"Turn Me On, Dammit!"

They made a movie about me:

trailers-dot-apple-dot-com-slash-trailers-slash-independent-slash-turnmeondammit

That's all that post was going to be, but, well, it's a lovely day, so why not ruin it more? That's all I'm good at, so here goes.

OF COURSE they would come out with an indie move about angst from Angst-central that is the Great Northern Old World, and, please, look at the girl, isn't she perfect. She is just so oh-my-god so fuckingly (and fuckingably) (or is it 'fuckabling'?) beautiful, especially when she puts that flower in her hair, and goes on the prowl, that half the girls in the world would give their right arm to be her and the other half (actually 5%) would want to do her.

Do her good, long and hard.

Like I said, a movie about me.

But then, how does she see herself? Look at her when she looks at herself. Do you see how her face becomes sallow and haggard?

She thinks she's ugly.

No, worse: she thinks she's undesirable.

No, worst: she thinks she's unlovable.

(Doesn't fucking help that every single person in that export from Norway is Nordic, and yes, Saga isn't Norwegian, and she isn't even Swedish, except by relocation, or maybe she's is properly half Swedish, but I don't remember any more, and I can't ask her, ... actually I can, and expect the same donut-hole responses I've been getting)

(But no response from Saga is better to me, a bittersweet drink, than anything I have before me in my empty and meaningless life, so I hold onto her silence as if it were the only lifeline I have ... had ... have, because at least I have her silence).

Like I said. Angst.

They did get one thing wrong: phone smex. And the bills for it. As if I could afford that.

Besides, why buy the cow, when the lactatio-... I meant: 'milk' *blush* is free? There's the internet for that. All day, every day.

Except at work. Can't get fired.

Besides (part deux) phone smex is so personal ... intimate, even! ... okay, here's how phone smex for `phfina would go down.

Ring-ring: please enter your account number or press star to enter your credit card information for a new account

(`phfina enters her account information, for the 500th time this week)

'Hello,' says a sweet, friendly voice, 'my name is Kristile, what's yours?'

(`phfina shrieks and hangs up, blushing hard, just like the past 500 times, and runs from her flat to the nearest pub, I mean: 'hide-y hole')

At the end of the month, they find a what they identify as a preteen girl in an apartment she was squatting, dead, with a credit card bill for $3,000 clutched in her left, that is, her non-knife hand.

I think I'm going to love that movie, when it finally comes out on youtube in "Part 1 of 10" segments, because, really, who wants to see a movie about a sad girl with no happy ending when there's the multibillion dollar happily-ever-after franchises, like Twilight ... THAT'S reality: self-conscious girl, awkward, lands ultra-rich-cute-powerful boy and gets deus ex machina powers AND, for fuck's sake, a perfect in every way daughter who hits preteens right away and is just so adoring and adorable there's nothing at all to hate or be frustrated about with her.

THAT'S reality, so why watch a teenage angst movie, and told from a girl's perspective at that?

She probably commits suicide at the end. Because: labeled a slut? ostracized so much that her best friend leaves her to hang out with a nice guy?

Where have a lived, I meant: 'heard', that before? Hm.

Now, I'm terrified to write they made another movie about me:

trailers-dot-apple-dot-com-slash-trailers-slash-independent-slash-godblessamerica

Because it's been like, what, at least three times that people PM me and are like, 'Are you like a 40-year-old pervy guy'?

And I'm like, what?

I mean, seriously! Do they see me as this guy?

trailers-dot-apple-dot-com-slash-trailers-slash-independent-slash-badass

Last I checked, Machete slashed a lot, but he didn't have that little tiny slash that I have down there when I check my birthday suit in the mirror.

Mirror time. Fun-fun.

Seriously, three times a girl comes to me, opens up, and then says am I a stalker perv?

Did you get the part where they came to me, I didn't go to them and say, 'diddle yourself while you tell me your fantasies of me fucking you'? No, they came to me, and opened up, and I tried, God, I tried to tell them they are lovable, and give them some self-meaning, and -worth, and -confidence, but somehow I'm the stalker because they're a fucked-up psycho bitch?

Fucking psycho bitches.

Please, do me a favor, and fuck off, fucked up psycho bitches.

You can get hurt on-line. I have, but not for being called something I'm not.

I got hurt, badly, for being called something I am.

It was, somebody ... who saw this shy, scared girl, and made a tiger trap for me, and baited it well, and when I fell into that trap, and had nowhere to turn and nowhere to run to hide, she said: "I know who you are."

And she told me.

Another time I almost committed suicide.

Why do people JUST. HAVE. TO. KNOW?

"Are you an alcoholic?"

"Do you have a mental disorder?"

