January 2021

I had to decide to stay or go. I walked into my room and opened the window and Ted was dead. I closed the window too hard to fast the night before and smushed him. I killed Ted.

Ted was the wild golden gecko who hung out on my ceiling and ate the mosquitos. Did this cute lil butt wiggle when I would talk to him.

Ted is dead and I am going home.

I used to believe in signs, omens. But this is just practicality. If I wait it’s a $2000 expense, and that is my bills for a while. Can’t waste it on a whim or a want. I used to do that, I am not that girl anymore. I am not anything anymore.

It is so weird to have a crisis of faith as a … whatever the fuck I am/was.

My religion or neurosis whichever you want to call it was never overly defined. It had no edges. No set rules.

I am honestly thinking I am mentally ill, and I fooled all y’all into thinking there was something more and I am so sorry.

This is what is.

I am too old for this shit. Too old to be believing in fairytales by about 40 years or so.

15 years past when I ought to have been getting married and paying into a mortgage.

46 is really old to just start adulting.

I used to think I had a purpose in life. What the fuck was wrong with me. Decades of delusions and here I am with nothing.

I used to think that if “I believe it I will see it”.

But the bizarre filing cabinet in my brain was making connections that were never there, seeing roses where there were only thorns and making unicorns out of dirty white horses.

I remember being broke as a joke my first month or two alone in Milton, still cleaning up the financial mess left by my ex while stripping in Ontario winter. Going to work in February at a strip club is a fool’s errand, every dancer knows this.

I had rescue dogs and I was out of dog food.

It was cold and I was running out of firewood.

Two things happened, a buddy of mine sent me $200 bucks out of the blue. We had coordinated a dog rescue together and I helped him out before, he repaid the karma. I got dog food. Then a customer of mine who knew I had 3 fireplaces to keep going offered to start bringing me broken down hardwood pallets to throw on the fire. Every Tuesday and Thursday he loaded up my trunk with banana boxes full of wood chunks. Those pieces burned better, longer and hotter than the 6 cords of wood I had bought from my neighbor and got me through till March.

I kept a couple unique looking pieces as decoration. Still have one of them.

There is good in the world. I will never deny that. but I saw those things as divine intervention. Saw chance meetings as fate. It’s just life.

The schadenfreude of the Redditors vs Wall Street and the #noflylist feels like the scales of social justice finally tipping in the favor of the common folk and it pleases me. I might even buy a little stock just for kicks.

My dog lives with her auntie Mikah now and I have enough food to exist and roof for now. I am lucky in this. I know that.

I did do DMT and I tried to talk to god and there was nothing.

Maybe this is a side effect of that.

Maybe I knew there was no magic in the world all along and I just needed something to keep me going.

It is really hard to keep going.

I have loved people who technically do love me back, but inactively.

I don’t get a happily ever after.

I get to wave my pom poms from the sidelines as they find “suitable” partners and make lives of their own, far away from me. I am left over in my corner trying to forget how excited they were about me once. My arms are tired and my heart hurts.

…..

(to continue reading please click the link in the paragraph below)

……

I am sure no one is horribly interested in reading another 1000 words of me whining about my existential crisis, but if you do…the rest of this article (and many more) are available over on my patreon.
I made a new tier so it is $1 per month to keep reading. Works out to less than 7 cents per article, even less in USD.

https://www.patreon.com/sarahthegoodwitch

I got acrylic nails done for the first time probably 23 years ago.

And, with the exception of farm life and a handful of straight jobs that didn’t pay enough, nor warrant getting them done, at least once a month since.

I can’t grow my own nails, I bite them.

For some reason, I don’t touch the fake ones until they have grown out for x amount of time and then I pick at my fingers until they bleed.

As I type this, my fingers hurt.

This happened twice during the two previous lockdowns as well. Fresh set of lovely fingernails that cannot be filled or maintained, and I file them down so I can write, but eventually they chip, split, peel and I rip them off violently and it hurts.

I have always bitten my nails. My Nana hated it, she even went so far as to take me to her nail salon and bribe me with polish. It didn’t work. Maybe 6 times in 46 years I have grown my own nails out nicely.

Never when I am stressed.

I remember my very first reconstructive surgery. I had come down with a slight cold and they delayed my surgery by a day. I wasn’t sure if they were even going to operate. My fingers were chewed to shreds by the time they put me on the gurney and rolled me to the ER. I remember the throbbing and the shame of it.

I remember getting thrown in a holding cell, 52 Division I think, during the really bad snowstorm of 1999. I had a fresh set of acrylics on when they locked me in the room and they were in a pile on the table when I left, in pieces and shards. I can still remember how bad my hands hurt.

Brief backstory that has nothing to do with anything…I was stripping at Zanzibar on Yonge Street in Toronto, I lived maybe 5-6 big city blocks away. The city had been hit with a bad storm and was pretty paralyzed. State of Emergency, the whole of Canada made fun of the mayor for calling in the Army. My girlfriend left work from day shift and I finally caught a cab. The traffic and snow was so bad the meter hit 20 bucks before we hit 3 blocks. We wanted out of the cab, driver was being awful and abusive. My girlfriend handed him a 20, demanded change, and when she reached for it, he grabbed her by her hair and pulled her halfway into the front seat. We had been sitting at a red light, she had opened the door to get out, we proceeded to roll across the intersection with her legs sticking out the door and me screaming at him to let her go and trying to pry his hands off her. The clincher was… my friend was a scrappy fucker. When she finally got some leverage, she hit him 3 times, hard in the temple and knocked him out cold…hence the rolling through the intersection. Her purse had fallen out the door, someone stole her money. We both just wanted to get home. So we gathered our shit and walked down the road towards our houses.

We got picked up by the cops 10 minutes later and thrown in holding. They couldn’t ‘tell us apart’ so we both got charged with assault.

It was a very expensive clusterfuck.

I have had a lot of those in my day. Barreling towards another one right now. All because I decided to share a cab with someone, or move to Newfoundland or move away from Newfoundland, living on the farm was expensive as fuck, leaving it too. The trailer 6 years ago that chewed my jeep’s transmission. The car wrecks.

Everything listed in the last paragraph was a separate $5000 mistake, and there are so many more.

The above isn’t what I meant to write. I was tapping away on the keyboard and my fingers hurt from being chewed and I thought about my first surgery and my impending surgery and the massive lack of direction that is happening in my life right now. All the things I have lost or am losing.

