Real Blog. Chapter 3. The blue dress

Today is the start of a brand new life. My medicine arrived. A good friend commented that I should be on the stimulants for narcolepsy. I haven’t answered that comment along with so many others. I am finally off Adderall and on a medicine for narcolepsy. I am that level of bi-polar dependent on a whole lot of a rare anti-psychotic designed for PTSD. To combat the sedation I require medicine for narcolepsy. It costs 800 dollars a month. I had to beg the manufacturer to give me the medicine for free. I’m a very lucky woman to have good private mental health care. I have been basically sleeping for almost two weeks. I am suddenly awake and at my full potential. The first thing I did was go back to the very first blog and look for new comments to begin my replies.

I’m still new to this site. The ‘my news’ section was a whole new thing for me. I replied to one man’s comment about his love of the way I described my panties. Even if I don’t reply I know who jumped on my blog and dived off. I asked him why I am a ‘flavor of the week.’ He laughed at me for not knowing he deleted me from his friend’s list. His explanation was he desired quality not quantity. You have to understand for one weekend I must have answered 20 page comments where he professed complete fascination with me. I slammed him with the truth he bitches about quantity but he threw me a shitload of redundant page comments. I moved on from the issue and reconnected with hotrocker. We chatted for hours. It was glorious. We worked through a miscommunication and bonded past the issue. That’s the kind of friend I want.

I checked ‘my news’ comment to see the man who bitched about quantity tried to tell me I was disrespectful and he was just honest. Then even though I didn’t respond he had to post one more comment. Stop now. If there is one way to piss me off it is by telling me to stop commenting on my own damn blog. I accept that men will consider me a ‘a flavor of the week’ and drop me. It’s nothing I’m doing wrong. I’ve been sleeping so much I’ve barely posted in this blog. People are simply rude. However, not all men are that way. I also must adjust my blast on accepting couples. I just explained to another supportive couple that four bad people should not make me dismiss an open-minded couple who want to enter my life. I let anyone have a chance. Most men will walk by the open door and slam themselves against a brick wall trying to get me to be free porn. I make it so simple. All you have to do is read and post a comment somewhere. My PM box is always full. I will miss your message if you send me a PM. I am busy making deep replies to lovely comments on my blog or page.

One man may have truly saved my damn world. I did pawn almost all my jewelry. It was enough for groceries not a computer. Scott in Australia was my salvation. Not only has he offered to donate towards a new computer if I need it. He went a step further. He fixed this one. I trusted him to remote access my PC and clean it up. He also did something else I needed. My skype ID was an issue. It was my real name. I have erased all evidence I can find of it. It was posted all over the place. It was not safe. You can google a name and pay a company to provide a person’s address. Details like pictures and my hometown help narrow the search. However, letting my name out was a huge mistake. I have a new skype ID now which is safe. It will remain safe because I will only give it out to people who have read this blog and now to treat me like a lady and not a masturbation source.

Scott asked me if I was really sexual. The answer is yes. I’m a very sexual creature. I love getting men off. I get requests from so many men it would be idiotic to do it for a stranger. If you read this blog you realize I offer quantity. But fuck the man who accused me of not maintaining quality. He liked mini blogs about my panties. He had no interest in learning about my past. Then there are men who really want to know more of my story. It did start with a ‘to be continued’ feeling. So this is chapter 3. The blue dress. I am writing this for a new friend I call my prince. Our friendship started with his criticism for me to make my work shorter and simplify it.

Poor boy, I unleashed wrath about judging a person’s writing when they don’t write. It is a philosophy I will teach so many people. If you can’t paint then don’t make critical statements about another person’s painting. If you can’t build a house don’t find fault in an architect who can. So what if his foundation is cracked? You can’t build a box. How dare you judge a creative endeavor unless you can compete with a person who can? I never bitch about a shitty meal because for the love of God I could burn down my house boiling water.

In art school during any critique there was an unspoken rule never to say one negative thing before you praised something worth merit. I can handle criticism once I know a person. Now my prince could tell me ‘baby you got too complex about this or that’ and I would learn from the mistake. However, he hit me with the length issue before we became good friends. Now, we are each building up one another. I let him know that he is a very intelligent young man. He is Arabic and his English is excellent. I will never stop bragging on him because I can’t learn a foreign language. I could try with all my heart to learn Arabic and speak gibberish for life. I can write. I can make art. He can learn languages. I am trying to engage him in writing. I try to do it for all people. I can teach someone how to do what I do. I can edit. I also know that writing in Arabic and translating it into English will make him so damn fluent he can pass for American.

The blue dress is in my pictures twice. I show men what I looked like as a teenager because it’s sexy to see how a woman grows up. I’m also damn proud I don’t look that different. I am very picky about clothing. My sense of style is pretty damn good. For high school buying a dress for an event was a big deal. The women in my family love to dress up and look good. That blue dress is probably my crowning achievement. When I buy a dress I go for timeless. In a way my prince hurt my feelings by asking me why I would basically let myself go. I have an answer. But first let me describe the dress. It is a size nine. It is strapless. It is the perfect color blue with a floral embroidery pattern in the material. All I can say is that my senior year that damn dress looked like it was tailor made for my body. I looked at it one week ago. It is an hourglass. It was built for huge tits, a waist, hips and it is short enough not to need hemming. The top has a lace trim and so does the bottom. To wear it I had to by a corset to support my massive tits without straps.

