in a god-forsaken, un-insulated, unfinished barn on my uncle’s property. This was just temporary, while my grandparents were making the arrangements to  locate and purchase a home. A house was eventually purchased, and we all moved in. Much to my grandfather’s endless delight, my sister, my mother and I lived there with them for 3 or 4 years. Then, amazingly, the old farmhouse just up the street (where my mother would eventually try to hang herself)  became available to rent, so my mother and my sister and I moved up there. My mother would live there for 27 years. (Now it stands empty, abandoned, and decrepit. Ruins. Decay. If it’s not already, it will be a party fuck-house for punk-ass teenagers soon enough, as it’s way out in the country and the landlord has not even bothered to secure it.

It’s too late now… all our lives are Decay.

Of course I figured out eventually, around 3 or 4 years old, that most kids had daddies but I, mysteriously,  did not. This was never addressed and if I asked questions about it I was put off, diverted, and ignored. I was born with a bilateral cleft and palate, crudely known as a harelip (oh yeah there’s gonna be a whole blog rant devoted to that particularly poignant curse… later) and whenever we were in doctor’s offices and they asked about paternity in front of me, she would insist upon speaking with them in private, and it would irritate the hell out of me. I was very young then, maybe 6 or 7 years old, but I understood very well that I was being excluded from some frustratingly exclusive piece of information. It pissed me off! I needled and harassed and picked and instigated and annoyed dug and pried at her for years about why it must be that my father’s identity be a mystery, until finally, one day when I was ten or eleven, she literally turned on her heel and screamed at me “I never wanted to tell you because I was raped, ok?! I didn’t want you to know that I don’t KNOW who your father is and you are the result of a rape! Now will you please finally shut up about it and leave me alone?!” …and then, in the finest of motherly fashions, she made a great show of tearfully fleeing the room, leaving me shell-shocked. Time went on, and the situation was not addressed again. Well, not for over a decade, anyway.  That’s how long it took me to find out the truth and to get around to meeting the Italian Stallion, my apparent sperm donor. To say that it was an underwhelming experience would be kind. Again, it’s another story for another day.  The point here is that she allowed me to falsely believe for over a decade that I was the result of a rape. Gee, what a nice lady, ey?

Another 2 or 3 years roll miserably by, and lo and motherfucking behold, I am a tender 13 years old! My boobies have sprouted and so have my pubes. My hormones are running rampant and I have no suitable outlet. I was not one of the “cool kids” at school. I lived in a VERY small (geographically and minded) town, so small in fact, that the whole school, Kindergarten through Seniors, was 500 kids. That’s it. That’s all of it. 500 kids.  K – 12.  You know that in a scenario like that everybody knows everybody and the cliques are impenetrable. Courtesy of the harelip, and the general air of welfare and poverty (and probably Gov’t cheese) that permeated my K-Mart shoes and my second-hand Salvation Army clothes, (let us just never mind the fact that that my mother was a known anti-social hermit and eccentric), well, I was not popular. I wasn’t a “cool kid”, I wasn’t even one of the average kids. I ended up lumped in with what was known as the “scummy kids”.  All of the boys that I liked were dating evil, plastic monster-bitches and ignoring me, which pretty much became par for the course in my life. The dizzy little idiots in my 7th grade class were the very hottest of shit, oh, you bet they were! – when they were dating those big, bad 8th and 9th grade boys. They were so big! So hot! So bold! OMG french kisses and over-the-shirt groping under the bleachers in the gymnasium! Whisper! Giggle! Shriek!

Meanwhile I, totally un-date-able by the ultra-cool-kid standards, and good only for cruel harassment and lulz and seemingly endless wisecracks about my lip; was quietly dating (and getting slobbered all over on by, and thoroughly manhandled by, and very nearly but thank heavens not deflowered by) the 21 year old brother of my unfortunate and likewise “scummy” best friend; an unfortunate lass who found herself in possession of hopelessly and eternally frizzed red hair, pale skin covered in about a million dark freckles, and a great and copious set of bucked teeth. She lived not far away, so the friendship that formed on the school bus and at school eventually became hanging out – a LOT of hanging out – at her family’s horse ranch and farm after school and on weekends.

