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Author Topic: Random Dismal, Dreary, Depressing Things About Me (Or You!)  (Read 3125 times)
ER
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The sleep of reasoner breeds monsters. (sic)


« on: February 24, 2018, 01:42:39 AM »



Random Dismal, Dreary, Depressing Things About Me (Or You!)

Bear in mind I am sleepy as I type this since I have INSOmniA tonight, so why should I be like, "Oh, how nice, I think I'll post about wholesome fairies that fly out of unicorns' butts!”

No! In my self-pitying sleep craving state I believe I'll kvetch at how unkind life has been here in a rambling new thread I call Random Dismal, Dreary, Depressing Things About Me. (Though by “me” I mean anyone who wants to humiliate and abase him-or-herself here before the eyes of all regulars and lurkers.) It also gives others a chance to really score payback hits on me if the spirit so moves any of you.

Sad things?

Starting with: Again, folks, I was nearly born in a hotel locker room! --> To a teenaged immigrant mother!

There is a teeny chance my “imaginary friend” when I was four may have been some adult male creep who broke into our house at night and came into my bedroom. Also a chance it was my grandson time traveling but I think that’s only 30% likely.

My earliest dateable memory is about a fatal plane crash up the road from where we lived that snuffed some FBI agents. We then had to drive by that smoldering ruin of a crash site all winter. Gee, why did I have an imaginary friend, I wonder?

I actually preferred New Coke when it came out in the eighties. Yep, that was me, I was the one.

My dad was constantly gone for weeks at a time in my childhood. (Or it seemed like he was, but it may have been rarer than I remember.) But damn the man was good at basketball for a high IQ type.

My two brothers died as babies! <--That one takes the prize.

In summers, when other kids were playing blissfully in their yards or going to Disney World or at the very least taking the season off school, I got stuck in accelerated learning classes----Catholic school accelerated learning classes!!---for two extra weeks! We weren’t allowed to wear regular clothes even then, and it does make Catholic girls legs sore to have to hold them together all day in school. If you haven’t been there you probably can’t imagine being a seven-year-old with chronic leg cramps.

Then the rest of summer I was shipped off to the most boring country on the planet, the Republic of Ireland. (Boring, yes, why you think a third of its people emigrated when they got the chance?) There I never got to kiss the Blarney Stone or tour Guinness, no, I went to bloody Mass---again IRISH Catholic Mass---ev-er-y morning at sunup with my more Kathuhlick than the Pope Irish grandparents!!! While there each summer, as a bonus, I also got beaten to a pulp by my obese cousin Magda, who thought Americans talked funny and needed a good thrashing now and again. I’d try to tell her I wasn’t American when I set foot on Irish soil, my other citizenship kicked in, but that only got me a harder beating. My mom insisted, “Oh, she’s just playing rough with you.” Yeah, no, Mom, she wasn’t. Say one thing for Mags, though, she sure would bust the everlovin' crap out of anyone else who tried to bully me.

Pay attention Bad Movie lovers, you’re going to want to weep at this next factoid. At eight years old I got cheated out of a chance to be an extra in the Pompilio's scene in Rainman. Let me say it again....in RAINMAN! Not some B-movie nobody ever heard of. No, Rain-man. it won a gee-golly Oscar! Not one of those Oscars they give out at a beta site, no, Best Bloody Picture! I coulda bragged about that the rest of my life when my rich classmates got snooty with me because my dad was only a civil servant. I simulate said aborted bragging sessions down below:

It’s 1996 and some snooty b***h Posse Member sneeringly asks, "What'd you do when you were little?"

I reply: "What, me, b***h? I was in f**king Rainman, while you were collecting Pretty Ponies, so get outta my face and go wash my car!"

Yeah, that never happened because I got ditched from the scene because someone thought a child would be too distracting.

Sad fact thirty: My parents kept promising me a dog, and didn't get me one til I was in my teens!

In the “Me-Too Movement” Department: Some coke'd-up Yuppie pervert came onto me in a totally disgusting way, wanting me to do this...act I had never exactly heard of and thought could not possibly truly exist except maybe in California (sheltered childhood) in my own downstairs during my parents' party when I was thirteen, and his only excuse was he said he thought I was (wait for it!) seventeen. Yeah, like seventeen makes it all just fine since every thirty-year-old Yuppie should by rights have some stray “seventeen year old" innocently watching Adventures In Babysitting blow him, right? I was lucky that night that talk dirty was all he did. Bad situation.

