So Much For Diplomatic Immunity!_%$@_817575

"It seems to me madness to wake up in the morning and do something other than paint, considering that one may not wake up the following morning." --Frank Auerbach


This Morning's Commute...That's Right, Dear, That's A Ka-Boom! on the passenger side of my vehicle...

There was very little traffic and the road was clear of any debris and I didn't see anyone standing around or notice anybody milling about, and no vehicles were immediately flanking me nor did I see anything flying around in my peripheral field of vision, sooo I was surprised to hear what sounded like a loud thunder clap and feel something impacted my vehicle, the impact coming from the passenger side. Since whatever it was didn't interfere with the vehicle's operation, I continued my commute to work and thought to check what it was once I arrived there, thinking it may have been somthing kicked up from the street after all and the worse case scenario is I would need to repair any dents and scratches.

At the first opportunity to inspect for damage I could see a white blast of something centered on the passenger door and feathering out all along the side, there was also some of it on the door handle. Disappointing, considering the car had just been detailed over the weekend and the paint had looked to be nearly as good as new. Taking my fingernail to check for the depth of what looked to be white scratches left in the silver paint I was again surprised to find that the residue fell away like ashes and relieved to see there was no damage whatsoever to the door underneath.
I would have not thought any more of it, other than some prankster standing around paintballing morning communters, but that it was not paint and for the fact that for some inexplicable reason I was in pain over the long weekend, like my legs were blown out from under me. A good reason to stay in and not talk to anybody, a sign that My Secret Admirer took to mean 'your silence means consent,' when they surfed into this site on November 25, 2011 with that search phrase. (With that they landed on a post that had the words 'consent' and 'your' and 'silence', none of which appeared together and the search phrase itself is not on the page 'If The Trees Were Pens...' --how funny, when I don't recall anyone having put any proposals to me for consent, refusal, or further comment.)

My Reaction to This Morning's Commute

Street Art by Uncertain Artist

The street artist eloquently captured my reaction to this entire affair (one where You stand by and watch me get f##ed without having the dubious pleasure of first getting laid); it's a little strange in a non Ha-Ha way how the image even bears my resemblance.

You wanna Know Why I don't talk to You?

It's not because I Think Who I AM, it's because I Know Who You ARE!

(and knowing where You All landed this is a pretty shoddy way to treat Your hostess, I must say)

Besides, isn't this some kind of 'Taming of the Shrew' excercise for You, or simply enjoying the Thrill of the chase?

As in 'don't speak unless first spoken to', 'obey the rules' (that are not for anybody else, just me)?

Not that I ever was so shrewish or in need of taming--I mean, here I go looking like I need a game keeper while weilding my crotchet needle in one hand and a thesaurus in the other! (btw, while everyone has a right to dress down casual in LA, can't you be a little more fashion forward about it?)

They are wondering why I don't go around planting a kiss on Jesus?

It's because we will each resort to this before we even consider incest!

You think I can't remember who I am?

I've had enuf time to think about it and enough kitchen jokes from my Great Aunt--we all call Her 'Auntie Christ' around here, before I give any of them the satisfaction of admitting they actually did this to me or that they can continue with their fu#$#T^Jed up campaign to China!

I pulled the telling symptoms from an earlier post, for propriety's sake and because someOne said to delete it. {That's why we are called 'isma3ilye', it's because when we hear voices, we know we are not crazy, and we listen  ಥ_ಥ}

But here I will say this much and You can Go Figure:

In Humans, the mucous/spongy tissue in the male's genetalia is predominately the urethra and in a generously endowed man the interior surface area approximated by a tube 7mm diameter and 25cm in length, or approx. 55 cm^2.

And let's assume the nerves are just as densely packed along the homologous tissue of the female genitalia which includes the vagina (but also the labia, urethra, clitoris, uterus and other structures that we will ignore to simplify the excercise); in a 30ish-year old woman who stands about 5'4" and weighs around 140 lbs and had delivered 2 children, the conservative estimate for the surface area is approximated by a tube with an average diameter of 4cm (average top to bottom vaginal canal only) and 16cm length (in fact there is no standard shape/size to the vaginal canal the diam range 2.5-8 cm and 15-20 cm long), roughly a surface area of about 180 cm^2.

That translate to at least 133% more pain for her than it ever could be for him (remember we sized him generously and ignored some of her other parts to make the idea--how shall we say--palatable).

And that's what a chemical burn along such tissue translates into and that's why We Don't Give A Fuck!

Especially when those in charge sat around talking about her 'malingering this' and 'hypochondriac that' while making sure everyone else got out safe and suppressed any hint of it in her creatively vetted medical record while pretending NOBODY was returning to that indoor toxic air cocktail where NOTHING is wrong. (Oh, gee, a false negative!). Worse, nearly 20 years have gone by and they have all gone on with their little lives, while she still walks around 'thinking about' this non-issue, because the residual pain refuses to believe it is no longer there having not been there in the first place (just like the stupid magic bruises that come and go).

{Gordon, if I find out that it's really you all these months sitting around without introducing yourself, yet announcing my presence, like anyone around here knows me, over the phone to someOne I don't know from Adam, I  can't tell you how disappointed I would be to find that out--Have Yourself a Happy Holiday, anyway.

This cautionary tale is not only directed at Gordon, but the kids as well; especially when they suspect they have caught sight of me and whisper things to each other like, 'I think that's Her.' or 'Is that Her?' or worse, 'Amazing, The Machine gets it right each time?' (yup, not just 'The Wife', but further dehumanization, as 'The Machine,' really, at least a machine does not expect to have a name, except maybe, 'La Machine!'

Or worse, when there is a silent consent by way of a nod or averted eyes--think! If someOne has to ask to be certain my identity, then maybe there is good reason for them not to know.}