She posted a link today on Twitter:
Chapter 1 of #StalkingTheAlphaMale.
Two USB ports on my laptop are fucking smashed from the night when I drank an entire bottle of wine, got wasted, and tripped over the cord, causing my laptop to fall somewhere – who knows what I was trying to accomplish – and shit got bent up. I can’t use those ports now. They’re destroyed. I can’t plug anything into them. My life is full of these little reminders of accidents, like the scar on my knee from when I cut myself shaving. You’d think a little nick wouldn’t scar so bad, but it did.
Or how about the fifteen thousand dollars I ran up in credit card debt in a matter of weeks when I was nineteen, after my trip out to South Carolina to meet a guy who I’d spent a year talking to on the internet. An ex-Crip turned poet turned army grunt. I was convinced he was a genius in hiding. It turned out he wasn’t much of anything, except for a druggie loser who lived with his dad. And his sweat smelled like copper. That was back in the days of AOL chatrooms.
When it comes to the opposite sex, I realize now I have issues. Come to think of it, every single relationship I’ve ever had – any boyfriend I’ve ever had – was accompanied with copious amounts of alcohol on my part. No exception. Like in order for me to tolerate the ruthlessly stressful nature of the opposite sex, I had to drink. Case in point: whenever I’m single, I don’t drink. I have no interest in it.
Those little moments, those tangible pieces of evidence of “Oops, I fucked up,” litter the reality that is mine. For years, unintentional behavior was my living hell. I have to deal with it.
I now seek a world in which imperfection nourishes me, and in which I can be comfortable being uncomfortable. I am looking for that space where I can be my raw, unfiltered, unadulterated self without worrying what the fuck other people think about me. I am looking for that explosion of small moments where so much meaning is crammed into the present, nothing can be done except to live it and observe it simultaneously.
I don’t think anyone on this earth could understand what I’m talking about, except maybe a professional fighter. They’re the ones who’ve learned to channel their hate into a useful outlet. Every so often, they get the itch to taste blood. They’re permitted to let loose with their fists and bodies and deliberately hurt another human being, within the confines of a cage – terrorism in a controlled environment. If I wasn’t this delicate, slender shell of a woman, I might be a fighter, a warrior. I have seen throats being slit, heads cut off by Al Qaeda, elderly people stabbed to death, dogs thrown out of moving car windows, an infant with male genitalia in its mouth – all courtesy of the world-wide internet. I have seen and analyzed the worst of the worst. I spent years poring over the scrawled writings of a hate-filled teenager in Littleton who planned to blow up his high school, but the bombs failed to go off due to an equipment malfunction, so he had to resort to miscellaneous shooting. He destroyed lives, knees, spines, you name it. I got very close to a white supremacist who, on our first date, bragged to me about his friends breaking into a paleontologist’s house and killing him for his Nazi paraphernalia. Imagine this tattooed, muscled, blue-eyed white guy hunched over a battered newspaper clipping, reading each word aloud, laboriously: “...sentenced to life in prison with no poss-i-bil-ity of parole.” Telling me he visits his friends in prison every week, because if he was ever locked up like that, he’d hope there’d be someone out there who cared enough to visit him.
I guess I have bad taste in men.
So in August 2010, when I first caught a glimpse of the infamous TMZ video that went viral – of a tattooed, good-looking Mexican former UFC fighter attacking a guy who hit a girl – I was caught once again by bloodlust. “Oh look, finally – a man who is admirable.”
And once again, I was fooled.