I have so few pictures of my teenage years. Two of them feature that dress. One when I had my signature orange crown of ringlets. One when I had my long black hair with bangs. My hair has always shifted from orange to black depending on my acting roles. I know my body looks banging in the picture where my hair is orange. I prefer the picture with my black hair and the name badge halina which is not my name. The reason I let myself go is the tall boy standing next to me with that blue dress and orange hair. His name is Tim. He destroyed me twice. It takes a lot to destroy me. When you pull it off twice you are officially a monster.

I was a happy teen slut that refused a boyfriend for one main reason. Back to chapter one where I started to describe what made me different. My dad got me a job damn near the day I turned f******n working at the crooked restaurant he was a prep cook. We were dirt poor. My brother was eighteen and he hadn’t worked a day in his pampered life. I have always been an overachiever. My mother shouldn’t have let me go to work. She did for one reason. When she was f******n to sixteen she worked at summer labor camps picking and processing tobacco. If you ever get a chance to read about the sixties movement to turn teenagers into hard labor during the summer at tobacco plantations you should learn about it. For my mother it was freedom from an abusive household. It let her buy nice clothes and feed herself. She wanted me to have that same freedom. It was not c***d abuse. It was my mother teaching me how to be self-sufficient. My dad just knew it meant he could use me for d**g money.

It was my secret life. I told no one about my job. It was highly i*****l. At that time a f******n year old could occasionally score a job but was restricted by how much they could work. They had enforced breaks and wages were closely monitored. My job was over forty hours a week. I worked every school night from five to ten. On Sunday I worked from six am until ten pm. Some weeks I worked all Saturday as well. I was a ‘busgirl.’ I wouldn’t think I was abused if I simply cleaned tables. No this was real c***d labor. I greeted each customer, sat them, handed out menus, explained specials, took drink orders, filled them, prepared salads, soups, desserts, refilled drinks and then I cleaned the goddamn table. There would be five servers with four or five tables. I was in charge of taking care of every table in the goddamn place.

I wouldn’t bitch as much but the number one rule in a restaurant is that hot food gets out no matter what. Half the time a server didn’t even put the food on the table. I was also running the credit card machine. I was also taking orders. Basically I could wait on an entire table while another woman was tipped. For all the work I did my boss paid me three dollars an hour. Each night a server decided how much to tip me. No restaurant could pull off doing that to a f******n year old girl anymore. The world has moved on and what my boss did would shut him down. I was paid in cash under the table. If I described that to a close female friend she would report me to ‘help me.’ What my spoiled little cunt friends didn’t realize is how much I learned.

I had little wanker call me out on being a malicious and deviant woman he underestimated. That job trained me how to get what I need in life by any means necessary.
It was the perfect location. Right by my house is a tiny airport for wealthy people that fly for pleasure. We also have an aviation school. We have a major military aircraft instillation, an annual airshow, and an aviation museum. People who own planes are filthy rich. Our restaurant was a hole in the wall shack beside a landing strip. It was also known in the flight circuit as the ‘five thousand dollar hamburger.’ Aviation fuel is no laughing matter. A good hamburger is no laughing matter.

My boss was smart and everything in the place was handmade. From the salad dressing to the French fries. It didn’t have a menu. It had a book of food options. You could get a hot dog as big as your leg. You could also get chicken marsala, veal, scallops, wine and gigantic steaks. He made the best fucking marinara you could imagine. He made the best chicken salad you could dream of. My dad did a lot of the cooking but he couldn’t handle the line. He made sauces, soups, rice pilaf, potato salad and coleslaw. If you lived in that town and ate there once you came back. Servers knew better than to leave. It was so oldschool they had to wear jean skirts.

They were mostly old ladies on meth. I loved them all. They loved me. I was always willing to go above and beyond my job to help them do their work. I made a shitload of money. My dad bitched from day one that his f******n year old daughter made more money than he did. It was one of the reasons he hated me.
I
learned how to work customers and servers like a cold hearted villain. New servers thought they could use me and pay me nothing. Other servers and the cooks tried to warn them not to fuck with me. My boss was also a sexually harassing p*******e. He couldn’t keep his hands off me. He found out I was performing at a local car show. It was one of my most embarrassing moments. I tried to take singing lessons. Jesus Christ I can’t sing. I paid for the lessons and I was obligated to sing one time in public. I wanted to die. I had to sing the song ‘lollipop.’ I was probably fifteen and performing with ten year olds. I decided to have fun with it. I wore tight jeans rolled up fifties style. I wore my signature boy’s white school uniform shirt barely buttoned. I had a pony tail with a fucking ribbon in it. I had whore red lipstick on. I even made sure my black bra was showing. If I had to sing I was determined to look like a vintage teenage slut.

