Tattoos, Part 7

this is my first tattoo i’ve been wanting it for the last...: "

this is my first tattoo i’ve been wanting it for the last 2 years.  I Minored in photography at school but I’ve always been extremely passionate about photography.  I got this done because no matter where i am i want to have a camera on me at all times.
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Tattoos, Part 8

ilovefat:

thethickness:

beautykills:

Hentai_panda: "

ilovefat:

thethickness:

beautykills:

Hentai_panda

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Bettie Page

sensualities:


cassket:

Bettie Page: "

sensualities:

cassket:

Bettie Page

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Can't Be A Daddy's Girl No More

I've been putting off writing this post for a while. Because it hurts. Every little girl is supposed to be able to depend on her daddy; he is supposed to be the one man in her life that will never let her down. But mine has. My father has broken my heart over and over again, as well as several others.

Everything used to be okay. Growing up my family was "normal." Or at least I thought it was. It wasn't until I was out of college and back home that I learned my father had had an affair with my mother's best friend. And apparently on the day of my father's 40th surprise birthday party, my mother found a letter tucked in the front door jamb. I was eleven, my brother was nine.

Throughout my high school years I had begun to suspect my father of running around, and my suspicion became heightened after he was arrested for his first DUI, right after my 16th birthday. That was when his alcohol problem spilled out into the open. Pop was more of a passive drunk, though. He would drink, then work the room with his charismatic self, go upstairs and pass out. Never got a hangover, never raised his voice or his hand to any of us. It was when he got behind the wheel of a car that he became dangerous.


After his first DUI, he made an attempt to quit drinking. But I'm almost positive the affairs didn't stop. Over the years I would confront him, and that was not an easy task, being a teenager and calling my own father out. And every time, he denied it. But I wasn't stupid, and neither was my mother.

My parents' marriage quickly deteriorated after the skeletons started coming out of the closet. I still can't believe my mother let my father stay after she found out about the first affair. As soon as my brother left for college, both him and I urged her to leave him. But she was scared, and I understand now why women stay in abusive relationships. It's out of fear of the unknown. The emotional and mental torment my father poured onto my mother trickled down to my brother and I, and we've become bitter towards him for it. We used to defend my father in a sense, to members of Ma's family.

"If you're going to talk shit on him, don't do it in front of me. He's always going to be my father, because his blood runs through my veins too whether you like it or not."

But now it doesn't really matter. My father has left my mother a crumbled mess. She's had to hold herself up for twenty-five years, leaving me with questions floating around in my head like, "Was he ever really a husband? Was ever really a father?

And the answer to those questions is no. There's so much more to the story, but ultimately the reason Ma and I have to sell the house is because of him. The reason I have yet to have a healthy relationship with another man is because of him. He was able to walk away and get off scot-free. He has a mother to live with, whereas both of Ma's parents have passed away.

He lives in his own world, his own personal hell which he created for himself, and his guilt consumes him. But that doesn't do anyone whose life he's destroyed any good. I may have been a daddy's girl when I was little, but I can't be a daddy's girl no more.

Beautiful

via galadarling.com: "

via galadarling.com

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Dirty

skinfaxe:

(via clockworkbrain): "

skinfaxe:

(via clockworkbrain)

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Rich

via i17.tinypic.com: "

via i17.tinypic.com

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Built Like Me

ilovefat:

heyfatchick:

Tara Lynn
(via her Heffner Management...: "

ilovefat:

heyfatchick:

Tara Lynn

(via her Heffner Management portfolio)

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This Is How I Feel

altporn:

ALTphotos Photography Community :: For Creative...: "

altporn:

ALTphotos Photography Community :: For Creative Photography

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The Beatles Songs [2010] (via markomello)

The Beatles Songs [2010] (via markomello): "

The Beatles Songs [2010] (via markomello)

"

Heavy Things, Part 4

Terrifying predictions made almost a year ago are slowly becoming more and more concrete. I've been living in the same house, the house I will refer to as 313, since I was eight years old, and it will be going on the market soon. My mother has put her heart and soul into making this house a home. Over the years, every single room has been remodeled, reflecting her tastes, with the exception of the bedroom I spend most of my time in, which I did myself.

