It’s been 23 years.

This isn’t even remotely a sexy post.  My life is filled with less “sexy” these days and a lot more thinking.  I can’t find anyone I’m attracted to, first of all, and secondly, no one seems worth my time.  So I’m just going to write what’s in my heart instead.

I remember standing at the bus stop on my brand new college campus far away from home and feeling miserable.  I felt raw and overwhelmed and I hadn’t yet acclimated to anything about this city.  Not its culture, its heat, its weird streets and freeways, or its university with what seemed to me to be an atypical rabid loyalty from its students.  (Turns out, all colleges are like that, but I had no idea.)

“I just have to work hard and get out of here,” I thought as I watched throngs of students walk by and buses lumber past.  I’d been here for all of 2 months, but had already had a falling out with my father, and the mantra which got me out of California, painted on the wall of my room, didn’t really make sense.  I was where I’d worked so hard to get to.

That was the moment I realized I needed help, because everywhere you go, there you are.

I booked an appointment at the Student Mental Health Clinic that same day.  I want to say that I even walked there from the bus stop, but I can’t be certain.

For 16 weeks I met in one of the dark, windowless basement rooms with a beautiful PhD student whose name I can no longer recall.  Every session was recorded so his professor could monitor our progress and his acuity and I remember surreptitiously glancing at the red recording light on the camera mounted in the corner.

In that stack of email printouts I found recently I’d written someone about my sessions with him.  About how I struggled with feeling comfortable with his shockingly good looks and how much I cried about my dad and my friends from back home who never wrote. Sometimes it feels like my life started in that basement.

When the sessions ended (because 16 is plenty for a girl who’s been completely traumatized by her childhood and is on the brink of engaging in reckless drug and sexual activity) the center gave me a list of neighboring clinicians I could go to out of pocket.  My mom agreed to pay and for $100/hour in 1996 I sat on Sigmund Freud’s couch while he slurped his fast food drink and finished his lunch and I angrily wore sheer white shirts with no bra to get back at him for his disrespect.

It lasted 6 months before I realized he didn’t really give a shit about anything I had to say.  Besides, I felt better.  I felt generally more competent and emboldened: it was ok to do what I wanted.  I dated a girl, made lots of friends, drank and smoked weed with the honor students and smoked Benson and Hedges Menthol 100’s and requested them with a straight face.

By senior year my partying began to take its toll on me and my school work and I found myself back at the Mental Health Center, this time with a drug counselor of a sort who liked to draw me lots of diagrams and give me handouts.

She let my best friend come with me and we’d do a fun little couples session on how to set boundaries with our other friends and make better choices.  Debbie never judged us and she encouraged moderation over a hard line of abstinence only.  Obviously, we liked that.  But then those sessions ran out too, college ended, and I was out on my own in the big world at 21.

Twenty-one.  They say that’s a grown up adult with all the responsibilities and obligations of all the other adults, but when I think of that girl I think it’s a miracle she survived 22 more years.

I moved downtown and worked in a bar after graduation and snorted most of my piddly earnings and drunkenly fucked my way through my “industry” brothers.  Sex and alcohol were like peas and carrots in my book and the attention I was getting from men was its own intoxication as I’d been largely ignored since arriving at school.  What?  Men liked me??

That life only lasted a year before we all moved out and on and by 24 I was more or less behaving myself.  I’d gotten a cat and a dog, found steady work.  I still partied a little on weekends, still had drunken sex, but I also fell in love for the first time and had a “grown up” relationship where I practiced saying No for the first time.  I had varying degrees of success with that.

Therapy wasn’t a part of any of this.  My life was like a hamster ball rolling and bouncing downhill – and I was obviously the hamster just hanging on for dear life.  It worked just fine until my father crossed another line and I fell apart.  I kicked him back out of my sister’s and my lives, but that didn’t stop him from traveling from Colorado to knock on my front door one Sunday morning.

Disheveled and hungover, wearing my white satin Victoria’s Secret shorts and top ensemble I looked through the peep hole.  I should have pretended to not be home.

It was another traumatic visit which found me assailing him with my anger and him deflecting and blaming me.  What did he want?  Why was he there?  Why wouldn’t he fucking listen to me??!  It felt gross and needy and violating on every level and me being braless and in satin didn’t help.

