When someone in a forum dedicated to Dragon Ball Z makes a post saying "I don't mind the purple blood!" all of the other angry fat 30-year-olds pretending to be God's gift to whatever accuse him of starting "drama" because only a fucking poser likes watered-down anime! (Note: All anime sucks. Get over it.)
When the angry ex-girlfriend tells everyone her former Beau's cock is so tiny it gets lost in his bush (no matter how tiny it might really be), she's starting "drama."
And when the whiny high school kid comes to school with cuts on his arms because his parents don't support his way of life (meaning they won't lend him the credit card to buy overpriced bondage pants from Spencer's Gifts), he started drama.
No, he didn't. None of them did. The angry anime nerds are guilty of causing bullshit. The ex-girlfriend who claims to hate her ex yet can't stop talking about him or his pecker is not starting drama; she's spreading bullshit. And the Crow-wannabe who isn't dead yet but has fantasies about getting murdered by the kid who gave him a wedgie so he can come back from the grave and exact his revenge with a wedgie so powerful the bully is torn in two? HE IS FULL OF BULLSHIT.
Stop confusing the two. Allow Merriam-Webster to define drama for you. You want drama? Go rent Regarding Henry, Schindler's List, and About Schmidt. Make some low-fat popcorn, season it with Mrs. Dash, and cry into your Diet Coke bottle all goddamn night. But don't be polite and tell someone who's painting the town brown with bullshit to "stop causing drama." That person is an asshole and you are a moron.
Having said that, I have a tale of real-life bullshit. Let me give you some of the background for this particular bullshit saga. Ok, it's not a saga. Yet.
The story starts and ends with the same three people: My fiancée, Reagan, her roommate, Caitlin, and myself, Cillian (yes, real names, don't ask. Also, if you've read before, you know Reagan is a genderqueer, and she was female when the events of this post happened). Can you tell we're all Irish? Now you'd think a houseful of Irish people would be a non-stop fucking blast. I'd think that, anyway. Honestly I'm not quite sure why we all didn't dance a drunken jig around to O'Keefe's Slide all night until we pass out and wake up the next morning with our livers sitting next to us smoking cigarettes wondering why we're so surprised that they needed to get out. You assholes can go on all you want about how untrue stereotypes are but all the Irish people I know play up the drunken horny bastard angle for all it's worth.
The initial plan was for Reagan and I to watch The Simpsons Movie (for anyone in the MPAA who might be reading this, fuck off. All three of us saw it. In the theater. Twice. And we're buying the goddamn DVD. The deluxe edition with two discs and 147 extra hours of footage that we'll never watch. Yes, I downloaded it to tide myself over until aforementioned DVD, but even you can appreciate that some people just don't like sitting in theaters with screaming kids, people who haven't bathed since they found out who shot Mr. Burns, and loud, fat, black women who don't get the goddamn movie. Hey, another true stereotype!) Sorry...back to the bullshit.
Curling up with Reagan to watch The Simpsons was the original plan, which promptly got changed when Caitlin, who'd been drinking all goddamn day, decided she couldn't hold her liquor or tongue anymore and announced she's depressed. Again. She starts crying and wanting to cut herself, so Reagan calms her down and invites her to watch the movie with us. I believe she said something to the extent of "If Bart's pecker can't cheer you up, then nothing will." Yes, Bart gets naked. Ooh a spoiler!
Go make an avatar out of that, cretin.
So roughly halfway through the movie the internet connection died and Reagan walks out of the room to troubleshoot it.
This was the second attempt Reagan and I had made trying to watch this movie and I'll admit I wondered why the internet connection even mattered considering all of us were in the same room (I guess it's the call of the tech support geek), but when she left I just turned the movie off because when the internet goes down here, it takes about five hours and nine phone calls to fix. Well she was back about two minutes later so I expressed my annoyance and continued the movie.
We laughed, we cried. Then Caitlin started crying again and Reagan had to "talk her down" and get her to watch the rest of the movie. We laughed some more, we cried some more, we shared Homer's epiphany. We watched the credits. We felt the squeaky-voiced teenager's pain when he had to sweep the floor clean after everyone left the theater. We've all had shitty jobs.
The movie ended and Caitlin began spewing more bullshit. Not really more bullshit, because it's the same bullshit she's been spewing since Reagan moved in with her.
"I want to cut myself. I miss my kids. Oh my god what if I have an STD? No one will ever love me!" Yeah, this kind of thing is a regular occurrence.