You have to understand my father never saw me act or sing. He refused to attend one recital or play. My p*******e boss showed up and I had to sing lollipop while he perved out on me so hard I wanted to die. Then like he didn’t stalk me I had to walk up to him and let him rub a hard dick on me to ‘hug me’ and tell me how great I was. After that day my name officially changed at work. No one called me lynn. I was lollipop to everyone. I always broke dishes. If you heard something break everyone stopped and screamed lollipop. Customers learned my name was lollipop. When I got yelled at I was even called lollipop. New servers were schooled not to fuck with lollipop. They were warned that I would get their money. They were warned to tip me right. Each bitch tried me. It was a whole array of possibilities to take them out. I am no thief. I never took one dollar off a table. I didn’t have to.

Most of the time honesty was my only scheme. I would spot a new wealthy flier and see easy money. I told them I’m only f******n so I can’t be your waitress. I don’t get money left on a table. I will probably do everything but handle a cash payment without getting a tip. I could make it so brutal. I could slam a new waitress and tell her customers that she was outside smoking a cigarette and I am doing her job and she has no intention of tipping me for my work. Customers were drawn to me because I was pretty, sweet as sugar, eager to please and I could remember what they wanted if they were regulars. I could get a table’s drinks without asking them what they wanted. Because I had a whole restaurant at no point was I not working. The servers would stand there and chit chat. It was so obvious that wealthy customers did way more than hand me five bucks. They spent thousands on airplane fuel for that meal. It was no big deal to give me a hundred bucks and leave a server nothing.

It was no big deal to give us both a hundred bucks. That’s why servers never left. You couldn’t find a better place in town to be a waitress. I worked men. Men training to be pilots ate their near daily. They wanted to date me. They wanted to fly me around. They wanted to be around me. It fucked with their head that I was just f******n. So they tipped me hard. I was not a normal girl told not to get in cars with boys. My rule was not to get on an airplane with grown men. Sundays were our biggest day. We could have a line at the door from seven am until three pm. You can’t imagine busting your ass so hard to turn tables. I had to learn how to carry three coffee cups on a saucer with one hand. I had to learn how to stack hot plates up and down my arms. I felt like each Sunday would kill me. By two o’clock I had a breakdown. I went in the bathroom stall and cried five minutes. The head server saw me do it and she did something a lot of people will never understand.

She offered me meth. I knew they all used it. My dad was such a meth head. Everyone in the place did the work because of meth. My life would’ve been very different if I accepted her ‘medicine.’ I refused. I let her know that I wouldn’t use d**gs. My mom worked like a man. She worked with men who depended on meth to get shit done. She did it d**g free and so could I. I went home each Sunday and collapsed. My mom had to watch me bawl from my feet hurting and my muscles aching. In some ways I will never forgive her for watching me work that hard so young. My money bought groceries. Most of all my money bought my dad meth and I thought it would earn his love. You can’t buy love. However, he would’ve probably shot me if I ever refused to give him money. In the end that was our true nightmare. Money did eventually equal a gun.

That’s why those first two years of high school I never really had a boyfriend. A boyfriend would bust me in a heartbeat for working a job as a full grown woman. That’s why my sexual adventures happened in the auditorium. I would never have left that job until it got scary. I was sixteen and my p*******e boss told me to come in the cooler and get my Christmas turkey. He shut the door and tried to force himself on me. I screamed, fought and went insane. He freaked out. He had no words for himself. He just said here ‘take a ham too.’ I left that day with a turkey and a ham and never went back until I was older. I was screwed after that. I was making around five hundred bucks a week. Suddenly I had to bust ass and find a minimum wage job. All the k**s in my drama department worked at boston market. I joined the club.

Since no one knew I had previous employment they thought I was some slacker k**. Cunt bitches had no clue that first I went to school. I stayed after until 4:30 for drama practice. I was at work at five until ten. When I got home I fucking read and talked to boys. Homework was not an issue for me. It was all busy work. I had no time to do some lame handout. I copied it all. I was notorious. I was also absent Monday or Friday. I didn’t ask cunt friends to copy. I let boys who wanted to date me do my work. I dished out my secrets on facebook some of the boys I relied on for homework. I floored girls.

I made my reputation before I started high school. In eighth grade I took an algebra class that equaled high school credit. I hate math. The teacher gave us so much homework it was ridiculous. I rotated who I copied from. She busted me because I would have wrong numbers and the right answer. It was such a big deal she announced to the class anyone caught letting me copy homework would also be kicked out of the class.

She got my mother involved. She demanded to take the issue to the principle. I had never been in trouble my whole life. My mom was pissed that some teacher had an issue with me. It was like a bad soap opera. I live in a small town. My mom was that cool smart chick who partied in high school. My math teacher was the band dork who no one liked. When she realized I was my mother’s daughter and they were about to battle it was a big deal. The teacher demanded I be removed from her classroom before the principle. My mom told her she needed better proof than a few mixed to numbers. She told my teacher she had to catch me before she declared me cheating. My teacher actually cried while my mom berated her. The principle agreed with my mother. Unless she caught me copying and saw it with her own damn eyes then I could stay in the class. I can memorize formulas and pass tests. I just refuse busy work. It got even better because the whole class worked as a team to even let me copy extra credit.

