January 2022

I have comfort movies like other people have comfort foods.

Cold Mountain and Garden State got me through 4 months of severe depression after a mid term miscarriage.

Silver Linings Playbook and Beautiful Creatures always flood me with this fervent hope and contentment in the last 90 seconds. 90 minutes of build to a satisfying crescendo.

I say this next part without irony, and I have admitted it before, but the Twilight movies are among them.

This is not a source of pride or the opening for an argument. 

I know the implications and the anti feminist under and overtones.
It just is what it is.

Is Edward creepy af? Oh ya.

Do I want to taste/experience an iota of that steadfast decisiveness and commitment. Also, ya. 

She is so awkward and weird, and he wants her anyways.

He just decides she is his human and that is that., no waffling, no bullshit. I mean he leaves in the next movie and gets all broody while she engages in risky behavior, but it works out in the end and for 3 more movies and another book series.

No one ever decides on me and it fucking sucks. Or they do decide on me and they change their mind, which sucks so much harder.

I am left remembering unbridled enthusiasm and 9 invitations to move. And my heart makes Bella’s New Moon nightmare noises in my chest.

New moon in a few days.

I blew the full moon.

Whoops. 

I woke up with determination and a lot of venom. By the end of a very long day, it had waned. I wasn’t even mad anymore, nor sad, just numb.

And that scares me beyond reason and explanation, but I am kinda numb about that too. What the actual fuckity fuck.

Full wolf moon in cancer. 3 planets in retrograde including my papa mercury, patron saint of love mama venus and neptune god of all things salty, including the tears i cannot seem to muster.

Praying by Ke$sha came on my spotify list this morning.

Poignant song. Most likely from 2017 because this is all just a little bit of history repeating.
(yep, I checked)

It’s a good song, don’t get me wrong. But I remember all the basic sheeple people just gushing about how deep it was, how emotional, how brave. Yes, it was those things but have you ever heard 10 000 Days by Tool? Probably not.

And of course I put it on, I don’t know why I thought I could get through it without bawling. I didn’t. 

I digress.

They’re both break up songs for me.

I remember going out into the backyard of my Margueretta Street house on a snowy New Year’s eve and burning a 2007 calendar. The entire year was absolute shit. I remember the power welling up from inside of me, as kidlet and I both let out primal screams in the dark. I felt like very bit of angst, panic and sadness exited my body and dissipated in the smoke and flames

For 11 days I was as light as a feather. I really felt like I was going to be okay.

Please sir, can I have some more? 1000 days in the fire was more than enough. I want to go home.

Everything would have been fine. I was healing and dealing. The shooting happened at the club I worked at. We weren’t allowed to leave until the wee hours of the morning. I was tired and sad and I let ex hubby back in the house which led to 3 more years in perdition.

That is the history I would like to not repeat, the things I want to learn from.

If it is done, let it be done. Don’t linger.

I need a good epic scream and cry, but I can’t seem to muster it. Me, the girl who cries. Did I leave my tears in Newfoundland, I cried so often there it became notable when I didn’t. Even at Hamilton Strip a couple of girls woul;d do a mental health check before dancing to songs they knew might trigger me.
And Brian, also in NL, would tell someone to grab me and hug me when he played “The Funeral” by Band of Horses. I always thought that was sweet. It didn’t occur to me until much later that he could have just skipped the fucking song.

I started writing this article the morning of the full moon. We had an epic snowstorm and I had to modify my ritual. Well, that is an excuse. All the anger and angst I had u[pon waking up dissipated throughout the day. Roommate took the day off work and we did a boudoir photo shoot for her and she was so giddy, it rubbed off on me a bit and all the venom I had just went away.

I ended up asking for broken chains and peace instead of emphatically cutting the cord like I meant to. 

There will be other moons.

I have watched New Moon enough times that I am immune. She wails and I don’t anymore.

But, I watched Silver Linings Playbook the other day and…nothing. That scared me. Scared me enough that I almost want to see what happens with The Notebook and Cold Mountain.

Who am I now? What the fuck happened?

I broke, not in a cute submissive way, and I didn’t get put back together this time.

I think all of the old hurts prepared me somewhat for this one. I know I have survived everything that was meant to kill me before. I was heart broken before I even knew my heart or what love really was. I think the shredded brokenness of  losing Giant and Hulk a couple years apart and being able to maintain friendships with them were crucial in surviving this. We were kindred after all, still are. I learned how to love without possession and ego, the hard way.

Am I crying now, not really. But I have cried before, and this is the third or 4th time this has ended in a less than spectacular manor. At least I am home this time, instead of in another country sequestered in a shitty hotel room processing the death of a family member and the cruel words of someone who was supposed to love me. The only person who ever really loved me. Or at least that is what I thought.

Well, shit…

The venom is back and I have no waning moon to give it to.

I have been meditating for 7 minutes every morning. Well 7 minutes and 11 seconds. I use Panoramic from the Book of Eli by Atticus Ross to time myself and breathe. And it isn’t meditating so much as trying to sit still and not think as much as usual. I tried using Ma Ma’s Requiem from DREDD but I had to restart it, it’s only 3 minutes and change. I also had a day where the only thing playing upstairs was those healthy hertz playlists. I wasn’t in my room much, but they were pretty when I caught snatches of the notes and I actually managed to meditate for 11 minutes, well my version of it anyways..

I am super bad at meditating for the record, however, I skipped it the other day and wandered aimlessly around my room for about a half an hour before I realized I needed to plunk my ass down, put on Panoramic and chill Winston. I was mega productive after that.
You may recall such spectacular posts such as https://www.ourladyoflustandgrace.com/adulting-acceptance-and-the-drama-of-dress-pants.html

Where I regaled you with tales of unpacking boxes.

To be fair, I am still rusty as fuuuuuck and I learned things, and I made a pact with myself that the juicy stuff would go on Patreon.
Plus, we are in year two and version 8 point oh my god stahhhpppp of lockdown, so it isn’t exactly Adventuretime over here.
They can’t all be diamonds.

Maybe all the posts I had to set to private can go over to Patreon. But not today, I have shit to do.

I did do my attempt at meditating this morning, my mind races too hard to really silence it for more than a few seconds at a time, but the stretches are getting longer, and I did my squats last night before bed.

Which is probably why my man pants don’t fit anymore.

