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I just found out that Wolf peeks at my Facebook page. The one that corresponds to this website.

MMMMmmmkay…Few thoughts…first one being

Fuck

Deadpan, like Witcher says it.

Second? “That is way too much crazy for me to tuck back in.”

Said he thinks about me all the time and likes to look for messages from his True North. That’s what he calls me, Stella Polaris, Princess Panda Eyes, and most deliciously, simply mine.
I loved being loved like this.
He has spent actual man hours trying to learn about me in every way he can.
Which is amazing to me.

But but but back up… Instagram, cool, the good pics go there, and now messages for him. This blog, a bit of a minefield, but he is incredibly intelligent, he knows what he doesn’t want to read and doesn’t read it
But that there? …that is a scary place.

I started that thing over 6 years ago. It is Skynet, it is self-aware and I have no control over it anymore.
I started it because I lived in a cabin in the woods by myself and I was posting way too many memes on my normal Facebook.

It eventually became a place to post blog posts, support my friends and fellow writers, I met real life friends there too. Liza took me into her house. Sara and I have been to Casadega together. Good Karen scoped out my Airbnb in Texas to make sure I was close to what I needed.
I have Owen and Jean-Yves, Doyle and Dave. Legions of amazing warrior women.
They fight the good fight.
My real-life friends are there too.
I have also been recognized in public. It kept me company and scared the shit out of me and has become increasingly more violent since 45 took office. Incels, and homophobes and nazis, oh my.

And just like this blog, I left it to rot while I lived on the island of perdition and fuck boys.

I’m back bitches.

The new lil book will be available next week on Amazon and I am not sad about my 1.7 million post reach right now.

I wrote the Kobe Bryant article last week and just so happened Wolf was home sick from work.
He was being playful, but I had 3 days of internet battles about when a good time to talk about these things is, apparently never, the answer is never. I told him what I was doing and said I couldn’t stop him from reading it, but all things considered, if he wanted a peaceful day, maybe don’t open the article.

The first (and last) time the subject of my rape came up he almost snapped a chair in half 2.5 time zones away.

I hit publish.

I immediately wrote another article that he could read because I wanted to talk about both things equally, because they are both about consent. He read that one too and knew exactly what I was doing.
Told you he’s smart.

I didn’t know what to expect. I can write the fucking Iliad and 5 people read it, but I post something that says fuck or porn and 400 people go peek.

I don’t write poignant or political articles very often.  Last week I did.

As of now, 3000 people have read it, including Wolf.

The journalist who originally re tweeted the Daily Beast article and was suspended is now reinstated and currently residing in a hotel due to death and rape threats…for reposting something she didn’t write in the first place. The Washington Post has done nothing to protect her even though she informed them right away and deleted the tweets when asked. Nor have they apologized.

She is also a sexual assault survivor. Which I eluded to being a statistically high probability in the article.

So um, ya.

What the fuck is wrong with people?

Free speech as long as you agree with my speech?

Sorry, that is not how this works.

I read a study wherein the chemical response to someone being told they are wrong about something they believe in triggers an actual fight or flight response.

That’s fucking astute.

Except for the flight part. No one leaves quietly anymore. Just fight fight fight.

The thing I believe is the thing to be believed.

Nuh uh

Greta Thunberg ring a bell? 10 000 men attacking a 14-year-old girl because she wants billion-dollar companies to stop killing the planet?
And those are just the ones I noticed.
If you aren’t a billionaire you don’t have a dog in this fight.
Sit down and stop threatening a little girl.

White women voting for Roy Moore, a predator who wasn’t allowed to go to certain malls because he harassed teenage girls. But they didn’t like it when I called them out on it.

The Cheeto flavored POTUS? I don’t have the time or the energy to list his faults, lies, issues, charges. I will say, if you googled ‘untreated syphilis’ yesterday a picture of him came up. And that’s all I have to say about that.

What about the other? This new thing. Kobe Bryant.

Well, last I checked it was about a 50-50 split on “How dare you” and “Thank you”.

I dare.

I said yesterday that I can understand murder, I can. It can be justified in some cases.

Rape? Never. Literally no reason other than violence against women fueled by power tripping male entitlement and the fucking patriarchy.

If one rape victim feels like she might be heard because his death was met with the reminder of the vile things he did in life? Good.

If one kid sees his idol getting dragged through the mud for this and rethinks what he is about to do to the drunk girl at the frat party. Amen.

The status quo is you say something while the guy is alive, you might ruin his life.

If you say something after, it’s disrespectful.

What about the women?

The last time I got assaulted was on a Tinder date, my best friend and I were fighting. I couldn’t drive home because I was afraid he would follow me and I was afraid to go back in the house because she was mad at me and I didn’t have any fight left in me. The minute I finally stepped through the door and I told her what happened our fight was forgotten, and she put the kettle on and held me until I could calm down.

That is how it should be, and it isn’t.

 I have women on my page saying, ‘well I was raped, and I didn’t do what she did.’

First of all, I am so sorry you had to go through that, secondly…what?

When #metoo gained traction, it broke my heart. I’ve held literally ALL of my friends. And they have held me. And we’ve talked through what we did wrong and how to stop it in the future.  After bad dates, or strip club assaults, or even just when something triggers their PTSD from something that happened before we met. Like this for example.

What shocked me and made me feel like I had to start saying something is when a little girl I used to babysit, now 14 years old reposted #metoo. And another friend’s daughter and another and another and so on. And then my mother. I cannot begin to explain the crushing weight on my chest when I scrolled through the minefield Facebook was at the time and saw those 6 characters on my mother’s timeline.

I stopped shutting up about this.

Wolf read the article. Said he was proud of me and asked me if I would consider using my following and traction to set up a war fund to go after those who post online rape and death threats for women and children who don’t have the means to do it themselves.

I am considering it. I don’t know where to start, but I will try.

A year after I started my page, I got graphic pictures of decapitated women and rape threats from a dude in a trailer park 800 miles away. I’m grown. I have a very resourceful internet family that had his IP address tracked in under 5 minutes. I still checked all the locks on the doors for weeks after and every time one of the dogs barked in the night, I reached for the baseball bat beside my bed.

What about the others?

