Playing soft, calming music.
Soft.
Calming.
I WANT TO FUCKING RIP SHIT FUCKING UP.
Soft.
Calming.
*Exhale...*
I'm still shaking, but I think I can safely get through this entry by starting with this evening's trip to Safeway. Hopefully, by the time I'm finished, I'll be feeling a little bit better.
Oh please, oh please, I just want a hug and I don't have anybody here who I can ask for one... I want to cry, and I want to rip shit up and I want to watch blood flowing... But a hug would do... Please, somebody just hug me?
This kid named Adam asked me to go buy him some booze. He said there was a sale on Heineken. some other girls on my floor decided that they wanted to pick up some stuff at Safeway too, as long as, you know *I* was going. So far as I know, I'm the only one on my floor legally able to buy alcohol, so I'm often in demand for such trips. Maybe once a week. Give or take. So I said "sure."
I discovered that Adam is really kind of a jerk. He asked me to buy him booze, and then when everybody else was ready to go, he was dawdling in the kitchen, telling us to wait for him as he finished his calzone. Then he had to have a piece of bread. Then he had to go back to his room -- which isn't even in my building -- to get some money. He had me and the other girls waiting for him for at least twenty minutes after we'd decided to get going. Okay, still not anything to get really upset about. But then in the car, he ordered me -- yes, ordered -- to put his favorite mix-CD in the player. That's just fucking RUDE, you know? [chill, Helena...] It's just rude. Growing up, I was taught one simple rule: "Driver's Choice." Even as a teenager, I'd suffer through oldies and country music if I had to; it was just fucking courtesy to let the driver choose the music. And if the driver was listening to something awful, or if you REALLY wanted to hear something, you asked. Or you begged, sometimes. You didn't fucking ORDER.
So I put the CD in the player, and Adam commands me to skip to his favorite song. He doesn't know what number it is, so he keeps saying, "just skip this one. This one too. Yeah, just find the song. Keep going. No, you're not doing it right." I really felt like turning around to this little prick and saying, "look, man... Why don't you ASK the driver NICELY if SHE wants to hear your music, and then why don't you ask ME nicely -- VERY NICELY, since I'm buying you booze -- if I'll PLEASE skip to the right song?" I hate people without any manners. I mean, I'm often pretty crass, and sometimes at fancy dinners I don't know which fork to use first, but it bothers me when people push me around, even gently. Adam didn't make me irate or anything; he just really got on my nerves.
We go into Safeway, and the girls pick out a couple bottles of wine. Adam picked up two 12-packs, two single bottles of Heineken, and something else. He just kept pulling stuff off the shelves and sticking it in the cart. Not only THAT, but as he was initially choosing, he said, "you're going to need to go get a cart for this." I was nice enough to leave behind an essay for this little shit; I was nice enough to switch his CD to the right song even though he was really pretty demanding about it, and now he was telling ME to go get a cart for HIM? Does this kid really not realize that I'm not getting anything out of the deal? What, the satisfaction of watching a bunch of kids get trashed and knowing I helped? Like I'm such a fucking saint? The girls at least invited me to come drink with them; I had half a mug full of nasty white wine with them. Adam didn't offer me any, just sort of slunk off.
The thing is, I've bought alcohol for Adam before. He and his friends drove me down to the nearest gas station, handed me a list, and said, "this is what we want." Listed? NINE forty-ounce bottles. NINE. I had to pull six forties off the shelf, ASK the cashier to bring me MORE forties (do you know how stupid I felt asking for THREE more forties? Hi, I'm a 120-pound girl with a sweet little grin and I look all of sixteen, and I'm buying NINE forties?), and then carry them all out to the car by myself. "Thank you"? Nope. I really should have thought about that before I agreed to buy alcohol for Adam again.
So, I get a cart, and Adam loads it up, hands me a wad of money, and jets. The girls at least sort of nod and mumble that they'll be in the car.
I'm standing there looking at this cart, and I'm feeling really kind of pissed off. I mean, Adam never even TALKS to me. I told him, my first night here, that I liked his jacket (a FedEx one; maybe I'll steal it and hang it up next to my USPS one...), and he didn't even reply. The only times he's nice to me is when he needs alcohol, and he's NOT really very nice then, either.
So, I'm pissed off, and these two older guys (forties, early fifties?) start picking on me. They keep saying, "I wanna go home with YOU! You look like you're going to have some fun tonight! What do you say we go crash with her, huh? Let's see what-all you got: wine, more wine, six-pack... whoa, what's this? And Heineken? And some Rolling Rock? Good choices, thar, ma'am!"
[If *I* were choosing, I'd have a six-pack of Wyder's pear cider and a bottle of merlot. I don't like Heineken or Rolling Rock. "Heineken? Fuck that shit! Pabst Blue Ribbon!" --Blue Velvet]
"...But whatcha got that cereal there for?" one of the old dirty bastards asked.
