bloggity blog, Mother Fucking Rant

Witch-hunt … Really?

Here are my two cents. I was holding off giving them but here they fucking are.

Get your delicate eyeballs ready for some foul language, cause I am fucking pissed the fuck off.

Two reasons why it piss me the fuck off when these men call the “outing” of sexual fucking predators a witch-hunt.

Number Fucking One)

It is not a witch-hunt when you are tracking down FUCKING CRIMINALS!

These douchey, entitled, smug men who thought they were so un-fucking-touchable cause of their fame or money or power or whatever, broke the law. You cannot touch someone who doesn’t want your filthy fucking hands on them. You cannot be suggestive towards someone unless they actually have specifically fucking told you that they want you to say dirty shit to them.

I once read something by someone (sorry I cannot give you credit) that was perfect. If you wouldn’t say it or do it to Dwayne “the Rock” Johnson, then don’t fucking do it to a woman. Still don’t get it? Go read this.

So, next time you go to send a dick pic to the chick in the apartment across from you or slap an intern’s arse or grab a woman by the (insert any body part here, not just her pussy) imagine the Rock’s face and don’t fucking do it unless she has begged to see your cock.

If she (or he) hasn’t specifically backed up into your personal space and begged you to slap her firm, round buttocks, don’t touch the hiney.  But if someone does back their arse into your personal space, butt-first, and you don’t want their shit-plopper in your face, that ain’t cool either.

If she (or he) hasn’t said something along the lines of “please! For the love of all that is under Odin’s rule, send me a photo of your hard, throbbing cock” don’t send the dick pic.

Number Fucking Two)

Witch-hunt … Really?

You bunch of over-privileged, penis mushrooms. You sack of rich, pig-headed, taint moles.

Are you seriously choosing “Witch-hunt” to describe these law-breakers being outed for sexual harassment against women.

Let’s fucking think about this for a few fucking moments, shall we???

Let us go and check our fucking history books. Go on. I’ll fucking wait.

Are we all back? Fucking brilliant.

Now, before all you blokes get your balls in a twist. Yes, they did burn men in the witch-trials too. I’m not saying they didn’t. They burned fucking children too (the foreskin nuggets) But it is like the whole domestic violence thing. Yes, there are men that are in terrible domestic violence situations out there and they need the same sort of care as the women.

But the numbers are a tad fucking skewed in the “humans with vaginas” direction.

I don’t feel like getting into the horrifying details of the torture and systematic femicide that occurred during the witch trials. If you wish to read about it, I’ll link some sites that go into it a little more.

Don’t compare your fucking hungry cock that you can’t control to the murder and torture and rape of hundreds of thousands of women. Just don’t. Fucking stop it.

If you don’t want a “witch-hunt,” stop fucking diddling women who don’t want your filthy fucking hands on them. End of fucking story.

No more silence!

Light the fucking torches, girls! Grab your bras and pitch forks and tampons and matches. They want a fucking witch-hunt? Give them one!

Time’s up, mother fuckers.

 

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bloggity blog, writing

The danger of undeserved power

Prologue

The books I’ve read have always explained blood as smelling “coppery” or “metallic.” They’re not wrong, but they’re not right either.

Yes. I could detect that old-penny tang in the air, but there were other things too.

They never mention the rot of it. The butcher shop meatiness. The piss and shit part that will undoubtedly be there. Because if there is so much blood you can smell it, then someone is either dead or about to be. A band aid would no longer help them.

Blood doesn’t just smell like loose change. I should know. I was covered in it.

The final chapter

Pain was what I felt.

There was no shock. His behaviour no longer shocked me.

It was bad, what he did, don’t get me wrong. But it wasn’t the worst. This was a Tuesday morning type of hit. Not, say, a Friday night when he knew I’d have, at least, the weekend to recover so no one could see.

Some of you may ask, what did I do to deserve it? Cause I’ve heard that one before. I must’ve started it. Asked for it in some way.

And you’d be fucking right. I did something that pissed him off. I don’t regret it neither.

I bought the wrong ice cream.

I had stood in the super market, staring into the ice cream freezer at the ice cream I knew he liked. Trying to make a decision, I fiddled with the six dollars in very small change that sat fat in my pocket and jingled loudly, sounding out the joyous accompaniment to my poverty.

I could afford to get one tub of what he wanted but we’d have not much else to eat. And he’d never share the ice cream with me. I was fat enough, he’d say.

Or I could buy milk, bread and the cheap plain stuff. I knew I could make it nice for him. I thought we’d have some Oreos in the back of the cupboard, maybe some chocolate sauce. I could turn it nice like the expensive stuff. And that way, we could at least eat toast until his pay day.

I thought it was a good idea.

While I lay on the floor, feeling my lip swell and pulse, watching my blood puddle on the linoleum, I realised I was wrong.

He said nothing as he stormed away from me, fists clenched as if he were ready to take another swing.