My girl at Nephilim Rising had a similar experience a few days ago because she dared mock 45’s spiritual advisor calling for the abortion and miscarriage of all satanic children. From the same governing body that brought you Space Force.

But I post something about abortion and rape being the same basic control over women’s bodies and I have to wade through 350 comments about how disgusting I am.

I am not disgusting. Body autonomy is a basic human right.

We need some new rules.

Your ex-girlfriend’s friend who used to be friends with a girl who knew her is not a reliable source of information. Not back in high school and definitely not now.

We are literally plagued with bots on social media. Check your sources, I know its hard, you gotta click the little *i* on the article and make sure they aren’t posting other articles about mutant robot spiders taking over Australia (I actually read this) before you share it.

That one guy on Youtube reposting his own disguised voice over a video from Anonymous doesn’t know what is happening in China just because 40 000 other people fell for it and watched it.
I was one of 40 000 until I saw the number of followers and got some sense.

Don’t say anything to anyone on the internet you wouldn’t say out loud, sitting across from me over a cup of coffee or in front of your mother.

Women are not things. We don’t exist for male pleasure or power trips or as incubators.

Until science starts putting something in the water to raise intelligence and lower rage, if a girl says a man hurt her, the statistics say he did. If a man says a woman assaulted him, believe him too.

Women, be better to the good men, stop making excuses for the bad ones and start being kinder to other women. Everyone has their own past and struggle you know nothing about.

Myself included.

I would love to go back to posting things about love. I am in it and it is glorious. But, in case you hadn’t noticed, shit is on fire, yo.

I am suddenly reminded that this country, both of them, murica and canadia were founded by people who were too puritanical for puritanical England.

Our forefathers fucked their good wives through holes in bedsheets and slapped scarlet letters and scorn on anyone who dared break this really weird tradition.

Tablecloths were invented right around the same time in England, as table legs resembled women’s appendages and were too suggestive. And people still left because that wasn’t quite uptight enough for them.

Apparently, we have no come that far…like at all.

So, I posted what I thought was a really good idea on my Facebook page.

Watermark your nudes with the dude’s name so you know who leaked them if they do get leaked.

Fucking brilliant.

Right?

Wrong.

Cue the army of Karens clutching their pearls.

dOn’T SeNd NoooooOOOOOdDS.
Don’t you have any self-respect?
Think of the children.

Okay back up.

Simmer down.

Listen Linda.

I would never tell anyone they must send nudes.
How ridiculous would I sound?
I’m not even saying it’s a great idea.
Just, if you do, here’s a thing you can do to make it safer.
It’s a personal choice.

Why you telling me what to do with my body?

I would also never photograph anyone without their consent.
Nor share personal photographs without asking.
In fact I will react violently to being filmed or photographed in public or at work without my consent.
Women are not things, we are not free porn. Pornhub is free porn.

And I do not like unsolicited dick pics, no one does.

But body autonomy 101, it’s mine. I like it. I like being naked. I have a tiny computer with a camera in it in my hand. If I am feeling sexy and I happen to be nude, I’m taking a pic. And I am sending it to whomever I please.

In the time called ‘before’ I had a cache of good ones. I sent them to more than one suitor. I am totally fine with this. They were too. I sent them nudes, do not look a gift nude in the mouth? That just sounds weird.

Wolf expressed a desire to have certain things that were just for him. My ass for one, some bra and pantie sets I bought specifically just for him and any picture I send. It’s part of our custom agreement and I abide. I’m His and I love him.

There is one pic of me that I took with the blue starry filter on Snapchat, just my face, it’s his favorite. I offered to put it on Instagram so he could find it whenever he wanted. He said no, it belongs to him.
So, no one will ever see that picture except him and I. Simple respectful act.

I have never sent him anything out of the cache either. But I am getting off topic.

Nudity empowers some. Modesty empowers others.

I would never dream of telling anyone else what to do with their body and I am getting sick and tired of Susan telling me what to do with mine.

Stop slut shaming.

Period. Full stop.

Some people like to fuck and be naked, get over it.

No one is coming into your house with bondage gear forcing you out of your vanilla sex every other Tuesday after book club and a glass of white wine routine. You do you boo.

You might have to have an uncomfortable conversation with your kids because, they now walk around with tiny computers and cameras in the pockets and there is pressure to send nooooods. I am not down with that at all. Consent consent consent. Coercion is not consent.

In fact, “send n00ds” is where I lose interest with dudes. It’s a turn off. So are, and I cannot emphasis this enough, unsolicited dick pics.

Also, I am not always feeling sexy or like finding the right lighting and contorting my body just so with my phone high and to the right, you can pull a muscle getting a good one. Although I did have amazing success getting some great butt shots with a pile of books on the coffee table and the timer.

Here is where this gets dangerous. Beyond a leg cramp.

At best it’s a debate on the internet, an irritating tiresome debate, but okay.

At worst, it’s the Salem witch trials. Women being put to death because of the ignorance of power-hungry men and the jealousy of other women. Stop, those are your sisters.
Women have got to stop shaming other women.
I have nothing against book clubs, white wine and vanilla sex.
I prefer strip clubs, whiskey and rough stuff with my dom, buuuuttttt….to each their own. If it isn’t happening to your body in your bedroom, it’s not your business.

It gets really extra ultra dangerous is when Quebec police let a violent sex offender out on a day pass and gave him a green light to see a prostitute and he killed her. Her life was not worth less because of her profession. But to them she was somehow worth the risk.

https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/montreal/eustachio-gallese-1.5439020

There is a correlation here. Slut shaming is real. It is deeply rooted in our unfortunate male dominated, puritanical, bible thumping heritage.

It can be something as little as an offside comment like ‘how many dudes are you sending pics too, lol’ to something as extreme as death.

I am going to close this out with 2 of the intelligent, poignant comments left on this thread.

Aside from a shithead breaking someone’s trust, can we just talk about the fact it’s JUST nudity. Big deal. Everyone has a body under clothing we are all naked. We need to stop shaming and being ashamed. It’s just nudity for goodness sake. People don’t get as bent out of shape about violence, as they do about nakedness, and that’s seriously fucked up.

I don’t get it, y’all know these puritanical, archaic ideas were created to keep us smaller, weaker, more subservient, easier to control and mistreat… Don’t buy into that shit, it’s not cute and really just makes you look dumb as hell.