That whole almost dying thing at fifteen after a fall on a tennis court wasn't swell either, just in case you’ve stopped crying about the no dog thing up there... You don’t EVEN wanna know the exact manner in which it almost killed me. You honestly don’t. Not pretty. Stop speculating and skip ahead….

Oh, and though it’s ibid, lest you have forgotten, the tutor I got when I missed a quarter of school after my accident, he eventually groped me in his car one evening in some sort of amateurish seduction, and later was one of my teachers in twelfth grade. What are those odds? God, men were always putting me in crisis mode in the ‘90s, weren’t they?

As a teen and, heck today, I also had to endure having a cousin who was absolutely the hottest, coolest human being God ever made, and she never let me forget because she'd get me in her car and take her sunglasses off all cool-like and yawn and say, "El, you are so lucky I let you ride with me, because I am, like, way hotter and cooler than you." I couldn’t even argue with her because it was true.

Speaking of “El” my name is Evelyn, but in some sad twist of fate, most of my family and friends call me “Ellie” and sometimes “El” because originally I couldn’t say my own name when I was a toddler and that’s what it sounded like I was saying. Evelyn came out as Ellie. Imagine being stuck with a nickname based on people making fun of your poor pronunciation. Toldja this topic was dismal!

My mom lost her s**t when I was sweet sixteen (right after I almost died, if you glance up above) and took off back to bloody Ireland, leaving me to either get raised by my dad (just what every adolescent female dreams of, uh, yeah, not...) or follow her over there, and I'd sooner have slit my wrists----down the street not across the road, kids!----than lived with her in the Holy Land where my grandparents lived with no other purpose than to shove me into Mass every day.

I was also across much of my mid-teens and later in this jailbait relationship which had the bittersweet prize in the cereal box of knowing Mr. Soul Mate O’Mine could because of me wind up breaking rocks while taking on the prison name of Shirley for his new boyfriend, Bubba of the Aryan Brotherhood. (They go for blondes in there, right?) All that made date nights really, um, extra exciting, if by exciting you mean nerve-twanging in an “Is that a police car behind us?” way. (Once time the answer was, “Yes, yes, it actually is a police car behind us, Brian.”)

I had a chance to go to a university every one of you has heard of in stories that begin with, "Oh, yeah, if I was that smart I'd go to_______." Yet for some reason, I turned the chance down. Hint, it had a lowercase "l" in its name and was in the east. Bet you’d get it on the first guess. (Yes, that one.) Backing out on that made my aunt, who already wasn’t happy with me because I called her (among other things) a “hypocritical c**t” in front of her priest and friends and the local newspaper editor, truly dislike me. In my defense I was using the Irish rather than the American definition of the unfairly reviled c-word. In Ireland it means more like….okay, still c**t. But it’s way less bad there. It's c**t-lite.

Hey, while I’m at it, why not tell the world this? I also had a miscarriage at an age when it's not entirely societally-approved for a young woman to be pregnant at all. If you’ve never had a miscarriage, imagine being one of those old fashioned ringer mops that get pulled through the squeezer on the side. No I wasn’t a minor but I wasn’t of an age where I was in any danger of being offered the wine list at a fancy restaurant without an ID check either. Until last year only one other person (wait, two) knew about that pregnancy. I said why tell when nothing good comes of bringing up bad memories, but the truth was, it was absolutely not in my best interests to let it be known I was ever pregnant at that age. Not when I was thought of in more respected terms. “You’re so nice, so smart, so sensible.” No I wasn’t but people thought I was. When I finally did tell this long dark secret I buried away, nobody much cared and my dad said, “Yeah, I always figured it was probably that because of how you acted that summer.” (Not that I was still living at home.) My dad is someone I’ve never fooled or beaten in chess. Ever. Not once. Try growing up like that.

At seventeen, God so young, I also started working a job that made me see tons of psychologists, give lots of blood, and lie in a wave pool in order to see if I could not drown. (Answer: I could.) I could not tell my friends about the job and I was also told to fill out a life insurance policy because there was a base 2% chance of on-job death that increased to 4% under certain circumstances. I shoulda said, “f**k that s**t I’m going to the prom.” Instead I said, “Hey, awesome where do I sign?”

Do I regret it? Sometimes.

Lest I fail to remind veterans of my past rants, I also ran away and became homeless at eighteen. Well, sort of homeless. Homeless-lite. And I guess it wasn’t “ran away” since I was not a minor, but it sounds better when I put it that way. Full disclosure, I ran away after that miscarriage, when I was engaged to be married, no less. My third worst deed ever. Surprised he still talked to me after that. Guess he loved me. (In your face, Bethany.) To this day I love him and sometimes fall off the deep end over the fact he's dead and unless there's an afterlife with a real generous God, I'll never see him again.

