Letter of Fury to a Nice Male Friend, or Eff You CK

Dear nice male friend,
I am indeed living, though something seems to be the matter with my heart.  Oh yes, it’s been thoroughly mangled and wrung out by mankind, and by that I do mean mankind.  Jesus fuck, I am completely exhausted from the barrage of bad news resulting in re-living harassment nightmares from throughout my life and of the lives of all my friends and every other woman I know and the constant seething hot, encompassing burnt-butter-in-a-pan nuclear anger that I have been swimming in
a) since I was 5 and I discovered sexism
b) for the past few weeks of #metoo
c) since I discovered Louis CK was a festering cock blister
Paula Howley

the current state of my soul

A catholic priest contacted me out of the blue on Facebook this weekend- this ‘trying to look hip’ priest who has Led Zeppelin lyrics  as his background pic.  I’ve never spoken to him in my life.

So he messages me and says
‘Hey Paula, Todd’
and I reply with
???????????
him: why so inquisitive?
me: Why contact me?
Him: you were online and I’m spontaneous
Him: why did we become friends on Facebook?
me: don’t know
him: OK never mind
Me: We can unfriend
him: Cool.
him: Can you do it I really can’t be bothered
him: licking lips emoji
me : go fuck yourself
The only thing I hate more than Louis CK and the brand ‘men’ right now is the catholic fucking church.  I don’t think my mind has ever spun this fast in my life, seriously.  I feel like living fire, ready to burn all the shit down to the ground and consume everything in my path.  But I cannot TELL you how good it felt to tell a catholic priest to go fuck himself.
jesus f 2
 My friend, did I ever mention to you that doing stand up is a thing I always wanted and plan to do?  I mean I’ve had this dream for a long time, blogged about it, taken workshops, I’ve even got  5 minutes of material ready to go right now.  It got derailed a few times but I’m not going to my grave with any regrets.  My will be done.  I love comedy and cling to it, maybe wrongly so, as the place where truth can still happen.
One of the greatest works of art I ever saw in my life was comedian Kerry Talmage on stage in May of 1998 in London Ontario transforming the audience to another state of being.  Eviscerating and elevating simultaneously.  Destroying stereotypes, challenging the audience to truth.  Maybe he was one of the rare ones because he was always dying but I saw that show and it was like a beacon of brilliance wrapped in hilarious  that has served as my measuring stick ever since.  But right now I hate the current world of comedy because of its dangerous insularity and all the people I used to admire being total flakes and abusers and douchebags disguising as feminists.   So disgusted.  Aziz Ansari’s total silence.  Same agent as CK.  Same as Amy Poehler.  She sang his praises in her book.  Don’t tell me she never heard anything.  The way people have had to hold back their truth to protect themselves.  Stolen dreams.  Entitlement.  I just feel like vomiting right now, I’m swallowing so much fucking fury.
Soooooo

I went to a new-ish friend’s house yesterday for a little wine and cheese thing, just a bunch of women hanging around.  I’d been there for a while before I noticed right beside the raised dining room table at which we all sat, a stripper pole!

“Christine, is that what I think it is?”  my eyes are wide open, I’m slowly standing up, magnetically drawn to it – I haven’t seen one live in almost 15 years.
It’s right next to a couple of tall chairs with women already sitting in both of them but I start to play with it a little nonetheless.  I can’t help myself.
I start to walk around it slowly, taking in the familiarity, it’s an old friend, we still remember each other.
I do a little spin, grab it, hear the sound my rings make when my hand comes in contact with it. cling! cling!  I smile.  I’d forgotten that.  I always loved the sound my rings made when I grabbed the pole with sureness.
I do a few more spins.  They’re not as hard as I thought they’d be.  I can still bear my weight.
The women stop to watch me.  I play a little more, give a little show.  They’re having fun watching, delighted at how good I seem to be.
I go back to the table 2 or 3 times but I keep returning to that pole and it’s obvious what I want to do and Christine says ‘Paula, do you want to move the table?”
I gasp.  “Can we?  Please?!”
She laughs, nods, starts moving it.
“Oh my god!” I’m buzzing.  I help her push the table and chairs and clear the hardwood floor.  The ceiling is tall, I have lots of room.
I gasp again, remembering something,  jumping up and down like a kid, “Oh my god, I even have some amazing music with me!”
I have sooooo many great and worthy songs but I know which one I want to do.  My best friend in New York who idolizes Depeche Mode will appreciate this.  I’m going to film this and send it to her and she is going to DIE.  She and I used to work together- were besties for years.  She’s the second best dancer I knew.  I’m the best.
So the ladies back off and sit on the stairs and the chairs and watch as  I turn on “I Feel You” and the muscle memory slowly leaks back into my body.  I am remembering things I had forgotten.  My body is doing things it forgot it could do.  Automatically.  It’s shocking to me.  It’s exhilarating.
It was magnificent.  It was the most fun 3 minutes of the past decade.  I wish I had an hour on it.  I wish I had an hour every day on it.

It’s all I’ve been able to think about besides Louis fucking CK and the brand ‘men’  and the catholic fucking church and all the festering cock blisters in my life.

Sorry if I got any fire on you there, I’m spittin’ a lot of it these days.

Enjoy the show, I did.

BTW folks, I know I promised a @metoo The Stripper Edition but it’s been way harder to write than I expected. I’ll get there.

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