God damn it, leave Britney alone.
Esteemed members of the gleeful fucking circlejerk of misogynistic schadenfreude currently masturbating to glorious orgasm all over the airwaves every time I turn on my fucking TV/computer/radio/remotely friendly smile at the bagel place:
What exactly the fuck did Britney Spears ever do to anybody?
I mean, besides be deliberately and disingenuously trained and marketed from her childhood, by the very people who should have been helping her understand who she was, as a high-end, barely-legal stripper begging America to fuck her harder with their tongues and pocketbooks, and thus invite every gleaming little pair of jealous and/or lustful eyes on the planet to lap up every tear she’s shed since like it’s fucking unicorn cum?
Speaking of things that are absolutely fucking hilarious, have you douchenozzles seen Frida Kahlo’s Self-Portrait with Cropped Hair? It’s a real fucking laugh riot too, huh? I thought you’d think so. Nothing– I mean nothing— is funnier than a woman who’s been taught to center her sense of self around the fact that her body fleetingly epitomized the male ideal of gleaming offered-up female meat, having a fucking nervous breakdown and shaving her roughening bleached hair because “I didn’t want anyone touching me any more.” That’s hilarious. Almost as fucking hilarious as the fact that after stumbling into one stupid impulse marriage in a desperate attempt to find validation somewhere other than from a flood of leering strangers, and being yanked unceremoniously out of that marriage by her pimps, she married a universally acclaimed sleaze-ass with a pregnant girlfriend and had babies out of sheer desperation for some kind of unconditional love, then went into a downhill spiral of substance abuse and failure to shave her unseemly female foliage. But you know where the real laughs are to be found, are when she stripped down, golden hair scraped out of the sink and glued back on, and ran drunk onto the stage explicitly begging everyone to love her again the way they did when she was eighteen and everything was okay, and finally ran off sobbing while everyone roared at a comedy routine suggesting that she might as well kill herself now. That is some fucking comedy gold, people. Can you even imagine how unhappy she must be? It’s awesome. I don’t think I’m going to laugh harder than this until she’s found naked in a filthy motel with a shotgun in her mouth and her brains spattering the walls. You know she’s going to pick some tranny way like that to die, don’t you? Always the attention whore, that Britney.
But let’s not get too busy fucking creaming outselves for joy over her ongoing, punch-drunk public humiliation to remember to hump the sofa to “I’m A Slave 4 U” when we get home tonight. Because the only thing better than a sensuously writhing piece of golden teenage ass that’s been taught to offer itself up just right is the fact that now that it’s past its expiration date said well-trained golden teenage piece is tearing itself to pieces to save America the trouble of doing anything but spit on the fucking bloody fragments, am I right, men? And women, what’s better than the sacrificial immolation of someone who personifies all our own secret insecurities, first by making us feel poor and flabby and now, gloriously, oh so gloriously that we well may ejaculate for the first time in our lives, actually making us look better by comparison?
Sorry, esteemed circlejerkers, I got so excited over the pulse-racing and, dare I say, gladiatorial spectacle of a panicked woman’s plunge from public favor onto the sharp obsidian rocks below (ha! I think her stomach’s been sliced open! Awesome!) that I forgot my main point. Ahem:
For the love of the slayer of spring bound to a rock with snake venom burning out his eyes, people, this shit is not fucking funny.
With all due respect,
Cricket Chirp
(Feminazis for Some Fucking Pretense at Human Decency)
PS. Dear Hogfather, for Hogswatch I want a fucking meteor to fall on Keith Olbermann’s head. I have been very good this year…
I know who Britney Spears is. I didn’t know she was still around. I stopped reading even real news a while back: used to make me too angry, and I preferred being calm and illinformed.
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I try to stay fierce. I’m dead scared the only alternative to that is very, very, very tired, like curl up and say bye tired. You guys don’t see me after blackouts: you might think of me a bit differently if you did.
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You made me check the news for Britney and I hate you forever.
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Until you posted that, I’d completely forgotten I used to take the piss out of Kira for looking like Britney when we were kids, you know, cause she way preferred being Tank Girl… I dunno, maybe that was just me being obnoxious and young. Not the face, more the body, the athletic thing. It is pretty sad, what you’re saying. Even if you’re not famous, sometimes I think girls have to be
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hard as fuck and smart as hell to survive being goodlooking – not some kinds of goodlooking, not like Natalie all wellgroomed and businesslike or dead pretty girl next door types, but yeah, like Kira. She had a lot of sexual attention, very very young. It’s different for blokes.