This is the last thing I am going to write for free, and I will tell you why.

When I was 16 years old my mother burned everything I had ever written since kindergarten.

I have eluded to this before but never explained it so here goes.

I had the same dresser from 2 years old til I was 38.

One big drawer across the top. 2 smaller deeper drawers in the middle and 2 cupboards on either side.

The bottom drawer contained layers and layers of papers.

Every note I had ever been passed in class. Every creative writing project I had done for school or fun. Birthday cards, poems, drawings, lists. Basically me in words and pictures.

My mother thought I was doing drugs; because I was. My behavior was angry and erratic, I was disruptive at home and school.

She went into my room to find something that would give her a clue as to what to do with me.

I wasn’t terribly organized, so everything in the drawer was just thrown in there, loosely chronological.

I had been getting high on acid and writing angry, sexual, crappy, angsty teenage poetry. Still hadn’t had sex yet. But I digress.

She read the stuff on top, found it to be pornographic and burned everything.

I am allowed to be upset about this. And I was.

I ran away from home.

I kept writing for a little while until my only writing partner and friend died in my lap and I gave up.

I lost everything.

My job, my apartment, my family and bestie at the time.

And it was all a series of unfortunate events that eventually led to me living in Northern Ontario and getting knocked up.

Not the first time I have lost everything, and I am sure it won’t be the last.

You know most of the rest.

There have been a lot of bad decisions and hard roads and fuck ups and times of great bliss in my life.

I was getting better at walking away instead of having everything ripped away.

Then the Facebook thing and I am standing in my childhood bedroom looking at the empty drawer listening to my mother say, “it’s gone, I burned it”. Not realizing the enormity of what she had done, what was at the bottom of that drawer, or the middle. It was me, it was everything I was.

I died that day metaphorically. Defeated.

After Greg died in real life, I didn’t write another thing until I hit my 30’s.

12 years of my life disappeared from that drawer, 12 more years the day before yesterday when the powers that be on Facebook decided I was too much trouble to bother with and they set my life on fire.

I know I am being melodramatic, but I am really trying to figure out what I am supposed to learn from all this.

What happened to me at 16 put me on the life path I am still walking.

I could have stayed living at home, been a lawyer or a writer, gone to university. But instead I worked in restaurants and had a baby at 20. Started stripping at 24 and here I is.

(Gestures broadly at the nothing I have to show for anything.)

Everything I have tried for the last 3 or 4 years has failed. Actually, if you think about it, it is all a failure. Except my amazing kid who literally lives his life the opposite of mine on purpose; and he is doing pretty well for himself.

I am a glaring and constant reminder of what not to do.

And I try new things and the universe just yanks them away, with a no and a slap on the hand until I reach for the next thing and that is a no too.

Am I an idiot?

Did I believe in a magic that doesn’t exist?

Ya, I totally did. I might actually be kinda insane.

I can’t believe I believe in anything. Seems so stupid.

I have completely lost my faith. What did you think was gonna happen?

I am not a witch, I am just some dummy with massive delusions, a bunch of rocks and mild pyromania. True passionate twin flame love is fucking horseshit.

Everything I believed is a lie.

I think I brainwashed myself into thinking there was more than 9-5 day to day blah blah blah.

There is only blah.

The angel of the lord is hitting me with my own hands. But he doesn’t exist either.

I remember thinking my life felt magical, like I was manifesting good things and I was happy. I remember being happy. I remember believing in fate and good juju and lessons.

But there is nothing remarkable about me except my willingness to fail out loud.

And I am so tired.

Sofa king tied.

Do I just get a straight job and a little humdrum apartment?
Try to work my way up to middle management.
Drink wine with my friends who also have average lives so I can sleep at night and try to forget everything.
Maybe learn how to knit so I stop biting my nails?
Get a mediocre boyfriend, sex on Thursdays and all-inclusive vacations once a year. Book club, spin class. Just exist like everyone else.

This has never sounded so appealing.

After today I am moving this blog over to the Patreon.

Mercury is spilling Gatorade all over everything and not in a ‘we just won the championship’ kinda way. What else do I have to do besides tie up old loose ends. So many loose ends. My life is a bunch of unfinished macramé projects shoved in a garbage bag.

Half a million times someone has read what I have written and I have nothing to show for it.

I am going to edit my past and see what is worth saving out of this drawer of papers before the universe decides to light that on fire too.

So long

Farewell

Auf Wiedersehen and thanks for the fish.

https://www.patreon.com/sarahthegoodwitch

It is only after we lose everything that we are free to do anything.
(Fight Club)

I know this Chuck.

I know I am not my couch either, I don’t even have a couch rn or a house to put one in if I did.

Last one was $1300 and got peed on by a doggo right before he went over the rainbow bridge. RIP Hugo

I don’t live there anymore. I don’t live anywhere.

How many times have I fled in the night?

I tossed 20 years of old notebooks and diaries 3 or 4 moves ago.

I walked away from houses and people and things so often that I barely even notice anymore.

But this? Really? Come on.

I think 3 laptops ago, when I was still buying cheaper/refurbished units my computer shit the bed and all my writing and photos went with it.

I got some of them back.

Some.

Not all.

It has happened a couple times since and now all that stuff that used to be ‘my precious’ sits unlooked at in a folder on my desktop.

My farm life was so precarious I had to have tangible proof that I was there, and it was mine for a time.

Now?

IDGAF

Not a single fuck, flying or otherwise. Not for as many years as I was there.

I would rather forget to be honest. 2 days ago was the 10^th 11^th 12^th whatever anniversary of my car wreck, those photos still exist somewhere.

I guess now I don’t have to read about it once a year.

I got the ultimate Zuck fuck this morning. Got asked to provide ID to verify my account and 5 minutes later, my 12 year old account was gone.

It gave me the option to download the whole thing as a file, but I feel like that will just sit like the other old photo files that used to be SO important, in a corner gathering dust.

Everything just keeps getting taken away from me.

Losing the 100 000 emails full of love were bad enough but I did it, willingly, because I had to.

This is different. My hand was forced.

Okay I haven’t cried until now, but the tears are coming.

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK

A cool version of The Times They Are a Changin’ is playing on my Spotify right now.

Very funny.

All I can think right now is that whatever door is opening had better be to some glorious land of happiness and unconditional love and money. I need all of those things desperately.

I have yammered on and waxed poetic about feeling semi-permanent, and nothing drives that home like a 12 inch spike into my heart more than shit like this.