The swimming pool that she swam in as a teenager was moved from my grandparents' backyard over here to 313 back in 1992. It was a tiny, 12x24 above ground pool with my grandfather's handwriting on sections of the aluminum sides. On any given day over the summers, there'd be loads of people packed in like sardines on our tiny deck, sitting in beach chairs, MomMom sitting in her corner where we rigged a picnic umbrella attached to the railing with bungee cords so she could be comfortable watching her family frolic and play from her perch as the matriarch. PopPop would drag a chair to the other side of the yard and sit under a big tree that used to be there, and that was his perch as the patriarch of the family from which he watched us all act like crazy people, puffing away on his cigar and laughing at us.

In 2005, the above ground pool came down, and Ma made the decision to use the money she inherited when MomMom passed away to have a gorgeous 20x40 inground pool put in. More decking was built, a fence installed circling the pool, a retaining wall built with rocks my brother would find on the side of the road, and flowerbeds that Ma tends to every summer sit atop it. There's a recessed space in the concrete that surrounds the pool where a piece of the aluminum with PopPop's handwriting is nestled under plexiglass. When the pool was officially opened for the first time, we dedicated it to MomMom and PopPop, and my mother, father, brother, and I held hands and all four of us jumped in at the same time. Our backyard is referred to as Club Evans - Everyone welcome. It's a place where our family and friends gather; where we all eat, drink, and are merry. It's an escape from reality.

There was a beautiful sunroom added on to the back of the house as well, built by my brother and a few guys that worked for my father in 2004. During the Christmas season, an eleven foot tree with white twinkling lights and adorned with all of MomMom's Santa Claus ornaments sits right in front of the wall of windows. It was in this room that my brother proposed to his wife.

313 has been a host to birthday parties, Christmas parties, graduations, showers, anniversaries, surprise parties, even a funeral reception, over all of these years. Ma never had any qualms about opening her home to guests. But for all the good memories that reside here, there are just as many bad ones. It was in the living room where I came downstairs to find a state trooper waiting to arrest my father for a DUI in 2000. It was in the kitchen, the family room, and my parents' bedroom where bombs were dropped, mostly my father's doing. Sometimes I think more tears have been shed in this house than good times had.

Some people have actually had the nerve to say to my mother that she's spoiled and materialistic. These people have never lived in this home. They aren't the ones who lie in their bed alone at night sick with worry about what tomorrow will bring. All these people are just outsiders looking in. They don't know that reason behind the new cars, the material things, was my father's guilt. Ma traded in the Navigator after the divorce because she could not afford the car payment and my father had hit rock bottom. What these people do not know is that the LEAST my father could do for all the strife he has caused is keep Ma in the house that she built into a home with her own blood, sweat, and tears. I speak both literally and figuratively. But he refuses to acknowledge that he only has one place to go but up. He chooses to reside in the hell he built around himself.

So it's just me and Ma in this house. And we cannot afford the mortgage anymore. We don't know what's going to happen, all we know is that we have to abandon everything that is familiar to us. We don't know where we are going to live. We don't know what we have to get rid of. We don't even know if the house will sell. We have to accept that it is time to start over.

Confessions

I smoke too much.
I drink too much.
I have an addictive personality.
I suffer from depression and anxiety.
I sleep too much.
I chew on the inside of my mouth constantly.
I'm very loud.
I miss my MomMom so bad it hurts.
I'd pick sex over food.
I'm struggling with my relationship with God.
I still live at home.
I have not had a healthy relationship since my Ex.
I am a beautiful disaster.
I'm selfish.
I'm broke.
My car looks like it was dipped in "dent-paint."
Sometimes I feel like I can never do anything good enough.
I want to move to Southern California.
I replace love with sex.
I'm an attention whore.
I love to read.
Music is one of my passions.
My relationship with my father is still unstable.
I wear my heart on my sleeve.
I am overly sensitive.
I have an alter-ego.

I am flawed, but I am ME. I am YOU. I am EVERYTHING.

Baby Steps

I've decided that my outlook on life needs an overhaul. This is going to be a long and painstaking process, but after much consideration and meditating on this fact, I've learned that there are things about me that need to change. I am not becoming the woman I want to be. I am not living up to my potential in any area of my life. I am letting my depression and anxiety get the best of me, and it is hindering spiritual and mental growth.

But it all starts with baby steps. Little changes I can make on a daily basis that may seem menial but will only pave the way to make bigger changes that will help me to become a better person and purge some of this negativity I have hanging over my head like a black storm cloud.

Baby steps. Like emptying the ashtray after no more than three cigarettes butts have accumulated in it.