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Avoiding the internet, it’s bad for me. Oh. I suppose I can’t argue with that.
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Yeah, am trying to focus on the relationship as much as possible, it does help some with everything else going on. I notice you haven’t mentioned yours since you got married…
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Eh, don’t apologise. Real life is much more worth concentrating on even when it’s shit. I’m just greedy for news of the 99% of your life that’s not about therapy, but I appreciate if that’s what you use the computer for, I am going to have to stay greedy…
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Thanks for the OD+ thing. I had no idea that was you. Blocking the drivelers and teenagers was awesomely satisfying. Sorry I’m such a dickhead about everything.
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Ah, everyone knows I’m a lost cause. John knows it. Kira knows it. Natalie knew it. You know it. Some people just put up with me anyway.
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but it’s not ok.
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ryn: I’m not sure if that’s outrage because you love transformers, or delight cause you love Kira…
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I dunno how much of it is in my hands any more, mate… really fucking sorry about everything.
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Nice, mate. Funnily enough I feel fairly wearily immune to online guilt trips right now.
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Why? There’s nothing left between us except her regrets and my pointless apologies for shit I can’t solve. Even if I felt better at the time for 10 minutes of phone company, I’d drag her right back down and she’d be miserable and guilty again and I’d feel like shit and lie awake hating myself for fucking weeks afterwards. There’s no point. You know all this.
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I don’t understand what you’re trying to do.
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She’s not my family, she’s not my mate, she’s not my girlfriend, she’s not even my doctor. I get really really fucking upset just talking about her, even now, even though it was fucking ages ago and I’ve been through a much much worse breakup since. She’s not going to suddenly decide to go out with me after all, she told me I was fucking toxic, which she’s been proved right about forthe hundredth time, I’m ashamed of everything I am around her, she she’ll only meet up with me if I beg her, oh yeah I’m sure she’d give me money – what good would any of this do?
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I think we were like mates once. But things changed. And the last things I said to her – in her house, back in June – I can’t deal with them, or her knowing them, even if she could, and I’m not sure she could.
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er – really sorry – hadn’t seen you online in weeks – and thought he was on it all the time for some reason- aren’t you at work? Make things worse? how could you make things worse? what do you miss? I think I put my whole stupid soul and personality into that relationship and I dunno what I could come out with now that you’d want to hear. Not that I regret that. um. I don’t really get what you’re saying to me.
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but they said the opposite. enough’s enough. too fucked up. And no, I am never putting anyone in the position of feeling like they have to call someone in England or do something just cause something really bad has happened and they happen to know where I live. Sure you’ve never even considered that, but there it is.
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you never reply to anything I say any more.
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same, been too scared to email you. please tell me you’re ok. yeah I went and found him. in the end.
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I am forever in awe of both of you. Should have emailed you. Sorry.
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Yeah, my noters don’t get more original. I seem to remember a couple of notes about my writing off you, missus 😛 Thinking about you and stuff.
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I’m sorry. wish I had summat to say. Say hi from me?
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Hope the situation with work is ok, though not as much as I hope the situation in Florida is.
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You’re way too good for my ego. Shush, I even find you pseudoreligious harrisons tracks. It’s hard not to get vaguely superstitious about illnesses that are as fucking RANDOM as seizures. I never did find anything that made them worse. Or better… God with dice or summat. CF appears to be more relentlessly grimly logical, it should make you a marxist or summat.
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Everytime you reappear it feels like a major event now. I bet you’re doing it on purpose. eh mate, I don’t “write” on purpose. (No one believes me.) My entire life has been spent going south, so I never would have started writing at all with your philosophy (which is probably more sensible than cataloguing continuous disaster). Are you ok? I hate constantly asking. “My imagination, impossibly, seems to come up with worse things than what actually happens to you.” (cricket chirp, circa 2006 or 7)
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I didn’t hate Haven Kimmel’s writing, I just hated her characters. yeah, it sounds interesting. According to t’internet it only appears to exist in hardback, so I might have to wait a bit to locate a cheap copy…
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