I couldn’t sneeze in that class without being screamed at. Of course I passed with a B. I giggled because all four semesters she gave me an F in conduct. So I started high school with a reputation for copying homework. I still could get A’s on tests. I held a full time job, did drama, missed one day a week and stayed in the gifted program.

At boston market I met a boy who was different. For one thing I had a reputation for hooking up and dropping hot boys. Stu was fat and he had this lame blonde pony tail. His real name wasn’t even stu. He truly got nicknamed for looking just liked the beavis and butthead character stuart. I don’t know why I fell for him. I knew I hated that damn job and he was so good to me. He mopped the floor for me and helped me debone chickens after work. That earned his chance to be my boyfriend. We dated a long time. I was cruel. I wasn’t sexually attracted to him. I couldn’t give him an orgasm or even kiss him really. He was being courted by one of the girls that started out my friend and ended up my enemy. I called her the wildeb**st. She was enormous. She was way over six feet tall with a huge ass. She had buck teeth. She had glasses. She was also still heartbreakingly in love with stu’s best friend. Tim. Stu fucked up. He fucked the wildeb**st. I went ballistic at work. She was also my boss.

I nailed him in the head with an industrial size can of pam. I was so pissed I told a sweet old lady at the drive-thru ‘here’s your fucking change.’ Luckily she drove off confused. I decided I needed to leave. I went in the kitchen to tell the super cute dishwasher what stu did. He was one of the most popular boys in the school and dating this really hot chick. He told me that he would rather hold my hand for a lifetime before he would fuck the wildeb**st. Then he busted out with ‘oh my god, can I please see your titties.’ I said fuck yes. I got topless for him and played with them while he stood in complete satisfaction. Then I plotted my revenge on stu and the wildeb**st.

Stu’s best friend was Tim. Tim was the wildeb**st’s high school sweetheart. Tim’s little sister was one of my cunt ass gifted friends. I didn’t know why she did it. His sister’s name is Robin. I guess she knew tim needed an intervention. She picked me and my two gorgeous and wicked smart friends to come over and offered us to him like a buffet. He was fucking hot. He was about six foot seven. He just flopped at boot camp and landed in a bottle. That night I dressed to kill and planned revenge. It nearly didn’t happen. He was belligerent drunk leaning against the fridge on the floor. Me and my friend becky immediately worked like nurses to get him off the fridge and get some liquid in him. His sister just stood there while we took over the situation. Of course he hit on becky and not me. It never fails that a man goes for my friend first.

He drank milk ran outside and puked his brains out. I’d never seen someone that drunk. Becky and my cunt friend hauled ass. He was at least prepared with what any teenage girl required before the year 2000. It was the only reason I stayed. He had zima in a cooler. If you don’t know what zima is it’s basically the first version of a wine cooler designed for women. I wasn’t leaving without at least drinking one zima then I planned to haul ass. He was so socially awkward and drunk we couldn’t really talk. I asked him if he wanted to walk me to my car. He got half-way there.

He stunned me in a way that no man can repeat. He grabbed me. He picked me up like I weighed a feather. He wrapped my legs around his waist and gave me the best kiss I’ve ever had in my life. That kiss was the moment when I fell madly in love for the first time. He had a tent in the yard and it was winter. We spent the whole night making out like we were devouring each other. He didn’t try to get me naked. He just enjoyed me. I am malicious. I stayed with him until I knew it was time for boston market to open. I was rumpled and dirty from nearly fucking on the ground. I walked in and got a drink like I owned the place while the wildeb**st looked at me like she was triumphant. I was high on love. I sat there and giggled like I was drunk and stoned. I can’t even remember if I walked up to her and told her I had tim last night. Most likely I did. Stu was devastated. He lost his girlfriend and his best friend.

I went to see tim again the next night and we started talking. We shocked each other. I have talked about my mongoloid cousins. I grew up playing with all little boys. One of them was really tall. It was tim. He was raised as one of the family. He knew as much about my family as I did. He remembered the pretty little cousin. I remembered the pretty tall boy. After that we were united. We could only wait two weeks before we had sex. I always said I wouldn’t put out until I was at least sixteen, driving and truly in love. I kept my vow. Our families loved that we came together. We all planned our marriage. My junior and senior year I was basically married. I was in love. That first picture of me in the blue dress standing next to him with orange year was my senior year homecoming dance.

We probably would’ve got married but life wasn’t easy for me. It started two days before my senior year began. My mom made my dad go to the doctor because she thought his eyes looked yellow. There is a reason why I know so much about the VA. We all used to hang out in the denny’s parking lot each night as a group of misfits. I just got a cell phone. One of my first calls was my mom calmly telling me to come home. I know my mom is fucked up sometimes. She could’ve waited a few hours until I came home like normal. Instead she decided to tell me over the phone. It was simple. My mom said your father is dying of pancreatic cancer. It can’t be treated or cured. It is a death sentence. He may live three months to a year at the most. It is also one of the most painful ways a human can die. Then she hung up the phone.