"You've never heard of beer and Wheaties before?" I asked, sort of semi-quoting Tom Robbins. The guy didn't get it. He kept talking about how he was going to go home with me. And standing in line there, already pissed off at Adam for taking advantage of me, I had this image in my head of these two assholes behind me following me home in their truck, and taking refuge in my dorm room. I looked at them and I was just so utterly disgusted with them. Pardon me, but if you're fifty, and you're buying BABY FOOD for your kid, and the girl in front of you -- who looks all of sixteen -- is buying alcohol, it's DISGUSTING to talk about going home with her. It's just gross. I mean, these guys were old enough to have conceived me, you know? And they wanted to come home with me and drink the alcohol that I was buying? They had this gleam in their eyes, too, and I imagined them in my dorm room, nine empty forty-ouncers around their ankles as they played with the underwear in my dirty-laundry pile. And THAT just made me feel ill.
Soft, calming music......
But the thing is, dirty old perverts don't take 120-pound girls seriously. Hell, they don't take girls seriously. Why do you think I got beeped at and wolf-whistled at EVERY damned day when I walked home from work in Binghamton? The ONLY times I felt I could safely walk through my town without getting harrassed in some form was to walk with a man. Didn't matter WHAT man; I've found that asshole men who yell "gimme a blowjob" out their windows will leave you alone even if it's just your fifteen-year-old 120-pound brother you're with.
[Even though I'm still horribly angry, I've got to inject a positive note here: THREE months here, and the only person who's yelled anything out of their car window at me was a nice barrista at Oly World News who was offering me a ride to the post office... In theory, and in general, Western boys know how to treat a lady better than Eastern boys... Well, we'll see about that a little later, but at least nobody's harrassed me from a car yet...]
Anyway, so dirty old men don't take women seriously. I know this. I hate it, but I know it. And I know that if I'm ever feeling threatened, unsafe, or just pissed off at a couple of creepy assholes, it's no use telling them off. Folks like this think women aren't good for anything except opening their beers and getting them off. The best course of action? Well....
"You know, sir, I hate to tell you, but I don't think my husband would be very happy with you drinking his beer..."
The men looked at each other quizzically.
"Yeah. See the ring?"
(I wear a thick silver ring on my left ring-finger. I flashed it pretty briefly, just to give them a hint...)
They said: "Uh... oh, well, he can join in the fun too..." but they sounded hesitant. Then they shut up.
Back to the car, where the girls helped me stuff the goodies into the trunk. And in the car, Adam had me fast-forward the CD to his favorite song. It was trash-rock, wouldn't you know it? And then I carried four bottles of alcohol and two twelve-packs most of the way back to the dorms. Two of the girls managed to conceal the majority of their stash, but I had about fifty bucks' worth of booze weighing me down. No other option though, really. If the kids get caught holding it, they get ticketed with an M.I.P. -- Minor In Possession of alcohol. And for as little as I like Adam, I don't want him to get ticketed. But he still wasn't really very grateful. Eventually, he just grabbed the twelve-packs from me and bolted back to his own room, telling me to bring the rest of his bottles upstairs and he'd get them in a minute.
Fine, okay, so Adam sucks. But I could get over that! I was still in a decent mood. I sat down, finished my essay, had a drink, and was ABOUT to go find something to do, when......
T.C., my floor's resident misogynistic creep, knocked on my door, absolutely smashed off his ass.
It was funny, at first, to see T.C. slurring his words, staggering around, and generally making an ass of himself. I really do not like T.C. at all.
Somebody said: "Hey, T.C.'s rolling around on the floor! Everybody kick T.C.!" And a few people did kick T.C. -- lightly, but just enough to indicate that we all think he's an asshole. T.C. kind of thought it was funny too. T.C. knows he's an asshole.
And then T.C. made a comment about "dragons."
You see, my friend (and sometimes-fuckbuddy) Dracor, quite strongly believes in dragons. Hey, that's his prerogative. If he sees dragons, well hell, he's a better man than I am -- so to speak. If he's into weird fantasy shit and the SCA, well then more power to him. I personally believe in plenty of stuff most people don't give a second thought to. And who am I to say Dracor's dragons don't exist, just because I can't see them? So WHAT if he believes in dragons? So what if he believes the moon is made of green cheese and that in the future, we will make atomic bombs out of Oscar Mayer weiners? Who the fuck cares?
You know, I don't always think Dracor is the greatest human being on earth, and a couple of times, he's made me pretty angry. But he's my friend, dammit, and you DON'T fuck with him. Fine, so a little taunting seems in order, because let's face it, he IS a freak. But T.C. just... he's done more than his share of taunting. And like I said awhile back: you fuck with Dracor, you're fucking with me, and I may not be very tough, but I'm fiercely loyal, and you DON'T fuck with my friends.
So I kicked at T.C. He was expecting it; he backed up and managed to avoid most of the force of my blows. And he kept teasing, over and over: "look, a dragon! Did you hear that sound? That was a DRAGON! Dragons everywhere!"
