Felice Fawn, novos golpes e um texto antigo

Texto sobre Felice Fawn

Felice fez muita coisa... Muita coisa mesmo... Até hoje aplica uns golpes quando pode

(vender peças usadas, na imagem da esquerda é antiga, aonde ela posta um biquini dela em um post de publicidade, dizendo que caçou esse biquini por anos, dai na foto da direito ela revende o biquini dizendo que apenas experimentou por um segundo) 

(na imagem da direita é a foto real do body, ele pertence a outra pessoa que é dona de uma marca indie, dai a Felice roubou a foto, cortou a cabeça da modelo e tentou vender)

(nessa foto a tealecocox briga com a felice por roubar as fotos dela dizendo que ela NUNCA COMPROU DELA, logo não poderia revender "pare de roubar minhas imagens, eu nunca te mandei isso, você não é dona disso, não comprem dela, ela é uma mentirosa", disse ela)

Aqui a Tealecocx conta que Felice nunca comprou dela, logo não teria como revender

(Vendendo peças que não é dela)... E isso é bizarro

 Aqui uma moça conta que comprou da loja da Felice e... nunca recebeu nenhuma uma confirmação de envio e faz 1 mês que ela comprou

(Calote?)

link

- Um texto que a Felice Fawn escreveu- 

Todo mundo sabe que ela já foi "Pro-Ana"

Hoje em dia ela se diz ser contra isso... mas muita gente diz que ela é hipócrita... Mas eu não sei...

Esse era o antigo blog dela:

Que foi excluido...

Nele tinha esse texto dela falando sobre a historia dela... Deite para chorar:

(tradução para o português não pode estar 100% correta)

(a tradução ficou uma merda, deixei o original logo abaixo... Se você é de fora do Brasil ou Portugal sugiro que pegue o texto original)

(original logo abaixo da tradução)

Sobre mim:

Mára aurë. Meu nome é Jade Rose. Eu sou uma jovem menina nascida e criada na Inglaterra. Bem falada, mal educada, e gosta muito de arte e da literatura. Eu poderia me apresentar por meio de uma descrição física prolongada e vários fatos sobre minha natureza e personalidade, mas parece tão clichê, e é claro que iria contra o objectivo de estar no anonimato, então ao invés disso eu vou contar a minha história.

Eu nasci em uma família amorosa, financeiramente seguro, completa, com dois conjuntos de avós casados, tias e tios de ambos os lados. Eu era a primeira filha, a preciosa e minha presença e saúde eram adorados. Minha mãe era muito bonita [..]. Ela era um como diamante e então vivendo a vida de uma esposa amada com um status e reputação inabalável ao longo dos anos[...]. Meu pai era o equivalente, o macho alfa com  olhos verdes oceano. Ela tinha histórico familiar mais positiva e ele o oposto de minha mãe: Com histórias de abuso de drogas, pequenos crimes e violência [...]

Nós vivemos em uma bela casa situada na periferia da Inglaterra, e meu pai fez negócio em tempo integral ao lado de seu pai, dedicada a apoiar a família. Sua ética de trabalho eram feroz e rapidamente resultou em luxo. Logo fomos para uma casa ainda maior, propositalmente localizado próximo aos meus avós do lado do meu pai, como eles eram uma linha vital de apoio para a minha mãe em relação ao meu cuidado: Eu era uma criança difícil e não estava preparada, algo que meu fez pai que me marcou até hoje e me afetou muito mais do que eu deixo transparecer.

[..]Eu fui agraciada com a forma dos lábios de meu pai, mas a plenitude de minha mãe, enquanto os meus olhos eram da forma da minha mãe, mas a cor de meu pai.[...] Estética de minha mãe e a natureza de um homem.

Aos cinco anos, minha irmã mais nova nasceu. A partir desse momento eu já não era a preferida de minha mãe, eu não estava ciente disso ainda. Eu inconscientemente comecei a deriva em favor de meu pai, apesar de sua ausência devido ao trabalho [...].Eu era um espírito livre com uma cabeça forte, cheia de confiança [..] Eu comecei a construir um vínculo inquebrável com o meu pai e lentamente comecei a sentir que só era eu e ele contra o mundo.[..].

(esse paragrafo próximo ficou confuso)

Lembro-me de que diate de minha mãe as coisas azedaram[...] A moral de meu pai era sempre tão feroz quanto a sua ética e seu valor, e enquanto ele se esforçou para me ensinar os valores da vida e da importância da responsabilidade, minha mãe promoveu a ideia de me comprar me posses materiais apenas para irritá-lo, e as suas ideias de parentalidade correta entrou em conflito, fazendo com que argumentos cheios de agressão e raciocínio irracional por parte da minha mãe.

Foi quando eu tinha 6 anos de idade que a minha vida mudou de perfeito para infernal [..] Minha mãe traiu meu pai em nossa casa de família com um homem estranho chamado M. [..]. Meus pais logo se divorciaram e me foi dada uma escolha: para ir com o meu pai ou ficar com a minha mãe. Claro, eu escolhi o meu pai![..] Este momento é extremamente simbólico de como minha vida evoluiu a partir deste ponto em diante, como a distância e ódio que se desenvolveu entre eu e minha mãe ao longo do tempo [...] e ela nunca me perdoou, apesar da minha pouca idade.

Mas tive que voltar para o cuidado de minha mãe e para enfrentar a presença do homem que destruiu tudo o que eu sabia. Meu pai deu a minha mãe tudo: a casa, os móveis, o carro, as economias. Tudo para o bem de seus filhos e ele começou a sua vida a partir do zero movendo-se em uma pequena casa suja enquanto trabalhava sozinho..

Ao longo dos anos várias mudanças ocorreram e uma série interminável de eventos aconteceu. M e minha mãe começou a se tornar violento[...]. Nosso carro foi vandalizado e incendiado. Meu pai dirigia M quase o matou. Nós nos mudamos de casa [...] Qualquer distância entre meu pai e eu me apavorava.

A violência só piorou a mais mas seu relacionamento persistiu e minha irma e eu assistimos a uma variedade de coisas violentas que lentamente se tornaram normalidade [...]

Logo que me tronei adulta fui indo embora e simplesmente parei de falar [..] E cuidando de minha irmã como se ela fosse minha própria filha[..]

Neste ponto da minha vida a violência da minha mãe também tinham começado a virar em minha direção. Eu tinha objetos arremessados ​​contra mim, foi espancada com um cabide de metal e geralmente eu levava tapas ela estava frustrada[...]Tornei-me emocionalmente frágil e com medo de coisas básicas ao longo do tempo [...]

Aos 11 anos, eu finalmente fui morar com meu pai [...]. É claro que nada de bom durou no meu mundo, e em uma noite meus pais se enfrentaram e M a espancá-la novamente, tive que chamar a ambulancia[...] Meu pai me deixou novamente com ela [...]

[...] Minha mãe virou alcoólatra.

Minha irmã sempre teve uma ligação estranha com minha mãe. Às vezes eu sentia ciúmes. Eu tinha praticamente criado minha irmã e mantido os olhos e ouvidos dela de distância do inferno e em troca, sou forçado a vê-la crescer em uma rapariga. Então a minha irmã nunca recebeu qualquer tipo de trauma físico ou emocional, então eu tento não sentir muito ressentimento. [...]

Meu pai se casou de novo com uma mulher 13 anos mais jovem do que ele. Eu não tinha permissão para ser uma dama de honra, nem sentar-se à mesa principal com eles ou a minha primeira família. Fui excluida da cerimonia[...]

Quando eu tinha 14 anos, M deixou minha mãe que o substitui por um novo namorado.té o momento eu tinha 14 anos, M tinha deixado, apenas para ser substituído por um outro namorado. Ele tinha um histórico de problemas de saúde mental e violência e ele ostentava várias tatuagens mas logo as historias de violência se repitiram  agora em meus anos de adolescência[...]. Eu tinha descoberto os cigarros e álcool, e eu comecei a abusar ambos regularmente. E aos 16 anos fui morar com um namorado [...]

[...] Minha madrasta me separou do meu pai, eu só queria ter uma família [...]

[...] Ninguém me conhecia além de meu namorado, nem meu pai, nem minha mãe [...] Eles nunca souberam que eu tinha ido ao hospital em um estado de quase morte. [...] Eu gosto assim.

Agora eu estou sofrendo de anorexia nervosa e ainda atormentada [...].Eu não falo com a minha mãe desde fevereiro deste ano, e como a minha história agora começa a se tornar menos detalhada, encorajo-vos a ler o meu jornal desde a primeira página.

Meu nome é Jade Rose. Eu sou um ateu satanista ao grau máximo. [...] (cortei a descrição satânica dela aqui)

___________________________________________

O texto real esta completo e mais detalhado (e complicado de traduzir)

____

About me:

Mára aurë. My name is Jade Rose. I am a young girl from England, born and raised. Well spoken, poorly educated, and an avid enthusiast of art and literature. I could introduce myself through a prolonged physical description and various facts about nature and personality, but it seems so cliche, and of course would defeat the purpose of anonymity, so instead I will tell you my history.

I was born into a loving, financially secure family, complete with two sets of married grandparents, aunts and uncles on both sides. I was the first child, the precious gift, and I was worshipped for my presence and my health. My mother was beautiful both aesthetically and seemingly characteristically for the longest time. Five foot seven and a perfect size eight, with thick brunette hair that complimented olive skin and huge brown almond eyes, framed by lashes even a doe would be jealous of. She was a diamond to many and admired by more, popular in her youth and now living the life of a cherished wife, her status and reputation unwavering throughout her years. My father was the equivalent, only six foot five and alpha male with ocean green eyes. He had more positive family history and a less positive personal history, the opposite of my mother, with stories of drug abuse, petty crime and violence circulating him and his cockney relations. Minor details like cocaine use when I was a baby seem significant yet are irrelevant, so forgive me for skipping the fine print.

We lived in a beautiful house situated in the outskirts of a wonderful town in England, and my father did business full time alongside his father, dedicated to supporting the family. His work ethics were fierce and it rapidly resulted in luxuries. We soon upgraded to an even bigger house, purposely located proximate to my grandparents on my father’s side, as they were a vital line of support to my mother in regards to my care; I was a difficult toddler and she was unprepared, something my father echoes to this day and affected me more than I let on.

Family holidays were regular, from generic British camping vacations to the exotic abroad. I developed perfectly and my first few years were my finest. Thick white blonde hair, cut short into a neat bob which only accentuated the mass of it. I was gifted with the shape of my father’s lips, but the fullness of my mothers, while my eyes were the shape of my mother’s, but the colour of my fathers. A perfect blend of two sexes and a prize possession to any budding parent it seemed. I was flaunted by my mother for my aesthetics and by my father for my boyish nature.

At age five, my younger sister was born. From this moment onwards I was no longer the apple of my mother’s eye, I just wasn’t aware of it yet. I subconsciously began to drift in favour of my father, despite his absence due to work. He became novelty, and I began finding myself working hard to impress him even at such a tender age. Being a tomboy meant my interests revolved primarily around nature. I was a free spirit with a strong head, veins full of confidence, and I would spend my days exploring the woodland behind my grandparents’ house, or begging for a hand to hold so I could cross the bridge over the motorway to access the local orchard, a haven full of wonder and opportunity for any dirt digging, tree climbing, fruit picking child. I began to build an unbreakable bond with my father, and slowly it began to feel like me and him against the world, but this only accentuated the accumulating damage within their marriage. I was a carefree spitfire with my father, dressed in bows, floral and lace by my mother, and the clash caused endless tension between them.

I remember my mother vividly before things turned sour, which if anything makes reliving the past more painful. We would bake cakes for the children’s hospice neighbouring our local church. We would spend time drawing Disney, copying from my favourite books. As my sister and I got older, her tendency to snap between emotions abruptly began to escalate and become more and more regular. Small details like snatching my dummy from my lips when frustrated, my most cherished possession, and urgently slicing it in half with the blades of scissors to merely prove a point is one of my first recollections. At the time her inclination to think that bearing gifts resolves bad choices was in fact correct, and over time I became spoilt, the more cluttered my bedroom became with toys, the more evidence was scattered that there were darker issues fighting to surface. My father’s morals were always as fierce as his worth ethics, and while he strived to teach me life values and the importance of responsibility, my mother promoted the idea of buying me material possessions, mainly just to spite him, and their ideas of correct parenting continued to conflict, causing poorly hidden arguments full of aggression and irrational reasoning on my mother’s part.

It was when I was 6 years old that my life abruptly switched from perfect (at least, in a child’s eyes) to Hell. My mother cheated on my father in our family home with a strange man called M, and it was I who heard the alien voice late one night and discovered them. They soon divorced, and on the night that the news was broken to me, I was given a choice; to go with my father, or stay with my mother. Of course, I chose my father, and we packed a few basic possessions and drove immediately to my grandparents house, leaving my baby sister in my mothers care. This moment is incredibly symbolic of how my life progressed from this point onwards, and the distance and hatred that developed between my mother and I over time. It is my belief that my mother was incredibly angry with me for choosing my father, and has never forgiven me, despite my tender age.

I soon had to return home to the care of my mother, and to face the presence of the man who destroyed everything I knew. My father gave my mother everything; the house, the furniture, the car, the savings. Everything, for the sake of his children, and he started his life from the ground up, moving into a small dirty house local to town whilst working alone in an attempt to form an empire for the same of income.

Over the years, various changes took place and an endless series of events happened. M and my mother started to become violent, beating each other physically and tearing through the house like hurricanes as my sister and I would hide ourselves away as best we could on a regular basis. Our car was vandalized and burnt down outside our house. My father purposely drove into M and nearly killed them both. We moved house, many times, until relocating entirely to a village 30 minutes away from my fathers, which terrified me at the time. Any distance between my father and I terrified me.

The violence only got worse the longer their relationship persisted, and I witnessed a variety of things that slowly became normality; vodka bottles being smashed into skulls, blood over walls, faces and arms. Burning smashed light bulbs being held to faces, knives being held to limbs and chests. Blue lights; police and ambulances, regularly visiting to save them from themselves. It was intense, to say the least, and I was regularly taken in by local strangers, spending my youth running barefoot with my sister in my arms to random doors, whether it was winter or summer.

I slowly began to withdraw, and for a year I became a mute; I simply stopped talking. I completely inverted in the rawest way, refusing to tell anyone anything about myself or my life, even my own father, who I became protective over even at such a young age, striving to keep him away from what had become my problems. Looking after my sister as if she were my own daughter, and protecting my father from a life filled with blood and bruises became my purpose and my sanity, and discovering self harm at the age of nine only separated me further. Even though I was an adolescent, I would resent others who openly talked about their problems and received attention for their woes. My mindset was always “just fucking deal with it”, despite tears, terror, and the gripping of teddy-bears in private.

At this point in my life my mothers violence had also begun to turn in my direction. I had objects hurled at me, was beaten with a metal coat-hanger and was generally slapped around when she was frustrated and had no one else to take her intense, irrational anger out on. I became more emotionally fragile and scared of basic things over time. Teachers shouting would leave me shaking and in hysterics, gripping to desks and unable to form sentences. Vacuum cleaners and the clanking of cutlery would induce the same reaction, as cleaning generally equalled frustration, and frustration usually resulted in either physical or some form of extreme mental abuse.

At age 11 I finally moved in with my father, and for a brief period of my life I had revisited heaven. Social services had finally got involved. I had never been able to move to his due to his work commitments and lack of funding for additional care for me, but we made it work, along with help from my grandparents. Of course, nothing good ever lasted in my world, and one evening I skipped towards the door after dinner to respond to a knock I heard, only to pull back the wood and glass to reveal my mothers face, wet with tears and makeup. I remember that moment well, and I always have; it was the moment in which the devil returned to ruin the only good thing I had left, and my father unfortunately brought her story of M beating her again, along with her needing him back in her life, a place to stay, and a re-kindled marriage. It was that night my father left to play his usual sport in town, leaving me alone with her. It was that night I found her hanging from the staircase with a collection of pills at her feet. It was that night I called an ambulance, and to this day, the darkest part of me wishes I never had.

