Posts Tagged ‘rants’

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Friday, August 18th, 2017

I’ve been observably manic since last week, and my appointment with my social worker was canceled this week. I’ve fallen into the online social justice trap after a successful march on Sunday where I stepped into the opportunity to utilize my skills and street medic, expecting that I would have the aftercare of a therapy session the next day. So often, these small victories in actionable social justice incite me to return to old habits and guilt fueled hubris if I don’t take care of myself properly. I tell myself I cannot stop, because it feels righteous. I tell myself I cannot take a break, because those below me in oppression hierarchy cannot take one. I note others moments of rhetoric to convince myself that no one I am fighting for has any respite, no one I am fighting for ever takes a bath, or a meal, or laughs about the good things in life with friends. With dwindling reserves and increased isolation I maneuver traumatizing, triggering subject matter and personal pain for The Cause, whichever flag it is I wave at that moment, with an unspoken urgency that I must do it all myself, that I must be the one to stand loud and naked and public and brave and triggered, and that what little I am doing by putting myself through these things in the gaze and at the mercy of others matters more than it does. My nearly-lifelong addiction to social media is insidious, and once again I face the maddening dichotomy of what fuels this addiction, so I can dig in my heels and stop before the tide turns, and I find myself latched to 1’s and 0’s when I crash, to once again find I am alone, in the dark, and in real fucking trouble.

I don’t rant on here much anymore…

Monday, June 6th, 2016

But here’s a gif to remember me by.

https://media.giphy.com/media/l41YecXPPEdGazmWk/giphy.gif

FuckYouDelete

Friday, January 16th, 2015

It’s become so amazing to me how much commonly-accepted forms of dialogue are just flat out silencing, erasing, entitled fucking bullshit.

Not long ago I would feel ‘irrationally’ slighted over it, and blame my ‘damage’ for my ‘sensitivity’ and wonder what was wrong with me.

Fuck that noise. I ain’t internalizing that manipulative crap anymore.

“Grow some balls and smile” while I systematically minimize and belittle you, little girl… unless of course I am appreciating how hot I think you are. FuckYouDelete

“Feel free to delete this patronizing, uninformed comment” that I as a complete stranger have left on your accessible facebook post about feminism, which I see as my right as an entitled white guy rather than a courtesy you offer. (I did).

“Notice now how I’m coming in here to point out something completely irrelevant which paints you as a naive overemotional idiot so I can talk about this thing I think is more important. Also I didn’t read the article this conversation is linked to” FuckYouDelete

Y’all. These are just some of the silencing, minimizing tactics used on me this week. It’s rather incredible how utterly common this shit is. But in particular, here’s my thing lately:

“You should be helping more caustic abusive men because they’re just wounded, not calling out the privilege and misogynist sexism which keeps them from seeking help for themselves in the first place”. Mmmm. Right.

I have a soft spot for these privileged, wounded geek males who are whining about how mean girls are being to them by insisting they wake the fuck up and level the playing field by, I dunno — unlearning their ridiculous fucking programing and not treating women like subservient magic objects that are supposed to make your life worth living for you, maybe.

I grew up with them, and in a lot of cases, they’re still basically exactly where they were back then, stuck in their same old patterns, which basically look like: ‘your poontang would save me if you’d just give it up more/differently/better/easier/whatthefuckever’ or ‘your poontang scares me’ plus ‘and that’s your fault somehow’, even though I’m so immature and emotionally stunted all I really have to consistently offer is paying for shit and standing around impotently when life hits the fan and you actually need real loving support and some fucking backup.

Hearing their tales of misguided blame and agony is sad. Even though 5000 years of women being treated as livestock and sexual property is immensely sadder than the plight of these nerdlords who still think they’re being oppressed by society into the bowels of their parents basements, I recognize that they are fucking trapped, and I’m all about doing what I can, safely, and within my scope of skills and ability, to combat the consequences of the capitalist patriarchal conditioning that’s causing these guys (and ME) so much pain.

AND: It is not feminisms, or women’s, job, to heal the men who make feminism needed right now. It is the job of feminism to work toward equity by raising up and supporting the people who are systematically beat down by the existing structure of inequality (women: US. WOMEN.), and to point out how the privilege of that structure is hindering the powerful from healing themselves (and one another) so they can address the power dynamic they perpetuate among themselves.