And then the killing me softly with kindness, telling me what and who I am, putting me in my place, under her domination and control, so she would be safe, because there's somebody (much, much) weaker, more vulnerable than her, and she's seen these weaknesses before, and knew exactly how to exploit them.

No, I'm afraid of mentioning 'God bless America,' not because I'm a rampaging murderous fourty year old pervy man (please!). No, it's because I am that teen girl, outcast, with that really, really weird twisted outlook on life, who is this close to pulling a gun on the guy who double-parked, but did she, no.

What she did was smile, evilly, and pat our anti-hero on the arm, affectionately, encouraging the behavior on him which that sweet little innocent her would never dream of acting out on.

That's why I'm afraid of mentioning that movie, because you see me as brave, and strong, trying to work through my shit, when, actually, I'm not working through the shit, I'm not in the shit.

I am the shit.

I'm a little vicious, conniving, nihilistic, evil shit.

Special place in hell, reserved just for me, the anti-elect.

Those two movies got one thing wrong ... about me, and so right about girls these days.

No matter how low these girls, these anti-heroines have sunk, they ...

They still have self-worth, pride, and bravery or courage. They can flip off their town, because they know they hate it.

Me? My life? I grew up in Middletown, CT, 'Little Italy', an outsider, by definition, but I didn't know I hated that little town where there was no way I could fit in. I didn't know anything. That's just the way things were, and that's just the way my life is.

These girls? They have the guts to subscribe to a phone-smex line to help take care of bizness, they have the guts to go up to a 40-year-old perv watching school girls through binocs to say, 'Isn't that a little lame to get your rocks off, you perv?' and then when he offs the class princess-bitch-cvnt, she has the guts not wet herself and fall into a quivering teary pile, lying the whole time saying, 'That's not right,' and 'you're so mean, how could you do that!' when deep in her heart she felt her panties get wet watching him off that vicious bitch who picked on and belittled her her whole school life.

No, she has the guts to smile, and say, 'That is the coolest thing I have ever seen. Can I come with you?'

And get in his car and throw her useless, pointless, predetermined life away and walk into an unknown, carefree, exciting future and actually live.

Do you see why I'm terrified?

Nah, you don't. You just feel sorry for fucked up little me, that I can live my fucked up little life that everybody else is just fine living ('quiet lives of desperation'), and I can't ...

I can't go on.

Yes, I can.

How do people do it? How do people just keep going on, and are actually happy and content with what they have? It's like a gift, isn't it? Did everybody else get the manual, and they forgot to give it to me, because I missed out on 'How to have vaginal and anal intercourse with a male and enjoy it, even though he cums in like, 30 seconds, and you never will' manual on how to live your life happily and contented even though there's better and you had it for a while and then it's all gone, twice.

TWICE. Twice I've lost the best friend and lover in the world that I knew I would never have on my own merit, and now I have to settle for ...

So now I have this Big Scarlet letter, ... not 'A', for 'Adulteress' (been there, done that), but 'S' for 'Settle for', so now every person who comes to me sees that 'S' and knows what she is, 'Oh, I'm just what `phfina's settling for'

And what does that say to her about her? And what does that say about me, that I'm living my life in the past with my regrets, knowing I don't deserve what I had had, so judging everything, even better things, as not measuring up, and measuring up to what? What I had when I can't see beauty, and kindness, and sweetness and love right in front of me, because all I have in my guts (which we have establish that I don't have guts) is anger and the only taste left in my mouth is bitterness?

----

I've been looking for the king of diamonds
But I guess the queen will do
I've been looking for the king of diamonds
Till the dealer gave me you

You've got everything together
You've got everything I want
You've got sharp & sparkling pleasure
Even from the middle of your card

"King of Diamonds," sung by Motopony

... but what does that make me? That's easy:

You are just a stranger,
With your vodka soda.
Under the street light.
You were a silhouette.
Cigarette.

You look, You look like trouble.
You look like beautiful trash.
You look, look so holy through the smoke
And the ash of beautiful trash.

"Beautiful Trash," performed by Lanu

That's what it makes me, a pretty little girl with nothing to recommend her than her beautiful girlish looks, her beautiful insights, and that she tries, oh, she tries so hard!

Yeah, I'm a try-hard.

Hm, I wonder if cigarette smoke clears the nose, throat, and lungs of all the snot I'm carrying in me.

You know, clear my head. Just like my Pepe did, when I was a little baby, one, two years old.

He went to his garage shed one pre-dawn morning, took a gun, and cleared his head, with a smok(ing bullet).

Nana found him. Something felt wrong. So she ran to the garage, and found him there. Cold, pale. Dead.

Just like me.