A bit of history about myself: I was engaged to a girl just like this. You know the type: The attention whore who really doesn't have much of a reason to complain but surrounds herself with people who see the scars and might not exactly pity her, but feel a little too guilty to say "shit or get off the pot." Listen. I know what to look for. Having had everything taken away from me more than once, occasionally letting what I love almost kill me, dealing with some very bad things in my family, and recently finding out I'm gonna be the one to pull my mom's plug if she has to go on life support as well as dealing with her lawyers and planning her death, I fucking well know depression. However, I haven't cut myself since my first relationship ended by way of the bitch fucking six other guys while she was claiming to love me. I realized that cutting myself didn't do a goddamn bit of good and feeling physical pain to alleviate all the mental anguish is...you guessed it...BULLSHIT!
Sorry for the distractions. It's how I write.
My answers to what Caitlin was pissing and moaning about:
o1. If you're gonna cut yourself, do it right. Again I say, shit or get off the goddamn pot. You're 34 fucking years old, which brings me to my next point.
o2. Your kids don't love you? Yeah, I don't know the whole story but I do know they chose to leave you. Maybe if their mother didn't stay sauced all the time while cutting herself and whining about her shitty life, they might want to stick around. Of course, when Caitlin walks in on one of her kids drawing roadmaps on his chest with an Exacto knife she's gonna wonder where he got it from and it's gonna be the typical "drug-free commercial" moment.
o3. What if you have an STD? You go get tested and you fucking live with it. It's not easy but it can be done. And maybe if you'd made the scumbags who fucked you wear a goddamn condom you wouldn't be having this crisis every time you forget to monitor your liquor intake.
o4. NO ONE WILL EVER LOVE YOU UNTIL YOU STOP FEELING SORRY FOR YOURSELF TO GET ATTENTION, YOU SILLY BITCH. Sure, people will feel sorry for you. People will tell you they care about you. But there's only so much bullshit anyone can stand, and even though not everyone's tolerance is as low as mine is, you'll fuck yourself into a long, lonely life unless you stop trying to be the center of attention.
And whenever Caitlin starts this particular line of thinking, Reagan says, "Can I tell you something? Calm down, let me tell you something. I gave up on love. You know how bad I've been treated. You know I got bitter. You know I stopped looking. I didn't want to be in a relationship bad enough to keep looking. And when I gave up, I met Cillian."
Don't get me wrong - I am insanely happy to have found Reagan again, especially given our history, but that's another story for another time and another blog, but when she says "Caitlin, can I tell you something?" It means "Caitlin, can I tell you the same thing I told you two days ago, and twice last week, and about fifteen times since I moved in with you, yet consistently have to tell you because you're a jackass?"
Of course I didn't get to tell Caitlin my thoughts. Yet. Reagan said I should probably go and told me she would call me soon. I left because I was still in a good mood from seeing The Simpsons a third time and didn't want to have to kill my fun-buzz by crowning Caitlin the Queen of All Bullshit.
Well I went home and a few hours went by and the phone didn't ring. I tend to expect the worst; I thought Caitlin made a goddamn "cry for help" and had to get rushed to the ER for a wrist bandage or a stomach pump procedure.
I called and found out that Caitlin's bullshit had subsided and the two were plotting about what to do with a few exes, and by this time I was the only one sober and I was amazed at the dumb shit that was coming from Caitlin. "We'll get them comfortable, then invite them here, then beat the shit out of them!"
I tried to interject and say "Am I the only one who sees a huge fucking flaw in committing aggravated assault in your own home? What if they tell someone they're heading to your house, someone finds them in a ditch, and cops are knocking at your door the next day?"
Caitlin disagreed. I tried to say that beating the leftover THC out of an ex is a good idea, it's just a bad idea to do it on your own property. Caitlin, in all her drunken glory, took the phone and began telling me exactly why she was right. The conversation went as follows:
"Listen, I might be redneck as fuck. I might be goth as fuck. I might be...I might be..."
"...a flying fuckin' monkey. Get to the point."
"I ain't gonna let nothin' happen to my Reagan. If anyone shows up startin' shit I'll show 'em how fuckin' badass I am!"
"If the cops show up it ain't gonna be your choice. I don't care how much of a badass you think you are. You're not gonna start a fight with a badge and a gun."
Keep in mind she's slurring to the point where I think she was drooling on herself and it took me about five tries to explain that I wasn't talking about the stupid ex's friends, I was talking about the cops. And speaking of cops, the last time she had an encounter with them, she left in handcuffs, crying.
"Well if the cops show up then they won't tie anything to my Reagan!"
"Yeah, they will. Unless you beat your ex to the point where his retinas detach and he loses most of his motor skills, then it will get tied to Reagan, and you. I'm not saying don't beat the fucker up. I'm just saying don't do it at your own goddamn house."
"Who says we're talking about beating anyone up? I just wanna humiliate him!"