Like getting my car's oil changed on a regular basis (if my finances allow.)

Setting my alarm a few minutes earlier in order to get to work on time not just most of the time, but all of the time.

Baby steps. Like keeping my desk relatively free of clutter.

I've already proven to myself that I can keep my checkbook balanced, stop after one or two beers, and turn down sex with someone I'm not even into.

There's going to be trials and tribulations along the way, and I have to keep this in mind. I will be tempted to drink myself into oblivion, and while that's okay for me every once in a while, it doesn't have to happen every time I go out. I may fall prone to the occasional one night stand, but I don't have to go out and seek one every night.

So it's all about baby steps. This is just the beginning.

The Demon Lover by Erica Jong

Dedicated to Buzzard

Unable to bear the falsehoods -
the girls calling up
each time you came
to my bed -
I fled
And now I dream of you

Knowing you are
dreaming of me,
knowing we will always be
each other's muse, forbidden lover,
witch and warlock
joined by a filament of flesh,
lover through the looking glass.

I dream of you
as the witch
beside her husband's hearth
dreams of the grandmaster
of the coven,
dreams of burning stones
that sting the flesh,
while her good husband
strokes her rump,
muttering words
of tame domestic love.

You are my demon,
the devil in my flesh,
the wild child,
the boy with eyes of flame,
the bad seed I took
into my body,
that infected needle
I craved
more deeply
than health.

On every seashore
I see you waving your arms
out of the whitecaps
as you drown
only to be reborn
in the foam
between my legs.

In every bed
you appear, sexual dybbuk,
mocking my lovers
with your twinkling blue [brown] eyes,
and the crooked cane of your cock
smelling of the pit.

You are trouble, double trouble,
triple trouble,
the wrecker of peace,
but you make
my cauldron boil.

I dream of you always
as I lie
in the sheltering arms
of another.
I dream of you
as the condemned witch
dreams of her end
at the stake,

when, lashed to the burning pole,
she will offer up her flesh
to become smoke,
her hair to become ash,
her soul to be carried away
on the wings of the air,
marrying, marrying, marrying
the final fire.

Tattoos, Part 6

This was my very first piece. I have always loved sacred hearts, but I wanted mine to be different from the traditional ones floating around. The word "salvation" is above the heart to always remind me of my faith.

Tattoos, Part 5

This tattoo I did just for me. The girl represents Jimi Hendrix's Dolly Dagger. I know that her "dagger" is disproportionate, but that's just how I like to do things. I wanted a realistic pinup, and my guy did a good job. The flowers are a continuation of ones I already had on my hip, to bring the two pieces together. They are petunias, one of the various nicknames my grandmother had for me.

Tattoos, Part 4

This is an exact replica of my late grandmother's rosary. The grapevines symbolize the ones my grandfather grew in their backyard to make wine. RMP - Rita Marie Papili, my maternal grandmother. OSP - Olympio Serafino Papili, my maternal grandfather. RLB - Ralph Leighton Brown, my paternal grandfather. All of whom have passed away.

Heavy Things, Part 3

I know that putting God first is essential in order to get my life on point. But is there anything you do, personally, if you've ever felt that you have forgotten to do so? I am struggling bigtime with getting my relationship with God back in line.


I never forget to put God first. I can forget everybody except God, because there have been times when all I had was God. Truth be told, all you ever really have is God. I mean you have to know that we are here for so much more than to "party, party, party...get wasted". There is so much more to your being here on this Earth now. You are here for a divine purpose. There's a reason you've been through all the trials and tribulations. If you woke up this morning, congratulations you have another chance. Thank God I was raised by a woman who stressed how significant it is to keep God on the front line of life. And this isn't about church either. This is about falling on your knees, right in your bedroom or standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom and just surrendering to that which is bigger than your issues.

My Version of College

I went to college at this tiny photography and graphic design school right outside of Philadelphia, in the Germantown area. It was a two year college where I received my associates degree in photography. I was accepted to the University of Delaware and West Chester as well, but I always knew I wanted to be some type of artist and photography was my thing.

Aside from the actual getting up and going to class part, we did some dumb shit during those years. The students lived in off-campus apartments amongst normal, law-abiding citizens, which wasn't always smooth sailing. My roommates and I made it work for the most part.

