Friday, September 26, 2008
What would Ishtar do?
I am not the kind of girl who usually gets very emotionally attached to people I'm sleeping with. In fact, I usually treat many of the people–especially the fellas–I bang with something almost like contempt. I kick them out of my apartment and my life when I've finished using them for my own gratification, I resent them for liking me on occasions when they do, and I look for mistakes they make so that I can objectify and criticize them, and thus avoid any unpleasant emotional entanglements that might make me seem vulnerable, imperfect, or otherwise human. As LL Cool Jew explained to me the other day, "you're just allergic to the idea of being uncool, and you equate uncool with intimacy." I don't know if "uncool" is the right word, but she's definitely right about me fearing that in the course of sleeping with somebody, I might actually like them, develop some type of a–ahem–relationship with them, and let them get a look at my soft underbelly. Then usually the whole thing goes south somehow, and I'm living out my eponymous Rolling Stones song. My kisses still taste sweet and there ain't a woman that comes close to me, but Angie, ain't it time we said goodbye?
Okay, so maybe she looks like what would happen if someone combined essential elements of Goser the Gozerian, Marilyn Chambers, and an 80s aerobics instructor-by-day, stripper-by-night and airbrushed it on the side of a child molester van, but this is the kind of hooker-ass prostitute I can get behind with some sacrilegious worship when I need to get my bitch legs back. Any lady with such a seriously hot wardrobe, a battle lion, and a fighting force of knife-wielding courtesans with bad Ogilvie home perms can definitely perk me up when I'm feeling too emotional and sad about my love life. From now on, when life throws me a "boo hoo, things didn't go your way" kind of curve ball, fuck Jesus. I'm going to ask myself what Ishtar would do. WWID!
On occasions when I do wind up sleeping with someone I like, developing some sort of relationship with that person, and then fucking the whole thing up, like the Angie of the song I get a little sadness in my eyes. Okay, I get a lot of sadness in my eyes sometimes, because secretly I'm extremely sensitive and usually end up looking and feeling like a walking Morrissey song. In situations where someone clearly screws me over, I unleash Razzy in full force by going on a scotch-fueled bender in which I revenge-fuck half of New York as effigies of my offender and vow utter destruction (or at least drink-throwing and public humiliation) upon the hapless fool who squandered the rare blessing of seeing the soft, sweet, vulnerable side of me that I regard as a dirty secret. I validate every sucker who believes in astrology and embody the typical Scorpio, a fury of sex, war, passion, and vengeance. I make the person who hurt my feelings my sworn enemy, and vow to smote his ruin upon the mountainside. I will not rest until his ass is jobless, penniless, homeless, and hairless. Or, since those things are actually and unfortunately out of my power to effect, at least cause him some trouble in terms of getting laid in the future.
Then, there are the situations in which the other person is not the bad guy. These are the situations in which things fail due to circumstances beyond my or the other party's control, and I can't raise my battle standard and recoup my pride in righteous anger. These are the situations where failure just happens and it's unfortunate and shitty, but nobody is really to blame. These instances are more difficult for me to deal with, because without a target for relief in the form of directed rage, I instead feel the profound sadness of life just not being fair.
A lot of people turn to religion to make sense of such senseless scenarios, but I've found that Catholicism does little to console me. In fact, it makes me feel worse most of the time because I've landed squarely on the "whore" side of the Catholic virgin-whore dichotomy of femaleness, and am reaping the fruits of all the cautionary tales I was told about this as a little girl in school: emotionally damaged, rejected as "marriage material," unfit for motherhood, and reviled or pitied by the so-called "respectable" people of the world. Because both my inner rational thinker and my inner radical femi-nazi with "RIOT GRRL" written on her knuckles thinks this all an unfair bullshit construct designed to keep female sexuality and independence from interfering with the sexually frustrated patriarchy that makes the rules over in Rome, I don't think that dealing with relationship failures with Jesus is a very good solution for me. Jesus can handle business when it comes to the fate of my immortal soul, but he sucks ass at making me feel better about life's emotional disappointments. It's hard for me to put my emotions in the hands of a dude whose method of consoling skanks involves letting them wash his feet with their tears. That doesn't sound like it will be particularly helpful to me.
Thus, blasphemous though it may be, I have to turn to the pantheon of pagan deities for a little relief in the Angie-don't-you-weep department. Obviously this is something I'm going through now, and last night as I was mulling things over, I happened to be reading a book about sluts throughout history. I came across an account of the Babylonian goddess Ishtar (or Inanna, if you prefer Sumerian mythology). Ishtar was basically the skank ruler of the Babylonian pantheon, and she's my new hero. From what I can tell, she fucked her younger husband to death, went to the underworld to fetch him, got into the underworld by threatening to break in and unleash a zombie apocalypse upon the living, waltzed in stripping, got thrown into the Hell jail and tortured with some sort of apt slut punishment called "the sixty diseases," and was sprung when she put a halt to all sex on earth until her ass was freed. Then, when her resurrected husband was chilling back on earth and not missing her at all, she sent his sorry ass back to Hell! Another time, when some loser named Gilgamesh denied her, she set a bull on him, and that resulted in Gilgamesh and his asshole bros shaking the bull's leg at her in rage while she gathered her loyal army of prostitutes and mocked him with a big orgy. I mean, just look at this slag!
Labels: Dear God, for serious people, Razzification
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As Catholic of Western-European and Scandinavian descent, I often contemplate the absurdity of someone of my lineage practicing what is essentially a Middle-Eastern religion. If it weren't for Constantine's mother, people like me would probably be worshiping Norse gods.
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: 9/26/2008 1:55 PM
: 9/26/2008 1:55 PM Links to this post:
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