I stayed on the floor. Unmoving. Trying not to cry. Crying only made it worse. Playing dead. If I don’t move he can’t see me.

I sneaked a peek as he sauntered around the kitchen, his boxing ring. He slammed open the freezer door so hard that it made me flinch and I doubted it would ever close properly again. Taking out the white and black tub, he threw it at the kitchen window with a thunderous, wet crash which made me flinch again.

The ice cream, half liquefied because our freezer was on the fritz, sprayed across the kitchen bench, vanilla white tears streaked down the cob-webbed window.

I still cowered as he stalked around the kitchen, breath like fire burning, he couldn’t get it out of his lungs quick enough.

I, a mouse, a small creature, heart murmuring be still, be still, be still. But, for the first time, I do not see a cat in front of me. I do not see a tiger, a lion, a wolf.

I see just a man.

And even if he were an animal, he would be a Chihuahua. All bark and some bite, enough to draw blood. But no longer enough to eat me alive.

If my heart pounds be still then it is the heart of a bear and he heard my roar. And I will not be still any longer.

He had power over me for a lifetime and I will give him no more.

It may not have been the worst time, just a Tuesday morning, but it was the last time.

I waited till the blood stopped pumping to call an ambulance. I had to dirty a tea towel to use my phone. I won’t lie. I enjoyed watching him die.

The cleaver in my clenched fist, slick with his blood, no longer shakes.

Power is not something that can be taken, it must be given, even if it seems stolen at times. But there is a secret they – the fake wolves, fake lions, fake predators – don’t want us to know.

We can take our power back.

Short story for Chuck Wendig’s Fiction Challenge

If you or someone you know is experiencing domestic violence, please seek help. Go to the police. Do not pass go. No two hundred dollars for you. Go now. Today. Because this bullshit has to stop.

To put it into perspective for you, here is a quote from Huffington Post.

The number of American troops killed in Afghanistan and Iraq between 2001 and 2012 was 6,488. The number of American women who were murdered by current or ex male partners during that time was 11,766. That’s nearly double the amount of casualties lost during war.

And this just for America. And this number has not improved. It is only getting worse.

Silence about domestic violence can be deadly. So please, please, please speak out. #notviolentnotsilent

And don’t resort to the lengths that my character went to. This is a work of fiction and by no means an instruction to murder a spouse. Abusive or not. No stabby stabby.

If you are unsure if your partner is abusive, I will attach something below that shows the typical behaviour of DV and DA situations. If any of the items on that list are checked please call the police, ask for help, stay safe.

You don’t have to walk on eggshells forever. You don’t have to be another statistic. You can have a life again. You have the power. You are stronger than you think.

Love

Amberley

bloggity blog, When I am empress

When I am empress – parenting

So, yesterday, I took my kids down to the hotel pool.

There were so many kids. And with kids there are parents.

Walking into the pool area, there were about twenty poolside chairs, most of which were taken up with people. Seven chairs were without butts but six had towels. I take the only free chair which happens to be the one farthest from the pool but with splash range of the festy-warm spa water.

One thing I want to put out there, I’m not big on the idea of communal anything. Hostels are my nightmare, food courts make me feel physically ill and public pools… double both of those.

Sitting far from my own kids, I am forced to be close to other peoples children.

Most kids are cool. Kids are like regular humans except tiny and insane. If adults acted the way children act, they would have a one-way holiday to nice padded room.

Sorry, I’m getting distracted… oh yeah! There was this one kid that was being a little bitch.

One child was the cutest little thing. Pig tails, chubby cheeks, all the cuteness. All she wanted to do was be friends with bitch-child.

Bitch-child had that look about her. I know, I know… she is just a child and I am being a bit of a cunt but if you have kids and have spent time at their school you probably know what I mean. If you don’t then maybe your kid is one of these bitch-children. Soz.

So, this cutie-pie just kept asking bitch-child “do you want to be my friend?”

Sweet, right?

Yeah, well, bitch-child would say “only if you turn the bubbles on for me.”

Cutie-pie would get out and just before she would press the button, bitch-child would say “if you put the bubbles on I won’t be your friend.”

This went on for too long. If one of my children had done this, it would have happened once and that’s it. Back upstairs.

And what did bitch-child’s mum do? Diddly fucking squat.

These children are our future adults. The ones who will be our nurses, doctors, checkout chicks, food makers, etc. Not teaching them basic manners and how to treat other humans is just setting our future up for failure.

I understand that tearing your eyes away from Facebook and putting down your phone and entering the real world to discipline your children may harsh your holiday buzz or whatever but, for fuck suck! If you are a parent, then parent!

But the mother was a bitch too! She was the one who had spread her pool shit out over the other six fucking chairs!

When I am empress, all of her kind will be drawn and quartered. Well, depending on breeding age. If they have not yet breed then they will be chemically castrated.

My people will both love me and fear me…

I will also give strict testing for general courtesy, etiquette, ninja skills, horse riding, and, of course grammar/punctuation.

Love

Amberley