I don’t even know what rhymes with “ukulele”.

Here we are, once again, in the midst of The Week of Awesome Decisions. Deciding things isn’t really my specialty, this is pretty known in my circle of friends. But once I decided to get married. That was May 22nd. That didn’t work out. Years later, I got proposed to, and I decided to say “yes”. That was on May 24th. The wedding was on May 26th. And look at me now, not married. See? Not my thing. (Also, to be clear, I’m not mad about the no longer married part. I’m just saying I have a shitty track record.)

I originally chose to try to celebrate this week by focusing on the good decisions I make. Or making small ones and taking a moment to bask in that glow (don’t judge me, you people that always know where you want to eat. Some of us need these tiny victories).

A while ago, I decided to actually deal with things, rather than continuing to cram them into a smaller-than-comfy space, and pretend they didn’t exist. While this sounds like a hoot, it means that while I do (and it takes a fucking long time) this shit is right on the surface. So there I am, minding my own business, when someone says something that sounds like “ukulele” and OH MY GOD THAT REMINDS ME OF THAT DOUCHEBAG I MARRIED. HE HAD ONE OF THOSE. I BOUGHT IT FOR HIM. HE WROTE ME A SONG WITH IT AND PLAYED IT WHILE HE PROPOSED. THAT WAS 4 YEARS AGO TODAY. GOD FUCKING DAMMIT WHY AM I ON THE FLOOR IN A BALL NOW? Except I’m really not in a ball on the floor (what a twist!) I’m sitting on the couch next to my adorable boyfriend, who has already suffered through too many “hey I was married to a psychopath once” stories. I want to pretend it doesn’t bother me, but that’s not who I am, and I don’t think that’s who we are, so I’m confused, and I just stare at him. Saying nothing.

It’s too much. I don’t know where to begin. Mostly because I don’t want to begin this fucking story again. It’s over. I want it to be done. But this week, man. This fucking week. How do I look at it and not feel like I’m unlovable? How do I not see that I am the common denominator in all of these failures? How do I not tell this sweet, loving, hilarious man on the couch to run far, far away?

I decide to just breathe. To give myself space to be hurt in. To remember that there was abuse, and that doesn’t just go away magically. That my story is mine, and if others are tired of hearing it, that’s fine, but I’m not going to be shamed into silence with myself, again.

I wanted to make this fun and upbeat. I wanted to stand tall and declare myself victorious over those decisions that previously haunted me. Maybe tomorrow. For now, I’m just going to sit on this couch, now by myself, wrapped in a scarf the adorable man left for me, and watch a sappy movie. And remember that I’m not just lovable, I’m already quite loved.

 

 

Rehashagram

I joined Instagram. I had held off for a long time, because I don’t want pictures of my food to be the sum of who I am. But my bestie recommended it (that’s a nice way of putting being told I had to get it right that second. But she’s my boo. That’s how we roll.) as a way to balance out all the terribleness happening in the world. Follow a bunch of adorable cat pages, and when the world seems hopeless, just hop over and gaze at their ridiculous floof until you can breathe again.

I’m happy to say that it works! I added a few hilarious meme generators to my followed list, and I find it’s a great mood changer! Kittens and sarcasm. Perfect.

I also follow a page dedicated to narcissistic sociopath awareness. I came across something they posted, was comforted by the relate-ability, and decided to add them to my feed. It’s not so much a comforting distraction, but it does help in a weird and uncomfortable way. Sometimes, I scroll past their posts without reading, because I just don’t feel like it, or they don’t particularly apply. But the last few days, every single one has been spot fucking on.

My take away from this is that the Anal-Dwelling Butt Ferret isn’t special. I mean, I knew this, but one of the things he prides himself most on is how unique he is. He’s eclectic and unexpected. Something to be in awe of. Except… nope. He’s just like every other douchecanoe on the the Bullshit River. Like they all graduated from the same course in Asshattery. It’s eerie.

The first one that really got me was this:

flirting

This happened constantly. If I wasn’t hearing stories about women from the past that had hit on him because they just couldn’t help themselves, I was hearing about the women he worked with, or my friends, or coworkers… they all wanted him. At least that’s the way he tells it. If I did think on my own that someone was flirting with him, he’d confirm it. He’d tell me how lewd they were being, how disrespectful to me, how angry I should get. Then, when I did, he’d tell me I was being insecure and dramatic. Also, no one was ever flirting with me. Because they could tell I belonged to him, and I was dressed frumpily.