The idea that a feminist should shift to focusing on healing men is simply another symptom of the patriarchal ideal that women are supposed to sit around taking this shit and ultimately focus their efforts on feeling Stockholm syndrome for, and going out of their way to ‘help’, their oppressors.

And most importantly; no one, woman or otherwise, can help a person who doesn’t want help. No woman with any sense of self preservation will willingly engage in ‘trying’ to heal a person who a) hates them and b) isn’t asking for help.

“An overwhelming majority of us come from dysfunctional families in which we were taught we were not okay, where we were shamed, verbally and/or physically abused, and emotionally neglected even as we were also taught to believe that we were loved. For most folks it is just too threatening to embrace a definition of love that would no longer enable us to see love as present in our families. Too many of us need to cling to a notion of love that either makes abuse acceptable or at least makes it seem that whatever happened was not that bad.”
—All About Love: New Visions by bell hooks

What men are suffering from is the same fucking childhood traumas we all suffer from PLUS the dark side of their supremacist status in patriarchy. I truly hope you break free some day. To do that, ‘men’ need to step up to the plate to heal themselves, and then one another. Men need to learn how to do that, rather than insisting that the ‘women’ they benefit from collectively (and often subconsciously) erasing and raping and blaming step up to help them fucking do their god damn work for them.

pa·tri·arch·y
ˈpātrēˌärkē
noun
a system of society or government in which men hold the power and women are largely excluded from it.

The nature of this sad state of affairs that none of us signed up for is: This is your fucking supremacist shitshow. Without your active engagement as the empowered group, we all stay fucked in this soup of fuckary. You are the ones who need to use YOUR fucking resources to pull your shit together and then help US pull this bullshit paradigm apart. Use the fucking money you’re making to get some fucking therapy, use the power your voice inherently has to influence others as you learn, stop trying to suck your healing from us for free using your fucking sideways patriarchal shitbaggary against us. Grow some fucking integrity.

If you want help to heal, I will fucking walk with you through burning pillars of dog shit to do it. I will bare compassionate witness with you through your patterns worst petty death throes. I will stand firm while I get hit with the ripples of your previously unfelt agony. I will hold a safe, intentional container for you while you lose your fucking mind and everything you thought you knew about yourself dissolves into a shadow. I will teach you every fucking thing I know about overcoming that shadow. I will fucking remind you over and over again how brave and powerful and strong and viable and good you are even when you make mistakes. And I will call you on those mistakes so that we can work together to ensure you have what you need to do better next time. I will blow your fucking mind by being the best teacher and champion you’ve ever had, if you want (and pay) me to do that for you. To HELP you, support you, guide you, as YOU make the effort to work through YOUR OWN fucking shit.

What I will not do is cater to those who presume I should spend even one more moment of my life martyring myself for stubborn, privileged men who deeply, profoundly, subconsciously fucking hate me AND WANT TO KEEP HATING ME.

What I will not do is ever, ever be in an intimate relationship, professional or otherwise, with another person like that, ever, the fuck, again.

What I will not do is spend another fucking moment of my life making the pain of wounded manchildren with their fingers dug into their fucking ears more important than the devastating impact their sickness has on me.

What I will not do is pretend that these unwoke guys don’t sit on thrones with fistfulls of cake while insisting that women set aside their fight for their own sovereignty and female equality to bring them fuckers more fucking cake. Often so that said cake can be thrown back in our pretty painted faces for us not being capable of magically chewing it and swallowing it for them, as well.

What I will not fucking do is spend even another second of my life ‘trying’ to do your fucking work for you so you can sit around fat and happy and fucking ignorant, syphoning the energy I generate.

If going back to doing any of that is what it is you think I am good for, if that’s what you think I should be doing with my life and my work and my social justice efforts: FUCK YOU.

Truly. Fucking fuck you. I been through way too much growing and pain and subversive fucking abuse to fuck around with y’all. Not even a little. Block, delete, go fuck yourself, byebye.

Dear slimy guys

Wednesday, April 23rd, 2014

Dear all y’all slimy guys,

Hi, slimy guys. How the hell are ya. How’s that closet today.

I happen to know that, in addition to being slimy (shhh, don’t tell on us), y’all have a lot of other traits, too. Like being smart, and funny, and loyal, and other stuff. I know that deep down, you wanna think you’re a nice, respectful person that other people like just because of those traits.

And mostly, you are (nice and respectful and liked for just those traits)!

Here’s the thing, though; You know you’re still slimy even with all that.

You know that cheating is violating and fuckder than fuck.

You know that penetrating people who are excessively drunk or otherwise vulnerable to you without previous clear-headed not-vulnerable consent is super shitty.

You know that pressuring someone every single time you have pre-negotiated sex about not needing the condom they include as part of their boundaries because you ‘got tested’ months ago is disrespectful as fuck.

You know that whining shit like a 5 year old when you don’t get the sex you were expecting is fucking creepy. And gross.

You know that trying to convince someone to fuck you who is unsure about sex with you is pressuring and coercing them. Bonus if you’re pretty sure they were a virgin before you forced your ‘snake’ in her!

You know that fucking someone when they’re unconscious is not ok (also rape. Just sayin.).

You know that throwing a tantrum when someone doesn’t want to let you tie them up/shit on them/blow their dog is un-fuckin-cooth.

You know that withholding basic safer sex information like, say, switching to unprotected sex with another partner without bothering to mention it for months, is fucking shady and god damn near unforgivable.

You know that holding people, who have already come forward with you privately over their concerns for your behavior, to the polite social standard of ignoring or lying or otherwise deflecting your accusatory “Do you think I behave like a creep?!?!?!?!” is manipulative invalidating bullshit #andalsogaslighting #emotionalabuse

(in case you need them, here are some rapey definitions to go along with your rape guidelines. mmkay.)

MMm but do you ever make my dick hard.

Deep down, if not completely, you fucking know it, slimes. And so does anyone else who’s paying attention. It reaks out of every fucking pore you’ve got whenever you enter a room scanning for anyone you think might fuck you. When you creepily try to rub that girls (whose sitting in another guys lap) feet while muttering to yourself after we just played our first and only show together after you raped me.

And deep down, you also know, that not being able to keep your dick in check is not only your personal failing, it perpetuates the devastating dehumanizing notion that even good men, good men like you, are fucking knuckle dragging Neanderthals hopelessly harnessed by their cocks, in upright human clothing.

I’m sure that knowledge is really crushing and awful and that’s part of the reason y’all tend to be so insecure, emotionally vacant and socially awkward. That any moment the slime might bubble up out of your collar and commandeer your brain at any moment, god, what confinement.

I’ve been the slimed out sexual predator type person myself in my fucked up abusive past, so while I don’t know exactly how you feel, I do have sort of an idea, from the perspective of someone who wasn’t born into your world, but who adopted it seamlessly first to survive, and then to get ahead.

I know all too well how shitty it felt to be 20-something me, trying to hide and deny that sex was my pathological, psychological warfare, while attempting to fill the massive spiritual hole I had in me (perpetuated, in part, by my continual sliminess). All with misappropriated sexual validation sought out via that sliminess with people I, frankly, often didn’t even fucking like.

It was extra super hard to hold all that bullshit up while I was in therapy and researching/executing various coping methods, you know, actually working out my fucking shit and learning how to value myself. *nudge*nudge*

Maybe that’s why I’ve historically given slimy guys like you so, so much leeway. Aww. He’s 40 and still doesn’t get this stuff; God, poor him. He’s still working hard to believe he’s not being a slimeball to me right now. Poor guy, jesus, he’s so confused, adrift, in need of help.

But see, here’s the thing, slimypoo (MMmhhh). The thing that makes this all the more awful for anyone who ends up in an intimate agreement with you, you lucky. fucking. bastards. You ready for it? You sure?

It’s the fact that you try to make the people who are trusting in you – giving you the benefit of the doubt, letting you fuck up and violate them and corrode their trust over and over again while you say you’ll do better but are actually keeping your fucking head firmly planted up your ass so you can keep believing you’re not actually being fucking slimy like me – responsible for assuring you that you are, in fact, not what you are being. Which is, let me tell you again takes one to know one; slimy.

Every single creepfest flag-raising boundary-pushing fucking disrespectful asshole I’ve come across in my extensive sexual life has one absolute thing in common: They want validation from from me, the femme they creeped out, violated, invaded; when they know they’ve seriously fucked up.

