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I should have called the last one the Drawing of the Three. But it wasn’t good enough.

It was what it was meant to be, a prelude.

There was some fussing on the Facebook page about it. Chill Winston.

And I already made my decision. Didn’t have to draw anything, not straws or graphs. I might ask my girl to pull some tarot cards for me, but I am not there yet.

I don’t remember much about English class but I am sure there is a term for such things, chapters with no other purpose than to close out one sub story and introduce a new character or theme. If there isn’t, doesn’t matter, I did the thing. And as I hit publish a solitary crow did a very close fly by on the other side of my window. Uh oh.

Coulda smashed in to the window, that woulda been worse.

Ever the optimist. Maybe I just didn’t see the second. (that’s not how this works)

I have no idea how any of this works. My WordPress updated in my absence and navigating it is vexing. There are blocks now where a blank document should be. I just want to write.

If this is a test of my willpower I’ll save everyone the suspense.
No is not a word that comes easily off my tongue.
I’m failing and could use a little divine intervention. 
Please please please

This was my status the other night. My boss and my Bayne checked on me.

Everyone thought it was about booze.

It wasn’t. My other kryptonite. Boys.

Someone asked me if they could touch my butt and I had a hard time saying no. He wasn’t in the room thankfully, just in my phone. He only lives there.

In this latest installment of misheard lyrics I found some strength. This song is on heavy rotation in the soundtrack of my life. Radio, mall, Brian’s jeep, at work and because I just put it on YouTube so I could quote it.

Some Nights. Fun

That’s alright, I found a martyr in my bed tonight, stops my bones from wandering away.

That’s not what it says

It’s wondering who I am

S’okay. I will keep it the way I heard it. I am the martyr in my own bed and my bones shall not wander, even if my mind wonders. And I know exactly who I am, so that’s a good thing

See also…

And some nights, I’m scared you’ll forget me again
Some nights, I always win (I always win)
But I still wake up, I still see your ghost.

I do see his ghost, often, walking down the street at night, picturing him under me when I so much as take an extended blink. The time I said he was the worst idea I ever had and he wouldn’t let go until I took it back. I was on top of him then too. Climb on the beast and ride.

He is a beast of a man. Good thing I am a lion tamer and the queen of everything.

I kept that moniker even though I had to give up being a pistachio. I had to. I am so sorry sexy peeants.

I had a thought last week, I was in the kitchen cooking and tearing up because I was missing him, but this was a good thought. So good in fact that I couldn’t help but laugh and grin a stupid, cheek hurting grin. It lasted a few days. I still have the occasional doubt, who wouldn’t, but this thought is whatever the light deer was to Harry Potter, specto patronus. Fuck that took me a long minute, I actually felt my brain cramping. This thought is keeping my self-doubt from sucking all the happiness out of me.

To explain this thought I must return to my 24^th year upon the planet. I had an impossible crush on an impossible man. Such a pain in my ass, and 21 years ago I was nothing like I am now, well maybe a bit, but my self esteem was rock bottom, my superstitions were high and this crush was HUGE. All consuming, there wasn’t much of me to be consumed at that point, but still.

And here, I sadly admit that I stalked the fucker. Not one of my prouder moments.

You must remember 21 years ago we didn’t have the technology that we do today wherein I know what so and so had for dinner and my phone pings when my friends are nearby. I knew where he would be on certain nights and I went to there.

Some nights, we’d go home together and some we didn’t.

Some nights I called it a draw.

This went on for the better part of a year.

I would try to stop and start seeing someone else, and he’d waltz back into my life and that would be that. I would drop my treat of the week and make the quick fall back into limbo with him.

I had never had a not boyfriend before. This was also way back before I began living in the land of friends with benefits and other such arrangements.

And it felt like limbo. Sometimes it was heaven and sometimes it was hell, and a whole metric fuck ton of limbo.

I tried to change to fit him. Not a fun thing to admit either. I wore more black, became a stripper, went to bars I didn’t particularly care for. Back in the day I was constantly morphing to suit whoever I was around/dating. I didn’t know myself one little bit. I kept the stripping and the witchy wardrobe, still a witch.

The point of the story is. After 10 months of martyrdom and metamorphosis. We ended up together, proper. He was my first marriage proposal. And for a long while, we had a really good relationship.

Lion taming takes patience, strength and fortitude. I am perseverance personified.

You’re the king and I’m your lionheart.

Of Monsters and Men

$400 bucks and 5 months later I now have a functioning laptop again.

Turns out my Word issues were due to a failed Microsoft office renewal and my hard drive was failing.

I wasn’t wrong when I said the poor girl was in a coma. I just thought it was a bad update.

I didn’t panic. I was way to lackadaisical about it to be honest. Kept waiting for roomies buddy to come fix it, that never happened. Then hemorrhaged money for 3 months, plus winter driving.  Excuses excuses.

I am now sitting in the kitchen, smoke in hand, John Mayer singing Comfortable. Brian playing video games in the living room that is soon to be mine, and things feel alright. Made a beautiful lasagna and it feels and smells like home again.

I am amalgamating my bedroom and living room into the first floor living room with a door. Its going to be a lot of work, but worth it. I need a project that doesn’t include drinking and passing out. I am trying again. Fall down 7 times, stand up 8. More like 777 and 778 but whatev’s. Takes 3 weeks to make or break a habit. I have 19 left. I got this.

I planted hyacinth bulbs the other day. I had to do something. This winter refuses to let go gently and is going out with a fucking bang. Subzero wins the week. Balmy -4 on Monday is about all we have to look forward to, and the bulbs, can’t forget the bulbs. I smell hyacinths and I am 4 years old on a warm spring day, playing in the dirt and my mom is laughing. I plan to have the room done in time for them to come into the light.

