Tudor House Year 6 Dance Invitation To Girls: Fill & Download for Free

H. G. Tudor nailed my experience with one of my 2 narcissist exes.H G Tudor's answer to Why do narcissists love music?N#2's use of music to seduce and destroy was diabolical. Others would be correct in assuming there is nothing particularly different about narcissists and their relationship to music. My N husband of 30 years did not employ music in his romantic schemes. In fact, N#1 was devoid of rhythm, and he used to bury his face in newspapers when I danced because he was jealous.I was thrilled when I met N#2, a bass player and "music lover." He was actually a music sadist. It is still incredible to my mind that anyone would use music--the universal language--to access, capture and extinguish the souls of other humans, but that is N#2's primary predatory game.N#2 romanced me, via e-mail and chat, up to 10 hours a day in the early months. These romantic sessions were multi-media events, featuring photos, poetry, song lyrics, MP3's and YouTube videos. (He lived 3 hours away.) He portrayed that he was falling in love, and pounded me with love ballads and R&B dance songs, up to 50 songs a session. He was my personal DJ, shining his love spotlight on me.I remember the first week, he sent me a rather ugly song by Delbert McClinton, called "Starting a Rumor."I’m starting a rumor about you and meThat we’ve been seen out doing some crazy thingsThey say were tight as any two can beI’m starting a rumor about you and meThey all be talking out of schoolLike how we carry on like love sick foolsHe posted it on his Facebook page, and then kept sending and resending me the lyrics, creating the impression that he was about to start posting my photos all over his social media. All a sick game. In 6 years, he never once posted a photo of me, or mentioned me. We lived together 4 of those years, and took vacations, which he posted photos of that didn’t include me.Also in the first week, he told me he was going to set up his equipment, sing me a song, and then send the video. He said he had not played guitar or sang in a year, indicating he couldn't because his evil ex had hurt him so badly he couldn't bear to sing or play. An hour or so later, I received a video of him, attempting, through tears, to sing Paul McCartney's "My Love." The poor soul struggled on through tears and snot, until he could no longer choke out the words. I later found this video in his video folder dated more than a year before he’d met me.He kept sending obscure song lyrics without crediting them. He wrote in poetry form, and for a long time, I read the lyrics as his words, inviting me for a weekend, or expressing his feelings, as per the lyrics, but he never responded when I replied to "his" messages. He just resent the lyrics. Finally, I figured out what he was doing. He was not communicating. He was playing a game of, "I know something you don't know." I couldn't compute this, early on. I remembered reading in Dr. Robert Hare’s book, “Without Conscience: The Disturbing World of the Psychopaths Among Us,” that psychopaths speak in riddles (D was a malignant narcissist), but I simply couldn’t believe it.After building me up for a huge Valentine's Day celebration, he canceled our date, carried on a sex-drenched conversation with a female friend on Facebook, and sent me the song, "I Trained Her to Love Me," by Nick Lowe:This one's almost done now to watch her fall apartI trained her to love me so I can go ahead and break her heartHe ended the day by sending me a video of himself singing a love song to his woman of the year before. I knew the video had not been made for me because his hair was three inches longer than it currently was.He sent cruel, hateful lyrics, such as the ones from "Still There'll be More" by Procol Harum:I'll blacken your Christmas and piss on your doorYou'll cry out for mercy, but still there'll be moreHe sent these and other hateful lyrics over and over. There was never any explanation. He kept repeating that he was "a musicologist." I assumed he collected musical oddities. I realize now he was expressing his hatred and contempt of a woman he barely knew, and feigned being in love with so that he could "blacken my Christmas and piss on my door."In our first year together, I kept begging him to play guitar for me. Finally one day, he brought his tall stool out on the deck, brought out his bass, and began strumming. He talk-sang about fucking a young girl at his job earlier that day. He never played, just strummed. Then he took his guitar back in the house. The only other time he ever played for me was when he was in a band, and he raved all day, every day, about how in love he was with the 400-pound married singer. Every