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So the CDC says that the zombies are comin'!
ninjadeathstarboomerangbomb asked: Funny how I mentioned no names yet you have to go and link to my blog. Nobody would even know who I'm talking about. I also find it funny that you left some things out of your "correction" that you sent me that you included in your blog. Also, it amuses me that the only thing you cared to address was what others might think of you. You never even apologized for the way you treated me. You were a bitch then and still are now. Some things never change.
Why would I apologise? I’m not sorry. I don’t have any resentment towards you truthfully. I was linked to your blog through a mutual friend- I already explained that. In addition, I may be a “bitch”, I am a lot of things, but a prostitute is not one of them. You are also a lot of things, but a man isn’t one of them. Maybe people would respect you more and you wouldn’t be alone if you stopped sniveling so much and took control of your life.
I’ve been thinking lately about posting an article on how to AVOID getting manipulated by someone like me, partially as a PSA and partially because it’s something I would enjoy writing.
In addition to this, I think it would be awesome for anyone and everyone to submit questions for me to answer. It can be questions about the state of my personality, about my darling ADHD, ADHD and I’s relationship, stripping, sex or any other topic! Personal topics are welcome- I don’t have any reservations. That would be super awesome and informative.
Don’t be shy; I actually enjoy answering questions, researching and writing!
Many feminists will tell you stripping is empowering, but it in my experience, it is not. It fills me with anger when the men ask me to turn around so they can see the body that comes naturally to me and sneer when I say I don’t work out or eat sweets. It makes me sick when they touch my face when I smile, and breathe my perfume deeply when I toss my hair in their face. I touch them gently in a way I only want to touch my husband, late into the night when everything has gone quiet. I have endured harassment, embarrassment, lewd comments and gestures. I have put my back to my bathroom door, and slid down in defeat, rage-filled hot tears pouring down my cheeks, trying to drag myself to put up with it one more night. I have looked at my beauty and been repulsed by it, gagged on the humiliation I feel when I shed my dress for the twenty dollar bill that will feed my family for just one more day. I hug my husband so tight and plead for him to tell me I look stunning, only to tell him he’s obligated when he sincerely complies.
Dancing isn’t love, it isn’t power, it isn’t beating the system. It’s a sticky delicious trap of easy money and drunken vanity that I wish I had never entered in due to greed and insatiable curiosity. I see girls, rather women, ten years my senior with despair in their eyes, with no marketable skills to get out. They are the unlucky ones, lost and drowned in the system.
As everyone who reads this blog knows, I am a diagnosed sociopath. If you’re familiar with what this diagnosis means, it is a very large part of my identity. It is as much a part of my identity as being straight, gay, or bisexual. It has the same magnitude as being black, white, or even fucking first generation Chinese-American. However just like coming out of the closet, I have to evaluate whom I can tell and in what context.
People misconstrue sociopathy because of factory produced assembly line Hollywood bullshit. Fact of the matter is, most sociopaths are undetected by anyone, even the legal system, and are not the serial killer next door. We are not murderous, blood thirsty butchers; we’re more likely to be a little more Ocean’s Eleven than American Psycho. Like other psychiatric affects, there are different subtypes, severities- but I feel it only pertinent to explain my personal blend of sociopathy before I explain why it is relevant.
Socialized sociopaths such as myself haven’t interest in slaughtering, or truthfully most other criminal activity. My whole life I have been described as charming, likeable, intelligent, disarming, beautiful, charismatic. Dancers at every single club I have worked, without exception, come up to me and spill their guts even if it’s the first time they’ve ever spoken to me. Baffled, they can never convey why they felt so compelled, sometimes they are embarrassed.
“You just seem so open.”
“You’re so sweet and friendly.”
Customers add to the nightly, multiple echoes of
“You’re just so easy to talk to!”
Despite being easily the most frequent target of these often drunken confessions and misplaced friend requests (which I can’t ignore at the click of a button like Facebook or the now defunct MySpace), I felt and still feel increasingly frustrated at these wholehearted gestures.
“I don’t fucking get it,” I say to my husband after nearly every shift, “I don’t care. I don’t know these girls. Until tonight, I’ve never even spoken to Raven or Honey or Cheyenne or Precious. I’m serious. I go in, I sit down, I do my makeup and my hair. I don’t talk to anyone. I don’t get it sweetheart, I truly don’t. You know I’m not there to make friends. Why do these bitches want to tell me their life fucking story?”
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Small emotional characteristics seem commonplace confounding and wondrous because not only do I not understand them, I don’t experience them. Emotional feelings for myself (as well as certainly almost always someone else with the same mental affect as myself) are mostly superficial, momentary apparitions except with a handful; Anger, capital “A” intended, for example. Prolific in nature and mostly kept carefully under chains and padlocks, I, like my outwardly easy going father once admitted to my sister and I (to our shock), have an earth shattering temper. True manifestations of my temper to me are equally difficult to produce as they are for the target of the outburst to receive. The visceral taste of the words that spew out are the only evidence to me I am the one saying them, not just listening aghast. Without fail, I experience a phenomenon that causes my vision to vibrate, sometimes change colours (on average white or red, momentarily), hot flashes are the norm. Rage blackouts, as horrific as I have been told they are to witness, are something I openly admit to. Real anger is a long, slow, smoldering burn before detonation with me. I jokingly call these events Total Psychotic Meltdowns with my husband. Fortunately, detonation is infrequent, limited to two or three times a year. On average, true nonchalance swirled with ambivalence make up the majority of my emotional state. A true, clear, pure sense of simply not caring is my natural state. I’ve never felt a deep, warm fuzzy sisterly bond with anyone but my own sister, or missed someone other than herself or my husband, my father if I’m in a certain mood. I hesitate to say that I like someone, more often than not it can be easily described as I’m “cool” with the person in question. There’s no toleration, disdain, disgust or feelings of being burdened with unwelcome company. Simply a clean, crisp sense of disinterest, which isn’t negative though many people would interpret it as such. Disinterest is more like an average glass of water; doesn’t taste good, doesn’t taste bad, you’re not opposed to it. The is liquid drinkable, quenches your thirst (or in this case, social thirst), but has no positive or negative characteristics. It just simply is.
Emotions, to me, especially allowing other people to influence your personal emotions, is not very pragmatic.
Through a mutual friend, I ran across this little gem right here: http://ninjadeathstarboomerangbomb.tumblr.com/post/843368465/how-i-got-to-vegas-etc
Normally, I’d leave well enough alone, but I dislike being called a prostitute over the internet, so I thought I’d clear the air.
First off, I do not disagree with most of the claims in said post. I was drinking a lot yes (I have since quite drinking upon getting married), yes we argued a lot during which I used manipulation tactics (though I was grabbed and yanked firmly by the arm on one occasion which did leave a bruise- I don’t hold a grudge for that) that, as all manipulation tactics are, questionable behaviour. The only things I wish to refute are the circumstances under which I met said customer, why I left, and why The Blog Owner and I began dating in the first place.
As I am sure can be assumed, seeming as I was a full time dancer (or stripper, if you prefer) for the better part of eight years, I’m by far not an unattractive woman. I began dating the Blog Owner approximately seven months after an intense heartbreak over, what most people classify as, “The One Who Got Away”, or so I believed at the time. Before this I was in a four year relationship- I had always been a social drinker during the four years but the drinking was greatly exacerbated after that split, and after “the one who got away”.
The Blog Owner bears a slight resemblance to The One Who Got Away, one where if you squint or blur your eyes you could almost see. He and I had also been friends for a year or so. He was pleasantly average and mild, I thought perhaps I could squelch the urge for a life of seeking “The Next Big Thing” ( I’ve always been a gypsy, thrill seeker, adventurer; having lived in 15 cities in 2 countries as of today) and settle down. At the time I was seeking stability, rather than actually take a hard look at the blatant incompatibilities. I knew early on it likely wouldn’t work, but I attributed that to my own insatiable sense of grandeur. I wanted to love him, but I can’t say as I ever did.
