Going through my old livejournal and found these things interesting. Cut for triggers eating disorder trigger. Next time I will be talking about my sexual assualts and rapes. There are no numbers in this so it shouldn’t be too triggering, but there a couple of images that people in recovery might find hard to get over.

I Adore You by Aileen Wuornos 2006

I would paint myself naked, in more than one way . I would start with a pencil outline: a small frame, of medium height, with average proportions. She could be any girl. Next, I’d mix a skin tone (a pale one). Each imperfection would be accounted for: every broken blood vessel, acne scar, the persistent shine on the tip of the nose. The hair I would do carefully, setting each strand in place with a fine brush in an extreme shade of red squeezed from a bottle.

She would start to look as though we might be related. Afterward, the eyes because they’re brightest. I would paint them without any mascara, pencil lines or pink eye shadow. They’re small but very blue. Then the smile. I would paint here with quick strokes; light strokes, because the cheeks lift up and the straight teeth show, and there is so much softness, and there’s a tilt of the head. Wide open smile, friendly eyes, squinting as if looking at her true love in the sun.

I would mix up a dark shade of peach for the shadow in the deep hollow where collarbone meets neck, then the small round handfuls of breasts. You might think this would be where it would get difficult to keep the brush strokes honest and even, and where the paint might start to sting a little, as if poured into an open cut.

She would only be beginning to be me. Really, what would sting would be the ribs. I would paint the sharp outline of each one, in remembrance of the months spent trying to shrink away on plain rice, multivitamins and water; the day the body gave out in science class and the pulse slowed to near nothing; the lies told to the ambulance attendants, saying it must have been fumes from the previous class’s dissection. Formaldehyde will do that to some people, you know.

Like seeing myself in a clouded bathroom mirror. Next would be the belly button. I would paint it big and round, and in it would be a mother’s face, smiling, looking up. I would put her there, right in the middle, because that’s where she belongs, holding things together. A centre of gravity.

Most difficult would be the inner thighs and genitals–for the morning on the city bus, when a drunk man with a sandy-colored beard, smelling sweet, like something decayed, slid his hand across the leg, up, down and under. I would go back to add one small raindrop tear to her cheek–to remember sitting there, very still, for much too long, surrounded by so many people reading the morning paper or looking out the window; there, with eyes focused forward, at a loss for the courage to yell for help, the way they always taught in grade school sex-ed…and it always sounded so easy, and it should have been so easy.

I would cover the inner thighs with dirty handprints–to remember the pressure of the man’s fingers, the way they rubbed, the way I could feel them for weeks; the way I still feel them, sometimes, because I have never told this to anyone before.

A near-perfect reflection. Next knees, calves and finally feet, which I would paint in a bright shade of yellow–for all the summers they’ve spent burrowing into warm sand at the beach, or else a deep sinful shade of red–for the night I learned to dance the merengue with a boy who hardly spoke English, and one-and-two-and-three-and-four-and we swept across the floor, and the music was so loud I could feel my insides vibrate, and nothing else mattered but five-and-six-and-seven-and-eight.

Looking at her might hurt me. Parts of this painting might sting; might take some tears, cried into the palette to thin the paint.

Looking at her might make me proud. Other parts might please me. I might stand back when it was finished, to look at myself, and enjoy my delicate neck, my long fingers that are tapered at the ends. After a while, I would find a hammer and a nail and hang my painting in plain view in a place I would pass at least once a day.

Eventually, I would learn not to be ashamed, and eventually, I would learn to see myself exactly as I am, and eventually, I would learn to admit that parts of me are beautiful.

Living with an eating disorder is one of the most difficult things a human being can do. There are so many myths surrounding anorexia and bulimia especially. Such as the “attention seeker”. It’s bullshit. Most anorectics would rather die than have someone draw a large amount of attention to them. Most anorectics want to die. Eating disorders are not a lifestyle, they are not a mental illness or a diesease.

An eating disorder is a deathwish.

Me before I stopped taking photos of myself. A face of anorexia.