My first year I lived with Jess, who I met while still in high school because our dads worked together. We shared an apartment with Heidi, who was easy to get along with until the end of our second semester. Jess's boyfriend Jim stayed at the apartment often, but it didn't bother me even though her and I shared a bedroom. I think it was also because we were three 18-year-old girls living by ourselves in Germantown as well.

Art school is very different from "real college." A lot of interesting characters. Our apartment became Grand Central Station because we had the best pot. And tons of booze. I smoked enough pot that year to last me a lifetime. The first time we got Heidi to smoke with us she ended up with food poisoning, of course from the dinner I had cooked. You can imagine our horror at having to drive her to the emergency room while the three of us were high as a kite. We didn't know if she was having some sort of reaction to the pot, or the feta cheese chicken. She was throwing up everywhere and I remember making her hold a plastic grocery bag while she sat in the passenger seat of my car on the way to the hospital. Turns out it was just an allergic reaction to feta, she was sick for about another day, but made a full recovery. She decided to stick with booze after that little episode.

We partied so much and did so many things that were just...wrong. And we have a lot of it on film (yes, it was back when we developed and printed our work the old-school way.) Just about every apartment had it's own Wall of Shame. And if you were on it, you had to autograph the photo.

My first semester I also met Tristan. Oh, Tristan. He was sexy. Typical douchebag, but definitely sexy. Tall, dirty blond hair, bedroom eyes, amazing drummer. He was also the male slut of the school. (Come to find out it was an act, people just assumed he was. He recently told me that a lot of girls just gave him head, and he only slept with a select few.) We were formally introduced at a 311 show. I coordinated the outing for a big group of us, because by the second week of school, everyone knew how obsessed I was with 311. Tristan's roommate, Anthony, convinced him to go because Chad Sexton is one of the best drummers around. To this day, if asked, he will credit me for getting him into 311. After that concert we were inseparable, for the most part. The first time we had sex was a disaster though. It was after an impromptu party at my apartment. We were shitfaced, half-passed out in the hallway, because every available space was taken, even my own bed. We ended up fucking in the bathroom, me up on the sink and him standing in front of me. And because he was so tall, and I'm relatively short, it was quite difficult. It didn't last very long, and he shot a load all over my favorite pair of pants which were lying on the floor. I think we even succeeded in waking up my roommate and her boyfriend who were asleep in the next room.

The Black and White darkroom at school could be a very happenin' place. There was a CD player in there, and everyone always had to battle this one weirdo who insisted on playing Enya when the rest of us wanted to listen to Veruca Salt, Pink Floyd, Phish, Rusted Root, etc. I miss being able to create my art with my own hands the way I could with the developer, fixer, and wash. It was easy to spend hours working on one single print. My second year was devoted to all color printing, but I couldn't give up black and white film, so the majority of my work was shot with black and white film and printed on color paper. The tones I was able to achieve were so much more appealing to me than just shooting and printing in color.

To just list some of the non school-related shit we did - blunt rides up and down Kelly Drive. Trips to the local diner to see how much we could freak out the waitress. Nights when those of us who lived in the same apartment building would all have dinner together. Lasagna Night. Shrimp Night. Margarita Night. Potluck Night. Getting high and going over to Tristan's only to have him call me out because all I could do was giggle at him. Hanging out with Bucket and Ryan, two of Jersey's finest. Having people over to the apartment, only to get them fucked up and see how much it took to make them puke. Not intentionally of course, because it was always disgustingly messy. Our credo was, "The first night you stay at Jess & Dana's, you're gonna barf." And for some reason we took pride in that. I brought up some God-awful concoction my uncle came up with and our hippie friend Lindsey drank it all, only to be viciously sick and blame me for it, after I had warned her. My uncle LOVED that story. Fuck, even those that could hang chose our place to be the one they got sick at. My own girls who came to visit me - Jenny, Lisa, Samantha, Jaime. One night Jenny thought she was dying. I laid in bed reading while she sat in the middle of the bedroom floor with her head hung over the trash can. I told her I wasn't taking her to the ER, so she had better puke. She really thought she was dying. "Just wait for it, hon, just wait for it. You'll feel so much better." And once she puked, she was fine. I knew what I was doing.

