I grew up as a PoS; and there’s no real need to break that out. But I did. From about eight or nine my life went fully man-tits up. Like, Holy Shit, that’s some fucking messed-up shit.
Now I am a white male and with location and money am in the top three per cent of world wealth earnings and as The Crown so artfully reminds us we are in danger of forgetting our status when whining about bullshit we deal with during our en-rule from dawn to fucking dusk.
Still, acknowledgement that my status, or Credit in Chaosiumterms (if you instantly know what I mean you’re a full nerd), declared being a PoS within that Venn slit of WMP I was on the cusp of not being there.
I got punished for being shit and thrown into the Sarlacc maw of an all-boys NSW private school in the ‘80s where the threat of violence hung over you each and every moment; either peer-to-peer or from management.
If you were a PoS you were used as an example on how now to be a PoS; literally paraded on stage before all to have your fucking flaws doxxed.
That happened once; maybe twice. It’s hard to know because the miasma of hurt that was about 1600 days in duration was so brutal my active mind won’t open the doors to the dark of the past.
Fuck me, I was sentenced to a place where sociopaths and pederasts both were drawn to the ranks of staff and free to inflict abuse across the full arc of human suffering.
I didn’t get raped; I got molested and had multiple attempts on my life as well as told every day that I was a PoS.
But, life still goes on and I keep living my life living my life etc.
The best revenge is living well; for I was sentenced to this body for a crime I didn’t commit like The A-Team, and I also have a black van with a racing stripe and I mysteriously evade the auspices of the military police establishment.
I hit adulthood ready to fail and fell upward; that’s pretty neat.