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I have no idea why I wasn’t expecting this but I wasn’t.

I also have no idea if this is actually gonna post or not. I’m writing this on a Mac (shudder) and everything is weird. Even the mouse scrolls backwards. I can’t cut and paste, so this is uber disjointed.

Kinda like the last few days.

Here there be fallout and fuckmonsters.

I am finally seeing why I was the one worth leaving (Postal Service)

Well that has a whole new meaning now doesn’t it?
They call it enlightenment because damn, this feels lighter.
Has nothing to do with me exactly. Apparently it’s not so much that I am hard to be with, I am however, almost impossible to explain to the rest of the world.

I suppose I should have known, precautions should have been taken. Maybe ease them into it honey, the things you adore about me are not for everyone. I actually forgot how bad I am on paper. Remember when you asked me if you were too much and I said yes but so am I? Ya that.

Meanwhile I have made a point of surrounding myself with people both real and virtual friends who find happiness in mine, as I do with them. Bliss in ignorance I guess, mine…not this new stuff I am dealing with.

Sarah is having a good day, the bells ring out in the kingdom of Facebook and there is great rejoicing. But those people actually know me, know how sad I used to be and how far I have come. Unconditional love is a beautiful thing.

To the people just joining us I appear to be a party girl stripper with a fetish for younger guys, a potty mouth and hang ups about my ex. That’s about all that can be gleaned in a half an hour.

Um no, I am none of those things. Wait, I do swear a lot. Drink less than most, drugs never. Exes? I have a few. Over some of them, friends with the others. I dig in the dirt to heal. I learn new things every day. I am ever changing and evolving.

There’s no drama here, unless someone else brings it, and this is how I cope.
Sit down, think about it and write it out.

If you really wanna know me, there are Cliff’s Notes I could post those things, but I don’t think you do. Easier to skim and decide.

It’s impossible to get the toothpaste back in the tube, once something is out, it’s out. I’m not much for making messes myself, why bother, this way I don’t have to clean them up.

I’ve had to defend my choices lately, in a way that hasn’t happened before.

The answer is no, I don’t have a fetish for younger guys.

On the surface it looks that way I know. I know what I write, and why I write it that way. I have been the one living my life this whole time.

Sex sells and I am comfortable with my sexuality. I am comfortable with my choices and my partners. Even if it blows up or goes away I stand by what I did.

I am realizing that it’s not normal, this comfort level I have attained.

I am not about to backpedal, not for anyone. I lived my life in hiding. That’s no life at all.

They are not fetishes, they are not toys or experiments, they are people.

I’ve been down a hundred roads of hurt and I refuse to visit the things I went through onto other people. Do no harm take no shit. But I end up taking a lot of shit.

In the last 5 days I have been outright bashed and judged by women I have never met. It hurts, reminds me of high school and is making me twitch and squirm.

Thoughts like ‘maybe I am wrong’, ‘maybe I should pull the blog down’ are taking up residence in my head and I don’t like it.

I left the land of ‘should’ when I stopped hiding.

“Should” got me mired down in 2 bad marriages, countless bad jobs and contributed to some seriously sub par parenting on my part.

There are those of us who see white picket fences as prison bars. I am one of them.

It took me years and years to get here to the land of ‘what I want is actually important’.

Right now? I want him.

Not because he’s young, but because he is who he is.

I’ve known bad men, and good ones.

He is one of the good ones. He has attained a level of self awareness and honesty it took me decades to fight for and achieve and it’s just natural for him.

He is strong, determined, honest to an incredible degree, introspective, humble, kind sweet, hardworking, responsible and impetuous at the same time and ya, I call him a fuck monster, but that is really just a bonus.

I also get to call him ‘mine’ because we agreed, for the foreseeable future, we don’t want anyone else.

I won’t hold him back if that changes. We humans have fought wars about ‘owning’ other human beings and all came out on the side of ‘thats bad mmmkay’.

We gently remind each other in a joking way of our age difference, but really? It’s not a thing. It’s more important that we support each other, care about each other, are really attracted to each other and call the other one out on our bullshit. Those are the important things, not numbers. I am already a better person for knowing him, what does it matter what year he was born?

I am not so foolish as to believe that he is going to stay this way. The mental growth from 25-42 is substantial. I am not the same girl as I was at 25, I barely even recognize her anymore. Difference between me and him? He is already light years ahead with a self acceptance I am still growing into and currently fighting to keep.

I know I’ll be fine and if it is within my power to contribute to his well-being, so will he.

I wish he had the same luxury as I do, this incredible support system of other humans who only ask of me that I be happy and well, and sometimes help them move or pick them up from the airport. And he does now, by proxy. If you are beloved by me you are beloved by my people.

This is how I will leave him, if we grow apart, better than I found him.

(that didn’t happen)

I posted a meme the other day.

JesusfuckingChristinasidecar. I am getting fucking redundant.
And swearing…a lot.
The first I will try to amend.

The second? Not fucking likely.

3 posts about the weather and now this.

How many times have I started like this? Blah blah blah, I posted a meme…

Ever notice how the word redundant sounds redundant?

