Uncensored Self Expression

Conversation with my friend R_:

Me: My husband texted me to find out what I was doing. I told him, “Hot flashing Mother Fucker.”

R_: What!! Does B_ like it when you answer him like that?

Me: When we first began dating he mistook the pet name as an insult (imagine that!!), got butt hurt, and suggested I stop.

I hated the idea of conforming to social norms with a less spirited personality in order to please him. To change who I was–or who I was becoming–felt stifling, akin to the controlled environment of my past. As much as I wanted to please my sweetheart, I knew it was more important to stay true to myself…and my need for uncensored self expression. I responded with this:

Hell no mother fucker! How about I use it more lard balls?! Maybe if I use it often enough you’ll pull your pious throbbing butt stick out your frigging hairy anus and realize I’m just being the same adorable snarky girlfriend you were smitten with the first day we met. And, just so ya know ya shit twat, the word, Mother Fucker–and its associated variations of fuck, fucking, fucked, fucker, fuckwit, fuckup, fucktard, and fuckity fuck fuck–is a fucking awesome word! 😉 😉

Did ya see the two winky smiley faces I inserted my love? I used, and will continue to use, winky smiley faces so you’ll know I’m just messin around. Pay attention to the winkies ya plump-lipped, flat-assed, one-eyed trouser snake dingle dong.

#UncensoredSelfExpression

 

 

 

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Health Department Inspector and the Dildo Dilemna

I often send my friend, an inspector for the health department, stories highlighting my penchant for using up out-dated food from my storage room. She writes back telling me how she and her colleagues laugh at the lengths I’ll go to avoid waste.

So, yesterday, when I invited my friend to have lunch at my house, she seemed hesitant.

“I’ll treat you to lunch at a restaurant.” She offered.

“Save your money. I can make salads and top it with turkey instead of grilled chicken. You don’t mind leftover turkey do you?”

“I don’t want to inconvenience you. Let’s go out.”

“It’s no bother. Salads are simple to make. Don’t worry, I won’t use anything out-dated from my storage room.”

“Okay.” She relinquished.

As promised, I made a nice salad with fresh romaine lettuce, spinach, diced apples, and candied walnuts.

While we ate conversation turned to an assortment of topics, one, of which, led me to reveal my latest solution to a dildo problem. It was too long…too painful to use. “So I cut off part of it.” I explained.

“Really?!” She gasped.

“How much did you cut off?”

“About a third of it.” I said holding up my fingers to give her a visual of the two plus inches that had been removed.”

“Which end did you cut?”

“The base,” I answered, “…didn’t want to mess with the smooth tip.”

“Smart decision. But if you removed the width of the base, how do you keep it from slipping out of the strap on?”

“Safety pins.” I announced with problem solving pride. “I experimented with other solutions but safety pins won out in the end. Silicone didn’t melt well with a cigarette lighter so I couldn’t cut out the middle and reattach the end piece. Thread cut through the silicone when I tried to sew it. It’s in the other room. Here, I’ll just show it to you.”

I stepped toward the bedroom to retrieve it and emerged moments later holding a bright red dildo hanging from a black strap on.

She examined it and said, “That’s perfect. But what did you use to cut through the silicone?”

Pointing to the knife on the kitchen counter, I said, “The same knife I just used to make your salad.”

Color drained from her face.

“But I WASHED it first!” I defended myself. “I swear it was clean.”

Princess Lucy

           “It’s a girl.” The doctor informed my father in the hospital waiting room on a wintery morning in 1963. (In those days, family members weren’t allowed in labor and delivery.) After three boys—Scott, Joseph and Peter—my father was thrilled to finally have his little girl.

           Later, when the nurse handed my father his bundle of joy, she said, “Congratulations. It’s a boy.”

           “We’ll see about that.” said Father, and then he pulled off my diaper.

           Yep. I have a vagina—making me the family “princess,” and, at the same time, a second class citizen in the LDS (Mormon) church.

           Two more brothers—Jeffery and Corey—were born after me and my role as “princess” became a necessary tool for survival. As with many Mormon families, my fight for attention began early in life. When no one in the neighborhood came to see Mother’s new addition to the family, she rectified the situation by taking me for a walk on the first sunny day in February. One step out the front door onto a thin layer of ice and down we toppled to the bottom of three concrete steps, granting me my first performance as “cry baby.” The neighbors came running. Mother was overjoyed.

            As with Nephi, in the Book of Mormon, I was born of goodly parents. Father was the absent-minded scientist and mother was the playful playwright—think Mary Poppins with a typewriter. Both were loving but nerdy. Neither had much time or inclination to parent us beyond the basic necessities. The Mormon way of raising obedient, drug-free, temple-worthy—virgin and non-critically thinking—children is to feed ‘em and send ‘em out the door to school, church, or sports.

By age nine, an emotional disconnect was fully in place, not just with my parents, but with my siblings as well. After school one day, I was watching Gilligan’s Island when Peter turned to me and said, “Pull my finger.”

           “No.” I said. “I don’t want to pull your finger. You’ll fart.”

           Peter farted anyway, even though I never pulled his finger, and then roared with laughter. My brothers and all of their buddies laughed too and then lifted their legs to poison one another with more toxic gas. I covered my nose and prayed for a sister‒a confidant who could share my disgust for ill-mannered boys. Maleness surrounded me, evidenced by toilet seats in upright positions and dried tacky urine on tiled bathroom floors. Even the dog, Dudley, was male and prone to dog farts. I complained to my parents but Father explained that flatus was a natural human function; which, he elaborated, “typically takes place eight to twenty times a day and is merely the expulsion of oxygen, nitrogen, carbon dioxide, hydrogen and methane, the byproduct of bacterial fermentation in the gastrointestinal tract. The Nitrogen,” he qualified his statement, “however, is not produced in the body, but is a component of environmental air, which enters the body via swallowing.”