I kicked at him harder. He was really making me mad. But I didn't really have time to get mad, because at that point, T.C. grabbed my feet out from under me, and slammed me onto the floor, sending this wave of nausea up my spine, where it's still resting inside my skull.
I FUCKING HATE YOU, YOU FUCKING PRICK.
The thing is, I wasn't hurting him. I really wasn't. There's not a chance in the world T.C. is going to wake up with bruises tomorrow because of me. I was pissed off, but I wasn't doing him any real damage. But he threw me on the floor, and I just saw red.
They teach us poor defenseless 120-pound girls to walk away and calm down, or we'll get the shit kicked out of us. Us weak 120-pound girls know not to give in to that rage. Which is why, in every real fight I've ever had, when I get angry, I end up crying, not swinging. Which just makes me look weaker. But this time, I didn't cry, nor did I walk away. I just got up, brushed myself off, and waited. But the rage didn't subside. I just wanted to fucking KILL him. I just wanted to see blood and bones and gross things come out of him. I just wanted him to be nothing but a stupid puddle of T.C. glop on the floor. I wanted to step on his face. It was SO tempting. I wanted nothing more.
You don't fuck with my friends. And you don't fuck with me.
I just stood there, trying to calm down. I thought of everything nice and warm and comfortable that I could. I thought of Norman playing me a song and curling up with me in bed. I thought of the smell of David's hair. I thought of tea and sweet little flowers.
But then T.C. was rolling around on the floor, gurgling about dragons and laughing. So I kicked him in the ass, as hard as I could.
Three seconds later, I was on the floor again, and I think somebody pulled T.C. off of me before he could hit me. But he got right up in my face and started giving me shit: some bullshit about how "once a woman hits me, she's not a woman anymore, and I'll fucken hit her back, you fucken bitch."
Once a man puts me on the floor, when I haven't hurt him, he's no longer a man. How's that?
He stood there and screamed drunken curses at me for a minute or two. He screamed that women were all stupid bitches that deserved whatever he gave them. He screamed that if I wanted to hit him and pretend I was a man, then he'd hit me back and treat me like one. He said he'd break my glasses right into my face. He just kept screaming at me for a good two minutes. I stood there, posture as straight as it's ever been, smiling right into his face.
But the thing was, I was scared. T.C. was trashed, and he's just a little bit bigger than me, but I'm sure I wouldn't stand a chance if he really decided to hurt me. Not unless, that is, somebody broke things up. Scared? Hell yeah. Fight-or-flight response? Oh yeah. Flight? Not an option.
He screamed: "You know man, I'm just fucken RESPECTING you, that's all. You want to get treated fucken equally to a man, I'll fucken treat you like one. It's RESPECT, that's all. I'm gonna respect you while I punch the shit out of you..."
I yelled back -- still sort of smiling, not letting the rage show: "You were respecting me when you put me on the floor? I wasn't hurting you, you asshole. You put me on the FLOOR because YOU had some shit to say about Dracor? And you were RESPECTING me?"
My R.A. stepped in. He said: "Hey, hey, Helena... I know T.C. is fucked up, but I'm gonna ask you to back off... Okay? I'm asking you...?"
He hadn't told T.C. to "back off" when T.C. was screaming into my face that he was going to punch me. But what the fuck; I'm just a stupid girl. T.C. plays Magick cards with all the guys. They're all buddies. They don't give a shit about me; they're just looking out for each other. It's "BACK OFF HELENA," not "BACK OFF T.C." I was sticking up for MY friend, dammit, but when it looked like *I* was in trouble, where were MY friends? Where were MY friends to tell T.C. to shut the hell up? Where the fuck are MY friends? Why the fuck did you all just fucking STAND there? Why did you fucking stand there and let him scream at me? why didn't you fucking help me up when he put me on the floor? Why didn't you DO something? Why is it that I always end up fighting all by myself? Why is it that nobody cares if I end up with a bloody face, but it's not cool if I tell T.C. he's an asshole?
I fucking hate you all. I just fucking hate you all.
I just fucking hate you all, and I'm crying now, and can't stop typing it over and over: I just fucking hate you all, I just fucking hate you all....
Well then. You all got what you wanted: Helena, little 120-pound Helena, crying like the little wimpy girl that she is.
Exhale. Exhale. Exhale.
My CD ended. I played a couple of MP3's, but my player is a piece of shit and it's stopped working for the moment. I listen to Louise's music for a minute. she's playing something on her computer that I recognize: a sweet little tune that sounds like Home...
"Louise? What're you playing? What's it called?"
"It's called 'So What?' It's Miles Davis."
This song is hugging me. I'm crying on its shoulder.
If I breathe, I'm going to cry. If I cry, I'm going to sob, really, really sob. I have to end this entry now. I have to go outside for a little while.
~Helena*