#that we later learned was an absolute shitbag to our mother

[biasomnia]

My beloved boy’s birthday look at him!! My number 1 son named Yusuke (he is tied with yusuke urameshi).

[alitheamateur]

A Taste of Home-Chapter 5

Warnings: Language. 

(I do not own any of the images used in this piece)

You stood back from him, dancing anxiously and shamefully on your feet, mulling over the pitiful train wreck he must think you are. He was chatting on his phone, you were too preoccupied to care about to whom, or what the call consisted of.

“Ok, so. I’ve got a car on the way since I was totally counting on you to be my ride back to ma’s house. But, in the meantime, gimme your phone.” He opened his hand, and gave you eager brows of demand.

You obeyed his obviously impatient ask, and handed over the nearly dead device, watching him swipe a thumb over the screen. He held yours in one massive hand, and his in the other, nodding back and forth between the two.

“Thank you very much.” He matter-of-factly thanked you, still never looking up but handing back your cellular.

His screen was hidden, and he was tapping rigorously at it, and suddenly you heard the robotic beeps of an outgoing Facetime call. Chris turned his hat backwards, maybe to take away its casting shadow over his face, and his eyes turned dark when the beeps stopped.

“What in the fu-“ You knew that voice on the other end. This would be so pleasantly bad….

“No, no. I talk, you get to shut that ugly fucking mouth.” Chris sarcastically closed his eyes and held up a wagging finger to the person on the receiving end of his call. “Now, I don’t know your name, nor do I give a shit. So, we’ll just call you the very appropriately given name in Millie’s contacts as shithead. Okay, shithead?”

You were horrified, and mortified, and hot, and confused like no drug could ever make you.

The man you once called your spouse made no peeps, undoubtably nearly drunk with confusion and questioning his current grip on reality.

“See, that bullshit, ya’ know, with Amelia’s car, that just doesn’t work for me. So, I thought I’d ask, no demand, as politely as my saint of a mother taught me how, that you reverse whatever little stunt you orchestrated. She was MY ride home this afternoon, and I don’t take too kindly to being left stranded in the middle of Boston. NOR, do I take kindly to any piece of worthless shit like yourself treating someone I care about as such.”

“Woah, woah. Let’s just wait a minute here. What in the hell do you have to do with Amelia?”

Chris’ teeth crunched together like gravel under an 18-wheeler, and like a mood ring, you could see his face illuminate the same red of his boiling internal anger.

“Chris, it’s fine, okay? Let’s just let it go.” You sought out his arm to fiddle with the phone, hoping you could disconnect the interaction with the ‘end’ button.

“Wait, is she… is she there? Amelia?”

“Yes, she’s here, you imbecile. We were having a perfectly nice afternoon, and your smug little fuckin’ face had to crash it all the way from Texas. Millie never mentioned she and I were old friends, huh? Well, how’s that for a surprise, you smug shit.”

“Now, I see what this is all about. Mill had to run to her rich friend and beg for a little money, did she? If only her precious little blog hadn’t tanked, maybe she’d be standing on her own two feet. Do yourself a favor, Mr. Evans. Leave her right where you found her, and keep moving. A man like you doesn’t need a girl like Millie, we both know that.” Your ex drawing at straws attempted very foolishly to buddy up with Chris, playing the ‘we’re men, and we think alike all the time’ card. You certainly agreed with him though. Chris didn’t belong anywhere near you, and for the life of you, none of his kindness made any sense.

Your chin dropped like a beaten, timid dog whose owner mistreated him when no one was looking. Chris cleared his throat, and raised your eyes to his. He spoke at Ben, looking directly into your tear-rimmed eyes.

“This woman is so beyond your fuckin’ league, you rotting piece of trash. She’s talented, witty, fun as hell, and lightyears too beautiful for any to disregard.” He turned a cheek towards the phone, and you heard Ben audibly gulp. “And if…. This is your last warning, you fucker. If you don’t turn that tow truck around and have her car back here in one piece within the hour, you’ll answer to me. I’m not usually one of those assholes to play the celebrity bit. But ohhhhhhh, Benny Boy. We both know that I can absolutely ruin you within minutes.” He hung up as a punctuation to the very real threat, Ben’s hands tangled in his hair.

