Last night I went home and laid there for hours, trying to sleep, wondering why it was that I got so mad. While I have a temper, I don’t have a short fuse. And while it doesn’t take much to get me to fly off at the mouth, it takes a WHOLE lot to actually get me mad. And I was pissed. Why?
It wasn’t the ridiculously juvenile actions of envious individuals. I’ve dealt with bitter resentments since the day my UncleChunky died — and his own brother tried to steal everything — and somebody thought I might have two damn dollars. So I’ve gotten pretty good at processing those. It wasn’t insults aimed in my direction. I shouldn’t have to be good at dealing with verbal put downs, but the sad fact of my life is that I just am. And I’ve heard better, more potent ones than any idiot on the internet can conjure up. Sticks and stones, bitch. Sticks and stones. So, it wasn’t that either. It wasn’t even the cowardly attempts to gossip about me and shame me in front of a page of my hometown — but only where I couldn’t read it and defend myself. Knock yourselves out. It wasn’t that people who have beautiful families who should be busy appreciating their precious gifts are instead, sadly, concerning themselves with me and my words.
So what was it? I rarely breathe without critiquing myself over my own breath, so I was mad at myself for letting some little nothing and some little nobody anger me so damn bad. And then I knew, it was this…
The last screen shot that chick took and posted to start a gossip fest over me was one where I apologized. Nothing to do with anything that concerns her, but to be a smart ass, she posted it (my apology for being rude) along with the bitchy, snippy words “hell must’ve frozen over”. Which was an insinuation to the only correspondence I’ve had with anyone that ridiculous — whom, much like her like minds, I’d stopped addressing ages ago — over the confederate flag.
And that’s what lit me up. B-tch, don’t you ever intentionally misconstrue my words to even so much as give a impropriety of an indication that I am ever apologizing for a single thing I have ever said about that racist’s rag.
Don’t you ever. Ever. Evvvvvah! You want to gossip about me, knock your f–king self out. But don’t you ever even appear to give inclination that I ever regret any sort of attitude taken over that symbol of the biggest domestic terrorist organization in our nation’s history. Because you will anger me to unprecedented levels. And I do not like anger. While it moves me to some of the most magically magnificent diatribes I have ever composed, I don’t necessarily enjoy it.
And if you could find yourself in possession of the ability to read a book, instead of solely in possession of some “history lesson” you obtained from the back of an Alvin’s Island tshirt on Spring Break in Panama City Beach — where, I’m sorry, you’re really too old to even go — you’d know enough to be ashamed of that clothed mark of racism, as well. It’s skanky. It’s sad. And it’s a failure — if you wanna know the f-cking truth. It lost. As did the Confederacy.
And the United States is better for it. And the only reminder it serves now is a glaring symbol of the most embarrassing time in our nation’s history, as well as doubling as a pretty good indication of who didn’t graduate high school and who comes from a family that breeds with their cousins.
Don’t you ever, even for your own immature personal gain, attempt to twist my unrelated apologies to fit your bigoted, Confederate flag waiving narrative.
Now that I’ve inventoried myself and realized what it was that set me the hell off — because no skanky behavior ever has the power to make me that angry — I can sleep.
It was that traitors’ battle flag and the attempts to insinuate my remorse. When it comes to that treasonous rag, I ain’t sorry for a damn thing. And I never will be.
Now run and tell that, b-tch.
(I still think I should chunk books and Miranda Lambert lyrics and give writing hip hop a go. I do love the word b-tch. B-tch. 🙂 )