There are stories we tell and stories we don't tell. Here are some of those.

I am not like you

November 17, 2019 by Dixie Perkinson in life

I haven’t pruned in awhile. I was in New York with my family visiting my cousin before he graduates from college. Feeling proud of him and sorry for my dumb-ass. Why didn’t I graduate from college? I went to DePaul University Theatre School in Chicago and didn’t get invited back after my second year due to its arbitrary cut system. It’s not like I did anything wrong, other than apparently sucking at acting. Or was there another reason? Thinking about it, I was definitely not the worst actor in my class. Some of those students partied a ton and didn’t know how to act, yet still got invited back. So what was it? I never got any answers from them, but deep down I always thought my school didn’t want me because of who I was deep down…a misfit/loner/weirdo.

Narcissistic Parent Woes

September 24, 2019 by Dixie Perkinson in life

When you have a narcissistic and/or pathological liar as a parent, sometimes other people have better memories of your parent than you do. Annnnnndddd that sucks, man. It makes you question your reality. Am I being a biggety biotch or was shit not right? Chuck said he liked my dad. So I must be wrong! On top of feeling crazy, a deep feeling of remorse kicks in. Wait…have I been at fault this whole time? Oh no! I’m a bad person. I’m a bad person. I’m a bad person. Hold my calls as I rock myself into oblivion.

Mrs. Rosenblatt

September 15, 2019 by Dixie Perkinson in personal narrative

Mrs. Rosenblatt was my 7th grade English teacher. Imagine a female version of Ben Stein but shorter. Less suits. More casual. Shoulder length grey hair. Rarely blinked and never smiled. She woefully talked about her boyfriend who was a postal worker while teaching. She went on and on about how the government does not care about mailmen because mailmen drive those little box cars which could and would tip over easily. If the government respected mailmen, they would drive bigger trucks. She was different than other teachers.

A Father's Love

June 16, 2019 by Dixie Perkinson in life

I’m estranged from my father. We haven’t spoken in over 6 years. It seems like a no-brainer decision now, but I didn’t always feel that way. Years leading up to that, I had boyfriends, therapists, even scientologist acting teachers tell me I should cut him off. But that terrified me. I can’t!! How can I?? He’s my dad!

ONE NIGHT STAND (PART ONE)

June 02, 2019 by Dixie Perkinson in personal narrative

I didn’t remember his name. I don’t think he remembered mine. He said I looked like Adrian from Rocky, so he called me Adrian throughout the night. I had never seen the movie Rocky, but I assumed he was simultaneously putting me down while hitting on me. Wasn’t Adrian suppose to be like a dweeb or something? Whatever. I’ll take it. I called him Rocky to validate his flirtations. He didn’t resemble anything like Sylvester Stallone. He was 5’7, blonde, fit with small biceps. He was probably in his late twenties although he had an older vibe to him. An older vibe or even old age was a necessary trait that I needed in men in order for me to trust them. And not just with my vagina, but even with a smile. Because with that, came my imagination and my heart. Rocky had large, captivating hazel eyes that when locked with mine, triggered a longing. A longing for an exquisite fuck? Or was it more than that? His eyes told me he was sad…like me. He, too, had been hurt by life. I could tell he had been through some shit. Or maybe it was just the druggy glow in his eyes from lack of sleep that I was reading into? Either way, Rocky seemed like a real find at the after-hours Thai restaurant I frequented.

ACTING CLASS

April 21, 2019 by Dixie Perkinson in personal narrative

Acting class is a great way to make new friends and connections. That’s how I got my first agent was through a referral from a friend in my acting class. Acting class is also a great way to develop a cocaine addiction. That’s how I found my first cocaine dealer was through a referral from a friend in my acting class. Sex, drugs, and memorizing lines…

Losing My Virginity (Part 2)

March 20, 2019 by Dixie Perkinson in personal narrative

Ben and I had set up a daily routine. He drove me home from our school in his dad’s tan pontanaic sedan. On the back sported an anti-Al Gore bumper sticker- 8 YEARS IS ENOUGH! (This was a year after the 2000 presidential election). As soon as we parked in front of my house, Ben and I would make a run for it. It was more of a mind set than actually running. I didn’t want my dad to engage in any conversations with Ben. I also knew he was going to ask me to watch my two little brothers, who were 4 and 5 years old, so my dad could leave and get his daily blow job(s). It was a 50/50 gamble. On bad days, nope. We were subject to my dad’s corny jokes and other communist manifesto quotes. Ben would politely laugh and nod. I wondered what was going on in Ben’s head during these times, but I was too embarrassed to ask. Once my dad got his high off of irritating the young, he’d say… “Okay. Watch the kids for a minute. I’ll be right back.”