Hearing the loyal, threatening, protective way he had so thoughtlessly jumped to your defense without hesitation erupted your pupils with need to thank him. But not in the way that a friend would thank another friend. Or, the way that would be appropriate for the middle of the street in broad daylight. Never. Not even your once husband who had made a fucking career out of coming to an individual’s defense, had ever swept in to preserve your honor as such. You couldn’t capture his tongue, or jump his bones out of appreciation, but you needed to touch him. You needed to convey with action what words just couldn’t justify. So, you settled for a smothering, waist clenching bear hug. Connecting your cheek to his stone chest, you squeezed him. Squeezed him and smelled him, but hopefully he didn’t catch on to the sniff you gave his t-shirt.

“Thank you. You meathead asshole, you.”

His chuckle rumbled into your ear as he reciprocated your embrace, rubbing calm hands up and down your back. “Take note, Mills. I expect you speak up for yourself like that the next time that worthless shitbag pulls something like this. I know you’ve got quite the mouth on you, Calvert. Tell that fucker where to shove it. You hear me?”

Your chin perched just below his perfect peck as you looked upward to him smiling down at you. He ‘booped’ your nose curtly, then playfully knuckled a noogie atop your already matted hair.

“Ay, Ay, Captain…” Your cheeks puffed with the withholding of a hearty laugh.

“You’ve had that one on cue, haven’t you…”  Chris rolled his eyes with knowing sarcasm.

A dark sedan with impossibly black windows suddenly wheeled next to a parking meter just down the way from the pair of you, and his phone buzzed in unison.

“That’s our car, you asshole.” He lovingly shoved you away. “Get in before I make you walk home in those shoes.”

“How very un-captain of you, Evans. I’ll be speaking with your agents about such lack of chivalry.” You playfully punched his arm, and smiled when his feet bumbled beneath him.

“There’s that smile, Calvert. I’m telling you….”

…

Your business meeting with Chris’ connection had came and went without a hitch, and now, only 3 days later, you were stepping off your flight towards baggage claim at LAX.

The shoot would be held somewhere in the Malibu hills, and you’d been informed your styling would be for both male, and female models. It was a collection announcing a breakthrough designer from London, so once you learned his identity, you delved into the world wide web for exploration.

A car was waiting just as expected to pack yourself and your suitcase to a suite at some swanky beach spot near the water where you’d be sleeping the next 3 days. There would be the shoot this afternoon, the edits tomorrow, and the editor of the magazine had simply gifted your third day as a gesture to her friendship with Chris. You were certainly not in Kansas, or Boston anymore, and this was truly your first taste of real success in the world of fashion. All thanks to the mysterious kindness of your generous friend.

When you unloaded your wheeled suitcase from the trunk of the car service at the gates of your hotel, you could’ve drooled with envy. It was bright, and airy, and tastefully large, and you were now more so eager to investigate the extravagance of your suite.

Checking in, a bellboy carefully took the bags from your hand, ushering you into the elevator destined for the 25th floor where another member of staff waited beside your room door with a fizzling mimosa. Tipping the both of them, you latched the door behind you and turned into the window-front view of your home-away-from-home. It was perfectly decorated with whites, and sandy creams, and flowing drapes. The king mattress crisp with plush sheets, and a balcony fit for royalty called your name.

Upon your quizzical assessing around the room, you became pleasingly distracted but a healthy bouquet of creamy alabaster orchids on your counter next to a folded piece of cardstock.

Hope your flight wasn’t unbearable.

Enjoy yourself. You’ll be amazing, I know it.

There may be another surprise later in your day….

Oh, and check your phone when you arrive.

X

Chris

Following his vague direction, you pulled your phone from the pocket of your purse, clicking the button to reveal a text from the very man in question. It was a playlist titled ‘Malibu Barbie’ with a message attached:

C: Wear sunscreen when you go to the beach. Blast this playlist marvelously put together by mwah, and always, always drink before 10 a.m. Only in Malibu, baby.

Scrolling over the array of music, you smiled at the presence of songs such as ‘Hot Child in the City, Malibu by Miley, of course, Soak up the Sun, and a welcomed repetition of Ellie Goulding, your favorite. But, how would he know? You banked it as another of the slightly creepy, but always flattering ways of one Chris Evans.

After finishing the perfectly portioned morning cocktail, topping a wicker hat obviously appropriate for the beachy climate, you checked your watch and called for the return of your car. You’d gotten to appreciate the balcony view for a brief moment of downtime, but planned to wind down with a good read later tonight and hopefully catch the sunset.

The studio where you were scheduled to shoot was quaint, and very minimally adorned with props so the focus would only be on the undoubtably beautiful designs you were to highlight. The same woman, Tess, who you had met with days ago welcomed you as you climbed the stairs to the dressing area.

