I want to go camping. It’s been long enough. My flawed memory has finally deemed it time again.
Long enough that I’ve forgotten the rock under my hip when I’m trying to sleep. The long walk to the toilet at 2:30 in the morning. The sound of that dickheads generator roaring long into the night because he can’t possibly miss one episode of 2 1/2 Men or whatever drivel he watches. I’ve forgotten the taste of sand and grit in my weak coffee, I’ve forgotten how annoying it is to realize you haven’t packed the corkscrew and you now have to push the cork into the bottle and even then bits of cork are going to end up in your plastic beer cup full of lukewarm Sauvignon blanc.
Aahhh, memory. Isn’t it an odd thing. I’ve heard it said that you can’t remember pain. Truly remember it. I’m trying right now… I remember that running my ankle into the edge of the mattress frame yesterday hurt like hell. But the ACTUAL pain…yeah. I remember. I also remember burning my god damned finger 3 days ago. It hurt like hell! Moron scientists. I not only remember actual pain, I remember the pain of realizing Tom didn’t love me. I remember the pain of losing my Maru like it was this morning. The price of a memory, is the memory of the sorrow it brings
I still cry about that pain. That’s how much THAT HURTS! I still hate people who pretend cats don’t care about their owners. I was reading some precious shit from a girl who thought her asshole boyfriend was witty and cute because he doesn’t like cats. And he hates vegetables. And apparently he thinks its cute to write about it while she sighs and says ‘oh gee, isn’t he SOMETHING? boy, he sure is tough and all, isn’t he?’
I’ll tell you something about fuckwads like that, Precious. He’s a self involved moron who gets all his ideas from other self involved morons. He’s the type of person, and yes, it’s a type, who wants to be a macho tough guy. He heard somewhere that tough guys hate broccoli so hell, he’s going to hate broccoli, too. He heard that ‘fat girls’ like cats or ‘lonely women’ so he’s going to milk the fuck out of that particular generalization and make it his ‘own’ while you stand there like a 1950’s housewife and cheer him on until he punches you in the face, cheats on you or finds out you’re over 40 and leaves you for a dimwit.
Yeah, it’s time you stood up to him, you gutless robot. It my MY generation who got you out of the bloody kitchen. Whatever you think of that, I can’t imagine. You probably think it would be wonderful to stay at home all day writing your blog and cooking him dinner. I don’t agree. Precious, those days are snapping us in the ass again, they’re coming back, thanks to do nothing, smile and smooth it over dumb cunts like you.
Do you even have a memory? Do you remember when women, desperate for help, ended up in back room butcher shops? No. You wouldn’t. Do you remember being a single mother and earning next to nothing cuz macho fuckwads just like him ran off without a forwarding address and the govt wouldn’t help you track him down, hell no. If he moved to California, he may as well have been on the moon. Leaving you with however many kids, no minimum wage and no support except that of a state that calls you a whore for not being able to hang onto your husband.
Do you remember when girls had to marry? HAD TO MARRY, Precious! Or else they were relegated to lives of quiet desperation and pity. Poor, ignored, living on fucking cat food, Precious. Because their only friend was a cat! Do you remember when wives could be beaten, cheated on, ignored and abused because they didn’t DARE leave their husbands? Do you remember when ‘girls’ didn’t go to college? There was a time when we weren’t allowed to go to college and it wasn’t that long ago, Precious. Your blasted, misbegotten generation will remember the Kardashians, and not much else. This is a generation that goes to Coachella to be seen, not for the music. It’s your generation that fucked up Burning Man.
Ooh, that’s harsh. (But true)
I wonder though, if that’s something individual or collective. Some sort blindness. You can’t remember history so you’re doomed to repeat it. Because our little Precious is cementing herself into a bad spot. I’m a fan of history. I’m a fan of women’s history. I do NOT want to repeat ANY of it. History is not kind to women and, frankly, it seems as if history is only true for the people who remember it.
I got this off of a blog called levantwoman.wordpress.com. It’s a tough ass blog that makes me feel like everything I’m writing a whiny and small. Not to mention it makes me wonder what the hell is going on here. Can you switch out the word Syria for the word USA? Can you see this happening here? No? Well, Precious, if we let your brand of boyfriend take over, if we let the religious right get their way, this could happen.
Women like you letting dumb ass men make your decisions and form your opinions. Letting pigs, greedy horrid, fat pigs make decisions for you while you sit in your kitchen or at your low end low wage job simpering and smiling at ‘The Big Strong Men’.
It’s time women stood up again. Remembered where we were 50 years ago and picked up the flag. C’mon Precious! Lets see YOU do something. And I don’t mean make a cheesecake for your man. I mean stand up to him and SAY SOMETHING. Something like ‘I don’t think that’s true.’ or ‘I don’t agree with you.’ Anything, Precious. Or is the thought of making him mad intimidating? Is the thought that he might leave you or think you’re less than feminine scaring you? Let me remind you that you can be feminine AND tough. Like Indira Ghandi. Like Benazir Bhutto. Like Angela Merkel, toughing it out in Germany. Or Julia Gillard, Austrailia’s first female Prime Minister. Dang, that woman called an election three weeks into office! Yarg! That’s tough!
Still, somehow I think there are enough women in this country who remember. We’ll somehow muddle through without you.
Oh shit. This was supposed to be about going camping…
“Right now I’m having amnesia and déjà vu at the same time. I think I’ve forgotten this before.”
― Steven Wright