A girl (seeing as men with eating disorders are so unlikely they are more of a statistical anomalies than anything, not to say that male sufferers aren’t just as deserving of safety, treatment and respect) with an eating disorder finds herself on a spiral which at the beginning, seems controllable, seems manageable. It’s just a few kilos, it’s not going to hurt? But those few kilos develop into disgusting cottage cheese and mandarin skin thighs, bulging bellies and a chin that’s just too round. For me, it was like there was another side of me. Egging me on in my own head. Telling me how fat and worthless I was. Telling me how I deserved every single time I was raped or harassed and the only way I could absolve myself of my sins was to purge, purge, purge, starve, starve, starve, hate, hate, hat. Lather, rinse, repeat. My anorexia and bulimia became almost separate entities to the person that is Aileen. There was Aileen and Anna and Bella. Anna and Bella did not like Aileen and never wanted to see her happy.

My life was numbers. I fucking hate numbers now. Calories, kilojule to calorie conversion. Kilograms, centimetres lost. Lather, rinse, repeat. Posting in pro-ana forums probably didn’t help me too much, it wasn’t until I stopped lurking in those that I started to re-develop a positive body image. Funnily enough, my hero Lara Croft was too fat to be a hero to an Eating Disordered Aileen. My idols were the girls on the communities. The thin, beautiful and perfect girls. If I could lose one more kilo I’d be like them. Thin enough. But it’s a losing battle. Anna and Bella don’t want you to win, you see. They want your lazy, disgusting hide dead and they’ll do whatever they can to try. Because eating disorders go hand in hand with other mental illnesses usually, the combination of Post Traumatic and two eating disorders was beginning to take its toll on my body.

Your nails peel, because of all the bile and puke from shoving them down your throat all the time. Your throat is always sore because it’s scratched to shit from. Your skin is terrible, sunken and always so cold because your body is shutting down. Forget having a nice head of hair because it will split, shit and fall out like no bodies business. Don’t think you can hide it with extensions because eventually the weight of the extensions is more than your hair. Oh and if you really get thin enough, your brain will actually shrink a bit. It makes you act like a fucking nut, because you’re not nourished properly and can’t think straight. Your only focus is food, weight and balancing the two. And even that will never, ever be enough. I was a very hairy girl. I developed lanagou on my arms, chest and various other body places. This I am still losing two years after reaching a healthy weight.

You Liar by Aileen Wuornos 2006

My body still has to deal with the damages of living as someone with an eating disorder from the ages of twelve to seventeen. And I’m one of the lucky ones. I come from a position of great privilege – I’m white, middle class, privately educated and my parents give a shit and genuinely care. I’m lucky to have had them because I certainly wasn’t looking out for myself. When I had my wisdom teeth out, I didn’t eat any solids for two weeks and had nothing but codeine and water. I was very sick. I am incredibly lucky to be even alive. If I had been born to another family, or in another country, or even had brothers and sisters that might have not been the case. I am greatful for the support I received even though I acted like a right cunt through out my treatment. I didn’t understand, I was sick. I thank the forces of nature/my willpower/my parents/life just about every day now that I have  a working and able body. I can’t believe I wanted to destroy it and wanted to die so badly. Life is fucking precious and people who don’t realise that are fucking idiots. Sorry, but that’s just the way it is. I’m still mentally ill and I know that suicide is not an option. Ever. It’s the most selfish thing you can do – eating disorders are fucking selfish too, but we don’t always have the capacity to understand the wrongness of our actions. The best you can do for someone with an eating disorder is follow their bizare eating routines and carefully encourage them to start loving themselves. Genuinely.

My therapy has been long and difficult. But then again, I am one of the very lucky people that have private health insurance and are well off enough to afford it. I wish that everyone could have these opportunities and it’s something in my life to work towards. The valuable advice that my psychiatrist gave me that was the cunt punt I needed to get my mind back on track was the one compliment a day/you can’t really hate everything about yourself schtick.

He asked me what the one thing I didn’t hate about myself was – obviously, my most prized possession is my mind. And I realised, I made the connection, you can’t have a healthy mind without a healthy body. That one compliment a day to my beautiful brain slowly egged me into wanting to eat. Well, it was that and all the pot I was smoking and valium I was taking – I’d get high enough to have the munchies, eat a bunch of food and swallow some valium so I didn’t care about what I just ate. And after a while I didn’t need to smoke the weed to want to eat. And then after a bit longer I didn’t even need the valium to make me feel okay again after eating. Now, you can’t stop me from eating. Food is fucking awesome. I think my change to vegetarianism had a lot to do with it because you have to become so much more aware of what’s going into your body and not eating the by-product of murder made me feel genuinely less guilty about eating.

These days I try to remember to eat, one meal at a time.