Wow, we were fucking stupid. But really we were just kids out on our own for the first time, trying to discover who we were, what made us tick, and our niche in the photography or graphic design arts. We had this one teacher for large format photograhy, Vlad, who everyone HATED in the beginning. We hated him because he made us strive for perfection. By the end of spring semester, our hate morphed into love for the instructor who would look at our work, tell us it sucked, and make us go back and do it all over again. It was a piece I did for his class that won in the Student Choice category in the school's annual photgraphy competition. When it was unveiled, Vlad was standing next to me and I turned to him and said (more like yelled) "Would you LOOK at that? That's MINE!" And then I stuck my tongue out at him. He just shook his head and laughed, which was his way of giving approval.

My second year at school I was much more subdued. I was going home every weekend because I just felt the need to be there. My parents were going through a very difficult time in their marriage, my mother was having major complications from knee surgery, and I was at a point in my friendship/relationship with my Ex where I was completely devastated. A lot of tears were shed that year, and it was very difficult to balance school and my personal issues. When it came time to start putting together my final portfolio, I was at a loss. My original idea was to do a series of portrait based on song lyrics, because I wanted to incorporate my love of music into my art. It didn't quite work out that way. After sitting down with my advisor, we determined that the best way for me to try and deal with my emotional turmoil was to capture it on film. All year I had been observing friends, family, and my home life through the lense of my camera anyway, so after sifting through my mountains of film and contact sheets (which are basically 8x10 sized index prints) I was able to give birth to my portfolio, and it was cathartic.

I may not have been the best photographer to receive my degree, but I was proud of myself. And I learned so many valuable lessons that I might have missed had I attended a tradtional four-year university. So I settled for experiencing "that kind of college life" through friends that went to the big schools. I've slept on the tiled floors of dorm rooms, showered in communal bathrooms where I had to wear flip flops, broke my toe while drunk on Bacardi 151 and left a trail of blood up three flights of stairs, went to various sporting events, etc. But on my own I learned not to be alone in a room with a guy who's consumed almost an entire bottle of vodka. (I owed Jess, Ryan and Bucket my life for helping to get me out of that situation.) How to handle my alternator crapping out on me right in the middle of the intersection of Broad and South Streets, to stay away from apartments whose tenants have an arrest warrant out for them, and to trust myself and only myself (with the exception of Jess and Lindsey) when shit hit the fan.

Oh, college. It was beautiful, it was dirty, it was rich.

Tattoos, Part 3

This happened this past Saturday.
It says, “I love you the...: "

This happened this past Saturday.

It says, “I love you the universe”

You can say I love you this much or that much. My Nanny and I got to the point where we just say I love you the universe.

My Nanny and I say this to each other every time we say goodbye, whether on the phone, in person, in a card, etc.

The text is my Nanny’s handwriting so it is as if she wrote it on me.

She got the same phrase tattoed on her ankle but in my handwriting.

I love my Nanny.

"

Via Fuck Yeah, Tattoos!

This has inspired me to get "I love you a bushel and a peck" in my own grandmother's handwriting tattooed somewhere, someday. That's what she would always say to us grandkids as she gave us a great big squeeze.

Tattoos, Part 2

via: "

via

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Via Fuck Yeah, Tattoos!

Tattoos, Part 1

via: "

via

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Via Fuck, Yeah Tattoos!

Excerpts From...

"...the illogic of fact has made the history of beautiful women coextensive with the history of miserable, depressed women."

"These days the only female role more entrancing than the darkly, distraughtly bad is the small town sweetheart who drips sugar and saccharine for all the world to see but is in fact full of lust and evil (which are one and the same in woman) and malice and bad thoughts in her secret, sinful Jungian shadow life."

"...the world does not have room for women with big, strong personalities - it simply will not tolerate their existence past a certain point, so they just kind of have to behave periodically - if they're smart."

"But it is strange that all the qualities that are supposed to make a woman desirable also make her a target of disquiet and distrust."

"...it seems that male fear of world's free-wheeling, devastating, difficult and complicated women is actually obviating a hell of a good time."

"Most guys do not want to get involved with a girl on fire - the ones who do seem only to want to add fuel to the flames, but very few seem interested in finding a bucket of water."

"Feminism, and art that has a feminist agenda, serves to remind us of all the things we could be, all the shackles we can shed from our lives if we wish. It reminds us that we can be anything we want to be this time around."

"People romanticize insanity because they believe it is the thing behind the art; in fact, it is the thing in front of the art, the roadblock and police barrier and phantom tollbooth that you are pushing against."

"Linda Evangelista said she doesn't get out of bed for less than $15,000 a day. Somewhere on earth there are women who don't get INTO bed for less than $15,000 a night. And I guess the rest of us have learned to settle."

