I Dare You


___

No, you can tell ’em all now
I don’t back up, I don’t back down
I don’t fold up, and I don’t bow
I don’t roll over, don’t know how
I don’t care where the enemies are
Can’t be stopped, all I know; go hard
Won’t forget how I got this far

___

There’s a whole world out there that tells you you aren’t good enough.

It tells you that who you are is wrong. A moral stain on the goodness of a thousand bloody empires stacked on each other, bleeding down to the thirsty, meandering zombies asking for one more chance.

The voice of these priests of chivalry come in many costumes. They walk among you, pointing fingers, digging nails deep into you from the furthest stranger to current lover. You can feel it. The shadows crawl into your skin, under your muscles and into your very spirit. The smile you give is false. Beneath the teeth is shaking anxiety.

Am I good? Am I good enough? Why are these people looking at me? Did I say something wrong?

Who are these voices?

They are the universe showing you what not to do. Paths of folly, quantum physics made physical and given consciousness.

I had my voice. Ariel was that voice. A screeching, pathetic, ill speaker broken on delusion. Aside from the holidays and being sick, my last month has been wrought with dealing with what this stalker was saying to me. I let it in and it dug deep.

And it failed.

She called me names. Rapist. Abuser. Unwanted. Harassed me with text messages. Attacked my self-image and self-worth. The things I told her when I thought she was worthy of my life’s story were bullets in her manic depressive volley. Tired and weak, she struck, and I felt so angry, so lost, that this busted cunt was in my head. And she could get away with it. Already arrested and released. Already put away, let go and given no help by the grand mental health apparatus of Ontario. If I walked into a police station and show them text messages, what would they do they hadn’t already done?

“Change your number,” someone said to me when I told them the story. “Ignore her and she’ll go away.”

don’t come to Taps or youll get beat up lol, she sent to me last night.

Ignorance is not bliss, at least not to those still stuck in reality. The delusional ill… well…

The only thing left was to give up.

Give up caring. Give up doubting. Give up the very last vestiges of every stupid, childish, weak thought that stopped me from doing what I want. What is left after rock bottom? Nothing, but up. Every step until you see yourself in the oasis’s pond, drinking up sun.

This lost female soul in the crack of a modern nation dared me to change.

Much to her chagrin, I changed. And when her obsessive eyes reads this… who cares? Fuck her. Fuck any woman who thinks she can “make you better”, to put it simply

I dare you to change. I waited for a manic depressive stalker to force me in to the corner. Bad idea. I let myself destroy my gains. Don’t let that happen to you.

Don’t wait. Don’t stop. Aim for perfection. There isn’t any other choice.

___

On a side note, I’ll be making several improvements to the blog over the next few weeks. Look out for them.

Advertisements

New Year’s Eve, Part 3

Sometime during the second or third episode of How I Met Your Mother, those left in the recliners look up and hear the banging of a bed. Nobody reacts. Somebody was getting some this night and it was the ginger. Good for him. In my mind, though, I fell from strength. I had several thoughts: fuck him. Whore. I deserve some fun. Fuck this. I was angry. I hated this. But, soon it passed. Weakness, gone.

People began to pass out, then wake up, change the episode, and fall back asleep. The thumping stopped and soon the feminist came down, sullen look on her face. Walking slowly. She slides on to the couch with a young looking, large guy, who takes her into his arms. She begins to babble.

“I’m not angry,” she went on. The poor soul held her tighter, her legs still twitching.

Whispers. More whispers. Then…

“I’m not possessive, but I’m a little angry,”

“That’s because you’re territorial,” I said, rolling my head back. It felt heavy.

“I’m not territorial,” she spat.

“Yes, you are, its natural,” I started to laugh. Bless the dark arts I wasn’t the poor boy next to her, holding a freshly fucked body pining for the bed she just came from.

I heard a scoff as my eyes closed and then silence except for the television and its laugh track. She mumbles more. I, in fits of waking up between dreams, look to the lowly midnight couple.

When I awoke in the morning, the morning with a sun and sky and light that is, I looked down upon the sweet cuddle lovers. His shirt off. Her face alight with the smug satisfaction of male attention. I was still drunk enough to laugh again, then just lay there doing my damnedest not to get up.

On the way home, my sister driving due to my hangover, she mentioned that the chubby and the feminist were fuck buddies of the ginger. It made all sense now. Why they vanished on a whim, together. Why the ginger had one after the other. Smart man, to bring fuck buddies to a New Year’s Eve party. And it made the poor boy’s snuggle time with the whore feminist all that more pathetic. She’d fucked him before. She came down, knowing who was next, and in her drunken connection with her emotions, threw herself on the willing chump. Horrid.

It put a small fire in me. Something got a little steelier after witnessing such blatant acts of disrespect by a woman. Not something idealized. Something attached by rivets and made armor. After the full recovery the next day, my pack of smokes not yet finished, I thought on the feelings and smiled. I felt superior, vastly superior. I felt as if a soldier of the wars between the sexes. I landed my blows, I laughed in the face of female logic and refused, in the end, to placate the whims of their cunts.

It was a good New Year’s.