We ran into each other.

Last Thursday I sobbed into an overworked mascara-stained tissue to my therapist.

“I feel so unsafe, so invisible.  Like no one listens to me!”  I cried. The Neighbor moving back had been verified 100%, beyond a doubt, and I was shaken to my core. And tonight the thing I thought would never have to happen again did.

After an exhausting 10-hour day I met up with a lovely 30-year-old single father at a posh restaurant for fancy biscuits, red wine and whiskey.  I took my time mulling over his words and contemplated what it’d be like to have him over me naked and writhing.  Then I hit a wall.

“I have to go.  I can’t form sentences anymore.”

He waited with me for valet and we sweetly hugged goodbye.

I put on My Dad Wrote a Porno and laughed the whole drive home.  Drove up my hill, passed TN’s car, couldn’t find parking by my building as is the norm after 6 pm – and especially after 10 pm – and headed back down the hill, past his car and building until I finally found an open spot.

I sat and listened to the footnotes about the anatomy of a vagina and smiled, safe and warm.  Life was funny. And I wasn’t quite ready to trek up the hill with all my work things.

The podcast ended 7 minutes later and I stood up, realized I left my keys in the console and bent back down to grab them.  When I stood up again I caught a man out of the corner of my eye round the end of his car and head to the driver side door.  It was him.  And he’d probably seen me.

I shut the door, slung my purse over my shoulder and began walking up the hill.

I heard the distinctive deep purr and rumble of his big fancy engine start up.  My heart raced.

He reversed and switched into gear at my hip and I looked at him as he looked over his shoulder at me, two feet apart. It was too dark to make eye contact exactly, but we might as well have.

I kept walking.

He drove out of the complex.

I shook and stomped, furious that we had literally run into each other.

At the top of the hill I was out of breath.  I let the dog out and he took off into the woods.  I called and called, but he had disappeared into the blackness.

More furious than before I thought about writing and purging my rage, but realized I’d left my laptop back in the car.

Back down the hill I went, an idea now formed.

That day I’d soaked my poor tissue my therapist and I had come up with a plan that would help me set a boundary and feel safe, visible: I would leave a note on his door proactively rather than wait for an accidental run in or some deliberate, possibly aggressive knock on his door.

It would say, “I can’t believe you moved in 100 ft from my front door.  What a selfish, senseless, and cruel thing to do.”  Full stop.

Some facts, some feelings. Nothing to argue with.

I ripped a page out of the back of my planner and scribbled it down.

It didn’t feel right.

I tried again.

This time it was better.

“What on earth would possess you to move back and only 100 feet from my front door?

Senseless and selfish is all I can come up with.”

Heart slamming, chest heaving I hauled ass back up the hill and ran up the two flights of stairs to his third floor door and left it in the pinch clip, facing out.  There would be no avoiding me this time.

I had seen a car entering the complex as I’d ascended the stairs and so I raced back down worried it could have been him.

It wasn’t.

Still shaking I climbed the hill again in the dark, my breath warm milky puffs in the cold night air, my heart just as cold if not colder.

What a bastard.

I’m doing what I want.  It’s what everybody else does. Fuck this noise.  

Friday, November 9th, is Boobday!

Hy tits banner in black and white v neck t shirt

Today has been a day to process the new shift in my world and I’m fucking exhausted.  I haven’t cried that hard in therapy probably since the initial breakup forever ago, and I have a ways to go still before this is completely organized in me.  I feel so powerless and unsafe.

I have a short term plan – sort of, mostly, kind of – and already had a long term one before this hit me in the face: I’d decided to leave this apartment a year from now to move closer to Peyton’s school.  So one year is all I have to endure of this.  I can do that.

I hope everyone has a fantastic Friday and thank you for all your support, love and feedback.  I am forever grateful for all of it.




Full Boobday Guidelines here.

One of two ways to participate:

1) either submit a pic to me via email (hyacinth.jones@hotmail.com) OR

2) submit a link below to your own blog post for Boobday.

Also, just as a reminder:

If you send me a pic, be sure to tell me if you want to be anonymous or not and what your pseudonym is (if you have one or I gave you one)

Tell me why you chose the photo you sent

And don’t forget to comment on everyone’s posts! This is all about spreading the love!


My tits:

Been really happy with my old body lately and not a damn thing about it has changed.

NOT my tits:

I love all of Sandy’s naughty work photos.

Pulling one out at the office ?


Anonymous Aussie shares an intimate moment with us.

In a fit of passion between my lover & I, this pic was snapped & sent in an instant & a flurry of passion. I look back on it & barely recall taking it!