Then, there was this one:

Hearts

Well really, it makes total sense. If all these dickwads are the same, it would reason that they all go for the same type of person. But again. He’s just so unoriginal!

Today, there was this:

3 years

We split up a month before our 3rd anniversary. And in the comments, there were a good amount of people who spent 3 years with the person of their nightmares. I’m sure there is some sort of formula at work that hasn’t been discovered yet, but it’s just weird.

It helps, though. There is comfort in knowing that I’m not alone, sure. But there’s really quite a bit in knowing he’s not, either. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not supporting a larger assclown population in the world, or in any way saying their abusive ways are helpful. I’m saying that knowing he’s so very unoriginal is… nice. He isn’t clever. He isn’t special. He’s a cookie-cutter, bitch ass little ferret.

As you can see, following this page also means I deal with thinking about him often, as well. But really, I already was. Stuff comes up all the time. It’s much easier to brush off nowadays. It doesn’t knock me down nearly as often. But sometimes it will. And that’s alright. Because there was also this one:

Not a victim

 

 

Also, in case you were wondering, I’ve posted zero pictures of my food. It’s all nerdy t-shirts and fancy socks.

Slutiversary

The Thought Slut was born 2 years ago today. So let’s take a look back, shall we? If this were a sitcom, this would be the Clip Show Episode.

The idea came from venting that being single meant I had no one to share all the useless trivia that was cluttering my brain. Really, even “trivia” seemed too fancy for what was going on. I was finding it hard to focus on work, personal conversations, taking care of my house, because OH MY GOD I HAD THE BEST TURKEY SANDWICH, and there was nobody to tell.

So, I came here. I took 30 whole seconds to pick some colors and a terribly unfocused picture for the header, and that was that. It was one of those things I said I was going to go back and redo later, but as you can see… I didn’t. I’ve changed a lot over the last 2 years, but not that much. Procrastinating is still my main skill. Right before self-depreciation.

But really, a lot has happened in my little Slut Bubble since 2015. (That one just popped into my head. Get it? Popped? Bubble?! I’m ON FIRE!) I’ve grown a lot. Though I still have more to do, I’m proud of how far I’ve come. It would be easier to see if I wrote more regularly, but trust me, it’s leaps and bounds.

Today, I’m still single (though I have made some jumps into not-singlehood here and there) and much more comfortable with it. I’m still figuring out what I want, and how to identify it. I am getting much better at knowing when something isn’t what I want, and walking away (I once dated a guy I couldn’t stand for over a year because he didn’t do anything terribly wrong. I haaaaated him, but he wasn’t abusive or unfaithful, so I stuck it out. FOR OVER A YEAR. Again. Leaps and bounds.) Sometimes, it makes for entertaining stories.

This brings us to the New Story Line segment of our Clip Show Episode, where I get to introduce you to a new character. Let’s call him Douchey McToolface. Because I’m a grownup.

So… Douchey and I met online (don’t roll your eyes at me!) He sent me a message that was a list of reasons he thought we’d get along. I’m a sucker for lists, and it beat the guy whose opener was “Damn sexy! Come sit on my face and I’ll eat my way to your heart? ;)” (alright, you can roll your eyes now.) I responded, it lead to actual conversation, he spelled things correctly and used multi-syllabic words, and I was cautiously hopeful. We arranged a meet up about a week out. He specifically told me this was not a date, this was simply a meeting to see if we had chemistry and should pursue dating from there. Great! I liked this idea, as well as all the talks we had about establishing a good friendship first, and not rushing into things. Cue the happy strut.

Meeting happens, things go well, but ultimately he is not actually down for taking it slow as originally stated, and tries to tell me after 1.5 dates (we hung out twice in the same day. I don’t know what that means, or what is and isn’t a date, apparently, so let’s just go with that.) that I need to “stop holding back” and just give in to whatever urges he has imagined I have. Because he can read me so well. Yeah. I say no. I’m REALLY FUCKING PROUD of myself for this. Baby Slut would’ve assumed he knew more than me, and gone along with it anyway.¬† But not anymore! I firmly told him I was taking things slow… and he told me I was wrong. Yep. Wrong. It completely dumbfounded me. So, I ended things. Amicably. Perhaps too much so, as he text me a day later asking if we could still be friends. Well sure, who doesn’t need more friends?