"What is anyone going to say to the many of us out there who have been confronted by some version of a man's violent temper and have found ourselves excited, pulled in, taken in, turned on? How can we deny the draw, the obsessive grab of images and pain, whose force has no equal and goes unopposed in a society that has denied us the ecstasy of a god, of a religious explosion of delight, so that happiness has come to seem ho-hum and only our pain - our deep, bloody, undeniable pain - gives us the sense that we can feel at all?"

"...raise [their] daughters as if it's possible that they will grow up to be President of the United States or CEO of Microsoft or the doctor who finds a cure for AIDS or the economist who discovers a way to end the inversely proportionate relationship between unemployment and inflation. Raise your daughters to laugh at any man who even THINKS about throwing a punch, and raise them to be people with Filofaxes full of activities that are too fun and important and fascinating to be disturbed by a blow to the right eye. Raise your daughters to always think that any unpleasant situation - be it with a man or a manager or any of the expendable and fruitless annoyances that ruin our lives - just isn't worth it. Nobody NEEDS this, I don't want it, I'm outta here, there are better things to do, anyone who disagrees can fuck off and die."

My Masochistic Heart

If a person can be considered a masochist for physical pain, is it also possible to be one for emotional pain? I don't mean the type of humiliation and mindfucking that can go on during play, I mean heartache, rejection, things humans encounter every day in their own emotional world. Could it be the reason some of us just cannot seem to rid ourselves of things (or people) that are bad for us, that do nothing to benefit us? Instead of, or in addition to, being a pain slut, I guess I can say I'm a heartache slut. A glutton for depression and misery. Maybe it's why I go for the unattainable and let myself become attached...to the womanizers, the married ones, the ones with bedroom eyes and sinister smiles. I read somewhere that art does not come from happiness. So it's the artist/masochist/manic depressive in me that spills itself onto paper. If I go for the unattainable because there's no fear of getting trapped. And I keep doing it over and over again, savoring every punishment, every tear, every moment curled up in bed hiding under the covers and wishing I could stay there forever. It's the equivalent of having my hair pulled, of being smacked across the face and having my ass beat while being fucked at the same time.

But at least those bruises fade within a week or so. The emotional ones, the ones left on my soul, can last a lifetime. A bruised soul and a heart that's been carved out with a blunt and rusty knife can leave one scorned, guarded, and un-trusting of any new human being that enters one's life.

I guess when you're a masochist like me, you welcome every new creature with anticipation of any new sensation they may inflict upon you, regardless of the consequences. I pay no mind to danger signs, warnings, or red flags because it's "Fuck you all I'm doing it for ME." It's selfishness and self-destruction making mad, passionate love. The outcome is usually a nuclear warhead detonating within my ribcage, but it's not enough to stop me in my tracks. It's an intangible drug.

Go ahead baby, sweep me off my feet, make me feel like a Goddess, make a connection with me and stoke the fire between us. Then drop me like dead weight because deep down it's what I've been expecting all along.

He'll just inspire more writing and add to my cynicism. Another one to deliver a blow with a cat of nine tails. And I relish in it. I bite my lip until I feel the blood run down my chin because the pain feels so good. Do I understand it? No. Do I care? Not really. It gives me another reason to put my pen to the paper.

I want to tie him down and torture him until he begs for mercy; treat him like MY whore, MY little fucktoy. I want to tease his body until he's on the brink of insanity and his cock is so hard that he could drill cement with it. Why do I fantasize this way about this one particular man-child that I've already conquered? Because I'm not in love with him. There is no emotion involved. It is sex in its rawest form, animalistic, sweaty, messy. All he has to do is tease my pussy with the head of his cock and I'm on the brink of coming...

So what about the other ones? Why let the other ones dominate me, whether they know they're doing it or not? Why the ones I fall hard for? It's the men that, for a short period of time I think I could spend the rest of my life with, that I want to fuck me like I'm their bitch, like I'm their cockslut, and force me to go down on them so hard that my eyes water and my nose starts to run. It's these men whose hands I want to feel around my throat, that I want to tie ME up and torture me mercilessly.

