Liver Spots On The Inside

March 29, 2012 § 1 Comment


Liver spots have always had a way of upsetting my stomach, since I was a little girl and I told this old guy that he had really big freckles on his hands, and oh, how everyone laughed and told me “Those are liver spots!” His hands, known to wander, smelled like old piss when he held them over my mouth, and I thought about the liver spots, how they might get inside me along with his fingers, and how that might turn me into an old, dying fucker like he was, only it would be my insides that were old and dying, and I’d never be able to tell anyone because then I’d have to become a part of their game.

People talk about the not telling that happens when little kids are molested by all those friends and family, and they tell their kids, “Kids, if anyone ever touches you down there, even if they tell you that you’ll get in trouble, even if they promise to buy you nice things, even if they tell you that you have to keep a secret, kids, that’s a secret you can’t keep.” But what they never once thought of is that if I didn’t tell it had nothing to do with any of that. The promises I made with these men were on my own terms, in order to just get it over with, not have to talk it over with them. And the same applies for the real reason I didn’t tell. « Read the rest of this entry »

I’m Disgusting

March 22, 2012 § 1 Comment


When I was 12, I stole a pair of period stained panties from my foster sister. They were clearly her panties, not some generic pair that could have belonged to either one of us. She was 15 at the time, and she would sneak in my bedroom window late at night, tell me about kissing some boy in a hot tub, and then the next day she’d go back to being a bitch about my being there. She was their “real kid”, and she fucking hated my guts. Most likely because I was a fucking goon with bad hair and no style. Anyway, I didn’t feel bad about stealing her panties.

But then, I dunno, I couldn’t just leave it alone and wear them or hide them away in a drawer. Instead, I called my foster mother into the bathroom. I stood there, clearly wearing her daughter’s period stained panties, and told her I’d started my period. I told her I needed some tampons. I told her I needed some advil. I told her this and watched her face closely. She was really old and she just stood there, head like a raisin, opening and closing her mouth, until she eventually turned and just left, never mentioning the whole ordeal again.

I pick my nose and eat it. I always have. It seemed natural as a kid, and the more people teased me, the more I wanted to hide and pick and roll the boogers and eat them. It’s like when I was four and my babysitter and my sister would laugh at me for “touching myself” under my blanket, and that didn’t make me feel shame, it just made me feel like doing it more.

I eat food that I find laying around. I once ate a hamburger I found on a porch. I once ate a steak out of the trash. I eat food that I left sitting out all night, or food that’s been sitting in the sun at a picnic for too many hours for it to be alright. A friend of mine once said you never hear about affluent families food poisoning themselves by eating sun-ripened noodle salads with mayo dressings. I suppose at my core I’m a poor person, because there’s never been a noodle salad I’ve even questioned.

I eat pills off the floor and drink drinks I find in the bathroom at parties. I’ve even eaten gum that I found stuck to things. Eaten it. Chewed it up and swallowed it. Recently I’ve started to look up the pills before I take them. There exists no similar technology for bathroom drinks. People are always warning me about finding drinks, saying what if that has a date rape drug in it. I figure, the way I drink, I’m going to forget the night either way. Besides, why would someone leave around a perfectly seasoned cup of date rape? Seems they’d be keeping better tabs on a thing like that.

I once held a job as a short order cook at a two-bit truck stop in small town Wisconsin and this fat fuck, Randy, he’d always come in with his overalls and order roast beef sandwiches, and he always found things to complain about. The kitchen was ten kinds of too hot, and I was already crabby from having the owner of the place rubbing his dick on my ass, so whenever I was making a sandwich for Randy, I’d wipe the bread in my armpits. I don’t know if you ever noticed (like how if you put your finger in your belly button, whoa, it smells sour), but armpit sweat smells a lot like pussy. Maybe the roast beef covers up a flavor like that.

I use whatever toothbrush I find. I saw a myth busters once about poop in the air, and they found out that there is poop all over everything, including your toothbrush, so I figure there’s nothing in my mouth as disgusting as poop, so people shouldn’t get bent out of shape over a thing like me using their toothbrush. I do understand, however, people getting bent out of shape when I use their face razors to shave my pussy. I still do it, though.

I’m a disgusting person, and I guess I’ve been that way for my whole fucking life, and I don’t know how I really feel about it. What I do know is, I see homeless people all the fucking time, shitting wherever, eating out of the trash cans, pissing themselves, collecting things in carts, wearing clothes they find in ditches. And I never think to myself about how they can live that way, and I never think to myself about how sad all of that stuff is. The only thing that really bothers me is that they sleep outside. I’m too delicate for that shit.

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