Embittered Ginger
Sep 4, 2018 · 3 min read

Kick his ass, please, but don’t kill him. [Label Alert]

I can certainly be a goddam hateful Scorpio woman when I’m feeling rejected, abandoned, or made a fool of. Um… Sure. I can also be supremely defensive when I’m misunderstood, will nearly kill myself trying to “evolve” the perspective of my man, am chronically hemorrhaging my creativity obsessing over unmet needs, and at times, can be introverted to the point of agoraphobia. Not to mention, as a Persephone goddess, I often find great pleasure diving into hell just to see who’s hanging out, but blessedly as a tantric Eleven, can (so far) navigate my way back to the light pretty quickly.

I could go on and as a recovering narcissist, probably will, but the point is — I know myself now. I know what I want in love and partnership. I know how I want to love my partner, love my children, my friends, my family. I know what I have to offer. Like having a Poodle, I’m complicated, but if loved correctly, will yield unmet adoration and loyalty. That’s me at 42. My final accomplishment in life will be lasting love. I know I can achieve real, sturdy, secure love. (And yes as an anxious attachment type, I recognize that this has to be developed interiorly first)…

I also don’t mind saying, I know who I want my man to be:

Himself.

Loving.

Authentic.

Nurturing.

Loyal.

Adoring.

Steady.

Deep.

Yes for goddess’s sake, deep.

Talk to me about who’s pissing Uranus off this week, what the theme of our generation is, which signs our children's Venuses are in, and by all means, stand with me when I awkwardly attempt to explain the meaning of an “11 Year” at a pretentious New’s Year’s Eve party. Do not call me a moron when I explain why Trump might possibly put America back on track if he won (by process of collective shame revelations)... and please don’t “yes, dear” me and oh, by the way, take me seriously when I want to have a state of our union address to work on whatever feels off-kilter this week in our couple bubble.

When I was a kid my family called me “Princess.” That was the name I responded to as a girl and then as a teenager. I thought it was meant to be an insult, but once we were all in our thirties, my brother, Ricky (whom I miss dearly), confessed to me that he always appreciated the high-maintenance bubble ho of a sister that was me, my tantrums, my runnings away from home, and my determination. He said I always gave him a sense that he could do anything. And that I was exciting. (What? Don’t most twelve-year old girls organize the teens in an annual strip tease talent show or charge cover to play Ouija?)… And the flip side was an unnerving sense of judgement he felt from me (which was not projected) when he wasn’t giving himself his best. How healing to realize that the weirdo space cadet was actually a source of pride for my family. Lovely. I can accept that.

I do generally try to warn my future lover what he’s getting into. Somehow there’s an idea that, “I can handle you,” and then well… whatever.

So as a lovingly hateful introverted intuitive Scorpio Buddhist recovering sensitive human “most likely to escape the trailer park,” I don’t think it’s too out of line to hope for the one I loved so deeply to get a little bit of a karmic sucker punch after seemingly getting out without a scratch? A little pain for the one who recruited me from sector seven and then ditched me for being an alien?

Ah well. What does wishing ill-fate on an other ever really accomplish? It’s not me, anymore. Goddess Bless him with love. Shower him with compassion. Pull the needles out of his eyeballs and hold him in the light.

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