I have been doing a massive purge and reorganization during the last leg of the plague, see article above. I feel like I fucked up and wasted other varying downtimes the plague has given us, so in my way I am doing ALL THE THINGS RIGHT FUCKING NOW. Just like I redecorated the downstairs a week before I left for Texas and barely got to enjoy it because I came home, went straight back to work and then left for Newfoundland 3 weeks later and hung around there way longer than intended.  

I have bruises I can’t explain, some that I can explain and the broken soaker tub became the ‘don’t want’ pile. Donated 8 bags of stuff, brought home 3 more but shhhhh, that’s my business. 

I know why I hoard clothing as an adult. It’s because I didn’t have a lot of clothes as a kid and I got teased for the things I did wear. In my mind, and sometimes in real life, I put together these stunning outfits. Not to attract men, I don’t dress for men, but so the townsfolk know I am a witch.

I do recall times in my life when we were allowed to go outside and I actually wanted to go outside, specifically when I used to walk around Kensington market on Sundays or when I was daing Cruz and we had real date nights. But I haven’t had more than a few of those since…well Cruz really. And earth is closed. So it’s been sweatpants and sloth. At one point, early in the pandemic, I was getting dressed up to go to the grocery store. But that time has passed.

Before that I was managing Sirens and I  was relegated to all black at work, but I made it work. Stripping in Newfoundland is just ‘nicer’ track pants because there is an 89% chance I will be drunk and fall asleep in my clothes. And when I work here in Ontario, I stay in the girl’s house, so more track pants.

I never wore sweats until 2014. And even then I only had one pair. But I must have gotten them wet after midnight and they multiplied. I had this massive walk-in closet in Milton, I had 17 white tank tops, now I have 2 and I am not overly fond of either of them. Panda left my favorite one at the laundromat 4 years ago and I still haven’t forgiven her for that. My Milton closet was color coded and loaded, and I wore none of it. That’s a lie, I wore my man pants and I loved them.

I had my first date with Young Un the First in those pants in May 2015. I got tattooed that day too, my wings and the word Hush on my wrist. I remember thinking ‘there is no way to dress myself for all the things I have to do today’. But I managed. I always managed when I had those pants. And it was a good date. Went to Hulk’s birthday dinner in those pants and a backless shirt. He liked the ensemble and so did I. I liked going out with him, I could wear whatever I wanted and not worry about getting harassed.

That was my awesome year in Milton. Free from mid January 2015 until now really. The year of 3 Michael’s, Sunday and the same year I got on Instagram. The first week of the last retrograde of 2021, that account and all of it’s glorious memories got suspended.

On the second day of the first Retrograde of 2022 the universe gave to me…my old Instagram account back after a really long ban. I had stopped checking it and just did it on a whim, et voila there it was. I cried a bit.

I guess that is the way things work. Lose one thing from 8 years ago, get another one back. 

If this past year has taught me anything…I am getting really good at losing things.

Now I am faced with a dilemma. 

Well 2 really.

Do I hang onto the man pants and try to lose weight or alternatively alter them to fit me?

Or do I just let them go.

And, do I move back to my old Instagram, my home and happy place?

One would think the answer is an easy and emphatic yes, but the last few months have been really good. Do I let that go to salvage the past?

I mean, no one is forcing me to do anything. I can keep the pants and both accounts, and considering it is day 659 of retrograde, that is the safest, sanest course of action. 

My room and the house that it is in are looking pretty fucking respectable. As am I. It’s my second day of my adult job and I got up, did all the things, dressed myself well and now I am talking to you fine folks about a pair of pants and the nostalgia they carry in their pockets.

I moved into the Milton house in 2013 with nothing and I built a life there. I moved into this attic in 2020 with less than nothing and built a life here too. Part of the reason I wanted to hold onto my old Instagram account. I need tangible reminders of where I was so I can appreciate where I am.

This is how I am, months of inaction followed by weeks of hyperdrive. And I can’t even appreciate what I have accomplished. Just like I didn’t notice I was getting too thicc for my man pants.

I am looking at my unmade bed and my pooch that stubbornly stays, even though I have been eating carefully and working out every day for over a week now. 

I always regret not starting sooner, but we can’t change the past, we can only move forward, hope for the best and prepare for the worst…and hang on to our man pants.

Faithful readers will remember the 5 myths.

Never
Forever
Right
Wrong 
&
Perfect

I forgot them. Which is some bullshit, because I wrote them in the first place to try and deal with my anxiety, attachment issues and perfectionism.

Ah the lingering effects of a gifted childhood peppered with abandonment.

But that isn’t what this is about.

When do I ever start an article with what I intend to talk about?

Almost never. Myth #1, never. Specifically “that will never happen.” Or in this case, never again.

When Wolf left I just figured I would never go back to subspace. I assumed it was a one off combination of dynamic, chemistry and trust that was hitherto undreamt of (thanks Dr. Strange)

And it was. 45 years on the planet, 30 of those sexually active and I had never felt anything like that before. It was logical to assume it would never happen again.

Right? 

Fortunately, no.

Somedays I love being wrong.

There are days when I realize how backwards I have lived my life.

I grew up between the eras of go to school, go to college, specifically to meet a man and have his babies and “fuck you I won’t do what you tell me.”

I left home at 15 and was busy paying rent while my peers were dating, going to prom, backpacking through Europe and other such rites of passage. I missed them. Then 5 years later I was a mom, still paying rent and just trying to keep the person I made, alive. Didn’t leave a lot of room for self exploration or growth or adventure really. My life, before, was a series of accepting whatever reality I found myself in and being terribly afraid of the unknown. And until the person I made was self-sufficient and then some, I never really got to explore anything, much less myself.

Always surviving, never thriving.

It’s kinda cool now though. I am 47 years old and still get to experience new things and miracles on occasion. Then the word ‘never’ becomes acceptable. As in “I have never done THAT before.” For all my years on the planet, the bulk of them were spent sequestered and unsated.

I became sexually active at 15, had my first and last orgasm in a sleeping bag on the back lawn of a shitty motel. I didn’t have another one until I turned 20.

I had sex, some of it was even pretty good, but I just couldn’t get there, ya know? And in the way of teenage girls and even grown women, I lied about it to spare the feelings of the dude I was with, thereby guaranteeing the lack of orgasms for the next batch of women said dude slept with.

Please stop doing that. 

We have done ourselves, and each other a grave disservice.

For some reason, probably because touch is my love language, the lack of reaching climax didn’t bother me and I still enjoyed sex most of the time. I would almost prefer non climactic sex with someone good to the orgasms I give myself when I am alone with my toys.

