WARNING: QUITE A RELATIVE AMOUNT OF SWEARING. AND SOME OF YOU MAY DISLIKE THIS MAJORLY. (ALTHOUGH IT IS FILLLLLLED WITH HONESTY) ALSO, MAY CAUSE YOU TO THINK I AM CRAZY AND EXTREMELY ANTISOCIAL.
It is 3:07 A.M, and I am crouched up on the black rug that is placed on the floor of my regular sized sitting room about to write publicly about my violent streak. First and foremost, let’s just admit we all have one…instilled deep deep deeeeeep within us, some of ours is buried so deep that it barely even gets any thought, and some of ours is somewhere in between the surface of our brain and that deep abyss. Growing up, I wasn’t a violent child, yes, I didn’t like certain people but I never did anything violent to cause them any harm, so that streak of violence was simply nowhere to be found or experienced, heck, I didn’t even know it existed. But one day, on my very first day at a new school, when my mum came to drop me off there were a bunch of girls that were snickering at my mum and me. And that is when my violent streak was born. On that day, I wished for a pet dinosaur that would either eat those girls alive…or simply burn them…or maybe just scare them. Hang on, it has just come upon me that my violent streak was born way before that, when I participated in a story-writing competition and wrote a majorly violent story about a malicious ruler that burned people to death and stuck people in ovens. Fuck, my childhood brain had some deep and enormously wild imagination. And I didn’t even read that much when I was in 1st or 2nd grade. So yeah. Thus, the violent streak in me was dug out of the chained and bolted treasure chest. Treasure in the form of violence…what? Treasure causes violence, it’s a legitimate statement. You had best not disagree because my pet dinasour is at my beck and call, to this day. (Totally kidding).
So the violence in me wasn’t triggered that often until I moved to Dubai, although I never let any of my violence out till I was about 15. I stumbled upon a realisation when I was about 17 that the primary trigger behind the violence in me is…wait for it…men. Misogynistic men. Men that live under the impression that they are majestic due to their prized possession aka Mr. Penis. Men that have the absolutely pathetic belief that women are inferior objects, not human at all, and that the sole purpose of women is to be degraded, used and abused. Men that have devoted their entire lives to the harassment of women at any opportunity they get. Men that leer, gawk, cat-call, pass comments, shove, smack, brush-up, stalk women. In simpler terms, total utter jerks and douche bags…or as I mentioned earlier, misogynistic pieces of absolute crap.
So, yeah, living in Dubai was excellent in terms of the weather and the amazing school system out there, and not to forget the incredible friends I made. But the men there, goodness me, I felt and continue to feel sickened by them. I sound like a terrible prejudiced misandrist don’t I? I am not, I swear. I mean I like men. Men that understand the pretty straight forward notion that women are HUMAN BEINGS. (Not sex objects or objects in general). SO MISANDRY HAS THAT RED LINE BENEATH IT, WHAT? IS IT TOTALLY OUTRAGEOUS TO BE A MISANDRIST? WHY THEN, ISN’T MISOGYNY UNDERLINED? IT IS JUST AS OUTRAGEOUS TO BE MISOGYNISTIC, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!!!!!
Gosh. Moving on.
So, yeah, my violence is triggered simply by men like that. And now I have forgotten what else I was going to write in here because this spell check bullshit has pissed me off.
Um. I guess the violence in me was suppressed for so long, it kept bottling up. So in order to spill the contents, if you may, I began to write rather violent stories about men dying in gruesome ways. And it’s a good mechanism, I suppose. At least then I won’t go ahead and conduct those gruesome acts in real life. I mean, I am not a psychopath…at least not in actual physical non-fictional life. See this post is sort of clustered because now I am talking about my stories. Is it clusttered though?
I GUESS. All I am trying to say is that I have a violent streak in me, sick-minded men piss me the fuck off, I am not a misandrist, writing helps me deal, and that I am NOT a psychopath.
Whatever, I am angry.
This post has lost its plot.
Have a good day, and don’t cat-call (or part take in any form of misogynistic behaviour) because its not cute…it’s fucking gross, and you will die in my fictional story.