When I was twenty-one my grandpa died slowly of HCLC lung cancer and I was the last member of the family he agreed to see at his hospice. Why is that so bad? Um--> let's review, he had lung cancer? Ever seen lung cancer? OK. Made me want to go murder a tobacco executive, and Kentucky was only one state away. Grandpa left me.....close to everything he possessed in the world, and what happened? My drug addict cousins' ultra-wealthy dad sued me for years to get his kids a share of what Grandpa left me. They were filthy rich (and drug addicts) and I was neither, and boy was that a dirty court battle. Fun fact: he had me followed by detectives for months and in depositions had his lawyers ask young me such spirit dimming questions as, “Did you at any time have sexual relations with your grandfather?” (Can I get a chorus of, “Holy s**t, say what????”)  When I kept calm and said no, I was then asked, “Well you did something to make him cut his other grandkids out of his will, so what did you do?!”

Mean bunch those lawyers of his. My aunt is a lawyer but she never lifted a hand to help me. Oh, yeah, I guess I did call her that name in front of her boss, didn't I?

Skipping ahead.... Um, in Austin, Texas, where I ran amok for a while, I had this unconsummated thing going on with this guy who shared an employer with me, and his psycho ex-wife tried to hire someone to throw acid in my face. Kid you not, acid/face. Wow. The house in Barton Springs became my prison cell, the corridor of Sixth Street threatened an acid-hurling assassin in every alleyway. To this day Texas make my face tingle.

The night Ohio State won the national title in 2003, my best friend's brother, who was almost like my own brother we'd known each other so long, drugged me with what was apparently GHB for s**ts 'n giggles and I spent the night being walked outside barely able to breathe. (I have a creepy history of men I trust utterly screwing me over.) He swore he wasn’t trying for anything, just thought it would be funny, and I believe him, but it was still an utterly rotten and mean thing to do, much worse than when the guy in college slammed my face into a wall. (Damn, maybe I’m a victim…? Cool, about time I get to be a victim of SOMETHING.)

Which brings me to my husband. He slept with stacks of women back in the day. So many that in bashfully recounting his exploits in his college days alone he told me, "Is one a month over the course of five years, really all that much if it was always ‘safe’?" He said it charmingly too. He’s very charming, BTW, a total pretty boy....my grandpa would have wanted to kick his ass just for being so pretty. When you think of my grandpa, think of John Wayne, only tougher.

The first couple years we went out, we could not go anyplace, it seemed like, without running into a woman he’d….yeah. He worked at a TV station for a while and had something going on at the same time with two interns there and one of the weekend AM weather personalities, and they all knew and were okay with it. He had “things” happening with a squad of law students who had no time to date and so would call him up to see if they could use him for a bit if he didn’t mind. The man had a track record! Yet wanna hear something even stranger? I was only his second real girlfriend. (She died last year, poor thing, sad case, for real. Messed him up. She refused to marry him because she wasn’t sure she could trust him so she was the one who got away, me the consolation prize, I’m guessin’.)

This all made for some at first funny and later tiresome times out encountering all these past somebodies, but later they hit the age for marriage and when they were married they pretended they didn’t know him when we crossed paths, looked right past him which was slightly pitiful for him and which I found hilarious, but it made life easier for me anyway. (Is it sad or plain stupid to marry a man with that sort of carnal resume?)

My husband has no idea who is real father is, and my friend Mandy is 100% legit convinced it was Ted Bundy. No, she says that for real. She says Bundy was around where my husband’s biological mother lived. I “think” the timeline would be off, but if I found out that was true, million to one odds, I guess my kids would have all-time bragging rights on Grandparents’ Day. Can’t you see it? “Yeah, Justin, your grandpa drives a truck? Well MY grandpa went to the electric chair after bite-mark evidence showed he spree-killed a buncha sorority girls in Florida, so THERE…”

I’d also shoot myself at that point because I think that’s the social custom in that situation, isn’t it? Being responsible for giving your kids serial killer DNA?

The odds were high my husband would ever get me at all since I was insanely grief-stricken in that era right before and when we crossed paths, and I had been celibate as a nun for well over a year the night we met since the man I loved with all my heart had died in 2000, and I kept saying, “I don’t want any sort of relationship right now.” But it did flatter me that the man I eventually married seemed as smitten as he was. He waited well over another year just hanging with me in this sexless thing we had going on all the way from fall 2001 to 2003, so I got the impression he did care about me, and we do have a good marriage going on. He’s been an amazing dad…especially to the girls. Also when I finally bedded him it was like fireworks.