She became infatuated by a local bemusculed and tow-headed (and not at all very bright) farm boy, and even though she is long done with him and has since married a different weirdo, she had this farm boy’s brat and the kid is… gosh… in his early 20’s now.  I see him around town sometimes. Ew. Anyway, she used to be annoyed by the fact that her pervy older brother and I noticed each other, but after good ole Lunkhead came along, she was too busy playing with him off in the hay barns somewhere to give a fuck about what we were doing. For the sake of continuity I will hereby refer to him (her brother, not her Lunkhead) as the pedo-fucko. So, the pedo-fucko and I, we made like Tommy’s Uncle Ernie and we fiddled about, fiddled about, fiddled about! A lot. I’d hear the oh-so-very macho and cool 9th and 10th grade boys fretting and worrying about how they were going to get beers or cigarettes for the retarded parties that they excluded me from; I was dating a pedo-fucko who let me drive his car, and would get me cigarettes, Swisher Sweets, a wine cooler or a beer, whatever.  He probably could have got me weed too had I wanted it, but I had not been introduced to that yet; that came later.

I was 13 years old. I was SO young that I didn’t even understand that the things he would do to my body for hours in his trailer or up in that wind-swept country field under a sea of stars was ILLEGAL.  I was so young that I didn’t even know what pedophilia was. If I had, I certainly would have used it against him after he got around to pissing me off. My mother never much ever give a fuck about me, so I had the run of the woods and fields and rivers since I was about 5 or 6 years old. Disappearing for hours… all day… every day… and spending hours, days, weeks and months hanging out him and his sister was a simple thing to do. Luckily for my own mental health, I was never actually smitten with him. I found him odd to look at (he quite unfortunately resembles his toothy, frizzy, freckly sister) but he had a certain poignant and disgustingly charming charisma that was all his own, and he was able to provide me with entertainment and things that were otherwise inaccessible to me, and when he would do things to me I could close my eyes and it would feel good and I could pretend that somebody somewhere actually cared about me, or I could even pretend that he was Corey Haim or River Phoenix if I wanted to. (I wanted to!)  They weren’t dead yet, they were, in fact, at that time at the pinnacle of their sexuality and of their careers, so, that was not near so weird as it would be now. hyuk-hyuk!

I’m finding myself sidetracked again… Anyway, this 21 year old, this freckled, toothy, pedo-fucko freak… he was kind to me at a time when I was being tortured by kids at school because of my “crazy” family, <—(they are though! 😦 ) my poverty, and my god-fucking harelip. I was being harassed on the daily and excluded from everything BUT ridicule, by those monstrous little creeps at that awful, horrendous nightmare of a school.

I believe that had I not been being largely ignored by my mentally ill bitch of a mother, and endlessly harassed by the punk asses at school, I wouldn’t have even been able to see the likes o’ his scuzzy ass. I would have been oblivious to his slug-slimy existence, he wouldn’t have even registered. It was my unfortunate circumstances, the exclusion and ostracization that I was constantly subject to, that made me vulnerable to his advances. He was 21.

I was 13.

He never forced me to do anything, luckily, because he very easily could have overpowered me and done so, had he wished. Think about it. He was 21 and male. I was 13 and female. Now who do you think was the initiator of the sexual activity?  In case you needed a clue: not me.  He wanted my virginity but at least he didn’t take it when I said no. He just about finger-banged and licked me half to death, but per the definition of it being a penis that actually takes virginity and not fingers or tongues, he left me intact. This is a good thing otherwise I may have had to have murdered him by now.

I was so young that I didn’t even know or understand how profoundly illegal and perverse that the relationship was. I knew better than to let my rotten old Ma in on all of the finger-banging and pussy, er, entire-body-licking that was going on. I never sucked his cock, thank heavens! I could have if I had wanted to, he certainly was encouraging it. I never had done that before, – duh! – I was just a fucking KID for fucks sake! I was 13!! so I used my cleft palate – for the first time but not for the last! – hyuk-hyuk! – as an excuse to not reciprocate. He bought it. They always do. 😀 Hey… the miserable goddamned thing may as well come in handy for something… right? I was, however, foolish enough to eventually tip my hand to my mother that I was “dating” my school friend’s older brother. She wanted to meet him, so I full-blown foolishly and blindly invited him over to meet her. He, for some reason I never quite identified, cooperated, without any apparent worry at all about our rather profound age difference. That panned out well for him, I guess, as any worry on his behalf would have been unfounded.

