my, what big balls you have, papi!

Oh, the mischief Papi gets into!  Only this time, he's a hero.

I've told you about The Beast, right?  She, who rendered me homeless with a 'packing party', changing the locks so that I returned 'home' from a 16 hour shift to being 'homeless'?

Her hideous behaviour is no less loathsome than the people who stood on the balcony, barfing out their obscene loyalty to The Beast.  They were looking down at me snickering as if to say, "Ha ha!  Na-na n'na-na!  We fucked you up, bitch!"

Who does that?  Who has that kind of evil in them that they would think this is OK?

Oh yeah!  Right!  The kind that have so much hideous hatred, that they would laugh at my misfortune of being in a wheelchair after the brain injury from my motorcycle accident.

That's who.

Anyway, Papi and I saw one of them at a store today.

Wait!  I have to back up before I tell you the punchline of this story.  Oh, let's see if I can do this in a short version.

The reason The Beast dumped me, was because she was getting back together with her ex-girlfriend.  That's why she made me homeless; to make room for the new relationship.

Now, I feel so sorry for this woman getting caught in the web of The Beast.  She didn't know what she was getting into!

Anyway, they got married after I sued The Beast, and now, the Sweet Ex is now suing her as well!

Oh, but wait!  It gets better!

I've become very close friends with this Sweet Ex.  She is one of the most loving friends I have.  We're so very similar, but then, that makes sense, ya know?  Predators only go after a certain 'type' they know they can abuse.

OK.  I hope I've set up the scene for you.  Let's get back to one of the Balcony Barfers we saw in the store today.

This one tried so very hard not to 'notice' me.  Oh, come on!  Everyone was staring at me because of my ridiculous leg warmers I was wearing.  That and I had my hair out and proud.  I looked like a walking cartoon of a full on femme.

I was most definitely seen and was most definitely avoided.

Papi said to me, "I feel like I need to say you deserve an apology."

I texted the Sweet Ex to giggle with her about the Balcony Barfer experience, and she said, "Oh, Papi should do it!"

We didn't expect it, but as they neared around the corner, Papi did it.

I couldn't believe it!

He just spurted it out like he knew the Balcony Barfer, "You should be ashamed of yourself and for how you all treated her!"

"Excuse me?" was all that could come out of the Balcony Barfer's mouth.

Papi continued, "You should apologize for what you did."

Unfortunately, the Baclony Barfer hasn't grown enough to apologize.  All I got was a shake of the head combined with an, 'Oh, come on!"

Nope.

I still don't get an apology.  I probably never will.  This clique will stand by their actions as they terrorize the Sweet Ex as well.

Some people can never admit they've been an ass.  If I get an apology, I'm usually more than happy to give someone the benefit of the doubt, because I know how much of an ass I've been in my life and I'm the first to admit it.

Of course, I had to call the Sweet Ex and tell her that Papi is our fearless lion!  We had such a playful time bobbing in Papi's wake!  Nobody ever stands up to these people.  Somehow, to the weak, they're admirable?

Hell no!

Admirable is my hero husband, calling out one of the Balcony Barfers for what they are: a shame.

Indeed, that male transformation is complete.

Papi has big balls.

i forgive every person who has undermined my self-esteem

yeah! so fucking what!

Let's talk about offense.

Or rather, let me vent about it while you read and chuckle at the way I deal with my mental illness.

In the beginning of the creation of this blog, I had something to say that I felt I couldn't say to the world, lest I be judged harshly and made to be a part of The Pariah Club.

I did it anyway.

I gained so much from being an outcast.  I found people who also felt the same.  I found my strength from people who allowed me to speak my mind, but not diss me for it.  Instead, they allowed me my freedom of speech until I could heal from my pain.

I also found, I had said enough that I got the shit out of my head, through my mouth and therefore, out of my soul.

I grew.

I found that I didn't need to say much more, because I had the majority of my own shit worked out.

Now I have another level of my shit pile to work on, but this one, I'm tending to be very careful with my words, lest I 'offend' someone.

Then I read an awesome quote that was floating around Facebook.

Meet Stephen Fry, if you already haven't.

I immediately felt connection to this person.

I immediately shouted from my proverbial rooftop, "YES!!!!!!  Exactly!! So fucking what!!!!!!"

Some are offended by what I say, yet I, being part of The Pariah Club (not to mention the minority in my minority of a community), were to say what I really feel, I'd have even fewer friends.