Then I started dating a woman who was older and wiser than me and one dude away from being a gold star lesbian. And I learned how to orgasm. After we split up I was with 2 very accommodating men who listened to what I wanted and needed and also what I wanted to try.
God I miss my 20’s for a myriad of reasons, but this was definitely one of them. Not the dudes specifically, but just having the boldness to not settle and to say ‘hey, I want to try _____.” and being met with enthusiasm or at least accommodations. But, I was a serial monogamist and sometimes it would be years where I felt like I couldn’t ask for what I wanted. 

Knowing what I know now I would never entertain a dude that I was afraid of being myself around. But as a single mom stripper in the 90’s, I didn’t feel like I had a lot of options.

I used to be scared of being single. Not because I was afraid of being alone, I liked that part, I actually loved that part. But I was terrified of who I was when I didn’t have a boyfriend keeping me in check. I drank, I fucked, I went out and enjoyed life untethered.

Sitting here 20 some odd years later I know what the problem was. I was terribly concerned about what others would think of me. I wish I knew then what I know now…that it’s none of my business. People talk and will invent things if they want to bad mouth you bad enough. The secret of life is enjoying it without the confines of others’ opinions. This is my journey. The happiest people I know give the least fucks.

But I grew up in a small town and had battled a bad reputation my entire waking existence. I got called a ‘slut’ a year before I lost my virginity ferfucksakes. And in a town of 6000 people, it was a scarlet letter and a heavy cross for a sensitive 14 year old girl to bear. But this was also in the world before internet and pornhub and I still had that small town slut moniker that sat like a choke chain around my neck, and there were things I hadn’t even dreamt of. See above where I didn’t even orgasm for 5 years. The bar was on the floor.

I moved to Toronto and unfortunately my mind did not expand in accordance with my surroundings. I always had that fear and it dictated my behavior to the point that I was a serial monogamist for 20 years. One long term relationship into the next. And those nice 20 something boyfriends who thought my weird was cute and listened to me became bitter, jaded older men with enough baggage to sink the Titanic.

And then somehow we got here.

And I am still struggling. 

But, for a couple of years, and a handful of times I got to visit subspace and I thought I could live there forever.

Which brings us to myth #2. Forever.

I am not going to go too deep into this one. Nothing lasts forever. I was in love with the same boy from high school for 26 years, that felt close enough to forever for me. I became so many different versions of myself in those 26 years and I always brought him with me, until I didn’t. I have never felt more liberated than I did at that moment I let go.

As for the rest of ‘forever’ I know what pillow talk is, I try to not get caught up in the moment and the lies, but sometimes boys and men say the magic words and I can’t help it. I try to see into the future. Less so recently, but not when it mattered.

I have gotten myself out of situations that seemed like they would never end. And as I move forward into this new chapter of adulting with a real job, I know I can quit if I want to.
Farm life was prison and I lied to myself for years. “If I can just save money I can leave”, “if I just do this or that I can finally be free.” All I had to do was just walk out the door, everything else sorted itself out afterwards. And here I be, happily living and shit.

I think it is a very natural and human trait to suffer. We must fight this.
I also think it is very basic human behavior to stick with the familiar even if it is awful. We must also fight this.
Change is scary. I am no exception to feeling like this. I lived in fear my whole life. But that part of my life is over.
I also think because of this predilection towards misery that when we do find something good in this miserable life, we want more of it and start dreaming of forevers, this can also lead to misery. 

It is a delicate balance to plan ahead but stay in the moment. I am still learning.

When I moved to the farm all those years ago, ex hubby said “you never need to move again” and I swear to god my internal dialog said “well, that’s the worst lie he’s ever told”. And he told some seriously shitty lies over the years. Even as I was standing in the driveway with a u-haul chock full of all of my worldly possessions I knew it wasn’t forever.

I do wish I hadn’t let it drag on for 4 more years, but we can’t get that time back. I made it through, it’s over. Nothing else matters.

And maybe that is how I got where I am now. I survived things I thought would be the end of me. I went so long living unsatisfied that I finally made myself a priority. And I just don’t care anymore.
I used to worry about what I looked like during sex, which could also explain the lack of orgasms early on. Too busy thinking about angles and worried about belly rolls to be in the moment. I am still learning to let go, but I am getting really good at it.

Chemistry is a big part of it. I am way more fussy about the energy I let near me. Sex is an energetic exchange after all. Trust plays a huge factor and the more honest I am about who I am upfront the easier it is to find viable partners. And I think, this time, maybe the universe just gave me what I wanted and needed. A nerdy soft Dom with a wicked sense of humor and big dick energy.

Apparently sub space has a crazy underground garage of extra cosmos and floating, and Darkling took me there. Orgasm so intense I felt like I was gone for hours, in my haze he and I had a whole conversation (that wasn’t real) and wherever I was it was sunny and warm, we were laughing and happy. It was a profound experience. Like finally walking into Disneyland after chilling in the parking lot.

That has never happened before, it might never happen again and I highly doubt Darkling is forever. But it happened once and that is something.

I think it is mildly hilarious that I am the age I am and there are still things I haven’t done and felt before. I also think it is spectacular.

2000 years and I can still be surprised, in this I see God.

Godric, True Blood

O sinnerman, where you gonna run to?

I finally worked out this morning. Nina Simone was there while I kicked my own ass. This lil pooch isn’t going anywhere unless I starve myself or start doing crunches, and starving myself is so 10 years ago.

But (allow me this one Carrie Bradshaw moment.) It got me thinking…where are you gonna run to?

The penitent man is humble before god. We all know this, Indiana Jones taught us that if you don’t kneel you’ll  lose your head in the temple of the grail.

Something magical happens when our knees hit the floor. 

We stop running for one, sometimes we crawl a while along rock bottom, I have the scars on my knees to prove this.

“The one thing that isn’t served to you on a silver platter is humility” Harriet Hayes, Studio 60

I have enough humility for a busload of nuns. I can barely take credit for anything I do, constantly berating and second guessing myself and I’ve had many experiences losing literally everything. Material things, love, friends, my child twice and even myself.

It’s been a year and 11 days since I did DMT and experienced a full death of ego and self. After that there isn’t much more to lose. The feeling of isolation, complete and utter abandonment and just wandering around in a void for months afterwards still haunts me, as it should.

No one is coming to save me, I knew that already and I had to rebuild everything once the ground stopped shaking and swallowing me. Everything I ever was, felt like a lie.

