Dear Mr. Fucktard walking the 3 dogs that yelled at my son to “keep your dog on a leash”,
I owe you an apology for going off on you. See, my dog is not really an apartment dog. Every once in a while (usually while trying to bring in a shit load of groceries after a long day at work with a hungry kid in tow) she runs outside when I open the door. It turns out that she has just happened to do that now twice when you are walking by with your gaggle of dogs on a leash. She is a gentle dog and has never hurt another person or animal, but she is very large and can be quite intimidating. When I told you to please not speak to my child that way and to speak with me directly, I appreciate that you did so. As I gruffly yelled at you “not to worry, we will be out of the neighborhood soon,” I was frustrated to say the least. Finally, after my son said that he did not like the neighborhood because the neighbors were stupid, I corrected him telling him loudly that “the neighbors are not stupid but privledged and care more about animals than people.” I think I also yelled something about how “not everyone has it as easy as you and that we’re all just doing the best we can.” I want you to know I’m sorry that my dog disrupted your evening walk. I also want you to know I’m aware you may not actually be a fucktard.
Anatomy of a fucktard has fucked me up because I’m faced with the question, “How did I end up with a fucktard?” My anger toward the dog walker is just an extension of my anger at my situation. You see, I not only ended up with a fucktard, I knew it and married him anyway. After divorcing him, I allowed myself to be manipulated into moving back in with him with a “co-parenting” arrangement. After obsessively trying to decide what to do and where to go, I finally rented an apartment I can’t really afford just because they allowed large dogs and because I thought it would be a fun part of town to live in. Not only does my large dog have no yard, my son has no playmates. His brother got caught in the middle and is now with the fucktard fulltime while I work, try to take care of the one child I have left, and obsessively worry about my now estranged son also turning into a fucktard. Don’t worry bitches….I have been rallying the troops, taking care of business, and even found some hope in the idea of loving again. But the fact remains, I did not end up with a fucktard by accident, and the fact that I spent a decade on fuck it mountain before settling for this specific fucktard is telling to say the least.
So if I am going do more than talk the talk and actually honor the cunt, I’m gonna have to tirelessly examine my own fucktard repetition. This is not easy to do bitches and it’s even harder to do while recovering from life with the fucktard.
Sigmond Freud explained this psychological phenomenon while describing the pattern in which people endlessly repeat patterns of behavior which were difficult or distressing in earlier life. Even once you figure out you are repeating behaviors, it can be extremely difficult to determine what they are. Even more difficult is being able to accurately and clearly see what the barriers are and have always been for successfully ending the repetition compulsion. Finally, taking the necessary steps requires a certain vigilance, a commitment to feeling painful feelings, and the courage to be vulnerable with some other human being. Figuring out the appropriate human being is another barrier as well as dealing with the wreckage of the repetition compulsion.
Psycholobitch is pro anger and believes in ranting for as long as necessary. While we encourage you to express anger as long as you live, this is where the rubber hits the road bitches. If you are not serious about reclaiming your anger, your sexuality, and your entire life then you can continue to be the kind of bitch who yells at grumpy old men walking their dogs. If you truly want to honor the cunt, you can’t be a pussy.