If you would like to help an eating disorder support group, please help here. For help with recovery and online support, please visit Something Fishy and if you’re Australian and having thoughts of harming yourself or suicide, please call Lifeline on 13 11 14 or visit their web page – your life is inheritly valuable, and no matter what you think, life is always worth living.

Life Drawing Model by Aileen Wuornos 2005

Taken from the Dove Body Positive Campaign.

And here’s the video to prove it:

Seriously, the fact that an animal is murdered so that you steak-guzzling arseholes can continue to indulge your “tastes” (lust for cruelty) just isn’t enough? You have to figure out how to fucking torture it so then you can eat it? That’s fucked up man.

Deep frying a creature that’s still breathing has just convinced me (yet again) that there truly is no hope for humans and the only peace our poor planet will ever get is when ever last piece-of-shit-human (even yours truly) is dead and rotting. Even then expect environmental fallout as (the better part of) 7 billion arseholes fester and rot under the sun.

Fucking meat eaters. Seriously, fuck you, murderous, torturing arseholes. I hope you choke on your Big Mac.

Via Huffington Post

So it seems that a lot of people are getting to my fantastico cornero of the web-o by looking up:

What does check your corners mean?

And let me put it to you plain and simple – it means just that. After many horror-movie and Left for Dead marathons you see, Aileen learned that there was often a fatal flaw in the survivors plans. They run into a room, don’t check the corners and then wonder why they die when a zombie/killer/monster springs out at them from behind the door and devours them alive/slaughters/does weird monster shit to them.

1. Check behind the door first.
2. Check the corner opposite the door corner
3. Check furtherest corner

You see, by doing this, you will potentially eliminate any of the undead swarming on you when you least expect it. Remember, the wise words of one of my many gods, Max Brooks:

There is no safe, only safer.

Which is actually a pretty good rule for living under a patriarchy as well. There are no actual safety. There is only safer.

Has anyone ever seen Silence of the Lambs? I have, because Clarice and Hannibal is like my dream menage-et-tois but ANYWHOO that bit when Starling is at the training academy and they’re practicing storming a room? Remember? So yeah, Starling goes in and goes straight to the perp to arrest him and BANG well, not actual bang because:

(sic) Why didn’t you check the corners Starling?/I forgot sir/Well that’s why you’re dead, check your corners

It’s just one of those little rules that will help to keep you alive in case of zombpocalypse. Well, that and knocking before you enter any room to test the undead numbers that lurk inside. If you don’t already know all these things – you’re not welcome on my survival wagon.

Always remember: Use your head, remove theirs. (but don’t forget to stamp the fuck out of it because they don’t die until you destroy the brain) see example below:

Successful Brain Destruction

Have fun being zombie chow, suckers. And my first and last exam is today w00t w00t w00t w00t.

What will happen to you if you lag behind or fuck up my rules.

I love this post. Especially the part about the careers listing.

Funny how “sex work” never showed up in any of my high school careers guide books and they don’t seem to be offering a course on it at uni…. I promise I’ll do a real post soon.

Well, it’s been one of those days. Yesterday was Columbus Day, a Federal holiday so the banks were closed. While I enjoy all the time off I can get, we really pay for it the next day. We were slammed! And being short staffed on top of that did not make matters any easier. Let me tell you when you really piss one person off, you know it’s going to be that way alllll day.

For your enjoyment, here are some of the highlights of the day:

1. The Check Cashing Guy

Him: I need to cash this check.

Me: Sir, this check is made payable to a business. It will need to be deposited into the business’s account. Is the business account with us?

Him: No. My bank wants to put a two day hold on it. I can’t have that! It’s your check, why can’t you cash it?

Me: Because it is made payable to a business. If it was made payable to you personally I would verify the check and cash it. I’m sorry sir, it’ll have to be deposited.

Him: *becoming more furious and speaking in increasing volume* I can’t believe it! This is stupid, you are stupid! It’s drawn on your bank and you’re telling me you can’t cash it? Well, I’m never doing business with this bank! How stupid can you be that you can’t cash a check?

He then storms out of the bank, which is a good thing because it was so hard to be polite and civil to him.

2.  Missing Deposit Guy

*phone rings, it’s a teller from one of the other branches*

Her: My customer says he cashed a check and made a deposit last Monday, but the deposit is not showing in his account. Can you check your records?

Me: Sure, what’s the account number?