Tonight there is a full Wolf Moon in Cancer and thereby incredibly emotional, and we are in our first Mercury retrograde of 2022.
I wrote these things down and sent them to someone as a reason to delay an important discussion and somehow they still felt false in my mouth even though these are the things that have been the cornerstone of my belief structure for my entire adult life. Moon phases, astrology and planets dammit. My new thing is karmic cycles, as in breaking them.

I went from thinking everything is magic, to literally nothing is magic and now I sit somewhere in between. Even if it looks, tastes and smells like magic, ima double check that shit.

Like any belief system, mine is fallible. However, it does rely pretty heavily on quantum physics. I absolutely doubt my own power, see 5 paragraphs back. But then I remember torn ACL’s, broken windows from 500 miles away and the fact that I am still here and I am alright. I also remember using other people’s majicks and having it backfire in a spectacular manner. Tonight is the night to undo this.

Tonight is a purging moon, a severing moon and I am cutting the ties that bind me.
Apologies in advance, but I renounce any further responsibility for your ego.
I can no longer protect you forever.
Time for someone else’s knees to hit the floor for once.

SET IT ALL ON FIRE CHILD.

I have a terrible habit of revisiting old hurts to see if they still bleed. The answer is yes, yes they fucking do. Cauterize that shit and move on.

I’m trying to be better, trying to move forward. I tripped and fell into a couple of job opportunities and I managed to make it part of the dance. But as with every retrograde Papa Mercury tests us by dangling past carrots a little too close to the precipice.

I am doing what I can, with what I have where I are.
After spending a couple of years not knowing where I should be, I am just here. And honestly? I should’ve always been where I am, seems simple enough now but the call of the void had such a nice timber to his voice even if they were just empty echoes.

This round of lockdown, of which I truly have lost count (I wasn’t here) I don’t know how many times my corner of  earth has been closed. I just know a few lockdowns ago, I stopped getting dressed up for groceries.
The first one, I nested. I didn’t know how long I was going to be here, no one did. So I made my space cozier.
Then we all took our tentative steps back out into the world and things felt better, kinda.
I bought a couple plants, went back to work, went away to places where life was almost normal.
And in between I came back here with my hoarded treasure from ‘not here’. 

Now this room is an amalgam of what I was, where I was and who I am now.

Cue this lockdown. This one, this is the one where I really tried to make it count.
Because I finally know it is going to end.
I set goals and smashed a few. Still haven’t put the pot rack up, but maybe today.

2 years ago today I think I was either heading to or just leaving New York, with a brief stopover back in Texas before I came back here. Covid was a rumor and I was watching the Witcher on repeat. The room had been cleared of rubbermaids, but all I had was a bed, a desk and an altar. I did admire the simplicity of that space and the freedom of owning very little.

I left Newfoundland with barely anything, including my sanity, but I rebuilt. That is what I do, with the grace and ease of someone who isn’t afraid of loss. I worry sometimes that I’ve become too fond of starting over and I won’t know when to settle or when it’s time to stop moving. Maybe it never will be. Maybe my time on this earth is just perpetual change and metamorphosis.

The flaw in this plan/not a plan is that I forget to step back and look at the things I’ve accomplished and instead concentrate on the things I didn’t do or haven’t done yet.

I’ve had 3 weeks between catching the Christmas covid and this shiny new lockdown. I spent a week up north with kiddo’s kittens. Before that I had 17 days between Newfoundland and going back to work. I did things, I accomplished shit. The living room is splendid, 90% of my plants are happy, I reorganized my room including a rather difficult furniture shuffle. I put money away, did my tri-annual epic purge and this morning, I did an ab routine that kicked my abs. It’s gonna hurt tomorrow and I am going to do it again anyways. 

I cannot save you, but I am (going to try and) save myself.
Stabbing Westward

I absolutely, totally did that.
I called him Daddy mid fuck.
Well, closer to the end.

In my defense, I have only ever been with 4 “doms” in my life.
And that isn’t entirely true either. Hence the quotation marks. I think being a true Dom with a capital D is inherent, it is not something learned, but rather earned by trust, poise and behavior outside of the bedroom.

You are or you aren’t. There are no grey areas, 50 shades or otherwise.

One of them never called himself that, but he just was. I don’t think I really thought about it at the time, kinda just occurred to me as I started writing this. He just naturally dominated and I simply submitted.
We didn’t have a safe word or anything. Didn’t need one, I felt safe…enough.

I have only had three safe words in my entire life.

Baseball
Donuts

And now pineapple

Ex hubby aka baseball, had a ddlg kink…at least I think he did. He never told me about it, and no part of me wanted to submit to him sexually. Both of those things would explain a whole fucking lot.
Looking back, he is the one who broke trust and kinda broke me when he ignored the safe word he gave me to use and fingered me so violently on the porch that I wet myself. Fucking asshole made me feel bad about it after, I couldn’t squirt for years after that. He was a fake dom. The worst.

I didn’t know any better, and I think a lot of submissives are like me. Takes a few bad doms to find a good one. Luckily I just had the one bad one. But when we do find a good one, it’s fucking magic.

And anyone who plays at things outside of the realm of vanilla knows, things get messy sometimes. That is what showers and towels are for. And sometimes, you just sleep in the wet spot because the bed is the wet spot.

I didn’t know anything about ddlg at the time, and now that I do…I cherry picked a few phrases and kinks from that scene. I get it, some of the aesthetics are awesome and I wish I would have known about it years ago, but it’s not entirely me.I still kinda want fox ears and a tail attached to a princess plug.

But this isn’t about that. And we’re gonna skip over the donuts and head straight for the pineapples, with a slight detour because my mind wanders.

I also went to bdsm dungeons and fetish nights in my 20’s. They were very gothic and dark…and not really my thing. I liked watching, but that put me in the category of all the old dudes who lurked in the corners in tighty whities doing the same thing. I never found my niche, because I think sneaky public sex is great, but showing off in front of a group, not as much.

Never been to a regular people sex club. It isn’t a bucket list thing, but if it happened, I’d go just to say I went. And it might be fun, I still like to watch.

I had a couple boyfriends in my 20’s who were super supportive of me trying to figure out what I liked when I was naked. Good dudes really. I don’t know what happened to that girl I used to be, but she was missing for a long time. My first forays into sex were quiet acceptance of what was happening, then I got curious and vocal and then back to the quiet acceptance but with me jerking myself off in the shower after instead of making a point that I didn’t come yet, fix this.
At some point I got scared of being myself and being honest about what I like. Probably when I kept saying baseball and ended up in a puddle of pee.

