The games people are

Yeah I screwed that up, I need a copywriter. Let me explain that title… I used to know this girl, she might have been a girl, I never spoke to her but then the same could be said about me to be honest. She and I were something of blogging twinsies at one stage — or at least some people thought, they actually seemed to think we were the same person. One stalker in particular could not make out small differences, she was American, me an Aussie, she was a philosophy student waitress – I was a science student ex-whore.

Blondes all look the same I guess, even on screen with a fake avatar.

We’d had abusive upbringings, hers was longer term, mine more violent, hers more mental mine more physical. But you know – details. I did like her, she seemed to like me, enough to confide some pretty deep secrets, personal and lighter but nevertheless girl things like — who we wanted to Kill – Marry – Fuck kind of thing. You know what game right? Right down to the details of who what and when was done to make us this.

In a written world I find it hard to read things like confidence, I came of age in the streets and if you didn’t take – you didn’t eat so I have front, it’s maybe bordering on psychotic aggression, ahem. Though behind long blonde locks, smokey make up and an affected availability I did so often, it’s my rest face no one sees that coming. This is not often vibeable in the written word. But she had a kind of matching dagger, though hers was more the common bitch flavoured not psycho candy as the song goes. She was fragile and I never was, I even find that hard to process, still years removed from my Dickensian life experiences. Ah dick jokes.

There must be an air to women ‘like’ us though, an irresistible magnet that is detectable or possibly able to translate to the kind of blog thing that was big then – whatever it is that sets off the mechanism in aspiring saviour/predator types.

I sometimes neg blondes about being stupid and then I go do that very same thing – and my blonde, well it lives in a bottle now, has done ever since puberty. How like when you need something the most it fucks right off. Men love damaged women, fragility especially I note, though I dislike fragile I pretend it often for a lot of money per hour, I never really examined it… Though, dunno it kind of eludes me how that is attractive

“All art is erotic.”
Gustav Klimt

That girl, the one like me – we had a fight one day, as women are like to do — usually with those most like us and those that we are closest to. And she never spoke to me again, I did apologies and it was my fault for being a bitch to her because I could, but it was her or me, I knew that was coming so even without thinking I thought to be the first to do the stabbing. Something I dislike about my character is that I know it’s wrong, but I do it because – it’s probably why punchy men punch, is it?

Sadly part of my personal healing process was to accept my tending towards the bitchy, it’s only after you work those things out, accept them, learn you can offer other defence/offence that you can put the gun down. Conversely you also don’t poke the dog that bit you, which I guess, is the horse she rode out of my town on.

I was never big, I missed a small window where at high school I might have been an alpha female but I know what it is now – that feeling of striking a ball squarely in the sweet spot of a bat, albeit metaphoric. For the diminutive of arse victories are more often about defamation rather than pulling an actual bloody sword from your foe but murder is murder and eventually if you are not someone who has a “…opath” on the end of the description in your medical profile its your weapon of choice.

When I say you, we or us, I mean me, it’s an Australian thing, sorry, we are a race descended from criminals, lots of what we do isn’t the proper way.

She’s far from the only body I’ve crawled over to reach – whatever the hell I was reaching for, but evidence enough that once you become aggressive it’s a hard thing to shake off. Not that I have an excuse or that I am a better person now, I still think the rules of the jungle are more resilient than the benign state of being I try to follow now. I feel a lot like Dorian Grey, portrait and all.

So my slings and arrows turn up on my hidden portrait and I feel them even if no one else is aware, Even her, having done the thing I also know what it is to have been on the receiving end of slander. I’d feel the damage that snarkiness would do and I willingly – almost looked forward to it. Masochism is as intrinsic to my experience of life but is it thought? Am I forgiving myself for bastardry by citing nature and nurture?

I also wonder if there isn’t a generational dissociative disorder going on in me, or humans in general, how can we do this to each other knowing full well what it is to hurt, but doing the hurting anyway – with relish masked as righteousness. It’s so hard to actually know a person, but it’s not hard to judge them and punish them is it?

There was a song that used to play in a cafe I used to visit in my late teens, I think they only owned one CD and it played on loop, it used to annoy me but now I think about that song often, it’s called Monsters by Something For Kate, old Aussie band, I’d write it out but my relationship to it but – well they sum up everything I’ve ever written and especially in this post in so many less words. I wish I’d been an artist instead of a greedy, selfish snipe.

Oh well, the milk is spilt, I must remember to get some more at the shops.