I get offended by things people I love post, however, I don't berate them.  Rather, I allow them their freedom of speech and deal with my own shit.

All I do is I graze past their pics and statuses, so that I can move on to more non-offensive pics.

Like LOLCats.

I mean seriously.  I have fucking issues.

I have such horrid issues, that I bravely called a psychologist today, to plead for help with my P.T.S.D. from past abuses.

I see things that people comment on with ease, that put me into a tailspin, and give me the most fucked up dreams.

Like the dream the other day: the punishment for everyone else in my dream was to be pelted by volleyballs, yet MY punishment for the same error was to have to watch my love pretend to piss out of a hotdog held in his 'man zone'.

Sound fucked up enough?  Yup.

All because I saw a picture of a jello mold in the shape of a penis and balls with great hairy bits dangling from it.

Sound harmless enough?  Sure!  For everyone else, except this wacky brain that jumps into places that no cranium should go.  From a fucking jello mold people!!

Me?  I had 'offense', but it wasn't attached to my Great Non-Judgmental Friend, but by what my brain did when I saw it.

And that's MY shit, nobody elses shit.

So do I say I'm 'offended' by that?  Nope.  I just write a blog about how I need to get this fucking P.T.S.D. out of my life.

I hope my friends can keep getting much more enjoyment out of their happy, healthy brains.  I'll just keep grazing past it, and go to therapy.

Are you offended?  So fucking what.

i see each part of my life as a lesson

Shit kickin' boots.

I channeled my inner redneck for Ladies Night.

I dressed for the part, right down to my dog tag I wear every day with utter pride.  It's the one I received from the Queer Arts Festival this summer.  You remember the one?  The Queer As Fuck award!

One this day, I felt it was the perfect accessory for my power suit.

Every day, I dress in my prettiest clothing, sometimes wackiest colours, to make my femme presence known.

This time, I didn't want to wear it for shooting guns.

I did the last few times.  It's fine to wear a skirt, but from this point forward, I feel that I must don my jeans and boots.

I pulled every little eyelet of my 'Sidekick' Dayton Boots taut.  I exerted myself, as I wrapped that stout leather around my ankles and shins.

That of course was after I'd slithered into my tightest, most badass jeans I have.

This was not a night for my Dominican jeans with rhinestones on the ass pockets.

No, this was a night for Diesel Indian, Bootcut jeans.

They pull my figure into a tiny little package of strength and 'don't mess with me' attitude.

You could never pull the femme from me, so I still felt pretty with my locks hanging down around my shoulders.

In order to fit in the with the bio-boys, I especially chose my camo sweatshirt to wear nice and snug under my riding leather.

Of course, I no longer have a license to ride my motorcycle, or any other vehicle for that matter.  Even if I did, my dearly departed bike was killed in the motorocycle accident.

Still, I kept my leather jacket.  Only problem is, as I went into the closet in Our Closet, I realized it's in storage!

I had to settle for my black jean jacket with a few lacy bits behind the buttons.

No matter, because all together, they give me a certain amount of strength.

My boots hold my feet firm on the ground, with their sturdy heels.

Not to mention their pointy tips, that are seriously good for the off-chance that I may need to kick someone in the balls.

Strength.  I'm searching for my strength.

It's my power suit.

She means business.

When we arrived at the shooting range, I walked in with confidence.  Every boot step sounded as I crossed the floor.

It was like I was wearing a red dress.

It was my space.

My night.

When I shot those tiny silver bullets from my .22, the gun ranger realized he didn't need to help me, saying, "you're really doing good!" then turned his focus on My Gratitude Buddy and my friend I got to know a little better.

They're another member of the Pariah Club.  They fit in just fine.

The only thing I needed the gun ranger to do for me, was load me another cartridge so it was ready for my next round.

Of course, my two buddies were in it for the fun, as they shot their 357 Magnum.  I stuck to my .22 and 9mm.

If you didn't see the outcome of my new shooting expedition, you have to take a peek at it from yesterday.

I'm getting better.

I'm finding my strength.

I'm finding more confidence.

I'm finding that I WILL be protecting myself without any hesitation.

With that, I'm finding more peace.

I'm also finding a new bond with my shit kickin' boots.

i have only positive mental pictures

the dream is not exempt from nightmares

No sleep.

Fucking insomnia.

I guess I have too much going through my head.

Excitement, fear and holy fuck the nightmares every goddam night!

