Yeppi
Because I don't shut up about it all anymore - even when people don't want to hear it. I'm an all singing, all dancing, badly phased righteous indignation machine, and I will no longer stand being silenced by the forces of conformity, 'taste' or shame.
Despite this, I'm not so sure I deserve the title, yet. It's taken me like twenty years to get here, and I still can't lash out at people who never look you in the face (I'm working on an all-purpose tit comeback as I write) and I still stutter and forget what I'm saying when I'm trying to argue (I'm getting together a set of issue flashcards, so far I've got "Why its MY body and you should fuck off", and "Aid and the third world: why we help ourselves more than you help us").
But I'm not weak. I never give up and cry, and I can do everything for myself - think, rivet, change oil, run a radio station and be emotionally stable.
The year I was 15, I actively brainwashed myself. I taught myself to see people, not categories, to see 'bloke' not tramp, 'woman', not fat, to see people before I saw colour, or shape, or size, or badly made fashion choices based on celebrity obsessed magazines. This worked out fine, except most of the rest of the world seems to want to thwart my self-delusion. I think I'm coming close to Heartless Bitchery because I'm even calling out my friends and family over it.
Also I'm angry - really angry. About everything. Economics, politics, Page 3 of the Sun (UK tabloid, biggest selling paper, tits and a vapid 'comment' which is really written by a churlish 47-year-old sub editor named James who thinks he can sound like a 20-year-old from Essex. He can't. ) I'm angry that rape convictions in this country are at 5.7%, that my little sisters self image is no better than it would have been in 1952, that most of my 'developed world' existence is workable by screwing over the third world, I'm angry with myself for not throwing the arsehole who hit on me at the bus stop into the path of the oncoming cement truck (because 'I like your look' is such a touching line). And I think all that should count for something, especially as I plan to stay angry until we approach something of a solution. Plus I'm not bitter. I have very little in this suburban, cosmopolitan, safe, childish bubble of an existence to be bitter about.
I like food. I like it a lot. None of that Atkins low carb, low flavour high in self-denial crap for me. Give me real Ghanaian cocoa with shitloads of cream and marshmallows, give me massive tubs of mango sorbet with passion fruit drizzled over the top. And yeah, I fat, svelte, well built... whatever. But I can kick your ass in a roda (Capoeira circle). I refuse to live on my knees in a tasteless hinterland where my self-image depends on what's on TV.
Also I think Andrea Dworkin will always be beautiful, Xica daSilva used sex not because she could, but because she wanted to, and that Marylyn Monroe was smarter than she let most people think.
So maybe I'm not there yet, but I'm a Heartless Bitch In Training, and would very much like to study at the feet of the greats... do you have like a 12 step/ leg up/ internship programme type thing?
Country: England
Yes! I want to read more from Real Life Heartless Bitches
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