PAIN IS LOVE AND LOVE IS PAIN
LOVE IS SUICIDE AND LOVE DIES HARD

Heavy Things, Part 2

From the summer of 2008

We Pip women are cursed. Some might look at it as blessed, but only us women in the inner circle know it's a curse. We give and we give and we give of ourselves and expect nothing in return. But it gets to the point where we become exhausted. The point where we need someone to take care of us. I've watched two generations of Pip women exemplify this. I thought all I wanted was to give of myself, to the bearer, the keeper, but maybe it's time to turn the tables and break this curse.
Ha! To do that in a man's world? I might as well smoke my cigarette before I go to stand in front of the firing squad. Unbeknownst to the men lined up with their shotguns, it will take more than a shotgun shell full of gunpowder to kill me. I AM INVINCIBLE. I AM STRONG. I WILL FIGHT THE BATTLE, even if I have to do it on my own. My body may be temporary, but my spirit will live on, through my children, my children's children, on and on.
I'm not calling for all women on Earth to form a coup de tate, because it's not about rebellion. It's about finding your place, as a woman, in a fucked up world. Finding the place that makes you happy, whether it be barefoot and pregnant, the CEO of corporate America, or the girl behind the register at the grocery store. When I look around me, it seems that women have forgotten how to GLOW, how to shine from the inside out, and if I can do it in a short skirt and stiletto heels, even though I may be dying on the inside, anyone can do it. If my mother can do it, even as she was aware that her husband was running around on her, even as she watched both of her parents succumb to cancer, anyone can do it.

From what I've observed in my short lifetime, women are the problem solvers. The ones we go to when we are sick, and they make us scrambled eggs or pastina soup because those things can heal everything from a broken heart to a broken sternum.
It's really not men that cause the inner wars. If a woman shows her inner strength, if she emanates that Glow, she is automatically dubbed intimidating, and if she thinks with her Cunt, she's automatically dubbed a slut.

I'm not certain anymore of what the future holds for me, and it's a terrifying thought. I feel as though I'm back at square one: like I'm 18 years old, being forced to decide a major, thrown headfirst into the world of sex and relationships. Six months ago I had my life planned out. I had a partner, a good job, I was going to school to end up one day with a PharmD after my name. I saw the white picket fence clearly. And then I started feeling trapped. Trapped and scared of what it would be like ten years from now. Would I be content? Would I be happy? Would I wake up every day ready to face the world? When I realized that the answer to those questions was NO, I did what I had to do - I got out.
I needed to figure out who BELLA was. Not Bella, the other half of Brent. Not Bella, the student. Not Bella, the pharmacy tech. And I'm still working on it.
Will I be the Pip woman who finally breaks the curse? I feel as though I'm destined to find that happy medium, somewhere bewtween the good and dutiful housewife/mother and the powerful executive/artist/whatever.

Heavy Things, Part 1

I asked this question and feel the need to post the incredibly insightful answer.


How did you succeed in getting your *ish* together, and then keep it that way? I struggle everyday with the fact that I'm 26, still live at home and haven't decided whether or not I even want to get married. I work hard, pay my bills, write devoutly in my journal, and have the best family in world, but I am the black sheep. I feel as though because I'm not married, don't have a family, and think with my creative side more than anything, I'm considered an outsider. Since following you on Twitter, I consider you a strong female figure in my life, who's opinion I would greatly value. Any suggestions for snapping out of it?


Thank you for considering me to be a strong female figure in your life. That means the world to me, really. Well, to be honest with you I don't have my *ish* together. Yes I have my own home and a few books on the shelf, among other things...but there is so much more to life. There are still many things I need to do. I am a work in progress. I do not have all the answers. I am a human being, just like you. I am a woman. I get depressed, moody, sad, and distraught too. For me, it was losing my mother 3 years ago that was the catalyst and kick in the ass to get my shit together. I've always been a go-getter. I come from the hood and I've always had to struggle. In addition, I come from a legacy of strong women who would drop you off in the deep end of the pool of life and say "SWIM". That has made the difference. Stuggle, losing the people and things that were a security blanket, and much heartbreak has made me the teflon woman that I am. I never believed that I needed to be married to get ahead. Although I've been there and done that too. Marriage was not for me. It simply slowed down my speed. It was dead weight, so to speak. And unless you have yourself together and love yourself, you cannot bring anything to a relationship but a mess. Who gives a damn about what others think about you being creative? If you are creative...be creative. Who cares what others think? Most people are ignorant and completely delusional. Fly your own kite! You are only a black sheep if you think and say that you are. As long as you keep God first, everything will fall into place in divine time. Trust your heart.