Most parents, upon learning that the “older brother of a friend” that their 13 year old daughter was “dating” was a 21 year old (!!!!) pedo-fucko would have ripped the face clean off his skull, forcibly crammed it up his rectum, and then called the cops. That’s what a normal parent would have done, right?


My mother?

Oh, she adored him right away. She liked him a little bit TOO much. Enough so that I became suspicious. They bonded immediately over the fucking Beatles. He was from England and she was “fascinated with England”, so that apparently gave them a lot to talk about. One summer evening, I headed home after visiting the home of my dear childhood friend, who I will hereby refer to as Toby. I intend to blog about him eventually, because I am still friends with him to this day.  (EDIT 10/4/2016 – not anymore! Like ALL things in my life, that went all to hell, as detailed in the link ↓ ). There are things about Toby that disturb me. They disturb me a lot.  But I love him anyway.  It all disturbs me… and very much so… but that’s another story for another day.

Anyway, usually, when I would come home from a visit at Toby’s house I’d be on full yowl; high on summertime, good health, and friendship; and the fact that his entire family included me in things and actually acknowledged me, and treated me like a person instead of some harelipped piece of shit. I’d just slam my ten-speed bike down onto the lawn, fuck the kickstand, what are those for?! – and run full-tilt boogie up the porch and slam and yowl my way merrily into the house. I was always in such a jovial mood after hanging out with this particular (and peculiar, and somewhat disturbing but still very dear) friend. One day I had a suspicious inkling about the bizarre friendship developing between my mother and my boyfriend, so instead of coming on in my usual full yowl mode, I snuck into the yard, actually – gasp! – put my bike on its kickstand, 😮 quietly crept up the porch and then suddenly, with no warning at all, slam-pounced my way into the living room.

I found exactly what I expected to find. My 42 year old mother and my pedo 21 year old boyfriend. On the couch. They were not sitting. They were also not wearing clothes. I was 13 years old.

There was an extremely strange night not too long before this happened – mere days, in fact. It was the happenstances of this extremely strange night that raised my suspicions. My cunt of a mother brought out some port wine and oranges – of all the fucking shit… and the three of us, my mother, myself and my pedo-fucko freak of a boyfriend… but especially me, proceeded to get drunk. I had never been allowed to drink before so of course I got carried away with it.  They decided to get all hippie-dippy about it and turn off the lights and put on strobes and christmas lights and lava lamps and shit like that and listen to the fucking Beatles. Of course. Woo. Fucking psychedelic, right?  We were all sitting on the sofa, drunk, in the semi-dark, listening to the fucking Beatles, and I was holding hands with the jerk and thinking “gee this is weird, wtf, and why is Ma being so tolerant? I knew that her tolerance, never mind the blatant allowance and seeming promotion of the night’s activities were unusual and out of character, especially for her eccentric, hostile, hermit bitch ass. In my drunkenness and suspicion I waved my hand over and discovered that he was holding hands with her, too, with his other hand, fingers clasped. Now I thought that was pretty fucking weird, right?! Not long after that I started puking up port wine and oranges.  She took me upstairs and threw a wastebasket at me and put me to bed. Even though she claimed that she had sent him home, she went back downstairs pretty damn quick considering that she had a drunk-sick kid but I was too busy yarking and passing out to properly acknowledge that. The next morning he was there and I was like “wtf?” and he claimed that he had come over early to check on me because I had been sick the night before. I was so young and stupid (and hungover), that I almost bought his fucking act. I didn’t, though. Not entirely. The fact that it looked kind of like he slept there, plus the overall strangeness  of the previous night were what birthed my suspicions and lead to the sneak, pounce and bust act.

Upon making the discovery of them on the couch, (not sitting) I ran full yowl down the road to my grandparent’s house. My mother and the pedo-fucko somehow got themselves untangled and dressed, and came running down after me. They stood there on my grandparents’ lawn, vehement and shaking, clutching each other, desperately, like Hansel and Gretel in the Dark Fucking Wood. They proclaimed to myself and to my grandparents that “it was true! they loved each other, and fuck us all to Hell if we don’t like it!”

This was how my grandparents first learned that he had been touching me; as I was screaming  to them about “mom and my boyfriend fucking on the couch!!” It was also then that they learned about him fucking her. My grandmother stood around gasping in fish-like, gaped-mouthed shock and clutching at herself, while my grandfather grabbed up an axe and went after the pedo. The pedo ran, of course, and my mother shrieked after my grandfather not to even dare to dream of hurting her beloved. While all this was going on I distinctly remember screaming after him “Is this why people call you a motherfucker, motherfucker? …because you literally fuck people’s mothers?! Go fuck ya own Mom! Fuck you! Die, motherfucker!”  To add to the over-all wondrous joy of this story, of course you just know that the next door neighbors just so happened to be outdoors during this spectacle. They really seemed to enjoy the show.

We were Jerry Springer People years before the Jerry Springer Show.  😦

Here’s an interesting coincidence. Because my mother and the pedo-fucko then proceeded to blatantly have their freako relationship and pretty much rub my face in it, I started spending a lot more time with my strange, disturbing, and yet very dear Toby, my buddy up on the hill, the one who I had grown up with and whose family was always so good to me. I just so happened to be there when they had a domestic dispute of their own and I witnessed Toby’s step-sister going after his mother with an axe. His mother, much like the pedo-fucko, ran! In both scenarios everybody survived. It was fucking weird though because the two incidents were no more than two weeks apart. it was a very volatile summer. One of the two worst summers of  my entire, miserable life. the other was during what I call the Year of the Dead Rot, (a failed bone graft… harelip surgery related… literal decay of my gums and nostrils) but… that’s another story for another day. I have spent summers homeless and have been less miserable.

By rubbing my face in it, I mean, they were flaunting it.  Big-time. Blatantly. Disgustingly. Shamelessly. Full-Tilt-Fucking-Boogie. They’d be all over each other right in front of me.  Now, this part hurts. They even tarnished my inner tube and my good ole swimmin’ hole. I had won a huge inflatable  Snoopy (in character as the Red Baron) inner tube from some Red Baron Pizza sponsored contest, some kind of thing where you mailed in multiple UPC bar codes or box flaps or some damned thing. One day we were all at the local swimming hole (an actual, bonafide  swimmin’ hole in a river, no chlorinated public pool bullshit going on here) and they mushed their disgusting selves together in MY swimmin’ hole and in MY inner tube and it was pretty obvious that disgusting things were going on just under the surface of the water. They were doing it right in front of me. They had a fuck to give but it certainly wasn’t about me. I was so disgusted that I gave the inner tube to a woman that lived down by the river. I didn’t even want it anymore. After seeing that, it was forever tarnished. They also pretty much ruined the sacristy of the ol’ swimming hole, which had been one of my favorite spots on the planet growing up. God damn them. Literally, if there is a God, may He damn them. On another day, the pedo-fucko informed me that he had proposed to my mother and he wanted ME to convince her to cooperate with the plan. Can you believe that? Who fucking does that?! To a child, no less? Oh right. A pedo-fucko does! Surprise, surprise, sur-motherfucking-prise!


The swimmin hole is very special to me… but the whole point of this blog is that I am cursed, I am damned, a born loser, and I cannot have nice things. Even the things that are precious and beloved and sacred (like the swimmin’ hole) get shit all over in MY life. As you can see in the picture in the Pedophile’s Dream blog entry, the ole swimmin’ hole is NOT that large of a place. Interestingly, the spot in the swimmin’ hole where my mother and her pedo-fucko baby fucked right in front of me way back in 1989 is the EXACT same spot where some jealous, irrational retarded bitch would maul me, years later

It is also the spot where some other retarded kid threw a rock over the falls without looking if somebody was there first, and nearly brained me. 

Maybe if I ever get up there to swim again (doubtful) I’ll get lucky & that will be the spot where I die.

One morning when it was getting towards the end of summer, they got up and got dressed and without a word to me, they got in the car and they left. All day. Hours and hours and hours and hours. I was so traumatized, not particularly because they left all day but because of the over-all absurdity of the whole fucking situation, that I smashed up some stuff in the kitchen and then I left it for hours, I guess foolishly hoping they would come home see it, and give a fuck about me. Boy, was that dumb. Eventually I ended up cleaning it up before they got home and the next day when she asked where the cucumbers went (I smashed them) and where the face of the clock went (I smashed it) I feigned ignorance. I just had no fucking idea what could have happened to them. I was Clueless a good half decade before it became hip to be so. On that same day though, I was so out of my head in trauma and emotional pain that I gorged on everything and anything in the kitchen, including (smashed cucumbers) drinking olive oil and swallowing raw eggs. It wasn’t a pleasure binge; my intentions paralleled those of Lard Ass‘s in the cult classic “Stand By Me”. If you don’t get the pop culture reference, then, so sorry for you. (…and watch the link.)