Preach.

I kept my mouth publicly shut about this for as long as I could.

No, not out of respect for the dead.

Because I was experiencing so many fucking feelings that I could not sort through the or eloquently state them.

I am not celebrating his death, don’t get it twisted. But I also refuse to celebrate his life.

I also wanted to collect some facts, and I have.

It wasn’t easy.

I have the personality type that dictates if I am in a movie theater, I am in the movie. Same goes for reading police reports of another woman’s rape.

Catapults me back to my own.

It’s been 19 years since mine. 17 since hers. I remember hearing about hers and my heart hurting for this girl I would never meet but I suddenly felt connected to like any survivor of a similar tragedy would. I wanted to tell her she wasn’t alone, and I want to tell her now.

Our cells regenerate every 7 years, you are no longer the person he hurt, except I feel like that is cold comfort, because it never goes away. Every time another girl goes public, or another man gets away with it, that wound opens again. Or worse, every time she had to see him making thinly veiled big dick jokes on endorsements he was getting paid for while he was allowed to continue on with his career like nothing happened.

Or when he dies and the internet splits in 2, sports god or rapist.

I cannot begin to imagine the pain she must be currently enduring watching her rapist be canonized, inducted into the hall of fame as if her blood was never found on his underwear. As if he never issued a half assed admission of guilt months after dragging her through the mud. Insult to injury. And the hits keep on coming.

“How do you know he heard you say no”

“Every time I did, he tightened his hold around me.”

Same. Except I got punched. So I eventually stopped fighting and waited for a chance to run.

And now a journalist has been suspended for republishing an article that didn’t glorify him.
I can’t be suspended. This is my website. Hand me the baton.

Journalist who shared old Kobe Bryant rape story hours after his death is suspended

I would guess that she was trying to show support for the 75%+ of women who have been assaulted. There is a 3 out of 4 chance that the journalist herself has been assaulted. I stand by her regardless. She did the right thing.

There is talk of inducting him into the hall of fame.
So…
I ask the question.
What about the 19 year old girl he choked and tore open after she said no?
Do you think she deserves to see her rapist canonized? Idolized?
I have sympathy for his wife as a mother who lost a child in the crash.
I do not have sympathy for a woman who supported a rapist because he bought her a 4 million dollar ring and a lambo.
She’s going to be living comfortably for life on the money he made AFTER he raped a girl.
So no.
He got a get out of jail free card in life
He doesn’t get one in death.
She made a decision to remain married to a celebrity and a rapist. How do you think the girl he raped feels right about now?
I love how everyone is so worried about him and his family.
What about her?
She’s gotta relive this all over again along with the rest of us who’ve been raped.
Yes
Drag his name through the mud.
Yes
Make this his legacy
Rapists should be pariahs whether they are famous or not.
And therein lies the problem.

Rapists aren’t just creepy dudes hiding in bushes. They are husbands and male friends, colleagues and frat boys, ex boyfriends, movie producers, porn stars and Olympic hopeful swimmers and any man who penetrates a woman without her consent. Even if consent was initially given and revoked when things got scary. Like I believe happened to her.

I have heard all sorts of arguments, the lamest being ‘KB doesn’t fit the profile of a rapist’.
Neither did mine. He was a recent ex. We had had 18 months’ worth of consensual sex, he was charming and charismatic and supportive and loving. Then he was violent and abusive, and I eventually left him. I bailed him out of jail for Christmas because I believed he was sorry for the prior abuse. But when he broke into my house drunk on New Year’s Eve and I said no repeatedly, and he fucked me anyways as I continued to say no. He raped me. He became a rapist.

Well she had sex before and or after with someone else.

So?

I love sex, I do not love being raped.

This argument is invalid and disgusting.

Just because a woman is sexually active doesn’t mean she wants to be sexually active with you.

I had a different ex-boyfriend come over to look after me the night after I was raped. We had sex. I needed it to feel like I wasn’t damaged or dirty because of what I had been through. My body, my choice. No one gets to judge anyone for how they choose to survive and heal.

And also, I love rough sex, with my partner whom I trust implicitly. I have used a safe word more than once and had my wishes and boundaries respected.

No one deserves to be raped. Period, end of discussion.

Rape and domestic violence is so rampant in the wide world of sports. Y’all put these dudes on pedestals and worship them because they do the good things with balls or the muscles.
The cult of celebrity is no different.
They think they’re untouchable.
I’m real sick of rape culture and I’m not going to mourn some lord of sports who got away with destroying a woman.

https://www.thedailybeast.com/kobe-bryants-disturbing-rape-case-the-dna-evidence-the-accusers-story-and-the-half-confession?fbclid=IwAR0t_QyKTU12HlZuE03NKeVrNHUDTV7CLxuf4ohXvUuv7qAHAMSthqzvMbc

He raped her by his own well spun admission.
Although I truly believe this encounter between us was consensual, I recognize now that she did not and does not view this incident the same way I did. After months of reviewing discovery, listening to her attorney, and even her testimony in person, I now understand how she feels that she did not consent to this encounter.

Not great. But better than mine. “Tell Sarah that if I ever see her again, I will kill her.” My rapist, 9 years after the rape. After he was found guilty.

If I could have avoided a 3-week trial, being raked over the coals and having my life torn apart during 13 hours on the stand, I would have. It didn’t help anyways. Mine got mostly time served and held 3 other women hostage and assaulted them, same as me, after me. There were rumors that he had done this before, but I didn’t listen.

Still not my fault, and still not hers either.

Sometimes I think I am a broken record.

Like I have said all of this already, whatever this may be.

I know there are overlaps and echoes on here.

There are only so many words in my mother tongue and they render me redundant on occasion.

Everything has changed.

Rapidly again.

Don’t speak too soon for the wheels still in spin.

Some of it, I won’t speak of at all.

I left for Florida a calendar month ago today, with one set of beliefs about my future. One set itinerary with a bit of an unknown.

I can’t shake the feeling that it was my last trip there.