I met The Man From Los Angeles that I spent the three days with on Superbowl Sunday in 2009 at my place of employment. He had generously given me over a thousand dollars for a five hour VIP. He was devastatingly handsome, charming, successful, adventurous and was filled with charisma- not to mention twelve years my senior and wealthy. Upon asking me if I wanted to do a sixth hour, I told him I was too attracted to him to pursue it, but gave him my number when he asked me for a date.
Later that evening the Blog Owner and I went to Circuit City. The Man From Los Angeles called me, I rejected the call. I texted him several hours later, and he said he would fly out to see me the following Wednesday from Los Angeles.
I picked him up that Wednesday morning at McCarren International. I drove him to THEHotel at Mandalay Bay, and had to attend class. After class, I came back to THEHotel. My dear friend in Las Vegas, Erica (stage name, not her real name), was invited to join us. We went to dinner at MIX Lounge.
The Man From Los Angeles did NOT give us any sum of money for meeting him. I brought Erica along as a security policy, because I didn’t know this man very well, even after a week of telephone conversations. During no time during the three days or time afterward I spent with him did he ever pay me any sum of money. We were attracted to each other, I stayed with him of my own volition- unless you consider going out on dates for three nights payment, in which case any man who takes any woman on a date paying for the pleasure of her company. I spent three days ( and some time after that, once we agreed to start dating, not exclusively ) in a hotel room with a bathtub so deep I could float, eating Fettucine Alfredo in bed, being taken out to the most expensive restaurants and nightclubs in Las Vegas and later- Los Angeles. I actually paid for my own flight to Los Angeles when I visited him.
Rewinding a touch- at the dinner at MIX, I excused myself to the bathroom. Once in the bathroom, I called the Blog Owner and broke up with him. I will admit most people will regard this as cruel but I didn’t care. I’d found something exciting after over a year of complacency… which I got myself into by my own accord. I was through trying to convince myself I loved The Blog Owner.
The Man From Los Angeles came to see me three days a week, every week, for three weeks afterwards. The fourth time, I flew to Los Angeles and stayed with him, the fifth time, he came back to Las Vegas as well as the sixth. We split up the first week of May- I had gotten too attached, and he had planned a six month long excursion around the world way before he had even met me. It was hard to let go of The Man From Los Angeles- he was the first person I’d had feelings for in over a year.
In regards to my going through “one guy after another”, I’d like to point out this was my ONLY year single since I was FIFTEEN. I had one boyfriend in high school from 15 to 18, a few flings at 18, met my ex at 19 was with him til 24. At 24 I met The One Who got Away and saw him for ten months. The February of the year I was 25 I began dating the Blog Owner, we dated until the following February- I turned 26 over the summer. So at 26 years old, I had never really been single- I think I deserved a year to (safely) run wild. Other than a three month relationship in the months before I met ADHD, I had not had a relationship since the Blog Owner and I broke up.
All of this means three things:
a) His claim of myself and my friend being paid to go out with The Man From Los Angeles: False, unless you count weeks of dating and trips as “paying”.
b) His claims I had likely used the club as a dating pool multiple times: False. The first time was the One Who Got Away ( who was 21, gorgeous, and whom I did NOT dance for but met 15 minutes before the closing of the club), the second time was the one documented above.
c) His portrayal of me as a slut and/or prostitute is an inaccurate one, though I will openly admit to the drinking and verbal abuse and cite no reason other than dissatisfaction.
Other gems failed to be mentioned:
a) Even after I left him for The Man From Los Angeles, he begged me back.
b) He continued to allow me to come home and have random drunken meaningless sex with him.
c) This man was so far from adult he would get upset about the most minor things, including my placement of the cans in the cupboard.
d) I did not introduce him to my friends because I was embarrassed.
e) ADHD finds this hilarious.
So all of you who ask why we are child free by choice... here's reason # 723684623:
