I don’t care who you are, so long as you possess the cuntmentality. I want you naked. I want you clothed. I want your stories. I want your differences. I want you just the way you are and I want you on this blog.
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This blog is owned and operated by a bad ass genderqueer who uses they/them pronouns or any gender-neutral pronoun.
What's the Cuntmentality anyway?
A few things first. You don’t have to own a cunt to have the Cuntmentality or even want one. Cunts exist all across the gender spectrum, and affect a wide variety of people. Though just a disclaimer, cis men should tread carefully here, I don't have time to hold your hand and break that down for you.
The Cuntmentality is raw power, derived from a sea of unlimited thoughts, experiences, opinions, fears, dreams, goals, and so forth. It is a call to remove genitals from gender, for cunts are not wed to only one dot in the entire Universe of Gender. It is an idea, an undying answer to those who are need of a safe space, of acceptance and acknowledgement of your pain or shared with others like you. It is the force that bashes back, that doesn't give in, that raises a fist against every oppressive force trying to drive you back into the cultural rot so you can degrade in ignorance and in false messages that claim you're unworthy or that who you are isn't good enough. This is you, this is me, this is every follower that I have in a collective of uncensored beauty that doesn't follow the direction label of the magazine rack. This is the be who the fuck you want to be so long as you're not hurting anyone else mentality. This is the stand up for the people around you mentality. The fuck you I'm queer mentality. The I don't always love myself but today I might mentality. The I'm fucking fabulous mentality. This is the change in perception, the challenge of social norms that dictate how you think, and breathe, the acknowledgment of institutional oppression and every voice that has had the courage to speak up about it, mentality.
The world is unbalanced my friends. We have been lied to on countless occasions. Just know that here, you are never alone and that if you ever need it, I'm never too far. My ask is always open and you're more than welcome to add me on my messenger accounts.
Trigger Warning: Sexual Assault
A story of a survivor
Anything before age 9. Anything before my parents divorced, anything before the molestation, anything before the abuse. I was genuinely happy, although it was, “Oh hey, I’m racing the neighbors on our bikes” sort of happy, I was still happy. I didn’t have to push, I didn’t have to pretend, I didn’t have to fake, I didn’t have to hide. None of that was needed to keep my mom happy.
Last night I talked to my dad about my molestation for the first time it happened. Sitting with my dad, and hearing him talk about how if he could take the pain from me, he would; how he’s never wanted to kill a man more than this mysterious man before. Seriously broke me to tears. I’ve never seen such emotion from my father, and knowing the past relationship we’ve had, it meant a fucking lot to me.
I brought it up to my mom tonight. She told me how she slept on the couch with her gun in her lap waiting for the man to come back. She told me how my grandpa, who usually shows no emotion, has never wanted a man dead before. I know I should be grateful that my family cared so much and was there for me, some rape/molestation victims don’t receive that.
The only thing I want is closure. I’ve talked to a lot of victims and have told me they wish they didn’t know who their attacker was, but I wish the opposite. I couldn’t take this scum bag to trial, I couldn’t see him sit in jail, I couldn’t see him taken away in a cop car, I couldn’t have the closure of knowing he was locked up and no longer doing sick, disgusting things to little girls. LITTLE GIRLS, I was 11 when this happened, a 5th grader. I had no grasp as to what was going on, I don’t know where this man is. All I know is that I never wanted to fall asleep ever again. I didn’t feel safe in my own house, my own bed, not even my dad’s house. What if he did come back, what if he knew where my dad lived? I kind of wish this man would find me and just apologize and wholeheartedly mean it. I mean, I know that’s fucking out of this planet and it’d never happen. I just want him to know how badly he messed my life up, how my depression is cause from that trauma.
I just want closure. I just want to know who it was, how old he was, what his name was, if he had children, a wife, a mother, a father in his life to teach him from right or wrong. I want to know why me, why my bed, why did it happen at all? Why was I your first time since the police department didn’t have your finger prints on file? Why you weren’t caught, where did you go after jumping out of my window, and why the police stopped looking for you just a month after it happened? Why did the police let me down so badly?
I never want to hear someone say they hate the police because they caught you smoking pot. It’s illegal anyways, shut the fuck up. If you have a legitimate reason as to why you hate them, then so be it. The cops were my fucking knight in shining armor at one time, only to be let down time and time again.