And now I find myself perched at Mandy’s kitchen island, flight that should have been 3 days ago is still 3 days away, her cat sleeping on my half-emptied suitcase. I took a bunch of my stuff out to leave here and Lisa the cat thinks my clothes are comfortable as fuck, because they are. I have a new key for this place and one other. House sitting gig set up for the bulk of February, so that is taken care of.

I don’t have to fly out of YYT, I am getting a ride back in the new year, with my great grandfather’s desk and a few boxes of my most precious things, crossing the Atlantic in the dead of night one more time. I can still remember the ice screaming my first time out there. Didn’t realize it was a warning.

Gypsy mode (re)activated.

I am going full rogue.

Airbnb for the next leg of my journey confirmed 10 minutes ago. My laptop battery, phone battery and vape all vying for a turn in the one viable, accessible outlet.

12 days ago I was walking around the Magic Kingdom after being pleasantly surprised by my traveling companion with a members only late night park trip. It was a really good night.
2 nights ago I was stripping. I cannot explain how much I hated it.

Neither of those things were planned.

Juxtapositions.

The blog is 5 years and one day old.

I am sure I could search all the Decembers between today and then and find similarities to the upheaval that is now occurring.
I got new glasses day before yesterday, my eyes got better somehow. The optometrist found a dot in my right eye. It explains the shadow I see. She tried to blame it on the surgery I had a million years ago to correct my lazy eye. I know it’s from when I should have died in a car crash, but I didn’t. I worked for an iridologist for a minute. She mapped my painful moments by looking at my irises, she wasn’t wrong.

I also have a weird thing with buying new glasses and losing my job shortly thereafter.

Mark quit.

And with him not at Siren’s anymore, the final thread to that place was severed. I had mentioned to Wolf that I was worried about him. He reminded me I cannot save the world. I mean I can, I just decided not to. It’s our time now.

I found a beautiful rendition of The Time’s They are A’ Changing. This one is by Fort Nowhere. It’s pretty glorious.

The line it is drawn, the curse it is cast.

Winter Solstice was last night. Time to set intentions for the new cycle. So, I did.

Like I said, Airbnb got booked, found reasonable flights.

Stayed home last night due to crippling cramps and a rather vicious hangover. Plus, I just wanted to. It was a sacred night for my kind and I spent it in a cuddle puddle on the couch watching old Disney movies with one of my best girls.

I love me a good solstice. Summertime comes with sadness; the days start to get shorter after the apex.
I am a sunshine girl through and through.

Why did I move to St. John’s again? There isn’t even enough sunfall for house plants. Mine have probably passed away. I left my room cold, dark and locked down. I thought I would be back by now, but the universe is conspiring to keep me away. Thanks universe. Sorry plants.

I always held a fondness for December 21^st. Every day after gets better, brighter, longer.

After February 17^th 2020 at least one planet will always be in retrograde for the duration of the year. It’s okay. Its just a duck and cover year.

The battle outside raging, it will soon shake your windows and rattle your walls

Mercury begins the backwards parade of planets, remind me to book my next trip before then.
Nothing I didn’t already know.

My tarotscope today said “when two people in their hearts are one, they shatter the strength of stone”. His said “you are your own fate and you control your own destiny.”

Add that to the list of things we both needed to hear.

“Nothing worth having comes without some kind of fight, gonna kick at the darkness until it bleeds daylight.”
Lovers in a Dangerous Time, Bruce Cockburn

I met him in a laundromat once, all my stripper clothes had just been stolen and I was having a meltdown of epic proportions, his dryer had just broken and he was doing his wife a favor and dealing with wet laundry.

I stopped stomping for a second, as I recognized him, and said “You’re Bruce Cockburn, aren’t you?” he said yes. I said, “great lyrics man.”  He thanked me and I continued my tantrum. Random memory.

I remember the me from back then. I was 24 and terrified of everything.

I never would have gotten on a plane and flown to a new city. I was scared to push on a pull door in front of strangers. There would have been too many variables, too many things that could have gone wrong, too many things I didn’t know how to do. Including how to live a life just for me.

6 years ago, was the insane ice storm in Ontario. I held the house together without power for days on end. Then went to Florida with kidlet for the first time. Came home and lost 260 pounds of dead-weight and by April I was on a flight to Phoenix to see my girl. Ended up on a side quest to L.A. and found so many parts of myself there. Been a lot of places since, all of them out of my comfort zone, but none as important as this next journey into the unknown.

One of my girls mentioned she was born in the city I am going to, I replied, I just might be born there too.

I will be.

Is today the day I am going to write porn?

It’s 8:43am.

Just had a short but intense conversation with Our Sara of Lords. Seraphim humming lullabies and preaching parables to make me feel better.

Had a wonderful dinner last night, with one glitch which I will get to.

I really want to be writing porn. I leave little snippets in his inbox. Lovely jumping off points. Tales and teasers of things to come.

But those are His.

I have been down this road before. Not really, kinda? Sorta? It wasn’t real.
I think I need to write fantasy instead of reality. That is just for us. Sacred.

And honestly? It’s REALLY hard to write about cosmic twin flame sex. It’s all sensations that don’t make sense on this plane, feeling colors and phenomenon, it’s honey flavored scotch that tastes like home warming you from the inside and radiating out. It’s ocean tides and earthquakes. If meeting him was the rumble that occurs from a rocket launch, fucking him is the jet fuel combusting in ecstatic motion.

See?

I can’t do it.

---

We have been waiting to go to this one particular restaurant with this particular couple.

They seemed nice enough. We had to wait through a Santa Claus parade which blocked all exits off the island. Ended up at a dive bar with a fire pit, a ping pong table and 5, count em FIVE Elvis impersonators with a toy megaphone singing bastardized Christmas carols off key through said megaphone.

Also, oddly and sadly… I had a guy offer to buy me a shot after being an obnoxious ass for 10 minutes interloping on my small group of friends.
I said “sure 40 Creek, neat”.
He comes back with this milky frothy thing and tries to get me to drink it.
Nope nuh uh.
Then tries to mansplain WHISKEY…

TO ME.

“I asked for what I wanted, I am not going to drink your interpretation of what I wanted.”

He then went on to explain that Jameson’s is indeed whiskey.

Very aware. I don’t like it. And I really don’t like you.

Not having it broseph.
Drink your froth and leave me be.

That was the aforementioned glitch.

I swear I died, and I am in hell.