It’s always about how bad they feel, how helpless they are because the bad feelings, how overwhelming even the thought of accountability is.

It’s always how much they say they want to be there for me while I process their fucking transgressions, while having no experience or skills to serve as such to themselves letalone anyone else (cue bad memories of my own transgressions: I’m sorry I was such a shitty wife, Rob).

It’s always: Selfish self serving fake non-apologies that maintain that they are not slimy “I messed up! I got the feels sooo bad!! SOOO BAD! Would a slimy guy feel THIS BAD??!”

It’s always: Focus on how they’d like the effect of their cause to go “Don’t mind me, I’m just compulsively violating your boundaries AGAIN to contact you after you told me to leave you alone to tell you I wanna be friends still and I respect you enough to encourage you to take all the time you need to come to the conclusion I want to be friends still and I don’t even need SEX to offer this, sugarpuss! God, your pussy tho..”.

It’s always: “I did a bad thing, but I [insert fishing for validation comment here | expression of how they’d really like the conflict to end in their favor here | proclamation that they don’t deserve the fallout bestowed here]”.

If they DO say in mouthwords that it won’t happen again, count your lucky fucking stars for that small respite, they don’t say how or why, and eventually, it does fucking happen again. (keep an eye on this one, ladies – they’re slippery, and they’re the ones that might MIGHT MIGHT MIGHT eventually unslime themselves, but probably not ever… with you.)

They’re always so worried that they might lose my friendship, that I might think that maybe they’re a fucking slimeball, that maybe their (sometimes years) of frequent disrespect and idiocy might finally have some kind of repercussion for them that doesn’t just involve me grimacing painfully for their plight, holding their hand and telling them it’s ok.

They continue to hang onto their sliminess, and continue to move through life thinking that’s not what they are being, because it fucking works.

Because people like me help them make it work.

And because, ladies who are nodding and laughing and crying all at once right now, they bank on their niceness outweighing YOUR truth when they prioritize their satisfaction over your well being.

See here’s the bottom line, slimes; I’m not gonna keep taking this on for you guys.

I’m not gonna keep offering you my insights and suggestions on how you might maybe come off as less of a creep to people in response to you fucking ME over with your fucked up sideways self involved rapeyass bullshit.

I’m not gonna keep setting you up with other women thinking that maybe I’m just too sensitive and am taking all your slimy shit the wrong way and you just need someone hotter/sluttier/stupider/more desperate than me. HELLO FUCKING INTERNALIZED MISOGYNY: WOW.

I’m not gonna keep mentioning therapy, suggesting educational resources, mentioning therapy, getting over your violations, mentioning therapy, sucking your dick, mentioning therapy, making up with you, mentioning therapy, while you sit on your fucking ass and do nothing for yourself to progress as a fucking human being and either wear proudly, or fucking dump the slime act.

I’m not gonna keep telling you it’s ok, you’re just dense, or scared, or lonely, or uneducated, or inexperienced, or immature, after the 7th fucking ‘respect 101’ rule you’ve broken via your undeserved access to my fuck canal.

I am not going to keep fucking you. Not with rules, not with protection, not with bribes, not with a thousand Cillian Murphy face Batman Begins castings bukkakeing all over my heaving chest; not no way, not no how.

In fact, Slimy McSlimersons In Perpetual Denial; I think I’m done giving anyone who even marginally smells like one of you a remote chance in fucking hell of ever blazing my trail at all, ever, ever, ever ever EVER.

EVER.

AGAIN.

After nearly three decades of collecting slimy stories, I’ve paid my dues for my previous slimeball life. And honestly? Cutting your kind out of my sex life is the compassionate thing to do. I have learned beyond a shadow from living both sides that unsliming is something you accomplish by knowing and healing yourself to the point that your honor outweighs your need to validate yourself through sex and violating boundaries, not by fucking clawing your way into any chance you can to practice make-up sex on other people.

I truly hope y’all figure your shit out and learn to either stop or properly represent the fact that you behave the way you do.

I, for my part, am fucking fed up with dealing with this, through punishing myself for having ever been like you are, and, frankly, I am up to way too much fucking awesome to put myself at risk so slimes in denial can maybe someday behave like better fucking people one day in the future for probably four girlfriends down the line from where I am.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for a 5-year shower and a gallon lysol douche, and to start the first day of my new life; where I stop pretending rape isn’t fucking rape, and cease the narration that you ever even came close to deserving me.