Hours later he left and I crumpled into a hot mess of tears and blubbering.  I called my mom and she insisted I start therapy again.  I was 26 and – with the exception of the times I had a baby and toddler to care for – I have been in an office pouring my heart out ever since.

My last therapist was a father-figure in all ways.  He shared a look with my dad, a similar build, but where my father was disgusting and titillated by the world, Rich was calm and detached.  He was safe and encouraging.  He helped guide me to graduate school and into my marriage and helped me begin to trust men, just a little.  But when I left my husband, I lost him.

My wild sexual ways as Hy befuddled him.  He thought I needed to go to Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous, he thought I was bipolar.  I relentlessly fought both: No, I was exploring and loving and feeling alive.  This wasn’t a manic episode, this was me!  I ended our 10 year relationship abruptly one afternoon and I haven’t looked back.

I was without therapy for another year before I called my couples counselor, the wizened woman who had tried her very best to help me and my husband reconcile.  Would she see me?  Yes, she would.

I have spent thousands of dollars over the years on therapy.  Thousands. That has meant I didn’t have money for travel, for fancy things, for a savings account.  It has been a monetary sacrifice, to be sure, but how do I put a price on saving my own life?  On having one person in this entire fucking world whom I can trust and be myself with?  When I feel so lost and isolated 99% of the time I feel at home on a couch.  I don’t even care that I’m paying her; I know she cares about me.

I cried yesterday on her sea-foam colored armchair because I miss Peter and his steady presence in my life, and where I am resolute in how I handled that situation, I feel less certain about The Golfer.  I am rehashing our times together trying to figure out what I may have done to make him reject me.  It’s a useless and silly exercise, a juvenile one like how little kids think they’re responsible for the terrible things their parents do to them, but I can’t help it.

And then I remember that one time in the very early days with The Neighbor when while walking up to a movie theater he grabbed my hand and I pulled it away.  “Friends with benes don’t hold hands,” I’d told him.  What if that one moment I rejected him shaped the entirety of the rest of our time together?  What if I had just let him hold my hand?

With TG I think, “What if when he was clearly being vulnerable with me and sharing that I was his only lover this year I had lied and said he was my only one, too?”  Perhaps my eluding the question hurt him deeply and that is why he is rejecting me now.

It’s embarrassing to admit such twisted logic.  I am a strong, intelligent, powerful woman after all, with more to give than most.  What is wrong with me??  But I don’t have to fear reprisal from my therapist.  She likes to sit quietly most days and ponder, absorb my flood of emotion, then speak thoughtfully.  Yesterday was no different.

“Hy,” she said at the end of the hour, “I shouldn’t be bringing this up right now [since we have to end], but I can’t help but think that both TN and TG are so similar for you.  With TG everything fun is on his own terms – everything – just like with TN.  He says when and where with no thought to your needs.  TN did the same thing.”

And that is why I will keep sitting on that couch until the day I die – hopefully more than another 23 years – because therapy is, quite literally, life.




A quiet morning.

I woke up this morning to quiet, a stillness. No one was texting me and – more importantly- no was not texting me.

I told The Golfer last week that I was busy for two weeks and would hit him up when I got free again. This morning I realized I could see him tonight, but my resistance to rejection is either high or low, depending on how you look at it: I don’t want to process yet someone else not wanting to spend time with me.

I don’t remember the last time my life was this man-free. I have always jockeyed for attention and sex from someone. If there wasn’t someone on deck, then I was plotting how to get someone there.

Today, I took my baby to the airport at 5 am to fly to the west coast to be with my sister, took the dog to the river for a two-hour hike and binge-watched Broadchurch on Netflix – the entire first season.

And I completely forgot about The Golfer.

I also avoided doing some administrative life things, but oh well. Sometimes I’m a shitty adult. Sometimes I kill it. Who’s signed up for 4 gym classes this week? This girl.

I took a selfie for the first time in weeks while on the trail and it’s so not sexy, so not revealing, so not sexual in any way I felt like it was worth sharing.

Just me being me. Hot and sweaty at the water’s edge sitting on an exposed root of a 50 ft tall cypress. No nipples, no nudity. Paddle boarders and kayakers rowed by in the baking sun while the dog cooled off in the dark waters along the bank behind me.

I felt calm. And relieved. No one was hurting me and more importantly, I wasn’t allowing it.

Sweat it out.
Sinful Sunday

It’s been quite the month.

I know I’ve said I’ve cleared things out of my life before, but I’ll be the first to admit I never really did.  I’d always have some hanger-on, some dude whose bad manners and nice dick lingered on the peripheries of my consciousness, but this time I have truly swept it all away.

I officially ended things with Peter yesterday.  After he ignored a bid of mine to connect and discuss things between us I decided I needed to pull the trigger.


Hey there.  I didn’t want to write this, but I’m not sure what else to do with you since you don’t seem to want to talk to me.  So I’m just gonna call it and say thank you and goodbye.

I wish you the absolute best, always, and I’ll be happy to hear from you one day when your time is your own and we don’t have to rush or sneak around.

Take care, sweet Peter.  Thanks for being kind to me.  I’m sorry it had to end. x


Fuck, that hurts but I also totally get it. I’ve been very Reckless with your feelings and it was never my intention to hurt you. You’ve been a true champion to deal with me and I sincerely apologize. I will always wish the best for you and yours and I’m sorry it had to end too. Take care, sweetheart. Never forget how amazing you are

I cried when I read his message.  I’m not amazing enough for him.

And then I got mad.

I got mad that he couldn’t have been respectful and mature and told me he was in a new serious relationship with that new woman, mad that he’d flaked on me 5 out of the last 6 times we tried to get together, mad that he glossed over me.

I also ended things with a young man who sat too close to me all night and argued with me about non-monogamy, then showed up to our second date a wasted version of himself because he’d blown his wad doing something else before we met.  When I eventually lost patience with his toddler-about-to-pass-out-in-his-spaghetti-bowl attitude and called him on it he seemed to lose patience with me.  Several days later I called it with him, too:


Hey there – so, I’d like to thank you for the drinks and for dinner, but also put a bow on this.  I’m just really not into dating anyone right now.  I’ll say Hi if I see you down on the river, though 😊


Sure no prob.

Even his response was lackluster.

I said a polite goodbye to the dad who emanated dad-vibes and grilled me about my shitty relationship with my ex:


Hey Dad-Vibe Guy, I’m so sorry for being an asshole and not responding to your nice note sooner.  The truth is, my heart is just not into dating right now.  I had fun, too though, and thanks for the adult grilled cheese 😊

Dad-Vibe Guy:

Appreciate the note. Best of luck to you.

And lastly, I tied it up with a potential sub whose conversational skills were severely lacking which I’d gently pointed out to him at dinner, as was his sex appeal (no, I didn’t point that out):

Potential Sub:

Hey thanks again:) I had such a great time chatting with you. Sorry I didn’t have more questions for you! I hope you didn’t take it as a lack of interest.


You’re welcome! And really, it was my pleasure :)

I didn’t take it as a lack of interest, per se, but more of a lack of effort.You’re very chatty and curious about me via text.  I didn’t feel much curiosity about me from you and I was looking/hoping for that.  I can talk to anyone and carry any conversation, so I didn’t want that to skew things bn us.

I still don’t feel like I have a good read on you.  I can be very disarming and seductive and lose sight of being seduced myself.  That’s why I mentioned the questions of me – or lack there of.  I’m actually paying attention to what’s going on lol

*bc I take this stuff seriously

It’s about more than just getting laid after all 💦🍆 lol

Oh sorry – I forgot the 🍑



Haha! Gotta get all the necessary elements in there


Yep haha


I totally hear you, and that makes sense. I do find myself more chatty and open via texting than in person, at least at first meeting. But I do open up more.

I think also my sense of someone and our connection comes more from just “hanging out” rather than any interview-style questioning

I feel like I get to know someone better that way. But I can totally see how it would come across as a lack of effort!

You were definitely disarming, easy to talk to, fun to be around

And very pretty


Haha thanks 💁🏼‍♀️


You’re welcome!!!

[The next morning:]

Hope you slept well:) I definitely did after that meal and glass of wine!



Your text woke me up haha

I have my phone set to sleep until 7 am but I forgot to mute it.Oops


Oh no, I’m so sorry!!!


No it’s ok!It was my fault for not turning my ringer off

But I was slow to wake up which is why I didn’t text back right away


Sure, that totally makes sense:)

What are you up to today?