I am so tired. I am seriously ready to give up.

I have spilled my scared guts to a couple of my man friends over the last couple of days and they tell me “You’re strong, you’ll get through it, you’ve been through worse.”

I am not. I am not sure this time, and ya, I have been so what’s with the universe heaping on piles of more.

Tell me teacher what’s my lesson? Gary Jules

I felt marginally better yesterday.

I showered. Found a few of my ducks, they weren’t in a row but at least I could see them from where I was standing. I could also stand up, so that was kinda cool.

Went to bed early, got up early, got the notification to verify my ID on Facebook and thought “okay good, we are finally getting somewhere.” 5 minutes later, deleted forever.

In the immortal words of Bastille, “how am I gonna be an optimist about this?”

I don’t know.

I truly don’t.

I don’t think I can. Like I am really giving up on all of everything and I am too tired to stop myself.

Let it all go, I don’t care what stays.

I know someone who has spent the last 20 years building this pyramid of a life, stone by stone. If that were to collapse, it would be cataclysmic, or liberating, or both.

I cannot fathom that kind of life; I have never had it or anything close to it.

Me? I am a Bedouin camped nearby. All I have to do is fold up my tent and move.

But not this, not like this.

Facebook was my tent. My shelter. The one things about me that lasted through all of my incarnations.

I mean it can’t be helped now, and me realizing all of those old things I thought I couldn’t live without, here I am, kinda living and shit.

I know people on their 10^th profile now, their 20^th Instagram account etc.. etc… and although I live the rest of my life like that, I had that one thing.

And now I don’t.

And I know a lot of people won’t get it but when I lived through the horror of the farm, that was my lifeline. When I was alone in Milton, Facebook was my only link to the world.

I has been my security blanket and I am feeling EXACTLY like a toddler who lost their blankie.

So many blankies.

All gone.

No man, no work, no besties, no house, no plan, no life.

At some point this all might feel liberating but right now I just wanna cry and throw up and I want my January 2020 memories and life back.

patreon link, I think this blog is going the way of the dodo and for less than a $1 USD you can keep viewing on a safer site that doesn’t crash every two seconds.

https://www.patreon.com/sarahthegoodwitch

She had watched as her sisters paired off with their soulmates seemingly seamlessly, and while she felt absolute joy for them at their couplings, she always felt a twinge of jealousy. She had resigned after all these years of walking this earth that it wasn’t for her. Who would want a terrifying witch who spent more time in other worlds than tethered to this plane? When she was scribing, she kept her hair piled on top of her head stuck through with spare quills looking much like a haphazard nest with feathers poking out at all angles. Karai and Lucy wore their hair in purposefully cultivated and well maintained dreadlocks whereas Sera’s hair was a tangled mess on a good day. She would sometimes forgetting to eat or bathe for days at a time, ink stained face and fingers, hunched over her work a twisted mess of creaking bones, conversing with voices in her head. She had tattooed the most important sigils and messages from the ether onto her skin until her arms and legs were covered in glyphs and symbols. She had never considered herself beautiful like her sisters and now she knew she looked a mess. Most of the time she felt that way too. But it was part of who she was. The others had learned to live with her, gently suggesting an afternoon of swimming when she got too ripe or too lost in her work. They had been making almost daily pilgrimages to the river since his arrival, enjoying the last days of the warm season. and Sera had made a point of joining them more often than usual.

Lately Lucy had taken to lovingly brushing her freshly washed hair and plaiting it into ornate braids instead of the messy bun she usually wore while they held palaver by the fire at night. Sera enjoyed the physical contact, realized she was quite starved for it, and found it both relaxing and distracting. She had been rather surprised at how long her hair had gotten, falling well past her waist when it was free of tangles and buns. Mikah was a little less subtle, thumping a basket of freshly washed clothes down next to her at the harvest table earlier this morning. “You ought to burn those rags you are wearing; they stink and so do you. Your precious chatty daemons can wait.”

Sera realized she did feel a level of unfamiliar shame at her appearance, it wasn’t vanity so much as an unfamiliar desire to be desirable.

As much as she rationalized what couldn’t be, she realized she had never been so drawn to a man as she was this one.

The above is a chapter of the new book I am working on. Unedited, bear with me here. It’s a process and I was never taught how to do this so I just do it my way.

450 words out of 52 000 as of this afternoon.

Don’t worry, the whole book is not about a witch describing her particular brand of stank.

But this post is.

I am writing this for the sole reason that a 10 minute conversation with someone in the same boat actually made me feel better, and then she felt better from making me feel better. Then we both showered.

My faithful readers will recall that my last period was intense and insanely painful. Wait, did I write even about it? Cliff’s Notes…5 days of crippling pain on top of my usually crippling pain. I couldn’t move. Day one and two I laid in bed and cried while trying to remember my Lamaze breathing from 25 years ago. Day 3 to 5 I laid on the couch doped up on naproxen which did not even take the edge off really, but made my belly roil and roll.

If I could just do the yoga I wouldn’t hurt so much, but I hurt too much to do the yoga that makes it hurt less. My life is series of conundrums these days.

Now usually these ‘motherfuckers’, as I have dubbed the really bad ones, only last 2 days. Nay nay sayeth my uterus, buy 2 get 3 free.

But I don’t even want the first 2.

It isn’t every month. Just 3 to 6 outta 12. Once upon a time I had a Scorpio boyfriend who took a steroid called ‘tren’ and he loved period sex, so I got a “6 months free, no pain” coupon during my relationship with him. Gives a literal and whole new meaning to that song by Peaches, “fuck the pain away”. I think part of me stayed with him an extra month or two just for that reason. Quantity over quality but the side effects were awesome.

So, for 5 days out of the last 20+ I had an excuse for my sloth.

Not now.

Shitty thing is, I never got back to the usual 65-70% health I’ve been functioning at the other 20 some odd days of the month. I never got above a low energy,/high pain, 40 to 50% functioning capacity. And my brain just kinda shut down in a weird dissociative way. I know I had a couple of panic attacks since I have been here but that feels like a story someone told me.

Long story short, I am not doing great.

I opened a drawer this morning and found a back up bottle of the vitamins I have been neglecting to take and in an act of self preservation, I took some.

High dose vitamin D3, game changer. 10000 IU.

I am willing to admit this might be slightly psychosomatic, but I actually feel better.

Add to that the fact that I actually slept kinda okay last night.