I loved my dad so much. He was such a funny cool motherfucker. He didn’t love me. He never did. All we did was fight. He loved my brother dearly. He refused to look at me. I always thought as I grew up he would grow to love me. The devastation about his diagnosis was that would never be an option for me. That first day my senior year I was signed up for college credit courses in English, American history, European history, Chemistry, Psychology and my free pass drama. I had my mom write a letter to the office what would happen. I told each teacher my dad could die at any point. Every single one of them told me to go ahead and graduate and be with him. I refused. I told them I would be absent all the time. I told them I would keep up. I told them I could pass the exams and earn that college credit. I was no spoiled brat who would go to college on daddy’s money. I had to earn a full scholarship and all those free classes. My father dying was not stopping me.

The biggest issue was that my father was dying and I was a minor. I received a check from the government before he began getting paid. I didn’t have to work my senior year. That money could’ve gotten me killed. My father got his money and went on a meth binge like no one can imagine. He demanded I give him my check. I refused. He demanded I split it with my brother who was not a minor. I refused. I needed that money to survive while I took a full load of college courses to earn a scholarship. Yes he threatened to kill me over it.

We all knew he was dying from agent orange. Research the link between pancreatic cancer and agent orange. It is a government cover-up not to admit that is what happened to men like my father. Life was so scary but the confirmation that it was agent orange happened at the right time in the right way.

I will get back to what it was like as he died. I will just say it ended with me in the VA hospital in a waiting room. I adore Stephen king. It was just like a relief that he had a book out that took me away from my situation. His books always fix my problems. This one I blocked out. I can’t tell you one thing about ‘hearts in atlantis.’ It was about Vietnam. I sat in that hospital and went on a journey that my dad wouldn’t discuss. He was in a c*** for a week.

I remember one thing from the book. It announced that the government knew damn well that men were dying around fifty from pancreatic cancer because of agent orange. The book proclaimed it was so clear that it had to be covered up. Too many k**s like me would’ve earned compensation because weed killer killed our fathers at fifty. It would’ve bankrupted the VA hospital. It could also have devastated the whole damn economy if it wasn’t covered up.

I closed the book after I read those words. I walked into the room of death. My aunt myrtle forced me to kiss him goodbye. I had never hugged the man. Kissing his near death corpse was cruel.

The VA was smart for covering it up. Nothing should bankrupt free health care for veterans. They also knew how to handle the epidemic of pancreatic cancer. You get an unlimited supply oxycontin. Veterans need to know that the VA does supply pain management any normal hospital will never provide. They also do radical expensive procedures to prolong your life. My dad lived longer than most men because he had two serious operations to create ducts for his body to function. Recently my mom tried to tell me the anatomy of the disease. Your intestines fuse and you truly shit out your organs.

That year I was on the brink. The biggest issue was the smell. My dad lived on the toilet. He was a cruel man that never seemed satisfied with a family who loved him. In the end he had one comfort in life. A can of air freshener that smelled like peaches. The smell of shit and peaches in our house was so rank a normal person wouldn’t be able to take it five minutes. Me and my mom both have to laugh about it

Death does get comical. My dad couldn’t handle the smell of his own shit. He constantly sprayed that can. We bought three or four cans at a time. He could kill a can in one day. I still giggle when someone sprays an aerosol can. You couldn’t walk in that kitchen without hearing him spray with all his fury. Eventually you do break down and tell a dying man to cool it with the goddamn peaches. You hate being that mean. We spent our lives being mean to each other. So asking him to please stop the peaches was a normal fight. Screaming out ‘you’re making it worse with peaches for Christ sake’ comes flying out of your mouth. To this day the idea of eating a peach or smelling one makes me gag.

My dad was always a d**g dealer. My mom had finally decided to leave him weeks before his diagnosis. She couldn’t kick him out. Our house became the town zone to get meth or oxy. Oxy was brand fucking new. I know we got lucky. If he had those pills now we would be in serious danger. My mom worked nights. He kept his activity going as soon as she left. Then he sold his pills for meth. He would disappear and junkies would bang on the door until I answered with no way to defend myself.

We had junkies living in tents in our yard. My dad started an eternal bon-fire to party with every meth or pill head who wanted to play. We had so much oxy I watched my dog pick something off the floor and instinct told me to check his mouth. I never checked his mouth in my life. God watches out for me. I pulled an oxy out of his mouth. They were s**ttered all over the place. If that d**g killed my dog I would’ve probably just ended it all. I can honestly say I loved my dog one thousand times more than my father.

Things might have been okay if it wasn’t for my brother. He was mopping the floor while it rained. He bitched at me for getting mud on the floor. All I said was ‘I’m so fucking sorry’ like a sarcastic bitch. We were standing on the kitchen stairs. He punched me upside the head. I beat the fucking dog shit out of him. I have worked hard and I’m stronger than a lot of men. I beat him unmercifully. He fought back. I remember him screaming out like a pussy ‘you broke my glasses.’

My boyfriend knew my brother beat me my whole life. He was in the drive-way in his truck. I was busted up and bloody. I told him what happened. He was silent. I begged him to go in my damn house and tell that cocksucker no one would hit me again. I begged with all my heart. He claimed to be such a badass. He was six foot seven and strong as a bull. He refused to confront my brother. He forced me to drive out of my driveway bawling because nobody ever helped me defend myself.