I know backpedaling, bad ideas, and drunken rigmarole when I hear it.
"So the cops are gonna show up because you made him cry?"
"Who said anything about cops?"
"I did. Then you did. We've been arguing about it for about five minutes, dumbass. And if you want to humiliate him, go to Sledge house." (Sledge house is where all the best parties happen around here. You don't have to be part of Sledge to attend, but it makes it a lot more fun.)
"Well I ain't a member of Sledge and I can't go."
"Bullshit you can't go, your ex ain't a member and he goes all the time. Reagan saw him there last weekend. Why do you think you're talking about him now?"
"Well I'm too grown up for that shit. Fuck that noise."
I was fed up with losing time with my fiancée because Caitlin felt like pulling the "OH GOD NO ONE LOVES ME" bullshit at least twice a week. I also have a very low tolerance for stupidity. I really don't like it when a drunk shit-for-brains insults my fiancée by calling her immature (Reagan is in Sledge). And to top it all off, the phrase "fuck that noise" makes my blood boil.
"Yeah you are real fuckin' grown up. You're 34, you got three kids, and you still cut yourself for attention. How fuckin' grown up are you?"
"You're gonna bitch at me..."
"I'm gonna call you out. I'm tired of your bullshit."
From this point on my blood pressure began rising to dangerous levels and I don't remember what was said; I only remember Caitlin repeating everything I said. I do remember saying something like "If you're only gonna repeat what I say in place of telling me anything worth hearing then get off the goddamn phone." She asked me if I was pissed off at her a few times, long after it'd been established that I was beyond pissed. When I told her to get off the goddamn phone, she mumbled something to Reagan about what an asshole I am. Then she tried to tell me she loves me. I remember calming down at this point because I knew the conversation was nearing its end, so I said "bullshit, you don't know me."
"I do love you, you're friends."
"If we were friends then you wouldn't be a damn bit surprised at me calling you on all your bullshit."
The phone was then handed back to Reagan, who had been getting exponentially drunk in my absence and during my conversation with Caitlin.
"I think you really offended Caitlin."
"Good."
Which started a fight with Reagan. At 4:30 in the goddamn morning. I tried to calmly explain my reasoning to her, and I couldn't. For the record, it's pointless to explain anything to a drunken Irish person, myself included. Trying was futile. I will do that now, and to do that requires another bit of sidetracking.
Earlier in the year, Reagan's Godson died. The boy's mother, Reagan's then-best friend pulled a massive load of bullshit, of the "my son just died and the world owes me everything" variety. No one was surprised when he died, and some were relieved, if not saddened. However, Reagan, dealing with five deaths in the last three years, all of them very close to her, went into a slight reclusive state. She didn't become Howard Hughes by any means, but she began keeping to herself, only leaving the house for work, and on rare occasions going out with her Godson's mother to try to comfort her. Shortly after this, Reagan got ditched, without warning. Her Godson's mother ignored phone calls, emails, and even a few snail-mail letters.
Recently we found out that the "victim," the mother of a child who had suffered his entire short life, was mad at Reagan because she "couldn't take five minutes out of her busy drinking schedule" to let her cry about her dead son. We also found out Reagan was only kept around long enough so this fucking moo could get a fucking birthday present out of her.
Reagan and I both agreed that losing your kid isn't an excuse to be a total asshole, and that's what I see Caitlin doing. "My kids hate me and I can't see them so everyone owes me everything." It's already been stated that she cuts herself for attention, because she wants someone to love her so bad.
She doesn't need another goddamn hug. She doesn't need pity. She needs to be locked in a bathroom with a razor blade while someone says "knock yourself out. Clean the blood up before you come out or I'll kick your ass." If someone would tell her that, every bit of this bullshit would end. I'm not sure if Caitlin doesn't know or doesn't care but she doesn't need to act like a mallgoth every time she can't get her way. Reagan doesn't need to see you cut yourself to care about you. She is a caring person. Case in point? She loves me, and that takes a lot. I got angry. I went off. I called Caitlin out on her bullshit because I don't like seeing Reagan get used because she cares. I'm not saying Reagan is a bad person for not telling Caitlin to shove it, grow up, and act her fucking age. What if I am wrong (I'm not, but what if I am) and Caitlin does the unthinkable? That's not something anyone wants on their hands. But it's a risk I'm willing put in my own hands for the sake of ENDING ALL THIS BULLSHIT.
And if I get the chance, I'll tell Caitlin everything I said in this post. I can probably bet on the fact that I won't be let near Caitlin for awhile though.
Anyway, that's it. I started writing this almost five hours ago. Until next time, stop spreading bullshit and dressing it up by calling it "drama."
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Now playing: Corrosion of Conformity - Over Me
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