• Kathryn Wright

Don't Be a Judgemental Cunt.

"If God wanted you to have pierced ears, you would have been born with holes in them."

Apparently this is something my Grandmother used to say. I never met her, but this was the response my mother got from HER mother when she asked to get her ears pierced.

My mother decided to go rogue and do the whole "Parent Trap" ice cube-meet needle-meet apple thing.

AKA, whether she likes to admit it or not...I inherited my mother's sense of rebellion (and fucked up sense of humor)...which is something she will never admit. Want to take bets on how long it will take for her to call me about this post? I say .05 seconds.

And because I can hear her voice in my head now, I will save her the call. YES have been very cool and supportive of the blog EVEN WITH all the language. And YES MOM, you have been very supportive in general with everything. WHAT I AM REFERRING TO is your fucked up sense of humor (which I love) that you are going to deny exists.

AKA I say something fucked up and you laugh (hence, the fucked up sense of humor)...then mom mode the shit out of that moment and say "THAT'S NOT FUNNY, DON'T BE RUDE."

Yes it is. You laughed.

...I'm going to get in so much trouble for this.


Oh. Also, aside from my grandmother's name...I like to think I inherited her sense of style.

AKA this was me at like...8 years old wearing her fur. Flawless by Beyonce. Diva by Beyonce. JK. My phone is dead...again. And I don't have an Alexa.

...Moving on. My POINT is that..

God wants me to be a pornstar.

I have been *inflated* (upgraded?) to my full potential.

AKA...I am putting these bitches to use before surgery and am going into porn. Because if my grandmother's logic is true...apparently God is calling me to the "big tit" section of PornHub...or whatever site you prefer.

...I mean...I've been blessed with an involuntary boob job. Why waste it?

HAHAHAHA. Okay....I'm like seriously 100% kidding.

Not like. I mean I AM kidding. I'M TOTALLY KIDDING. MOM AND DAD I PROMISE I'M NOT GETTING INTO PORN. requires sex...which I clearly am unable to have. (10 out of 10 would NOT recommend.)


I mean...JK that I'm JK.

...EVEN IF I could...I'm not getting into porn. I have standards. Um, HELLO?! I'm a much better actress than that, let's be honest.

At the very least, I could be in a shitty Amazon Prime zombie flick. The DD list genre, if you will. Hahahahah.

(If you can't tell...I'm using humor to cope with the fact that I'm 99.9% sure that the whole "good news radiation is working thing" is now bullshit because I'm now at like DDDDFFF chest status and had such a bad panic attack this morning that I moved my dr appt to tomorrow because if I didn't sit and write I wasn't going to make it. If you think I'm kidding...I'm not.)

Looping back to my grandmother (who is probably rolling over in her grave right now from this blog)...I just mean, with that kind of logic, OVERNIGHT, God has now given me an even bigger set of tits that would give even PAMELA ANDERSON a run for her money.

AKA...I should Kim K the SHIT out of this (Kris Jenner the shit out of this?) and capitalize on this business opportunity.

I mean...cancer ain't cheap, peeps.

But I'm a "millennial" what the fuck do I know?

Oh wait...I know that I'm NOT a cunty judgemental cunt.

Okay, I fully admit I USED to be. And I FULLY admit that I still judge. But as I call it..."not on the important stuff." Marry who you want, wear what you want, do what you want....whatevs.

I mean, don't break the law...but live your best fucking life.

BUT. You post "T-Swift" lyrics as an Instagram caption? Don't use your turn signal? Act like a pretentious asshole aka are a dick to your waiter? I'm fully judging you. (Hashtag sorry I'm not sorry).

...Segueing into a judgemental asshole anecdote.

Last week, I went shopping. And no, not the fun kind.

Because the daily size of my tits is about as constant as the emotional stability of our current president, I had to "upgrade" to, AGAIN, another size.

I'm standing in the "lingerie" section of Target (can you even call it that? B/c there was a lot of tan and tan and...tan going on color wise)...and I see these two women whispering back and forth to each other. the words of Reba...from the show, Reba....

So yes, I know, MOTHER...the world does not revolve around me.

But let me say this.

I am a very observant person.

Well...observant when it comes to "human behavior." Just ironically...not to flashing, neon, screaming red flags in my relationship or with my own patterns of behavior the past few years. And not when it comes to a new haircut. Or rearranged furniture. Or basically anything aside from human behavior. No. Nope. Nada. No...I am not.

