Letters from the Inside, Sarah Pender, #9

Kelly,

Just got off the phone with my Dad for Father’s Day. I got real lucky with my parents. I see a lot of people who bitch and complain about their parents or their crappy childhood, and, you know, some did get screwed. Crackhead moms, raped by uncles or stepfathers, beat for no good reason, etc. all of those things do fuck with a person’s self esteem and cognitive ability, not to mention morals and values. But at some point in time during our adult lives, we need to stop being victims. It’s so not powerful, and is like voluntarily locking yourself in your bathroom, eating spiders and mice for dinner and obsessively washing yourself ten times per day. Okay, maybe not, but it still limits a person’s ability to be okay in life, maybe great.

I want the world to get off it, take responsibility for their lives, and move forward. I had a realization that freed me from the victim mentality: Person X who did Y to me, had a whole situational context in their head that led them to think Z behavior was ok, or the best/right thing to do. Maybe it wasn’t acceptable to society, or a social norm, or even a good thing, but it simply was XYZ. And it doesn’t mean anything. It’s insignificant to NOW. The past doesn’t dictate the present. We don’t have to be victims of our past. It’s what it was and now we have now. I got past a lot of bad shit. So can others, including offenders and the victims of crime. But people stay victims as long as they choose. It’s a choice, not an eternal state of being.

Okay, I’m off my soap box. That’s just what was on my mind today.

I haven’t figured out what magazines to send my stuff to. I’m going to need some direction from family/friends. Any suggestions? I also am considering writing a book proposal or getting an agent, as there are 3 people interested in/currently writing a book about/involving me. There’s obviously interest. I’m undecisive right now.

What a shame about Scout. I hate when I find lovers or potential friends who have lots of great qualities and then end up partially retarded/psychotic/obsessive/plain fucking weird. Bummer.

Thanks for the blogs—they make me laugh. And I like to read your writing.

Here’s a thought: When the guy from the association wrote you telling you that you were stupid and worthless, he was really saying, “I need help.” Anything you defend is pointless. When he says you are stupid and worthless he doesn’t want to hear how not stupid and not worthless you are. He just wants you to GET that he needs help and he’s blaming it on you. So, yeah, you think I am stupid and worthless. Gotcha. Anything else? Okay, Now how can I help you? Do XYZ? Well, I did XYZ last month, but you didn’t know that because you didn’t receive the email, but how about we try MNO instead? By the way, I also did ABC, EFG, JKL and RST, and those are being responded to very well. I think MNO will generate the results you want. Okay, yes, you have a good day, too, Tata. Click. (Fucker.)

Just a suggestion. This works well for me when people get pissed at me and have no fucking clue. It’s not personal.

Sometimes I do think the Universe aligns just so in order to make wacky or frustrating days. I had several last week. Since you are in NY—I suspect your wacky days are straight out of a Quentin Tarantino movie or Salvador Dali painting. Real fucking weird.

Never heard of a six-word memoir, but I like it.
LIFE: A white mouse in God’s laboratory
TRAVEL; Soft bed, good food, liquor, sex

I went out in the sun (there’s a tiny caged area we can go for an hour 3X a week to sun) yesterday and baked myself properly. Nice to be pink. Don’t get me wrong, I like being white, just not transparent. Any luck there? You might have to resort to a tanning bed.

I liked the blog by Kean Wheaton on the being polite vs. shaming people into stopping rude actions. All wekk this new girl, who talks to herself throughout the day, and randomly attacks her heater, also has the raunchiest farts. It is already 90 degrees here, and with no A/C, we have fans that blow her stench around. It wafts into my room and up my nostrils. I have vivid image of what those fart molecules are doing in my mouth. Generally, I bury my face in my shirt, as does everyone else, who will talk about her quietly behind her back. Well, I wasn’t convinced it was her until yesterday, everyone else on the hall was out of their cells, away, except her and me. The distinct smell of baby shit creeped into my room. I was so undone I was speechless (plus I didn’t want to open my mouth.) But today, just minutes ago, the familiar smell walked over, sat down, crossed its legs and camped out in my room. I screamed, “Damn it! What the fuck? Who keeps shitting in their fucking pants? Huh? I hope toilet paper gets stuck in your asshole hairs and you get hemorroids!” Next time, I’m going to ask her, “Ebony, why do you insist on torturing us with your ass smells? I request you go sit on the toilet until you shit that smell out.” If addressing her directly doesn’t work, I’m goint to eat a load of beans and fight farts with farts.

It’s war.

Take care!
Sarah--