I Am A Woman Of Solid Convictions...
My life is a tribute to them, if you care to take a look at the snapshots.
I take a great deal of pride in the type of woman I am. I know that I built everything you see here, alone, and although I may not be on the firmest of foundations, I’m no stucco over chicken wire. I am cedar. I am Georgia Pine.
I once held so many great ideals as though they were the gifts I was bringing to the table, which, by the way, I built, sanded, and stained. I’m a solid type of broad. I don’t buy Ikea dining tables.
Over the years, it seems, I have left those lofty ass ideals in roadside diners, rest stops, and random dives with shitty jukebox selections and lukewarm beer.
Now, all that remain are my convictions. My actual black and white views. My wrong, right, and what in the fuck is a gray area? There is literally no fucking gray area. I hold grudges for decades because of exactly this: you can act as though you didn’t know it was wrong, but wrong and right don’t look like relatives. They’re not even 6th cousin removed type of similar.
I don’t walk back anything that I say, in print, on the podcast, or to your fucking face. I refuse to swallow the truth I spoke because it made you feel some type of way. That isn’t how truth works.
Often, people swear they love a woman with a moral compass, one unafraid to shake shit up. They do. Until it interferes with their lack of integrity.
I have spent a great deal of years becoming an extraction friend for abused women, many more non-verbal command training rescues, and I’m a fucking mouthpiece for both. I also have a soft spot for those who, much as I did, clawed their way out of the dirt to become anything other than what they came from.
I still sometimes find the soil under my nails, and I remember exactly what a single-wide trailer with a fucking child molester was like.
So I work a little harder. I raise some fucking fuss. I get down in the trenches. And if you don’t, I need to ask you to please cram anything at all into your fucking blowhole and have a damned seat.
You can’t be me. You aren’t anything like me. Not even the generic of the generic version.
Merry Christmas to my readers who bring me injustice to hunt down and stomp out. You know exactly how I feel; if I know of it, I cannot allow it to remain.
You ambiguous assholes always looking for a fucking loophole in the semantics?
I hope that fat pervert makes you grind in his lap for your train set. You should have asked Santa for some vague wording and fine print.
Ugh. Grow some balls of your own.