[Some small talk, then two days later:]


Hey there

How’s it goin?


Hey!! Thanks for the text:) just out at the creek right now getting some sun. How’s your Monday so far?


So far, so good.Just wanted to be transparent with you that I’m not sure we have the kind of connection I‘m looking for based off our one date.I can usually tell these things, but I don’t want to be rash about it either.What are your thoughts?


I gotcha! No worries, I kinda got that vibe from you. It’s okay.

I’m glad we met and at least tried


Agreed.Best of luck to you :)

There’s one you might notice not on here, The Golfer.  I don’t know what to do with him, honestly, so I’m going to just let it lie.  He’s consumed with work at the moment – and booze and golf – and I don’t feel like letting that one go just yet.  It may be that it’s already gone, but knowing he’s still in my solar system makes me feel better.  I can’t be that healthy.

Sunday morning I drifted between lucid dreams and consciousness and felt myself being led down a path.  Curious, I followed the Hy who was leading me and she took me to a box.  In it were things I’d chosen to keep years ago when my father’s boxes arrived at my house after he died.

I had sat crumpled on the floor with his baby teeth and drawings of 1950’s cars with fins and bawled: there was no one left on the planet to care about these things.  I got rid of most of it, his photos as a young man with my mother, hair long and straggly, sideburns and mustache down to his jaw line, anything of him as my father who hurt me past the age of 15.  I kept the drawings, the baby pictures, and him as a young father.  Before he was a monster.

This is what remained in my box.

When I woke, I knew it was time to get rid of it all.

I listened to Joni Mitchell and carefully went through all my boxes, 5 in total.  My mother was a great historian and I culled through my ABC books and old classwork and report cards filled with Cs and Ds in anything mathematical and shining with As in everything English and creative.  Note after note she’d left me and my sister (we were disowned at one point for leaving all the lights on and our curling iron) and letters to Santa.  Peppered throughout were littles bits of Dad.

A letter chastising me for not cleaning the rat’s cage, but pleading with me to call him collect from my grandma’s house, cards scribbled in crayon announcing my love for him, drawings of him with his glasses and big mustache.  Those were ok to get through; I made a special pile of his things.

The very last box at the very end of the night was where I began to falter.  This was the box I had meant to clean out all along.  There were the baby pictures of him, fat and smiling, his blonde hair glistening.  I sat on the couch and cried as I passed the pictures to Peyton, wanting my baby to see my father before I erased him completely from our world.

Then I found a manilla folder with an inch of printouts dated from 1996.  Emails between me and my mother, sister and father, and some between my mom and dad.  I had forgotten that year, the year I had railed against my father and screamed at him to Please stop being awful!  Please stop leaving me!

I loved him, I said, but I couldn’t keep allowing him to treat me the way he did, to make me feel so less than and undeserving.  I didn’t even know he’d hurt my sister yet.  His responses to me swung from touches of compassion to all out disdain, “Everyone has a fucked up childhood, Hyacinth.  It’s time to suck it up.  You’re not special,” he said. My childhood being fucked up hadn’t even been a complaint of mine.

I contemplated taking a few of the more vitriolic emails to my therapist this Friday, but in the end decided I didn’t want them anywhere near me anymore.  They had to go.

It took three trips to the recycling bin to get rid of all my homework and drawings of rainbows and by the time I took the box with the framed pictures of Dad with his arms wrapped around my mother, his drawings and letters it was full.  It went into the dumpster instead.

When I told my mom there wasn’t any room in the recycle bin she laughed.  “There’s no need to recycle that anyway.”

“Sorry for putting that negative mojo in you, Mother Earth,” I quipped.

But it’s done.

I’m all done.


I don’t know how else to describe what I’ve been going through except a psychic tantrum on all fronts.

I feel unmoored, terrified, emboldened, devastated, excited, powerful, overwhelmed, gleeful and lost.


It started when Pey left town with my ex for the two-week trip they usually do each year together at the end of June.  If one week without my baby is bad, two is exponentially worse.  Simultaneous to the separation, I embarked on a six-month-long side project at work, that if I pull it off, has the potential to completely change my life forever and those of everyone I care for and love.