Heaven is in Texas. I must get there.

I explained to the woman half of the couple that I am very introverted and I usually have an extrovert for shielding purposes but I was feeling kinda vulnerable. She grabbed my hand and walked me away from everyone down to the water. “Water always helps” she said. She was right. We smoked in silence while I recharged.

Lovely supper, outside. Great waiter, good food and good company. Lots of, “here try this, it’s delicious.” Blue cheese dressing so good we were scraping the container with cold fries after we were beyond full. Passing the ramekin like the grail.

They were presented to me as anarchist farmers. They did not disappoint. We had a long talk about integrating animals to the farm to cut the workload. “And if they aren’t working out, just eat them.”

My buddy Dave had met them on an ayahuasca retreat in Acapulco years ago. We talked about doing DMT. We both have Matrix tattoos.

The weird part occurred when the dude said, “Ya, I took my kids to meet John McCain when he was running against Obama. We used to go to church religiously and I was a staunch Republican.”

Wait. What?

I was suddenly a delightful combination of very proud and incredibly curious.

Likened him leaving that lifestyle to a chronic alcoholic getting clean.

He agreed.

“What happened? What was your jumping off point?” I asked

He said his daughter contracted Lyme’s disease and he started reading about medical marijuana and suddenly he was at an anarchist’s conference in Mexico doing psychedelics and really mad at God. He then backed up and said it wasn’t that easy. There was a lot of self doubt and isolation. Shunning from family and friends. Depression, loneliness and chaos. But it was worth it he said. He couldn’t go back.

Oh honey, I know.

I was raised in a democratic bubble and it was still constrictive.

Fucking parallels man, they’re everywhere.

He got up and went to smoke.

I asked the woman, so how long have you been together?

24 years.

Wait, what?

“So you went through all of this with him? How?”

Wait, what?

She said “it wasn’t easy. I just did.”

I said I understood. “He’s your person. You evolve with them or you leave.”

“Exactly”, she said, and smiled. “Leaving was never an option. I loved him then and I love him now.”

It was beautiful.

Michael Xavier once wrote about this.

How to stay together no matter what.

Stay together
No matter what.

Didn’t practice what he preached but hey.

Seeing it in real life was a sight to behold. I will carry that with me always.

I read another thing (as I often do) about a man who said his wife had been about 9 different versions of herself in the 70 years they were married. “I just learned how to love all of them.”

There are plentiful droves of humans running around on the planet, content with what they know and what they are and where they are. To the point that they will resist change. I have met them. Not my monkeys, not my circus. Once upon a time I tried to pry them loose. But they don’t want out. They like their reality. Redundancy is security.
To me that is atrophy. I won’t disturb them. But when one of them breaks out of the matrix like this man did and his woman chooses to go with him, no matter what. Oh my god that is beautiful to me.

The meaning of life (to me) is to learn, evolve, experience and grow.

Having someone you love beside you learning and growing too.

I think that is as close as we can get to heaven on earth.

I am an honorary member of the Scorpio tribe.

Magical, mystical creatures, most of them. One foot in this world and the other, well, in the others.

Forever confounded by the behavior of low men and women. Me too my darlings, me too.

I don’t hold grudges like they do, into the afterlife it seems.

Once this is out, I consider all matters closed. Not negotiable.

I’ve deemed these women who feel the need to follow my life for ugly reasons, inconsequential. 

It saddens me that they put weight on my opinions and actions. That’s no way to live. Worry about your own.

Scorpio 101

I will ignore you so thoroughly you will question your existence.

And honestly girls? You should be questioning your own existence.

Be like Elsa, let it fucking go.

I don’t have the time for this, my energy is precious and much better spent. I am on vacation so I am giving y’all an hour. Nothing more.

Mermaid, whom we not-so-lovingly refer to as Big Tuna whenever her name gets mentioned (and we never say it 3 times, no no) said “Sarah has left Sirens, I can finally go back.”

Pardon me?

This raises a few questions.

Um. How did she know I was leaving. Seriously creepy. She is barely an afterthought to me. I honestly never think of her unless her name gets mentioned, and then I simply remind the speaker of the 3x rule, lest we invoke the creature from the black lagoon, and get on with my day.

I wouldn’t even mention her now, she’s just a segue.

In no way was I ever responsible for preventing her from returning to Sirens. She is her own gravedigger.

Mind you, I never wanted her freakshow fuckbaby of a boyfriend either. I guess some people just get ideas in their heads and they can’t see the truth.

All done now.

I have had a reoccurring conversation with Attica lately about winning.

She dissolved a roommate/friendship situation lately.

She had to.

She was taking inventory of money spent and lost, damage done and decided that she won.

“Why do you have to win? At the end of the day, you got your stuff out, you have a nice life and you get to keep being you, isn’t that enough?”

She agreed, she still half jokes about winning, but I watched her evolve a little bit before I left.

When my own roommate situation went septic it wasn’t much different. Accusations and name calling galore, not by me. But I still live there, sorta. It’s not winning, it is the simple refusal of allowing anyone else to fuck with my happiness. Keep your part of the peace or leave.

Rules of engagement?

Don’t engage.

I survived my mother’s house. Weak and young and unprepared.

Silence, legion, save your poison
Silence, legion, stay out of my way

Tool, Jambi

Like seriously sisters. Stahhhp already.

Bad Sarah hasn’t come into view in a long time. Good job puddin.
All done now.

The idea of having to fight for someone doesn’t appeal to me at all.

I might step back and wait, but I subscribe to the school of thought that if a man feels the need to choose between me and another, that ain’t my man.
Take him, please. Fuck him as best you can and try to keep him out of my inboxes.
Be kind and learn CPR for the love of God.

Final boss’ current stalks me too. “She already told me you were in a bad mood.”

Just wow. Seriously?

Why?

I ain’t even in the same time zone.

All done now.

Do you all need to get together and form a support group? Call Stompy Magoo, Susan, Jen and Anastasia too. They all think I am the devil incarnate.

The thought that prompted all of this was the following conversation with Wolf.

Once upon a time, there was a game going around on Facebook.

Describe me in one word.

Sisterwife called me “Enduring”.

I retaliated by calling her a Leptictidium. Latin for ‘delicate weasel’. It’s a now extinct rodent from the Eocene period.

