I have broken this series of entries into several parts because of bluelight’s character limit in blog entries. I originally wrote it in a notebook soon after it happened. The entire episode is around 8000 words. I post no more than once per day because I don’t want to flood the blogs any more than I already have.
This story titled Millennium Slut is another part of my rant titled Tales of Misogyny. It‘s about dating American women and about misogyny in general. I had been dating Courtney (who used to call herself the Millennium Girl) and she was an ex at the time of this section. She is a typical American girl. Her behavior is surprisingly common among American Women younger than the age of 40 that I have encountered and heard about. I don’t have experience with older women, so I have no idea about them. Not every American woman acts like her, and I don’t know the stats on how many do.
I found that dating American women is like crossing a minefield. It goes ok for a while, and you think you are safe, but eventually she will go KABOOM! Living overseas and dating dozens of foreign women here has given me a broader perspective on American Women and women in general.
I wondered if there is a national trend on dysfunctional relationships. I didn’t find anything, but I did find that the rate of marriage is at a historic low and continues to drop in the US.
I left off with Courtney, the Love of my Life as of that time, hiding in my house with a butcher knife. She chased me outside, and I left her curled up and sobbing in the fetal position in the street late in the night. Not long after that, I left town to work in an internship. Months later, soon after I returned, she emailed me. This is really how she writes:
“I know you’re back. You were so selfish not be here in my time of great and urgent need and anguish. But I forgive you for you are my Chosen One, and I am your Millennium Girl. You have torn my heart into a million tiny little pieces. It hurts more than anything you can ever know. I’m just a girl but our love remains eternal. I had our baby while you were gone, and it is yours, proof that God wants us to be together forever and ever. You need to talk to me right now. I am waiting.“
When I met her, I mistook a distressed damsel for a damsel in distress. She said she was sexually abused and had a bad childhood. Maybe we could understand each other because I was sexually abused and had a bad childhood too. Her behavior was bizarre, but compared to my own mother, she seemed sane and only a little dramatic.
My mother never wanted kids, and she made sure I knew it. Unfortunately, she didn’t know she didn’t want kids until the day I was born. I had ruined her life that day. My mother hated men, and she made sure I knew that men are evil, were responsible for everything that is wrong with the world, had ruined her life, designed the uncomfortable and ill-fitting bras they forced her to buy and wear, squeezed money out of her every month by forcing her to wear tampons men designed in uncomfortable shapes for the sole purpose of making women feel miserable and oppressed. I was complicit because I was a boy. “I brought you into this world, and I can take you out of this world whenever I want,” was one of her favorite things to say to me during childhood.
My mother followed a kind of militant and misandrist feminism of the 1960s. It was popular among her middle class, privileged white female friends. It is far from the egalitarian feminism that was generally good and tried to make laws, business practices, and hiring fair for women.
During my childhood, she rarely said anything to me beyond monosyllables and grunts, but she was always listening to and reading some bizarre things. Militant feminist rants and manifestos were among them. This is a typical thing she would give me to read.
“Men are inherently dangerous. Women are called the fairer sex for a reason, the only time a woman will ever feel the need to hurt another human is when she feels antagonised by males. Unlike males women don't feel good for beating each other up. Men literally live for hurting each other. Women are a lot weaker than men, Men should just take it on the chin and apologise for whatever they did.”
I didn’t believe I had caused my ex to have a baby. The timing was impossible. Still, I decided to see her. It was getting dark. I rode my bike down the GreenWay, a bike path that runs along the West bank of the Mississippi River through miles of forested parks. There are only a few interruptions for cars, and as you ride through the woods and along the bluffs overlooking the river, you can almost forget that you are in the middle of the big city. The cold wind had ripped the wet leaves off the trees, and the late sunset was in spectacular purples and golds.
She let me in her house. She was skinny and looked sick. She opened the refrigerator and took a Tupperware food container from the fridge. She ate a few bites from it. She got a second tupperware food container and set it on the table in front of me. She told me it’s mine. It looked like a slab of pork sitting in congealed blood. It reeked.
“I think it’s spoiled. What is it?”
“It’s our baby,” she said.
“What?” I said.
“It was born three weeks ago. You weren’t there for me when i needed
you.”
“You know I was in New Orleans for my internship.”