Whatev’s, it gets better (sorta).

DO NO HARM, BUT TAKE NO SHIT.

Got the first part down. Ingrained, tattooed on my being. I put bees outside, wasps…no, they are dicks. I rescue people, animals, things…unloved? I will love you.

The second?

Good God I take a lot of shit.

“I am low maintenance mama, but I am not a fucking cactus.”

I said that to my girl the other day, it’s true. I need water, I want to be talked to, moved into the light.
I am too often a Rose of Jericho, one of those tumbleweed-y looking things, let it dry out and it will roll away, give it a little water and love and BAM unfurled green and glorious.
Ima stop that now. I can’t get by like this.

Ugh, I hate the word ‘can’t’, I hate the word ‘hate’ too.
I can, I have and I will get by, I always do, my blessings often wear disguises.
Whining and worrying does nothing but cause delays in the better thing that is coming.

For the record, I have a Rose of Jericho, it’s green because I water it, it lives in a crystal goblet.
It’s happy, just like the rest of my plant jungle.

(Conversation with Kidlet about a rather infamous part of town where drunken students go to drink, puke and just be destructive little assholes)

Kidlet: Isn’t that where you met Wolfling?

Me: Ew, no.

Kidlet: Where then?

Me: Ummm… Work

Kidlet: I love you Ma, but are you out of your mind? You met a 22 year old with mommy issues at a strip club and you expected what exactly?

Me: Crash and burn.

Kidlet: Yep. You okay?

Me: Yep

Here is the why…

Do no harm.

I saw some semblance of a psychic (easiest definition to define her) and she told me that no one could come into my life that couldn’t handle me at my biggest, most powerful self. This is universal law. I believe it, it tastes, sounds and feels like the truth. So why do I keep playing small? Well…it’s kinda habit at this point, one I would love to break.
I get left a lot. Told I am too much, too intense etc. if they bother telling me anything at all. It hurts and it sucks, but I have a feeling it’s going to hurt a lot worse if I end up stifled in some relationship where I can’t be myself. I have been down that road and …no, not happening again. I would rather be alone.

I’m protective. It’s in my nature. And when the universe hands me a 22 year old with mommy issues? Protective goes into hyper-drive.

He treated me badly, of course he did, and he is twenty fucking two, and I let him.

He wandered off often. Came back, also often, tail between his legs, making cute puppy faces, and I opened the door and let him back in. Wrote a whole thing about how great forgiveness feels, he read it and liked it. Of course he did.

Then he did it again.

3 straight days of snuggling, dinner, movies, long talks about all sorts of things. I almost fell asleep there. Felt kinda boyfriendly. Vulnerable and comfortable.

Freaked me out, but I rolled with it. Kept my part of the conversation non-committal. All Cougars know, ‘this too shall pass’, it’s the second rule of Cougardom, first being ‘leave them better than you found them’. I didn’t want that much responsibility considering. What if I hurt him?

And lo, on the fourth day God created fucking attitude. Apparently he too was getting squirmy about how comfortable we were getting and he wanted to go back out, in the way Wolflings do, where they just R-U-N-N-O-F-T. Wolflings are Wildlings by default. I’m guessing, I don’t know why they do what they do, I barely know why I do what I do.

Day 4, I tried to cut through his 20 usual minutes of inviting me over and then making me beg for it so he knew I really wanted to be there instead of just accepting that I did indeed want to be there by saying, ‘if you don’t want me to come over, lock the door and I won’t bother knocking’.

20 minutes into the visit, we are going back and forth about how long I’ll be staying and I say, ‘why did you let me come over?’

His response?

“I was too lazy to lock the door”.

I got up, got dressed and left.

¾ friends polled said I did the right thing. I know it was right, but not for the reasons they think.

I messaged him twice after to apologize, put him back in the power position and he left me.

Sooooo….Unless he reads this. He gets to feel like he did the leaving.

Fuck, even if he does read it…hey honey, I wouldn’t have left you, I had no idea how.

No harm done, to him at least.

Me? I miss him a bit, but not enough to open the door if he scratches at it again.

No more shit, please.

I is getting mighty fucking tired of writing obituaries.

Alternately feeling like a nurse at a hospice, hovering bedside, looking at my watch… waiting to call time of death.

If said nurse believed in miraculous-11^th-hour-Hail-Mary-passes et al. and refused to pull the plug “just in case”.

Just in case what? We’ve magically stumbled into the land of Floren…this one is only mostly dead?
As you wish*. Ya, I’ve heard that one before.

I have never been an advocate of kicking horses. Gentle nudges only, I prefer to use my words and lean into it. Let them go where they want, mostly. So why do I put the boots to the equines post mortem?

“Happy medium”. Traditionally meaning ‘somewhere in the middle between absolute peace and complete chaos’. OR meaning #2 ‘content necromancer’.

I am beginning to think that’s not possible. A contradiction in terms, like ‘friendly fire’, it’s a fucking barrage of bullets,there is no comradery here, only death and maiming.