The Truth Shall Set You Free

February 24, 2019 by Dixie Perkinson in life

“The Truth Shall Set You Free”

I’ve always liked this phrase. I’ve heard it countless times from movies, The Oprah Show, and everyday conversations. Although, I didn’t realize this was a quote from The Bible. (I was born and raised atheist. Now I’m LA spiritual meaning: I own a yoga mat, a few crystals, and I look at the moon more). I didn’t buy a Bible, but I did look it up on the all-knowing google and discovered it’s meaning. So, truth (being Christianity) shall set you free. (Free of sin and misery and all that icky stuff). Okay. Cool. But is there a secular version of this that I can take and run with?

Wanting, Grieving, Accepting, Changing

February 10, 2019 by Dixie Perkinson in life

I’m sad and restless and want someone to fuck. I’ve sexualized my feelings for so long that I equate sorrow with finger-banging. Unfortunately, I’m breaking old patterns and will not be looking for my next prisoner for my lust or a shirt to discreetly wipe my snot on. Nope. Nope. Nope. Instead, I’ll write. I’ll sit with my pain. I will breath in and out. I’ll blow my nose into a Kleenex. It’s not the same as having an orgasm, but such is life…meaning, life sucks.

Get Over It

February 05, 2019 by Dixie Perkinson in personal narrative, life

I flew home to New Orleans for Jazz Fest. But really, my reason was to confront my father about his sexual abuse. Although at the time, I didn’t refer to it as sexual abuse. I couldn’t comprehend what to call it. All I knew was that it was fucked up. It wasn’t a single event either. He had sex in front of me consistently through out my childhood up until I was a teenager. And even after that, there would be other inappropriate behaviors from showing me topless pictures of women that he photographed to assisting him with his dirty emails.

Burger King Parking Lot

January 26, 2019 by Dixie Perkinson in personal narrative

My mother chose drugs over me, and my dad chose his dick. My mother got murdered, and my dad did not. With his breathing life, he decided not to go to work and provide like a single father would might have done. Nor did he manage to be like a dad at all. Instead, he lived off my mother’s murdered inheritance and fucked. He fucked and fucked and fucked as much as he could. Sometimes screwing women over financially so he could then pay to fuck some more. I saw this with my own eyes. Often times, I was physically too close. I’d be in the back seat of the car, as a prostitute would blow my dad.

Am I a Masochist?

January 20, 2019 by Dixie Perkinson in life

Before I dive back into writing about my childhood and actively work on my book, I want to discuss why I’m doing this in the first place. No. Seriously. Why am I putting myself in this torturous position? It’s so hard. I’m dying! Send help! Or if you’re from my hometown, send a King Cake. I know it’s Mardi Gras season, ya’ll…

7th Grade (Part 1)

December 09, 2018 by Dixie Perkinson in personal narrative

I was so embarrassed that I didn’t have a mother. It was worse than a thousand pimples on my face. I hated being different from other kids and having a dead mom made me the biggest freak of them all. I tried as hard as I could to blend in by emulating others. I wore Abercrombie & Fitch cargo Khakis, a monogrammed L.L. Bean book bag, a silver tulip neckless from Mignon Faget (a fancy jewelry designer in New Orleans), Adidas tennis shoes with alternate shoe laces that were a different color other than just grey or black, anything with a Ralph Lauren Polo logo, I got my haircut where they got their hair cut… But no matter what I wore or what I did, I always stood out. I could never fit in. There was never enough Dream GAP perfume to disguise how inferior I felt or really, how inferior I actually was.

That Time My Dad Got Arrested (Part 3)

October 28, 2018 by Dixie Perkinson in personal narrative

I really thought Patrice was too dumb to leave my dad as if she couldn’t figure out how to use the door handle. Or too dumb in a sense that she even dated him in the first place. Her looks supported my theory. 5’6, bleach blonde hair, super skinny with big fake tits and an airy voice. She was disgustingly cliche. In the beginning, Patrice was obsessed with my dad. Every picture of them together, she would tilt her head and dotingly look at him instead of looking at the camera lens like a normal person. Every. Single. Picture. She called him “Perkinson” because she aspired to be different than all of my other dad’s girlfriends who simply called him by his first name, “Bill.” When Patrice’s father shot himself in the head, she inherited a lot of money and forked all of it over to my dad. We’re talking about hundreds of thousands of dollars. My dad, in return, treated her like a sex slave.