The internet went down, down, down around 8:30 which put me in bed by 9, instead of stumbling to bed from the couch at midnight then not being able to sleep for a few hours between my back screaming and just thinking my thoughts while Jake and Amy do their thing on the tv in my room.

Guys…

I have been in the Bell Jar and I have been in denial about it.

The thing I haven’t been in… is the shower.

This is actually hard to write. Or even say out loud.

Its embarrassing.

I am so fucking weird, I love being in the shower, I hate getting in the shower.

The best I have been able to do since I left my last place is Mondays and Fridays, but really Mondays or Fridays not often both. But when the hot water wasn’t working on Monday, the half splash I managed to do was not great, and Friday I was late for my ride to run errands so my filthy hair went up in a bun and I hoped no one would notice, if they did, they didn’t say anything.

So, my hair remained unwashed and unbrushed for 10 days, maybe more. I lost count.

I would like to say its the pandemic making me this way, but it ain’t. And the period pain excuse expired 3 weeks ago.

Yes, when I am stripping, I shower and shave before and usually after every shift, yes when I am dating someone I don’t show up in my ‘I have given up on life sweats’ with 4 days worth of stubble on my legs. But I need that outside influence, and it sucks.

Why can’t I just basic human like other humans?

I get depressed and I cannot summon the strength or willpower to shower.

Its gross, I am gross. I know it.

Then it turns into a shame spiral and it gets worse.

Between the vitamins and a couple of friends on the internet, I am writing this in a decontaminated state. It feels good. I am already pre-scared that it will be another 5 or 10 days until I get motivated again, but we will cross that stanky bridge when we get to it.

Happens every time. Prolonged funk followed by a bout of euphoria where I think “I am never doing THAT again”. Then I do that again. Don’t lather, don’t rinse, just repeat.

I think the greatest trick my depression ever pulled was convincing me it didn’t exist.

I am just lazy, I am just broken, I am just gross.

But I remember NOT being that way.

8 weeks ago I was in my clean cozy apartment, up early every morning, writing for a couple hours, then showering and functioning like and adultier adult while waiting for my afternoon delight. My pain levels were so much lower, but still.

I wonder if it like this for all of us.

And there are a lot of us.

Back when I still could post shit to my Facebook page, I posted another woman’s meme’d confession about not showering for an extended period of time. There were 500+ comments saying ‘me too’ and little helpful hints to survive these bouts of yuck. I remember feeling better and less alone. The internet is full of handy, gentle tips about baby powder and baby wipes and ‘maybe just change your clothes’ or ‘wash one dish’ type advice for being depressed.

Today it was a conversation with another friend where we compared notes. Talking to her pushed me into the shower and prompted her to have a bath.

Maybe in past lives we lived during the Victorian era where they thought baths made you sick.

Maybe we just can’t even, and sometimes we can.

The second one sounds right.

Good Karen has a medical background. I was talking to her yesterday at the apex of feeling shitty about myself. She said she knew I wasn’t okay, that it was coming through in my writing. Maybe it is. I just start typing and the words come out.

She went through the medical reasons why I feel like shit, and it helped a bit.

It has been such a slow decent into this state I forget what healthy feels like.

She made enough sense that it got through to me

Honey…what exactly is wrong with you taking this extended break?

I almost felt like she reached through messenger and slapped me lightly on the cheek.

I don’t have an answer for that. Still don’t.

Nothing that doesn’t sound self deprecating or anything I would feel comfortable telling anyone who is feeling like this.

Humans are supposed to be busy, doesn’t really feel like a good reason.

I advocate for acceptance of self and resting and self care all day long.

Maybe I do just need to rest, maybe there is nothing wrong with me other than the silicone and crippling periods, one of which will be dealt with sooner than later.

Maybe I will be okay.

Right now, I smell like soap, thieves’ oil and shampoo. And for today, that’s enough.

I think this blog is not long for this world, I created a new patreon tier where you can keep reading these blog posts for less than $1 USD per month.
Go forth and subscribe my lovelies

https://www.patreon.com/sarahthegoodwitch

I wish I could stop believing, I truly do.

Too much anecdotal proof and the patterns are undeniable.

I know I have a year of yuck before things get better.

I think I might have liked not knowing better.

I never really kept track of anything like I do now and have for 12 years.

I made a safety profile on Facebook and fucked myself.

I upset the balance of the universe and pissed of big brother Zuckerberg.

Instead of just accepting my jail time I tried to circumvent. But I wasn’t even IN jail and the restriction was lifting on its own.

I had no patience.

I literally caused my own demise by prepping for things that I didn’t want to happen.

The only thing that really worried me about getting fucked on Facebook was losing the accidental diary it has become. A year ago today I was sitting in the airport listening to Beethoven and finishing up editing my novella. I want to know these things.

11 years ago today I was in a horrific car accident. I would rather forget, but I can’t, I died that day and although it took a long time to be reborn, here I am.

I think we go through phases in life. I know I can look back on past versions of myself and that girl is dead. She ceased to exist. I kinda look like her, but I am not the same person.

And now, if Zuck has his way, all of those old me’s might disappear forever just because I made a back up version of myself.

I’m not ready.

But, it’s my own fault.

I didn’t mean to. I never do.

This whole ‘don’t monkey bar between things’ lesson was one I thought I learned long, long ago.

Once upon a time it was the fact that I needed a safety net to leap out of bad situations. It wasn’t enough to leave because I wanted to, I had to have a plan and somewhere to go, someone waiting for me instead of just being alone. Human cushions and parachutes. But those were childish things and I thought I had put them away.

The relationships I held onto while reaching for something new with the other hand in the time called before were no great loss. Two shitty common law husbands, a rapist, a drunk and a writer who couldn’t admit he was bisexual and got mad at me for it for some reason.

We do what we think is best until we learn better, then we do better. Or at least we should.

I thought I did, but here I sit, regressing and paying for it.

Not just regressing, stagnating too. I rode a horse 2 weeks ago for maybe a half an hour, pinched a nerve in my back and I can’t move much. I have a yoga mat still in the wrapper and my mantra has becomes as Jane’s ‘try again tomorrow’. But I have had 17 tomorrows minus the crippling period that didn’t back off for 5 days and was made worse by the horse and the pinched nerve that proceeded it.

This fucking sucks.

I really can’t wax more poetic than that.

5 days until I find out my fate with surgery.

Who knows how many months until I get said surgery and how long I will need to recover.

