I feel really miffed this morning after being directed towards a conversation that took place last night.
You can see the conversation here if you wish and this is no means anything to do with Feisty_Onion who is able to nose through my real tedius FB account.
I was accused of not existing?
“I’m just sore you’d take choppycuntalops to the pub, who I think doesn’t exist “
Now I don’t take offence to any comment that has a negative slant and will certainly not wage an internet war against someone but it got me thinking as to how many think I’m less than genuine.
I know my username is pretty silly but it reflects me. Frustratingly at times, I’m never thought of as anything but silly and I have been mistaken for a bot many a time, but I usually try to reassure people that I am actually little ole me.
Just how I don’t exist is somewhat puzzling?
About a dozen of Twitter folk are now friends on my real Facebook account so they have the unfortunately dull experience of mooching through my real information, looking at photos of my family and I, also the most exciting bit of Facebook; looking at my taste in music.
Did this person think I didn’t exist because he hasn’t seen a real photo as my avatar? Would pictures of myself convince him I am in fact real?
Could it be the content of my tweets that seem unbelievable or is it the mentioning of sex in my blog?
I think it may have stemmed from the guest posts? The content of a guest post is unknown until it arrives completed by email. I have no idea if the entry is fact or fiction but the idea behind it, is allowing a friendly place to air your thoughts in privacy, hidden away from your usual, possibly public blog. Maybe we all have a real life event or story that we would love to share, brag about, tell someone else without fear of retribution or ridicule. Maybe the plot could seem far fetched or unbelievable to some, but to others perfectly acceptable. Yet still, we write what we do and find revealing this information with anonymity just as satisfying, doing it safely and protected.
Perhaps I shouldn’t feel the need to justify myself to anyone but I want to. Perhaps if I explain the reasons behind the things I type about will make it more plausible?
Perhaps the reason I am so miffed and have taken offence, is because finally I am being real yet giving off a fake persona?
The sex stuff is real. In relation to my last post Titty Tombola, I am not claiming to have participated in such a thing but it was indeed a very real conversation that took place and ideas that happened to be swirling through my tiny mind at that specific time. Ravishment post, again, truthful and not uncommon by the response from comments.
Sometimes I worry about revealing too much information on Twitter or WordPress. I’m not afraid of revealing my true identity but stories and situations I have told to friends and colleagues have caused them to worry or misunderstand so it got to a point that withholding the details seemed a better option than causing distress. I also have to consider my husband who is mentioned frequently in tweets and posts. Surely he deserves some anonimity?
I have only given the tip of the iceberg when it comes to sex posts. I guess, slowly building the courage to truly unleash my past and current sex life. I find a form of therapy in sharing, at times, inappropriate information and will continue to add to this blog in addition to my second blog (a more personal and emotional blog shared with only a few readers.) If you read on, you can make your own assessments and psychoanalysis me until your heart’s content. So as a one time only deal, I will give you a little piece of me…
After a long and dismally abusive marriage I found the strength to leave and become a full time working single mother of three. Approaching 30 with a new found confidence and filthy unsatisfied mind, I embraced the single life at full speed. I spent several years being “slutty” me. I have no issue with the word slut being used. I was promiscuous and free, using every spare moment away from being a parent in the way I wanted it to be spent, having sex and socialising. I had been in two serious relationships for most of my late teens and early twenties and felt many things I had longed to try, should at least be attempted.
I kept a mental list and an open mind.
I embraced casual sex and tried everything and anything new. The ONLY reason this phase ceased was stumbling upon my husband. He was a one night stand, that rolled into a fuckbuddy. Over the course of a year we fumbled our way into a serious relationship and the rest you know.
I feel proud that I married my fuckbuddy and had his baby!
Many of the anecdotes are from experiences with him, some are from previous lovers. I take his feelings into consideration when posting things. He knows my old tales and he also knows my passwords for all my internet accounts. He has permission to remove anything he feels is too inappropriate or offensive.
So I find myself, not unemployed but on maternity leave, trying to balance my life as a mother of four, newly married and in a new location. My friends and family are miles away so I have wandered back to the internet, to ensure my daily interaction is more than just with the 5 other people in my household.
I don’t know what more to unveil but read on if you want to read one of my more personal posts.
“The Best Gift You’ve Ever Received?
This post is the response to a question posed by HelenW71
“The best gift you’ve ever received?”
This is a particularly strange topic for me and I’m not sure I can answer the question. I have discussed present giving with my female friends many times, one conversation taking place in front of my husband, leaving him slightly terrified.
I have fallen out of love over presents I have received.