As I’m looking up the information, I can hear him in the background going on and on about how he cashed and check and made a deposit and we lost it and now we have to make it right.

Me: I see the cashed check, but there is nothing here about a deposit to his or anyone else’s account. Does he have the receipt?

Her: I’ll check.

In the background I hear her ask.

Him: Of course I do! I’ll be right here in my checkbook. Oh. Oh wait. Oh. Oh.

Me: What’s going on?

Her: He found the deposit he thought he made. We’ll take care of it. Thanks!

3. The “You Should Feel Bad” Guy

Jane is one of my part-time tellers. She doesn’t work much and needs help sometimes processing transactions. She calls me over to help. I go over to her and her customer starts in on me.

Him: You! You messed me up last time! You told me it was going to be one fee, but it wasn’t!

Me: *very confused* I’m sorry sir but -

Him: You should be sorry! You should feel really bad! You should feel awful for what you did to me!

Fortunately for me and my job, Jane figured out what she needed to do. I just turned my back to the customer and walked away. I still have no idea who he was and what that whole thing was about. But if he every shoves his finger in my face again, I’m going to shove his hand where the sun don’t shine.

4. The No Hold Lady

Her: I’m only going to say this once. I need $500 cash back, $1000 into my savings account, and the rest into my checking account.

Then she thrusts a check into my face. It’s a check for almost $4000. Since she doesn’t have any account numbers with her I look her up in the computer. Hmmm, this check definitely needs a hold placed.

Me: Ma’am, due to the size of the check and it’s out-of-state, there will be a hold placed. Once the hold comes off I can move the money around as you need it. Do you want it into your checking or savings account?

Her: What do you mean there’s gonna be a hold? I just sold my car. I need that money now. Why? Why would you put a hold on the check?

Me: Because of the size of the check and that it is an out-of-state check. *In my head I’m also adding because your account is in the negative, where it usually is*

Her: No.

Me: Ok. Here’s your check.

Her: I can’t believe this. I’m gonna take this to another bank and you won’t see none of it!

Me: I apologize for any inconvenience. Have a nice day.

Of course she slams the door on her way out.

How you treat other people says a great deal about you and your character and morals. And if you see someone who waits on you or provides you a service as someone who is underneath you, you need to get your head out of your hindend.

There are just no fucking words.

People make me sick.

I hope zombies bite off your goddamned legs. To the people who say Australia isn’t a racist country, grab a fucking brain or I’ll come round your house and stomp on all your toys.

Sometimes, you know (or think you know) someone to the point where, no matter what they say, you will instantly think they hate your guts.

I experience this daily, and I strongly feel that

Sorry. False start. Revving up again, here.

I can’t stand it. When it feels like someone who has been so close to you once, is revolted at the sight or sound of you.

I’ll admit, I’m a pretty opinionated person. I don’t hide behind false little thoughts that keep me safe and protected from scathing criticism. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t care about being criticized (the whole point of this post is that I freaking do). But the focus of my life is certainly not on whether or not my views are regarded with pleasant feelings.

This isn’t about me, anyway. To take a risk of being annoyingly humble, I’ll repeat: this is so not about how I feel and what I do, or even how I am received.

This is about other people. And how is it that I can piss so many people off or have them think I’m ignorant or too worldly or stupid or outspoken or even too talented? How is that my fault? What am I supposed to do about it? Should I not care? Should I retaliate to show I have a backbone? Does it even matter in the grand scheme of things?

I don’t know. And I’m not going to give anything up because my life clashes with the workings of another. Or two or three. But it hurts to see how they hurt. What if I caused it, those many months ago? Or what if it was that, I wasn’t there for them, to support them when I should have? Could I have done anything, said anything, to fix it? Can I get back the relationship, the friendship, we once had?

I’m not sure. And I’m not sure if I want it the way it was.  But as of right now, I do.

And maybe that’s why life is so fickle and fraught with confusion and doubt and pain. People change their minds.

I just hate the thought of minds being changed about me when I can’t defend myself.

1. Rammstein are not, nor will they ever be metal.
2. I thought I saw this like, five years ago in some metal magazine by some piece of shit band called December Wolves and their song Porn again Christian.
3. Rammstein are a shitty band anyway.
4. Now even under-age fans of shitty ‘metal’ bands can watch the graphic representation of rape and the exploitation of women under the false guise of “artistic content”

On that note, seriously, I hope Rammstein’s contract gets taken away from them.