evening, he sat me down to listen to him sing love songs because "I HAVE to sing this with her, and I have to get it perfect before I ask her to sing it with me."He made hundreds of videos of himself simulating sex with this woman while they sang together, and he downloaded them into my laptop, so I would be sure not to miss them.The hits just kept on coming. After I discovered his affair with his ex, he begged his way back into my life, moved in with me, and posted "Song for a Sucker Like You" by Ben Sidran on a music forum the same day.During periods of time when I was taking a break from him, a common theme of his “depression” was how he was giving up on life, he was just going to sell all his instruments. I always begged him not to. I do not have a doubt in the world that part of his smear-campaigning was telling his dupes that I told him to sell his instruments. That is what he did with everything I begged him not to do--tell people I was trying to make him do it. It's the same thing he did to his ex, early in our relationship, portraying that he had stopped playing music because of her.He never touched his instruments in our 6 years together, except for the times I've mentioned. Yet every time we broke up and I left his home, he set his equipment up in the front room facing the sofa, which was where he held a never-ending stream of Internet women captive until he fucked them, and never saw them again. I know. I saw the e-mails. This was the sofa I returned to each time I returned.Perhaps the ugliest thing he did, using music, was the day in our final reconciliation that I asked him to dance with me, and he wouldn't. In our early years, we danced. For hours. Three or four times a week. I don't believe for a minute he loved to play his instruments, but he LOVED to dance. In our last 2 years, he would not dance with me. He had purchased new equipment, during our latest separation, for playing music, but it collected dust. Refusing to dance with me was part of his devaluation. One day, I expressed how much I missed dancing and he agreed we would dance. Instead, for 10 straight hours, he messed with his equipment, disabling it so that not even I could manage to play anything. He sat and tinkered, occasionally blasting some horrible undanceable tune, at a volume so loud it hurt my eardrums. (I have damaged ears from a CO poisoning, so this was exceptionally cruel.) He got drunk, taunted and screamed at me, and slammed doors, until the wee hours of the morning.I never danced with him again, not even the one time he asked me to. The memories were too painful. And I had loved to dance all my life, until I was 64 years old. The so-called "music lover" took the music out of my life.

Yeeahhhoo! F—K YEAH!We narcissists all get real cozy together once a year at the Annual Blue Moon & Slim Jims Narcissistic Blood Drinking and Barbecue Festival. Aiden Léger, Rose Swan, John Ryder, and I all meet up and get the festivities going (I’ve got to start on the barbecue a day ahead, this heavenly stuff takes its sweet time). Ryan Walker makes the long trip across the pond, as does Sheila Hughes, and one of my personal favorite BPD’s of all time, the ever so elegant Miss Christina V. Horst (-wink-).Since narcissism isn’t just for narcissists these days, all are welcome. As a matter of fact, we love when our strong but sensitive BPD’s make a showing, because those gals can really make a mosh pit sing like a muthaf—ka. OH! And the antis have all the best jokes. Sorry, Vaknin, you’re not invited. Besides, there’s going to be bunch of pork here… And we threw a few marketing executives into a helicopter, so Tudor will be out of the way for the whole weekend…All of the true greats that have ever shared their valid commentary on the subject of narcissism swing through for this thing.User-12895863159215581024, Christian Gunnerson, Laura Hamm, Lamar Obrien, Ignacio Nicolás Rodríguez, Tommy Ryerson’s amazing brother, Kim Scheinberg, and User-13616621403757208824 all stop in. Katy Hudson has so many questions (also wink), and Arnulfo Gonzales invariably pops in to give his rough and ready commentary on this whole narrative. Johan Smith, William Killman, Jamie Nelson, User-11156382061427309594, User-12552542255527471980, Melinda Gwin, User-10037981723077782582, Alexander Moriarty, User-10153607390450756925, Xabier Martin, Aaron John Smith, User-9565235049515063359, User-11965418417809729600, Naomi Jackson, User-10948378161207444969, and User-12324617434147186318 all breeze through, just to lend the place some class (that Goldberg and his crisp-ass suits. Respect). David Horst actually brings the cane and does the f—king ‘House’ voice… God, I love that. Harlock Heughs still runs around thinking no one else