M y mother has Narcissistic Personality Disorder (aka NPD), which is a personality disorder that causes people to feel zero empathy and compassion for others, while centering their own emotional needs (thus, the name).
A narcissist is like a short-tempered child that never fully developed psychologically. Think Joan Crawford in Mommie Dearest. Yeah. I grew up with that.
I’m writing about this because I’m the only person on the planet who knows I was abused. I want to scream it from the rooftops, but I can’t tell anyone I know in real life. …
I ’ve been writing at Medium for about six months now. When I first came here, I liked it. I even wrote an article ranting happily about how it was so much better than Hubpages. Now after six months, I’m finding that I prefer Hubpages.
I’ve got an entire list of reasons why, and I’m going to write them all just in case someone out there is in my shoes and is thinking of writing here at Medium.
After I give my reasons, I suppose you can decide what’s best for you.
I didn’t come to Medium to get rich. I came here to earn a little extra cash that could help me in my crusade to become a healthier, happier person. …
This week made me realize that I . . . really don’t like writing on public platforms. I was going to buy a Medium subscription when I realized that most of the articles here are disturbing and offensive, and that I would basically be paying to read trash.
This is what came up on my feed this week:
Biblical justifications for porn.
Trans “women” insisting they know what it’s like to be a biological woman dealing with everyday sexism.
Crazy “genderqueer” LGBTQA articles.
Straight women writing pornified articles about sucking dick.
An endless amount of articles parroting each other on how to be a better writer. …
Medium’s entire community seems to have drunk the trans Kool-Aid, so I doubt I’ll get claps for this or that anyone will care about what I have to say. But unlike trans “women,” I’m not writing an article for ass pats and validation. I’m writing for the sake of female solidarity.
I expect for trans “activists” to come crawling out of the woodworks with death threats, vicious hate, and slurs, while un-ironically calling me a bigot and telling me to “Die, TERF scum!!!” the way they beat up that 60-year-old woman for having a fucking opinion.
Cognitive dissonance and projection is a thing, folks. …
I was raised in a very Christian household, and as a child, I was very devote. Not because I was told to be, but because I kept having visions of Jesus Christ.
Now that I’m older, I know that my visitor was a spirit guide. But when I was a child, I didn’t know about spirit guides. I thought I was being visited by Christ because it was the only thing that made sense.
During the absolute worst moments of my childhood, “Christ” would come to me when I was sad and just hug me. Or stand beside me so I didn’t feel alone. He never spoke. I wasn’t sleeping or dreaming. I was wide awake. …
The other day, I saw a lesbian I follow on Instagram explaining to straight people why they don’t need a Straight Pride. I thought she was just chiding some of the typical ignorant people who say things like, “Why is there no White History Month?” as if white history wasn’t already celebrated every fucking day.
Then just recently, I got online and noticed that straight people were actually going to have a Pride parade. They had the rainbow flag and were waving it, were covering themselves in rainbow paint and cheering . . .
I thought about banging my head on a desk but 1) I don’t have a desk and 2) . . . that would be really painful. …
Seriously. Are we going back to the Stone Age? Even Fred loved Wilma.
I know it’s been a while since I wrote an article here about love. It’s because I’ve been increasingly angry for the past couple weeks about all the bullshit going on in the world. I normally avoid looking at the news for the sake of my blood pressure, but lately, I’ve been looking. And I’m just . . . whew.
Love and light. Love and light. Love and light.
Something happened recently that’s got me so annoyed, I can’t sleep. …
I don’t “identify” as black.
I don’t “identify” as gay.
I don’t “identify” as a woman.
These are biological states of existence.
I don’t choose to make my hair nappy.
I don’t choose to be aroused by women.
I don’t choose to have a vagina.
The shit is just there.
These are not feelings.
They are facts.
If I identify
as a Fucking Rainbow Pony,
a man is not going to respect my “identity”
while he’s raping me.
If I identify
as a Fucking Rainbow Pony,
a racist is not going to respect my “identity”
while they’re beating me during an arrest…
Disclaimer: GNC or Gender Nonconforming is a lesbian who doesn’t conform to gender roles and stereotypes, not a “transgender” or a “non binary” or “genderqueer.” Stop appropriating our language.
I ’ve been mulling over this conundrum ever since I wrote that article about Instagram lesbians whining because they want a “real femme.”
In the article, I pointed out that demanding “soft tomboy” women like me to perform femininity is sexist and is a result of having been raised in a patriarchy, where women are expected to shave themselves into prepubescent children while wearing impractical, highly sexualized clothing.
Though I’m still too feminine to be a full-on butch, I don’t shave or wear makeup or high heels, and I’ve been that way for most of my life. I’ve been that way because I give zero fucks about impressing or attracting men. Amazingly enough, none of my relatives ever put two-and-two together and realized I was gay. …
Some time last year, I realized that I needed to be writing more books. I looked at my author page and it was almost embarrassing that I only had a few books out after an entire year of learning about self-publishing.
It’s important for an indie author to have a lot of books written because it a) allows more readers to find you, b) means more money, and c)shows readers that you are willing to keep providing a steady stream of content.
But enough with the alphabet soup.
You’re probably thinking that it isn’t strange to not have many books out when you’re just beginning, but it actually is strange. What if I told you that you could write five books in one year? …