Archive for July, 2014

The Dual Lives of Dog

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , on July 23, 2014 by ofherbsandaltars

When Dog went to the vets, he would lie sprawled out across the waiting room floor in a state of total catatonia, and the other pet owners would look at him with pity, assuming he was terminally ill, or they would remark on what a good dog he was, whilst wrestling their own armful of furious Schnauzer. Once Dog got into the vet’s office, his leg would start to shake, and he would lurk nervously in the corner, with the tip of his tail wagging very slightly, to relay the message, “I am an extremely good dog, and while I do not despise you, Stranger in White, I would prefer that this unpleasant encounter was over with as promptly as possible”.

As soon as Dog arrived home from his Ghastly Medical Expedition, he would leap around the garden like a dog half his age, snapping at butterflies, barking at flowers, pissing over everything in sight, and rolling around gleefully in the patch of grass that smelled of the delightful odour of fox shit. Finally, happy, tired and reeking, he would bound inside for his dinner, for which he would give thanks by smearing a tripe-spit tongue across the strange bald face of his Person.

Person had an odd, but understandable misinterpretation of this behaviour. Dog obviously didn’t like the vets, where things were shoved down his ears, into his mouth and up his arse, where human beings behaved without any of their normal affectionate decorum. It seemed sensible that Dog should be delighted to escape from the stench of sickness and chlorine, having suffered only the mild unpleasantness of a single injection. But what Person didn’t know, was that Dog remembered.

Dog remembered everything. He remembered being a different dog, a smaller one, with a squashy face – this latter fact he recalled most vividly, the post-dinner delight of licking food morsels from every crevice of his flat little face. He remembered having a different Person, one with grey head-fur and salty feet. But most of all, he remembered the vets. Which was strange, because a lot of those later memories were fuzzy – waking up with wee in places that wee shouldn’t be, the stairs getting harder to climb, the postman becoming impossible to chase. The vets though, he remembered.

His salty grey Person had seemed particularly strange, that day. She didn’t shout at Dog for pooping in the kitchen because the garden seemed too far away, and her wrinkly bald face was wet, and saltier than usual. Then they went to the vets, where Dog tolerated a most unpleasant leg-stabbing ritual with his usual philosophical demeanour. But after that, everything became very peculiar. Dog wasn’t Dog anymore, he was something else, something with no face to lick and no legs to run on, and on the table there was a limp black body with a squashy flat face, and cloudy eyes that stared at nothing. And his grey wrinkly Person was crying, but Dog couldn’t do anything about it anymore, and he began to realise what it meant. His time as Dog was over – he would never see his garden again, and he certainly wasn’t going home with Person – not ever again.

Dog had been very relieved, when after a protracted period of surreal, legless existence, he found himself re-legged and re-tongued, curled up in a comfortable ball of fur with several other brand new dogs, most of whom having experienced the same thing as him. Soon enough, Dog had a new garden and a new Person – a new world full of brand new things to piss up, and Dog was happy about all of it.

But every time they went to the vets, Dog remembered. This is the place where everything ends. This is the place where you go, and you never come back. That was why Dog went completely pissing mental with sheer boundless glee whenever he walked through the valley of the shadow of death, and came home again – back to his garden, back to his Person, back to his favourite Piss Bush, and the smear of fox-shit that he loved so dearly, back to all the wonderful things you could do when you had legs and a tongue and a Person.Dog

The Thinspiration Monkeys

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , on July 3, 2014 by ofherbsandaltars

This needs saying, and I don’t have an appropriate place to say it, so I’m going to say it here. I still have a lot of eating disordered friends, having been there myself, and lately, whenever I see a picture on FB of one of my friends looking scarily thin, it is met with an endless flood of comments like “You are perfect!” and “Amazing!” and “Such an inspiration!” and it is driving me slowly insane. One of these friends died, in May, of anorexia, and at no point did the fucking monkeys stop applauding. Every single pound of the way, there were these fucking monkeys telling her how great she looked, how “sexy” she looked, and when she died, they made pictures out of her most emaciated photos, and turned her into this bullshit martyred goddess – so dedicated she died for the cause, sheer perfection, the ultimate thinspo! And no, she wasn’t – she was a neon rainbow, cocktail-swilling, pot-smoking, cat-loving bundle of unforgettable Gretchenness, but none of these fucking monkeys give the first fucking shit about any of that, about who she was inside. They just wanted to watch her peel away, cell by cell, layer by layer, while they watched and cheered and masturbated and now all that’s left is a million ghastly photos that she hated, and this warped horseshit myth of her Anorexic Dedication. That’s all that’s left anywhere, and those monkeys don’t fucking care, they’ve already found someone else to cheer for, and for those of us who do give a shit, who miss her every day, it’s all we’ve got left too.

