Godammit, I’m Mad!

It’s about time that cunt resigned. I can’t believe he’ll get immunity.

I recently had the pleasure of spending an evening with an old friend who is now divorced from the husband who used to boss her around and make her have sex with him three times a week without regard to her own lack of desire. He’s out of her life now, for the most part, but she still hates him.

In fact, she plans to hate him forever, just as I hate my ex-husband.  I have forgiven nearly all my grudges, even ones I swore to take to the grave, but I will never stop hating my ex-husband. Looking back at my old journals, I discovered that I hated him even before I married him!

I once read that a large percentage of divorced women admit to having married a man they didn’t love. This was supposed to be shocking news. It probably explains why they ended up divorced. It’s a bad idea to marry someone you actually hate, so make sure you never do it.

I married my ex at 20, after four years of living with him. I didn’t know what to do with my life and I think I hoped he would take care of me. I don’t like taking care of myself, although I am more than happy to take care of  others.

Anyway, I hated him. I hated the way he walked and I hated the way he smelled. I hated his repressed personality and I hated his petty criticism of everything I did or thought. I hated the way he’d point to a girl with close-cropped hair and say “You know, you’d look good like that.”   Why would a man marry a woman with waist-length hair only to ogle girls with crew-cuts? What a fucking cunt™.

Finally, after 17 years together, we got divorced. By then, I hated the way he breathed and the way he drank his orange juice.  I was shattered by the process of divorce, but gradually came to relish my freedom from his oppressive presence.

The only thing we agreed upon was our love for our son. But we always disagreed about what he needed and what was good for him.

After a long  struggle in rehab, our son stayed clean for a while but had a relapse and was on a binge. We took him to a treatment center where he was supposed to stay for thirty days. After ten days, they thew him out: We couldn’t meet their demands for $250 per day, even though they were being paid by our insurance company. Meanwhile, Max had called me after the first few days, anxiously reporting that he shared a room with convicts who stayed up all night playing cards. He was cold, but he wasn’t allowed to have an extra blanket. He said it was the scariest place he had ever been.

His father picked him up on the morning they kicked him out. During the long drive to my house, his father screamed at him for being a failure. His tirade was cruel and relentless. He accused Max of ruining everyone’s life, and told him he was “one step from living on the street.”

I didn’t want Max to have his car.  He was going to stay in a sober house where he wouldn’t need it. But the ex wouldn’t listen to me and brought the car over.

Max seemed traumatized by the ride home and I tried to comfort him. He was worn out and anxious, still detoxing, even though I didn’t know it. All day, I tired to console him with the fact that it wasn’t a catastrophe, it was only a relapse and everything would be fine. I kissed him goodbye when he left for the sober house. Early the next morning, he drive to a cliff and jumped.

During the first few days at the hospital, I would corner my ex in the hallway and tell him it was all his fault. I showered him with invective, hysterical with rage and worry and grief. Even now, I sometimes wonder what would have happened if my ex had just taken Max out for breakfast instead of berating him so mercilessly.

I wish I could kill my ex.  My sister has asked me, Isn’t it enough to know how miserable he is? As if that could mitigate my hatred, which is eternal, steadier than the beat of my heart, and faster than the speeding bullet that belongs in his head.

In response to my last post about rock bands, I  received  the following comment by someone using the name Gene Simmons:

i hate that old dried up cunt, the one who ´s son died

~

Here are my thoughts. It’s wrong to attack someone like this, online or otherwise. Why the hell would a total stranger try to hurt me in this way?? Just because they could get away with it?   It is beyond my understanding.