Thing is my brain still works but my body is unwilling. And then I get into guilt and shame spirals for letting the days pass me by and it’s a big bucket of yuck.

Add the pandemic fatigue.

I am happier when I have plans and goals and that is an impossibility.

My memories today had a drone video of a trailer park in the land down under with the caption ‘the long term goal’.

How could things fall apart this hard in a year?

A year ago today I was getting on a plane at 4am and instead of going straight home I crashed on my girl’s couch. The attic was just a bed and a desk back then. A weigh station, a Bedouin camp, easy to dismantle and move to the next oasis.

I had plans god dammit.

But we all did, I know I am not special.

Then Papa Mercury did his first backwards dance across the sky and the world fell the rest of the way apart.

It wasn’t doing so great prior to the first retrograde, leap year, black moon cosmic fuckery of last February. But it really really exploded hard that week, month, moon.

And I am actually scared now.

Full Wolf moon in 3 days, retrograde 2 days after that. At least almost every planet is in Aquarius, so it is dreamy surreal chaos as opposed to the undeniable, hard and sharp shit we navigated a year ago.

All Mercury retrogrades are in air signs this year. Akin to 2015, but I think I already talked about that. That was also the year I bought and then had to sell the trailer I had always wanted, during retrograde of course. I wasn’t listening, I had a huge blowout with Gelfling that we never recovered from.

And that is what I meant about not knowing. I am sure I could cosmically trace all of my trauma to astrological events. I learned about Saturn return while I was drowning in it. And now all I have to do is log onto Facebook for 30 seconds and I know what all the planets are doing.

Thing is, I know the rules.

But I am hand shy.

Retrogrades last year were really rough, and even the eclipses and portals that I usually enjoy were painful and sticky messes of miscommunication and angst.

I have seen where the planets will be for this year and logic (if you wanna call it that) dictates this year will be filled with hard work, but good work and not the Tower tarot energy of last year. But I think I am traumatized.

I want to make plans and announcements, and I will, but for now until mid-March I will be in duck and cover mode, quietly setting goals and working towards a better life.

It will get better, it always does, it has to.

And I do remember the fuckery of 2012 and 2015.

I survived then and all the shit that came before, even when I didn’t know what planets to blame for what used to be my crappy little life.

Everything is better than it used to be, even with this mess. I don’t drink anymore but I still know things.

Live through this, and you won’t look back _The Stars

---

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In my continuing inability to focus on anything at ALL I wandered over to the page of the catfish poet.

I have been unblocked and dummy me hit the message option to see if it worked and found messages from 5 years ago.

I also lost 2 days worth of ‘work’ on the new book due to an unscheduled update.

It wasn’t much, just some editing, but I have to get groceries and I cannot fucking focus.

Upon closer inspection I lost 2000 words, not the 200 I originally thought, shit fuck.

Still doesn’t explain why I would want to open that old box of hurt.

I didn’t message him back, but part of me wants to.

The writer part of me that turns pain and blood into words.

“Hey that scar is pretty well healed, barely visible really, let’s cut that fucker open and watch it bleed.”

I am not bored, to say I am bored in a world full of such miraculous wonder and the internet is a mortal sin.

But…

I am not motivated.

I know this.

Hence my urge to play a little football with the hornet’s nest.

I do that sometimes when someone new hurts me. I go back and look at the old wounds to see how well they healed, or dig out any old splinters that are festering. Some of my exes are incredibly sweet and comforting, so is the knowledge that although I may have collapsed crying in a pile of laundry while holding the sweater I wore on our first date, that I moved past that. I got rid of the sweater which was too bad, it was a good sweater, and he is a good ex.

The catfish poet is not numbered among the good ones though.

I actually can’t remember how many years we were on and then off again. Too many.

The Half Wild Thing book was written originally to show someone (catfish poet specifically) I understood who they were and what they wanted. I genuinely cared about this person and he was a cuck. I wondered if maybe after 7 years of extreme sexual repression in my marriage if this was something I wanted, could I be with someone and fuck other people in front of him? Never tired it before, still haven’t, but I wrote 400 pages about it.

I have since realized that, while understanding, experimentation, and acceptance play a huge part in the act of loving someone, bending completely to their will and getting nothing in return is just unrequited bullshit and feeding of a starving ego that will never be full.

I left that project by the wayside until he and I were officially done. Which, according to Facebook memories was 5 years ago today. This is what I had to say about that.

I got dumped for lack of a better word.

For the simple act of being myself.

I got ice queen cold over it.

Scared myself a bit with how little I cared or reacted.

Then I realized something.

I had 7 years of training for this.

My ex and I split up monthly and would have these 12 hour text wars where nothing got resolved.

I’m not cold. I’m just too happy with my life to bother with dramatic bullshit. I already know how this ends.

I do have a massive aversion to drama. I will not fight to stay with anyone anymore.

The anniversary aspect is pretty funny though. Gee I wonder why I was peeking at him yesterday, specifically yesterday after months/years of forgetting he exists. I suppose I have hung out with enough fuckbois that I now have an internal timer that goes off on all anniversaries and my subconscious whispers “go look”. See what he is doing.

I don’t even really equate him with the book anymore, weirdly. It sat as an unfinished word document until I decided to move to Newfoundland and I wanted an extra revenue stream just in case. I then picked it back up and wrote my own ending where she gets assaulted, he handles it badly and they split.

I got fucked over hardcore by the original publisher and here we are.

In rewriting the ending I orchestrated my own rescue from a situation I was never in.

The Queen of California is stepping down. John Mayer

I abdicated a throne that was never mine to begin with, but I got a book out of it.

An insanely pornographic gang bang, cuckhold, toy filled book of things that should never be attempted in real life, but it’s good.

The original publishing date was 3 years ago today. And I only finished it because I was angry.

Revenge porn, just not in the usual sense.

I write really well when I am mad.

I remember in grade 9 my bestie’s boyfriend did or said something that sent me off the deep end. I was LIVID about something. No idea what, that was 33 years ago, but I wrote him this scathing letter about it. He didn’t get mad. He took it to his grade 12 English teacher, and all I could think is “I am in so much fucking trouble”, but no. She had a sit down with me about what a good writer I could be if I could channel my energy in better directions. Mrs. Turvill. She was so cool, and I regret so very much not tucking myself under her wing when it was offered.

I wish I could get that back.

I have spent a lot of time lately praying for a time machine and having incredibly vivid memories of my past.