I am so clever it hurts sometimes.

And baby, I AM enduring. We can do this together.

Every time her death gets mentioned the invariable question is

“How does that make you feel?”

My knee jerk reaction was ‘I feel nothing’

I have re-evaluated this.

I feel bad. 

She lived in fear of my return until she died. I never told her not to worry.

Not sure it would have helped, but at least my conscience would have been clear.

She isn’t the only one. I have a handful of women who live in fear of me. I don’t care for it.

I lack the simplicity of language to explain to them I don’t want what they have.

I should probably write an article about that. 

4 years ago I was talking to my friend Tristan.  I love him, his wife and their daughter dearly. They adopted me as the weird auntie years ago when I needed it. I have often found it hard to form relationships with women who aren’t strippers. I was expressing my gratitude for his wife not worrying about us hanging out.

“I don’t compete with other women.”

He chuckled and said, “That makes you even more dangerous.”

“I respect what they have, and I have no desire to take what isn’t mine.”

“Because you are a good woman.” He said.

The idea of owning another person has never really appealed to me anyways, being owned? Totally different story. But we already talked about that, and I am certain I will bring it up again.

I realize this sounds hypocritical all things considered.

There will be no homewrecking here.

Because, the absolute truth is I don’t want what she has.
I don’t want a big house.
That particular kind of lifestyle never appealed to me.
(see above where I survived my mothers house)
I don’t care for busy work. I looked after a giant chalet in Milton for years. My reaction to 1000 days spent scrubbing floors? I bought a trailer that I could have spotless in half an hour or less. Again, my time and energy is better spent.

I live my life out loud in my own way, not filtered on Instagram. Cartoon hearts don’t do it for me. I know better validation than this. My own and his.

I don’t need the marriage or status. I respect her as the keeper of the children. That is sacred. I have no quarrel with her.

I want the parts of my Wolf that he doesn’t show anyone else.
Dirty, dark, powerful and beautifully strange. Just like me.
Symbiotic.

No one has to worry about me coming back to claim what isn’t mine.  

I am good where I am, being loved the way I love.

Anger is just grief in the wrong house.

I was in the wrong house.

Lucky for me, I am on my way home.

FB: what you doing?

Me: angry crying, why do you ask?

FB: don’t do that

Me: you don’t get to tell me what to do anymore

not yours not yours not yours

Funny note. I work with a woman who is a dom. She is strong and beautiful. Part of her Halloween get up was a riding crop. She swatted me with it playfully and I caught it before she did it a second time.

“That’s not yours to hit. I am already owned.”

She squealed with delight and we had a lovely conversation that will work itself into a post, probably sooner than later.

I wasn’t submissive with Final Boss, but I was accommodating.

Wow, I can totally see the issue with that word now.

Never showed emotion, never complained. Overuse of the words “I understand” and my patented “okay baby”. There was no need for conflict.

I do understand. It is okay baby.

And this is not conflict. I didn’t fight then, I am not going to start now.

Nothing to fight for.

I saw what he said, I threw up in my mouth a bit. Angry cried and now it’s done.

Well, 3am drug induced rambling apologies. If he said sorry one more time I would have gone where he was to and hit him. Anger is just grief in the wrong house. He was not in my house.

Wolf said “you tried harder than most would have.”

I did. It’s what I do.

And it’s enough.

I am enough. Always was.

I am writing my own closure and a eulogy.

He said he didn’t have enough patience for a relationship. I had enough for both of us. And I will let you in on a little secret. Seeing each other multiple times a week, calling me when you have a pulled muscle and can’t move, hanging out with your friends, with mine, feeding me, fucking me, cuddling and watching nature documentaries. That’s a relationship, or as much of one as I expected. I never asked for a damned thing, except one supper out somewhere so I could wear a new dress I bought. Never happened. The tags are still on and the weather has gone too cold to wear it here. It wasn’t meant for here and I wasn’t meant for him.

My best girl said “there is no better woman for him than you.”
She knows us both, she is one of the few that have seen us together. She knows.

I know. Somewhere close to the surface, he knows it too.

I forgot to ask myself if there was a better man for me than him.

There is.

Someone who balked at the idea of me being accommodating. Someone who expressed concern about me being alone when he couldn’t be with me, before he realized how precious my alone is to me. Someone who considers my quality of life when I transport myself closer to him. Someone who is plotting and scheming to make sure I am financially capable of looking after myself doing what I love. Someone who trusts me enough to say “you can fuck him goodbye if you need to.”

I will tell you the god’s honest truth. He looked good when I saw him. He has this cheeky but ravenous look when he sees me, and I looked really good. I know I did. But as the truth came out and my back went up and I started to get angry, he said my name. Repeatedly. I don’t think he ever had before, he never had to.

I didn’t like the sound of my name coming out of his mouth.

I physically recoiled from the noise of it.

He doesn’t know me at all.

It took me 4 shots of whiskey and about 10 minutes to piece together everything he was saying.

There was an audible click as the picture became crystal clear. My face changed. My eyes sparked cold fire. My spine turned to steel and I laughed.

He said my name, in an attempt to stop me I guess. Nails on a chalkboard.

I said I was done and I walked out the door.

That would have been when the credits should have rolled.

But there were 2 late night phone calls full of no’s.

My roommate told him point blank “you are a real piece of shit if you don’t at least go say goodbye to that girl.”

He didn’t, I knew he wouldn’t and I didn’t need him to.

I am not that girl anymore.

I always loved the idea of this.
Danger outside, shelter inside.
Tired? Weary? (did it take you long to find me)
Come in and rest.

All of these traits and skills I have been learning and honing for years are finally making sense.

Its so fucking cool!!!

This encompasses the book, this blog and my Facebook page.

Better part of a decade at the farm getting cheated on.

The years I spent with someone else’s man in my bed.

Moving here and the shedding of all my things, including my magic.

The years in Milton alone, learning how to love solitude.

And even moving to Hamilton, to my tiny third floor apartment with crooked floors and crown molding.

Once upon a tiny apartment…

Did I ever tell you the whole story of Hot Neighbor?

