The Reconciliation Of Me, Myself, And I...
"Dear Bitchface, I fucking love you...""Well damn, Bitchface, I love you, too".
As of late, I’ve been having some issues really embracing myself. You know, like I used to do, pre-prison, when a bitch couldn’t tell me shit. I’ve had a fucking epiphany, and much like an epiphany will do, it set some fucking part of me free.
See, I’ve had some guilt left in my heart. Some part of me still fucking trying to chastise me like shit wouldn’t have gone down the way it did if I hadn’t deserved it.
I’m here to tell that part of me to get the fuck out of here. I reread some columns last night, and they were some reminders that long before I went in, I was out here performing the fucking reckoning.
Man, I was a one-woman terrorist cell, kicking in doors and taking dogs and abused women, like really getting the fuck down with the get down. I wasn’t sitting around with my thumb in my ass, clutching my pearls and woe is me’ing. Not a single column talked of how I wasn’t out really just mixing shit the fuck up every day.
I looked back, and all I saw was a woman who was making fucking noise and following that noise up with a double-spaced, professionally written “Go Fuck Yourself” to whoever the party in question happened to be.
Did you know that in the year prior to my hiatus, I published 42 columns calling for assistance for women? Be it abuse, be it female genital mutilation, be it that bullshit they call “religious expression” over across the way. It didn’t matter who the oppressors were, I stood up and said “uh, sir….I would love it if you would kindly fuck right off”.
That’s 42 times I said stop beating us, stop raping us, stop forcing us into sexual slavery. Stop treating us like we don’t matter.
And that isn’t even all the years I’ve been here on this platform. And, I have been on Medium for 2 additional years. I’m willing to bet that if I went through and drug my whiteboard through the past with me, I would find I’ve really been getting in it, going at it, and standing against it many more times than 42.
Of course, all that isn’t even covering the times I wrote letters to judges, and senators, and this piece of shit governor that I’m no longer allowed to write to. Or all the times I Bo Duked across hoods for dogs. Or the times I stood up for whoever the oppressed was at the moment, because I can’t fucking stand an oppressor.
So, I don’t know where I got the idea that I had sat around for 5 years twiddling my thumbs, and lamenting about having to take my lick. Because it never went down like that. The fact that I could have gone to prison at any moment didn’t get to tell me that I wasn’t going to keep doing what needed to be done.
My whole life, I’ve been a woman with opinions and dreams bigger than this rinky-dink ass town, and I’ve told some of my tour stories. I’ve never been afraid to get out and just fuck shit up because it is a Tuesday. Or Flag Day. Or any day in July.
I never thought, “you know what, you better sit still today, there could be trouble…”, instead I was thinking, “ayyyyy, bitch, pack some extra clothes and xanax, chances are pretty good you are gonna get in the mix.”
That’s how I’ve lived because that’s how I’ve found the best adventures, and the most amazing people, and some superfuckingawesome dogs. I think, if I’m being truthful, it might be the stationary that has me feeling sick.
Maybe I need to go find something worth getting into. Maybe I need to go see some places I haven’t seen, roll in the grass with some dogs I haven’t rolled in the grass with, and bring my form of Southern Superheroism to some folk I’ve not yet met.
I have no tether, yet I’ve been acting as though I am flexcuffed to the fucking piping on the kitchen sink. What the fuck I was thinking, I couldn’t tell you. I can tell you I’m not thinking it anymore.
Feels like myself has come right on down to kiss myself hello. Enough of the pleasantries, Bitchfaces, we’ve got work to do. Grab your fucking Kate Spade and put Puffin in a harness, because she can’t be trusted, and let’s do something worth doing.
Let’s do something that feels like I’m not sitting around afraid to live. Let’s just go live.
I love you, Bitchface. And I love this piece.
Viggo is unable to be trusted also, in spite of having basically no freaking teeth. I have no idea what I’ve spent on the toothless little bastard, but whatever. That’s my rant for the day ( so far). 💜💜💜