“Curt held me in his arms. … they were all there for me,” she said, “which is more than you ever did for me. Curt, Kim, Terry, Tim (the members of the local Foo Fighters clone band) were here for me while I had our baby. Tom was with me too. Everybody took care of me.”
She would later tell me they were all doing meth together and she had been sleeping with each one of them including the married girl while I was gone. This was the same married girl that she got mad at me for talking to. PsychoTom and Billy supplied the meth.
“It doesn’t look like a baby. It just looks like a pork chop,” I said.
“That’s because it died you piece of sh=t, and Curt’s going to med school next year, and he said it was a baby,” she said.
“If Curt says so,” I said.
“What. Everrrrr,” she said. Her face shriveled with rage. For a moment, she looked like a white raison or an angry baby. She went “zero to psycho in 2.7 seconds,” PsychoTom was fond of saying.
“I have to go, I said.”
I got up to leave and turned toward the door. Suddenly, she jumped on my back and grabbed me by the hair. Not again. Never turn your back on your enemy. It’s kind of hard to think of your lover as an enemy.
(I shaved my head after that.) She had my hair in both hands and was twisting. When somebody grabs you by the hair from behind with both hands, they have almost total control of your body, no matter how small they are. She was pulling as hard as she could. It was extremely painful, and I could feel bits of hair and skin being ripped out. I was bleeding at the scalp. Then she used her leverage, pulled me to the kitchen floor, and beat my head against the ceramic tiles. I saw stars. I simply could not wriggle away. I failed to pry her fingers off me.
Now I was on the floor and she was on top of me tearing my hair from my scalp and smashing my head against her ceramic tile floor. I was sure I was bleeding and probably had a concussion by now. She wouldn’t stop. She was smashing my head against the floor for what seemed like minutes, and I heard my nose crunch. Blood was in my mouth. She had me by the hair, and I could not “leave the situation,” as a cop might say it. I had two choices: let her murder me or defend myself.
Some people who work in the legal system either hate men, or they cannot believe that a woman is capable of being the violent one. “Women are delicate flowers, and men are inherently violent,” my mother might have said. “The man just needs to take it on the chin and apologise for making her feel threatened enough that she felt she had no choice but to attack and try to kill him. He deserved whatever he made her do to him.”
To be continued.
This story titled Millennium Slut is another part of my rant titled Tales of Misogyny. It‘s about dating American women and about misogyny in general. I had been dating Courtney (who used to call herself the Millennium Girl) and she was an ex at the time of this section. She is a typical American girl. Her behavior is surprisingly common among American Women younger than the age of 40 that I have encountered and heard about. I don’t have experience with older women, so I have no idea about them. Not every American woman acts like her, and I don’t know the stats on how many do.
I found that dating American women is like crossing a minefield. It goes ok for a while, and you think you are safe, but eventually she will go KABOOM! Living overseas and dating dozens of foreign women here has given me a broader perspective on American Women and women in general.
I wondered if there is a national trend on dysfunctional relationships. I didn’t find anything, but I did find that the rate of marriage is at a historic low and continues to drop in the US.
I left off with Courtney, the Love of my Life as of that time, hiding in my house with a butcher knife. She chased me outside, and I left her curled up and sobbing in the fetal position in the street late in the night. Not long after that, I left town to work in an internship. Months later, soon after I returned, she emailed me. This is really how she writes:
“I know you’re back. You were so selfish not be here in my time of great and urgent need and anguish. But I forgive you for you are my Chosen One, and I am your Millennium Girl. You have torn my heart into a million tiny little pieces. It hurts more than anything you can ever know. I’m just a girl but our love remains eternal. I had our baby while you were gone, and it is yours, proof that God wants us to be together forever and ever. You need to talk to me right now. I am waiting.“
When I met her, I mistook a distressed damsel for a damsel in distress. She said she was sexually abused and had a bad childhood. Maybe we could understand each other because I was sexually abused and had a bad childhood too. Her behavior was bizarre, but compared to my own mother, she seemed sane and only a little dramatic.