Pictures under the lj-cut may be triggering and are hideously misogynistic, you have been warned.

Ew

So as you can see, not only is the sexual exploitation of women not good enough for this piece of shit “band” but in order to seem really fucking shocking, hardcore, boring, stupid, misogynistic, rock and roll you need to murder and cannibalise women as well. Because well, apparently possession through penetration just isn’t enough anymore! Correct me if I’m wrong, but those two morons on the left look like they’re about to rape her corpse as well. So you see, women dancing in bikinis isn’t rock and roll enough anymore. You need to graphically exploit every essence of her very being. Body, mind and soul (not that these assholes would even realise that women have minds and souls too) – seriously, Rammstein are assholes.

The song itself fares no better. It’s more hurtful, hateful and fucked up than anything I ever read from Turbonegro.

Too big, too small,
Size does matter after all
Too big, too small,
It could be something bigger.

Mercedes-Benz and highway
Travel alone to foreign countries,
Travel, travel, driving
I just want fun, not fall in love

Just a little bit …
Just a little bitch!

You’ve got a pussy,
I have a dick,
So what’s the problem?
Let’s do it quick.
So take me now before it’s too late
Life’s too short, so I can not wait.
Take me now, oh do not you say,
I can not get laid in Germany.

Too short, too tall,
Does not matter, one size fits all
Too big, too small,
The barrier should be on top.

Beautiful girl, hungry for more?
Blitzkrieg with the meat gun!
Brandy in your head, you lovely bride,
plug into your bratwurst sauerkraut!

Just a little bit …
Be my little bitch!

You’ve got a pussy,
I have a dick,
So what’s the problem?
Let’s do it quick!
So take me now before it’s too late
Life’s too short, so I can not wait.
Take me now, oh do not you say,
I can not get laid in Germany.

Germany!

Germany!

You’ve got a pussy,
I have a dick,
So what’s the problem?
Let’s do it quick!

You’ve got a pussy,
I have a thick,
So what’s the problem?
Let’s do it quick!

You’ve got a pussy,
I have a thick,
So what’s the problem?
Let’s do it quick!
So take me now before it’s too late
Life’s too short, so I can not wait.
Take me now, ooh do not you say,
I can not get laid in Germany

Well seriously, no wonder this guy can’t get laid. You might have a bit of a problem finding a woman to sleep with you if you’re planning on murdering, cannabilising and raping her corpse. Does the phrase “Just a little bit” not eerily remind anyone else of hmm, something a rapist would say maybe? Words can not express just how creepy and fucked up the “lyrics” to this song are. I don’t even want to watch a video clip where the bands “characters” are described as:

…with porn names describing a wide assortment of fetishes (‘The Executive,’ ‘Mr. Pain,’ ‘The Cowboy,’ etc.), which the men indulge in extremely graphic ways. And when I say this looks exactly like a porno, I’m totally not exaggerating… it shows everything, right down to the money shots. Seriously.

From here, emphasis mine.

So once again we’re seeing this motif in porn of sexual acts as something you do to someone instead of do with someone. I can’t stand that shit. Reading those lyrics, as Nine Deuce so aptly put it, makes me feel like some dirty old man is licking my ear. Just replace Van Halen with Rammstein and you get my point. And the expressions ”meat gun” made me fucking wretch. What the fuck is up with all these references to sex being violent? Oh and that whole part where the presumed female is saying no? I take it back. This song is about rape. “Pussy” by Rammstein = about rape.

Mind you, this is all coming from a band that thinks women are like horses. Because you know, women being all animal and shit need d00ds to rape them fuck them to remind them of their place as animals and stop them from getting all antsy. Or someshit. I wish I could make this shit up.

The most annoying part about all of this is that I can’t even fucking check my e-mail without articles like this popping up and alerting me to the activities of exploitative, untalented, sexist and crass cretins.

NOT FUNNY

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have real metal to listen to. You know, like Otep, The Agonist, Iwrestledabearonce, Arch Enemy, Dracena, Kittie, Eths and the like. Those women would tear that band to shreds. Musically and literally.

Fuck you Rammstein, I hope the zombies get you.

Situation: Me and the MS fanboy were chatting about some random stuff and as usual were not in agreement.