Not to beat a dead horse, but the time I spent married was dry as a desert as far as sex goes.
I used to say I lost my dirty 30’s so I was making up for it in my 40’s. It’s not a joke, it’s true.

I stayed vehemently single for a long time, dated a bit then ended up back in monogamous situations where the sex was sporadic, and infrequent. One in jail and one in the States. Months and months of nothing but toys and hentai. When the sex did happen, it was good though. No real regrets there. It is what it is.

I think I just got tired of waiting. That explains fucking the Darkling on the first date. Kinda, I really just wanted to. 

The one good thing about the time I spent super staunchly single was I learned how to read vibes. Darkling has strong masculine energy and I like it. It was abundant and clear from the minute we sat down for tacos and if I am being completely honest, it came through in his texts somehow.
He decides what we’re doing in a way that I like. Firm but gentle, confident and I know if I said ‘no’ or ‘not now’, he would stop or wait.

We never had a conversation about any of this beyond ‘the safe word is pineapples’. Except maybe when we emphatically agreed good sex is expolring and figuring each other out but nothing overly kink specific. Wait, when I brought it up he said he doesn’t do consensual non consent. Fair. No means no.

So how did I end up naked on a fur throw on his living room floor saying “Daddy it hurts” with his cock up my ass on the second date?

Well, I will tell you. That is what this website is for right?

(the rest of the article is on Patreon)

https://www.patreon.com/sarahthegoodwitch

As court proceedings for the insurrection 53 weeks ago continue, I wish the media would stop calling them the name they chose for themselves (oath keepers) and start calling them what they really are, terrorists. Oath Keeper sounds like a sacred duty, not a bunch of ignorant, white bread, brainwashed qanon idiots trying to kill Nancy Pelosi (and Mike Pence for some reason, although I would not have been sad about that) at the behest of a narcissistic cheeto dressed in a suit.

A lot of the last 5 years feels like a bad dream.

But this isn’t about that, not exactly. Actually, not even remotely.

I could pull off a smooth transition paragraph about how I never call anyone by their name. But I do sometimes. Mandabear called Darkling by his given name yesterday and I just let it slide. Things are definitely different lately. And I am not mad about it.

I finally had my job interview on Wednesday and good god, dressing
1. Professionally in business attire and,
2. for my age
is not a strong suit. 

I am the adultier adult, just in ripped jeans and sundresses.

I did good. But my closet looked like it threw up in my room before I was finished. 

I was still me, a long sleeved bodysuit I used to wear at work (in the winter when we were stripper burritos and meat popsicles) underneath a pair of fitted dress pants. And my witch boots that make a very satisfying clack on tiled floors.

The initial interview went great (who knew high functioning anxiety would be a selling point…)  and then the head of a different department came in and interviewed me for a second position. So basically, I have A management job with the company, just not sure which job. I will know next week.

I sat down to write this and I don’t really know what it’s about yet. But I didn’t write yesterday and I am trying to be better.

In the continuing saga of Sarah adulting, I conquered the closet of doom yesterday.
My mom gave me a bin labeled “Sarah’s memory box” and the first thing I pulled out of one manilla envelope was a typed out letter from my mom to me when I was 15 or 16 maybe, explaining why I couldn’t live at home anymore. It was cold, clinical and I suddenly remembered standing in the hallway between the laundry room and the kitchen, holding that letter and the ground swallowing me whole. I shut the box up and jammed it in the closet to be dealt with later. 

Later was yesterday.

The rest of the contents were slightly less toxic. Old report cards, art submissions from the annual fall fair and weirdly 2 book reports. One about Newfoundland and one about the aboriginal tribes of Australia. Which means nothing unless you’re me. Just weird little karma markers in a rubbermaid bin. I saw a lot of “Sarah would be a better student if she applied herself and focused.”

They didn’t have a word nor diagnosis for ADHD back then. I was just a girl, sitting in a classroom fidgeting in my seat while my brain was a million miles away.
My high school report cards were pretty much abysmal. I went from pulling 90’s to 50’s or worse real quick.

I threw a lot of it out, kept a few things.

There were cards from relatives who have passed away, Valentine’s day cards from classmates in grade 2 and every school and family photo for the first 15 awkward years of my life. Good god I was a homely child. They were all taken before someone told me I had an ugly smile and I stopped showing my teeth. I was ugly, my smile wasn’t.

I also purged 7 bags of linens and clothing, reorganized my stripper gear into categories and got that contained. And I packed 2 years of Wolf into a small wicker box. I finally got around to putting all my plane tickets into a cigar box. I doubt I will ever do anything with them but they do serve as a reminder that for a couple of years, I lived and I was free. And as I go barreling towards the land of Adulting, I am not ready to give them up just yet.

There was a box of keepsakes from Newfoundland too. Most notably ticket stubs from the week and a half when Solo, Endgame and Deadpool 2 came out and we made several pilgrimages to the theater for matinee showings. Solo was on my birthday, it was a good day. I miss pre plague life. I miss rollercoasters and movie theaters.

Speaking of rifling through the past. I found a note from Giant. I sent a pic of it to him and we chatted briefly. He asked about my new person. I said ‘he is a nerdy soft dom and I am happy’. He then asked me if I could sum up everyone I knew in 3 words or less. I had to think about it before I replied. ‘Technically, yes, yes I can. But the longer I know someone the wordier I get.’

Giant is my soulmate from another realm. 

“I think I am in the wrong realm and I think everyone can tell.”

It’s true. And looking through all of those old things from my childhood up until last year kinda made it hit home. I feel constantly out of place. I always have, even if I didn’t recognize it. My teachers saw it. 

I do that with relationships too, or I did up until recently.

I think I got attached to the fisherman in Newfoundland because I wanted a reason to stay and be somewhere. He wasn’t ideal, and I knew that. He wasn’t viable and I knew that too, he made himself sound that way, but somewhere not too far below the surface, I knew he was full of shit. And honestly, it wasn’t fair of me to put all of that on one person. I did like the idea that he would be away for chunks of time, it meant I didn’t have to change too much of who I am to fit. 

Things are different now.
I didn’t come back here defeated. I came back because I wanted to.
I stopped trying to figure out where I am supposed to be and now…  

I just am where I am and it’s actually okay. Feels good to stop running from and/or running to people, places and things.

My mind can still wander a million miles away while I sit in my immaculately clean room and talk to you fine folks. Or, and this is new, it can be exactly where I am enjoying the moment.