I could move my bed to the other side of the room and the ONLY WAY I would *notice* it is if I tripped on the frame when I was walking to my bathroom. And even then, I would probably still think I tripped over a cat.

Hashtag it me.

But yeah. When it comes to people...I see you.

FYI...We see you. WE ALL SEE YOU.


When you think you're being "subtle" talking about someone's purple hair, or their screaming child and mom-shaming, or mom-shaming regarding public breast-feeding, or "whispering" about someone's tattoo, or "whispering" about someone's special needs child, aka THEIR CHILD (which makes you literally the BIGGEST FUCKING ASSHOLE IN THE ENTIRE WORLD, BTW...AND FUCK YOU AND FUCK OFF)...we see you.


Here's the thing though. I want to be seen....for the most part.

Unfortunately, I still have my moments. I have my moments of doubt and insecurity and sometimes, there's no other way to put it than just saying I get really, really sad. I want to hide in a corner and hide from the world.

Like the other night, for example. I was at the Fresno State Football game in the presidential suite...pulling for my "brother" on the other team...AWKWARD...(and yes, I accept my elevated "pretentious twat" status bragging about being in the presidential suite) and I saw this guy side eying me.

Now...I would FULLY be side eying me too. I was in my full Bret Michaels get up (...or would it be Keith Richards, seeing as how I was wearing a Rolling Stones t-shirt?), and I'm at the table getting food. I see him looking at me and he whispers to who I would assume to be his wife.

Now at this point, for all I know, they're talking about how much the RHOC franchise sucks and RHOBH needs to be burned to the ground and/or how Donald Trump needs to stop tweeting so much and/or how pineapple DOES belong on pizza.

I mean, probably not...but ya never know.

Well actually...clearly not. Because in the most cliche way ever known to man, after he was done "whispering" to her, she whipped her head around faster than if you were told Jason Momoa was standing behind you naked, or Jon Hamm had a boner. Have you seen that thing WITHOUT one?!

(TBH if Jon Hamm had a boner and was standing behind you, you wouldn't have to be told he was standing behind you...because you would *probablymostdefinitely* feel it from a mile away.)

...The fact that I know my parents read this is so fucking...(excuse me)...*FREAKING* awkward. And my teachers, and people I went to church with, and...yeah.


I blame "Boo" (I'm Sully, she's Boo...Monsters Inc. anyone?)...she told me I need to be more open and not hide my feelings...which apparently has turned into telling the whole internet every intricate detail of every moment of the dumpster fire that was my life. Is my life?

"Hi, my name is Kathryn and I was abused by my boyfriend and then raped and then didn't deal with my pain for years because I denied I was in pain by drinking way too much and partying but now I tell the whole fucking internet."


But, what can I say.

I put in the work. I put in the emotional work.

And thankfully, it worked.

I changed. (Oh...and LOVE YOU BOO. QG soon?).

Jesus, I ramble a lot. And overshare. And the sky is blue. What else is new?

Anyways. It was really weird. You know how you fall and it's slow motion? Or have you ever been in a car crash and it's like time slows down...although that so clearly is defying what's actually happening...AKA CAR CRASH.

Like, she whipped her head around SO fast...but somehow it slowed down at the same time.

I could just see it coming. We made eye contact. I smiled at her. I asked her what salsa was the best.

As I was getting the salsa (10/10 WOULD recommend...also the "Castro Chili"...holy shit that was amazing), I could see her turn back around and whisper and laugh.

I set my plate down at my table, excused myself, and went to the bathroom.

I cried.

...Not crazy cry. Just a lot of welling tears and fanning my face so I didn't ruin my makeup.

I looked in the mirror. I looked at my makeup and piercings, my tattoos, my Rolling Stones t-shirt, my chunk heels, my pleather grey leopard head scarf.

And then...I started laughing. Or at the very least, started chuckling.


...And I'm having a conversation with President Castro dressed like Bret fucking Michaels.

I looked in the mirror and literally told myself..."you're not allowed to do this."

I'm not kidding. I said that out loud.

You (*I*) dressed like this because you wanted to feel confident. Because you wanted to feel happy. Because you wanted to feel like a bad-ass and not like a balding cancer patient.

You (*I*) dressed like this because you wanted to. You dressed like this because it's not cancer, its punk rock with a side of shaved head. And while you can't control cancer, you can control your outfit.

You (*I*) dressed like this because you wanted to be seen.

I looked at the (fuck) cancer tattoo on my finger, and I walked out of the bathroom. I ate my tacos, drank half a ShockTop, and had an awesome night.

...Clearly I have evolved.