MS Fanboy: Sucker !

me: Sure

Whatever gives you pleasure

MS Fanboy: Right now…closing this chat window

me: Be my guest

MS Fanboy: wtf !… u opened it again… biatch

me: Why don’t you try the “block” feature instead

MS Fanboy: Why don’t u just stop pinging me instead of suggesting alternatives

me: I will do what I wanna do shithead, you do what you can to avoid me

MS Fanboy: **sighs**

Arrogant Ppl !!

me: It is better to be arrogant rather than been an irrational sucker

MS Fanboy: Unfortunately… u r both !

me: As I said, whatever suits you

MS Fanboy has signed off.

(At this point, I was blocked)

PS0: The Internetz for the one who guesses the MS fanboy.

It would not be appropriate to be a writer and not have something to say on the 8th anniversary of the tragic events of September 11th.  What words are there to convey the immense destruction brought upon U.S. soil? 

Pissed off is my choice in words. 

Pissed that idiots could not put the pieces together ahead of time to prevent the attacks in the first place.  The Phoenix Memo clearly outlined unheeded warnings about Islamic terrorists training at US flight schools. http://www.thememoryhole.org/911/phoenix-memo/

Pissed that the US Justice Department’s Air Force Manual 10-100: Airman’s Manual, Aug 1999 version, and the manual “Managing Weapons of Mass Destruction Incidents: An Executive Level Program for Sheriffs” which taught local law enforcement how to deal with terrorist attacks were a failure.  In practicing for an event like 911; the simplest statement to issue- ”run” would have saved thousands.  Instead, they told people to stay in the buildings. 

Twice as pissed that The National Commission on Terrorist Attacks Upon the United States (also known as the 9-11 Commission) failed miserably to do its job.  http://www.9-11commission.gov/

“I don’t believe any longer that it’s a matter of connecting the dots. I think they had a veritable blueprint, and we want to know why they didn’t act on it.”— Senator Arlen Specter, a Republican member of the joint intelligence committee that investigated 9/11.

“Had one human being or a common group of human beings sat down with all that information, we could have gotten to the hijackers before they flew those four airplanes either into the World Trade Center, the Pentagon or the ground of Pennsylvania.”— Senator Bob Graham, then Chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence; Democratic co-chairman of the joint intelligence panel that investigated 9/11

image- http://profiles.yahoo.com/u/IEYTS24MTWATUTZHZGEE7I363Y

I am pissed that school’s do not teach what happened on 911 other than if you are lucky, on the day of September 11, 2001.  The twin towers poster should be hanging right next to the flag of The United States of America that the children face as they say The Pledge of Allegiance.  Look at it everyday and see the sacrifice. 

I am pissed that there was no order to fly flags at half mast today in honor and respect of the day.  President Obama ordered that “US flags fly at half-staff at the White House, all public buildings, all military posts, all naval vessels, and diplomatic outposts around the globe until sunset on Sunday to honor Senator Edward M. Kennedy.  http://www.boston.com/news/politics/politicalintelligence/2009/08/obama_orders_fl.html  He’s buried now, flags are back up. So is  my dander.

I am pissed that the media rarely shows the twin towers or any images from September 11.  Too gruesome?  Tuff shit. Play the 911 emergency phone calls, show the planes, play the image of the men and women jumping to their death.  Too inconvenient?  “Never forget – as long as it’s not too bothersome.” said,  Nick Monteleone in the New York Daily News.   

image by http://www.sharonpaz.com/

I am pissed that ground zero is still a concrete hole in the ground.  While lease holders argue about the name of the building, eight years later, not much has been done.  The NY Port Authority should have made it a park. Period.

I am pissed that no one has convinced me either way that there was, or wasn’t a conspiracy set up by President Bush, Dick Rumsfeld or someone else.  Charlie Sheen has gotten on the band wagon claiming, ” I recently had the pleasure of sitting down with our 44^th President of the United States of America, Barack Hussein Obama, while he was out promoting his health care reform initiative.” Focusing on the events of 9/11 and the subsequent investigation—http://www.infowars.com/twenty-minutes-with-the-president/

I am pissed that there is enough evidence that our tax dollars were spent on the C.I.A training Osama Bin Laden, Al Qaeda and the Taliban.  I am pissed at the war with Iraq and now Afghanistan.  Thousands of dead soldiers and civilians.  I know, it’s better to fight there than here- but get in, do your job, get out.  Don’t linger like a fly pestering a camel’s ass. 

I am pissed that our President saw fit to bow to a Saudi King.