I know I told you all of how I would see this boy around my neighborhood, I was always a mess or in a rush or both. And he still looked at me with lusty eyes. And I him. He was strawberry blond, freckled and looked chiseled almost, all perfect curves and sharp angles.

Did I tell you my son came upstairs one day and said “Ma, I got a job roofing.” And my belly dropped a bit, dangerous, shitty work but I was still proud. I will always be proud.

Did I tell you he asked if he could bring a coworker up to smoke pot after work one night and “I said sure honey, I am not home anyways.”

Did I tell you when said coworker walked in the door, he looked around at my little gypsy nest and immediately asked my son who he lived with.

“My mom.”

“Does she have long dark hair and a lot of tattoos?”

“Ya, that’s her, don’t worry, she thinks you’re hot too.”

Coworker was Hot Neighbor.

He walked into my house and knew it was mine, without even knowing my name.

“This place looks like you look and feels like I thought you might feel. Warm, welcoming, safe and strange.”

He came back with wine and pie as offerings and my door stayed open to him until we moved.

Scorpios have always been better at explaining the inexplicable than most.

They just know things. I have learned from them.

Young un the First was a Scorpio too, Halloween baby.

He walked into the Milton house and declared it sanctuary, then revised his original statement when he realized it wasn’t the bricks and mortar. It was me. He was the first one to say it.

You carry this feeling of home wherever you go. Bless him.

I am learning what it means.

In its entirety.

It is one thing to be a beacon, a guiding light.
Stella Polaris (told you I would give you a star).

I am also a safe place, I know this. I am the archives and the temple.
I am a conduit, I know what to say, how to fix and soothe.

When the world is too much, come here boo, I gotchu.

And for a long time that was enough.

But what about when I was lost?

I learned to self soothe. Mostly. Sometimes I’d cry out loud enough that my ghosts would rally. A select few I can call on to help me with this conundrum or other. But when the work is finished, they go back from whence they came and I would tend to the bones alone.

Do I deserve what I give?

Have I earned it?

Is it even something that must be earned or is it a birthright or karma, or all three of these things.

This path of mine has not been easy. I admit a lot of that is my own doing, making the harder or stranger choices. I have reconciled this. My pain has not made me hard, doesn’t make me feel justified in violence. The opposite really. Anything I have endured I shield others from.

Maybe I do deserve it. A taste of my own medicine. Physician, heal thyself.

Deserve.

What a strange word.

Do I deserve to be happy? 

You believe I do.

You message me every morning. 

You kiss my forehead whenever I present it to you.

You listen when I’m scared or excited.

You know by doing these things you are contributing to my happiness. 

Please take that leap and realize I feel the same about you. 

Please also take the leap and realize that the things that please wolves are much too carnal for the sheep.

He thinks I am giving him gifts, this Wolf of mine.
Trust, liberation, libations, debauchery, all of me really.

Sanctuary.

The core of what I am.

Just so happens I am not a pious church full of ridiculous rules and a judgmental god.

We don’t sacrifice here. Only rejoice.

I am a temple to honor the old ones.

Every fuck a prayer and an offering.

They are very pleased.

I understand fully what it means to hold space for someone.
And finally what it feels like to have them hold space for me.

To him I am his princess, he is the castle and the wolf who guards it.

He is my long sought after safe haven and I his.

Me: I’m shaking and smiling and tearing up bit.
        I’m not even overwhelmed.
        This is relief. Absolute pure relief.

Him: I feel the same way. Fucking relief, I can’t explain it any other way…

Amen

This is gonna be a twofer and I have no idea how to transition, but transition I will.

Okay so.

Got it.

2 quotes of the night.

1. I feel you like a fever breaks.

(We will get back to that.)

2. Me: we aren’t together anymore but I am not gonna go running around fucking his friends.
Him: I respect that. Plus I am pretty scared of him to be honest.
Me: everyone is.

There it is.

Let it be the finale of seem.

Final Boss was the actual finale. I can’t be with anyone here anymore even if I wanted to. And I don’t.

I got epiphanies to the left of me, omens to the right. Here I am stuck in the middle of the ocean without you.

I read something today, read it before.

He doesn’t love you
He just loves the feeling
of being loved by you.
Arch Hades

We call that a nutshell ‘round here.

Fuuuuuuuck me runnin’, that’s astute.

I have spent YEARS perfecting how I love. It’s beautiful. Like a stained-glass window. Colorful pieces of what I have gleaned gleaming when the light hits just right. Held together with anchors and veins of leaden what not to do. Weights and lightness in perfect mosaic.

I messaged Giant the other day. I needed to know what it felt like to be loved by me.

He said “Like a warm, reassuring figure behind me.”

Good answer babe.

I can tell you the moment it stopped. When romantic love for Final Boss just became phipila. Concerned but detached. I don’t want anything bad to happen to him, but I do not want to participate in the good.

He called after weeks of radio silence and asked me “who do I gotta hit”. No hello, no how are you. Just concern and action.

It was 4am, I had been drinking. I couldn’t wrap my head around what he was saying or why he was saying it.

Turns out he had read a Facebook post about me having a stalker. That doesn’t happen here, I posted it more out of shock than for attention. I said I was fine. The creep had flown away and was in Ontario somewhere as far as I knew. I wasn’t worried. He said he would fly to Toronto. My first thought was ‘awwwww’. Second was, why did you leave me here if you give a shit.
(this was internal dialogue. I would never cuss him to his face.)

He closed the conversation by saying ‘take care of that pussy for me’.

And then promptly hung up.

There is a god. I didn’t get a chance to drunkenly blurt the truth.
That’s a sober conversation. He deserves that much.

I tossed and turned during the night. None of that sat well with me.

Not yours anymore. Not yours. Not yours.

things I held sacred that I dropped
Audioslave

I have been dropped a lot. I land on my feet.

If you wanted me and my precious pussy safe you would be here making sure we are. If you were sooooo worried about me and my pussy, well…you had an all access pass and you got on a plane and flew away. Discounting the 4.5 months he was unable. And that’s another thing. Why I have I heard from him less now than I did then when he was in prison.

I know all the answers. I don’t need to go over them again. The end result is the same.

And I let go.

My fortune cookie today said “to love is to forgive”.

Already done.

Nothing to forgive. It was fun, then it was awful, then it was fun, then it was over.