“There’s our girl. How was your flight, Amelia? You look rather rested.” She kissed each of your cheeks.

“I think it’s only the glow of adrenaline you see, but thank you anyway!” You surveyed the room of cameras, and makeup chairs, and light bars. “Again, thank you so much for the opportunity!”

“No need, love. Your work speaks for itself. Now, let’s get up to the dressing room and meet your models, shall we?”

Tess tucked her arm into yours, making you feel strangely… in place, in this world of fashion and editorials, as you had longed to.

She pulled you into a brightly lit room, unpainted brick walls lined with racks, upon racks of lavish fabrics. There were shoes in every color, belts of any length, and hats for every occasion.

“Now, you’ll be working with a male, and female model today, as the designer is trying his hand at menswear this season. So, wait here, mosey around a bit, and I’ll bring them in.”

You walked the hangers, brushing a hand over the variety of velvets, and suedes, and leathers, and tulle. You let yourself have a bit of a giddy fit knowing Tess had briefly left you to yourself, impulsively squealing and bouncing reservedly from one foot to the next.

“I won’t tell anyone about that little dance for a price…”

Surely. No, surely not.

Propped in the door, all casual and handsome like nobody’s business with his hands smashed into the pocket of his acceptably tight jeans, one sneaker crossed over the other. His eyes seemed a bit puffy with the early hour, and his dirty yellow shaded hair climbing in all directions.

“You followin’ me, Evans?” You narrowed your eyes in skepticism, dropping your purse on the floor by a chair before slowly drawing nearer to him.

“If I say yes, would you be flattered of afraid?”

He pulled your hand to swipe you into a hug, uncharacteristically kissing your hand.

“A friendly helping of both, of course.” You meekly let yourself blush. “Seriously though. What’s going on?”

“Well,” he found his way to sit on the sofa beneath the window. “I thought you might be all nervous, and clumsy, and well… predictably Millie about today, so I figured I could be your model. It will be good for Tess and the magazine, plus, I thought having a friendly face around would make you feel a little more at ease. I had a couple days so I thought, “why the hell not, Chris’”.

It made sense in its own way, but you still couldn’t fathom what made him fly all the way out here with his schedule the way it is. He only had a week or so left in Boston before he leaves for filming, why did he mess with the hassle of a two-day trip across the country?

“And I mean, come on? You know I’m a damn good muse, Mil.” Chris winked.

“I’m just concerned how any of these clothes are gonna cover you, beefcake. You’ll rip through every shirt I put on you.” You retorted, winding up and down, back and forth around the racks.

“I could always just do the whole thing in the nude. Wear a pair of the guys shoes, or something.” He cocked his head nonchalantly in that smug, but mind-blowingly sexy way.

The shoot went almost entirely without a hiccup, and the only little snag you did hit was your female model getting a little too handsy with Chris all afternoon. You weren’t at all going for anything risqué, or romantic in any manner of the word, and although every piece of fabric you put on her looked annoyingly flawless, it took way too long to get her to settle her hormones.

The designers every creation was constructed like the perfect masterpiece, making your job for the day a cinch, and you hoped when he flew in tomorrow to approve the final photos that you’d done him justice with your styling.

“I think that might be a wrap, guys and girls.” Tess clapped, tucking her water bottle in the crook of her armpit to free her hands.

The room followed suit, and clapped and hooted, murmurs of ‘thank you’s’ and other flattering filled your ears.

“Tess, wait. Hold up a second, everybody. I have one little suggestion, if I may.” Chris weaved through the crowd towards his editor friend.

“Let’s hear it then.”

He looked to you, shit eating grin already capturing his face.

“Amelia, our amazing stylist, is too peculiarly beautiful to not get in front of that camera for at least one shot. Am I right?”

Every member of the crew immediately followed Chris’s eyes as his smile fell in your direction.

“Oh no, no, no. I’m definitely a behind the camera girl, Chris. Kourtney did an amazing job, we got more than enough shots for today.” You protested, trying to inconspicuously locate the nearest exit.

“I think he may be right about this one, Amelia. As much it pains me to give this fool any credit at all.” Tess marched towards you. “Let’s head into the dressing you. I think I may have a suggestion as to what you should try on…”

You staggered an uneasy line re-entering the bustling set of photographers, styled at the very capable hand of the publication’s editor-in-chief. You couldn’t break apart the spellbinding crush your eyes suddenly had on your bare feet as the chatters about the room decreased to murmurs.

“You are a vison, gorgeous! Mr. Evans knew what he was talking about, clearly!”

