I’m getting to be in the “heavily tattooed” category, so when I was teaching, kids would always ask me, “Do tattoos hurt?”

“Of course they hurt! It’s needles jabbing you until you don’t feel it any more. But they also feel kind good–wait, you don’t understand that yet–you’re only fourteen….or…no, you probably do.” I knew about some kids who were already starting to cut on themselves (they’d tell me)–those were never the kids who asked since I’m pretty sure they made the connection. I’d be candid with kids in our one-on-ones. They knew I had depression. I knew which of them did too.  We were all practically adults here; sad, confused, adult-children.

While teaching sucked ass, at least the money was nice (says a person who has minimal bills). I used the extra cash for tattoos. It had been I could only get work done when I got money for my birthday or Xmas. I had never had extra funds for bullshit before and it was alright. Plus, I hated that school so much and cried more often than not while home that the three hour plus sessions on a holiday Monday felt nice.

Yes, I know it’s gross, but I think tattoos feel good. I used to be best friends with a cutter–I read all the books on her–I get it. I tried to cut once. Threw a picture frame across the room and put a shard of glass to my arm, but I couldn’t do it. It hurt, so I stopped. Like immediately. But if someone else is in control of things–I get it. The sensation is “big adrenaline,” a fearless, indestructible surge. I wonder if that’s how it feels to cutters. They say it’s to let the feelings out or to feel anything at all, but I wonder if it’s the same; a numb rush, almost a non-feeling. I love to be able to get a tattoo when I feel really depressed, but it almost never works out that way. It seems now that I’ve been getting them more often, with less time in between, the pain is starting to mean less. I don’t want to ruin what I have, my socially acceptable self-harm coping mechanism that comes with pretty pictures.


I’m Always Pissing People Off

Today I got kicked out of my (very small) city’s Facebook group after a bunch of angry women reprimanded me like a child.

I mistakenly had tried to start a conversation as a comment to a woman’s recommendation for a place to get your infant’s ears pierced cheaply and easily. I merely said “Or you can wait until the kid’s old enough…blah blah blah” never saying anything personal or “you’re a stupid asshole for doing this,” but these women still went APESHIT in a “don’t tell me how to raise my child” kind of way. I got my ears pierced when I was 8 years old because my mother thinks it’s cruel to pierce an infant’s ears and I agree.

Trying to explain myself only made things worse. I went temporarily blind when some bitch in the group started a post to me with, “Look, you’re new here, so…” as I had just recently joined the group, though have lived in the city forever. These were 40 something bullies who couldn’t understand the notion of an alternative viewpoint. Bitches must’ve never taken debate.

So, they kicked me out of the group.  Good thing they didn’t know I have no children!

Kinda felt like the time my high school French teacher told me I “wasn’t really (school’s name) material.”

I guess I have a habit of pissing people off. Many years ago, my aunt sent me a chain letter bashing Muslims. Well, her sister married a man from Iran, from which they produced 3 children, her nieces and nephew, my siblings. Yet, when I pointed this out to her and asked why she would send that to me when my family, her family, is of Muslim descent, I ended up being the one in the wrong and am the reason she doesn’t talk to my family any longer.

I had several of these old shitty friends or boyfriends who, upon me asking for my belongings back at the end of a relationship, would inevitably either destroy them or make a huge deal about how petty I was wanting my things back. How dare I? Well, here’s every other thing back that you ever gave me because we live in a soap opera full of crafted trash.

When I got married, there was this one time my in-laws were staying with us for way too long and on the very last day of their visit, I lost my patience when his dad starting saying something racist. I said something and he responded to me with “You are wrong!” in a bellowing voice, like my father, in my own home. I went inside and did not see them off. The next day, I wrote his mom a letter to explain my feelings about the situation and what had happened. Now his parents hate me. And then they had to find out we were already married! Eloped in Vegas, just like she told us not to. Oh, and we’re not having children. So much hatred now.

Finally, when my Gramma died in 2016 and my 3 cousins could actually live with themselves to say nothing to their grandfather about his wife dying, I wrote them a letter. It was mainly addressed to my one cousin who is 5 months older than me, but as the eldest, she has a certain responsibility. I told them how shitty it was of them and how they’re shitty family anyway. They ran and told their mommy on me (aunt from prior story).

Other aunt, “Oh, you shouldn’t have done that.”

I’m an adult. They’re adults. I can do whatever I want. Eat my butt.

Now, I tell everyone when they piss me off. “Fuck you, and here’s why…”

I do it matter of factly. Here is why you suck. This is what you did. This is how I feel. Like a robot.

And here is why I have no friends.

But when I had friends, I was a pushover, piece of shit, doormat who everyone used.

Quite the conundrum.


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