Reasons You Shouldn’t Fuck Kids


Reason #138: Another fucking therapist
December 16, 2009, 2:29 am
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Tomorrow the huz and I are trying out yet another fucking therapist. The use of the word ‘fucking’ in there is actually a double entendre, because literally we are seeing her to help us learn to fuck each other, and also I am using it as a curse word because it’s our third fucking one.

We saw our first one when we first got married and realized we weren’t fucking each other. We knew it was weird because we were still newlyweds in our first year of marriage or so, (and aren’t newlyweds supposed to be fucking each other senseless?). She was a complete quack, and by the third session she had disclosed to me that she came from a family of gypsies, she told me the price she had paid for her home, the fact that her daughter was an aspiring singer, and that her boyfriend helped her fix up her home. That’s way too much self-disclosure for my comfort level. I like to go ahead and have the therapy sessions focus on my shit, not the therapist’s.

Our second therapist came less than a year ago, and I wrote about our experience with her in Reason #50. She was really terrible with the sex abuse stuff, and the worst thing about her was that she thought she was good at it.

Now we have to go to yet another one, because our problems are bigger than us.

I was asking my husband why his family doesn’t believe in therapy at all. My husband comes from an Irish Catholic background, and as you know, I am Jewish. My family believes pretty strongly in the value of therapy, and his family pretty strongly believes that if you need therapy, you must be fucking nuts. Anyway, when I asked him why his family didn’t believe in therapy, he told me that his mom once said “There’s nothing about my children that I can’t fix myself”. I said “That’s all fine and dandy until someone comes along and fucks your kids. No one can fix that themselves, and certainly not your mom, because she’d have no idea where to even begin.” This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

Man, I hope this one works.



Reason #56: My Fat Ass

I suppose I cannot blame my whole fat ass on the sex abuse. I mean, I am Jewish and come from a family of Jews. We Jews are not exactly known for our restraint with the food. Plus, my whole family is a bunch of fat asses too.

BUT. When my brother started molesting me, I did start eating in a conscious effort to change my body. I thought that perhaps if I ate enough and got fat enough, he wouldn’t want me anymore. When my dad started molesting me, I ate for the same reasons. Only his shit made me so sick, I would throw it all up. I couldn’t take it. I would literally have bulimic attacks anytime I thought about it. For years, I binged and threw up on his birthday.

This Monday, I had six weeks of solid dieting under my belt. I hit 10 lbs of weight loss. I got excited. I went shopping for a new shirt. I calculated how long it would take for the next five to come off. I thought about how great I would look. How I would fit into my skinny jeans again. How men would find me attractive. How being thin opens me up to the possibility of rape.

Just so we’re clear – I understand that women (and men) of all shapes and sizes get raped. I get that. In my mind though, if I am thin, it is easier to overtake me, to overpower me. The size of my ass is directly related to my own comfort level, both up and down the scale. It’s not rational, but frankly, fucking kids isn’t rational either.

I told myself that I was getting healthier, not thinner. Rape doesn’t have to happen just because I get thinner. I will never be a child again, and no one can ever do that to me again the way it happened to me those times with my brother, and my father, and that babysitter. I am an adult now. Getting thin is just about getting thin, and that’s that. And then I binged my brains out and threw it all up while crying.

This seems to happen to me every time I hit some sort of milestone on the scale, like 10 lbs or 20 or 25, etc. The whole process of weight loss is just so fucking frightening. As more weight comes off, more of my real body shows. I am so used to being hidden under layers of fat, and as the real me emerges from underneath – well, it’s terrifying, frankly. Last time my real body was shown, a babysitter took interest in it, a brother used it against my will, and a father stared at its growing parts. This is probably why I hide my body in layers of fat, and this is also why you shouldn’t fuck kids.



Reason 51: Underwear Mishegaas

For those of you non-Jews out there, mishegaas is a yiddish word that means ‘craziness’, and that is what I am experiencing. Underwear craziness. Seriously.