After living with my grandparents for a few months whilst my mother recovered in hospital and my father continued to expand his business, I had to return home to live with my mother again. For the next few years I self harmed viciously, ran from home whenever I had the opportunity just to avoid violence, and in the time inbetween, locked myself away in my room entirely. There were various other incidents where police had to be called, and both my mother and M by this point ended up with a pretty solid criminal record. My mother was also now a full time alcoholic.

My sister always had a strangely unique bond with my mother. They were close, and she was untouchable; my mothers angel. Sometimes I felt jealous, whilst others it merely made me sick. I had practically raised my sister and kept her eyes and ears away from from Hell as best I could, and in return I am forced to watch her grow into a young girl with a close relationship with the witch that burdened us. Then again, my sister never received any kind of emotional or physical trauma, so I try not to feel too much resentment.

My father was eventually re-married to a woman 13 years younger than him. I was not allowed to be a bridesmaid, nor sit at the main table with them or my first family. I was completely excluded from the event, handed over to my Dad’s friends for the day, and I have never felt such heartache, isolation and loss like this in my entire life. I was forced to watch my Papa be taken from me, instead of being offered a place by both of their sides, as part of the family.

By the time I was 14 years old, M had left, only to be replaced with another boyfriend, coincidentally, with exactly the same name, which naturally gave me chills. He had a history of mental health issues and violence, and he sported various tattoos, a large figure, cold light grey eyes and a shaved head. My childhood repeated throughout my teenage years, the only difference being we lived in a different house, and the new boyfriend had different aesthetics. Knives, blood, broken objects, screams, strange houses, strange faces. Repeat. I had however discovered cigarettes and alcohol, and I began abusing them both regularly. Between 14 and 18 years old I was regularly sleeping on sofas and the leaves that coated forest floors, up to my eyeballs in vodka and at that time in particular, a lot of painkillers, marijuana and benzodiazepines. I had found a boyfriend that I moved in with at 16 because the violence at home was too much to handle, but my arms were still split with blades on a regular basis, and my body was regularly limp and cold due to overdose.

I dwell on the past daily. My father was my best friend, my superhero and my rock, and his marriage to my stepmother finally symbolised the solidified distance between us, purposely created by her. It was always her intention to have him for herself, undivided, and believe me when I say this is not a solo, bias opinion. They now live together in a home I am made to feel unwelcome in by her alone, and my relationship with my father, although naturally strong, has deteriorated further than I ever imagined possible. We are each others reflections, we share the same blood, but I now have to fight wars to keep him close. He lives a separate life that I am now hardly a part of, and I spend my time watching from a distance, wishing for a family of my own, or at least for my stepmother to allow me to be a part of theirs. Usually I just wish for my father.

I had been taken to A+E to have my life saved, get stitches and general emergency care more times than I could count by the time I reached 19. I lived a separate life; no one knew me besides my boyfriend, not even my father, nor my mother. Neither of them ever discovered I self harmed or abused drugs and alcohol so severely, and I had managed to somehow hide it for a solid ten years. They never knew I had been to hospital at a state of near death. My father never knew my mother had once ever laid a hand on me. Nobody knew anything about me, and I liked it that way.

Now I am suffering from anorexia nervosa, still plagued with self harming tendancies and the urge to drink and pill away my problems. I haven’t spoken to my mother since February of this year, and as my story now begins to become less detailed, I encourage you to read my journal from page one.

My name is Jade Rose. I am an Atheistic Satanist to the fullest degree. I am all dilated pupil and no iris. I am all vodka and no blood. I am all smoke and no oxygen. I am all sins, anger, sadness and scars.

(as fotos pro ana que ela postava)