My mom has her moments. She let him get away with slamming against walls before he was eighteen. Finally when he hurt me at 21 she declared war. She was not letting her teenage daughter get hit by a grown man. He got kicked the fuck out. My dad went into a murderous rage. My aunt jonell saw how bad I beat him up and felt sorry for him. She paid for his new glasses, set him up in an apartment, bought him new furniture and even a new tv. He was rewarded for hurting me. My dad entered a near lunatic style attack on me for hurting his son and taking him away. His new mantra was I’m going to kill you, your mother and then myself. I’ll tell you exactly what I did. I started taking oxy to cope with the fear.

I went on a five day bender. I missed a full week of school so high it was probably nearly an overdose. My parents did one thing right. They tried to hide the pills from me. I will never be able to tolerate the company of someone on opiates. I went through dope sickness. I searched the house looking for more d**gs. I had to get over it and I learned my goddamn lesson.

Eventually they stopped hiding the pills and I only took one every four or five days. They are memories of happiness and relief for me. I remember being high and seeing paisleys and pink elephants. I don’t think I could have coped without the oxy. But I’ll never be a d**g addict.
Not only did I keep my grades at an A level I took my last year of drama serious. I had already asked what my chances were of making it as an actress. My teacher was straight with me that I could only pull it off with a breast reduction. Then he said hell yes I could make it. I know surgery was not an option and that year was the last time I could be on stage.

I nailed competitions that year. I won’t bore you with details but I picked killer scenes that made people cry, freak out and give me way more than a standing ovation. I was the best actress in the school and it was my choice to pick my last play. I was told it couldn’t be done. I told my teacher to try me. I wanted more than a play. I wanted a book. I wanted ‘the crucible.’ My dream role was to be Abigail the historic villain that started the salem witch trials. I had to beg the administration to let us perform a four plus hour play. It was so intricate my own damn teacher was an actor. I nailed that role. I make an amazing villain. I hoped my dad would go but he had no soul. Any normal father would die to see his daughter star in something that epic.

I did miss half the year in absences. I had to start taking anti-depressants. That my prince is one of the main reasons I don’t fit into that blue dress. Anti-depressants cause weight gain. It can’t be avoided. If I had to pick the worst day of my life I know it by heart. I was getting ready to star in the crucible. I thought my dad had days to live. I don’t need much in life. I’m a strong fucking woman. I needed him to do one thing for me. I can give a motherfucking speech. He made me give it on one side of his locked bedroom door or I would have forced him to look at me.

I begged him to do one thing for me. I begged him to say he loved me one time.
I didn’t need an apology. I didn’t need a heart to heart confession. I needed those three words to come out of his mouth. I really want to be an artist. I will never want anything more than I wanted him to say it once. I know he deserved to shit out his organs and spray peaches. I’m not lying when I say my father didn’t love me. I begged him to say it so damn bad I screamed in agony and bloodied my hands on the door. He was crying. All he would say was ‘go away.’ I remember accepting that he didn’t love me and he never would. I was hysterical.

I drove to my best friend’s house. I won’t bore you with how much I helped her that year. When I need help I go to people that I’ve helped. We knew by then she would be the valedictorian. She no longer needed me for a ride to school. She no longer had to act like a normal human. I knew her secrets. She was daddy’s little fuck doll. I showed up at her house hysterical. She let me in and showed no emotion. I still had to tell someone what I just lived through. I’ll never forget it. She stood at the stove methodically measuring and cooking grits. She had her back turned to me.

I poured out my anguish. I also poured out another secret. To be on stage I entered a psychotic Atkins diet to shrink my tits. I did it twice. I was truly in a state of starvation and not thinking straight. That was her moment. She didn’t mention a word about my father. She turned around with a spoon held up like a weapon and declared ‘lynn it’s about goddamn time someone told you to get on a fucking treadmill’ At thirty two I would bash her skull in for those words. At s*******n I left broken and went home and nearly overdosed on oxy.

I lost the goddamn weight. The dress my grandmother sewed me had to be pinned back I was so little. That is the dress that I’m wearing when I’m in a puritan costume. That picture makes me giggle. All I see is my whore orange hair and these giant tits. I love that picture. I know these tits were meant for a character like Abigail.

When it was time to study for my college placement exams I entered a state of dedication you can’t imagine. I had the study books to read once and memorize. I could score a three on the test for one semester of credit. Or I could score a four and earn a full year of credit. I giggle because I knew k**s like the cunt valedictorian went every day and couldn’t get a four on those tests. I beat her at history so often she did finally say ‘you really are just smarter than me.’

When I want something I get it. I wanted all fours. I wanted almost two full years of college complete and a full scholarship anywhere in florida plus the cost of books. I got all fours. My senior year I was tested and I got through death with straight A’s. I talked about dresses a lot. It was important for me what I wore under that graduation gown. It had to be timeless. It had to be perfect. I found the perfect sleeveless little black dress by calvin klein in a size eight.

Yes my prince, I will fit in both those dresses and it will happen quickly. I swear there were 500 k**s graduating with me. I was ranked 42. It is my favorite number. If you read the ‘hitchhiker’s guide to the galaxy’ you would understand. It is a book about satire. They create a machine that is built to answer the question what is the purpose of life. It spit out the response ’42.’ The only reason I didn’t rank higher was failing PE, health and not taking a college math instead of drama.