So I wrote back to this person, and said:

What a horrible thing to write to me!    May I ask what moves you to write such a hateful comment to someone you have never met?   I hope you never experience the loss of a child.    Meanwhile, I’d like to know why you would invoke the loss of mine in response to an  innocuous  blog post about rock bands?    Sister Wolf

The next day, she replied:

you know what you are right
I ´m deeply sorry
your loss is way too big for me to understand, and i was outta line
this is what made me write that:
“that girl whose boyfriend punched her in the face”
when a person suffers through abuse, besides the beatings and insults and humiliation
what hurts the most is  the scorn of those around her,
things like
“that would never happen to me”
“that happens only to stupid bitches”
and it pissed me off that while you demand compassion about your situation,
you show none towards  someone who was fucking publicly punched in the face and then mocked endlessly for it
sometimes the only person who doesn ´t shit on you for being in that situation
(that looks so simple but it ´s not)
is  your abuser
so you go back  because in that moment he is being sweet, when deep down you know that it won ´t last
and it was a mistake I ´m sorry
I know things don ´t get better by insulting someone else in pain
and there i was trying to put you down to make myself feel better
when we are all fighting something
that random comment just struck a cord, felt personal you know?
óbviously I ´m not without fault myself
I hope this makes you feel less insulted

yours truly
Gene Simmons

~

Having read and reread this explanation, I don’t feel Gene Simmons knows the difference between a pop star and a blogger who lost a child.   I don’t “demand compassion” as Gene Simmons states. I have no demands. I merely expect human decency from those who wish to leave comments.

Gene Simmons is actually a 31 year old aspiring artist named Gabriela who lives in Mexico. There she is, above. She needs to take  responsibility for the things she writes.   She’s not 12 years old, after all.

I don’t want to hear ONE MORE WORD about my vag, which in fact does not suffer from dryness. And I don’t want to be taunted with the death of my child.

Please explain to Gabriela why her apology is worthless, since I don’t feel adequate to the task. Explain to her that the cause of abused women  isn’t  furthered by grotesque insults lobbed at other women, under cover of a pseudonym.

And if you want more of Gabriela in your life, you can visit her here.

Few things are more delightful than a well-executed prank.   A good prank is a noble creative endeavor – that’s what I tell myself about the ones I’ve engaged in.

The Nat Tate prank was devised by British novelist William Boyd with the help of David Bowie and a few other collaborators, including Gore Vidal. Boyd wanted to create a fictional artist whose underrated work he would introduce to the art world, via a book on the subject.

Bowie held a launch party for the book on April 1, 1998, and read extracts from the book to the collected celebrities  and art enthusiasts. One of the collaborators went around asking people if they were familiar with Tate’s work.   Poor Tate had burned 99% of his work before his tragic early death in 1960.

In the end, someone revealed the hoax. But William Boyd says that Nat Tate lives on: every so often, one of his paintings comes up for  auction.

The more I learn about this prank the more I fucking love it! It reminds me of my Phyllis Willis-Barbour prank with my friend Mark, and it makes me wish we had taken it further. We planned to have our fake poet appear at readings,  wearing   a mask to hide her face (deformed in a terrible fire.)

**UPDATE: Just found the link to PWB’s bio, one of the greatest things ever written. Ever.

But our best prank, the one that brought us the most joy, was the Ed and Paige Project.

Ed was a guy we had good reason to detest. Among his loathsome  activities was an unending search for hot chicks in the personal ads at nerve.com, even though he was married to a woman who supported him. Since we knew his taste in women, we created one as bait. We set up her profile, and waited. It took a week, and we had almost given up when Ed contacted Paige, calling her a “long tall drink of water” and complementing her physique.

Here is Paige, who I found at hotornot.com

But wait: Paige isn’t just hot and skanky looking, she is a  commodities  broker and a graduate of the Wharton School of Business! Her favorite book is  Ulysses.

The resulting email love affair between Ed and Paige was a soap opera that all our friends enjoyed, but not with the delirious religious  ecstasy that Mark and I experienced. The email they exchanged was beyond belief. It was like Christmas morning all the time.

I am too tired and lazy to elaborate on the Ed and Paige Project, but I know that Nat Tate would have risen from the dead just to be a part of it.

I love it when Madge looks like this. I get a rush of endorphins that’s better than shopping or chocolate! Keep up the good work, girl!

I also love seeing before and after pix of celebrities. But not when they aim to erase their ethnicity.