I am pissed that while there can never be complete safety, that America’s borders remain wide open to illegal immigrants, drug dealers and terrorists alike.  

“A 2,000 mile state-of-the-art border fence has been estimated to cost between four and eight billion dollars. Costs for a wall that would run the entire length of the border might be as low as $851 million for a standard 10-foot prison chain link fence topped by razor wire. For another $362 million, the fence could be electrified. A larger 12-foot tall, two-foot-thick concrete wall painted on both sides would run about $2 billion. Initially it was estimated that the San Diego fence would cost $14 million — about $1 million a mile. The first 11 miles of the fence eventually cost $42 million — $3.8 million per mile, and the last 3.5 miles may cost even more since they cover more difficult terrain. An additional $35 million to complete the final 3.5 miles was approved in 2005 by the Department of Homeland Security — $10 million per mile.http://www.globalsecurity.org/security/systems/mexico-wall.htm 

It’s would be laughable if it weren’t true.  Sub the job out to a private contractor, create some fukcing jobs and keep our borders safe.

Top it all off, from National Geographic, “Many species, including the mountain lion, find prey and mates via migration corridors that cut through public lands along the 1,950-mile (3,138-kilometer) border. the International League of Conservation Photographers sent a team of world-renowned photographers, writers, and filmmakers to the borderlands as part of a Rapid Assessment Visual Expedition (RAVE), which took place between January 25 and February 17, 2009. They returned with thousands of images—some of them presented here http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2009/04/photogalleries/us-mexico-border-fence-wildlife/

Now I am really pissed.  Boo hoo for the poor cat that can’t come over the border.  Humpty Dumpty sat on a fence.  The photographers should be sentenced to sit there for the same amount of time documenting the human trafficking, drug trafficking, gun trafficking, and illegal entry of who knows potentially carrying either Swine Flu or some weapon of mass destruction.

Last thing, the thing that pissed me off the most.  I am pissed this day to be recognized as a National Day of Service and Remembrance .  How much of our money is going to be spent on taxpayer-funded grants for projects? 

You ought to be pissed off too. 

#####

You know, call me old-fashioned, or neurotic, or hysteric, or frigid or what-the-fuck-ever, but I still don’t think fucking someone so they remember to put the rubbish out is “empowering”, “liberating” or “good”. In fact, I think it’s nothing short of ri-god-damned-diculous and shocking. I mean, let’s be brutally honest here for a minute.
Q: What is the point of your miserable, moronic existance if you are ‘mature’ enough to have sex, but not mature enough to remember a simple (hygeine-based) take like, getting rid of all of your shitty and gross waste products?
A: Little to none.

Doesn’t this signal big red warning to anyone else?
Why is it that after a so-called sexual revolution women still feel they have to put out for finacial security and so they don’t get raped? This does not signify women being liberated, empowered, freed or any other bullshit that is usually made to say oh, we don’t really need feminism (those big dumb dykes!) or re-inforcing dangerous rape myths, telling young women (and young men) stupid, unbelievable, disenfranchising and disempowering fairy tales about how boy meets girl, boy fucks girl, boy marries girl, girl fucks boy to avoid being raped for the rest of her life. Or something like that.

Reasons why I don't have sex

From here

I think the statement that bothers me most on this list is that it’s easier than fighting. I mean, what the actual fuck? Does this not scream and spit rape to anyone?

12. If you don’t bother to ask her permission and she says neither “Yes” nor “No”, then you could be a rapist.

13. You are a rapist if you “nag” her for sex. Because you manage to ply an eventual “yes” from a weary victim doesn’t mean it’s not rape. You are a rapist.

14. You are a rapist if you try to circumvent her “No” by talking her into it. She’s not playing hard to get, and even if she IS, it’s not YOUR responsibility to “get” her. You are still a rapist.

From Biting Beaver’s Rapist Checklist

Okay, so we’re clear then. To me it still sounds like an alarming number of girls and women are forced, pressured, nagged or ’sold’ into fucking. Or they don’t say anything at all, which is just as fucking bad.

These are not the reasons that women have sex, as the authors of this spin might have you  believe, but it’s a reason of things women have to do avoid being raped. Am I the only person who finds this some seriously disturbing stuff? Finacial rewards isn’t a sign of a selfish motive either, you fucking morons, it’s a sign that after over one-hunderd years of actively pursuing womens rights, female human beings are in fact still getting the (very) bung end of the stick and that is not fucking good enough.