I handled this with MUCH more grace than I did last week in Target. God, I ramble so much. I think it has to do with the whole "pretty much during the week all I talk to is my animals" thing.

So yeah. Like I said. I realize the world doesn't revolve around me.

But while perusing bras in Target...watching these became so explicitly obvious I was the mother-fucking axis their judgemental world was orbiting around.

And yes...I was dressed like Bret Michaels...again. Although, I had my Johnny Cash iconic "middle finger" t-shirt on this time. But everything else was the same.

So, while perusing (can I use that word twice so close together? Who the fuck even uses that word?...Me, apparently) the bra section in Target, I overheard twatwaffle #1 tell twatwaffle #2 that I was going to hell and worship satan. I shit you not.

Before I continue, let me state this.

I wasn't talking like the way I write here. Or talk...normally. I WASN'T EVEN TALKING. I didn't drop an "F-bomb" around them. I didn't back into their car or break into their house. I didn't murder their child. I didn't fuck their husband. I didn't spoil the last (shithole of a) season of Game of Thrones for them. I wasn't wearing a MAGA hat.

I was living my life, minding my business, trying to find a fucking bra for the tits that I'm about to lose.

And while I saw the whisper and the judgement, I could also HEAR the whisper (aka not really whispering b/c it was LOUD)...and the judgement.

Full disclosure: I didn't hear the whole thing. But I heard enough.

To preface...

That morning was spent crying until my pain pills kicked in because it felt like someone stabbed me in the left ovary with a knife, and then after stabbing me...twisted it.

That morning was spent crying because I don't want to take pills because when you self medicate for so long (not with pills, but same difference) I HATE taking pills.

That morning was spent with a full on panic attack, because I was having problems breathing...because of the panic attack...because of the cancer...because of the pills...because of the pain...because of the cancer...because of the unforeseeable future.

That morning was spent crying because I want to have ONE.NORMAL.DAY where my stress is related to something "normal." Whatever the fuck THAT means.

...I guess just NOT DYING.

That morning was bad. Really, really bad.

So, knowing I needed a new bra...I threw on some Beyonce and Lizzo (yes, again) ready...went and picked up my prescriptions, went to the bank, and went to Target. So after watching this whole twatwaffle to twatwaffle conversation go down after the morning I had (compounded with my recent knowledge that I'm "going to hell" because I say the F-word)...I lost it.

I don't mean like screaming lost it.

I mean...lost it with the voraciousness of Fiona Gallagher...where my sarcasm kicks in as a coping mechanism and I.CAN'T.STOP.

Mind you, in the realm of "being close enough to hear their conversation"...I wasn't. But I could still hear their conversation, loud and clear. So yeah. There was a lot more loud talking than whispering going on...clearly...because I have the hearing of a 200 year old woman.

Some of you know me, some of you don't. But I can be loud. So, in a loud, firm?, serious? and definitely sarcastic voice...I approached them and said:

"Have you ALWAYS been a pretentious, judgemental cunt...or is this a RECENT development in your life?"





This was an out-of-body experience where I could see my mother standing over me emphatically stating "I DIDN'T RAISE YOU TO TALK TO STRANGERS LIKE THAT...OR ANYONE LIKE THAT."

...I had a whole hand motion going on too as I said this.

I did this whole like... "grabbing air" (CLIP CLIP CLIP...or technically only one "clip"...Bravo fans, where you at) thing complete with a hip pop and just a whole IDGAF moment.

I mean, I talk a good game...but I don't do this. Don't get me wrong...I'll do a whole hype game in my head of what I WANT to say.

...But I don't. I smile and say thank you and move on.

It's funny, because admittedly, all my favorite characters in TV shows or movies are usually villains. Cersei Lannister, Cruella DeVille, Gemma Teller.

...Although, that's probably just because I loved theater, and let's be honest. Who wants to be Tara when you can be Gemma flicking your cig and stabbing your daughter-in-law with an icepick, or being Cersei blowing up the Sept of Baelor while you sip wine and smile?

Playing the villain is SO much more fun. (Unless you play the villain in your own life. Which I did for quite a while...and would NOT recommend.)



Have you ever seen the Kevin Hart stand-up of him cussing out his teacher?

Watch it on YouTube, if not.

I mean...I would warn you there is a lot of "language"...but you're reading my blog, so I think you can tolerate it.

Anyways, the gist of it...(still watch it though, its hilarious) he gets in trouble at school and his teacher sends him home with a note basically telling his mom she needs to parent better. His mom gives him explicit instructions on what to say to the teacher the next day, which includes the word "damn."

