Fat Bottom Girl Said What

When my ass talks, people listen.

Archive for the month “May, 2016”

What Lies Within Us

What is the flaw within us

that doesn’t believe we are good enough

for good love

Why is it easier to accept

the love

which isn’t really love

but merely sickness masquerading

We give them the benefit of the doubt

because we believe

we can see the possibilities inside them

of which there are none

and even if there were potential

it’s not up to us to nurture them

Brother of mine

do not make the same mistakes I have made

it will not get better

but only worse every time

until it will culminate

into something she can’t take back

Run away from her little brother

as fast as you can

as far as you can

It may be lonely for awhile

but not as lonely as a tomb

 

 

 

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The Seedy Underbelly of Blogging?

I’m not a “Mommy Blogger”.  I have read those types of blogs before, and I have written about my family before, but if I were to categorize myself, I would be more of “questionable parenting moment blogger” than a mommy blogger.

For one reason, that’s not all I am.  I’m not just a mom.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m very proud of holding that particular title, but I’m so much more than a mom on any given day.

But I just came across a blog post, written by a blogger I follow, who was very upset about a fellow “mommy blogger”, Josi Denise, who came clean about her long term blog and what went on behind the scenes. You can find Josi’s post here.

This blogger I follow, whose posts I usually enjoy reading, though I would never consider her a “mommy blogger”, felt Josi launched “a vitriolic attack” on mommy bloggers, and stated what Josi did was “women to women misogyny”.  (I choose not to link to this other person’s blog, as she has a large number of followers, and I have no desire to draw ire from a horde of followers.)

I read Josi’s post, and I took something totally different away from it than it seems she did.

First of all, I have to say I would agree with some of Josi’s points.

Which, probably means nothing, because what do I really know about blogging, let alone big business blogging, where everyone is looking for you to sell shit for them by paying you. You know, like a job. A job where you get paid to do things you may or may not agree with in exchange for cold hard cash. Cold hard cash that feeds your kids and pays your internet bill so you can write more fluffy crap to gain more followers to make more cold hard cash.

Yeah, I wouldn’t know anything about that side of blogging, because that will never be me. I’m not really looking to do anything with my blog except get shit out of my head, and I don’t have any dreams of becoming a novelist.  I mean sure, writing a book which would actually sell and make money would be awesome, but I try to be realistic.

Back to my original points though!  It sounds to me like Josi is giving people a warning about the seedy underbelly of the blogging world, and the kind of path it can take you down. I get that this other blogger feels she did it in the wrong way, but Josi didn’t mention names of blogs, so I would hope all the women bloggers out there wouldn’t take it personally, and would be able to stand behind whatever their personal reasons for blogging are.

For me personally, I’m so used to being picked on for being a blogger in general, that I really couldn’t give two shits about this Josi chick or what she says. I could’ve taken it personally when I read a post this fellow blogger reposted yesterday on Facebook, which was written by another female blogger who said she was tired of everyone “bleeding” all over their blogs. I write very emotional and depressing things sometimes, so I could have taken this to heart, but I didn’t.

I write what I want to write when I want to write it. Therein lies the beauty of the blog, and in any form of writing—if someone doesn’t like it, they don’t have to read it. We are not mindless zombies, we have the power to choose.

I think when blogs get huge, whether it’s a “Mommy” blog, or a humor blog, or a cooking blog, they become a different beast, and cross over into a social media platform where everything takes on a different meaning. Just like Facebook, or Twitter, or other sites, the fact remains people can use social media however they choose–to pretend their life is better than it seems, to garner attention, to make money, to rail about what an asshole their current/ex boyfriend/girlfriend is, or to share their love of Jesus and bunches of pictures of their dog.

But once again, I still hold the power to choose how I react to social media. I can scroll by. I can choose to feel someone is speaking directly to me. I can take it personally enough that I can choose to start a discourse about it, which is what this blogger I follow did, and in turn, I am choosing to post my own thoughts on what I read on her blog.

Secondly, regarding her feelings of “women to women misogyny”, this may sound harsh, but I don’t believe I’m responsible for building up every woman in this world.  Neither should I tear them down, but after 47 years on this earth, I pick and choose my battles too.

Sometimes wisely, sometimes not so wisely, but honestly, life is dog eat dog, and I spend too much of my day just trying to maintain my own life, and take care of people I love.  So I can’t rally behind her feeling that what Josi Denise did is misogynistic.

Will I rally about equal rights? Hell yes!

Will I rally about stopping domestic violence and rape and sexual assault? Hell yes!

Will I rally because some “former mommy blogger” has brought to light the greed mill which is big blogging? Fuck no.

Because to me, it’s not a battle worth fighting.

 

The Honeymoon Phase

Don’t do it, I want to tell her.  Don’t go back to him.

But it’s too late.  She’s with him again, and she’s got all the same old excuses for being with him.

I’m keeping it casual.

He’s different now, not like he was before.

So you forgot, I guess.

You forgot all the nasty things he called you.

You forgot how he made you feel like a piece of shit by all the things he said, and all the things he did.

You forgot all the insecurity and the tears and the feelings of insanity.

You forgot how he didn’t put you first.  Hell, he didn’t even put you second.

You forgot how your son said he was scared of him. How your son knew that this guy didn’t make you happy.

But you went back anyway.

I suppose you went back for all the same reasons all of us go back–because you can’t get those old tapes to stop playing in your head, you can’t get past the fear of being alone, you can’t put yourself first, let alone your son.

I want to tell you you’ll regret it.  I want to scream “DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE GO BACK TO THAT PIECE OF SHIT AND CHOOSE HIM OVER YOUR KID!”.

