Hey All, Best Read This First:
Greetings and a warm welcome to my blog.
First things first
This blog contains words and references offensive to those who never made it through the maturation process.
The intellectually and psychologically impaired will find nothing here to enjoy.
If this applies to you, dear reader, you're welcome, and strongly encouraged to leave now. No hard feelings on my part.
I'm trying to make this clear to the 'boo hoo brigade". If you CANNOT grasp this simple concept. This page is NOT FOR YOU
REPEAT: WARNING: BLACK IRONY. NASTY SELF PISS TAKING HUMOUR. FUCK OFF NOW IF YOU CANNOT UNDERSTAND THIS. I WON'T MIND. EVER.
*PS: I'm pro Palestinian, pro animal rights in a way that pisses many people off. You should consider fucking off now if you object to this kind of thing.
PS This blog is not really fit for human consumption, it's best read as it was written, drunk on vodka or otherwise high as a kite...Enjoy...
I Survived Cunta's Grand Guignol
Two days ago, Mutti put me in hospital, it wasn't a concerted beating, those belong to the good old days. How I remember them. (Ich hau dich z'am bis die Blut ober rint - it's Viennese dialect for : 'I'll beat you to a heap till the blood pours off you". It was no empty threat)
The story begins with my being half an hour late in meeting Cunta, enraged, she back handed me so hard (at the airport)I fell, naturally, I was a little stunned, my eye is still almost swollen shut. It stings.
Anyway, that broke the ice and set the mood for the weekend, the rest of it was spent in wary and resentful silence (it's a well known fact here I take things far too seriously, so, well, you know, must have been all my fault. Naturally)
I finally told her quietly, without fuss or drama, that I was moving soon, I won't go into the consquent screaming and insults. Suffice it to say, it went down a treat.
Finally the inch by inch evisceration of my personality reached it's inevitable apotheosis and ultimately, it's denouement. It was time for Cunta to leave, I had a few more hours before check out, so I thought I would gather myself together with a warm bath and a hit planned for afterwards.
As I am running the water, watching the clear diaphanous stuff splash onto pure white, Cunta comes screeching back at my hotel door, she doesn't demand entry, but she does let those motherfucker jet engine lungs rape all eardrums in near vicinity. It was less embarrassing just to open the fucking door.
Before I did, I had enough presence of mind to conceal the paraphernalia necessary to my addiction. I know the score. Cunta pushes in and announces that if I leave, I'm out of the will, (it's substantial) and that she will cut off the money supply, I tell her (truthfully) that I don't fucking care, do whatever the fuck you want, I'm glad to be finally free of you... and so on. I'll always get by.
Cunta, enraged, lands her fist in my face again, right on the bruise, oh Christ it fucking hurt. Mercifully, that's all I remember, because I slipped in the bathroom and my head cracked against the sink and I lost consciousness.
I awoke in hospital, I told them I was addicted to heroin (I had the track marks to prove it) and was consequently clumsy, I was always falling down. Metaphorically, I suppose, this has some truth. I know they weren't quite convinced, but I stood my ground.
I have a shaved part of my head with 9 stitches and an eye that can barely open courtesy of Cunta. Do I feel resentful? Bitter? No. Finally I'm convinced of my abandonment by Cunta, (I'm thick as two planks, as I freely admit to anyone, it's taken me a lifetime to see that there's nothing to hang on to anymore there. Vati ist tod. So I move on to the one who truly loves me.
You know Battered Child's Syndrome? (I'm no longer a child of course, but I've had a lifelong of conditioning to that state of mind, Cunta knows her stuff) these children remain loyal to their abusers, and really, she's an old (albeit tough) woman. While I can, and will, walk away, she remains imprisoned within with the life she has made, and was landed with. The upshot of all this is, I'm trying to explain why I felt no passion for revenge, she's an old, sick woman, and a sick fuck. I may have "learned helplessness", but I never put anyone in hospital; and I can walk away. I don't feel so bad.
The Epilogue? I don't care anymore. My fear and suspicion of people is confirmed for once and for all. I want to quote some words from one of my favourite songs:
"The deeper you stick it in your vein, the deeper the thoughts: "There's no more pain"
I'm in Heaven, I'm a God,
I'm everywhere, I feel so hot
It's not a habit, it's cool,
I feel alive
If you don't have it, you're on the Other Side...
I'm not an addict
Maybe that's a lie?
It's over now,
I'm cold, alone
I'm just a person on my own
Nothing means a thing to me
Hell, nothing means a thing to me...
Who fucking cares anyway.
PS: please don't anyone come on my dms offering advice or concern. I write this blog to get this shit out of my system, not to relive it with others later. I write it to forget. I mean it, I don't want to fucking hear it.
PPS: Heroin in it's 'white' form (which is all I use) actually does very little damage to the body, the major drawback of it is, eventually your receptors become used to it and more and more of it is required to achieve the 'high' (It's not a 'high' in the sense most non addicts imagine it is) that the body seems to never stop craving. But that can take time. What I'm trying to convey here is that I'm not anticipating becoming ill and enfeebled through indulging my addiction. I'm not promiscuous, I don't share needles, so there's nothing but blue skies ahead ;)
Posted by Sir Fudge Esq at 10:49 AM