You won’t believe this.

It would appear that The Neighbor has some interesting ideas about how life is done.


On a Wednesday evening in January of 2015 – after 3 tumultuous, passionate, empty years together – my boyfriend came over to spend the night as usual and instead asked for a break.  Two weeks later he ended things with me with no explanation other than he didn’t want to be in a relationship.

We attempted a friendship for several months, but I was devastated, angry, and confused and yet so tidy to the world that no one knew of the mess that festered and ate away at me like maggots.  Once the fog of abandonment had cleared I was filled with contempt for myself: I should have left our relationship before it ever started.

He’d never wanted to date me; he’d never wanted to be involved with my child.

In September I ended our friendship and he cried and stormed off, but I had to save myself.  I had to do something.

I hadn’t believed a word he said to me during our little “friendship experiment” as I watched him do things he swore he’d never do with me and as I accidentally uncovered hidden deceits.

Nor did i believe him when he swore he wasn’t interested in anyone, and a mere few weeks after the end of the friendship he brought a woman to my gym class.  It crushed me all over again.  A month after that I saw her plastered all over his Facebook saying how awesome her man was.

About that time I expected him to move out as it would have been the end of his lease, but his fancy black car remained as did our occasional run-ins.  In the end he would renew his lease twice after he ended things, which meant he remained here for 2 years and 9 months before he finally left.

I mean, what did he care?  He lived at the bottom of the hill, after all.  He didn’t have to see me or think of me. It wasn’t a big deal.

The summer before he moved out I wrote him a long overdue letter to say how I felt about him, our relationship, his stalking of me on AFF, and most importantly my anxiety and upset that he remained so close.

His finances were more than adequate to live anywhere in the city, I reasoned.  Why stay so close when he didn’t have to??

He took offense to what I shared and told me in clipped words to never contact him again. He also revealed that he would be leaving in October so I could at least have that to look forward to.

I kept watch in the coming weeks until one day while walking the dog I decided to check and see if his patio furniture was still there.  It was gone.  And his apartment was gutted.

I bawled as years of torment I had kept at bay roiled out of me like vomit.  I was finally free.

This past year with him away I have grown and lightened a million shades and in a million ways.  I have settled into myself, explored my heart a little even, attempted connections, and have felt safe in my home again, unburdened to roam freely about the property like a normal person.

I no longer had to concentrate on not noticing (and subsequently looking at) his black car, I no longer had to worry about running into him going about my daily life, I no longer had to fucking think about him, period.


This weekend was a lazy one, too hot for fucking fall.  Peter came and fucked me and I came and clawed and kissed on him before I went on an ill-fated, yet semi-entertaining date with a 22 yo.  I puttered around my apartment, watched scary movies and decided to treat the dog to as many romps in the dog park behind my building as he needed.

I absent mindedly surveyed the 3 closest balconies stacked like blocks nearest the park as I always did and looked at the residents’ belongings and design choices while the animal sniffed and shit to his heart’s content.  Last August the middle apartment had gone up in flames and the 3 stood empty for months while repairs were completed.  There were now new tenants.

Someone with children on the second floor – according to the plastic toys strewn about outside – and some patio furniture that looked familiar on the third floor.  It held my attention, but I didn’t let it stick.

The following day, my eye was drawn again to that familiar furniture.  It was on the patio of an identical floor plan to what he had before.  It suddenly occurred to me that there had been a new third fancy black car in the parking lot the last few days – just like his – but I hadn’t bothered to look at the license plate because I’m free of that, remember??  I’m not a slave to that pain anymore.

No, no, no.  It was just a coincidence.

The next night Peyton and I watched another CSI.  “Baby,” I said.  “We need to check on something when we walk the dog tonight.”  I shared what I knew and being the junior detective in the house I had a willing partner in my offspring.

I flashed my camera light into a familiar car window.  I couldn’t make out anything substantial like the battery acid burn in the back seat, but Pey caught something on a folded receipt in the passenger seat.  “Mom!  It says, ‘T-N’!”  I looked closer and sure enough TN’s name was faintly written on a line on the yellow sheet of a carbon receipt.

I didn’t believe it.  It couldn’t be.  My eyes are bad!  But Peyton’s??  No…

Finally tonight, 100 feet from my front door while on our nightly walk, I was able to check again.  This time his name was obscured by a new receipt, but it didn’t matter.

My eyes were bright and sharp and I could easily make out what the receipt said.  It was for a therapy session, the same cost as his were many years ago, and at the bottom – in clean Times New Roman bold – was TN’s therapist’s name and address.

Apparently, The Neighbor is once again my neighbor.