Category: Essays & Bad Ideas

An assortment of ramblings; some thoughtful, some thoughtless

I think I’d be a good cult leader. It feels like a calling I’ve ignored, an opportunity missed.

I need a weed farm and a bunch of girls to tend it. The good girls can sleep on the floor around my bed, the bad girls can sleep on bunk-beds with mattresses filled with gravel, and the unrepentant pig whores can sleep in the barn where they belong.

But every night before bed, all the little pigs, twisted sluts, and simple cunts will gather in front of the fireplace, where I’ll read them stories that make them wet and remind them that, when I somehow make them feel both worthless and useful, I’m actually making them complete. We might also have sing-alongs, because I’ve always wanted to hear a chorus of whores sing Nine Inch Nails’ Closer.

Yes, yes… this needs to happen. For the sake of you girls, of course. I am as close to god as some of you cunts deserve to get.

rape-me-daddyy:

hit me and tell me how stupid i am <3

I’d prefer to hit Bows and tell her how smart she is, only in the most sarcastic tone possible.

“Oh yeah, baby… you’re so smaaaaaart.” SLAP. “You’re such a clever [douchey air quotes] conversationalist [/douchey air quotes].” SLAP. “Your opinions are so deep and meaningful; you’re like Aristotle with pectoral punching bags.” SLAP.

With that said, she does occasionally teach me things; like how low a cunt will let herself go, and how good a girl can get.

Cranky Old Man Shit: True

No matter your gender or proclivities, if at any time you feel the urge to sincerely use the word true immediately followed by any variation on the terms dom or sub, just stop. Just… don’t.

Instead, pause to consider that you wouldn’t know truth if it tied you up and fucked you with its big, cosmic dick. You may find that there’s more twixt heaven and perversity than is dreamt of in your self-righteous, half-baked little philosophy, and if you don’t, congratulations, you’re an idiot. Oh, and again… shut up.

(This goes double for you if you’re over the age of twenty-five. Hyperactive, unwarranted certainty is adorable on kids, tedious on young adults, and a justification for unexpected throat-punching on grown-ups.)

Or put more simply: you’re being a douche. Dial it back a few notches, ‘k?

Cranky Old Man Shit: Spellmaster

Dominate is a verb. It is a thing you do. Preferably with gusto. And choking sounds.

Dominant is an adjective that describes something about you or another person-ish noun. If you want to use it as a kinky term-of-art, then it can also function as a noun itself.

Jackass is someone who cannot distinguish between the two. Example: And then the jackass said, “I am a dominate male looking for slaves!”

TL;DR: if someone tells you (s)he’s a dominut, believe it.

Cranky Old Man Shit: Emotional Rescue

littlepainslut:

It’s starting to annoy me that people want to ‘save’ me. I can’t be saved, I’m past that. I can face the fact that I’m nothing but a worthless little cunt and that is all I will ever be. I will never be special and I don’t deserve to be. I deserve to be hurt and abused while you look down at me like I’m some kind of stray dog you feel sorry for. Please stop trying to ‘help’ me, you can’t.

littlepainslut gets it better than most. Having been a White Knight in a past life, I understand the urge to reach down and try to fix the broken things you encounter… but it’s better for everyone involved if you don’t.

First, because no matter what you do, she will ultimately “save” herself… or she won’t. People outside her skin can nurture, crush, support, or abuse her, but they can’t magically alter her own valuation of her fundamental, adult self. She has to *want* it, and if she does, she’ll ask for your help when she needs it. You won’t *impose* it on her, no matter how dominating your domination or theoretically pure your intentions.

Second, because who the hell decided she needs saving at all? Life is about developing coping mechanisms, and sometimes a girl is lucky or insightful enough to develop some that get her off. If you enjoy pushing her buttons, push them until she can barely walk straight, and enjoy the fireworks. Don’t waste everyone’s time trying to help her out of the maze in her mind, when exploring mazes is her favorite hobby.

uselessgirlrage:

“He gave each woman a choice: be my sex slave or be my corpse.”

When I was a kid, these were sold in every grocery and convenience store… you couldn’t buy a copy of *Playboy* within forty miles, but you could have all the rapey detective mags you wanted.

The only reason I didn’t have a vast collection of them stashed away is that the cover was always the best part… the interior was usually a visual let-down.

A Momentary Lapse Of Frisson

As some of my followers know, I am not uncritical of my own content, particularly in terms of it reaching beyond my intended audience. (Said audience being: adult women who get off on feeling like misfit toys.) If you’re not part of that beautifully fucked-up group, then my feelings about your readership range from relaxed indifference to active concern.

Up to now, I’ve had two primary policies for dealing with those active concerns:

  1. If you’re under eighteen, absolutely fuck off. I’ll block you if I spot you. Go try being good girls and boys for a few more years, okay? After all, maybe the It Gets Better people are right, and you’ll end up having a relatively uncomplicated and fulfilling sex life.
  2. I squint in mild disapproval at the occasional legal adults who seem a little too stupid to be allowed in the drawer where Mom keeps the sharper, stabbier words. (Remember folks: never run with “cunt”s.) But I didn’t actually do anything about such folks, other than be silently judgy.

I’ve decided to rethink and refine these policies into a single guideline. Going forward, it will be:

  1. If I look at your blog and you’re under 18, or someone who argues without irony that men are some sort of oppressed class, or if you are, in general, kind of a whiny, entitled individual, I’m blocking you. No hard feelings, but I’ll pass on your patronage, thanks. You’re not my audience.