Even this last year in and out of lockdown, out of work, so much time all I did was publish 2 books, one new one old and re-edited. Working on the third but it is going so slowly it hurts. The Patreon feels like a hail Mary pass trying to salvage the year.

I am truly enjoying the freedom I have to write different styles of articles over there and being monetarily rewarded for time spent is new and right somehow.

I want a do over. I miss the ease of March, the revelations of July, the forward motion of September.

I read stuff I have written in this new book I am working on and I am in awe of whichever part of me took over that day and put those words to paper.

Elizabeth ‘eatpraylove’ Gilbert did a Ted Talk a million years ago regarding daemons and muses and inspiration. She told a story about Tom Waits sitting in L.A traffic and getting a really good idea for a song and yelling at his muse to come back later. She tells it better and obviously I will post a link.

I want my muse back goddammit.

I am here, ready willing and able.

Writing is really all can do right now, my body wants to sit and not much else.

This day last year I hit my intended word count for A Wolf and His Witch as well.

What a weird day to be so symbolic and full of weird writing things and writer things for me.

January 19^th. Has no ring nor excitement to it. It is just an awkward day and I am in an awkward mood.

I normally finish off my posts with some grand mal epiphany, but I am at a loss today.

So here are links to all da tings

https://www.patreon.com/sarahthegoodwitch

We all know that sex can be magical.

Well, not all.

We have your garden variety fuckbois using women as vehicles to get them from point a to point oh.

Incels in the basement who want to fuck us but have decided we are evil be cause we don’t want to fuck them. But we don’t want to fuck them because of how they are, it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy really.
Take some responsibility for how much of a turn off your bitterness is.

And then there is those women who do not know this magic and are the ones yelling at the managers with those godforsaken haircuts. Yes Karen, I am talking to you.
The pearl necklaces you clutch and the ones I crave are so very different.

All 3 slut shaming for varying reasons and all of them ought to be banging each other and leaving the rest of us alone.

I swear to god if any of those women knew one moment of sexual pleasure all the evil would exit their bodies like a beautiful exorcism and their souls would be at peace for once. And ours along with them.

If I were a billionaire, I would ship one of these to every Karen on the planet.

https://tracysdog.com/

I had 3 mindboggling orgasms yesterday and damn if they didn’t calm me right down. Oh serotonin, you were missed, and your presence is welcome here. I love you. Please stay.

I have pontificated till I am blue in the face about the reasoning behind why North America is so fucking uptight about everyone else’s genitals and what they do with them. Just stop. Her vagina is not your business, and no, I do not want to see your dick.

Everyone knows I am staunchly poly and my reasons for being so. Everyone knows I am hyper sexual and sexually liberated as fuuuuuuck.

I didn’t just wake up one morning and suddenly become like this.

It has been a journey.

A sexy, strange and often disappointing journey.

I discovered empath sex and lightning sex about 6 years ago and I have tried not to indulge in anything less since. Although, when you are starving and someone offers you a chalky protein shake, you drink that shit down and say thank you. Please can I have some more.

And although I have stayed in some mediocre situations for really good dick, I won’t stick around for bad dick.
7 years of farm and the withholding of bad sex until I about lost my damned mind. Oh wait I did.

I have wasted enough of my life there.

Big Spoon was an exception, we just had a false start, and I am glad we decided to do a do over.

Mama Moon and the Big Spoon

I was supposed to see him if I ever got home, told him I had a man and he said that was alright, we could just hang, he missed my energy and company. I also know he would ask once or twice politely and respect my answer.

Been craving him and Giant something fierce. Safe places to go and be both fucked well and held tight when my world falls apart.

There are some good dudes left in the world.

The guy I lost my virginity to was not one of them.

386 words and I finally get started on what I wanted to say. Sarah’s segues.

I lost my virginity in a less than majestic manner, drunk, on the back lawn of the cheapest hotel in town to a guy from out of town, who lied about his name.

It is what it is.

I was 15 and wanted rid of my virginity like throwing out a childish sweater that didn’t fit anymore.

And I had my first orgasm.

And my last for 5 years.

I didn’t have another until I started dating a woman.

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The relationship was a fucking trainwreck, I was a trainwreck, but the sex was good.

What is that Stabbing Westward song from a million years ago?

Oh yes.

I cannot save you; I can’t even save myself.

Pretty, pretty, pretty much this, yes, uh huh.

I posted a meme yesterday. Shocking I know. I do this 50 to 100 times a day and have, every day for the last 6 years.

But this one changed who I am as a person and made me lose my own faith in my own humanity, and others.

I don’t quantify myself as a memelord, but, perhaps in certain circles I am.
To me, memelords are they who post the dark humor and the dankness.
The chaotic evil if you will.
Me? I am light and breezy memelord, usually. But not yesterday. Not for a week now, nor since I watched the video of George Floyd dying in the street, or Eric Garner really or any of it.

I can’t breathe.

Out of the X amount of people who voted for Trump, I wonder how many were doing it for party and pocket.

Like I get Republican policies are better for the rich. I know one such man and he voted with his wallet. I do not fundamentally think this makes him a bad person. I do not think he has drank the Kool-aid. He is not a cultist.

He is complicit. And that fucking sucks.

It sucks because, well just look around.

I am the kind of person who needs to understand why about every cot damned thing.

The poor whites actually believe that they are only poor because of minorities.
They have been programmed not to hate the rich, but to hate other poor people.
That is their reality.

This is the awful truth.

His MAGAts believe that a dude who shits on a gold toilet cares about them and their country.
That he is making things better because he hates the same things they do.
That is their reality.

This is the awful truth.

They believe their “patriotism” is something born of love and loyalty to country.
When in fact, it is white nationalism.
That is their reality.

I can actually pinpoint the moment where I started feeling so lost and helpless and angry about it.

One of the debates over 4 years ago now, wherein trump said, “she believes in ripping babies from the womb in the ninth month of pregnancy.”

Sir, what you are describing is the normal process of childbirth or alternately a caesarean birth.

Sir, are you serious, sir…sir. Nope already onto the next slanderous, misguided, inflammatory thing.

Birth. Not murder, the exact opposite, the beginning of actual life.

But his followers, and the bots went on a rampage about how Hillary was a baby killer. And we never recovered.

I could not fathom, for months how they could get things so twisted.

It is because they made a choice to hate.