But wait, this is about dreariness, so there’s more!

When I was pregnant with our oldest daughter (and, um, not married, so cultivating Hell-fire upon death, might as well throw that in) there is a slight chance my future husband and my aunt carried on in our house, when I was letting her live with me/us when she moved over from Ireland with her two children. (One of whom, my little cousin Joshua, wants to kill our grandmother these days, that's all I can figure since he plans on converting to Judaism soon.) Well I now think the odds are that I was wrong all those years I spent thinking my husband and my aunt were intimate in a squirrely sort of way and in truth they never had anything going on. (My aunt is just three years older than me and looks dead-on for Naomi Watts, if Naomi Watts never had an off day.) But it was stressful to carry that suspicion inside for half a decade without saying anything.

Then years later, after we were married, my husband did actually cheat on me….with a twenty-four-year-old who worked at Starbucks. TWENTY-FOUR. He told me about it (he’s nothing if not honest) and I thought, “Wonder why I’m not getting mad now?”

I kept trying to get mad but I had a weird sense of disconnect like….huh, that really doesn’t make me mad? Seriously…no anger? And I let him get 100% away with it without me going out and revenge banging his archrival or making him buy me the collected Oxford English Dictionary (I’m a nerd) because two wrongs, etc. and we have children and I didn’t want to disrupt their lives, so I said, “Hey, I forgive you, honey, just don’t do it again.” Blah, I am so wussy.

Then I had wall-banging sex with him. True story. The closet wall shook.

I did sort of stalk the girl he swivvied, not with malicious intent in my heart, just out of some morbid curiosity, and I took my friend Clare with me and it got to be a ritual, “Hey, Clare, y’busy, wanna meet at Starbucks and watch the chick my husband banged make coffees?”

“Oh, sure, Evelyn, that sounds just as fun as it did the last seventeen times we did that!”

Loyal as a mutt is our Clare. Almost married her brother. Kind of let her spontaneously kiss on me once too. Long story. (Cliff’s Notes: we were freaked out mourning her brother. It made some sense at the time but freaks me out now. Weird night, from mutually bemoaning the cruelty of fate to realizing she was climbing up on me with her arms wrapped around my torso kissing me on the mouth with her eyes shut. And we’re both straight, honestly. Oh, don't look at me that way, we so are! I just...have this strange habit of letting people in that family do stuff to me and not reacting til later. Jeesh, just thought about that….)

Later I asked my husband why he picked that particular person to romp with, the Starbucks girl, and he explained he did it because he wanted to see if he could.

“Could what?” I asked, actually curious.

“Could still get some random hot girl to have sex with me even though I’m approaching forty.”

“You mean like how Johnny Cash’s unnamed antihero shot the man in Reno just to watch him die?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t shoot her to watch her die, just to see her writhe around a little gasping aimlessly about God.”

Great!

At least he’s never done it again…I think. He’d tell me, he’s like that, but there’s only one get out of jail free card, so I hope he never does again, we’ve got kids, for crying out loud, man. Also he never told the girl he was married, she didn’t know he had a wife and kids, so I couldn’t quite get p**sed off at her either, since hey, who hasn’t done it standing up in the kitchen where you work with some stranger who comes in and puts the moves on you like it’s 1996? She seemed kinda nice. Always smiled when she’d give Clare and me our overpriced lattes. Once I contrived to touch her hand, which made me feel weird.

Lord.

So what else is dark and depressing about me? Um, well, if we had to pay for the house we live in (the one Grandpa left me) there’s no way we could afford it, and I swear the house condescends to me sometimes, and I even had a dream that it did. More of an abstract nightmare in which the house knew we were unworthy of it and wanted us out. The walls didn’t bleed like in Amityville but they did get lymphy.

As for our house, old as it is it doesn’t even have the good grace to be haunted. Sad, huh?

I also had two babies in a row in the same year, my littlest daughter coming eleven months after my son, kinda rough on the hips, and I had stretch marks, so I broke my no cosmetic procedure rule and had them lasered off, and then later found out the particular laser the doctor used is associated with a major increase in skin cancer risk. Thus someday my abdomen is going to rot off, I gather…? Anyone know? Skin cancer, it rots you? Or….?

Old news but I got stabbed by an ungrateful cousin who plotted to kidnap that aforementioned youngest daughter, and she hates me even though I could fill a topic with nothing but the nice things I’ve done for her, bringing to life that old Jewish adage, “Why do they hate us? What good deeds have we ever done them?” (You know, good deeds make people resent you?)