Additionally, I have continued to process the enormous revelations related to my childhood trauma and the hole in my heart that ceaselessly demands my attention.  Peter, The Golfer, The Vet, random dates here and there, The Neighbor, powerful articles that sear my heart; drawing boundaries and gaining clarity in my life.  This all seems to be the name of the game for my 2019.

And I am a fucking wreck.

I am smoking again, drinking in excess, not exercising, procrastinating on almost all levels, and I’m going to bed at either 8:30 or staying out way too late with anyone I can get to spend time with me.

The funniest part of all of this is that I doubt anyone would have a clue.  Nothing but Me is falling through the cracks.

Everyone at work thinks I’m doing a bang up job, Peyton adores me as always and things are better than ever, my family are proud of me, my very best and closest friends don’t hate me and continue to support me, my animals are all fat and happy and get lots of scratches and pats and even the plants aren’t dead or even wilting.

I am living in an upside down world where shit smells like roses and the pretty things make me sick.

I’ve never been a “successful” person.  I have never dated anyone who really got and understood me, loved me wholly and rooted for me in all ways.  I have never been deeply vulnerable and connected to anyone.  I have never been financially stable.  Ever.  I have never treated my body like a temple – I’ve always been more partial to a Caligula type of lifestyle.

Yet, I am in the midst of casting aside everyone in my life who treats me like I am worth about as much as a pack of bubblegum: fun to chew for a little while, but ultimately disposable.  I have distanced myself from friends who aren’t caring about my heart and time and done the same with the men.  I am listening to my inner voice for the first time in my life and embracing the awesomeness of that: I get to choose whom I share Me with.  I’m not interested in just anyone anymore.

Still, I’m horny, lonely, and terrified.  I cum each morning and then cry as I whisper to no one, “Leave marks on me.  Please.”  Who would?  I don’t know.  But I yearn for that person in all of this all the same.

I’m allowing my tantrums to play out and watching myself carefully.  Yes, I am making poor decisions, but I think what would be worse would be to beat myself up for them.  I am a steady ship – always have been – I will course correct eventually.  I just may be fat and asthmatic by the time I do, but so what.

One of the most powerful things I’ve realized this year is that seducing someone and getting something from them is not actually love, affection or validation.  It is a nutrition-less elixir that keeps me high and distant from what I need most: grounding.

I look at all of my relationships – from those that involve throbbing cocks to those that include bottles of wine and confessional hearts – and I can see how much I hold back and how impenetrable I really am.  Everyone thinks I’m so open and I still can’t understand why.  No one knows my heart; I never show it.

I’m never brave enough to draw lines and demand better and more and different.  I accept – sheepishly, gratefully – and live on emotional scraps.  I send all the wrong messages that this is ok.  But I actually want people who are as strong as me.  After all, I could handle a boundary set on me and to be asked for better, more or different from someone.  I’d jump at the opportunity to show my love and loyalty.  If a relationship crumbles because I express my needs then so be it; let it scatter in the wind.  Good riddance.

Good riddance to the men who say they want a strong and sexy woman, powerful in who she is, but when she expresses herself shut down and retreat, taking their ball with them.  Fuck the men who say all they want is casual, never showing up to see what’s beyond the playgrounds of our bodies and eliminating the joy of more.  Screw the people who are so fragile they can’t reach beyond their own fingertips to be careful with others’ tender hearts, tromping on everyone on their little private, selfish trail of tears.

I’m tired and cranky and flipping the fuck out.  Excited and enormous in my hope, equalled only by my terror to fail by not trying.

My life is waiting for me just around the corner.  I swear I can feel it.

Fuuuuck.  This is so scary.



The Neighbor moved away. Again.

I’d noticed this week that his car wasn’t around in the mornings or at night.  I thought maybe he’d started going to the gym again or perhaps he’d found a lady friend.  But this morning, as I struggled to feel natural below his third-story balcony in the dog park I braved a glance up and instantly noticed something was different.

All the blinds in his windows were pulled up, a closet door was left open, and most telling of all, all the black and white patio furniture was gone.

The moving truck I’d driven by on Friday and seen him walking towards all sweaty and hefty was his after all.  I’d considered it, but quickly dismissed it.  It’s only been 9 months since he moved in, after all, but there it is: he’s gone.


And hopefully for fucking ever.

I’d like to think my note had something to do with it.  Or running into me all those times the last few months.  Or maybe my “HBD” written in spit on his dirty window the day before his birthday because I was so sick and tired of the bullshit.  You wanna move back next door?  Fine.  Happy fucking birthday, asshole.