The photographer boasted as Tess escorted you in front of the bleached plainness of white backdrop. His praises were able to miraculously capture your attention, and your pupils to his, finding an observing Chris standing at his side.

His blue-flamed stares were categorically forceful, and accidentally intrusive. His face read blank on one hand, but you could almost see the penetrating waves oozing from him if you tilted your head just right, and squinted hard enough. He was deep in thought with either captivated admiration, or robust disgust at you in your state of very foreign glamour compared to how he’d seen you as of recent. Your throat contracted in a gag analyzing his batting eyes, and arching brows.  

You kept your theatrics and posing to an appropriate minimal, careful not to take away from the calm beauty of your ensemble, and you were able to somehow, with bold effort, let yourself do your job acceptably despite your most handsome audience member.

“Fuck.”

Chris covered the laughing lines of his mouth as Paul turned the camera toward him, seeking a second opinion on one of your shots.

“It’s stunning, Mil. I swear to you. You look absolutely phenomenal.”

Paul motioned you over, in clear agreement with Chris, to reveal the already selected shot for the spread. The captured view of your marvelously bold, sharp-turned jaw elicited a baffling gasp from you.

“I think that’s really a wrap, folks. A beautiful one, might I add.” Tess announced.

Chris swooped in to crush you into embracing arms, gifting a prolonged kiss to the crown of your unusually tamed head. He seemed almost more contented than you were with todays turn of events, and never had anyone ever made you feel so, so accomplished.

“As fucking gorgeous as you look right now, how about you go get changed, yeah? I’m taking you to dinner tonight. Seems we’ve got some celebrating to do, superstar.” His muffled, wet whispers demanded the attention of every hair on your body as goosebumps began spreading like wildfire. A kiss behind the curve of your ear to the typically untouched spot made you want to sing out like the tabernacle choir.

TAGS: @eap1935 @miidailyinspiration @mollybegger-blog

[blakelywintersfield]

what do you think about cancel culture?

So it took me a while to answer this ask ‘cause I have... a lot to say about the subject.

There’s a lot to unpack when it comes to cancel culture. Its roots I like to believe are well intended -- a means to alert vulnerable groups about individuals that have a history of hurting them. But people have taken it... way too far.

I think it’s important to hold people accountable for their actions. There’s a lot of people who get away with horrible things, simply because they produce likeable material (makeup, music, movies, entertainment, etc.). People like Jeffree Star, PewDiePie, and Kat Von D have gotten away with their horrific treatment of others for years because people enjoy their content -- and two out of three of them still are wildly successful. What pushes people over the limit? Often times it’s a matter of what white people take major issue in. In Kat’s case, being anti-vax. Is being anti-vax bad? Hell yeah it is. As someone who’s immuno-compromised it literally could lead to an early, painful, slow death for me. And don’t get me wrong, I wanna die, but not from something that takes months of suffering. But people blatantly ignored her other awful acts -- such as her antisemitic actions (telling her former boss to “burn in hell jewbag” (sic) in the form of writing on a photo she left for him and drawing a Nazi symbol on it), complacency in victim blaming (her neo-Nazi husband blames his daughter’s rape on his daughter), denying and viciously responding to criticisms about her pedophilic makeup names (”Underage Red”, “Lolita”, second not in reference to the Japanese style but the book), and actively killing her pets (she killed one cat by leaving a house full of burning candles -- cat knocked down the candles, house went up in flames, cat died; she also was found forcing a vegan diet onto her cats -- I’m unsure if this has continued but I believe one of her cats died from it). All of these are huge reasons to “cancel” her -- to boycott her products. But people didn’t actively hate her until she came out as anti-vax, something that effects the majority. And that’s part of the issue with cancel culture: people pick and choose what’s acceptable depending on how badly it effects them personally.

Let’s focus on the other two mentioned: Jeffree and Felix. Jeffree has a very, very, veryyyyy long past of being a racist piece of shit. Not even lowkey ignorant white person racist (i.e. ”I didn’t know making fun of AAE and viewing dreadlocks as trashy was racist”). I’m talking straight up using the n-slur, with the hard -er too, towards a black woman. And this was recent, too. There just haven’t been any physical references beforehand, only personal accounts. But people have defended him -- and still defend him -- on these actions, because he apologized. But then he’ll do it again a month later. And there’ll be definitive proof of it. He’ll keep doing it over, and over, and over again. And people will continue to excuse him because he keeps apologizing! That’s not how apologies work! As someone who’s been abused, apologies mean nothing if you don’t actively work on fixing what you’re apologizing for!! My abusers would apologize and then do the exact same thing again so many times that I lost count long ago! And of course, Shane Dawson hasn’t helped because he’s head over heels for the guy, so he’s been using his popularity to try and clear his name -- which is ironic, considering he’s been under fire for being racist in the past too. The only difference is he actually cleaned his act up, until now, of course. Because now, instead of creating racist content himself, he’s defending a chronically racist shitbag. And people continue to defend him, because his shitty actions effects mainly black women -- a minority in comparison to the amount of white people in the states. Jeffree continues to be wildly successful because his problematic behavior only effects a minority, and that’s... not okay.