And all this is leaving out two things so dark if I told you none of you would be able to resist losing your minds. (Thank you for that line, H.P. Lovecraft!) One is about someone wanting to kill me, seriously KILL me, every day of my life, wants me dead, and the other….is even more off the scale. Like so bad it shocks me every day, sometimes every hour when I pause to think of it. It’s so horrible if it got out I think I’d have to move to Alaska, pretend to be French, and not carry a phone.

So, yeah, your turn if you want to add anything, but voila, my dark and dismal life. Have a nice day….if you can! Bwa-hahahaha! <-Evil laugh.

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What does not kill me makes me stranger.
indianasmith
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« Reply #1 on: February 24, 2018, 03:38:25 AM »

Memo to Ellie:  Next time take a sleeping pill!!!! LOLOLOL 
Of course, if you balanced this out with all the good and wonderful things that have happened to you, this post would be three times as long! Cheers
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RCMerchant
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« Reply #2 on: February 24, 2018, 07:12:45 AM »

Dam ER- and I thought I was f**ked up.
As always-your a talented writer.
I am sorry for saying what I did- I was drunk and wrong-very wrong. Have you ever considered writing a book? Like some Stephan King kinda personal horror? Because I think you would be very good at it.
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ER
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The sleep of reasoner breeds monsters. (sic)


« Reply #3 on: February 24, 2018, 12:26:51 PM »

Dam ER- and I thought I was f**ked up.
As always-your a talented writer.
I am sorry for saying what I did- I was drunk and wrong-very wrong. Have you ever considered writing a book? Like some Stephan King kinda personal horror? Because I think you would be very good at it.

LOL, nah, RC, I make you seem downright normal, my friend.  Wink

Actually, yeah, I wanted to be a writer for a long time and I do write often (and not just in here) and at one time things seemed to be going well since I had an agent in New York (a Jew, no less, wow, top of the world there!) who was doing a good job marketing my manuscripts, though he was always pushing me to write a novel and I am more of a short story sort, a handicap these days, but he got tired of his brothers, who were in business, making fun of him for being an agent, and he exercised a tiny line in our contracts (mine and his other clients) and before he got out of the field sold all our material to other writers, to publish under their own names.

Perfectly legal, happens all the time, much that's on bookstore shelves, even best selling series, were not written by the person whose name is on the cover. He did it without asking and seemed puzzled as to why I got furious when he'd made me money. So I lost heart, knowing someone else was taking credit for things I wrote, something went out of me that never came back, and plus I had a baby about that time and just....wrote for fun after that, not doing much with it.

But I did write, among other things, some horror stories, sci-fi, though I mostly wrote non-genre and kept aiming for a tone somewhere between Oates and Updike. If you like I'll send you some of my horror or sci-fi sometime.

Did you see that prose-poem I put up in Written Anything Lately?
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What does not kill me makes me stranger.
LilCerberus
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« Reply #4 on: February 24, 2018, 01:02:00 PM »

I'm an overweight bald guy with a few missing teeth, & I still think I can make it as an actor...
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ER
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The sleep of reasoner breeds monsters. (sic)


« Reply #5 on: February 24, 2018, 04:40:30 PM »

Memo to Ellie:  Next time take a sleeping pill!!!! LOLOLOL 
Of course, if you balanced this out with all the good and wonderful things that have happened to you, this post would be three times as long! Cheers

Ha, thanks, Lewis. While everything I put up there is true I confess I wrote that as a parody and I'd not trade places with anyone, since I have been both lucky and blessed.
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What does not kill me makes me stranger.
Paquita
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« Reply #6 on: February 25, 2018, 02:25:09 PM »

That’s creepy that your husband might be (but probably isn’t) the son of Ted Bundy.  Does he look anything like Ted Bundy?

I think the most depressing thing about my life now is that I probably couldn’t fill up as much space writing about any aspect of it  Smile.  Though I’d like to think it’s because of my lack of eloquence in writing and not as much lack of experiences.  Though, I admit, in comparison to yours and many others I have been VERY sheltered, but I’m OK with that. 

The Ted Bundy thing did make me think of something you might find interesting and depressing though.  A story about my mother’s first husband, the father of my brother and sister.  He was born in the 40’s in Germany (maybe late 30’s, I’m not sure of the exact date), and while growing up, he wondered why his younger brother was always treated so much better than he was, and why he was forced to live in the basement and not allowed to go out with the family or participate in parties, etc.  His mother and brother were kind to him, but the man he thought was his father barely acknowledged his existence.  He found out when he was older that his mother’s home was raided by Nazis and she was raped.  He was the product of that.  The man who married his mother considered it a great favor to her and her family to pretend to be his father.  I overheard this story actually, so I'm not sure of the details, or how much is true, but it's still very sad.