SIN-GODDAMNFUCKING-CERELY,
-nee (former self involved slime ball rapist)

(note: This entry should really just say people, since this is an issue for all gender identities including nonbinary. ‘guys’ rang better, and having identified for most of my life as a straight female my experience is with them was specific. Also; this is a rant, and I don’t give a fuck if you’re offended by it. SG sympathizers tha fuck outa here.)

Chilling. Accurate. Infuriating.

Sunday, June 16th, 2013

http://www.vice.com/read/filthy-lucre

When you fly Virgin Upper Class out of Heathrow, you go through a separate set of airport security.

With a ticket that costs $4,000 round-trip, you swipe your boarding pass, go up a sleek private elevator, and pass through security and passport control that is delighted to see you. “Lovely suitcase,” they coo. You’re whisked away to the Virgin Clubhouse, with its free facials and single-malt scotch. Except briefly, you never interact with the airport’s general population.

Some months ago, I got to fly first-class from London. Until then, I’d never realized it wasn’t just a recliner in the plane and some cheap bubbly, but rather a separate sphere of being. In first-class, you weren’t groped or barked at or treated like a combination of a terrorist and a cow. Instead, paid servants pretended your presence was a gift.

After years of work trips crammed in coach, being forced to show my underwear to the TSA, I felt like a guttersnipe in a palace. I loved it, but it was also deeply strange. “These people don’t really like me,” I thought, no matter how skillfully they acted like they did.

Until you see it, you never realize how separate the sphere of the rich is from that of everyone else.

I came from a middle-class, divorced home. As is typical, the upper-middle-class end of the split went to my dad, and the lower-middle-class to my mom. Like most people trying to make it in an impractical profession, I spent years living in rat-infested tenements with roommates who threatened to kill me in my sleep.

Unlike most artists, I started to make money. Not 1 percent money, but more than my mom ever dreamed of. Once I did, I started to realize how broken the idea of American meritocracy was.

Meritocracy is America’s foundational myth. If you work hard, society tells us, you’ll earn your place in the middle class. But any strawberry picker knows hard work alone is a fast road to nowhere. Similarly, we place our faith in education. Study, and the upper-middle class will be yours. Except the average student graduates $35,000 in debt.

Artists too have their myths. The lies told to artists mirror the lies told to women. Be good enough, be pretty enough, and that guy or gallery will sweep you off your feet, to the picket-fenced land of generous collectors and two and a half kids. But, make the first move, seize your destiny, and you’re a whore.

But neither hard work nor talent nor education are passports to success. At best, they’re small bits of the puzzle.

A fine artist, (successful, credential-festooned, with inherited money), told me that I was too focused on commerce to be an artist. A real artist endured poverty. Being poor was edifying, filled with moral uplift. I spent weeks in a murderous rage.

I’ve never been poor. I have always had the safety net of loving, middle-class parents. But what he said brought me back to me at 20, feverish and propped up against a subway pillar days after an abortion, on my way to a naked-girl job that I thought would get me raped.

What the artist was pretending he didn’t know is that money is the passport to success. You claw a few bucks and use those to get more cash, while never growing ill or vulnerable, never caring for a child or sick parent, never letting your place slip on that greasy pole.

For my friends and I who fought our way to moderate financial success, money came from transgressing society’s norms. It might have been fucking rich dude after rich dude you met on Seeking Arrangements. It might have been stabbing your stomach each morning with a syringe of hormones, in order to sell your genetically desirable eggs. With much luck, it required doing the ambitious work everyone said you weren’t ready for, then getting mocked and rejected for it, until, slowly, the wall began to crack. You could never do what you were supposed to, never stay quietly in your place.

My friends who came closest to attaining the American Dream did it by breaking the rules on how to get there. The standard plan—college to secure job to home you own—was either unattainable or a path to the American debt nightmare.

Those with money usually think they deserve it. But most people who make the world run—who care for kids, who grow food, who would rebuild after natural disasters and societal collapse—will never be rich, no matter how hard or well they work, because society is constructed with only so much room on top.