That Time My Dad Got Arrested (Part 2)

October 21, 2018 by Dixie Perkinson in personal narrative

I stood there. Chewing on the inside of my cheek, as I was watched my father, slouched over in handcuffs, being taken away by two police officers above from my bedroom window. The cops were both a head shorter than my dad, even with his incriminating posture. My dad was quite militant about our postures. Shoulders up. Chest out. But I guess, at this moment, it wasn’t important to stand up straight. They escorted him down our hardened gravel driveway into one of the seven police cars along our house. An older, overweight officer was readily standing there. He opened up the back seat door, and guided him inside. My dad did not glance up to my window to look for me, to tell me that everything was going to be okay with a nod or a reassuring squint. Rather his head was down. His face seemed tight with anger. The fat officer closed the car door. Then they drove off. And just like that my dad was gone…

That Time My Dad Got Arrested (Part 1)

October 07, 2018 by Dixie Perkinson in personal narrative

I was lying on my bedroom floor on a Tuesday night, talking or rather listening to my new boyfriend, Riley on the phone. It was Fall of 1998, so yes, it was a real phone with a telephone plug and a spiraled wire that always got tangled without even touching it. The chord wasn’t long enough to reach my bed, so I had most of my calls on the blue/greyish carpet that hadn’t experienced a vacuum’s touch in years. Riley was a sophomore. I was a freshman. Riley often said the n-word and spoke fondly of David Duke. He was also obsessed with the Insane Clown Posse. ( The ugly, white hip-hop duo who painted their faces in black and white clown make-up and rap offensive things, in case you didn’t know. And if you did know, I won’t tell anyone). The past weekend we took a streetcar, followed by a bus, to Tower Records in the French Quarter. He pushed me to buy ICP’s latest album- The Great Milenko. So, I did. When I got home that day, I started to listen to the CD, but had to press stop 6 seconds in. It was too abrasive and well…the worst music ever. I told Riley I listened to the whole album. “It was really good.” My youth was either me lying or not saying things out loud even when I should have.

The Power of Talking

September 02, 2018 by Dixie Perkinson in life

Growing up, my dad would always tell me… your friends are your worst enemies because they take up all of your time. Practice the violin or read a book instead… be careful who you hang out with because they will bring you down. Also the classic hit…Trust no one. Simple, but to the point. He also planted misogynistic seeds into my head as well. Women aren’t as smart as men. Women aren’t as funny as men. They even change their last names to the man’s because they are less superior. He understood having sex (for his son, not so much for his daughter). So for awhile I never trusted women or even wanted to hang out with them. If I can’t fuck you or get a job from, then why hang out?

FATTY

August 05, 2018 by Dixie Perkinson in life

I can’t remember a time when I liked my body. Even when I was a kid, way before puberty, we would visit my dad’s father who lived in the California mountains every summer. Grandpa would stick an empty water jug between my legs because I was knock-kneed. He thought that would straighten them out. Well, it didn’t. It just made me more self-conscious of my knees. Every time I saw a doctor, my dad would ask if I was overweight. The doctor would always shake his head no. Then puberty hit, and my body didn’t grow like how it was suppose to. I didn’t have cleavage like the girls on 90210 or the same size thighs as I saw on Dawson’s Creek. My stomach was round and Buffy’s was flat. No one looked like me.

My Escape

July 22, 2018 by Dixie Perkinson in life, personal narrative

I went to one of the most expensive private schools in the South called Country Day. It was located in Old Metairie, a suburb adjacent to New Orleans where all the rich, white people lived…the ones that voted for David Duke. We also lived in Old Metairie, walking distance from school. Or as I preferred, a 7 minute bike ride.

WHY I DON'T SPEAK TO MY DAD

June 17, 2018 by Dixie Perkinson in life

I don’t speak to my father. I haven’t had a conversation with him for over five years, and I haven’t seen him in nearly ten. As some of you know, my mother was murdered when I was a baby. He’s my only parent, yet I don’t return his phone calls, emails or texts. I’m basically ghosting my own father.