I yarked a great and tremendous puddle of puke into the full sized antique porcelain claw foot bath tub and left it there. It was at least two inches deep and covered the entire bottom of the tub. Neither one of those assholes ever acknowledged it, directly or otherwise, and it became a test of wills as to who would clean it up, me or her. It stayed there for weeks. She was cleaning her swampy, oft-used pussy up at his bathroom in his trailer, or at the ol swimmin’ hole, and I was cleaning up at the ol swimmin’ hole, so the puke sat for weeks and it congealed and eventually it molded quite beautifully. I, of course, ended up being the one to clean it out, because I had oh-so-foolishly been fucking stupid enough to believe that I would be going back to that god-forsaken school and the beginning of the 8th grade at the end of that awful summer. I was fucking 13 years old. Of course they knew that I hated them so much that I would talk at school about what they had done to me. I was already upset because they had seen to it, and they had seen to it very well, that my friendship with his little sister, the friendship that stated the whole fucking mess, was cancelled. Kaput. Over. Done with. Gone. Buh-bye.

Meanwhile, my buddy Toby’s parents did NOT have their heads stuffed up their asses and they knew that our school was filled with monstrously evil little fucks, so they, being at the very edge of the township, were able to transfer their kids to a school in a neighboring town. I already was a “scummy kid” with hardly any friends, and now two of the best of them were gone. One was ruined, brain-washed, even, turned against me by my own fucking mother and my ex-boyfriend, aka her brother. The other was literally gone. I had no idea who I was going to hang out with. I expected that I would have NO friends at all. I still would have, however, ran my mouth about my unpleasant situation, just out of sheer grief and confusion and angst and annoyance, and they – my mother and the fucko – they knew it. And they couldn’t have that, now could they? Oh no, no no, no no. That just would not fucking do.

That fucking bitch… that fucking bitch! She let me believe literally right up to the moment it was time to run out and catch the school bus that life would proceed as recently broken-normal and I would be starting the 8th grade. Literally right up the fuck until it was time to run out and catch the motherfucking school bus on what would have been the first day of school! Then she said, “Oop, oh no no no. You’re not going to school. Get in the fucking car.”  I was like “wtf?” I had no idea. She took me to the county courthouse and told the family court a bunch of fucking lies and the next thing I knew I was being retained for hours in a small room, bewildered and told that I was not going home, and that I was in fact waiting for transport to an inner city group home. She had even told lies about my grandmother being lewd and sexually inappropriate towards me to ensure that I would not be able to live with my grandparents.  For some fucked up reason that I’ve never understood, my grandmother eventually forgave her for this.  😮 !

This was only the first time in this miserable process that the state failed me. That adults who were supposed to have been in positions to protect me failed. In the court she told all these bullshit lies about me being drunk and smashing furniture and being volatile. Yeah – drunk once ever in my whole miserable life because of port wine that she gave me! Even he never gave me enough to get full-blown, puking drunk! It was HER that did that! He’d just let me have enough to get a little bit silly and more liable to allow his molestation of me.  Now about the smashing of furniture, I neglected to mention above, yeah, I tripped over the coffee table and broke it when I was drunk on the port wine that she gave me! And the volatility? Well, yeah, gee, do ya think that it just might have been a side effect of my mother stealing and then fucking my very first boyfriend ever right in front of me; literally flaunting it in my face for the vast majority of the summer?! Tarnishing my inner tube and my long-beloved swimmin’ hole in the process! Do ya think?! Just maybe?!

Do ya?

When I told my probation officer about how the pedo-fucko had been touching me – a lot– and then he got with my mother instead and was now living with us, the pedo-fucko and my mother were a united front of blatant denial, of course. Can ya imagine it? (Can ya?) And the p.o. bought it. He just bought right into their line of  fucked-up bullshit and he did not have a fuck to give about actually maybe doing his job. Why weren’t my claims investigated? I was a 13 year girl that had told my p.o. that a 21 year old man had been touching me for months. Nothing was done. Nothing at all. Nothing!!!! When pedo-fucko and mi schweet, schweet mammy denied the living together part, I spewed at them with more venom than I had ever spewed in my life, “oh no, mother. He’s not living with us. All of his shit is at our house and he spends all day there and all night there, for weeks on end, but oh no no no no, he is most certainly not living with us”.  I remember that all three of their faces looked at me with a shock and dismay that would have been comical, had not the circumstances surrounding it been quite so fucking sick.

At any rate they got away scot-free, they got to go have their happy newlywed (yeah… the creeps got married) fucky-fucky romantic happy time while I went through literal Hell. He was never investigated for anything having to do with being a 21 year old man that completely and thoroughly molested practically every existing inch of a 13 year old girl, no, not at all. Instead he got to move into my former home and take over ownership of my dual cassette player and my cassette collection, my record player and my records, my heavy metal magazines and my animal skull collection, and my beautiful, beautiful pile of comic books. I had Archie and Katy Keene and Batman and Spider-Man and Casper the Friendly Fucking Ghost, and Wendy the Good Little Witchand Ri₵hie-Ri₵h comics. Most of them were second or third hand yard-sale scores, but some of those fucking things were from the 40’s and 50’s and they were in beautiful condition. That fucking freak also got my machete, my scythe and my Schwinn LeTour bonafide racing bike, my sweet, unmatched 12-Speed, complete with a bonafide fucking Tour de France fucking numbered sticker. It had been in one of the real races. That motherfucking pedo-fucko freak got all of  my very best cool shit. The My Little Ponies  and the rest of my horse and unicorn and Pegasus collection, and my Barbies and stuffed animals and Cabbage Patches and all of that glittery shit, and all of my clothes, they just threw that all right the fuck in the garbage. They couldn’t even be bothered to haul it down to the Salvation Army donation bin that used to be behind the store in town. It was perfectly good stuff and they just trashed it. Why not? They’d had no qualms about trashing me.

Meanwhile, I got to fuck not-so-merrily off to an inner-city group home, where the white kids were the minority. It was an unpleasant scene there and I am not going to dwell on details, but after a fist fight with some black chick I was moved to a foster home with a family that hosted another kid and they also had a small and rather cute boychild of their own. He was like a year and a half old, he cried a lot but was largely an alright kid. I was there for about 3 months and the “other kid” was a rotating roster of foster sisters that came at different times, they came and went pretty quickly, that was just fine by me, a couple of them were real insufferable cunts. Then came the foster sister that I adored, and I eventually reconnected with her on facebook years later.  We don’t communicate very often, but that’s ok, I prefer it that way. It’s just nice to see her posts. Most of the time.  XD

EDIT 10/4/2016 – Honestly, she irks the shit out of me. Ugh, she’s so needy for a man and routinely throws her tits all up on Facebook.  😦

EDIT 5/17/2017 – She is insufferable, stupid, vapid, and a part of why I forsake my “real” Facebook page anymore and just post on my fake one.

The foster home with the wee boychild was considered temporary and I had apparently just been placed there pending a more permanent (read: until 18) home. It was with a  certain amount of dismay I left the family with the goat and the dog and the wee boychild and the mostly awesome foster sister.  It would have been with a great deal more dismay had I known what was in store for me.

EDIT 8/18/16 – A good sized chunk of this blog entry has been moved to its own entry, titled The Foster Home.  It deserved it’s own entry, as it was a whole  hell of it’s own.

I am trying to categorize this blog, and trying to figure out exactly how the hell to write it is a weird and somewhat difficult process.  I’ve never had a blog before unless you count my glorious tumblr, which is just image based eye candy. They’re not even original images,  it’s just various images (20,000 or so) that I’ve collected over the years from around the web, that please me for one reason or another. That’s simple. This gets complex because how much of certain laments, like the foster care stuff, and the crap about my aunt, that I intend to write next, should be included here, and how much should just be told as separate laments? At what point does this whole damned “Mother” lament become a bullet pointed list linking to various consequential laments?  I just don’t damned know.


When all is told, it’s like my autobiography is just a big damned octopus.  The tentacles are my multiple laments and all things connect back to my Big Fathead Mother.


After escaping the abusive foster home, I moved down south to live with my aunt, who is my Grandmother’s other daughter, and my mother’s half-sister. The time I spent with her was a perilous nightmare in itself and when I’ve written it I will link it HERE.

I managed, for the most part, for many years, to just avoid my mother. Estrangement would have been complete and eternal, if only my grandmother had not had some bizarre and horrendous and completely unwarranted loyalty to my mother. Remember the false allegations my mother had made to the court about my grandparents behaving sexually inappropriately towards me, in order to ensure that I couldn’t move in with my grandparents and proceed to make trouble for her and her pedo lover?