I prefer Halle Berry in her high school photo. When she was black, and a girl.

What about J Lo? Doesn’t she look like Karla’s Closet in the before photo??!? In the after photo, she looks like she’s half-way to becoming Kate Moss.

Never mind. I’m going back to snicker at Madonna until the high wears off.

Patricia XXXX<XXXXXXX@benefitcosmetics.com>
Mon, Nov 22, 2010 at 12:37 PM
It’s war at the makeup counter

Hi,

I read your blog post about your recent visit at a Benefit counter and I would love to help. Can you please let us know where this happened so we could follow-up? We really appreciate your feedback and want to improve your shopping experience with Benefit Cosmetics.

Best,

Patricia XXXX
Customer Care Manager
U.S. Benefit Cosmetics
415-XXXXXXX
F 415-XXXXXXX
www.benefitcosmetics.com

~

Sent: Monday, November 22, 2010 7:05 PM
To: Patricia XXXX
Subject: Re: It’s war at the makeup counter

Dear Patricia,

I’m glad you want to help. My view is that a reprimand to this one sales assistant is not going to change things, nor will it undo my distress over the experience.

I would love to talk to you over the phone, and perhaps we can brainstorm.

My cellphone # is xxxxxxxxx

best,
xxxxxx (Sister Wolf)

~
Patricia XXXX <XXXXXXXX@benefitcosmetics.com>
Tue, Nov 30, 2010 at 9:35 AM
RE: It’s war at the makeup counter

Good morning [Sister Wolf]

My apologies for not getting back to you sooner, I was out of town for a few days with limited access to my email. Your comments and feedback were sent to the regional manager and she will take care of discussing this with the beauty advisor. If you would like for me to forward anymore comments or suggestions, please feel free to send it to me so I can pass it along.

Thank you and Happy Holidays!

Patricia XXXX
Customer Care Manager
U.S. Benefit Cosmetics
415-XXXXXX
415-XXXXXX

www.benefitcosmetics.com

~

Huh? What did I miss? Suggestions for a follow-up?

Today my friend X took me to the mall and we decided to visit the new Bloomingdales. We entered in the cosmetics department, unaware of the horror that awaited us.

Some bitch at the Benefit counter approached me and started telling me about their new eyebrow waxing service. I tried to ignore her and looked at the make up while she gave X a brochure or something.   As I started to walk away, the bitch says brightly: “Can I just show you something?” I turned to her and said “Sure.”

Without any warning, she whips out a tube of something and starts rubbing it all over my face. I was too stunned to react. I couldn’t even believe it was happening. She babbled about the product while rubbing it in, and I kept my eyes tightly shut , dreading a blob of it on my contact lens.

When she finished, I blurted out, “How do you know this won’t make my skin break out?” meaning, How do you even know if I just had a facial peel, if I’m wearing a pound of foundation, if I’m on my way to a dinner party and can’t wash my face, if I have severe allergies, or if I’m carrying a kitchen knife to stab you with?

She smirked and replied: “It’s oil free and hypoallergenic. It’s silicone based.” I felt my face and indeed it felt slippery like the silicone glossing serum I don’t like to put on my hair.

I staggered off and told X how furious I was. I wondered if it was worth asking for the manager an causing a scene. We walked a few feet to the Dior counter, where a nice young black-clad gay guy asked how we were doing. I remarked that I was traumatized by the Benefit bitch.

He nodded and confided, “That’s their philosophy over at Benefit. Believe me, I’ve worked for them.” With that, he persuaded X to let him do her lipstick by saying, “PLEASE, I’m so bored and it will make me happy!”

The Dior guy did an expert job of lining and filling in X’s lips, explaining each product and why there was nothing like it. He did her eyes too, using 5 different products. While he worked, he told us about his unhappy childhood in a small-minded Christian community. He asked about my favorite poet, revealing that his favorite is Sylvia Plath.

“OH!” I said, recalling that the second most popular source of literary tattoos is Sylvia Plath, “So do you have any of her stuff tattooed?” He proudly yanked up his long sleeve to reveal a whole long poem about death on his upper arm, the words alternating in red and black ink. He kept right on moaning about his childhood, oblivious of how easily I had just pigeonholed him.