I truly thought my dad would go to my graduation. He had his second duct operation and he could’ve gone. He watched me cry and beg him to go after I worked so hard to make it. He refused. He deserved a can of peaches.

That summer was nothing but a death watch. Me and my mom talk about it. It’s no joke if we had access to a gun we would have killed him. My boyfriend had no choice but to move in. My father wouldn’t even let him sleep in my bed. He only let him move in because he needed someone with a gun to protect us from a home invasion. Too many people knew he was dying and we had a stock pile of oxy and meth. My father needed a strong man in the house to protect his d**gs. My boyfriend was smart enough to hide the gun from me and never let me have it. By then my father was insane. He would stand there berating me with a fist held up to my face. I egged him on and said hit me you old dying fuck so I can beat you down.

We stopped the hostility for a few days that summer that haunt me. My dad loved his parents so fucking much. His father was his best friend. His mother was the only woman on earth with value. He was too sick to drive himself. He had no choice but to ask me and my boyfriend to drive him three hours away so he could say goodbye. It’s true that sometimes people know they are going to die and they can’t explain it. My grandfather was the only man in the world who loved me. He was my world.

He knew he wasn’t going to live longer than my dad. He had never met my boyfriend before. Tim realized my dad was a piece of shit but my grandfather was a master carpenter and a wonderful man. He made him promise to take care of his little girl. Tim made that promise. My grandfather made us listen to an old country song where a man tells his family goodbye. He sang it to us. I just wept. In my mind I thought he was trying to reach out to my father. No he knew he would die in a few days and he sang us goodbye. He was a wonderful musician. Sure enough he went in for a routine procedure and died on the table a few days later.

My father suffered for what he put me through. He should’ve been spared his father’s funeral. I needed Papa to help me get over losing my dad. In some ways I don’t think he could handle his son’s funeral. In many ways that first funeral was too much for tim. I could sense him having a breakdown just trying to love me. I enrolled us both in a damn good school within driving distance of my house. I didn’t have the money for a dorm. I was also not leaving my mom to go off to college when I could live with her and drive to one in thirty minutes.

Tim was two years older than me. I told him he was a fool for not going to college after earning a full scholarship. I told him I wouldn’t marry a man that refused a free education. We went to orientation together and we prepared to start our life.

My dad was fine five days before school started. That final day he was suddenly non-responsive in a c***. We called the ambulance and watched him wheeled out of his room for the last time. God works in mysterious ways. That day his junkie friend showed up. I asked him what all d**gs my dad took. He told me he did all d**gs. From crack, to heroin, to meth, cocaine. I was enraged. I told him I would fucking kill him if he showed up at my house again. I warned him I would beat his ass if he showed up at the hospital or the goddamn funeral. I was so mad I refused to get in the car with my mom and my brother to go to the hospital.

It was a miracle. I just knew I wanted to drive my damn self. I was in the waiting room when my mom called me. They got hit by a drunk driver and the entire back seat of the care was torn off. They were seriously injured from whiplash. If I had been in the car I wouldn’t be typing this.
If Tim was a good man he would’ve been beside me in that death room. I remember asking him not to leave me until after the funeral. He acted as if I was silly for saying that.

My story does read like fiction. My first morning of college two things happened at exactly the same time. My alarm clock rang as the phone began ringing. I knew what the call meant. I answered the phone that he was dead enraged. He fucked me all the way up to my first day of college. He made the alarm into a phone call he was gone. I wasn’t missing my first day of college for that motherfucker. It was hilarious. My boyfriend had a class that started one hour before mine. I was having a nice chat with god. I have mentioned my town revolves around strawberries.

We have a festival. Every year some senior high school girl gets a crown and becomes the strawberry festival queen. I had known the girl since seventh grade. She was the most stuck-up cheerleader on earth. She was that girl you couldn’t even be nice to she was so haughty. Of all the people on earth she saw me sitting on a bench and had to talk to me. She wouldn’t look at me in high school. Suddenly the day my dad died she had to start talking about her crown, her glorious new boyfriend, and her sororiety options. I swear if I don’t google up how to properly spell a word then I loathe it. I can’t spell sororiety and I don’t want to learn it.

I talked about it with friends. I had a free pass. I was in a state of shock. I was visualizing beating her down with my textbook as she was speaking. I have never been so close to a homicidal rage. We have discussed the topic and I should have beat up the strawberry festival queen just in principle. I wish I had. I only refrained by focusing on the fact I may hurt her bad enough she required cosmetic procedures.

The very next day we had his funeral. He didn’t love me but I loved him. We cremated his ass. Yet I couldn’t bear the thought of not even having a casket to look at. That night I did something beautiful. I went through what few pictures we had. I used a scanner to blow them up. I mounted them on poster board. I had seven or eight photo collages that represented his life. I had pictures of his beloved dog. His time in Vietnam. His yearbook photo from st.croix. I blew up his damn driver’s license. I documented his life. We only had one photo of all four of us together. I was a one year old baby. But damn it I made us look like a family. It touched my grandma so deeply she kept those boards. I didn’t shed a tear. I was happy. It was over. Or at least I thought it was over.