My new bff then began texting me passive-aggressive complaints about how hard being single was, and how he wished he could just find someone that could “make a decision and stick with it”. (Now I’m rolling my eyes right along with you) Then… he sent me an excerpt from an erotic novel he is writing (which he apparently started after we went out, as he told me then he no longer writes… ) The context was that the protagonist, based on him, was facing the woman that had transformed him from wanting meaningless sex to looking for an actual connection. Booky McToolface says this, “I want to taste every inch of you… and not just your skin. When I say that I want you, it is not some purely physical concept. Your eroticism to me stems from the very core of who you are. While your shell is appealing, it is what lies beneath that has me yearning to taste you.”. My response? “Uh, nobody says ‘eroticism’ to another person in real life.” The part I didn’t text him involved a lot of near-vomiting.

I was hoping my disinterest would be enough to make him wander away, but receiving a text message poem at 5:30am three days later told me I was wrong. And, because you’re already on this ride, here’s that, too:

I don’t know you,
I know your face because I see it when I close my eyes.
I know the small curve of your lips when you smile.
I know the gleam in the corner of your left eye
Only the left one
That pops up when something brings you joy.
See I don’t know you
But I know the value you place in words
The way you long to have someone value you
Someone who sees the pretty face, yes, but sees the beauty BEHIND it too.
I don’t know you,
But I know that there is something missing
A piece of you
A real piece of you not fulfilled.
I don’t know you
But I do know that I want you
I want to be that piece to make you whole
I want to be your beacon as the night encroaches in
I want to hold you safe as the winds bear down
I want to protect you…
See I don’t know you
But I want to.

Pretty much all this did for me is cause me to question what the hell is wrong with my left eye?? I’m hoping it was just that I was constantly giving him the “What the fuck crazy ass shit did you just let loose out of your mouth?!?” look and he mistook that for the face of the newly joyful. I have no fucking idea.

I’d like to say that after this I told His Mighty Doucheness to leave me alone. But nope. Took me another two days, and multiple texts about how dating was the worst. Then, I finally hit my limit. I did not avoid confrontation, was not passive, I was full on aggressive. He, of course, countered that the fault was mine, and I was simply taking it all wrong.

But a little over two years ago, I dealt with another douchebag extraordinaire. One with a lot more experience. I learned a thing or two, including that I am, in fact, whole. I am not missing any pieces, I am not in need of protection, and I can damn sure save my self. So his gaslighting and blame shifting were no match for this slut right here. Our heroine emerged victorious once again.

Who knows where I’ll be in another two years. But whatever my appealing shell and I are doing, I’ll be doing it my way. And maybe if I remember, I’ll even write about it.

 

 

Fishicide

Today is the 2nd anniversary of The Great Fish Murder. Don’t worry if you’re feeling in the dark about it, there’s only a handful of people that aren’t.

So, I was married, but I’d decided to leave. I’d found a new place, packed up all mine and my kiddo’s things, and was going to move out the next morning. My ex also had to move out, because he couldn’t afford the house without me. I was feeling relieved that it was so close to being over (we lived together for a month after we technically split up, and it was pretty fucking weird) to the point of near-giddiness.

The toilet wasn’t working. This wasn’t especially noteworthy, as our house was complete shit, but it was foaming, which was odd. I didn’t think much of it, even when my ex started yelling at his son for causing it. That, too, was pretty normal. Other than that, he was also in a good mood, and we were making small talk about moving the next day while he got ready to take his bath (during The Weird As Fuck Month, he took a bubble bath every single day. Usually while listening to Norah Jones, which was then sorta ruined for me.) I told him I’d noticed our fish were gone, and asked if he had moved them to the new place already. “No, I couldn’t. So they’re dead.” “Oh… could you not have an aquarium at the new place?” “I could, but it was too much work to get them over there.”

There were about nine 4-5 inch long fish in a 60 gallon tank, so the fish would’ve had to been taken out, placed in a temporary home, the tank drained and moved, set up, water cycled through, and then fish moved back in. It is a pain in the ass, but as he was moving a block away, his best friend whom we’d gotten the fish from and who had 4 or 5 extra tanks ready to go at his house lived about a mile away, it was quite doable. I started to say this, and he cut me off, saying, “Nope, couldn’t be done. I tried everything.”