I have the feeling it's because there's no pain meds to block them out.

I had nightmares every night before the accident, but after the accident, I would wake up knowing I had one, I just couldn't remember a lot of them because they had me so wired on pills.

Well, with no drugs to dim the din, the horrors are in full force.

One was that I had to relive all the ICBC crap all over.  In my dream, I said to my lawyer, "I thought you said once this was all done, that was that!"

He replied, "They changed their mind."

Last night was all my musical instruments in the middle of an intersection and people stealing them, but I couldn't get to them because the speeding cars wouldn't let me get there.  Then everyone laughed at my disdain.

Not to mention, every night, I dream I'm in excruciating pain.

However, I do wake up to a lovely sigh of, "Oh god, I feel so much better."

Actually, it's a hell of a lot better than those dreams where you win a gazillion dollars, only to wake up broke and wanting to go back to sleep to relive the dream.

Speaking of psychological torment, I'm not sure what it is that has Papi chasing me around with his LifeLike penis every day.

The Tranny Terrorist is another frightening ordeal.

Mi esposo will intentionally leave that Plastic Penis dangling out of every crevice he can find, poised like a rattler, just waiting to attack it's prey.

I am the prey.

He will wiggle it around with only one intention.

To make me squirm.

I'm surprised my dreams aren't filled with penes like they used to be when I was younger.

Did I ever tell you about the nightmare where there was a glass container, the size and width of a massive wall, filled with penes and balls, floating in blood?

Yeah.

That was a nice one.

That one will forever be burned in my brain.

Hopefully, the vision won't be etched in yours now.

Sorry about that.

Every time I wriggle away, horrified in my P.T.S.D. triggered state, my love will add, "I don't know what you're afraid of!  It's not like it's going to come out and attack you!"

My love, they have before.

He also likes to add, "I don't see how you can enjoy being fucked by a dildo!"

Ok.

Because a dildo is not life like.

It's not even in the same shape or colour of the real thing, not to mention, I get to control it, it's not attached to a predator, and it doesn't have weird stuff coming out of it.

Too much info for ya?

I guess you thought I'd be going on about our big exciting news today.

Well, if you're my long term reader, you should know better than that.

If you're here just visiting, you poor, poor soul.

Welcome to my madness.

i express my needs and feelings

Balls.

Right.

So, I just get a handle on things and there's no more talk about penes in the house while Papi has been not so well, out comes this:

"I just read that someone is growing balls from the transformation."

All I could do was sit and stare at my love, waiting for the punchline.

Then another gem was spoken by mi esposo.

"Is it too much information to share that on Facebook?  That some dudes get balls?"

My love has no TMI filter and has to ask me, then I, who has a filter, writes it here in my blog anyway.

Yeah, like I've said before, Papi and I are perfect for each other.

Mi esposo likes to share TMI on his Facebook status, and I share TMI in an entire blog entry.

There is someone for everyone.

Anyway, back to the balls.

I recall the line in the sand being drawn about a penis in my life, but I never specified about balls.

I really just thought that goes without saying.

No penis really just means no balls either, does it not?  Isn't that kinda like a breast without a nipple?

I contemplated how it was I was going to handle these jewels if I had to deal with them.

I quickly realized there would be no dealing with them.

Nope.

No can do.

I just couldn't imagine little nerds starting to hang from my love's already exaggerated 5 Foot Clitoris.

When I was in the never ending closet, I would have to be pretty drunk to even look at those little buggers.

I thought maybe it was a metaphor for something else?

Maybe it's like the butch cock some dykes talk about having?

Anyway, I still couldn't say very much about the ball situation.  I was still a little wiped out from Hurricane Andréa the day prior.

While I fretted, and had all kinds of imagery in my head about the next level of 'man zone', I was now being faced with having to ask myself how I'm going to deal.  Then I heard it.  Bittersweet words came out of my love's mouth:

"Ah, someone just told me it's a hoax.  People are getting implants and it got out that they grew them on their own."

At first I was elated!

Then the fear set in.

No!!!

Not another fucking surgery for ball implants!!!!

I suppose the look on my face told the story without me having to say anything, because Papi said, "Don't worry, I'm not going to get it.  It's too expensive."

Ok.

'Too expensive' is all right.  'I don't want them', would be better, but I'll settle for 'too expensive'.

I don't see balls in my near future.

That's all that matters.

pain is weakness leaving