Cuntface

I went to a dubstep show last night. I’ve been holding in a lot of physical anger and biting back a lot of nasty words. But last night was five hours of pure skull-crushing, filthy, grimey dubstep from some of the biggest names in the business. I may have tweaked my neck and back, sprained a knuckle from punching the wall, gotten blisters all over my feet, moshed, punched strangers and screamed until my throat was a bloody raw mess. I let out all of the pent up rage of the last four weeks and screamed every horrible insult I’ve been bottling up last night. I’m not even really into dubstep, but I call that happy violence. I’ve never felt so enthused about being absolutely livid in my life. It felt f*****g amazing. I even managed to sell a few fake drugs and buy a t-shirt. It was a good night. But I’m still hurt, confused, and angry as hell. I’m not going to get over this anytime soon. I want a clearer resolution. This is bullshit. I still want to yell at her and tell her how I feel. I just don’t know how to go about it. I’ve never been an outwardly spiteful or hurtful person. When I get mad, I keep it in and project it upon both myself and the inanimate. I may detest a person, but I can’t bring myself to try and hurt them or put them down, for the most part at least. That’s just how I work.

Last night was funny. It was a release party for some huge names on a dubstep label, and most of them are from the UK. Because of the fact a lot of them are from the UK, I spent a lot of my night talking to people and screaming to nobody in particular in my best British accent. I said all sorts of tasteful things like “I’m Cuntface, and you can F**K OFF,” and “F*****g f**k me with your f*****g bass you f*****g p***y.” I also spent a lot of time feeling the pure searing rage build up inside me to the point where my eyes rolled back in their sockets and I bared my lower teeth, running my tongue along them as if tasting blood, smiling all the while. I think I scared a lot of people. It was honestly amusing. I’m sure they thought I was twacked out of my mind on all sorts of crazy stimulants and psychoactives. Honestly, beyond the primal anger, I’m just a weird mother f****r I guess. And for once I stopped caring about other people judging me for expressing myself. I don’t do hard drugs any more. I smoked half a blunt at best. I was just mad. Like a volcano finally erupting, all of my frustrations came rushing forth simultaneously and exploded for the world to see. It was liberating.

Another thing I particularly enjoy at shows is mimicking the people smacked out of their minds on ecstasy (there are always a large majority of event-goers who satisfy this stereotype, believe me I’ve been part of the demographic many times). I bend over almost double, wander about, and pull my shirt up to my face and run my hands across my chest over and over, making orgamsing expressions with my face, all the while moaning things like, “oh my god yes, oh god it just feels so f*****g good,” and “I’m rolling like a f*****g marble on a track” (mind you this was all in a hoarse British accent last night, making it wildly funny).

My friend thinks I should read Will Grayson Will Grayson. Her name starts with a C.

Author's Note

I would love feedback on this in general. Writing style, consistency, how linearly (or not) it moves, whether it's even a valid idea.