This job, whichever one I get, signals some semblance of permanence.
Even going on Tinder in December was a kind of acceptance about where I am instead of looking ahead to the next thing.

I can see myself finding a cute apartment in town, close to the stadium and just being here for a while.

And I am not mad about it.

Not excited about the dress pants portion of adulting, but the rest is pretty okay.

Well, this was gonna be a post about butt stuff and safe words and a soft dom, but it didn’t quite go that way.

I try to plan things…but then life happens.

This man I am fucking has yet to find a good nickname, and I find myself accidentally calling him by the one on his business card. I never do that, it’s weird.

He is saved in my phone as “A Good Sex” from a conversation we had about how good sex makes my head quiet for awhile, to which he responded “did I do a good sex?”

The amount of joy that one sentence sparked was, a fucking lot. And yes it was, and continues to be, a very good sex.

I have my own very uniquely cultivated vernacular, as I’m sure all of you are very aware. Stolen tidbits from funny YouTube videos, books, movies and song lyrics, plus inside jokes from friends and family. Point being, it’s mine and I am not ashamed of it, but I do spend a lot of time explaining myself.
It was jolting and strangely comforting to meet someone who speaks my weird little language almost as fluently as I do.

But I digress…

For blog purposes, I think I’m gonna have to go with Darkling.

He is Ben Barnes’ doppelganger, as previously mentioned.

As I am typing away, I don’t even know if I want to publish anything about him.
He knows about the blog; permission has been given. As much as I want to remember all the funny subtle moments, they feel private somehow, sacred maybe, but that is a big word.
This is a new emotional reaction for me so I don’t know how to describe it. I haven’t dissected it yet.
I do want to remember that we were cuddling naked on the couch and somehow transitioned from watching Creature Comforts and Rejected Cartoons on YouTube to Andre Bocelli and highlights from American Idol. Laughing hysterically to full body goosebumps, and then more sex.

I came home yesterday afternoon and babbled at Mandabear for 15 minutes straight about how wonderful the night before was and showed her a couple videos, but that’s different.

I just thought about another reason why I don’t necessarily want to share too much about the Darkling.

I have a bad habit of comparing and contrasting my current “this one” to ‘that one’ or ‘that other one’, finding comfort in similarities when they are good, and relief in differences when the ones that came before were lacking in certain areas. 

That’s not terribly fair really.

A man is good because he doesn’t do that particular bad thing I didn’t like before?

Nah, fuck that. He is good because he is good.

I am done comparing.

It does really help that he doesn’t remind me of anyone. Darkling is very much just himself, and it’s a really good self. A confident, sexy self really.
And I like how much of myself I am when I am around him, I am equal parts confident, sexy and super dorky. All of these things are well received and reciprocated.

Am I super comfy after he fucks my face and all my make up is everywhere I didn’t put it?
No, not really.
Do I hide my face a bit, yep, definitely
But then he says something hot or funny and I forget about feeling insecure and  I just get up and wash my face.

He is also absolutely hilarious, and belly laughs have been few and far between since the plague started, and for the 2 years before that I was equal parts stressed out, heartbroken and hungover. So this is good.

I know it is going to sound cliché and it is going to be a bumpy transition paragraph, but just hang on.
Once upon a farm life ago I spent every waking minute either on Facebook paying attention to what everyone else was doing or trying to fake and capture ‘good’ moments on camera so I could post them on Facebook and pretend I liked my life.
I stopped that. I left and built a life that I actually did like.
But I was still addicted to Facebook and afraid of missing out on social media things.
And I used my accounts as a diary so I could keep my current thoughts and happy experiences for future joy.

I was still not fully present in the present. Too much of me lived in reliving past experiences.
And there were a lot of  parts of me that preferred to live in projections of the future.
Herein lies a HUGE problem.

I thought I’d got better at living. I kinda did.
But then Final Boss happened, and although I had every reason and right to believe there was something substantial there, it wasn’t real. I took his words and built a life on those. I projected way too far into the future and then had no idea what to do with myself when it didn’t happen.
The one after, I was actually forbidden to do that but it didn’t stop me. I totally did that and it ruined me.
I looked too far ahead and I forgot to be in the moment.
And it’s kinda dumb.
I want the thing I have right in front of me, but then I end up worried about ‘next time’ while ‘this time’ is happening? That makes less than zero sense. Why did I do that?

To be fair, I didn’t realize it was happening until I stopped.
I don’t think I knew how to be any other way.
And I honestly don’t know how or why I stopped, I just did.

Darkling and I had a fabulous first date, so fabulous in fact that I broke the rules.
He drove me home from tacos and we had 2 good sexes, and in between I showed him my toys and told him I watch monster porn while we snuggled.

He had to go home that night and I just kinda shrugged as I closed the door behind him and thought, “well that was fucking awesome.”

Did it help that he stopped mid fuck and said “I want to do this again with you”…well ya.
But that could have easily been negated by the toy tour and porn confessions.
I showed him a lot of my weird really fast. 

And, to be fair to my neurosis, how many times have I heard promises of the sun and moon and more dates and moving in together and all the other things I wanted to hear and it turned out to be nothing but lies and pillow talk?
A fucking lot.
Never believe anything a man says when he is balls deep in your pussy.
I should get t shirts made with that on it.

I honestly have no idea how or why it was different this time, but afterwards, even whilst my pussy was still humming and thrumming and incredibly pleased, I was just happy that it happened, instead of worrying about it never happening again.

Most people stress about the bad shit happening, I don’t. I’ve lived through everything I was ever afraid of, things that would kill other people, sometimes more than once. And just like my third car accident, I handled the bad with grace and strength.
I am weird, my worry centers around the good things never happening again. I have a lifetime full of anecdotal, concrete reasons for this. But I survived the loss of those too, so you know what? Fuck it.

We were getting ready to leave yesterday morning and I mentioned I had brought clean clothes because I had planned on showering at some point instead of watching nature documentaries and snuggling all sex soaked for 3 hours. He asked if I wanted a quick shower. I said “no, just because I had something planned out doesn’t mean it has to happen. I brought sex toys too and we didn’t use them. I am more than happy with how things went.”

It’s true.
Planning ahead is important, yes, but living in the moment with clean pants and vibrators in an easily accessible backpack by the front door is better. 

I was going to write a post about our second date and how the sex was so good I accidentally called him Daddy, which I did, and I will write about a some point and post to Patreon.
But this was good too.

https://www.patreon.com/sarahthegoodwitch

Okay, so… I renewed the website. For 2 more years. Juicy stuff is still going on Patreon.