My grandmother just dismissed those entirely, lived on in total denial of it all.  Sickening!

What the fuck is wrong with my grandmother? I don’t know. When I’ve written it I shall link it HERE.

Only due to a desire to not estrange my grandmother, did I pretend to make some sort of half-assed peace with my mother.  I never forgave that bitch. Why would I?!! It was all play-pretend so that I could be around my Grandmother who INSISTED upon remaining devoted to my mother. Why? I don’t know. This whole goddamned family is crazy.

Eventually I left the state again and moved to the West Coast. I stayed away for 13 years, until a series of catastrophic failures, including a thankfully benign neck tumor and the illness and weakness associated to it, never mind an illegal eviction and the highly stressful and terrifying process associated to that whole mess, combined with the simultaneous fact that my grandmother was now a widow, and infirm enough to require either a caretaker or a home, provoked me to move back East to this miserable and despised town in which I currently reside once again; this miserable, dusty and decrepit dying railroad town that that my grandparents called home. There were several betrayals from my mother during this whole miserable process, that I am getting too darn tired and surly to detail.  There were lies about money, promises made and revocation of those promises and subsequent fights about whether or not I could bring my 2 beloved kitties back East with me, as unfortunate circumstance was forcing with me to have to live with her for a month or two while making arrangements to gtfo.  There were some unnecessary remarks about my weight.

During the month that I lived with her I was not allowed to bathe, at all.  The bitch actually believed that I was “so big” would break the pipes under her antique claw foot tub (one and the same that I had yarked in so many years ago!) Can you believe that shit?!

Even after I finally estranged my mother’s miserable ass, my stupidly loyal grandmother still insisted upon talking to her for months; until eventually Mother became so insufferably hate-filled and mean that even my endlessly loyal-to-a-degree-of-idiocy grandmother wrote her off.  Before this happened, though, my mother would still call to talk to my grandmother. the damned paranoid bitch was always convinced that I was eavesdropping on the other line when they would have their ridiculous 4 to 6 hour marathon chats. Like yeah – I wanna listen to them beat the same old stories to death with half of my day. Every day. Right. One day when she was sniping about exactly that, my Grandmother told her, “Would you knock it off ? She’s not even here to be able to be eavesdropping on us. She went up to the food bank.”  That’s all she said.  She didn’t hint, clue, or indicate in ANY way that we needed any damned “help”.  The next day Mother shows up with bags and bags of food from the local grocer.  The whole time she was coming up the stairs and into the apartment with the bags of food, she was bitching, wailing, whining and lamenting about the hardship on her due to the cost of the food (that we did not ask for) and the hardship on her due to the physical effort of delivering the food (that we did not ask for). I stayed in my room during the whole delivery process because it had been proven at that point that even seeing her stupid face would make me feel punched-in-the-stomach for about three hours.  When she finally left she loudly took a parting shot at my closed door:

“I don’t even know why I bothered when half of it is going to go down her fat gullet anyway!”

All of this over bags of fucking food that we did not request or require.  Here are a few of her more poignant gem wisecracks about my weight:

“Maybe when you’re bed-bound and too fat to get to the grocery store you’ll finally lose some weight!”

“If you’re not strong enough to resist eating altogether, you should just chew your food for the flavor and then spit it out. At your size, you really have no business swallowing that.”

With comments like these you’d think I must be pushing 325.  I weighed about 190 pounds when she was saying these things to me.  That is not a good weight, I know it (let us not forget the issues with MCS and the tumor and the poor health in general) … but it was hardly enough to warrant that kind of bullshit abuse. Just because she was a goddamned skeleton when she died (she weighed 80 pounds) doesn’t mean that everybody else had to be.

Finally, one day she accused me of stealing from my grandmother, which really was super-ironic after it was her first failed suicide games that cost my grandmother everything.  I finally, permanently estranged her for that. I don’t regret it.

Also, I did not steal from my grandmother. Not once. Ever.

My only regret is that thanks to my grandmother’s absurd and unjustifiably displaced loyalty to my mother, and my desire to still be around my grandmother, I had to play-pretend at forgiveness and I was unable to estrange the bitch after she first pulled that bullshit with the pedo-fucko, back when I wanted to, 25 years ago.


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