knows what “harlock” means (‘grey haired,’ get the net… by the way, are you dyeing that sh*t?? because that looks great). The inimitable and indomitable Athena Walker, ladies and gentlemen, LET’S GET RRRRRRREADY TO RRRRRRUMMMBBBBLE!!!You do really have to keep an eye on the psychopaths… It takes those mofos for-freaking-ever to get drunk, but when they’re gone— holy sh*t are they gone!Anyway, we usually start with some juicy, delicious, slow roasted codependent babies, done at 225 degrees Fahrenheit (107 Celsius) for about 6 hours, slathered in our Victim’s Hot Mess Barbecue Sauce (TM), caramelized and marked on the grill for a minute, then slathered in that sauce again and put right before your salivating face… compliments of yours, truly. I follow that with some Covert Cornbread and Community Cole Slaw. Then the beans, the brisket, and the sweet Florida Key Lime Pie, paired with my first cocktail of the evening, the Tequila Lime and Tears Hoover. Later, we’ll have Malignant Mudslides!In walks Amon Sloter. Holy sh*t. Were you in -like- witness protection, or something, man?That’s when ol’ User-10811655399422899421 shows up… right when the food’s done. Jesus, this guy can eat. He can only be bothered to be torn away from his wife every so often, but the Annual Blue Moon & Slim Jims Narcissistic Blood Drinking and Barbecue Festival always brings that motherf—ker back around. He can’t resist being among His brethren again and breaking bread. What a f—king ‘Jesus Complex.’ My god, bro, come down from your freaking mountaintop for just a moment of your time!!! We could still use you around, eh?He always wants to play instead of talk, so he brings his guitar; and I always have mine, so we always end up jamming with Billy Joel or David Lee Roth (musician), or both, if they both show. What a thick bit of tension, these two guys on the main stage together… Not Joel and Roth, Viki and me. OH! It’s electric… None of the younger popstars have become self-aware enough to realize what a time they’re missing, but we always get them in the end… And that one time that Sting came through, so much shade… but what a night!Anyway, aside from the results of my usual flair for cuisine et musique, there will also be carnival rides, ponies, and a Ferris wheel that, to be quite honest, you would never catch me on. But I’m sure it’s fine for kids. Really. Just not full-grown narcissistic men, okay? We’re too top-heavy, and brawny, and cocksure, and drunk, and we’ll just end up knocking the damned thing over. If we’re going to ride anything, we’re going to go throw up off of the Scrambler, at best.Anyway, Ryan Reynolds always comes through in the Deadpool costume and does all the kooky voices for the kiddos. Don’t worry ladies, he’ll produce those abs at a moment’s notice… all you ever have to do is launch a compliment, and then ask… And don’t even get me started on Tom Hiddleston. That animal will whip out anything you ask him to. (It’s okay… he’s not that tall, anyway. Mine’s way fatter.)Dr. Horst (I mean House) does a bratwurst on a marbled rye with onions and spicy brown over at his stand that you simply cannot do justice to with mere verbiage. (Hold the kraut on mein, mein Herr… my stomach!.. oh, okay… screw it… ein bisschen, bitte.)The gals from Absolutely Fabulous always do their own plucky brand of “Who’s On First” type of thing on the main stage, and it’s always a delight. Speaking of which, Deee-Lite reunites yearly for a quick set (ooooh I love that Lady Miss Kier), followed by Ukrainian star Verka Serduchka doing that fun “Sieben Sieben” number, with The Mighty Boosh closing the show with some harsh, tasty beats.Sheila does the deep fried Twinkies, Mars bars, Oreos, etc. You have got to love the Scottish for their contributions to festival cuisine. But there are also funnel cakes, and Philly steak sandwiches, and, not weirdly, a sh*tload of Slim Jims.We sit around a giant campfire and tell stories of how we manipulated our exes and how we can’t wait to discard the next one… it’s not as sad as it sounds, really. We sing songs and pretend to cry upon each other’s shoulders as we pretend to sympathize. It’s a hoot.It’s the only time we ever get to see Kim Jong-un, Supreme Leader of North Korea, let his poor, misunderstood hair down. Oh yeah, and we dance the f—k outta that “Gangnam Style” song… he gets so giddy.It’s all very cathartic and freeing. We’re all there, from all around the world, holding each other up and loving each other down, all over a fantastic home-cooked meal. Then we all drink of this:Yes, you got it, it’s the Holy Grail— the cup of Christ! We’ve had it all this time, guys— seriously, no one’s told you about this? We fill it with the Blood and Tears of Empaths that we’ve