Felix has a very similar history to Jeffree, but with antisemitism, and in my opinion he’s even worse because he’ll apologize then do something nice like donate to a charity. And that would be fantastic if he wouldn’t continue to do antisemitic things like actively support white supremacists. People continue to defend him because he does charitable things, but I constantly remind people that abusive people aren’t abusive 24/7 -- that’s literally how they get away with abuse. They abuse, then take you out for a fancy date, kiss you gently and tell you how beautiful you are. Then they do something abusive. It’s an endless cycle. And that’s honestly what Felix does. Apologize, do something really fucking nice, and then repeat his shitty action. And he has other extremely influential people defend him -- it’s why I had to stop following JackSepticEye and Markiplier. They continuously vouched for him. They continuously defended him. And they did it in the form of saying “he’s a really good person, I know him personally, he’s really fucking sweet and nice”. That’s what people say about the partner of someone really close to me! Their friends defend them all the time, but they’ve never seen how they treat my friend. They don’t know about how they are in a relationship. And that’s all we ever hear about abusers. No one wants to accept that their longtime friend is shitty. But Mark and Sean contribute to the toxic ideology of “defend your friends to the end”. And it disenfranchises those effected because 1) they’re not Jewish, they have absolutely no say in the matter, and 2) they’re abusing their popularity to keep their friend from being properly criticized. I don’t think either of them are shitty people, per se, but they’re being extremely toxic by not letting their friend see that they’re a repeat offender and need to either work on their shit or face the music. Mark and Sean both have the power to make Felix change if they just give him the ultimatum of “us or this”.

But I digress. The main issue highlighted here is that people who actually do bad things and continue to do bad things aren’t being held accountable because people don’t care to acknowledge what doesn’t directly effect them. This is the first main issue with cancel culture.

Let’s focus on another man under scrutiny: John Lennon. Now, let me put out there for disclaimer purposes that this man is far from perfect and has problematic parts to him as well. He’s done some shitty things. But cancel culture looooooooves to dig at this man. To put it crudely, they really enjoy beating this dead... man. And mainly over one really bad thing he did, which was hit his wife. However, people love to 1) over-exaggerate it, and 2) completely ignore how he handled the aftermath. Cancel culture often refers to him as a “wife beater”, as though this were a chronic habit or that he severely brutalized his wife. But they conveniently ignore that he apologized, both to her and publicly, taught himself about domestic abuse and spoke up for women’s rights, and even wrote multiple songs about how he fucked up and he shouldn’t be excuse for what he did. And, most importantly, his wife forgave him. The victim in this situation forgave him, and people still dig into this one thing and use it as their reason to hate him and his band to this day. Genuine criticism of him and what he’s done have gone to the wayside because of this one fact with no context, and it’s a huge phenomena because people, for whatever reason, love to hate popular things. Like I said, he’s done shitty things! He wasn’t perfect! But to use one issue that was literally resolved to hate him is just a lazy excuse to hate what’s popular, and that comes to our second issue with cancel culture: people want to hate what’s popular and will go to any lengths to excuse their hatred, even if issues that have been resolved.

The last main issue I have is that cancel culture is often set up in very black and white terms. Person does bad thing, they’re bad, end of discussion. But that’s... not how life works. Not at all. I know religion isn’t universal, especially Christianity, but there’s one point in Christianity that is universal: humans are flawed. No human being to have ever existed is perfect. And with the rise of technology and social media, a lot of mistakes have a permanent proof out there. Be it through tweets, tumblr or Facebook posts, Instagram or Snapchat stories, whatever it is, there is proof. And people like to take it way too far.