So this would mean that my brother and sister are the grandchildren, and their children are the great-grand children, of a Nazi rapist.  I’ve sometimes wondered if there could be a genetic abnormality in them, but I don't really think there is.  My brother has always had behavior issues but I think this is most likely due to his father being an absolute a-hole, which could have been a result of his treatment as a child also and not necessarily genetic.  My brother has cleaned up quite a bit now and regrets a lot of what he did in the past and leads a pretty moral life, though he still has his issues.  My sister seems fine, quite normal and successful with a healthy conscience, but I think she was spared a lot of the abuse from her father because my mother divorced him when she was still pretty young.  However, my sister and one of her sons do have an unusually high threshold for pain.  My sister has burnt her fingers without realizing so many times that she has no identifiable fingerprints now.  My nephew has often come in from playing with a bleeding wound that he wasn’t even aware he had.  My niece (my brother’s daughter) worries me sometimes though.
 
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ER
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The sleep of reasoner breeds monsters. (sic)


« Reply #7 on: February 25, 2018, 04:56:25 PM »

That’s creepy that your husband might be (but probably isn’t) the son of Ted Bundy.  Does he look anything like Ted Bundy?

I think the most depressing thing about my life now is that I probably couldn’t fill up as much space writing about any aspect of it  Smile.  Though I’d like to think it’s because of my lack of eloquence in writing and not as much lack of experiences.  Though, I admit, in comparison to yours and many others I have been VERY sheltered, but I’m OK with that. 

The Ted Bundy thing did make me think of something you might find interesting and depressing though.  A story about my mother’s first husband, the father of my brother and sister.  He was born in the 40’s in Germany (maybe late 30’s, I’m not sure of the exact date), and while growing up, he wondered why his younger brother was always treated so much better than he was, and why he was forced to live in the basement and not allowed to go out with the family or participate in parties, etc.  His mother and brother were kind to him, but the man he thought was his father barely acknowledged his existence.  He found out when he was older that his mother’s home was raided by Nazis and she was raped.  He was the product of that.  The man who married his mother considered it a great favor to her and her family to pretend to be his father.  I overheard this story actually, so I'm not sure of the details, or how much is true, but it's still very sad.

So this would mean that my brother and sister are the grandchildren, and their children are the great-grand children, of a Nazi rapist.  I’ve sometimes wondered if there could be a genetic abnormality in them, but I don't really think there is.  My brother has always had behavior issues but I think this is most likely due to his father being an absolute a-hole, which could have been a result of his treatment as a child also and not necessarily genetic.  My brother has cleaned up quite a bit now and regrets a lot of what he did in the past and leads a pretty moral life, though he still has his issues.  My sister seems fine, quite normal and successful with a healthy conscience, but I think she was spared a lot of the abuse from her father because my mother divorced him when she was still pretty young.  However, my sister and one of her sons do have an unusually high threshold for pain.  My sister has burnt her fingers without realizing so many times that she has no identifiable fingerprints now.  My nephew has often come in from playing with a bleeding wound that he wasn’t even aware he had.  My niece (my brother’s daughter) worries me sometimes though.
 


Question: Do you notice them liking Doc Martens more than they should and wishing they made a jackboot?  Wink Sad for the Nazi's original victim but probably nothing to worry about with them, Paq, since I expect we all have rapist's DNA somewhere in the past, and if Nazis bloodlines screwed up later children, there'd be nothing but awful people in Germany today, and most Germans I've met seemed nice enough. Now if your relatives' ancestor is Colonel Klink, well, okay, yeah, shame there. But, yeah, wow, that's a revelation that might have been hard to find out about.

The man I married….

A lot of people, even sometimes jokingly me, call my husband a pretty boy. He's that type, slight meterosexual leanings in his twenties, and maybe that's why he got into a job that at least in part involves rough physical labor, to show he wasn't some wuss.

Nah, though, he doesn't look like Ted Bundy, it wasn't exactly that, frankly he's a lot more attractive and also at six-two taller. Bundy's face was stronger I guess, harder jawline, my husband's is finer in bone structure, though he does have similar dark hair, cut differently, but his eyes are blue and I don't think Bundy's were.