Haley Joel Osmet was not a happy-go-lucky kid, lived in sheer terror in his blanket fort, clinging to plaster saints. I understand this. It’s hard to be happy when all of your friends are dead.
It got better for him at the end.

See? There’s hope.

My Sixth Sense is just as alive and well as his was.
I see dead people, I date them, I fuck them and then poof, I do what they needed me to do and they vanish.

I keep hoping I am on my way back from the dead.
But I get distracted. Shiny moaning zombies.

I am nostalgic for the days of corporeal muses.

Warm bodies in my bed, lively conversations, real voices, not just echoes.
The good kind of goosebumps.
Instead of rattling chains I get memories and random messages and ‘likes’ on IG or Facebook.

Cue the new one, I held in my hands a crystal ball, a proverbial one, but still.

I looked straight though it and at him and I said ‘if I sleep with you now, I will see you once or twice and you will vanish’.

That isn’t psychic powers. That is a basic understanding of men and how they work. Sleep with them too fast and they see you as carrion, not something to chase and hunt. And trust me, the ones that stick around if’n you fuck them right away? Fucking vultures, the lot of them. Beautiful riding thermals far away in the bright summer sky, ugly as fuck up close.

I, the writer, get stuck writing eulogies.

“…you think I’d be too stupid to know what a eugoogly was?”

— Derek Zoolander

I’m just too stupid to stop dating the dead.

Charon and I are on a first name basis. I step on the ferry, he nods and says “hey babe, s’up”, waives the fee.

I let them write their own epitaphs. Their final words burned into my brain like acid-etched tombstones.

Young Un one-point-oh (Astro-turf)“… I have to stay in your life, I have so many things I have to show you.”

Him aka the Hulk “I’ll be back tomorrow to keep you safe”, also “20 years ago you would have been my dream girl”.

Young Un two-point-ugh, aka Wolfling “I was too lazy to lock the door.”

Young Un three-point-Ouf, “Don’t melt on me babe, I need you solid.” So sayeth he right before he vanished into thin air. Oh the irony.

There was a writer too. Our conversations now bound in human flesh like the Necronomicon, and I shall not read from that book. He is much too dead to attempt a resurrection. His epitaph “OH MY GOD YOU HAVE THE MOST PERFECT VAGINA”. Poetic nah? I think he says that to all the girls. He is/was my kinda monster. But alas…no, nothing else. Just an ‘alas’ and the corresponding sigh.

This new one? There is the faint beeping of an artificial heartbeat. And a maddening ‘but maybe’.

Hail Mary full of Grace…

(*The Princess Bride)

Say ‘pumpkin spice latte’ 3 times in front of a mirror and a gluten-free-spinning-vegan-white-girl in yoga pants will appear to extol her wisdom on life, the universe and everything.

I say Tindr 3x and a man/boy materializes out of nowhere and asks me out.

(tindr tindr tindr)

I once asked a 22 year old if there was a Tindr for Cougars, he laughed and said “No, that’s just regular Tindr”.
His 22 year old best friend asked me out 4 hours later.

To this day I have yet to make an account. I still might, feels like field research, the fun kind.

My sweetsoulsister in singledom (and blogging about*) it posted the following…

“…and suddenly all those love songs made sense.”

My mind cried out NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, with the emphasis and panic of a man falling down a really really deep well.

But, but there will be no more funny Tindr date stories. Selfish thought for the first one.

Second thought?

Lana Del Rey. You addictive monkey, get the fuck off my girl’s back. Take Justin Bieber and Rhianna with you. Fuckers.

LDR is not the witch I am about to make her out to be, nor is she the Snow White she portrays herself to be…she is the poisoned candy apple, oh ya, covered in melted red sugar. Cavities galore.

I had a Lana Del Ray addiction that coincided with Young Un the first. In fact, the two became so intertwined there was no choice but to amputate, poison ivy grew around us and choked the life right out. All the while singing “will you still love me when I’m no longer young and beautiful?”

The answer was a resounding FUCK NO. But maybe…but no but maybe.

It’s the maybe’s in life that will kill you.

Nay fucking nay. I was 40, he was 25 and in the grand scheme of things, not a life partner, just fun for a bit.

“Hot summer days, rock ‘n’ roll
The way you play for me at your show
And all the ways I got to know
Your pretty face and electric soul”

(but but but he did that, and other fun stuff too.)

Alas. My head was so full of bubble-gum pink goo I couldn’t think straight. A goo named Forever, mainlined through LDR’d vocal cords right into my ears. Addictive shit that.

Logical me knows there is no such thing. Me high on syrupy sweet love junk as crooned by Miss Lana? I was the white girl, no yoga pants (his band shirt instead), unable to even.

I’ve been clean for a year now. I can now recognize that post nasal drip that occurs when I am waxing nostalgic. I remind myself of the sleepless nights and the empty pockets of addiction and take a few deep cleansing breaths.

I am kinda digging this new singer Ria Mae… “I don’t want your heart your soul or your hand, I want your body, want your body instead”.

Much better mantra.

• her blog can be found at http://jennandthecity.com/?