           It was important to him that I understand gas is not totally generated in the stomach or bowels as some persons erroneously believe. Father continued to pontificate, “It’s unnecessary to maintain excessive gas in the alimentary canal because it causes undue pain and therefore should be released whenever the need arises.” He punctuated his statement with a loud flatus emission and Mother smiled lovingly at him.

           Someday, I said to myself, “I’ll marry a handsome prince who’ll take me far, far, away.”

Broken Trust

This is a reblog from a cyber friend of mine. She has such a beautiful way of expressing herself, that I’ve posted it here in hopes that it will help others who are in or have been in abusive relationships.

Inform, Inspire, Inflame

This post will be rather long and different from what I intend this blog to contain. I cannot, however, focus on what I’d really like to write without putting into words what is bothering me. I hope this will touch those who read it and that it will reach someone who needs it:

Six years ago today, my life was at the peak of a living hell. My mental state had dissipated into mush, frequently experiencing moments of prolonged, intense fear and terror and then left too exhausted to contemplate much more than sleep. What should have been a happy time had become nothing more than a desperate struggle to find the necessary motivation to keep on breathing, and in July of 2009, I finally broke. Over the course of a little over a year, I’d entered what had started as a blissful relationship… and barely escaped with my life…

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Captive Listener

After leaving an abusive marriage, my mother updated family members on my recovery in this way, “Lucy no longer looks around the room for permission to laugh.” I wasn’t even aware I’d been doing this until it was pointed out to me. For this reason, I chose to write this poem in third person.

Captive Listener
By Lucy Furr

When others laugh…

She sits quietly

Dousing joy

Unsmiling

Until laughter is approved

Her ears prick outward
straining to hear his crackle of euphoria blend with others in happy, symphonic unison.

Musicians tell her she has “no ear”

“Just mouth the words, don’t sing,” they say.

But they are wrong
Her hearing is fine-tuned
She hears subtleties
She hears his silence amidst thunderous cachinnation and, on cue, mimics ill-at-ease

Or, plucks his laughter from raucous seas and yokes her laugh to his.

On these rare moments…
her heart sings.

Squaw Make Silent Tears Thirty-Two Years

Disclaimer: This is based on a true story. Certain names and details have been changed.

July 23, 2012 – Ten days prior to Aaron’s suicide attempt, I wrote the following text to my friend J_:

Me: I may be a widow before I ever become a divorcee. Kids say they are bracing themselves for the phone call. Aaron sent a message this morning telling me he hasn’t wanted to live ever since I left. His demeanor is mirroring his brother’s demeanor just before he took his own life four years ago. I get texts from Aaron that vacillate from one extreme emotion to another. I don’t need to write a book. Aaron is writing one for me, text by text. I can start the book with his older brother’s suicide, move on to Aaron’s self-harm during our courtship, then his aunt’s suicide, then my nephew’s suicide, then our daughters suicide attempts, then his younger brother’s suicide, and then conclude it with Aaron’s suicide. There might be enough material for a trilogy. But in truth, J_, though I jest, Aaron’s demise is so painful to witness, the kids and I can hardly bare it. The nightmare continues in the outer fringes of my pretended happiness.

July 23, 2012

J_: Poor Aaron.  Earth life has been so difficult for him. You took good care of him for so many years but he was beyond repair. You can always feel good about your sacrifices.

July 24, 2012

Me: Aaron’s in good form today. Here is the message he cc’d to me:

“Use to be White Eyes (me) had Squaw…just needed TeePee…now Whites Eyes in Heap Big trouble and Big Fork in the Road…now White Eyes need new Squaw…and TeePee…what White Eyes to do?

Maybe White Eyes need to ride horse better…not get thrown off by squaw while napping!

Just a little levity

Dad”

I no longer respond to Aaron’s texts unless absolutely necessary. But I would’ve liked to have written this in return: Maybe if Whites Eyes do not nap so much he could have bought BIG teepee for 10 cow squaw wife. Now Whites Eyes, squaw and papoose’s all have red eyes from cry too much.

July 24, 2012

J_: I love your response. You have so much self control in not sending it to him.

July 24, 2012

Me: I learned about a month ago that one cannot fight the devil and expect to win no matter how witty one thinks one is. I gain nothing from responding.

July 25, 2012

Me: Squaw make many new friend at LDS Singles. Meet big chief Craig Terry of Craig’s List and now on special email list for much sand volleyball, raindance and parties. No more 10 cow squaw wife. Price gone up since squaw still have nice ass, silk skin, much brain, white teeths, happy smile and papooses grown and not in teepee. Squaw not have to hunt food, make big cook fires, clean, be like white slave girl while White Eyes sit on lazy ass in teepee, keep warm by fire, nap much, shop much much much. (Oops. Not all tomahawks buried yet.) Squaw work hard still. Squaw build better life. Squaw free prison now White Eyes gone.

July 25, 2012

J_: Man oh man I wish you could send that to White Eyes.

July 25, 2012

Me: White Eyes have evil orange eyes. No can send. Squaw laugh silent laugh just like silent tears thirty-two years.