But I don’t.  I stay quiet.  There’s nothing I can do even though I can see how this all will play out, and I don’t even need a crystal ball.  You will have to learn on your own, because it’s something which can’t be taught.

I had to be my own teacher, but I eventually learned.

I have been you.

And you are now me.

 

Permeation

the same way the sun gets in

the gloom gets in too

but sunshine only sinks into your skin

the darkness permeates

it lodges in the sinew

the bone

drilling into the marrow

where it seeks a permanent home

once it visits

it’s loathe to leave

and even if you manage to kick it out

it always finds a way back in

No Escape

The knowledge of it was too much

the pain and the shame it carried with it was too much

and it was like you didn’t even care

you didn’t care because you were too much too

it was all more than I wanted to deal with

drunk

fed up

I drained the last drink from the beer bottle

and I smashed it against the sink

you did nothing

as I stood there and began cutting

with that sharp piece of brown glass

I didn’t so much want an end

to my life

as I did to the knowledge

and the pain and the shame

cut

slice the skin and make me feel

some other type of pain

the physical more bearable than the emotional

the blood ran down my hand before you noticed

there was no comfort to be found in you

since I only wanted release from you too

I will never escape what you did

no matter how much I slice off

 

Sex Goop

Gwyneth Paltrow irritates the shit out of me.

For numerous reasons.

Maybe because she thinks she needs to tell everyone her cooch is now au naturel and  how unhealthy shaving your bits is.

Or maybe because she tries to tell you what to feed your family when she has a celebrity chef and a ghostwriter for her cookbook.

Or maybe it’s because she CAN’T FUCKING STOP TALKING ABOUT HOW AMAZINGLY COPACETIC AND UNDERSTANDING HER AND CHRIS MARTIN’S DIVORCE WAS.

Yeah, and I fucking fart glitter.

Now Gwyneth and Goop, her website that’s named after the nastiness that collects in your shower drain where she sells overpriced organic shit, thinks they need to come into YOUR bedroom.

With their $15,000 gold dildo.

And organic lube, because she stole the idea for this off of the Netflix show “Grace & Frankie”, and because according to her extensive research, lube is toxic.

Well now you tell us Gwyneth.

Seriously, isn’t the toxic lube issue just a little more important than whether or not you’re walking around with a grizzly bear between your thighs?  You couldn’t have mentioned this sooner?

We’re all out here flicking the bean with toxic lube, putting Chernobyl grade KY in our cooters, and you’re just trying to find the perfect juice cleanse.

I hate to tell you Gwyneth, but you’re the last person I’d come to for lube or sex toy advice.

Maybe you can get “Bae” to buy some. Sounds like she might need to liven things up in the bedroom to keep that man of her’s from straying.

 

 

An Excerpt of the 70’s

polyester short set

purple Schwinn with the banana seat

skinned knees

bee stings

mosquito bites

stock tank swimming

metal roller skates

penny candy

soda fountain

ice cream sundae

cold water straight from the hose

sparklers and snakes

grubby hands

dirt rings around the neck

street lights

fireflies

bath time

cicada song

peaceful slumber

 

 

 

Pick, Pick, Pick

prometheus

 

 

I think I’ve reached my breaking point with everything–this blog, Twitter, Facebook.

It’s like all of them only continue to prove to me, that I’m less than everyone else.

I’m not as good a writer as all these other people.

I’m not as funny as these other people.

I don’t fit in.

I stand out.

I’m too smart.

I’m not smart enough.

I’m too liberal.

I’m not fearful enough of absolutely every fucking thing around me.

NOT GOOD ENOUGH

NOT GOOD ENOUGH

NOT GOOD ENOUGH

That’s what all of it screams.

As I compare follower numbers, and likes, and retweets.

You know, I remember a time, not so long ago, when I liked myself.

I thought I was a pretty cool chick.

I thought I was well read, and creative, and attractive, and funny.

And then social media crept in.

And now I don’t feel those things anymore.

I feel constantly judged for everything I post, or re-post, or comment.

It’s like I’m Prometheus, atop a social media rock, and my self-esteem is constantly being picked at, until one day there will be nothing left.

Am I meant to suffer this torture?

It’s all at my own hand.

I can end it. I can leave all of these places and escape back into the real world.

Read real books.

Talk to real people.

Write on real pages.

I DON’T NEED YOUR APPROVAL!

I DON’T NEED YOUR APPROVAL!

I DON’T NEED YOUR APPROVAL!

Oh yes, you do, I whisper to myself in the mirror.

 

 

 

Insignificance

cats

 

Like the old lady next door

you know

the one who feeds all the neighborhood cats

you’d never notice I was missing

until you see my newspapers piling up

and the old pie tins sitting empty

and the cats meowing because they’re hungry

you’d never notice I was missing

until the postman can’t fit any more

Home Shopping Network boxes on my porch

and can’t close the mailbox door

because there are too many Domino’s pizza coupons in there

you’d never notice I was missing

until you started to smell

my decomposing body

or maybe you wouldn’t notice

because you don’t notice me when I’m there

 

Fat

I count the potato chips because one is too many, and a thousand is not enough, and how many carbs are in them, and only wash them down with a diet soda, or a water, because really, that’s the most diet you can get, and I pass on the birthday cake, and the pieces of chocolate, and even the pie, and I try not to eat in a restaurant because it’s too hard and too tempting when you’re trying to be good, and still fit in your pants, and be as thin as you think you need to be inside your head, while feeling as fat as ever inside your mirror, and why can’t the voices ever stop, and I try to remember a time when food still tasted good, and could be fun, and I didn’t have to worry about fitting into my pants, and I loved that chocolate cake that my mom made, and holy hell, that Coke tastes good, and damn I love hash browns

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