....long story short, he takes the thing a LITTLE too far...and basically uses every cuss word in the damn book.

Damn it, just watch the damn thing.

Okay. NO. I didn't cuss them out like HE did. I just...I got carried away.

So I'm standing surrounded by sports bras and spanx and SO MANY TAN undergarments (just...why?).

I'm standing there feeling suffocated by the bra I haven't bought for the tits I'm going to lose...I'm standing there feeling the judgement from my mother and judgement from myself because I KNOW you just don't talk to strangers this way...but I literally can't help it.

Serious word vomit.

I know we've been over this, but Fiona Gallagher's brand of sarcasm is my current defense mechanism to prevent me from losing my shit.

And in this moment, I OD'd on it.

(I won't post THAT video of her again, but you know what I'm talking about. Hopefully.)

So these two judgemental twatwaffles are standing there with this look on their face.

And the fact that they looked shocked...well, it just fueled my fire.

"I'm...I'm sorry. I'm confused. Why are you shocked? Because I used the word cunt? I mean...I just don't understand. If you told your friend that you think I 'worship satan' based SOLELY ON THE WAY I AM DRESSED...seeing as how we've NEVER MET BEFORE (what else could you possibly be judging me on)...along with something about millennials ruining the country and oh, I think there was something about me being a lesbian because hair?...I seriously don't understand how you would be surprised about me cussing."

(To note: I had my headscarf on, but the way it sits on my head, you can definitely tell one side of my head is lacking hair. I have my cartilage pierced on my right side, so I wear my headscarf behind my ear on that side, and I wear my headscarf kind of covering my other you can't tell I'm bald on that side. If that makes sense.)

I guess this was the moment that I OD'd on sarcasm...because I just couldn't stop talking. I caught the Tolkien tattoo on my arm out of the corner of my eye...and I couldn't stop.

I pointed to it, and kept talking. I can not emphasize the way the sarcasm was dripping off of every word coming out of my mouth.

Let's just say, if you could capture the drip...mankind would stay hydrated for the rest of time, and Scheana would have her thirst quenched.

"But you're right. I do worship Satan. See this tattoo?" (I pointed to my arm.) "When I was at the SATAN convention last week, I got this tattoo to commemorate him. It means 'I LOVE SATAN' in gaelic. I like to make it a ritual. When I went to my FIRST satan convention, I got 666 tattooed on my ass."

"Yeah, it's like really fun. We sit around and get satan tattoos and chant and summon the devil."

"Satan has REALLY helped me find my spirituality."

Oh dear lord. (Dear Satan?)...the look on their faces.

And the word vomit?...well, it just kept coming.

"Here's the thing. I WOULD tell you to stop being a pretentious.judgemental.cunty.twatwaffle.twattaco.ASSHOLE." (I remember this is specifically what I said, because I could see my mother, in my head, yelling at me. Also, I was in the mood for carne asada.)

I paused.

"But clearly" (and I did a whole dramatic hip popping hand pointing gesture here) "that ship has fucking sailed" (clip).

"SO. What I WILL tell that the next time you decide to be a JUDGEMENTAL cunt, make sure you do it from a distance, where the PERSON YOU ARE JUDGING CAN'T.FUCKING.HEAR.YOU."

I realized in this moment, I was enjoying this too much. I did this weird thing where I like did this, like, whole body movement (which if anyone saw I'm 100% sure I looked like I was stroking out.)

But in my head, this was my Gemma Teller moment.

I removed my glasses cop style...ehh, maybe detective style? (I'm not sure why...because they aren't sun glasses, and I LITERALLY need them to see)...and I walked up to them.

Mind you, I'm AT LEAST 6'1" in these shoes...and while these women weren't short...they weren't tall, either.

I get up close to them (way too close, but like I said, this was my Gemma Teller moment).

I smile, and I look the one doing the most shit talking in the eye and say...

"By the way, I'm not a lesbian."

(This is where I dramatically rip my headscarf off my head.)





I was about to walk off, but I had to put the cherry on top.


I then did some weird thing where I made like a double fist and like pounded my hands together so my pinkies were like fist bumping? IDK. I'm not too sure what that was about.

I then did a double middle finger entendre...smiled...said have a good day...and walked away.

TBH, I'm very proud of myself that I made a dramatic exit without falling. Because honestly, that would be so on brand for me.

My point is...don't be a judgemental cunt.

Unless you are directing your judgement to judging the judgemental cunts....

....just fucking don't.


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