My mother once told me that I’m an acquired taste. My mother is sometimes a bitch just because she can be, but she’s a truthful bitch (which might be the worst kind). I can’t count the number of times a person I’ve known for a little while has come up to me and said something like “You know, I didn’t like you at first, but you’ve grown on me.”
Yes, like a fungus I creep up on you when you least expect it and spit my poison spores everywhere. They infect your brain and you somehow magically end up liking me...or not. No matter what I try there are always people who don’t like me. I tell myself it’s because they don’t get me, but let’s face it, I deluded myself into marrying not one, but two separate men who were horribly wrong for me. The people who don’t like me might not have poor taste. They might just be sane. Or immune to my poisonous spores.
In personality, I can be a bit prickly. I usually think I’m right (but ask my boyfriend, I am so often that it’s led to arrogance.) If you’ve known me for longer than a week, I’ve probably gone on a rant about how the white male power structure...yada yada yada. You’re not listening are you? Well, fuck you. I didn’t care to discuss this with you anyway.
To be honest, I’m a little like a burnt marshmallow. My outside personality is probably a little repulsive. If you could create a visual image of the way I act sometimes it would be charred black and dropped in the dirt by a six-year-old.
I’m not going to talk to you about the soft, sweet center that is the secret me, because frankly, I don’t think you’ve earned that yet. That’s right, you have to earn me being nice to you...unless you sign my paychecks. And then I’ll smile and say sweet things all day long, because I’m a whore like that.
No, the truth is I have a bit of a reputation of being a hardass. ZmbSlyr likes to joke that I’m a warrior woman, but I think he’s only half kidding. He’s said it or some variation one too many times not to be a little serious.
Yes, like a fungus I creep up on you when you least expect it and spit my poison spores everywhere. They infect your brain and you somehow magically end up liking me...or not. No matter what I try there are always people who don’t like me. I tell myself it’s because they don’t get me, but let’s face it, I deluded myself into marrying not one, but two separate men who were horribly wrong for me. The people who don’t like me might not have poor taste. They might just be sane. Or immune to my poisonous spores.
In personality, I can be a bit prickly. I usually think I’m right (but ask my boyfriend, I am so often that it’s led to arrogance.) If you’ve known me for longer than a week, I’ve probably gone on a rant about how the white male power structure...yada yada yada. You’re not listening are you? Well, fuck you. I didn’t care to discuss this with you anyway.
To be honest, I’m a little like a burnt marshmallow. My outside personality is probably a little repulsive. If you could create a visual image of the way I act sometimes it would be charred black and dropped in the dirt by a six-year-old.
I’m not going to talk to you about the soft, sweet center that is the secret me, because frankly, I don’t think you’ve earned that yet. That’s right, you have to earn me being nice to you...unless you sign my paychecks. And then I’ll smile and say sweet things all day long, because I’m a whore like that.
No, the truth is I have a bit of a reputation of being a hardass. ZmbSlyr likes to joke that I’m a warrior woman, but I think he’s only half kidding. He’s said it or some variation one too many times not to be a little serious.
For example: The other day, while I’m getting ready for work, he said something obviously unimportant to me because I’ve already forgotten just what it was. I, in return, of course, acted like a smartass. To which he responded by doing one of his many impersonations of me.
He turns and, with a straight face says: “RWAR! I’M BRANDY! I’M A BADASS! WATCH ME EAT A MOUTHFUL OF BROKEN GLASS!”
Well, that was exactly what I was about to go do, but he’d ruined the surprise, so I just slipped my bra on backwards and jerked it straight in frustration. He’s always finding a way to keep me from doing anything fun.
Another night here recently we had the following conversation:
“You do realize I would straight up kill anyone who ever messed you, right?” I don’t know why I thought he needed to know this. Maybe because I was hoping that, if someone ever did mess with him, he wouldn’t tell me for fear of me doing something overly harsh in retaliation, thereby helping me to avoid to messy process of having to dispose of a body via a wood chipper. (Trust me, it’s disgust! And the noise it makes. You hear it in dreams for nights afterwards).
“I know, baby. You’re like my prison daddy.”
I looked at him out of the corner of my eyes. “What makes you say that?”
“Well, in exchange for sex you make sure no one else beats me up or rapes me.”
“I’m not your prison daddy.”
“Whatever you say, daddy.”
From the sounds of it, it may be sheer terror alone that keeps the man coming back to me, but I can live with it. Wasn’t it Machiavelli who said it was better to rule by love and fear, but to always choose fear if you must pick between the two. Yeah, I took that shit to heart.
And that, my friends, is exactly what makes me a wonderful prison daddy.
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