collected all year, pass it around ceremoniously, and proceed to get absolutely, positively wrecked!!! I mean smattered! And it keeps us looking young.God, I love you guys.It’s the most beautiful part of every autumn for me… The crispness of the air, the brilliantly colored leaves, the smell of Horst over there with that delicious-ass bratwurst— man, we need to talk!I heard that Adam Sandler, Kevin Hart, Seth Mcfarlane, and the current sitting U.S. President, Donald Trump, are all slated to come down and do a tight set this year. It’s going to kill.Seriously, though, to all of you I mentioned, as well as all of you I so irresponsibly neglected to mention (*sorry, ahma wee bet tepsy*), I am unabashedly and wholeheartedly honored to be in your company. I have never felt more a part of something so much bigger than myself (and, to be honest, I’m still not entirely convinced it is any bigger than myself), and I want to thank you for being here when I needed you. I hope like hell that I have been there for you. Nobody’s going to look out for us but us, and I feel like I’m in some good motherf—king hands, yo! Especially with the Psychopath Mafia handling security at this b!tch. Nobody’s going to try sh*t.It has been my honor to cook for you and serve you every year at the Annual Blue Moon & Slim Jims Narcissistic Blood Drinking and Barbecue Festival. Your support has made each year possible for me, the boys and girls, and this unruly, unholy, magnificent festival. Good luck, and good night.I’m a narcissist, I’m capable of love, I’m a little drunk right now, I love you all, and I wursh yers gwdntst hurf ter ger…Lady Miss Kier, ladies and gentlemen:Mmmmm hmmmm. The grrrroove isn’t just in my heart.Sing it, baby.

Those who have been abused by a narcissist: Can you tell me a bit about the role that music played in your abusive relationship?Thanks for the A2A Essay Dolan.I wrote an answer last May that answers this question as well. I am going to copy it here:Kris Harpster's answer to Why do narcissists love music?Updated May 16H. G. Tudor nailed my experience with one of my 2 narcissist exes:H G Tudor's answer to Why do narcissists love music?N#2's use of music to seduce and destroy was diabolical. Others would be correct in assuming there is nothing particularly different about narcissists and their relationship to music. My N husband of 30 years did not employ music in his romantic schemes. In fact, N#1 was devoid of rhythm, and he used to bury his face in newspapers when I danced because he was jealous.I was thrilled when I met N#2, a bass player and "music lover." He was actually a music sadist. It is still incredible to my mind that anyone would use music--the universal language--to access, capture and extinguish the souls of other humans, but that is N#2's primary predatory game.N#2 romanced me, via e-mail and chat, up to 10 hours a day in the early months. These romantic sessions were multi-media events, featuring photos, poetry, song lyrics, MP3's and YouTube videos. (He lived 3 hours away.) He portrayed that he was falling in love, and pounded me with love ballads and R&B dance songs, up to 50 songs a session. He was my personal DJ, shining his love spotlight on me.I remember the first week, he sent me a rather ugly song by Delbert McClinton, called "Starting a Rumor.”I’m starting a rumor about you and meThat we’ve been seen out doing some crazy thingsThey say were tight as any two can beI”m starting a rumor about you and meThey all be talking out of schoolLike how we carry on like love sick foolsHe posted it on his Facebook page, and then kept sending and resending me the lyrics, creating the impression that he was about to start posting my photos all over his social media. All a sick game. In 6 years, he never once posted a photo of me, or mentioned me. We lived together 4 of those years, and took vacations, which he posted photos of that didn’t include me.Also in the first week, he told me he was going to set up his equipment, sing me a song, and then send the video. He said he had not played guitar or sang in a year, indicating he couldn't because his evil ex had hurt him so badly he couldn't bear to sing or play. An hour or so later, I received a video of him, attempting, through tears, to sing Paul McCartney's "My Love." The poor soul struggled on through tears and snot, until he could no longer choke out the words. I later found this video in his video folder dated more than a year before he’d met me.He kept sending obscure song lyrics without crediting them. He wrote in poetry form, and for a long time, I read the lyrics as his words, inviting me for a weekend, or expressing his feelings, as per the lyrics, but he never responded when I replied to "his" messages. He just