So, you’ve chopped off your husband’s penis. Okay, maybe he was about to become your ex-husband and maybe you poisoned him and maybe you thought it would add a little somethin’ to the story if you tied him to a bed and used a ten inch knife to castrate him… Obviously if you’ve planned this far ahead, you know exactly what to tell the cops after you calmly tell the 911 operator that yeah, there’s a bit of a medical emergency in your apartment.
What, everyone will wonder, were your words of brilliance that comprised the reasoning for such a brutal deed? Obviously: “He deserved it.”
That, ladies and gents, is the kind of woman who lives in the same lovely county as I do. This crazy bitch CUT OFF HER HUSBAND’S PENIS. WITH A KNIFE.
Oh, but it gets better… because really, once you’ve dismembered the same man you promised to love and cherish til death (or unfortunate litigation) do us part, why not go a little crazy?
She… God, it hurts to even write it… she… she put… his penis… down…the garbage disposal. Ack…the noise that must have made!?!
Loraina Bobbit, wherever that nut-case is, must be writhing with jealousy of this lady who dared to so blatantly one up her. And I, in the comfort of my room (after having sent this story to almost everyone I know), am writhing with some sort of morbid curiosity at what has to go so fucking wrong in your life that this seems like even a slightly acceptable idea.
Upon telling D about it, she pointed out that really it’s the only way to make sure your ex doesn’t sleep with anyone else… but really, after they imprison you or find you a cozy, padded cell, you won’t be doing the deed with anyone either. Unless Freddy Kruger is looking for a lady friend.
The Libra asked me where I was last night, trying to insinuate that I am capable of such outbursts. (For the record: I am not. I might get a little needy, or throw a tantrum from time to time, but I will leave you with your penis).
My coworker simply said, “Please, please don’t tell me you think this was cool.”
And now that the story has spread like wild fire and men the world over are investing in pad-locked protection for their members, you’ve got to be concerned that shit like this even goes on on a Monday night. Personally, I’m concerned that shit like this goes on in what seems to be a high-end, affluent, relatively normal community. Have we, as a culture, moved so far past the predictable, I’m-burning-all-your-stuff-because-you-suck acts, that we succumb to physically marring someone? Revoking their man-card in the most literal (and disturbing) sense?
You know this bitch was thinking that she wanted to cause some irreprable damage. She was sending a message. I pray to the heavens I never have to understand that message, but hot damn! Was she calm through the whole ordeal? “Oh, you need that? Hm… well, look, yeah, there’s still bits and pieces left! We’ll just sew it back on. There! Good as new. You’re fine honey, stop whining, you’re just making it bleed worse.”
It’s a penis. They NEED those… that’s where they store all their hopes and dreams and aspirations for future and self worth. It would be like robbing me of my wit. (ha. ha).
Sigh. There’s a man out there, in critical condition now, without a penis. And a woman, in jail, probably getting high-fives from her fellow basket-cases.
And there’s me… morbidly relieved that there are people out there so out of their trees that they make me look not only normal, but awesome, and wondering what the motherfuck anyone could do to actually deserve getting Lorana Bobbitted.
Gentlemen, hide your penises. She’s coming for them.
I’m a big believer in happily ever after. I subscribed to Disney movies with a fervor that conservatives would envy, and I stand by my arguments of meant to be. Even with a broken heart and a jaded view of life, I am a vehement defender of all things mushy, and none of that makes me sad.
Yesterday, I had one of those days that reminds you to believe in God. I woke up early to great weather and the sun shining through my big window. Sitting outside of the patio of Panera, I read my book by myself and ate a sandwich while (unintentionally) eavesdropping on two people nearby. They weren’t a couple, maybe a brother/sister combo, or long-time male/female friends. When she got up to go to her car, she yelled over at him, “You’re loved.” He looked back and said, “You are too!”
Hearing that exchange made me inexplicably happy. There I was, by myself in the middle of the day, anxiousy awaiting a brazilian wax that was sure to be inexplicably painful and I couldn’t help but feel myself light up behind my massive sunglasses. How awesome was that, I thought to myself. That’s all we ever want to hear… That we’re loved, by anyone in this big, crazy world. And the way they did it, like it was so obvious that the other was loved, adored by another was absolutely refreshing and in a way that I so desperately needed to hear. Whoever they are, wherever they went after their lunch, I owe them both a debt of gratitude… I felt loved by simply being nearby such a nonchalant good-bye. And I ask anyone who reads this to just remind someone they love them today, right now. You never know how much someone you adore needs to hear it, and you never know what sort of blessing you’ll inflict by spreading your message to those fortunate enough to be near to listen in.
I fell in love. I stumbled into what I was certain was meant to be, and I was mistaken. The same man who wondered at my stubborn dedication to fairy-tale futures was the same one to prove himself right. My father was unfaithful. The boss that I swore would change the world couldn’t salvage his own marriage because of his lack of integrity. And the man I prayed for every night turned out to be one of the same crowd. I don’t give up on my hope for love though, or my belief that everyone has a someone out there meant to love them for the absolute wreck we all are. I give up on him. I give up on the person I so sincerely believed him to be… the person he didn’t believe in himself enough to become.