Drastic but true.
Christmas Day, my face fell and I couldn’t hide my disappointment when I opened a Lightning Seeds Compilation CD. It wasn’t that I didn’t like the band and would have preferred something different. It was the fact I had a HATRED for the Lightning Seeds This was December 1997 and was a gift from my Boyfriend of nearly five years (although we were young, our wedding was booked and we were marrying in the Bahamas, the following June.) I knew at that moment that he didn’t know me at all. That during the past four and a half years, he clearly hadn’t listened to anything I’d said. I knew that my love for him was now, from this moment, fading. We split up six weeks later.
Present disappointment goes back to childhood. I was fairly spoiled toy-wise due to being an only child, which gave a little more financial leeway for my parents and the fact that they went through a nasty few years during which, I did actually suffer, so out of guilt, presents and toys were handed to me freely, by parents and family around. I think I was the only 8 year old with 72 My Little Pony’s plus every possible building, kit or accessory available. I learned quickly to manipulate the guilt for any new purchase I needed so by the time Christmas or Birthdays came, the novelty had thoroughly worn off and there was nothing I wanted any more.
As I got older, being part of a single parent family, the money dwindled, so presents again, were longed for and I made sure that I allocated every scrap of my mum’s present budget on things I NEEDED rather than wanted, such as school shoes, toiletries and school trips.
When the gifts were still bountiful I used to present hunt. I’ve always claimed to hate surprises, but I’m not sure that’s true. Maybe I like the mission of tracking them down, uncovering the hiding places and on one occasion, I found my presents already wrapped. I spent the afternoon, two weeks before Christmas, unwrapping them carefully, cutting along each piece of sellotape, looking at the contents, then skilfully re-wrapping and tossing them back into the Santa sack. I felt sick after I was finished, realising that I had in fact, spoiled my own Christmas day.
I’m equally as bad with the reverse, present giving. If I have a gift that I think someone will like, I have to tell them as soon as I buy it. Literally I get to the point of begging them to share, ruining the surprise, no matter how much they plead not to know. Now, I tend to buy everything as late as possible so I don’t announce to the kids a week before, what exactly they are getting of Father Christmas.
My Ex-Husband was shocking when it came to gifts. Two years running I received the same book for Christmas. One year I received various bubble baths, even though we only had a shower in our apartment. The final year, which included the duplicate book, I also got a travel guide of Spain (had no intention of visiting or general interest in Spain) a Craig David CD (can’t bear him and instantly had the Lightning Seeds flashback) and a Lemar CD. I had never expressed an interest in Lemar either, but I was always an Indie kid and this was an incredibly bizarre choice.
The worst present I received from him again, was a clincher. It was a massive smack of reality and once again, I knew things were falling irreparably apart. I can’t remember the occasion, possibly my birthday or maybe a wedding anniversary, we were already at a point of struggling within the relationship. I was teetering on the edge of depression and doubting every feeling or emotion. I was still at this point, attempting to try. I knew our relationship was awful and that I didn’t like how I was being treated but was prepared to work at things. I had explained my feelings and he had listened. This was a first, my opinions and thoughts were being considered and it was a step forward.
He asked me what I wanted as a gift. He said, if you could do ANYTHING, go ANYWHERE, where would it be? What would you do? I knew money wasn’t in abundance and have never required to be spoilt as an adult, so I made a suggestion.
If I could do anything or go anywhere, it would be the Natural History Museum in London. Financially, it wasn’t too extreme, we could just go for the day, spending money on petrol and parking but we could take a picnic. We didn’t need to spend much more.
As I was falling asleep one evening, for the millionth time, I told him why the Natural History Museum. It was the last memory I had of my parents being together, being part of a family. I think it was maybe their attempt at trying to fix things or giving one last try before separating, so it was a fairly emotional activity that I wanted to partake in. Also, during this one last family trip, I remember the life sized Blue Whale model suspended from the ceiling and the dinosaur exhibition, which was the set and story of the Disney film “One of Our Dinosaurs is Missing” which was a childhood favourite. I secretly hoped over the next few weeks that I would be whisked away to the capital for the day to visit this significant location.
During the meanwhile, we went to see Madonna in concert. Random you may think, nor relevant to the story? We debated for some time as the tickets were expensive, but concluded that we would pay the £90 each and go to watch her. She was an icon? And in years to come we may regret not going while we had the chance. The concert was great, really good and we both enjoyed it much more than we anticipated.
