That’s me, I’m FINE. It ain’t pretty in here today so for that I’m sorry. Younger or sensitive readers might want to look away.
I suppose that this would be what one might call a dear *Jon* letter if *Jon* was the one gettin’ it. But, he ain’t. The blog is.
There are just a few things I want to say to that son-of-a-bitch. (He always hated it when someone called him that, he took it as a personal slight to his mother; God rest her soul.) She was no bitch; I just get great satisfaction out of knowing that he hates the hell out of it.
I always said that I wouldn’t be like his mother, but what the fuck do you know, I turned out just like her. 19 years with my father-in-law (God rest his soul) and she left him. Some 5 years later, she died with cancer and a few years after that he died. My beef ain’t with them. I’m sorry they were both afflicted with whatever virus infects abusers/victims/survivors.
I wish that I could change all of that shit, but that ain’t gonna happen because it’s a man’s fuckin’ world. Sorry men, but I’m not in the best of moods these days. Try not to take it too personal.
I’m in no mood for moving poems, poetic phrases or words, wit, read between the lines bullshit and I for sure ain’t here to paint a pretty fucking picture. The whole godamned thing is a revolting, stomach churning, pathetic ranting of someone who’s just FINE.
Why the fuck did you do this to me? I’ve lost everything and have nothing left but this fucked up life that I’m gonna have to box up into tiny parts and ship to some un-fucking-known part of this shitty little world I live in and start all over again.
I take particular offense to that Jon.
I don’t like it at all. The kids don’t like it. Nobody particularly likes going into hiding and looking over their shoulder at every turn. I’m pretty sure I’m right about that.
You are really gonna go fuckin’ ballistic when I skip town with your kids in tow because you couldn’t keep your dicked up ego in check.
I loved your sorry motherfucking ass, and a very, very tiny little part still does and I hate your motherfucking ass for that too.
I gave you EVERYTHING you wanted, I told you EVERY ONE OF MY DIRTY LITTLE SECRETS and you used them against me.
I no longer have anyone to lift heavy boxes and open jars and shit and I’m pissed about that.
I had to change my own oil in the jeep and I’m really pissed about that too.
If someone talks shit to me on the street I have to MAN UP and I’m a fuckin’ woman and I’m pissed about that.
I have to change my own flat tires and I’m superbly pissed about that.
I have to haul in the groceries, put them away and cook ’em and that really burns my ass.
You have the fucking nerve to call 30 times a damn day and if I don’t answer, you’re at my fuckin’ door.
I can’t take it anymore man, I can’t take it, it’s killing me slowly.
That’s funny ain’t it y’all?
He’s still killing me. Every minute of every day. Killing me.
With guilt I shouldn’t have to bear.
With fear I shouldn’t have to live with.
With trying to pull magic dust, money, what-the-fuck-ever outta my ass to leave here.
I’m dyin’. Every day. Right before your very eyes.
I hope you’re happy Jon.