Same with the tapes from the bus admitting sexual assault, same with his associations with Epstein and the rape charges and mocking the disabled reporter. And and and. There has been so much I have forgotten like 90% of it.

They got together as a unit and decided this was okay.

All of it.

Not just the cultists, but the party and pocket voters too.

And then we had the last 4 years of hatred and word soup and free roaming nazis, hate crimes on the rise, rape on the rise, domestic violence on the rise, racist police brutality on the rise. Polo shirts and tiki torches. Literal lynchings.

Because he said it was okay and so did every person who voted for him.

“Fine people on both sides.”

Turning antifa from Captain America into busloads of boogey men coming to get you in your small town.

And they believe this.

But I never really full gave up, there has got to be a way to reason with these people.

Right?

And then I saw this video of human trash waving a BLUE LIVES MATTER flag while moshing to Killing in the Name Of, by Rage Against the Machine.
(link at the end if you don’t believe me)

Other than Cop Killer, and Fuck the Police arguably the most anti-establishment, anti-cop song there is.

They just do not understand irony, like not at all.

And, as we saw as people dressed in pro nazi paraphernalia storm the Capitol with the intent of disrupting Congress, taking prisoners and ‘hanging Pence’, walk right past several police officers that song stayed as true as the day it was written.

Some of those that work forces, are the same that burn crosses.

Well ya.

Obviously.

But seeing that video actually broke my brain.

As did watching the video of Elizabeth from Knoxville Tennessee, clutching AN ONION IN A TOWEL, wiping her eyes with it complaining about being maced because she tried to get into the Capitol building with the sole purpose of ‘starting a revolution’.

It’s broken, my brain, like there is no coming back from this.

Qanon and their pizzagate, 5G, reptile people, voter fraud, flat earth, anti vaxx … yadda yadda oh my god are you fucking serious right now conspiracy theories.

I understand the why. Like the textbook reason, not the human reason, but the chemical and psychological reasoning and precedents.

This I get, to a degree. Apparently believing a conspiracy theory is this twofold serotonin dump where you get to feel ‘superior’ to non-believers and also as part of the ‘cool kids’, plus it manifests as an ‘aha, I got it’ win of sorts. Their brain gets happy believing this shit, like chemical reaction happy. It’s a drug.

Also, our lil monkey brains are wired badly in that when someone tells you that you are wrong about one of these beliefs it triggers a fight or flight response because your ego is trying to protect your identity. Admission of being wrong is a small death to the ego. For some.

Then you add the programming and the lack of real education or independent/critical thinking. The war on science in schools, the war on public education in general. Add the bots and here we are. One the brink of civil war as a pandemic ravages the country.

Then there is the whole issue with the systemic racist society we live in where white is right and untouchable.

A dude got pulled off a plane for participating in the riots on the Capitol and had the actual audacity to say “I’m white, why are you treating me like a black person.”

They truly and completely believed what they were doing was not just okay, but justified.

This comes from decades of any white terrorist being labeled a ‘lone wolf’ or deeply disturbed instead of being called what they actually are, terrorists. Those who use violence and fear to attain their goals.

Just think for a minute what would have happened if a different country did what those people did last Wednesday.

It would be all out war.

There would be no survivors.

I thought we shot active terrorists on sight.

No?

Just brown ones, oh okay.

And Ashli Babbitt.

And here is where I broke as a human and will never be the same again.

They finally did it.

8 years of listening to racists insult and bitch about the Obamas, and 4 years of whatever hellscape this has been.

I don’t care that she died. I am almost glad that she died.

This almost feels like justice, but there is no justice, and this is not who I am.

Correction, it is not who I was, it is who I am now.

I posted this with the caption, “I AM NOT SORRY”

She was not murdered; she was shot while actively committing a crime after being repeatedly warned that there was a gun drawn on the OTHER SIDE OF A LOCKED BARRICADED DOOR INSIDE OF A BUILDING SHE WAS NOT ALLOWED TO BE IN with a group of people who were threatening harm to the people who were supposed to be in the building, for doing their job.

You broke me MAGAts.

Congratulations.

This was my final straw.

I experienced a brief and profoundly disturbing, life altering moment of happiness at a fellow human beings death.

I then experienced profound sadness and epic schadenfreude as I learned that politicians who have long been on the choke chain of the NRA were cowering under desks like millions of school children have been forced to do for 20 years while they did NOTHING to stop it.

Who am I?

Literally laughing out loud watching the participants of the insurgence being escorted off planes.
I do highly recommend checking out #noflylist on any social media platform.
This is what passes for joy now.
I experienced a delightful combination of rage fear and glee as I heard about the Parler hack and I half believe it was always a honey pot. If so, kudos and my deepest gratitude.

They aren’t going to get better. They have the rabies, they have gone mad. I truly believe this sickness they have is incurable. There is no profound life event that will change the way they think.

And I also don’t think this is about dems versus republicans anymore and that might be the one beacon of hope and light that comes from this.

MAGAts aren’t republicans anymore. Just like not all republicans are MAGAts.

If he is not impeached I believe his raging, severe narcissism will prompt him to run again in 2024 and this will smash the 2 party system that has been so damaging and divisive for so long.

But can we risk this?

That little bird told us to feel the Bern in 2016, and we should have.

I am sad that it has come to this.

I am sad that I have become this.

I remember very profoundly the scene in Cold Mountain where the home guard shot a farmer and tortured his wife and the 2 main female characters had to clean up the mess.

Ruby Thewes says “This world won’t stand long; God won’t let it.”

There is another line in that same movie when Inman says, “I think God is weary of being called down on both sides of an argument.”

He is, I can feel it.

I can see it with my own eyes. Feel it with my ever hardening heart.

These poor poor people are so duped they throw what little money they have at both trump and mega churches, neither of whom pay taxes and keep their doors shut during natural, national disasters.

But I can’t pity them.

After this is over, I can see 45 opening up his own church, a nice tax haven for himself and a safe space for his rabid followers.

I hope he goes to prison for what he has done, a nice orange jumpsuit for the bad orange man.

But nothing is ever really going to feel like justice or closure.

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About a dozen people have heard this story before. Spoken word only.
2 (4 really) of us were directly involved.

And a lot of whiskey.

I firmly believe that we are responsible for our actions always.
Alcohol is not an excuse.

But good god damn have I done some dumb shit drunk.

Including this.

The aftermath was hilarious in hindsight, but I remember the gut clenching fear of that first morning, afternoon into the evening until I could walk into work and face the consequences.