With a big smile on his face, he woke me one morning and handed me an envelope. Inside were tickets? I thought this was the moment. The moment I would find out when I would be going on my trip down memory lane to the Natural History Museum. But tickets? Maybe they were tickets for the London Eye or something, an added perk to experience whilst we were there.
Jaw to the floor, my mouth fell open and I felt my cheeks flush, trying to hide my utter devastation when I saw tickets for a flight to Paris, a hotel pamphlet and… Madonna concert tickets?
London had apparently never been considered and when I answered his original question of “If I could do ANYTHING, go ANYWHERE…” had been completely ignored. We were now going to watch exactly the same concert again but this time in Paris.
Don’t get me wrong, I love Paris, very much so, but I have been there a few times. City breaks had been achievable over the years we were together, whereas beach holidays abroad hadn’t. Paris was well outside our budget at this time and the first lot of Madonna tickets had been sheer luxury, a second lot, were unjustifiable.
I couldn’t even hide my disappointment for five minutes. The row started…
I left the house for a friend/neighbour’s for a coffee. She called me an ungrateful bitch as he had. She said he had made such a wonderful effort after I had complained about the Guide to Spain book and the bubble-bath. That this time he had “done good.” I felt vile. Maybe I was an absolute bitch?
I had just wanted something that was a) massively cheaper and b) incredibly special. But yes, he had made an effort and we were going to Paris in two weeks.
I didn’t mention it when I arrived home and accepted that we were France bound and we should make the most of it, a chance to work on our fractured relationship.
We got lost on our way to the stadium and missed three-quarters of the Madonna concert but it was okay, this was a three day trip and we had arrived that evening, there would be plenty of things to do. The next morning I ask of plans for the day? He looked at me and snipped aggressively. What are you expecting to do, he queried. I didn’t mind and was happy to go with flow, thinking he maybe had some predetermined idea. He nastily advised me that we had no money. That indeed the mortgage would bounce this month as he had spent the funds on this trip. I was devastated.
That day we argued in the hotel, then argued some more near the Eiffel Tower and I cried an awful lot in a Parisian park. We had enough to eat the basics and to get us back to the airport, but that was it. I think the trip cost around £800. We never recovered after that and I knew I no longer loved him. No more effort was made from either side. I’m not even sure how long it was before we ended our marriage.
So when it comes to presents, it’s a risk to buy for me. If the item is not wanted, then I can’t help but think the buyer has no insight to who I am. Just like when my Dad bought me a watch one year. I guess he doesn’t know my fear of wearing watches and that I don’t want to continually know the time. That I don’t want to clock watch my life away and when I do refer to time, on a few occasions during the day, I would much rather seek out the information,, that having it attached like handcuffs to my wrist.
However, on the up side, the person that gets it right, well, that will be pretty special. Husband is aware of my gift fears and is pretty apprehensive about buying me stuff. He has been okay so far. A CD that was given to me for Mother’s day was a band I liked and one we had seen together, even though I thought a CD was pretty pointless as we could download it, I loved the idea that he had taken my children to the shopping centre and bought it with them as their gift to me. A safe bet at Christmas was the make-up and new cosmetic bag I received. This was something I had specifically asked for as when you are a parent of three, also rocking a bump, new make-up becomes a treat rather than an ordinary toiletry.
Please don’t misinterpret that I expect to be treated like a princess. I don’t have a monetary amount I think should be spent on me for each occasion and do firmly believe that the best things are free or at least fairly cheapish. I’m also crap at buying stuff for other people so I know how tasking and stressful trying to give something wonderful to another.
I could list wonderful thoughtful presents that would bring a tear to my eye and would mean the very world but for me, that’s not the point. The gift could be simple and pointless but special because of the significance or thought behind it.
The closest thing to a favourite gift would be the de-icer the husband gave to me a few years ago. We were casually seeing each other and I had already retired for the evening at his cottage. It must have been wintery and I had an early start in the morning, leaving his place for work, way before he would wake. When I went downstairs there was a can of de-icer by the front door waiting for me. I had been meaning to get some for weeks, cursing each morning at my absent-mindedness, as I used a CD to attempt to clear my windscreen, while my fingers froze.
It’s like Cinderella with her glass slipper, I will truly know I am with the right person when they give me the perfect gift.
Maybe they already have.
Maybe when Husband suggested another baby despite me not initially particularly wanting one, he was giving me the perfect gift? Maybe when I became pregnant, that was the perfect gift. Maybe it’s a gift I gave him right back, He wanted his own child and now the idea was planted, I was fully on board. Maybe Indigo is the perfect gift we gave each other, the one I have been waiting for all this time.