“So you killed the fish?”

“Yep. I cut them up and flushed them. They got stuck, so I poured in some Drano.”

At this point I’m just staring at him, terrified. “So… that’s why the toilet was foaming?”

“Yeah”, he said, laughing, “didn’t work so well.”

“Aannnnd… so your son didn’t break the toilet, it was you? You just let him think he did it?”

“Yep! It’s pretty funny really. They don’t even know what happened!”

There was a look on his face that I can’t really describe, other than as maniacal. He was pleased with himself. Not just because he’d pulled one over on us (if there was a sticker chart for criminal masterminds, I bet he would’ve awarded himself two that day) but simply because he had killed them. Some of them were mine. They had names. I liked them.

When I quietly snuck out as he was sudsing up to “Turn Me On”, I realized that this, in a terrible way, was the closure I needed. For most of our relationship, I’d been manipulated and otherwise mentally fucked with. I had no idea what to believe a lot of the time, because when I expressed concern over something I saw, he’d tell me that I hadn’t seen it. If I tried to stand up for myself, he’d belittle and berate me until I lost my nerve. He’d tell me I was terrible, lazy, fat, and ugly, but that he alone loved me enough to see past all of that. I knew he was crazy, and dangerous. But I wasn’t entirely sure I wasn’t just imagining it.

This confirmed that I wasn’t. This settled the fact that everything I knew about him was real. Fish is the least of what he’s capable of, (which I’d always known, but didn’t want to believe. Even when the bloodstained proof was on my floor) and I lived with a monster. It wasn’t really even that comforting to have my hunch proven to be correct, because it wasn’t good news, and I still had to spend the next 12 hours with him.

Obviously, though, I made it. I learned a thing or two, grew like a motherfucker, and call that shit out when it happens now.(The mental stuff. Nobody else has gone all American Psycho on my pets) From the little I hear, he hasn’t changed. Though I don’t take a lot of joy in it, I’m not surprised at all. (Though I would like him to advance in careers, or at least stop working at restaurants I like, dammit.) He’s a sad, broken little boy, and he probably always will be. Turns out, it’s not my fucking problem. People can’t be “fixed” and I have no desire to try. To keep things fair, I never ask or expect anyone to fix me, either.

 

Later, I found out that prior to this when he’d get angry with me, he’d kill my frogs. I knew the fish didn’t eat them! Little fucking bitch.

Sissaface

Today is Pearl Harbor Day. For most of us, that’s a time to reflect upon the tragedy that threw us into World War II seventy-five years ago, and take a moment to honor those who gave their lives for ours.

For my sister and I, it has an additional meaning. It’s the day we say, “I love you” to each other.

We are a little different, my sister and I. From most of the rest of the world, and from each other. I am definitely the outwardly emotional, sensitive, somewhat flighty one. She is the sensible, no-nonsense, organized one. I’ve been divorced twice, had a kid before either of those marriages, and pepper most sentences with the fuck word. She is still married to the only guy she’s ever dated, they had a baby 11 years in, and I think I’ve heard her say “twat” once. Though I might have imagined that.

Growing up, we hated each other. We shared a room, and since I’m also quite messy and, predictably, she is not, that didn’t go well. I was the annoying little sister who played Barbies and dress-up. She was the know-it-all big sister, who read Anne of Green Gables and organized mini-golf tournaments.

It became a little better once we got our own space to be our own people. Even more so when she left home for college. I thought I would feel free when that happened. And maybe for a while I did. Then… I just missed her.

Somewhere in there, she had become my conscience. My snarky little Jiminy Cricket. I trusted her opinion more than most people’s (whether I actually followed her advice is another story, but I did at least ask for it), and more than that, I just liked hanging out with her.

Holidays were always a big time for my family. We had big dinners, and we visited most everyone we were related to. As kids, my sister, brother and I would spend the drive to these various events singing Christmas carols. Seriously, we were the cheesiest kids ever. But it was fun. So was game night after the dinners, and watching Christmas movies together. Which suddenly was done, with my older siblings away furthering their education. So one year, mid-holiday season, I text both of them to tell them I loved and missed them. My brother, being the giant teddy bear he is, text back that he loved and missed me, too. My sister replied, “What, Pearl Harbor Day got you all choked up?” And that was the beginning of our holiday.

It took a couple years to catch on. At first, I would text her, “It’s Pearl Harbor Day! I love you!” and she would respond with “You’re a freak.”

But I persisted. Because not only do I truly love her just the way she is, I know her. I know there’s not actually a mean bone in her body. I know that though she finds it easier to say things like, “You look like a hooker in that shirt” than “You’re pretty”, she is also one of the sweetest, most genuine people I have ever met. She doesn’t rely on words though, she takes action. She shows up. Always.

We have a lot in common, too. We’re both sarcastic and snarky. We hate Barry Manilow (though we sing along to quite a few of his songs), love Harry Potter, and enjoy rearranging our mom’s Christmas decorations to say sacrilegious things. Though our faces don’t look much alike, we make the same “are you freaking kidding me, moron?” expression that gives us away every time. We both have loud, infectious laughs (though she doesn’t snort or car-alarm…) and amazing smiles. Our kids are the forces that keep us striving to be better, we’re wonderful moms and hilarious aunts.

We were also both abused by someone we should have been able to trust. We dealt with it differently, and we came together to fight it. We learned that we could rely on each other, and when the people that were supposed to protect us didn’t, we stepped up. We became for each other a version of the thing we were robbed of. Sometimes I need someone I feel safe with to tell me what I need to hear, and sometimes she needs someone to tell her they care about her, and are proud of her.

Though it was an accident, born of weird timing and snark, it remains our little holiday on purpose. The two of us have been through a war together, and we came out victorious.

We even celebrate twice a year now. Today, and Flag Day (and yeah, we made tiny flags for each other this year. Because we’re super cool. Don’t be jealous.).

So while you’re thanking a Vet for their service and remembering the lives that were ended in such a devastating way, I invite you to take part in our day, too. Think of someone you have trouble opening up to, who you don’t share with often, who means a lot to you, and tell them. Even if it’s awkward, painful, and ends in, “… so yeah, ya freak, I love you and stuff.” Try it out. It’s worth it.

 

 

To my sissa, my Jiminy, my safe person… I love you more than even my endless, rambling words could ever really say.

I’ll never be perfect, but at least now I’m brave.

It’s finally done. Paperwork has been submitted, signed by a judge, and filed. I carried around a certified copy for two days, just to remind myself it’s over. I’m divorced. For the second time.

There was, of course, one last verbal skirmish with the Butt-Ferret before it was all said and done. I had to file additional paperwork, take some more time off work. But it was beyond worth it. Whatever needed to be done to see that judge’s signature on that page, I was happily volunteering.

During our marriage, especially towards the end, I had no control over my life. What I ate, wore, read, who I talked to, where I went and how I got there, it was all subject to his approval. Or simply handled for me, without my consent. By the end, I was merely showing up to be counted and had no idea what was going on. Most of the time, I was daydreaming about someone noticing my plight and whisking me away to freedom. (At night, I dreamed of watching movies with male friends, and woke up crying because someone being interested in what fucking musical I wanted to see seemed so far from what my reality was.) I had shut down, almost completely. I still put on a good show for friends and family, because if not I’d be accused of being an attention whore, or being insane.

One day, I was taking a shower. I had remembered to lock the door, so I actually got to be alone (My bathing habits were also under constant scrutiny.). I was replaying my favorite scenario where a strong, sweet man rides up on his gleaming steed, steals me right from under Butt-Ferret’s nose, and gallops away. About the third time through, a tiny voice, one I don’t hear often, said as clear as day, “No one is going to save you.” That was it. I lost my shit, and spent the next 10 minutes sobbing on the tub floor.

Then, I got up, dried off, and went about saving myself.

Recently, I ended another relationship. While doing so, I was told that I had now become controlling. It was understandable, given what I’d been through, but in protecting myself against situations like it, I had now become what I fought so hard to get away from.

No.

I control what happens to me. I control what I will accept and what I won’t from a partner. I control what I do, where I go, how I spend my money, who I talk to, what I wear and how I look. I know what my needs are, and I make it clear what I won’t tolerate in my life, or the life of my child. THAT is being independent. That is taking care of my damn self. That is not controlling another person, telling them how to act, think, feel or be. It’s just uncomfortable and unfortunate for others that I know what my needs are and don’t have time to waste on not getting them met. It’s not a character flaw, it’s just part of life.