I already know the why of him. I had to stay a little longer and he kept me tethered.
And he’s really good fuckboy repellent, so there’s that then.
He is still keeping me safe in absentia, I am grateful for that.

So that takes care of quote number 2.

I must have tricked myself at some point into thinking I couldn’t have physical and metaphysical safety together in one person.

I suppose if I had never experienced such a thing, how would I know?

I forgot the cardinal rule. If I believe it I will see it.

Funny story.

And probably our bumpy transition paragraph.

I once wrote letters to Final Boss in prison. He didn’t read them. He had no idea what I wanted or how I felt when he got out. I once wrote him a paragraph summation. He didn’t read that either. At least he admitted it. It explains a lot.

I’m not a reader, he said.

I am a fucking writer.

What was I thinking?

I suppose there is some safety there for me. It’s scary having my guts spilled out and on display. The world, as a collective whole, loves to judge women like me. I think I come off rather clumsy and slutty most of the time. I regret using certain nicknames and phrases early on. But I have to forgive myself for not knowing before I knew.

How could I?

I feel you like a fever breaks.

Same baby.

Like waking up from a dream of prolonged mediocrity and stumbling into paradise.

Paradise is in your eyes. I miss them.

Who even talks like this?

I do.

Wolf does.

He is a Viking with a vocabulary.

Came across the ocean to ravage and pillage my body, and did that oh so well. Then laid in bed with me and spoke of quantum entanglements and deciphering messages from the ether.

Never have I ever been able to speak or fuck so freely.

I suppose if I exist, there must be others.

I always told the young ones they would find someone like me, eventually.

Said it was a blessing that they knew what was possible. Don’t settle my darlings.

I didn’t think about me, or what I was missing.

Until I met the culmination of every Pornhub search, every prayer I sent to the gods, everything I am but couldn’t find in another, all wrapped up in a beautiful package. Labeled very clearly with wolves and words, so I couldn’t mistake he was for me.

A man walks into a bar.

And suddenly, I am free.

You all know him as the Last One.

On a long enough timeline, names get named.

He emailed me this past week.

He got a new phone. Asked for my number, but said he’d understand if I didn’t want to give it to him.

Left me wondering if he was fresh out of the last relationship and not quite into the next. I am the empty space between his monkey bars. He hasn’t yet learned that serial monogamy is a slow death of who you could be, who you actually are, away from someone.

Normally I would muster my politeness and kindness. Message him back, reassure him that I am okay, make sure he was okay.

But I paused.

For a few days, I paused.

Never done that before.

He and I are on some discernable schedule, wherein I randomly pop into his head and he emails or texts. I can’t find a pattern to it, never looked at it very closely.
I text back, if he’s drunk it gets sexual. I stop it. Or it remains civil until it peters off until I once again pop into his head.

The timing of his checking in stopped me. It was the 2 year anniversary of the week we spent an amazing few days together. Consummated and labeled the relationship. I met his friends and family. We went to the quarry with my friends and made plans for the next weekend. But he never showed. Blocked me on everything and disappeared without a word.

I opened the email with fresh Facebook memories in my head. I mean I usually mark certain anniversaries in my head. The Christmas Eve I met Giant. Thanksgiving and Paddy’s day with the Hulk, those are easy to remember. But other days of personal significance are celebrated or mourned as well. But in this instance I was somehow gifted with the ability to pull way back, out of my own muddled head and see very clearly the timeline and decisions I made between then and now.

I am here because of him.

I sent him this instead of my number.

Unfinished Symphonies

I am prone to own every decision, every move I make, good or bad. Even if it isn’t me that ends things, I take my share of the responsibility plus a bit extra to be safe. And I do with this as well. Moving to a different time zone on a cold grey rock in the Atlantic is a pretty huge life choice to make over a break-up.

But that isn’t exactly it. I got on the plane to come here as a last-ditch effort to salvage my friendship with Panda. But it made it worse.
I got on a plane because the Ti-Cats lost that season so I had two weeks off. I got on a plane because a batch of beer wasn’t ready to be bottled at my other job and I had 2 weeks off.
I got on the plane to come here because I had become Bella in the second Twilight where the seasons changed outside her bedroom window but she didn’t move. Just wrote sad things and woke up in the night screaming in the bed they had shared. I think I watched a lot of Twilight that month as well.

I got on the plane because I couldn’t keep sleeping in the bed I had shared with him in the room I had set up for the two of us. Everything placed with him in mind. Room for the dog, bed up against the wall away from the window. Painted the prettiest most soothing teal. He was never in that house.

He messaged me on my second trip out here. Said he would be at that house with flowers the next morning. Wanted to take me out proper, start over. But I didn’t live there anymore. Just added an extra touch of what the actual fuck to the surrealness of driving through the Maritimes in the dark on the way into whatever this is.

What happened once I got here is not his fault, no more that you can blame any catapult for where exactly the rocks land, or if they get made into houses after they are thrown.

I am not who I was before the trauma of him. Or the ones that came before, and I am sure the next catacalysmic event that occurs will change me one more time. I am molten and moving. But at some point, from all of this pressure, I will become a diamond. Hard and cold and beautiful.

I sat at the bar on Tuesday, reminiscing with an old friend. We fight sometimes, go long periods without talking or seeing each other. Then on some magical nights, when the moon is just right, we talk, and laugh and enjoy each other’s company. On nights like those, and others (when the moon is full and blue), I am grateful.

There is one thing I am certain of in life. Well 2 really.

Everything is as it should be, because it is.

And at some point, just as crystal clear as the path that led me here appeared to me the other day, the reason for me being here will show itself too. Sooner than later if the portents are correct.

It has been a bizarre journey. Fraught with peril, sadness and fuckboys of epic proportions.

But all god does is watch us and kill us when we become boring. We must never ever be boring*.

I was talking to the Big Bad Wolf a few days ago. I am afraid and I am trying to reconcile my fear.

“I’m not entirely comfortable with how I feel at the moment but I am also someone who runs towards the inexplicable and overwhelming.”

This IS who I am and what I do.

So thank you my darling Trevor trebuchet, the rocks that were carelessly thrown have become a foundation for something that still has to play itself out.

At least I am not boring.

Chuck Palahniuk*