That’s okay. though. We live, we learn, and we go on. I’m no exception to this rule.
I spent the day on the patio of a bar with my best friend. Valentine’s Day is quickly approaching, and I will no doubt spend it working, I have come to term with this. But as we left the bar, I came across an interesting sign…
My roommate and I died laughing… For different reasons. Her Valentine’s Day is going to be Santa Barbara with a guy who would give both legs to see her smile. My valentine’s day will be something more along the lines of the people who will hang out with their pets. Frankly, I’d rather just be alone than hang out with Charlie the Miracle Dog.
But regardless, I found myself smiling. Valentine’s Day is a day to celebrate the people you love, not just the people you love who have the opposite genatalia. And yes, I find it a silly holiday, but the purpose is something inherently endearing to me. It’s a day when the majority of the American population get on my level and succumb to the idea that you can love someone enough to change the world, or at least, your own world.
People leave. They’ll disappoint you, or hurt you, or make you feel like you deserve to be unhappy (which is never true). The trick is to never let them trick you into believing that they are the whole representation of love, because they aren’t- especially if they make you doubt it. I’m a cynic with a seriously soft-heart, and that heart is filled with people I don’t remind often enough that they are more than I could dare to think I deserve.
So, do me a favor: don’t wait until Valentine’s Day or some other cheesy Hallmark-induced holiday to remind the people close to you that they make you smile. Also, please don’t bring your dog to the bar on Valentine’s Day. Softie as I may be, I will ridicule you.
But hold on to what you believe in the light
When the darkness has robbed you of all your sight
So hold on to what you believed in the light
We’ve created a monster. By “we” I mean men, of course. Men created this beast of suspicion and manipulative thinking with too much free time and ready access to the internet. Which is far more dangerous than anyone realizes, unless you’re like me and devote pathetic amounts of time to thinking about obscure things like this. I hope, for you’re sake, you’re not like me.
Anywho. I’ve mentioned this before, and it’s a regular topic amongst my girlfriends and I, but I just googled myself (I do this quite regularly, actually) and was not very excited about the results. I have a fairly unique name which makes it pretty easy to know if google or facebook or twitter is actually referencing me or someone else masquerading as me. Because I regularly use the internet as a weapon against men I date, I like to make sure that whatever someone could find on me via some creeping isn’t too unsavory.
I was quite disappointed to find that the internet (and probably the world at large) does me NO favors in the realm of cyber-espionage. I don’t seem all that interesting, the pictures are horrendous, and it’s a lot of dated stuff that would lead someone to believe I have no life and just loiter around sorority houses. It doesn’t even have any cool “maybe she’s a bad-ass” or “wait, is that illegal?” references. Google image-searching me does however, result in a shit ton of pictures of fur coats, which is so totally relevant considering I can’t even afford a fur coat and even if I could, I’d have to be rufied to wear it. Damn you, misleading search engines.
Before I get too wrapped up in my own results, it should be mentioned that facebook/google/twitter/linkedin/myspace and a few other social sites have been invaluable in my dating successes (cough fails cough). Since I’m absolutely maniacal if I get a purpose and a keyboard in front of me, I’ve been able to dig up criminal histories (lots of DUI’s in 20-something men these days) relationship statuses, and uncovered various “deal-breakers” before even walking into the first date. Never go in un-armed, is the lesson I suppose I’m trying to relay. And of course, never become un-armed because men are stupid and not to be trusted and will sooner or later fuck up without having he brains to cover it up correctly on the internet. At which point you
go all Lorana Bobbit on his ass adddress it like an adult and explain that the sheer number of facebook friends you have means there is no such thing as a secret anymore in his world. In a totally non-you-may-want-to-get-a-restraining-order kind of way, of course.
Our generation is the first one to traverse this territory that stupidly combines internet and romance. We were the kids in chat rooms in the 90’s and the ones giggling at mentions of “cybering.” Our peers pioneered friendster and myspace and then watched the phenomenon of facebook take over basic human interaction in all developed countries. And then, a few broken-hearted women managed to turn all those things into yet another weapon against the men that pissed them off, all before men even knew what the fuck hit them. And still, as women trade log-ins to see what they are barred from otherwise viewing and googling into page 44, men underestimate the levels of
crazy dedication we can reach when we have enough wine and time. The point is: we’re making up the rules as we go, and the rules, as I understand them are quite simple. To summarize- if it’s on the internet and at all accessible without a security clearance from the Department of Homeland Security, it’s fair game. Men will have to learn to defend themselves a little better, and they no doubt will find a way to do that and continue on with their tendency to act first, think later without the ramifications of some crazy exes blowing up his statuses on facebook and tagging him in all kinds of things never meant for the public to see. But in the meantime, men would be smart to remember that the internet, despite its attractive fantasy-sports leagues and plethora of porn is not their friend. Not even kind of.
I asked someone recently what the difference was between generic curiosity and actual “creeping.” The answer? When it has the capacity to hurt your feelings.