I no longer need, or even remotely want, to be saved. I got this.

 

Don’t scratch the wall, Sammy.

I had this theory, that if I only had certain feelings on certain days, I could maintain them more successfully. Clearly I was drinking when I came up with this.

Actually, it wasn’t a conscious thought at all. I recently noticed that I do this. I hoard my little feelings until I think The Time is Right, let them out somewhat dramatically, and then skip merrily away, declaring myself cleansed. When my grandparents died, I didn’t cry at all between the initial finding out and the funerals, because it wasn’t time yet. When I think about them now, I only get upset on the anniversary of their deaths. There has to be times and places, or my emotions will just run wild. (Yes, this entire time I’m pretending like they don’t already control most every move I make. I lead a rich fantasy life.)

To help all these feels stay in their place, I build little walls to hide them behind. As long as the walls are not tampered with, everything works as it supposed to. Picture me here dusting off my hands triumphantly.

The biggest of all the walls is The Ex Wall. Reliving my second marriage is not my favorite. Mostly, because it wasn’t all bad. But a great deal of it was, and the betrayal that I feel because of that makes the good parts so much worse. So all of it gets tucked away, and I try to ignore the fact that he’s out there, continuing to exist. Ever so rudely.

Last week, someone scratched at the wall. I had to recount details and justify my choices to a complete stranger, because she was at risk of having that big ol’ wad of crazy aimed at her. One of my fears in doing so came true, and he found out that I had talked about him (and subsequently ruined his chances to bring¬† his special brand of manipulative, narcissistic bullshit into someone else’s life .). He contacted me, and called me a liar. He said he’d never abused me, that I’d made it all up to get attention.

This week, I filed for divorce. The timing was purely coincidental, I was already on my way to doing so when this all happened. Though I should feel free, I don’t. Because it’s not done. He could still do… something. I don’t know what, kill more fish? Fake cry to make me feel guilty? Write more terrible Missed Connections submissions?

So here I was, trying to cram my wall back together while I wait for shizz to be finalized so I can tell someone about it. Weirdly enough, my containment plan turned out to be complete shit. Who knew?

When he text me to tell me I was wrong to call what he did abuse, there was a moment where I second guessed myself. I thought, “Well maybe I am overreacting. Maybe he didn’t really mean it the way I took it.” It’s been over a fucking year, and this shit STILL gets to me. Fuck that. Being told my opinions are shit, that I’m fucking stupid, that my friends don’t really like me, that if I get too confident he’ll knock me down a peg so I stay dependent on him, that’s abuse. Being kept away from those friends and family because he didn’t trust me to leave the house alone, also abuse. Being angrily accused of sleeping with every man I talked to (or looked at for any length of time) and called a liar when I said I wasn’t, hey guess what, more abuse. Being guilted into eating food I didn’t want, then passive-aggressively made fun of for my weight gain, ring-a-ding-ding, we’ve got a winner, and it’s abuse. Being told the he didn’t need to ask for sex, I was his wife, and “when he’s hungry, he eats”, that’s fucking creepy, and yes, another shining example of abuse. Oh, and then later being told that I must be gay or cheating because I wasn’t givin’ it up on the regular, well that’s just plain stupid. Guess what, dillhole, there’s a third option: I DON’T WANT YOUR STANK ASS NEAR ME.

Nope, he never hit me, never put his hands on me in any kind of violent way. But there’s still plenty of scars.

Because of them, this probably won’t be the last day that I rehash this incredible drama of absurdity. I won’t stop warning potential girlfriends when I get the opportunity, and I won’t cower in fear over what his crazy ass could do if he doesn’t like the things I say. I don’t give two shits if anyone believes me, I was there. I know what happened. (He could say the same, I suppose, but I’m also not a self-admitted sociopath. Points to me.)

 

So, Butt-Weasel, just in case you stumble upon this, and it’s still not clear, let me say this in parting: Fuck you, you insecure, controlling, self-serving, uneducated, weirdly racist, misogynistic, lying, conniving, completely fucking worthless piece of shit. You don’t deserve to live in the same hemisphere I do. Not because I’m so amazing, but because you’re so useless. Do what you want. Stalk me, fuck with my car, burn my shit down, attack me. It won’t change that at the end of the day, you’re still you.