(Although I remember a joke that was popular when I was in sixth grade that went, "What color eyes did Ted Bundy have? Blue, because when they fried him they BLEW out of his head." Sick joke.)

I have no idea why my friend was preoccupied with saying he reminded her of Ted Bundy to the point she did not at first want to be alone around him (she was not a wimp either) if I was not in the room for a moment, but I do know she said he had creepy charm, like a serial killer would, and she saw The Deliberate Stranger one night and called and ranted all bent outa shape that the way my husband had of talking to women in this close/distant way was like Bundy's MO.

I told her half the men I knew were like that, but she had a point, he does have a certain reserved charisma that almost invariably ends up pulling other people, especially women, to him, because it’s intriguing when you are talking to a good-looking man and find out enough about him to interest you, which he'll let happen to a point, but realize he's also making you approach to find out more, which you want to do because suddenly he's fascinating to you.

I know that sure worked on me when I met him in September 2001. There is a certain sense a lot of men have of finding when a woman is vulnerable because of grief or a breakup or like that, like lions finding a wounded zebra or something, and I got hit on a lot in 2000-2001 at a low point in my life, but with him it was like he was doing this anti-hit version of showing interest and it felt different and I kind of woke up inside and went, huh…. He talked to me, then he vanished in the party, then came back and talked again, and the second time I found myself following him across the room to talk more. (The woman he came with tried to murder me with a glance.)

I don't know how much of that was innate or if he developed it as a strategy since he had a lot of women come into his life superficially but sexually, but also like Ted Bundy (this was a big thing according to my friend) my husband had almost no male friends except his cousin (who was later his best man at our wedding). He lived around women. Women were his friends up to a point, his lovers, the ones who did all this stuff for him like his homework in school, his laundry, who would bring him food when they came over, one even used to take his car to the car wash and bring it back for him. They would even---and this is weird, I fully admit---introduce him to their friends, knowing he was probably going to get involved with them as well. WTH, right? It was strangely like they wanted to share him. It was odd, I admit, his segregated life, but I also understood it, women liked him (and still like him) a lot more than men do. He used to go jogging with women in the mornings starting when he was in middle school, some of them were in college and let him run along too when he was in his early teens and tell him how cute he was and laugh about him hanging around. The second woman he had sex with was nineteen and he was….young. Wow. He's one of those truly straight men who is more comfortable among women than men. Shrug. In his own ways he is a weird person. Way weirder than me. Yep, I am the normal one in the marriage, scary thought.

Remember Trip Fontaine in The Virgin Suicides? When I saw that and the scene where the girl brought over Trip's paper written for him, and brought him...what was it, a cake at the same time, and came in to obviously hook up with him I laughed and thought, yeah...that's what my husband was like in high school. Girls did all his work and when he finally got caught doing that he almost failed 11th grade, and thought about quitting school at that point but...seriously, girls called him and said please, stay, don't drop out.

Very strange life.

And he also is really close to his mother (his adopted mother) and has this....friendly but distant relationship with his dad. He told me he realized as a teenager his dad had never once yelled at him or been in any way mean, and never once told him he loved him. Gotta be something Freudian there. As for his own fathering skills, he is a good dad to our son, he really is, but it's like he speaks some secret language with our girls that makes them just adore him. I can't figure it out. They love me but they LOVE him. No secret who they’d throw the last life jacket to if we were on a sinking ship.

He's got that near and far way he is down to a science, though. He's not an extreme extrovert, he doesn't go out there and look for attention to get noticed, but he isn't shy whatsoever, he enjoys social situations and being noticed, so...what am I saying here....?

Well it is like he pulls and pulls back at the same time, and my friend said Bundy and others like him supposedly worked that angle, so she found it disturbing.

He's not a killer, though, and even dreads the annual fishing trip his dad wheedles him into going on, because his dad brings back a bunch of fish and he says he'd rather let them go, he hates seeing them die. He is as far from a serial murderer as day is from night. (But in terms of getting victims he’d BE a darn good one.)

As for why his birth mother refuses to say anything about who his father was, and why she absolutely, noticeably gets agitated when it's brought up, that's a mystery but probably the solution is mundane. The fact she lived in the same town as Ted Bundy and in the ‘70s had straight dark hair parted down the center…well coincidence, I’m sure.
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What does not kill me makes me stranger.
Paquita
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« Reply #8 on: February 25, 2018, 08:33:49 PM »

So, what I am getting is that Ted Bundy had passive magical powers over women that he used for his murderous intentions.  These magic powers passed on to his son, your husband, but the murderer part was just a personality trait that didn't get inherited.  Got it.