I understand being a low weight anorexic and having a friends list full of cheering fucking monkeys – it makes perfect sense. Your life at that point revolves around nothing but the ED, your starved brain has room for no other obsessions, and you’re drawn to those who share that obsession. And if they tell you you look great, you look perfect, you’re so thin, it’s satisfyingly masochistic, or maybe they see something that you yourself can’t see – either way, it’s a rush. Sick people do sick things, and if you want to fuck yourself up, if you want to starve yourself to death and slice chunks out of your arms and overdose on laxatives and spend whole days vomiting up icecream, that is your fucking choice. But when you become one of these laughing fucking monkeys and try to destroy other people’s lives, you just become an abominable cunt. And these cunts are too stupid, too naïve, too half fucking retarded to even bother talking to, so the responsibility has to lie with the sick person, to cut all those cunts out of their life.

If you have these people in your online life, these cheering fucking monkeys, know this –

–          They will keep on applauding your misery and your pain until you are dead, then they’ll applaud the dedication of your emaciated corpse, and salivate over your Final Statistics while your body rots beneath the mud. And then, they’ll forget you ever existed and find some other sucker to cheer for – they do not give a shit about you.

–          They do not realise that when you are underweight, every pound you lose is not a pound of excess fat, it is a pound of yourself, it is everything interesting and unique about you being slowly rotted away. It is all your hopes, dreams and ambitions being strategically destroyed. And the monkeys will keep applauding, because they don’t give a shit – they don’t give a shit about you, about who you are, they don’t want you to be a person, because people are real and people have feelings, and people want to be something more than a putrefying corpse in the neon-lit laboratory of some mouth-breathing sticky-fingered monkey cunt.

They don’t want you to have a life, to be happy, to leave them, all alone with their warped mind and their pathetic obsession. They want you to be a boring little stick-person posting boring calorie counts and showing them every bone from every angle, and if they can get a picture of you in a hospital gown two days before you drop dead, they will fucking salivate, those monkeys will just about come in their pants. Some of them already did. You know that some of these ‘girls’ on your friends list, these ‘teenage girls’ with predictable names like ‘anamia angel’ or ‘starveme98’, they aren’t girls at all – they’re fat middleaged men with an anorexia fetish, stealing your photos for their nightly wank session, and when you’re dead, they’ll still be masturbating over you. Think I’m lying? I’ve had it done to me, photos stolen and used by a registered paedophile to get closer to more vulnerable girls. Check out skinnyfans[dot]com (obvious trigger warning) – register at the forum if you dare – these people are your fucking monkeys, your applauding fucking ‘friends’.

You do not need the monkeys – your life will be better without them. You have fuck all in common with these monkeys anyway, bar the fact that they like to watch you suffer. Does that sound like friendship? If you get better, and you turn into an interesting, happy, vibrant person with real friends, and a real life, are the monkeys going to want that? To be left behind with no one to watch? They will do anything to keep you sick, and miserable, and theirs. So, seriously, purge your friends list right now – anyone with a bullshit pro-ana name, in the bin, anyone who does this applauding fucking monkey shit, anyone who you don’t even remember who they are – in the fucking bin. You can do a lot better.

2003

 

2014

Me, 11 years apart. The monkeys do not applaud for anyone healthy and happy, they want you to remain that ugly, lifeless, boring stickperson forever. And I wanted to be that person too, then, but that shit gets old very quickly. If you’re over the age of about 21, I’m pretty sure that you’re bored with it too – you’ve paid your dues and learned everything there is to learn about hell, now you’re just riding the same broken, shit-smeared ferris wheel round and round, and the monkeys keep cheering but you don’t have to do that forever. It’s just one choice out of a million, you can have any kind of life you want, so why are you still riding that shitty old ferris wheel with those stupid pervert monkeys, left behind by everyone you know? FB is full of real people with real lives and all you’ve got is the monkeys, but you can be one of those Real People too. Just bin all those fucking monkeys – you don’t need them, and you don’t owe them anything, least of all your life and your potential. You’re not a faceless diseased twig, you’re a whole person – even if you don’t know it yet.

Just bin the monkeys. Before someone like me, who actually does care, has a massive f-word aneurysm like this one, all over your timeline…