I still have no idea what I’m doing, but it feels good to be writing again, so ima do it.

Final Boss still owes me $1500 from an emergency vet bill, but he has covid too and last time it took him 18 months and a screaming witch fit from me to get my money back. I never learn, but I love that dog so…

I have other places that energy needs to go, and I have that money spent already. New laptop, new winter coat and paying off the credit card bill from leaving that island. I have a bad feeling he won’t pay me back until the winter coat thing is moot. Laptop continues to limp and I can access my secret stash to pay off the credit card, no point in accruing interest just because I am being stubborn.

Not only did I renew the website but I cleaned out my gmail (6000+ promotional and social emails) all before I shower so I can go get the wispy remnants of Chewbacca removed from between my legs.
Being back in Hamilton has its advantages. My favorite wax girl is here, plus my nails haven’t looked this pretty since Texas and I can run all my errands in varying circles. I know where to go if I need gas, groceries, pretty smelling candles and a haircut. There’s a logical circuit for everything. 

Also, because I am in one place (relatively speaking) for the foreseeable future, I went back on Tinder, at the worst possible time. Right before I went back to work and just as the holiday season was ramping up. Made the whole ‘finding time for first dates thing’ pretty difficult, but it did weed out some assholes. Dude simmer.
The pic posted with this article is just a screengrab from the interwebz, but I did actually meet a cop who thought that me being a stripper was a ‘conflict of interest’…um excuse me, sir….’you know my job is perfectly legal, right?’

Whateves. 

I got an avalanche of the standard “hey” messages. Ignored those.
A few other ones couldn’t make it much past their first patented line,
ie. [insert something clever] I’d respond, and the next message is invariably “do you have snapchat”.
Ya, I do and no, you can’t have it. I don’t want to see strange dick, ever.

I have a pic saved on my old phone, from the first time I ever tried Tinder. It is Panda making a bad face and pointing her finger at me, reminding me to stay off Tinder and pack for our move.

I think that was when I met the Lumberjack. But I don’t rightly remember. He would have been a spectacular boyfriend if he didn’t already have a girlfriend the entire fucking year he was pretending to be my boyfriend.
I think they have kids now, good for them.

I have learned a lot since then.

This is my 4th foray into Tinderland, since 2016 but the one time I tried in Newfoundland was so bad, can we just not count it? And one other time I think I lasted less than 48 hours, so that doesn’t really count either.

My expectations were buried somewhere below the floor and just a scooch above the fiery pits of hell, so it was uncomfortably warm but not burning. Faithful readers will remember such lovely incidents as the time I got sexually assaulted in a parking lot by a fake dom and a few other disaster stories. But I think Tinder is like labor and delivery, or a mall on Boxing day. Enough time passes and you forget how bad it was so you try it again.

I described my last sexual encounter to my roommate as ‘you know when there’s a fish flopping around in the bottom of a boat? I was the boat.’

So like I said, the bar was well below the floor. And vagina was hangry, so I tried anyway.

I truly don’t think it’s too much to ask for a dude that makes me laugh, can hold a conversation and has something I can at least work with in bed. Headboard is optional. I am not looking for a husband, just a snugglefuck buddy. I give zero fucks about credit scores and cars. Just be nice, don’t ghost and know how to fuck, somewhat… I am a really good teacher, but there is only so much I can do.

My last 2 ‘boyfriends’ were
1. In prison for half the relationship
2. Married and far, far away.

Does anyone remember that old SNL skit…lowered expectations? Ya, that was me after 3 and a half years (collectively) of the above coupled with my previous adventures in Tinderland.

And yet again, all I wanted was  just something like I had with Young Un the First all those years ago. See each other a couple times a week, occasional outside dates, lots of inside dinners and movies, then he would switch into sexy beast mode, fuck my brains out, sleep, repeat.

Speaking of the time called ‘before’, I stumbled upon 2 exes in the app, we had good chats, but I hath been there and I hath done that. Nice to check in and congratulate each other on surviving and thriving thus far. It warms my heart to see them both doing incredibly well. And it is nice to be remembered so fondly.

Don’t look back, you aren’t going that way.

But back to the present. Matched with 50+ dudes. Talked to a dozen of them. Actually vibed with 3. Deleted the rest.
Made dates, one by one.
I got flat out stood up by the first one.
Block.
Next.
Had a mediocre date that was completely spark-less.
Polite goodbye.
The third was a gem of a metrosexual pretty boy who talked over top of me and said things that made my vagina slam shut audibly. He then begrudged me the singular taco and 2 drinks I had, (I offered to pay dude) and decided to blow up my phone with semi literate angry texts and several phone calls before I blocked him. He didn’t want to eat because he didn’t want to mess up his beard, spent the entire time explaining why he is so pretty (he wasn’t really) and also said that attractive blond men were more sexually targeted and assaulted than women. This was in response to me turning down a ride home after I said I was ready to leave. See why my vagina was having none of that?

Block, rinse, repeat.

I almost deleted the app, but decided to clean the slate and start over.
Glad I did.

I haven’t altered the rules of engagement as far as Tinder goes. I get myself to and from the first date. I always have enough cash in my purse to pay for my food. Uber is a godsend to single women everywhere, except when it isn’t. Long gone are the days when I would suffer through a bad date. I have zero issue putting money down on the table and saying ‘this isn’t working for me, good luck with everything’.
And, it’s still a 3 date minimum before sexy time. I’ve found that one night stands are statistically disappointing and we all know I have a pretty healthy selection of sex toys and exes if the itch gets that bad. 

Many moons ago, I broke that rule. For no other reason than I just felt like it. I fucked someone on the first date, while truly believing it was going to be the last, and he pleasantly surprised me by showing up the next day and the day after that. About a month later we had the boyfriend girlfriend conversation and that was that. So began the Chronicles of Cruz. I did a thing and it worked out. I felt safe and comfortable and god dammit, I was horny and he smelled good. And that went fine for 6 months, until it didn’t. I ended up with a drawer at his house and he ended up with a drinking problem, so I emptied the drawer and I left.
No hard feelings, no regrets.

In spite of my historically disastrous tours on Tinder and the trifecta of meh dates, I went on one more. No idea why

Actually, that’s a lie, I do know why.
This one had big dick energy, was wickedly clever when we spoke and, at least in his pictures, bore a striking resemblance to the Darkling from Shadow and Bone. This theory was tested after the second time we fucked on the first date when I pulled a pic of Ben Barnes and held it up next to his face. Mine is actually hotter, mostly because he is real. But the resemblance is pretty uncanny. Doppelganger really.

