An abuser is neither a monster nor a victim
An abuser is a human being, not an evil monster, but he has a profoundly complex and destructive problem that should not be underestimated.
An abuser’s behavior is primarily conscious, he acts deliberately rather than by accident or by losing control of himself- but that underlying thinking that drives his behavior is largely not conscious.
my favorite thing in the universe is watching college students trying to get a broken vending machine to give them their snack
one dude was caressing it and saying “shhh baby just give it to me, i swear i’l call in the morning” and some other girl just kept screaming “GIVE ME MY FOOD U LIL FUCKER GOD DAMMIT UGH”
moral of the story: dont fuck w/ college students and their food
I miss Tumblr. Mouse in box.
So I’m coming back.
Hopefully the Tumblr world is ready for the interesting updated life of casey. I need to tell somebody this story.
On Tuesday, I was walking to my office through a DC alley in Northwest, the historic district. It was bright and sunny and beautiful, and then I walked by a tiny little mouse who was just laying in the brick alley. He was alive but couldn’t move. So I started telling him to get up and run away and he still wouldn’t move. About five minutes later, I realized I was talking to and cheering for an injured mouse in an alley.
Since my hands were full and I had absolutely no idea what I would do with an injured mouse, I walked to my office and put my stuff down. I sat down at my desk, like usual. My boss looked at me and asked what was wrong, because I looked bothered. I told him, and my co-workers about the little guy in the alley and they all literally looked at me like I was nuts when I told them I felt bad for him and wanted to go help him. All except Dan the Man, who looked at me and said, “Case, you know what the right thing to do is”.
So, I went back to the alley. The little guy had curled up in a ball, still breathing hard, and I could see that he was bleeding. I walked through the house undergoing construction nearby, found a damp cardboard box, and dumped out its contents. I scooped up the mouse, who I called Gerald, and realized that he was suffering and would likely not survive. I wanted to give him a proper burial, but to do so, he needed to be put out of his misery.
There is no way in hell that I could do the deed and kill the little guy. I stood in that brick alley by myself with an injured mouse in a wet cardboard box for a good ten minutes. I realize how crazy this sounds. But seriously, what else could I do? Leave him there?
It took me awhile to admit that Gerald was going to die either way, and judging by his breathing and the blood from his neck, he was in pain. He just chilled in that box and didn’t try to get away. I started walking back up to my office and passed some construction workers, deciding that I could ask them to put Gerald out of his misery.
When I approached them, mouse in box, these two guys literally looked at me in disbelief. I told them he was suffering and he needed to be killed so he would suffer anymore. The men laughed at me. Little blonde girl in Northwest DC with an injured mouse in a box at 9 am; too naive and innocent to kill this disgusting pest.
They killed Gerald. They took his wet cardboard box out of my hands and a man stepped on it, and then threw it in a dumpster. I realized that he wouldn’t get a grave because I didn’t kill him myself.
I thanked the men and went back to the office. I told Dan what happened. He was proud of me, although it didn’t go the way I had planned. I left out the details of Gerald’s passing.
I realize Gerald was a mouse in an alley in the busiest metropolitan area of the United States. Who gives a fuck about a mouse, right? Most people might think that I have a serious problem considering the time and effort I spent with this insignificant mouse. But, Gerald taught me a lesson about myself.
Apparently, I give a fuck about a mouse.
My boss proceeded to sing “Three Blind Mice” for the rest of the day; but deep down, I know he was weirdly entertained, amused, and proud. I think it’s these things, these little things…
I’m different, yea. I’m different?
I stopped tumbling because my father and his girlfriend approached me about something I had written on Tumblr in one of my vent sessions. I thought I was wrong, and that I shouldn’t write personal shit on the internet.
Turns out, I wasn’t wrong. I need to share my thoughts and experiences so maybe- just maybe- somebody learns something, or laughs, or smiles, or does it differently than my unsuccessful way, or thinks deeper, or loves stronger, or changes anything- you get the point.
Middle finger up to my competition.