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ER
B-Movie Kraken
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The sleep of reasoner breeds monsters. (sic)


« Reply #9 on: February 25, 2018, 08:41:46 PM »

Lol I'm pretty sure my husband's father was probably some married man or teacher or something and it still embarrasses the woman who was once the sad teenager who gave birth to him. My friend just got caught up in dramatic theories like chem-trails cause cancer and moon bases exist and for some freakish reason liked the idea I was dating a serial killer's offspring just because he didn't know who his father was.
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What does not kill me makes me stranger.
ER
B-Movie Kraken
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The sleep of reasoner breeds monsters. (sic)


« Reply #10 on: February 25, 2018, 08:43:24 PM »

But yes you're right that's how it happened passive fertilization.
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316zombie
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« Reply #11 on: March 01, 2018, 12:28:25 AM »

okay ER. you asked for it. THIS is the kind of crap you post that seriously p**ses me off,and always has. you write some seriously heartwrenching stuff that makes MY heart hurt for your heart, and then you laugh,and say it's a parody. and that's just not cool. in fact, what it IS, is CRUEL. and nasty and trollish, and believe me, i'man expert on chatboard trolls. i've been,and continue to be,stalked by some of the worst.
 this is the ONLY place i can come and know they can't find me,and now YOU are doing the generic troll thing. that sucks. ALOT. and it IS what you do.
  ronnie may be a drunk, and p**s people off when he gets crazy, but by gawd, he's SINCERE. at this point, i don't think i'll ever believe you are. and that sucks too.
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ER
B-Movie Kraken
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The sleep of reasoner breeds monsters. (sic)


« Reply #12 on: March 01, 2018, 09:12:26 AM »

okay ER. you asked for it. THIS is the kind of crap you post that seriously p**ses me off,and always has. you write some seriously heartwrenching stuff that makes MY heart hurt for your heart, and then you laugh,and say it's a parody. and that's just not cool. in fact, what it IS, is CRUEL. and nasty and trollish, and believe me, i'man expert on chatboard trolls. i've been,and continue to be,stalked by some of the worst.
 this is the ONLY place i can come and know they can't find me,and now YOU are doing the generic troll thing. that sucks. ALOT. and it IS what you do.
  ronnie may be a drunk, and p**s people off when he gets crazy, but by gawd, he's SINCERE. at this point, i don't think i'll ever believe you are. and that sucks too.
Everything I wrote up there is true. Totally true. I just don't lament it or take it seriously, and there's the "parody."
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What does not kill me makes me stranger.
ER
B-Movie Kraken
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Karma: 1754
Posts: 13425


The sleep of reasoner breeds monsters. (sic)


« Reply #13 on: March 01, 2018, 09:21:48 AM »

Wait...which part are you unhappy with me about? All that I wrote about my life at the start? Yeah, that's true. I may have written about it in a tone that wasn't reverent but it's all true.

The Ted Bundy part? True, too, but absurd. My friend spent longer than was amusing saying the man I eventually married reminded her of Ted Bundy. I don't seriously for one second think he was fathered by Ted Bundy, no, but again what I wrote about his life is all real.

I guess I'm unclear on why you are mad. Are you saying you thought I was later disavowing it all (no, not at all), or are you unhappy with me for making fun of myself? If you can explain,  maybe I did give others the wrong impression too. I kind of...laugh things off and maybe that was what rubbed you the wrong way?

Either way I hope you don't stay mad.
« Last Edit: March 01, 2018, 10:14:42 AM by ER » Logged

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316zombie
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« Reply #14 on: March 02, 2018, 02:00:28 AM »

  it's that when you write stories about your life,you write them seriously, and very well. well enough to make me,and probably others too, REALLY HURT for you, and the sh* t you've been through. and THEN,you seem like you are making it all just a joke.
   no offense to AOT, but his cat story is a good example. allhallows was seriously p**sed, and i understand that,and AOT apologised when he realized that he was taken seriously, because so many of us are animal lovers.
   too often you come off as " i'm just kidding after all, no biggie",but it IS. it makes me unsure what to believe is true about you, and what isn't, and i hate that, because i do like you, whether we disagree or not.
   i guess i just wish you could see my point of view.. you wrench my heart, and then you laugh, and it feels like you are laughing at ME for my empathy.
   and no, i'm not mad, and i wouldn't stay that way anyway. you DID  say something at the start of the thread about us being able to holler at you. so i did.
   i think i just want you to know that i take it seriously when people talk about the hurt, or the good in life. i apologise for jumping down your throat that bad though. i'm not usually like that.
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