We had our 3rd date the day before yesterday. The sex continues to impress and the company is spectacular. We fucked while watching Team America and giggling uncontrollably. It was hilarious, ludicrous and quite divine.

And exactly what I needed.

The current song on Spotify is The Badger by the Tea Party.

I met the lead singer a few times, he is a bit of a pompous douche, still thinks it’s the 90’s.A lot of dudes who were big deals in the 90’s have just not let that shit go.

This song is just instrumental with an odd time signature. I like it a lot. Reminds me of dancing in the office space of my old apartment with Giant. Probably in 2017. And before that, the Lippencott house in the 90’s with Jesus.

I noticed another eerie similarity between this year and 2017. Betty White died this year right before the new year. Carrie Fisher did the same in the holiday season between 2016 and 2017.

I am not one to mourn celebrity deaths, Robin Williams stung a bit and I still remember where I was when I heard the news. There are darknesses in life, and there are lights. These 3 were lights and it is hard when they go out. The world just seems dimmer for it.

I cried in front of Chewbacca at the new Disney Star Wars theme park in Florida in 2019. The whole thing was overwhelming, I was walking into my childhood. Remembering going to see Return of the Jedi with my entire family in Lansing Michigan. There had been a massive thunderstorm and the street outside the theater was flooded, but we powered through. I was wearing my brand new jelly shoes, and I was grateful for the plastic. Remembering my dad for years afterwards bellowing “Jabba the Hutt” before cannonballing into the neighbor’s pool and creating father sized tidal waves, which is to say, tsunamis.
I cried because on one of the rides, there was Princess Leia telling us we were her only hope, and 3 years after her death, it hit me much like the waves in the pool.

We were walking under the Millenium Falcon at the time and Chewbacca just happened to be there, probably coming off a break. He offered me a hug (in noises and gestures) and I didn’t take it. I regret this.

Would have made my inner child very happy even though I probably would have gotten salt and snot all over his costume.

Other things should be left in the past, like shoulder pads. While this might seem like blasphemy, I watched a couple of episodes of Golden Girls and it just seems dated. I realize it was progressive for the 80’s, but it just made me cringe at what we used to think was okay.

I am trying to change my morning routine and I cringe at what I used to think was okay. I was only on my phone for 19 minutes after I woke up, instead of the normal hour and 19 minutes. I tried to meditate, didn’t go so good, but the attempt was there. I cleared my mind for maybe 30 accumulative seconds, I had a hard time sitting still. I did a couple yoga stretches after. My back is aching from some new exercises I tried, plus the evil car ride home yesterday and sleeping on a couch for 6 days.  

I am currently staring at a small box of magic mushrooms. The voice narrating that line in my head is Special Agent Dale Cooper, as in “Diane, I am holding in my hand a box of chocolate bunnies”.

See? I am not as good at this as I used to be. My writing muscles have atrophied, like so many other things, and just like my real muscles.

I know the bridge between being at kiddos and the mushrooms, ie I gave him the capsules I had when I got mad at my ex hubby for a minute (ex hubby gave them to me in the first place) and now we can’t find them and I want them back. When my brain opened the door to the world I was writing about in the new book, those capsules were the key. I poked around kiddo’s place looking for them but to no avail. I respect his privacy way too much and they weren’t anywhere obvious. But I do have a box with a few grams of uber shrooms that someone gave me and I am trying to figure out how to dose myself properly so I can go back to working on the book. I really just have to talk to Giant, he knows things, but I don’t know if I want to talk to him right now. Drogo might know.

I spent 6 days at kiddo’s house scrolling through instagram and saving yoga/exercise videos. Did a few. Hurt now.

I also realized it takes about 26 food videos before I get hungry. My new year’s resolution was to eat less and be pescatarian again, but I changed it. Eat whatever I want (as long as I make it) and move more, even if it hurts. It does, I mentioned that right?

I also woke up naturally, and the first time, instead of putting on my sleep mask and going back to bed until 11. I am  going to uber to my waxing appointment and walk back. Stop at the mall and run errands. Walk some more. Baby steps.

Maybe tomorrow I can meditate for one minute out of the 7 I try. Maybe tomorrow yoga will hurt a bit less. Maybe not, won’t know unless I try.

You wanna know something funny? This was supposed to be a post about ex hubby messaging my new instagram account to say Merry Christmas, and how much it annoyed me. But did it? I forgot about it until yesterday when I had another message request and saw his. I had a lot of time to think on my way home yesterday. Traffic was slow because of the blizzards, plural, and shitty roads. Took over 3 hours door to door.

He’s never going to change. We have spoken a handful of times since we split 10 years ago (god it feels good to say that) and sometimes it goes decently for a while, but it always degrades into him being judgmental, or delusional or angry or even a delightful combination of all 3.This time I am just not going to engage.

I think the lesson there is this

If you are the least loved person in the house, you’re in the wrong house. Michael Xavier

Happened in Newfoundland, twice. Happened in Texas. And instead of dragging it out by digging my heels in and holding on for dear life, I left. I have nothing to prove to anyone.

Maybe I am getting better.

Oh Newfoundland, you whiskey soaked bitch.

Things that I loved, things that I lost, things I held sacred that I dropped.

Audioslave

They were all there. Waiting.

I think I didn’t see 3 people from my past chaotic adventure time on the island of misfit toys. Errrbody else waltzed into the bar at least once. It was good, mostly. (mostly they come at night, mostly)

4th (or 5th) verse, same as the first.

I met the cutest patootie of a baby stripper and we would pass the time wrapped up in blankets in the mezzanine, talking about conspiracy theories and the metaphysical. She’d steal my cheetos but jump up to refill my water for me. I told her my theory about how I died and Newfoundland was my perdition. She didn’t like that. Couldn’t figure out her place in it if that was the truth. The use of all my extras and past cast in the story of my life kinda made that theory more real. Or, it’s just season 5 and the writers are out of ideas. Then I would get drunk and do baby stripper stage school for a few hours.

I just realized (now, while editing) that I have terminated several toxic relationships with women this year, 4 someones who I thought were friends, weren’t. Including a woman who told me she hated my ‘smart college mouth’ and here is where I leave off.

No one pays more attention to you than a bitch who hates your guts.

You wanna know what I have to say…pay me.

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