Scrot Mother

Published November 10, 2014 by insufficient mums

I am a Scrot Mother. It has taken me half a lifetime to work this out. This does not mean that my son is a scrot – nor will I let him be. What it does mean is that there are sockets in me that a scrot can plug directly in to, and the fit is so perfect that a scrot can attach himself to me and it feels like home.

losermagnetSo. What exactly is a scrot? Many many of the men in our population are scrots. Not all. I have not met them all. I don’t know about the worldwide population. My experience is limited. But the concentration in the men I have met, or those who have partnered with the women I know, is strong. These are men who ‘try’ to be men. They often present as staunch, or strong, or angry. They may talk up fighting with other men, and either show up for it, or cower from it. Their testosterone is on show because either they don’t feel manly, or have a need to ‘show’ that they are. All the time. At any rate, it feels like fear.

How do you identify one? This is where the haters gonna hate. Scrots wear a uniform. In New Zealand it is frequently some form of black jeans and black jersey. Often there are tattoos. Everything is masculine. And their friends all dress the same. Yes, there are other types of scrots – many disguised as ordinary men. I am sure there are also females who fit this criteria, but never having dated any I couldn’t comment.
My friend and dharma sister told me about scrots. Not too long ago. I wish I had known 20 or more years prior. I was always attracted to the ‘hard’ men. Angry men. What I saw as strong men. A counsellor once told me if the perfect man fell from heaven and hit me on the head I wouldn’t even see him, because I only had eyes for one type.

And that type have a uniform. They dress ‘street’. They dress for credibility. They are frequently criminal class. In my own culture they often own dogs, big cars, or motorcycles. They advertise on the outside of their bodies that they will not treat you well, and still, all I saw was ‘my tribe’.

“Scrot”, my friend said to me. Her father, who had been a policeman, had pointed one out as they drove down the road. She had been young and she’d heard his warning. “He’s wearing the uniform” her father had said. “When they dress like that they have no good to offer”. Or words to that effect.

As she told me this a light went on for me. And it was very recent. And I am 45.

All I had ever seen in that uniform was someone who had come from the same places as I had. Lived the same life. Someone who would ‘get’ why I am how I am. And if one of them came into my life showing signs of potential, showing signs of a brain, I would invest my life. I commit firmly, in the face of opposition. I don’t cheat. I don’t leave. It’s part of who I am. And it’s not helpful.

Here’s what I get from this. I get a man who won’t judge me for where I come from. There was a time in my life where I got to be Queen of a whole community of scrots. Queen of the losers. But still a Queen at least. This is wholly unrewarding, but when you feel you have nothing to offer the world it’s nice to be Queen of something.

Here’s what they want. They come into my life seeing a strong woman who lives with determination. They want this. But they want more. What they do not want is to be a partner. Not at all. They want a mother. Someone who will cook for them, clean for them, and wash their socks. Someone who will make a phone call for them when they can’t get in to work. Someone who will pay their bills when they lose their job. Someone who will accept them unconditionally.

They want this for a while.

Then like all teenagers, they begin the process of individuation. They begin to rebel against their mothers. They want to live as single men. They don’t want to fuck you, cos who wants to fuck their mother?? They will find other women for that. As their mother, you are still expected to pay their bills and remain ferociously loyal. But they do not want you as a partner. That is not your role. They will cheat. They will steal your stuff. They will break your stuff. And they will hit you.

But they will not leave. You are their mother. And they love their mother.

Let me tell you right now, those of you with your tribal blinkers welded to your heads – your bad boy does not have a heart of gold. He is simply a three-year-old throwing tantrums. He has never grown into manhood, and he is afraid that if anyone sees him without his uniform they will recognise that he is a frightened little boy. That is why the armour is so obvious. It is not that the bad boy uniform is an act. It is the heart of gold that is an act. A pretence. And it will fall away with ease given time. And he will blame you.

You cannot train a scrot to manhood. No-one can but him. And he doesn’t want to. He is an empty scrot – no balls. You cannot wait for the ‘potential’ you saw in him. It is hollow. It is pretence. He will use you for comfort. For stability. And then rebel against you. If he eventually has to leave – if you do get that Protection Order – this is the point where you earn the label “crazy ex”.

In conclusion – do not doubt what I now share with you. Scrots exist. They are recognisable as they feel exposed without their tribal regalia. Do not engage with them. They will charm the pants off you till they feel you’re in the right place to tidy up after their disasters. It will NEVER be your turn to fall. They will NEVER catch you or let you rest. It will always be your fault for being too fat too lazy too stuck up losing interest in sex whatever your low self-esteem comes from they will take it and use it.

Scrots cannot be managed. Only avoided or discarded. Using whatever means necessary.

Do NOT breed with these people.

You have been warned.


4 comments on “Scrot Mother

  • Leave a Reply

    Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

    You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

    Google photo

    You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

    Twitter picture

    You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

    Facebook photo

    You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

    Connecting to %s

    %d bloggers like this: