We’ll sit at the table on my patio, and you’ll tell me your life story.
Every time you say something stupid or boring, I’ll smack you upside the head. If my hand gets sore before you’re finished babbling, you win.
Honestly, I think you’ve got it in you to go pro.
My favorite thing about Ramsay’s little love-letter to Jon and Sansa is how it reads like one of the threatening messages that ancient Assyrian and Babylonian kings routinely sent their rivals. It continually amazes me that there was a time when a grandiloquent recitation of one’s intent to murder, rape, and destroy was considered diplomacy.
Trump has lots of room to grow, I guess is what I’m saying here.
Just a little something I’m exploring.
Oh, chill out, stupid! It won’t be that bad as long as you mind your place; I’m pretty sure you can do it, and I wouldn’t trust you with much at all. Luring you here was just a breeze, and actually securing you… I mean, what was that, really? No lie, you flee a captor like a retarded duck, y’know that? It’s just pathetic. I’ve had a tougher time chasing down my Roomba, for fuck’s sake.
Pfft. Okay, I get it. Girl like you, you’ve been seeing me coming your whole life; you’ve just been waiting for a face to finally snap into focus and put an end to the anticipation. It must have felt like gravity pulling you toward the open doors of the van; you barely made a noise when I wrestled you inside, and said even less after I smacked you one across the face. You knew you were done from the start; stupid animals often have amazing instincts to keep them alive.
Like, feel the way your hole is getting wet right now? That’s instinct, too. Don’t be ashamed of it; nothing you can consciously do about it. Some girls are just that way, shaped by life into bespoke vessels for violation. I don’t know why most girls are luckier; maybe it’s just nature’s way of protecting the herd. You’re built to take it, so someone else doesn’t have to.
When you think about it that way, this is all pretty noble of you; you’re like a nervous little offering for the world’s oldest ritual. Which makes me some sort of priest, I suppose. See, this is why I like you despite yourself: you really know how to help a man think. Sure, I’ve been calling you horrible names, hurting you, turning you against yourself, and promising far worse before the night is through, but I want you to know that right now, if only for a moment, I really admire you.
Now take a deep breath and try not to make me hit you too hard.
words copyright © 2016 BedtimeStoriesForBrokenGirls.com)
copyright © 2016 BedtimeStoriesForBrokenGirls.com
Bowie’s passing didn’t really have a ton of impact on me; I was never a fan, so it was just generically sad. Glenn Frey was tougher to take, but he’d been out of the cultural spotlight since Hell Freezes Over, so it wasn’t that big a jolt.
But Prince?
I was looking forward to more. So much more.
In my most benevolent moods, all I want for you girls is a little acceptance. Some of you could be so much more than cunts, but if you’re going down that darker road, everything else will always be a detour. They seldom win, those who fight what they are; that’s what makes the fight so noble.
But when a girl finally decides her back is against the emotional wall and she’s out of options, I want her to know that there’s someone out there who understands that nobility is a heavy mantle, who enjoys helping her fantasize about shedding that mantle, and who won’t be disgusted if she eventually rips it off for real and for good.
She deserves to know that her stories are valued, that even the most worthless of things can be prized by the right collector.
Nothing makes a cunt feel more alive than a man who has the physical, emotional, and intellectual capacity to utterly destroy her.
“Th-that was my mom. He– um, he died. M-my uncle… he died.”
“That’s terrible, sweetie. Take off your blouse.”
“I’m not— I’m not sure about everything… anything, really, but he was in an accident. In a car. Accident.”
“Oh no, I hope he didn’t suffer. And the bra, too, genius.”
“Didn’t I— what?”
“I said that I hope he didn’t suffer. And told you to get your fucking tits out.”
“Yes. No. I mean— he didn’t suffer. She said it was… instantaneous.”
“Was anyone else hurt? Now the pants.”
“Christina. She— mom said Christina was in the car with him.”
“Is she going to be okay? Those panties are ugly, by the way; get rid of them, or I’ll set them on fire with you in them.”
“Pl-please, no, not now. Can we, please? Not? This is just not—”
“I asked how Christina is doing. I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
“Yeah. Okay. She’s in the hospital, on a machine. There’s— I guess there’s swelling or whatever, in her brain.”
“Poor baby. They’re doing amazing things with head injuries these days, so I’m sure she’s going to get better. You, meanwhile, just keep getting worse. I can smell your cunt, way over here.”
“Should I– do I need to shower or something? Now?”
“I wish, but no, I don’t have the time. And no shower will ever really get you clean, will it?”
“I… no, you’re right. You’re always right. I’m sorry I stink.”
“You should be; you really should. So, do they know what caused the accident?”
“They don’t. Or Mom doesn’t, at least.”
“What does that mean?”
“I feel like– it feels like I should be on my knees.”
“It’s that sort of keen insight that makes me wonder how you can be such a constant disappointment.”
copyright © 2016 BedtimeStoriesForBrokenGirls.com