Once, I met with a man who runs an idea festival. He was a great admirer of businessmen who became Buddhist monks. “I don’t like protest,” the man told me. “It’s too much about ego. Ego is the problem with America.”

I thought of the workers busting their backs lifting boxes at warehouses, while an electronic tracker yelled at them to work faster. Are their egos too big?

So much of the difference between the experiences of rich and poor comes down to kindness. Kindness is scarce. Kindness must be bought.

If you have money, you can pay to live in a bubble of politesse. Excellent wine choice, sir. Here’s your gift bag, madam. Often, you don’t have to pay for it. The mere promise that you might will keep you sipping prosecco and deserving of servile attentions. Soon, you think this treatment is earned.

Meanwhile, we treat the poor with casual cruelty. Single moms on welfare have their homes searched by police to make sure they’re not hiding a man in the closet. But it’s too much to ask bankers to justify the bonuses they sucked off the public teat. The poor get stop-and-frisk, drug tests, and constant distrust.

Newt Gingrich, whose idea of hard work is refraining from cheating on his wife, suggested that poor kids learn work ethic by working as unpaid school janitors. Rich children’s work ethic is presumably absorbed in utero.

I told the festival coordinator that we needed a radical redistribution of senses of entitlement.

My own sense of entitlement served me well. I got my first job at a candy store when I was 14. I worked in the stockroom. I would open a box, take out a smaller box, put a rubber band around the smaller box, and put it back inside the big one. I lasted two days. This job, I remember thinking, does not make use of my intellectual abilities. When I did need work, I went straight into the naked-girl industry. Honest employment was a treadmill. It’s extreme privilege to believe your life is too valuable to waste.

Every dollar I clawed, whether it was from modeling or an early gig drawing cocks for Playgirl, served to amplify my advantages. Art is sometimes seen as gnostic freedom. But being an artist means you’re in thrall to cash.

My last art show would have been impossible without the money and network of contacts I’d built. I never could have hauled massive slabs of wood up to my old fifth-floor walk-up—never could have painted them in the lightless room I once shared with three roommates. Without an assistant, I never would have had the time to paint my show. Without sponsorships, I never could have afforded the paint. Sometimes, curators look at the work, and say, “Why didn’t you ever paint like that before?” I’d answer, “Because no one gave me enough money to be able to.”

A decade of practice honed my talent. But cash let me express it. To pretend otherwise is to spit in the face of every broke genius who can’t afford materials or time. It’s to say I got here because I’m better than them.

I am good. But it’s never just about that.

An artist, like an activist, is expected to financially hobble herself. Purity is as important as survival. There’s a constant criticism for earning “too much.” But as we slash the social safety net, once basic things—a home, college, a dignified old age—become mirages. It’s near impossible to live the average American dream on the average American salary.

Not talking about money is a tool of class war. A culture that forbids employees from comparing salaries helps companies pay women and minorities less. Ignoring the mercenary grit behind success leads to quasi-religious abundance gurus claiming you can visualize your way to wealth.

Even we successful artists do it. It’s easy to ignore luck, privilege, and bloody social climbing when you stand onstage in a pair of combat boots. It’s easy to say that if people are just good enough, work hard enough, ask enough, believe enough, they will be like us.

But it’s a lie. Winning does not scale. We may be free beings, but we are constrained by an economic system rigged against us. What ladders we have are being yanked away. Some of us will succeed. The possibility of success is used to call the majority of people failures.

Celebrate beating a treacherous system. But remember, there is no god handing out rewards to the most deserving. Don’t pretend that everyone can win.

@MollyCrabapple

I don’t want to play.

Thursday, May 9th, 2013

Everywhere I turn and look
Someone around is telling me
How the only way to keep good relationships
is to be playful
And the only way to be a real woman
is to not care about being sexy

Everywhere I turn and look
Someone around is telling me
That the only way to make money from my art is
to spend every waking minute of my life
pouring my soul into the laps of strangers and
asking them for handouts

Everywhere I turn and look
Someone around is telling me
How the only way to be good for the people around me
is to think positively always
And the only way to salvation
is fucking love
love
love.

Fuck love.

I don’t want to be playful.
I want to fucking screamcry
like an angry
raging baby and
slam my door
in your smiling fuckass face.