My mother never wanted kids, and she made sure I knew it. Unfortunately, she didn’t know she didn’t want kids until the day I was born. I had ruined her life that day. My mother hated men, and she made sure I knew that men are evil, were responsible for everything that is wrong with the world, had ruined her life, designed the uncomfortable and ill-fitting bras they forced her to buy and wear, squeezed money out of her every month by forcing her to wear tampons men designed in uncomfortable shapes for the sole purpose of making women feel miserable and oppressed. I was complicit because I was a boy. “I brought you into this world, and I can take you out of this world whenever I want,” was one of her favorite things to say to me during childhood.
My mother followed a kind of militant and misandrist feminism of the 1960s. It was popular among her middle class, privileged white female friends. It is far from the egalitarian feminism that was generally good and tried to make laws, business practices, and hiring fair for women.
During my childhood, she rarely said anything to me beyond monosyllables and grunts, but she was always listening to and reading some bizarre things. Militant feminist rants and manifestos were among them. This is a typical thing she would give me to read.
“Men are inherently dangerous. Women are called the fairer sex for a reason, the only time a woman will ever feel the need to hurt another human is when she feels antagonised by males. Unlike males women don't feel good for beating each other up. Men literally live for hurting each other. Women are a lot weaker than men, Men should just take it on the chin and apologise for whatever they did.”
I didn’t believe I had caused my ex to have a baby. The timing was impossible. Still, I decided to see her. It was getting dark. I rode my bike down the GreenWay, a bike path that runs along the West bank of the Mississippi River through miles of forested parks. There are only a few interruptions for cars, and as you ride through the woods and along the bluffs overlooking the river, you can almost forget that you are in the middle of the big city. The cold wind had ripped the wet leaves off the trees, and the late sunset was in spectacular purples and golds.
She let me in her house. She was skinny and looked sick. She opened the refrigerator and took a Tupperware food container from the fridge. She ate a few bites from it. She got a second tupperware food container and set it on the table in front of me. She told me it’s mine. It looked like a slab of pork sitting in congealed blood. It reeked.
“I think it’s spoiled. What is it?”
“It’s our baby,” she said.
“What?” I said.
“It was born three weeks ago. You weren’t there for me when i needed
you.”
“You know I was in New Orleans for my internship.”
“Curt held me in his arms. … they were all there for me,” she said, “which is more than you ever did for me. Curt, Kim, Terry, Tim (the members of the local Foo Fighters clone band) were here for me while I had our baby. Tom was with me too. Everybody took care of me.”
She would later tell me they were all doing meth together and she had been sleeping with each one of them including the married girl while I was gone. This was the same married girl that she got mad at me for talking to. PsychoTom and Billy supplied the meth.
“It doesn’t look like a baby. It just looks like a pork chop,” I said.
“That’s because it died you piece of sh=t, and Curt’s going to med school next year, and he said it was a baby,” she said.
“If Curt says so,” I said.
“What. Everrrrr,” she said. Her face shriveled with rage. For a moment, she looked like a white raison or an angry baby. She went “zero to psycho in 2.7 seconds,” PsychoTom was fond of saying.
“I have to go, I said.”
I got up to leave and turned toward the door. Suddenly, she jumped on my back and grabbed me by the hair. Not again. Never turn your back on your enemy. It’s kind of hard to think of your lover as an enemy.
(I shaved my head after that.) She had my hair in both hands and was twisting. When somebody grabs you by the hair from behind with both hands, they have almost total control of your body, no matter how small they are. She was pulling as hard as she could. It was extremely painful, and I could feel bits of hair and skin being ripped out. I was bleeding at the scalp. Then she used her leverage, pulled me to the kitchen floor, and beat my head against the ceramic tiles. I saw stars. I simply could not wriggle away. I failed to pry her fingers off me.
Now I was on the floor and she was on top of me tearing my hair from my scalp and smashing my head against her ceramic tile floor. I was sure I was bleeding and probably had a concussion by now. She wouldn’t stop. She was smashing my head against the floor for what seemed like minutes, and I heard my nose crunch. Blood was in my mouth. She had me by the hair, and I could not “leave the situation,” as a cop might say it. I had two choices: let her murder me or defend myself.
Some people who work in the legal system either hate men, or they cannot believe that a woman is capable of being the violent one. “Women are delicate flowers, and men are inherently violent,” my mother might have said. “The man just needs to take it on the chin and apologise for making her feel threatened enough that she felt she had no choice but to attack and try to kill him. He deserved whatever he made her do to him.”
To be continued.