The only two colors left in my drawer this morning when I went to pick my underwear were blue and black.  Now, I didn’t want to pick blue because it could mean bad things and I didn’t want to pick black because it could mean bad things.  I wear black on the outside all the time, but this black would be close to my vagina and I don’t want black or blue close to my vagina. But I only had the two pairs.  What to do, what to do.  The thing is, I wore the red ones on the day I needed extra luck because red wards off evil (Jewish superstition), and I wore purple on the day I was looking towards healing, and I wore the pink ones figuring it’s in the same family as red so it’s okay too.

But today, you see, I was left with just the blue and the black pair.  Now, blue I figure would mean ill health.  No reasonable reason why that would be, but then none of this shit is reasonable.  Fucking kids isn’t reasonable either yet people do it.  I wore the black pair today figuring I always wear black on the outside, maybe it would fool whatever powers that be into thinking that it is really just part of my outside outfit.

Here’s the best part.  I asked G-d to bless the underwear before I put them on.  If G-d blesses the black underwear, then it is okay to wear them.  G-d can certainly wash away any color weirdness that might accidentally result in my unintentionally wearing a color that attracts evil.

Seriously, this is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.  I mean, come on, underwear color mishegaas.  I literally pray for my fucking underwear.  That’s fucked up right there.  I am reasonably certain that had that babysitter not entered our lives and shown me that bad things can happen to good people, I would not continually be trying to ward off surprise badness that might come via my color choices for underwear.



Reason #13: OCD revisited: It’s A Numbers Thing
October 3, 2008, 12:46 pm
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This post was originally going to be about panic, but because it is #13, I got all OCD about it, and now it is going to be about having a numbers thing.

I have always considered 13 a lucky number.  Many people consider it a bad number, but I don’t.  My beloved grandfather was born on the 13th.  Friday the 13th no less.

But the number got me thinking.  I have a numbers thing, and I know it is an Obsessive Compulsive Disorder thing. My mom once attended a conference about survivors of child sexual abuse, and while she was there she found out that a lot of survivors tend to have obsessive compulsive behaviors. She came home and said “You don’t have that, right sweetie?” And I said, “No. Not really. Well, I do kiss my Jewish star 18 times, but that’s not really my fault. I started kissing it only once, when I was scared about things, but then I thought that it deserved more kisses. So I started kissing it more, but I never liked the number it ended on. Then I would keep kissing until I got to 18, and that way it’s okay. And plus I lock my door 3 times, and check it 3 times, but then I don’t like the number that comes out to, so I do it a few more times, in case G-d is counting it from the times I lock it or the times I check it or both, so that no math that comes from it adds up to six.” By this point, Mom was staring at me, with her jaw agape. She said, “Oh sweetie” in such a way that I knew that she was thinking I did have this OCD thing. I had never thought that I did until then, and I realized “Fuck, I do have that.”

I once heard that Roseanne (an incest survivor herself) has a numbers thing too. She has to shut her stove off five times. She will shut it off once, and then again a second time. Then she says “Well, the kids are in the house, might as well check.” So then she shuts it off again, and then a fourth time. At this point, it is killing her not to do it a fifth time, so she is like “fuck it” and shuts the fucking oven off a fifth time. When I heard her talk about this (in a comedy special), my first thought was “Thank goodness I am not alone.” My second thought was “I would never pick the number five”, and then I thought about how interesting it is that we all have different fucking numbers.

You’d think that shit would have gotten better for me over time, but instead it just gets worse as I find new things to be obsessive and compulsive about. Like the shit with my right arm and right foot and what not. I learned once that unless you agressively attack the thought processes (like with a trained mental health professional) that are causing the OCD behaviors, it will only get worse. And that is exactly what is happening to me. Why would it get better on its own? I mean, nothing is happening to make it better on its own. You’d think that one false action would disprove shit (i.e., counting something to the wrong number of times, and things not turning to shit afterwards). But instead of disproving shit, I chalk it up to that time being missed by the universe or whatever, and they are really waiting to get me on the next one.

This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids. We get afraid of angering the whole fucking universe by counting the wrong number of times. I mean, come on, that’s fucked up.




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