I don’t want to have to overcome
being fat
or haggard
or missing a fucking limb
so you can see I’m a worthwhile
deep person
because I have a fucking persecuted vagina
that men want but are afraid of
and I know
how to put on eyeliner

I don’t want to pretend
that I’m not a fucking introvert
who wants to be paid first
and loved later
for my god damn
soul sucking
work

I don’t want to pretend
that the first thing I see
when someone tells me a lie
or fucking hurts me
is their god damn good intentions

Fuck your good intentions.

I don’t want to pretend
that love is the be all
end all
of what life is about

Even if
that means
you’ll find someone else
to play with.

Tuesday, April 9th, 2013

They can’t all be masterpieces.

Funny what you forget

Thursday, August 23rd, 2012

I recall having about 28,000 profile views and hundreds of streams on each of my songs when I deleted my music Myspace account a few years ago — which I think is pretty notable for a completely self made shut-in artist.

Even earlier, I’d had a notable following through mp3.com and had considered getting on iTunes when it surfaced in the wake of mp3.com’s implosion. At the time, I wanted to remaster and re-record Point of Origin before doing that, and it just never happened.

Then came Pandora, and I was excited to submit my work — only to have them say, we love it, but we won’t take it unless you’re on iTunes! Now, Pandora accepts a fraction of the music that’s submitted to them.

It feels like I missed the boat. There’s a lot more going on in digital music now than there was 10 years ago, and I’m having a hard time imagining how anyone is going to FIND me, let alone be enticed to actually BUY me.

Interestingly, while I’ve been going through this long, tedious process of rebuilding my musical presence online in preparation for having an album to sell, I’ve occasionally wondered why I walked away from it all in the first place.

One name reminded me why I lost interest in trying to find a way: Snocap. Snocap was the company Myspace partnered with to build them up to be more like what mp3.com had been and less like the festering network of drama now affectionately called “social networking”.

After extended hesitation and research, Snocap was where I turned after mp3.com went away. I was never paid a fucking cent they owed me, which had risen to hundreds of dollars before I finally disabled the account to stop people from buying my music from them. I emailed them for over a year, and never received a response.

It was almost as if my fears surrounding record contracts and music labels and being concerned about being exploited or fucked over by the music industry had found a way to penetrate my shell of staying choosy and small and quiet online.

After that, I pretty much stopped trying to make money with my music unless it involved paying me directly from a source I had created, like my website. So fuck you in the cornhole, Snocap. I’ve decided you’re the reason I feel so far behind right now.

The flip side

Friday, April 20th, 2012

http://journal.neevita.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/04/its-friday-fuck-this-shit-50x35.jpg 50w, http://journal.neevita.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/04/its-friday-fuck-this-shit-400x280.jpg 400w" sizes="(max-width: 420px) 100vw, 420px" />I never really did get how I could be talented at music with it being a math-based language, and lately, I just really wonder how I ever managed to convince anyone IN THE WHOLE ENTIRE WORLD that I’ve ever had any fucking idea what I was doing.

I tried reading through my first 3/4 timed song the other day, and I fucking hate the living god damn shit out of it. Stupid fuckhead song. Pop goes the fucking weasel. Do you have any idea how fucking discouraging and demasculating and fucking embarrassingly STUPID it feels to be bested by a FUCKING NURSERY RHYME?

Yeah I’ll pop your fucking weasel, you little smugly cuntfart. FUCK YOU and FUCK your stupid fucking ancient inbred fucking jackass language up its snot-packed dickhole. WHO THE FUCK THOUGHT OF THIS STUPID SHIT? Whoever it was I’m glad you’re FUCKING DEAD.

Tuesday, March 27th, 2012

Does calabrese taste like wet dog hair to anyone else? Ugh. Who voluntarily eats this shit? *spits out*

Wednesday, March 21st, 2012

If I go with the last.. oh, solid month or so, and smatterings before that — Apparently, rehearsal is over when, while troubleshooting one brand of technology, another fails, and I scream multiple cuss words and throw things while storming out of the room.

Sunday, March 11th, 2012

When I suddenly throw all my electronic music equipment in the fucking sound and dedicate my musical existence to playing a fucking kazoo and a tan can, know that it was due to having spent more fucking time troubleshooting my god damn fucking gear than ever making or performing fucking music. Fucking fuck technology square in its fucking starfish.