I will never be able to fully trust a man. It was the day of the funeral and the man I planned to marry refused to come home with me. He was so full of shit he claimed he had ‘homework’ from one day of an astronomy class. I knew what he really needed. He needed a bottle of jack daniels. Timing for our demise was correct. He always told me that he cared for one other female in the world. She just flunked out of college and showed up back in town. She was even working at boston market. At first she had a boyfriend and we hung out as two couples. I knew when she left her boyfriend she had tim.

Irony is the night my dad died we raided his shop to see what the fuck he had in there. We found his tackle box of d**g needles, an ounce of pot and his pipe. We also found a porn magazine collection of such epic proportions it was truly a full truck bed of everything from swank, fox,gallery, barely legal, hustler, penthouse and playboy. He had strange ones like Asian nymphos. It was classic. I inherited enough porn for three hundred men to whack off with.

The day after the funeral me, my mom and my grandma went to Atlanta just for a much needed vacation for two days. While I was gone he smoked my dead dad’s pot with the girl he planned on leaving me for. He was a carpenter and he built me a three story tower. It was where we spent every evening together. With his new woman he ripped out every centerfold in each magazine and collaged the tower in 80’s pussy.

He couldn’t leave me right away. He wanted us both. He bounced back in forth enough for me to lose track. The first time he bounced to her I busted him showing up at boston market and punched that motherfucker hard enough to bust his lip open. We got back together and he had to tell me I have a damn good right hook.

The next time he bounced back to her I showed up at the tower and poured out a brand new bottle of jack and got it in his eyes. He came back to me. I let him know I couldn’t be with a drunk. I had him two years sober. I would not have him drunk. We fucked. He called me the next day to tell me that our mutual friend told him after we fucked he got black out drunk went to sherry and fucked her too. I puked. Then I got angry.
I
decided the motherfucker lost me but he was not getting my porn or my pot. I had his father meet me at the tower like he planned to stop me. I dared him to try me. I let him know he was not getting my motherfucking porn and pot. He watched me and my best friend stuff a Saturn so full of porn we had to leave some behind. I removed every centerfold from the walls. He was not getting a wall of my dad’s pussy collection.

Our song was always lynard skynard’s ‘Tuesday’s gone’ I took a marker and wrote ‘Tuesday’s gone with the wind’ as big as possible across the wall. I moved my best friend in with me. Pot saved my damn life. I had at least a thousand oxy or an ounce of pot. I chose the pot. It got me through some serious grieving.

My male friends took me in. They knew I lost my dad and my boyfriend in one day. Most of them were former lovers. They threw me some parties that are legend. My male best friend is a boy named brent. I love him like a brother. We talked about it recently when his wife left him and I was ready to take her place. He was the only boy that wasn’t sexual with me ever. He is not attracted to me at all. I finally asked him why. He says he always thought my face looked too young.

I let him know his friendship kept me off opiates. I let him know that one man choosing to be my friend and not my lover is priceless. He thinks I’m such a slut. I love it. I made his brother cum in his pants. I fucked his dorm roommate. His roommate was damn good sex. We ended up fucking in the shower, the bathroom floor and then against the toilet. Brent had enough when he heard the slamming of porcelain against his bedroom wall. He busted in on us fucking against a toilet and told us to get our shit together and fuck in a bed and not on a fucking toilet.

But my prince this is part one of why I don’t fit in the blue dress anymore. I went asexual. I had my heartbroken so bad I stopped giving a damn what I looked like.

I did occasionally hook up with men. They got me when I was in a vintage t-shirt with my hair a mess. I didn’t want to be pretty anymore. I stood out for not trying. I still do. I became an artist. I entered a whole world where no one cared about pretty. I was one of the boys. To pull it off I wasn’t skinny. I didn’t wear anything pretty. I didn’t wear make-up. I truly was a printmaker. I stayed covered in ink. It is all oil based and it stains. I had black fingernails from ink not polish.

I wore rags that were purposefully covered in ink. Most people assumed I painted houses. I had a life of all female company. Men still chased me and I shut them down. I could’ve married my professor. We were in love. We loved each other’s art. He pursued me hard. I couldn’t risk another broken heart. I preferred to lose him than let myself be hurt again.

I told you that the boy in the picture next to me in the blue dress nearly killed me twice. This was how the first time happened. We did have our moment in the tower with a gun. We contemplated double suicide. We were in love. He just loved two women. The other woman became one of my best friends after she married the man who should’ve married me.

She left him after eight years. He came right back to my door. The next chapter is about round two and how he actually did hurt me far worse than leaving me the day my dad died.

There is a fairytale after all this horror. I made it. I need to drop twenty pounds to fit in that dress. It’s going to be easy with a stimulant that makes me unable to eat. I will shrink like I’m melting. Most girls can’t wear a dress like that once. It is about having huge tits and a set of hips. I’m going to wear it at 32. Time stood still. I will fuck with him. When I get back in that dress I’ll have pictures made. His wife is one butt ass ugly drunken monster. I will mail him my picture and show him how I got better than ever. Wearing his favorite blue dress with my hair the color of tangerines he will feel remorse.