Finally, he was done with X, who looked great. He lined up around 8 products and asked her which ones she wanted to buy. When she said she wanted to think about it for a while, you could see his entire demeanor change. He coldly advised us to have a good day. When we left the store, we were careful to avoid the cosmetics department.

What next at the make up counter? A gang rape?

Patricia Caro <patriciac@benefitcosmetics.com>
Mon, Nov 22, 2010 at 12:37 PM
It’s war at the makeup counter

Hi,

Best,

Patricia Caro
Customer Care Manager
U.S. Benefit Cosmetics
415-281-6504
F 415-520-6479
www.benefitcosmetics.com

~

Dear Patricia,

I’m glad you want to help. My view is that a reprimand to this one sales assistant is not going to change things, nor will it undo my distress over the experience.

I would love to talk to you over the phone, and perhaps we can brainstorm.

My cellphone # is xxxxxxxxx

best,
xxxxxx (Sister Wolf)

~
Patricia Caro <patriciac@benefitcosmetics.com>
Tue, Nov 30, 2010 at 9:35 AM
RE: It’s war at the makeup counter

Good morning [Sister Wolf]

Thank you and Happy Holidays!

Patricia Caro
Customer Care Manager
U.S. Benefit Cosmetics
415-281-650
415-520-6479

www.benefitcosmetics.com

~

Huh? What did I miss? Suggestions?

Authors : gretchen bell aka dolly python , and Monique.   2010

A bare   stage. Two friends at computers. A hint of spittle at the corner of each mouth. They speak the words in unison as they type.

AND,   I mailed you a complimentary necklace and a can of Raid for your vagina!

It is a proven fact you have sand in your vagina you have confirmed it over and over and over again.   (hahahahaha)

Gretchen wants to know if you want Uncle Jerry to unclog your vagina with his pencil dick.

P.S. “Dolly” says that she imagine you in a “Wild At Heart” moment, reapplying your lipstick over and over with sweat, tears, and black hair dye running down your face. And a very blown out vagina clumped up with gorilla glue and cat litter.

You sure don’t have a problem with bitches being psychotically obsessed with you as long as their crawling up in your sandy vaginA now do you?   What an ass you are.

P.S. Gretchen is going to dress up as you for Halloween! She’s going as a sandy vagina. I’m going to be Uncle Jerry and I’m gonna help clean you up.

the women continue to type as the curtain falls, and a lonely trumpet can be heard in the distance, playing “The Yellow Rose of Texas.”

Remember an avid troll commenter called Monique, who returned again and again to let me know what a stupid and pathetic untalented jealous loser I am? Remember when   she passed on a message from her friend Gretchen that “my cunt is full of sand?”

Well, now it is my privilege to introduce the camera shy Monique R, pictured above sharing a toast with her friends Sea, Platinum-Hair Girl and a young man named Fred who favors wacky hats.

When she isn’t flaming bloggers who make fun of Sea, Monique likes to take photos and hang out at bars to watch guys dancing in their underwear.   She protects her tweets, perhaps because she knows that people could come along and join a malicious hatemail campaign against her, AT ANY MOMENT!

Look how happy Monique is, dining with her idol, rubbing elbows with the social gentry, perhaps comparing funny hats with that guy Fred.   What made Monique go all rabid and ballistic when I teased Sea? Why was Monique so relentless and below the belt?

People are so fucking weird. They are truly unfathomable. I am learning this every day. Some of them need to be kept safely at a distance. Some will come at you only when they smell blood. The new Gentler Sister Wolf does not advocate any nasty comments designed to upset Monique. Instead, maybe we can help her explore her fanatical fealty to Sea, or her delusion that she “knows” me from looking back through the archives here.

I know you are an aspirational type, Monique. Screeching online about a strangers vag is not the way to social success, unless Dallas is much weirder than I imagined.

But I forgive you. You’re just out of your element.