My hand a fist, closed tightly around $500. “That should be enough to pay for what I have done right?”

Tina 2 Chains just shrugged her shoulders and smirked.

“Hope so.”

That was her unofficial job really, to keep half track of what I was doing and fill me in the next day. To watch me be foolish, let me know and smirk about it. She forgave me liberally and often. She is very good at unconditional love.

She made me go eat, I picked at my food.

It was her idea, for me to walk into work with enough cash to pay the fine for what we were pretty sure I did.

“Fucking own it.”

To be honest, the urge to lie had passed very quickly. I loved my GM and lying to him was not an option. Besides, I had no idea what he knew or didn’t know.

I could have, once upon a time, told you exactly what day/month/year it was. But now I have very little recall, I don’t know if it was warm or cold outside. I burned that old notebook where I kept track of everything.
I know I wrote it down.
Too many things I don’t need to remember. A testament to my folly and poverty. I did not make good money at the beginning. Nuh uh not at all.

I was drunk that night, not drunk enough to forget, not completely.

But I remember that morning clear as day.

Waking up in the girl’s house. Sex sore in places I ought not to be on top of a hangover. One of those things I was incredibly accustomed to, the other not so much.

Every time I blinked; I saw a single snippet flash of what I had done. Like one of those flip books that tells a story, but it was both pornographic and missing pages.

22 years a stripper and I had always adhered to the ‘no sex in the champagne room’ rule.

………………..

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I am more than two girls truly, but this will do for now.

Facebook memories still come up and remind me of all the times called before.

10 years ago I had a really nice camera and took farm photos in the winter. They were pretty, but only because I know my angles and how to hide the junk or make it work.

I still do it. I put the camera down when it became a burden, but my phone works just fine.

I hated the farm every winter. So much stress and stuck in the house.

I just need to know where I was, so when everything gets dark, I have something to hold onto or alternately I can remember nothing is quite that bad.

I feel like I had a nice break from November until recently.

The people spoke and the Cheeto was banished. And for like 60 beautiful days, I didn’t see or hear much about it.

I left the attic for a while. No longer a prisoner of old mistakes.

I went out and made new ones.

Sure shit was crumbling around me as the Tower collapsed, but it does that.

How many times have I torn down and rebuilt? Can I even count? Do I even want to?

Nah.

Fuck it.

More times than I have fingers and toes.

Post election… even though that dragged on and on and took its sweet time sorting itself out…I started feeling like I could breathe again. Not deep breaths, but shallow ones without the world on my chest.

The first 3^rd of my journey was quite lovely.

I am remembering it fondly.

Sometimes life just gets really heavy and I’ll carry it, I have no choice really, but I break in the process.

I am more gold than pottery now.

My last post was a schism. I about ended up in the abyss.

I have wrapped my head around a few things. I have someone to pick me up from surgery. Good Karen offered to come look after me, and she can get around quarantine on a healthcare worker visa.

Having even just the tiniest bit of a plan in place is semi soothing.

10 lovely people have subscribed to my Patreon account, and I thank you all from the bottom of my thickening little heart.

I am still scared but it’s manageable. Today.

I had someone very wise tell me “Now that 45 is over, let it be over. He is irrelevant.”

And I did, and it was good, amen.

Then Wednesday happened.

I realized how much I had enjoyed posting non-political content to Our Lady of Lust and Grace.
It was a nice reprieve, I am thinking now I ought to change the name, Our Lady of Fury and Rage.

I have been trying to move stateside for 7 years now. Something always went sideways. Kiddo got sick and moved home. I lost my job. The trailer I bought was too big for the jeep I had to tow and the money I had saved was enough for a tow package OR to reno the trailer. Not both. I had to rescue dogs, stay for this boy or that one, lived with Panda for 3 years then did the lateral move to perdition.

Gee, I wonder why none of that ever worked out.

Last year I had 38/40 pages of paperwork filled out for dual citizenship. Then Covid happened and it looked like the Republic of Gilead was about to become real, still does.

I chickened out.

I was invited 9 times and it wasn’t enough for some reason.

Split again.

Was that a self-fulfilling prophecy wherein I talked myself out of being happy or was I just a responsible adult for the first time in the history of ever?

Vizzini said go back to the beginning.

So here I is.

The beginning of becoming.

I mentioned in the DMT article* that I’d hoped to come out of it changed. I know I am a powerful person in here somewhere and I have long been striving to pull her to the forefront of my being.

I asked to be the pistachio queen of everything, I got nothing and then Wednesday happened.

My fear turned to rage, and I power posted anti 45 everything to Our Lady of Lust and Grace, same as I focused on BLM when I watched George Floyd die. Same as we all should have.

To me, it is morally irresponsible to have a page that big and not be an advocate for change.

Let my heart be broken with the things that break the heart of God.

I moved all the love and light over to my Sarah, Good Witch page and my righteous anger spilled elsewhere.

I am both of these women.

I want to scream, and I want to heal, and I know that carrying everything around inside with no outlet is no way to live.

I am so many things. A stripper and a writer, both who believe in true love and justice for all.

I am a witch and a healer, and I am also small and scared of everything that is happening in my life and outside of my bubble.

I have to accept and embrace all that I am.

And I need to go back to what I was.

The trailer idea was a good one, but it needed refining, distilling, work and logic.

Back to the beginning.

The idea in itself was sofa king GOOD.

Why did I let it go?

Tiny, mobile house, stateside somewhere warm. I had thought Georgia, because I love Georgia, but I love California and Louisiana too.

Smaller trailer is a must, back up plans plural, Patreon as opposed to trying to make money off the blog. Budgets and savings. Access to a job, friends. Head inland during hurricane season.

I couldn’t do it before because my safety net was so cushy. I had a stable full of boys, a house full of friends, a son who needed me, 3 really good jobs and a town that suited me.

One by one all of those things have all fallen away gently or been ripped away violently.

Plus, I am totally fine admitting I was afraid.

I always wanted something to be good enough just because I decided it was what I wanted.

The blackness I was so scared of is absolute freedom.

It’s funny. Liberation is bliss to some and paralyzing to others.

Sometimes both, in equal amounts.

I said my plan out loud 3 times to 3 different touchstones, mostly just to test what my gut says.

No flips, no flops, not wrenching.

Just okay.

*DMT article available exclusively on Patreon https://www.patreon.com/sarahthegoodwitch