Monday, 9 January 2012

I'm trying to remember my first beating

It was when I was in yorkshire.

I had been given a new pair of gloves. I had used them once I think then left them to dry on an electric fire. I left them too long and they got burnt.

I don't think this is a false memory. I was smacked for it. I can't remember if this was when a wooden spoon was used or whether hands were enough. I definitely remember a wooden spoon being used for one or more of the beatings I got.

I was under 5 when I got this beating for the burnt gloves. By the age of 10 I would have had more beatings than my sister and two cousins who live in this country combined.

So when those pricks look down on me they can basically go fuck themselves and get the fuck out of my life. My male cousin couldn't even understand how much I've suffered. My sister didn't even have the decency to recognise what I had been through just as I don't easily recognise what I put them through. The bitch is so stupid as to bring this all up while I'm obviously a fucking wreck.

I'm so tired of doctors and how they fuck my life up. At least my family are a bunch of cunts I need never see ever again. They make me mentally ill, and not in a good way.

Sent from my smartphone

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We It comes in part from an appreciation that no one can truly sign their own work. Everything is many influences coming together to the one moment where a work exists. The other is a begrudging acceptance that my work was never my own. There is another consciousness or non-corporeal entity that helps and harms me in everything I do. I am not I because of this force or entity. I am "we"