For example... well, I’ll use myself. There’s good things to not being tumblr famous, and I’m blessed with that, because I used to be a major shithead. Well. Okay, I still am, but I was bigoted, uninformed, and had a lot of internalized issues. For anyone that doesn’t know, I was raised in a conservative Christian household where my father was Southern Baptist and my mother had been raised Catholic (her personal religious views are much more lax though, thankfully). Both came from small towns in Illinois and Missouri respectively, and their parents, the same. I was aggressively homophobic and transphobic (ironic, eh?), covertly racist and sexist, and just overall a really shitty person. And while I didn’t join tumblr until after I’d finally started to grow, a lot of people on here are younger -- some even lying about their age and joining before they’re 13. And like me, many of these kids are in close-minded households. And for the longest time I refused to listen to other people because of the good ol’ backfire effect, but once I began to accept I was wrong, I learned. Of course I still have learning to do -- I always do. I always will. And that’s okay. But if I were 12 year old me on tumblr today, I would, well. I would’ve probably killed myself by now, because of all the bullying and hate for being a shithead child. A shithead, yes. But a child. Someone that’s going to be ignorant to a lot of things because they haven’t been alive for as long. And not everyone has informed parents that make it a point to teach them. Adults are a little harder to forgive, I’ll admit, but children have a lot more potential to learn and grow, and we often treat them just like adults.

The final issue with cancel culture is that it gives no room for improvement and no assumption of someone’s innocence. While it hurts to be on the victim end, we as a whole are obligated to correct the issue. I personally would like it to be those not effected doing that (i.e. someone making a transphobic comment having other cis people explain why it’s transphobic and isn’t okay), but regardless, we need to assume innocent until guilty with these kinds of things. It’s not easy, sure, but if I had been on tumblr while I was a shitty kid parroting my dad’s awful world views, cancel culture would’ve labeled me a piece of shit with no chance of redemption, and if I didn’t kill myself there’s no fucking way in hell I would’ve learned, because that kind of treatment would’ve stuck with me and made it harder for me to listen to the other side’s reasoning, even if they were right. We need to approach people in a manner of calm education, instead of ready to kill. In no way am I saying this is an easy thing to do, but unless they’ve refused to open themselves up in any way whatsoever, immediately chalking someone up as a lost cause is just... counter-productive. We have to acknowledge that people are flawed, and can learn and grow. We need to give people space to improve. It’s not all or nothing.

All in all, cancel culture has a good base, but its execution has become irrational and a means to justify hating those that really don’t deserve it, while turning a blind eye to those that actually are problematic. There’s a lot to be improved on.

[lillikat]

Dear Pervert – An Open Letter.

*Names will not be mentioned so as to protect the guilty. This letter may contain issues which could trigger those with a past history of sexual abuse or harassment - ie: most women*

Dear Pervert,

So we’ve been acquaintances on Twitter for what must be now 6 years or so.  You followed me, and I reciprocated.  I remember as I don’t find and follow many over there, only the truly fascinating, which you did not come under.

You whore your watercolour paintings on Twitter, occasionally asking for feedback and often not actually wanting it.  Just trying to “engage your audience” I suppose.  I gave feedback on works I liked and on aspects that you openly asked for.  Very occasionally you replied to me.  Nice, but busy and possibly rather self involved was my diagnosis of you from these interactions.

I believe you once sent me a spam message, whining about how you wanted me to promote you or join you on Facebook.  I ignored the crap out of that.  Perhaps there was more to that message, now I think about the way you treated me yesterday.

Your watercolours are supposedly amongst the best in the UK with your distinct style which you have given a unique name to (yes bitch, I did look you up and did some light internet homework after our interaction yesterday.  Some of these details were most unflattering, very eye-opening and brought some light to our interaction).  I was happy to retweet on my own terms, as I liked your use of light, perhaps even considered buying one at some point when I actually had money, obviously not now.  I wouldn’t want anything your fuckboy hands have been involved in anywhere near me now.

So despite our complete lack of personal interaction, really getting chatting to each other, you decided to push yourself on me yesterday.  Not the first, nor shall you be the last to demand my attention by DMing me out of nowhere, relying upon the fact I have manners and humanity, knowing that I would not outright ignore a simple greeting.  However, I smelt fuckery straight away.  You see a LOT of men seem to think I am here for their amusement, be that sexual or otherwise.

**Look boys, if your mum didn’t breast feed you enough or hug you, that is not my problem.   If you want me to be your therapist, I require payment and for you, “Dear Pervert” that price is tripled. **

So regardless of my thinking “oh shit, another man looking for a mother or slut and I can’t be titted being either.” I responded to your ill conceived, terribly spelt attempt at communication. Perhaps I was wrong, after all, you try to sell work through this Twitter account, by DM nevertheless, there’s just no way you’d risk your professional reputation by being a creepy man on this account, would you?