resent the lyrics. Finally, I figured out what he was doing. He was not communicating. He was playing a game of, "I know something you don't know." I couldn't compute this, early on. I remembered reading in Dr. Robert Hare’s book, “Without Conscience: The Disturbing World of the Psychopaths Among Us,” that psychopaths speak in riddles (D was a malignant narcissist), but I simply couldn’t believe it.After building me up for a huge Valentine's Day celebration, he canceled our date, carried on a sex-drenched conversation with a female friend on Facebook, and sent me the song, "I Trained Her to Love Me," by Nick Lowe:This one's almost done now to watch her fall apartI trained her to love me so I can go ahead and break her heartHe ended the day by sending me a video of himself singing a love song to his woman of the year before. I knew the video had not been made for me because his hair was three inches longer than it currently was.He sent cruel, hateful lyrics, such as the ones from "Still There'll be More" by Procol Harum:I'll blacken your Christmas and piss on your doorYou'll cry out for mercy, but still there'll be moreHe sent these and other hateful lyrics over and over. There was never any explanation. He kept repeating that he was "a musicologist." I assumed he collected musical oddities. I realize now he was expressing his hatred and contempt of a woman he barely knew, and feigned being in love with so that he could "blacken my Christmas and piss on my door.”In our first year together, I kept begging him to play guitar for me. Finally one day, he brought his tall stool out on the deck, brought out his bass, and began strumming. He talk-sang about fucking a young girl at his job earlier that day. He never played, just strummed. Then he took his guitar back in the house. The only other time he ever played for me was when he was in a band, and he raved all day, every day, about how in love he was with the 400-pound married singer. Every evening, he sat me down to listen to him sing love songs because "I HAVE to sing this with her, and I have to get it perfect before I ask her to sing it with me."He made hundreds of videos of himself simulating sex with this woman while they sang together, and he downloaded them into my laptop, so I would be sure not to miss them.The hits just kept on coming. After I discovered his affair with his ex, he begged his way back into my life, moved in with me, and posted "Song for a Sucker Like You" by Ben Sidran on a music forum the same day.During periods of time when I was taking a break from him, a common theme of his “depression” was how he was giving up on life, he was just going to sell all his instruments. I always begged him not to. I do not have a doubt in the world that part of his smear-campaigning was telling his dupes that I told him to sell his instruments. That is what he did with everything I begged him not to do--tell people I was trying to make him do it. It's the same thing he did to his ex, early in our relationship, portraying that he had stopped playing music because of her.He never touched his instruments in our 6 years together, except for the times I've mentioned. Yet every time we broke up and I left his home, he set his equipment up in the front room facing the sofa, which was where he held a never-ending stream of Internet women captive until he fucked them, and never saw them again. I know. I saw the e-mails. This was the sofa I returned to each time I returned.Perhaps the ugliest thing he did, using music, was the day in our final reconciliation that I asked him to dance with me, and he wouldn't. In our early years, we danced. For hours. Three or four times a week. I don't believe for a minute he loved to play his instruments, but he LOVED to dance. In our last 2 years, he would not dance with me. He had purchased new equipment, during our latest separation, for playing music, but it collected dust. Refusing to dance with me was part of his devaluation. One day, I expressed how much I missed dancing and he agreed we would dance. Instead, for 10 straight hours, he messed with his equipment, disabling it so that not even I could manage to play anything. He sat and tinkered, occasionally blasting some horrible undanceable tune, at a volume so loud it hurt my eardrums. (I have damaged ears from a CO poisoning, so this was exceptionally cruel.) He got drunk, taunted and screamed at me, and slammed doors, until the wee hours of the morning.I never danced with him again, not even the one time he asked me to. The memories were too painful. And I had loved to dance all my life, until I was 64 years old. The so-called "music lover" took the music out of my life.P.S. Wow, horrible. I can’t believe I was ever with this person.