Of course I doubt any of those things – save for possibly my initial note – had any effect on him.  If he was caught off guard by it I can only blame his lack of due diligence.  I mean, if it were me and I was planning on moving into the building next to an ex of mine I’d have done a little work to make sure he was gone.

In any case, I am finally free.


Except now I’m worried he’s going to show up in my next complex come fall…


Fighting it all.

I feel tears somewhere in my throat, or maybe packed deep behind my face.  If I allowed myself to sit with my feelings they would be there, but I don’t have the time or the space.  I should be working right now, but I recognized the pull to pour it out, so here I am pouring away.

I said it before and I’ll say it again, I have to teach people how to treat me and I am no longer going to accept scraps.

Since Peter became single and took up with One-Month-Girl he’s been a total shit.  When he had a girlfriend being second fiddle (or 13th) was fine, but now that he has the freedom to spend more time with me, his friend and confidante of three-and-a-half years, he isn’t.  In fact, I am being treated like the ex-girlfriend, and I am not here for it.

Last Friday he texted to say Hi and tell me he felt good as new and incidentally was too busy to see me that weekend.  Well fuck that.  I haven’t heard from him since.

I texted this morning asking if he could hang out or at the very least have a quick chat “to say Hi (and other things).”  The last time I drew a line in the sand regarding how someone treats me was three weeks ago – with him – and he essentially talked me out of it.  So today the line will be deeper and possibly scratched in wood.

And before that it was with The Neighbor and he cried and begged me not to – repeatedly – and I ignored my gut and flapped in the wind for three fucking years wondering when he’d leave me or I’d finally catch him in a lie.

I’m a little crushed.

I’ve recognized that my damage extends to my appearance of having no vulnerability or neediness.  If you met me in real life you could see quite clearly that I don’t need anyone.  I am an island, self-made, big and tough.  I have weathered an absolutely brutal post-divorce relationship with my ex-husband and my heart breaks every single fucking week my baby leaves me.  I’m like a fucking soldier in a 20-year war.

I run my house, have 3 animals, have built a career from literally nothing, and take care of everyone around me.  I don’t need anyone.  And men need to be needed.  Peter has made that abundantly clear.

He just texted while writing this – his tone seems different and he confirmed he’s “back at OMG’s.”  Yeah, duh.  He says he wants to see me still. 

I’ve effectively erected walls to block out The Golfer from my consciousness with varying degrees of success.  I can’t think of Peter without thinking of TG.  Together they were a great pair for me: one was sweet and kind and caring and the other was passionate and intense.  Also combined they were a colossal butt munch: TG forever lost in the mist of alcohol and golf and Peter submerged in lies and betrayal.  But their basic unavailability felt safer than them being available and still rejecting me – which is how I feel with Peter now.

I’ve had to tell two other men that I wasn’t interested in pursuing anything because to be honest, my heart isn’t in it.  I feel so worn down, desperately searching for my center.  I’ve considered so many “themes” for July that I’ve decided to literally take each day one at a time.  Is it a “dry July”?  Do I throw myself into working out?  Do I not date?  Do I abstain from contacting TG?  Do I indulge the skin crawling urge to smoke or do I just loosen the belt?

We’re going to try to see each other tomorrow or later in the week.

I’m so busy this week I’m not able to schedule moving my body and am desperate for it.  I almost want to hyperventilate over it.  I contemplated going this morning just past dawn, but the spiders are busy spinning their beautiful little traps and I’m not really excited about walking through 30 of them.  The last time I tried that I was moderately traumatized and began jumping at wood formations that lurked in the corner of my spider-seeking eyes.

Everything feels like I’m holding back and in.  My breath, my feelings, my life.  I need to exhale, let it out in one big whoosh.  Yell from the rooftops.  Something.

TG has summarily ignored all my attempts at interaction and I have resigned myself to it: he has been completely honest about what he’s willing to give and so long as I continue to stand with my hand out, I only have myself to blame.

And yet I know that the second I see The Golfer’s name pop up on my phone the butterflies will dance in my belly and I’ll forget to breathe all over again.


It’s time for quiet now.

The Golfer ignored this.