Yet you did exactly that.  7 messages, that’s what it took you. No romance, no wooing, no paying attention to social cues like me telling you I am busy working, hinting (so clearly that a dog would have picked up my not so subtleties) that I wanted to be left alone and had no interest in you whatsoever.  You just kept going didn’t you?  Did not give one fuck that you might be making me uncomfortable, annoyed and deeply nauseous.  No, because your dick was in control.  You pathetic sack of crap, you let your base animal instincts override any sense of socially acceptable behaviour that you might have had.

7 messages of me saying I am working and you sending badly spelt trash, bibbling on about how your in bed and so tired.  “Go to sleep then you absolute fanny and stop bothering me I have work to do” was what I was thinking but instead I stated “I am working, I have a lot to do so it will be many hours before I can similarly relax like you are doing.”

You piled on ambiguous emojis like a schoolgirl who’s just got their first smartphone.  “Here check this shit out” I called to my husband as I stated I thought I had yet another live one on DM. That was on your second message - the third in our entire interaction.  Then you witter on about distracting me from work. ”Dear Pervert”, you really should've bowed out but oh no, not you.  You felt entitled didn't you?  You then had me reaffirm my I AM BUSY statement and then sent me a shot of your erection barely clothed by grotty hospital style pyjamas.

What in the name of anything sacred or sane were you thinking?  At no point did I state any interest in your grotty ass.  Not one smidgeon.  Not one cell of my being asked for your vague innuendo then shot of your erection.  Bam! Rank pyjamas and that, in my face.

Thank you, “Dear Pervert”.  Thank you for not reading my timeline or taking any blind bit of notice that I am part of the #metoo movement, part of the #SexAbuseChat survivors.  Only recently found my voice.  Only started to barely grace the depths of my survival and story.  Barely trusting, yet finding strength in the shared stories of my sisters of the internet, stronger perhaps than I can ever be, who have managed to out their pain sooner.  More succinctly than I.

Do you want to know my first thought “Dear Pervert”?  You made me flashback to the time when I was on holiday with my natural father in a Bulgaria.  The last time he forced me to share a room with him. You made me recall those 2 weeks in all their glory.  Buckle up buttercup, because this is what you had me relive and refeel in all it's hideous detail. Part one. The Flasher. Not my first, by now I am in my early teens.  I have faced emotional, physical, psychological and sexual abuse for many years.  That was my secret. I became good at keeping secrets.  But that’s a whole set of tales for another time, “Dear Pervert”.

Back to the flasher.  My second by this point.  I am waiting to get breakfast, it’s a raised static trailer, I am short and have to tiptoe to see over the counter edge.  I place my order, the man says just a minute and exits.  I step back and wait for what must be 5-10 minutes.  I am looking at my shoes, bored and bewildered, when out of my peripheral vision I see the cook come back in, with his dick in his hand, masturbating furiously.  By now, I know what to do. I am a child and already had faced so much worse.  "Reaction, this shitbag wants me to give anything" was my first thought.  Now my first flasher I shot down in flames by pointing at his penis and in my loudest, best stage laugh proclaimed if that’s all he had he’d better see a surgeon.  This one deserved more and less.  I immediately looked down at my watch swore about this guy being a lazy so and so, then walked off in the opposite direction to the nearest busy shop.  I was shaking,  I thought I was going to pass out or throw up.  I walked slowly so he wouldn’t know I saw him, then sped up gradually, afraid this man was going to chase after me.

Part two. Daddy Dearest. I got back to the hotel room I shared with my father, telling him about the incident in full detail, as soon as he arrived.  Surely he will do something or know who to tell, was my logic.  No, in my natural father’s true style, he decided this would be the perfect occasion to show me his throbbing penis.  Again for no reason.  We were both reading later, after dinner.  Father was in his underpants & t-shirt, which until then never bothered me.  He then yelled jovially “hey what do you think of this?” and as I looked over at his bed he whipped down his underwear to reveal my second unwanted erection of the day.  Again “Dear Pervert” I cannot underline, that even at this tender age, I was not a person to be reckoned with.

Let me break this down for those who have never experienced true fear.  Seconds, feel like hours.  Your heart races, you feel giddy, throat goes dry you swallow - it’s sand, you feel the shaking start, the adrenaline has kicked it now you have an eternity in this moment of horror.  Sadly, I had lived here before.  Many times. Fortunately, I have learned how to construct complex battle plans in those uncomfortable moments.  A few seconds was all I needed.

