A Big Ol' Heap of Genitalia

Here are some chicken boobs.

                                         I mean dang, those are some chicken boobs right there. 

I really wish I'd spent more time polishing the last two posts, but I felt that if I didn't get it out there for the record, I would have skipped over the whole thing and posted some stupid shit about villainous breakfast cereal  or the super chunky results you get when you search nonsense words like mabooga.  That would have been in character. That would have been so easy to do. 

I don't like to come here and reveal a lot about myself. I was guilty of that shit at times back in the day, I'll admit, but by now, I figure if you don't know me by now, you will never ever ever, ever ever know me. I have moved the fuck on; and now here I am with a pile of unread cookbooks and this immense transformative experience that just happened to me.

So let's recap quickly.  I went through eighteen years of hell. Mental, physical and sexual abuse and neglect. You want details; shit, visit any website devoted to childhood abuse, read the accounts (or maybe don't because ew) and pick any three horror stories. It probably applies to me.

What I've been mostly silent about is that the bullshit did not stop when I was eighteen, nor did it stop after I was officially kicked out of the family when I was 25. No, my parents handed that job over to my cousin here in town, who enthusiastically maintained a campaign of petty harassment against my husband, my daughter and myself that lasted from 1985 until that man's death two years ago. 

No shit.

It was nothing more than a lot of low-level invasions of privacy over the years, but always intrusive enough to make me aware of the fact that he was still out there, the sniggering prick, fucking with me on behalf of my family of origin.

    This dude ^^^. President of an investment/personal finance company, philanthropist, occasional member of city government, net worth in the millions. This grown-ass man with multiple degrees stooped to the level of stalking my daughter, among many other things.

   

Meanwhile, I was in therapy.  There was a big emphasis on 'ceremonial acts of closure' back in those days. Doing things like writing letters to dead abusers, naming objects after memories or events and then burning them, revisiting the scene of the crime and destroying an object from those dark days there.  I'd always sneered at that idea because it sounded too much like religion to me. It turns out, those symbolic gestures are important. That hindbrain stuff has to happen. I was drawn to write that memoriam in defiance of whatever dignity I retain. Certainly despite my better judgement. Once I got started it just rolled out of me unstoppably. And I hit 'post'.

Then came the next day, when, in an un-self-conscious state of mind, a shadow over me that I had not realized was there simply peeled away and left me forever. I was high for the rest of that day, and all through the next, and the next, and I am now; on what I do not know, but I am different, and lighter.

 Maybe there are some of you out there who need to know about this. That's why I'm revisiting this event for emphasis. I want to tell you people out there, I want you to know, you adults who were tormented as children, that yes, goddammit, there comes a time that you not only know, intellectually, that it's really done and over, but that your body finally realizes that it's over too, and releases all its clenched muscles and bug-out plans and hypervigilance, and chills the fuck out; and you FLY.

ANYWAY.   

On to the big ol' heap of genitalia.  

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Big ol' heap of genetalia

OH HOLY SHIT oh goddamn oh fuck I did not expect whatever that is.  Don't look at that. 

But that's what comes up when  you search 'Big ol' heap of genitalia'. 

This is close to what I was expecting to find:

Did you ever imagine in your youth that there would ever, ever be such a thing as cartoon animal porn?  I mean look at this mess. This is all alien blue-veiner and pterodactyls and buttholes of something.

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