I don’t know why I never published this.
The phone probably rang or I saw something shiny and walked away from my laptop.
The past week has been a whole lotta exactly that. Finding reasons to be fussing about, nesting…and the big bad…scrolling.
I quit drinking before I left the island but that was not the only bad habit I had there. Face in phone constantly to avoid people and boredom at work. I have to stop.
I think another thing is I am always very insecure about selling myself. Because I am insecure. Not a lot to sort through there. So I procrastinate, because that way I can’t fail. Which makes zero sense as I type it out, that is failing really.
Nothing is ever good enough. Cue the thing about project paralysis and gifted kids. I has that.
I had a notebook when I was little (and 500 notebooks since then) that I refused to sully with bad penmanship or bad writing so I never used them. I am ridiculous, I know this. I am laughing at myself right now.
I am getting better at just letting things go out into the world and not worrying about what other people think. It is enough because I say it is, and honestly after years of sifting through other people’s opinions on my page, I just don’t care.
Plus, failing isn’t the end of the world. Took me forever to figure that out.
The foreword to this long lost post is being written in WordPress so there’s that then.
(And I think I figured it out. I don’t want Wolf reading about the folly that was me thinking I had feelings for other people, before him. I don’t want to read about it either, makes me feel ashamed of what I settle for, the crumbs of attention I existed on before I was allowed to feast on real love.)
Come dear readers, let’s take a journey into where I was at mentally on February 20th of this year, so many lifetimes ago really. Pre Covid, still watching the Witcher, mid retrograde likely because we had 487 of those this year…
Nothing ever escapes, even when I want it to and sometimes it crushes me and leaves teeth marks on my psyche.
I can drive along a road ten years later and I can feel exactly what the sun and air felt like a decade ago, what trees were in bloom, the tang of cigarette smoke and sweat, flowers recently picked covering the back seat, what creatures revealed themselves on the side of the road and sometimes what was playing on the radio.
A song comes on and I am transported back in time.
I scroll back through Instagram or Facebook, see what I was wearing/saying/thinking/feeling and that day/date come rushing back to me. The boy I was with or flashbacks of mini adventures with my girls. The conversations had, drinks imbibed, how I felt when I finally poured myself back into my own bed that night. Or someone else’s.
Every muscle holds memories, my skin too. If the light, temperature and breeze hit me a certain way I can travel backwards in time. Climbing into my car on the first warm day of the year feeling completely warmed through for the first time since winter closed it’s icy fist around my bones.
The longer I am with Wolf the bigger the divide becomes between Before Him and After Him.
I know I existed.
I have photographs, Facebook memories and this blog as proof.
I know there were men and relationships before him, but I don’t care.
We had this conversation last night, I just don’t remember anymore.
I spent 3 hours putting 5 years-worth of unsorted documents into different folders. A surprising number went into published (yay me), followed closely by ‘trash’. A few unfinished, a bunch of letters to whomever. I gotta say, if I sit down to write someone a letter when I am feeling any kind of way, I am eloquent as fuck. Landlords and Panda and Exes, oh my.
Wolf now has his own folder. He wasn’t wrong about me writing more. I went from publishing maybe 24 articles in 2 years, to 24+ since we met. And a smol book. I have so much more to write, and I will. I just don’t remember how right now.
I played Cyrano again the other day for a boy I used to know. He is having a hard time letting his ex go. We talked for a bit and I admitted that I used to spy on Sisterwife a dozen times a day if not more, every day. At some point I must have decided to stop. And I wasn’t perfect at stopping, but it went from 20 times a day, to twice, to never. Told him to try not driving by her house for a day at first, then a few, then a week. It’s like quitting anything really.
I wrote what I thought he should send, and he sent it.
In doing so I was forced back into my old mindset. And I didn’t recognize the girl I was. That was all over 9 years ago.
I have had this laptop for 7 years now. I was not always this version of myself.
Just like this computer, my hard drive gave out and was replaced, apps updated. I used a sketchy mp3 downloading site in Newfoundland and crashed terribly. We’ve been through some shit.
I got this huge computer for processing photos. I didn’t travel back when I bought it. Now I am scraping pennies together for a smaller laptop and a bigger phone and I don’t own a camera anymore. I don’t want one. A go pro yes, but not a bulky DSLR.
To properly sort the massive list of documents, I had to read some of them.
I gotta forgive myself for how dumb I was.
Like Jesus sis.
What were you thinking?
I put myself through some very unnecessary shit.
I am better, faster, stronger for it I suppose.
I signed a very rare copy of the other book I wrote 2 weeks ago.
I remember being sequestered in my room, in a house I decorated but never belonged in. Neck and shoulders aching, just trying to get it done and out before midnight December 31st 2017. I didn’t want to enter another year with it hanging over my head. 80 000 words of yucky smut and revenge porn. My stomach rolled reading it. So disgusted with the girl I was when I started it, settling for scraps from a catfish.
I have reread passages here and there. And I gotta admit, although the subject matter is abhorrent, the muse a jerk…the writing itself is pretty good.
I have to stop beating myself up for not knowing what I didn’t know before I knew it.
I need to look at it for what it is. Money waiting to be collected. One notch in a key that I have been carving for years, it will open a door to a new life if I let it.
I am the key to the lock in your house
I am the pick and the axe
Climbing up the Walls, Radiohead
Half Wild Thing aka the fucking book
(an excerpt)
She had been the one to back down, bare her throat. She had been timid at first, but quickly growing accustomed to the climate, the city and him. She always acquiesced when he would rage while somehow maintaining strength and poise, and he loved her for it. And in the way of felines remaining on the brink of feral but almost tamed, she brought him strange gifts.
He had watched her walk to the planter, read the discontent on her face and watched it melt away when she saw him. Her eyes gave her away every time. The whole world knew she was irrevocably his. He knew she had just saved some tiny lost soul. He smiled at the thought, she was always saving something. She had rescued him once too.
She was 10 feet away now, he stubbed out his cigarette, the humid air was punctuated by a slight puff of wind and it filled his nostrils with the smell of her. His eyes fixed on her…his cock couldn’t help but to start to rise. A low growl escaped his lips and he saw her smile, he smirked a half grin back and it was an invitation that she gladly took. As she stepped into the space between his legs and rested her hands lightly on his shoulders, the world fell away from both of them.
He sat up to greet her and she gently ran her fingers through his hair, pulling him close and caressing his neck. His arms formed a protective circle around her waist, he drew her to him. She leaned in, pressing the softness of her belly against his cheek and they both sighed, content and relieved. He inhaled deeply, coveting the moment. She always smelled of summertime, oceans and sex. He could imagine her pussy, pink petal lips, dew kissed and open like dripping lilies. He melted into her and she molded herself around him.
How many had it been? He struggled to remember. She had told him the night before, curled up in his bed, his fingers tracing calligraphy on her body. Conversations punctuated by soft moans and his hands wandered to her most sensitive places. 3 maybe 4 boys that night? All of their adventures were starting to become a maze in his mind, he got lost in them and didn’t worry about finding his way out or marking certain passages. He had found himself happy to be lost in her. She led and he followed willingly. It didn’t matter, she was here now, with him. And she would tell him again as he asked, as many times as he needed.
Available on Amazon