I took one look at my natural father’s erection, raised an eyebrow and told him he should take that shit on children’s TV as a puppet act.  Perhaps the broom cupboard on CBBC would take his act? I then went back to reading my book.  I knew if I had reacted in any other way, we would have issues.  Joke it off, brush it off as just a bit of fun then jam in the fact YOU ARE A CHILD in large letters, in hopes he will see.  From that moment on, things between my father and I got worse.  The brutal reality I had to face was that my father wanted me.  Completely, in every sense of the word.  My everything. I had to run. I had to survive, again.  This had become my normality. I could never let him know that I had been here before.  I knew even then, he would see that information as some sort of gateway for him to start full on abuse mode.  I was not about to let that happen.

So to put it succinctly “Dear Pervert” you triggered memories of my father.  For that I hate you.

In your scale of thinking it’s nothing, your junk was technically covered.  No, no and NO. No means no, by the way. Drinking is not an excuse ever (looks like this excuse might be a habit for you “Dear Pervert”, again you made me look you up).

As for having a bad week, which was the main crux of your excuse.  A bad week?  Try having a hellish couple of years in which you almost lose every damn thing including your sanity and will to live.  I’ve had that and not once sent pics of my flaps to random internet men.  I think I might be able to speak on behalf of most women and say none of us would do that shit ever.  I mean genitals are not attractive.

You don’t even remotely tickle my turnip “Dear Pervert” so why in god’s name would you think “oooh my barely covered erection is just what this conversation needs”?

You sir are a fuckwit.  A massive gaping, diseased one at that.  I have spent a day and a half by now (yeah writing this much vitriol takes time, it’s a craft) hating you “Dear Pervert” for the following reasons.

1: You hold a position of power.  Lots of followers on Twitter, prolific artist, seemingly professional.  I am an artist, just starting out, being sneered at for my style by the likes of bigwigs such as you.  That is why I spoke to you on DM, that is why I gave you the time of day.  I thought we shared a common passion, that you might be wanting to talk shop or art.  You entered into a contract of trust and you pissed all over it.  That’s what you’re doing when you randomly seek attention from a woman on the internet by the way. If they give you the time of day back, count your blessings behave like a gentleman and keep your dick where it belongs.  Off my DMs and not in my face.  You abused your position of power.  For shame!

2: Right at the exact time your fuckery started my dog decided to start violently throwing up.  Yet I had to take time out to yell at you & report you.  So I’m just blaming you for my dog being sick, because I think she saw your pathetic wang and it made her chuck.  That’s what I’m telling myself anyway.  It pleases me to do so.

3: I have had panic attacks, stomach aches & headaches since, thanks to the constant supply of panic adrenaline that my body seems to use as some form of defence.  My heart has been racing, I can’t sleep & can’t eat.  So thank you for that trauma.

4: You didn’t even care when I yelled at you and told you that I am not here to be an object of sexual gratification nor amusement to internet randoms, that I was a human with actual real feeligns attached to them.  I also informed you that I am married, and again I didn’t want your pervy nonsense.  Now every letter is riddled with hidden intent and double entendre.  Every character takes on new meaning in light of your behaviour.  You gave me eye rolled emoji like a fucking child.  You make me sick.

5: I now worry about the safety of other women on the internet. Oh but fear not “Dear Pervert” the whisper network is in effect. I can’t out you here, but I absolutely can tell my loved ones to avoid you like a dose of virulent crabs.  They have been told you are not professional and you are not a safe person.  I think we can both agree on those very simple facts.  My ladies will give you wide berth, they will tell other women who will tell other women who will tell other women.  So in short if you’ve done this before (which I have to believe you have & much worse) it will come out eventually.  If you really were just showing your dick to me and I was your special first, note if you do this again, the network will get stronger.  Why?  Because we are looking out for one another in trying times, as only real, actual humans do.

With that “Dear Pervert” I sign off.

Know the pain you have caused me and know you just pushed me to out pain and truth that I have never done before.  You broke me, now there might be a landslide of cathartic outings here.

Sisters of the internet!  You are not alone, together we are stronger.  You there reading this, yes you.  You are a Goddess.  No you are, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

Men, treat every woman as the Goddess she is.  After all women have paid homage to your masculinity for aeons.  Return the favour.

If we all treat each other as Gods & Goddesses, with the full respect that holds, perhaps there might be less of this infestation of men believing they have privilege over woman’s domain.  Because random internet boys, we owe you nothing not one thing, therefore you have no right to demand anything from us ever.

We are not your sex toys.

We have feelings.

Yours Blistering with Rage

L