I went to Barnes and bought some Moleskine journals, blank pages and tan covers. I can draw/write in them and on them. They are thin and fabulous. Anyway…I saw a poetry book by r.h.Sin. I’ve seen a couple quotes on Pinterest by this guy, so I though I’d check him out. The title is: whiskey words & a shovel.
I went to MOD Pizza, to design my own fantastic pizza…OMG, so delicious. I sat next to a three -year old, who refused to give his mother a single slice of his pizza, so she got up and ordered her own. It was packed, so I was at the communal bar. He was a cute kid and he guarded his pizza with his life. He wasn’t mean, just determined. I liked him. He seemed nice. His mom was nice too. After she ordered her own pizza she asked him if she could have a slice of his and replace it with one of her’s when it was ready. She was hungry. He put his small hand over his treasure and shook his head. One of the other kids in their party asked her what kind she was getting and when she said cheese, he said that he would swap with her. Kids are definitely in charge now-a-days.
Anyway, I brought the book inside with me. After the very first poem I was gagging. The gist of the poem is: girls who are “neglected” by their dads are like plants forced to grow without sunshine? Gag again. Apparently r.h. feels that men are so important, that without them we females wither and die, even as children. “Get over yourself r.h.,” is what I would have said to him, if he was anywhere in the room. Then, I would have thrown a piece of pineapple at him, just to make my point.
First of all, who defines “neglect?” Second, girls grow up just fine without male attention. All his miserable verbiage does is give people more stuff to feel bad about. Who CARES? I actually, remember a girl in high school who had a father who drove her everywhere and picked her up. He came to all the school events (so did her mom). They did lots of things for their daughter and the rest of us backed away from them when they were around. They were nice and smiled a lot. LOL We were like, “What’s with them?” Creepy, but whatever. Those of us who had regular fathers, the kind who worked, came home, ate, and fell asleep, didn’t die from lack of sunlight. We weren’t even SICKLY. We got away with murder and didn’t like it when they were awake. Years ago my friend called to tell me there was going to be a father/daughter dance at her daughter’s school. She said, “How creepy is THAT? Do you think I should let her go? It makes me kind of sick.” I agreed. Way creepy.
r.h. is creepy to say such horrible things about girls. GIRLS ARE NOT HARMED BECAUSE THEIR FATHERS DON’T PAY ATTENTION TO THEM. We don’t die, or wilt, or wither from lack of fatherly attention (my words)/lack of sunlight. And how would he know what girls need? He’s a boy! I’m so sick of male media telling women what they are, who they are, what they need, how they FEEL, and all the rest, as if they have a CLUE.
In my world, no one had time for their fathers. We were busy and women were in charge. I didn’t even like my father and would have been horrified if he wanted to do anything with me. I would have said, “NO!” The fathers’ of my friends rarely even said hello to anyone and that was fine with us. That was normal…none of us were sad and whiney, looking for sunshine, because we were HAVING TOO MUCH FUN AND WE WERE BUSY LIVING OUR LIVES. When I was a girl, I don’t think I ever heard a single one of my friends EVER mention their fathers. EVER.
r.h. also writes about losing one’s virginity and the lies told by boys and blah, blah, blah. The boys leave and the girls are left…blah, blah, blah, all because of their fathers. Get a grip. Most of us lost our virginity early and ended up marrying the guys later, so not relevant to my crowd, or to the girls I grew up with. The girls who hooked up with someone else had fun with whoever that guy was. Sure, there were broken hearts but sometimes those hearts belonged to the BOYS!
Too many men don’t know how to write about women and they really should quite trying. It makes them look silly. They don’t have a clue and what they end up writing is simply male fantasy.
We know who and what we are. We know what we need and what we want and we know how to get it. We know what we feel. We aren’t sad, or in need of male anything, and it’s ego that makes a lot of men think they know what’s going on with females. So, the pages of r.h.’s book will make good bedding for the chipmunks in my yard. The paper is rather pulpy and soft. Maybe the furry ones won’t move into my air-conditioner if they have nice paper on which to rest their lovely heads. I just hope the female chip’s can’t read. Lack of sunslight, my ass.