Just a few things running through my mind today:

Working out for three months, moving, shopping for new furniture, my career, friends, Mens, sex and losing it, drinking, loneliness, excitement, determination, hope, warmth, longing, anger that I keep seeing my fucking ex-boyfriend everywhere I go on my apartment property, why I care that The Golfer won’t text me back and why Peter is being a dipshit, my dog might be too fat like me, how I caught two women at the party saying complimentary things about my looks so I must not be a troll, smoking again a little, the married British man trapped on a Fourth of July holiday hahaha, becoming friends with The Vet, chatting with my mom like a normal person, missing my baby who’s so far away, only one more week to go!, tomorrow is the beginning of the second half, a fresh start, that curry makes my belly ache, I can’t wait to be done with Cheers and move on to Frasier, I am both lonely and ok.

Thank you for being here with me and for me, guys. Internet Boyfriends are really the only boyfriends worth having anyway.

You are invited to the Inlinkz link party!

Click here to enter

It’s time for quiet now.

The Golfer ignored this.

Just a few things running through my mind today:

Working out for three months, moving, shopping for new furniture, my career, friends, Mens, sex and losing it, drinking, loneliness, excitement, determination, hope, warmth, longing, anger that I keep seeing my fucking ex-boyfriend everywhere I go on my apartment property, why I care that The Golfer won’t text me back and why Peter is being a dipshit, my dog might be too fat like me, how I caught two women at the party saying complimentary things about my looks so I must not be a troll, smoking again a little, the married British man trapped on a Fourth of July holiday hahaha, becoming friends with The Vet, chatting with my mom like a normal person, missing my baby who’s so far away, only one more week to go!, tomorrow is the beginning of the second half, a fresh start, that curry makes my belly ache, I can’t wait to be done with Cheers and move on to Frasier, I am both lonely and ok.

Thank you for being here with me and for me, guys. Internet Boyfriends are really the only boyfriends worth having anyway.

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Worth the 20 bucks.

Pooh-pooh Amazon dresses all you want, but this dress delivers.

I wore it last night for drinks with The Vet and it ended up in a pool on his bedroom floor next to his. It was like The Rapture.

We didn’t have sex – he had whiskey dick and I passed out – but apparently the dress was a good choice.

Also, The Golfer will be too busy with end of Q2 craziness for the next two weeks to see me.

But let’s get back to The Vet. Despite the naked debauchery, I think I found a friend, and that feels nice.

Now I’m going to put my phone down and rejoin the 31st birthday party I’m at.

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My brain hates me.

I dream a lot and every once in a while I seem to like to torture myself.

I couldn’t tell you if any parts of this are from some repressed place of my mind or if it’s all fabricated.

I fucking hope it’s all a dream.

What I can tell you is that all the feelings are real: my sense of responsibility, my shame, my feelings of helplessness, my complete lack of trust in my sister (and people), my disappointment.

Ironically, I’d like to think that these are all things that I can change, namely being able to trust my sister and people. How different would my life be if the world were generally more safe than dangerous?

Anyway, here it is:

I was young, late teens, and in my father’s bed. He was huge, warm, and naked next to me. I felt out of place and didn’t know how I’d gotten there, though I felt as though I had manipulated my way there to be closer to him than my sister.

He rolled to his side, facing me, and I lay perfectly still on my back, not breathing. The head of his hardon pressed hard into my thigh until it hurt.

I hoped it would only be that, but I was also flattered at the affection. In that instant I flipped. This was not right.

I adeptly maneuvered my way away and he lost interest. I lay there, heart pounding hating myself for going quietly into the night, so I began to scream. Out of no where.

Loud and long and keening in hopes my little sister would come to my aid, but she didn’t.

Dad and I argued. Why was I doing this? I’d liked it, he said. I screamed how sick and gross it was and how fucked I was.

I ran to wake my sister, certain that she would jump to my aid, but instead she met me with a tidal wave of mistrust and doubt.

I begged her to call the police; they’d know what to do.

When they arrived I feared I didn’t “look hurt,” but I hoped that the possibility of incest would spur them on the protect both me and my sister.

They were more skeptical than my sister and I was left standing in the rain watching them drive off.

Then my nephew came in to tell me that he still had a sore throat from the night before and inadvertently saved me from myself.

Forty-three has been an interesting year for me, that’s for sure.