Reasons behind a twisted mind.

I’ve decided to have a long, hard and incredibly deep (ooh cheeky) look at myself with the ultimate aim to work out why others might perceive me as amazing weird. And thinking about it, I really don’t know how I haven’t had to have therapy yet.

Oh wait…

For starters, I blame my mum for my sick sense of humour and lack of compassion. As you might have read from my previous posts, I am a constant source of amusement for her as she relishes in my- all to frequent- pain. She abuses me. Not the regular sort of beating me up abuse (although she is quite violent and has a nasty pinch on her) but the sort of playground bully abuse. The sort of, kick you when your down abuse. One of my first memories was of when I was three. I had this standard, red, plastic chair. One day, I decided I would quite like to see if I could fit my whole body underneath the arm of the chair. Well, to cut a short story even shorter… I couldn’t. I got my head and one arm stuck. I cried out for my mum,

“HELP, HELP, I’M STUCK IN THE CHAIR!”

My mum came rushing towards me, I was her first born child, stuck, oh God, what if I was stuck forever? She was hurrying over, quickly, quickly and… ooop… she went straight past me… straight to the telephone… where she called her mum to laugh. LAUGH!?!? I was stuck in a chair as a toddler and rather than help me get free, she laughed. It was only until my Nan reminded her that I was still stuck that she bothered to phone my dad to get him to come home from work and saw me out.

And I blame her for passing this trait onto me. I realised what she had done when I was at this rugby match. There was this old man sat on his fold-out chair close to the sideline. In hindsight a little too close really as one of the big rugby lads missed a tackle and ended up tackling the old man off of his chair instead. I thought I was going to die with laughter. I am ashamed. And I blame my mother.

I’ve also come to the conclusion that my complete crapness with men is because I’m scarred for life after a serious of weird and terrifying experiences with creeps. There was this one particular man who genuinely used to scare the shit out of me. He was this little, beardy Asian man in a hat who used to always pop up wherever I would be. He’d shout at me, blow kisses at me, wink at me, pretend to hide from me then continue following me down the street. And then one time… one horrific time… he snuck up behind me- my so called “friends” being the bastards that they are, decided not to tell me- and put his head on my shoulder (!) and, whilst sniffing my hair groaned…

“HHHHHHHHMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM”

Oh my dear Baby Jesus.

Needless to say, I ran. As fast and as far away as I could in HMV. With my “friends” crying with laughter behind me.

So I’m blaming this inability to trust, this paranoia, this analysing and reading too much into every situation involving a male on these freaks that used to follow me around. Either that, or it’s just because I’m a woman.

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