My amaryliss bloomed and went rather quickly. So did the man she was named after.

Had a dream my orchid bloomed again. That would be nice.

Once upon a time a woman I knew told me houseplants can thrive or die depending on who was around when they were brought home. I had a deliciosa that refused to grow, I bought it with someone awful. So now I don’t know if its my superstition affecting them or if its true.

2 days ago marked a year since I pulled up in front of the girls house. My only plants there were the other amaryliss with the other name and an orchid in a teapot that didn’t make it past the Nope. Still no regrets.

Wait.

I have one regret. His name is Jeff and he is a colossal piece of manipulative rapey shit. Other than that, even with the blackouts and the bruises, being known as the girl who cries and the craziness, I wouldn’t change a minute.

Maybe one or two. I regret not asking for morning sex before he left. I am greedy and he likes it.

Pussy is on lockdown for 127 more days.

I am having a hard time with tenses. Past, present or future.

Dear John is gone. He wants babies and a wife. The wife part I could do, but no babies.

The Lovely One too. Samesies. But we had some really amazing kitchen music parties before he left. Titties, Tito’s and tacos.

This is why I had that rule about not dating anyone in their 30’s without kids. Could never stand in the way of the agony and ecstasy that is parenthood and that is the age men start getting nesty. Putting that rule back in place. These two stung a bit.

I could have kept them going if I wanted to. But I didn’t. Could have made more effort, but why postpone the inevitable. Plus they both work away.

And I was otherwise preoccupied.

So begins the story of he who shall not be named. I have a name for him, but we will get to that later.

This guy walks into a bar…

With a bunch of guys I know, my people. Never seen him before. Couldn’t stop staring, stammered when I asked him what he wanted to drink. He smirked. My vagina exploded.

And the rest is a complicated messy story that has a lot of explosions, a beginning and a middle, and I can’t see the end.

I really don’t want to.

But for now I am in a holding pattern. She who waits.

6 weeks after the fact I finally got around to mentioning him to my PIC. She said “why didn’t you ask me about him before?” Well, first she said RUN RUN RUN, then she asked that.

“I didn’t have time.”

Within 20 minutes we had both asked who the other was and within 24 hours he came back to give me his number. Later that night I was angry fucking him after a dramatic bullshit night at work. I still have a scar I wear quit proudly from that night, I hope it stays.

Figured he was going to be another one off. Texting the next day I said “thanks, I needed that.” And he replied “anytime.” I said I had been on this island long enough to know you never plan ahead. But he kept showing up.

He kept showing up specifically when he needed rest and respite. And I was flattered to be honest. It is nice to be seen for what I am. Sanctuary with sex and sammiches. I figured out that if I gave him a back rub before bed he was less likely to fight in his sleep. I am spectacular sanctuary.

Figured out a lot after that first night. Still learning.

I now have jail bae and I don’t know what I am doing. Thank fuck for Lucy and Lex.

126 days by the time I publish this.

I am the kind of girl who likes having something to look forward to. See above where I planted bulbs that won’t be ready until April 30^th.

I am also the kind of girl who likes having someone to look after. Especially a giant, full on alpha male who growls when he is fucking me then tickles my back til I fall asleep. I like being seen and appreciated for what I am. I like feeling safe even though sleeping next to him is akin to sleeping next to an angry bear that is just coming to after a long winter and he’s mad about it. When I touch him and say hush, he hushes and smiles. I like how protected I feel standing next to him.

I like the earth shattering kaboom I felt when I saw him, and I like that he recognized it too.

I like that he is 40 and fucks like he’s 20, but better.

I watched an episode of Cheaters a thousand years ago.

Narrator: She watched A LOT of episodes of Cheaters back in the day.

Ya, ya, I did. Back in the day when I found really basic shit entertaining. Like Maury and Jerry. But anyways, this one episode featured a really cute little young, alt couple. She had green hair, I remember, they were both skinny and had collections of bad tattoos and worked minimum wage jobs, probably left home young, smoked a lot of pot and drank a lot of coffee while smoking unfiltered cigarettes listening to indie music. They’d have been typical hipsters had it been now, but this was then.

Long story fairly short, boy thought girl was cheating. Survey and surveillance said yes indeed she was. And when the grand finale confrontation happened she was tied to a canopy bed, surrounded by a bunch of kids in hard hats and reflective vests and not much else, with a dildo barely blurred on the bed. Boy ran and covered her up, untied her while the cameras rolled on and the conversation went something like this…

Girl: What was I supposed to say? “I want you to dress up like a construction worker and fuck me in the ass?”

Boy: Well, ya.

She cried tears of relief, they hugged and I swear to god, I think they made it.

That’s the problem with being relatively single and just dating casually. Never get a chance to build up that trust or get bored enough to experiment much. 3rd date is a little too early to say ‘hey, do this fairly kinky thing to me, I saw it on Pornhub and I wanna try it.’

I really do want to try that thing. Can’t get past the 3rd date.

None of this is neither here nor there. Once again it’s been over a week since I wrote anything. There was a super full wolf blood moon eclipse yesterday and shit got weird. Nothing to do with the moon, shit is always weird here. Especially on Thursdays apparently.

It was a weird week in general, things happened that I can’t speak about but my hopes were less than zero, so that was fine. Just tryna get through another wintery week of doom.
Cue ‘some dude walks into the bar’, asks for me by name, I recognize him, ya we met before, said we might go out, never happened.
Surprise!

What would have been weird is if we actually did go out, but alas.
I think I might be dead and all I see are ghosts. Some prettier than others.

Also neither here nor there, except when the Thursday dude bought way too many rounds for all the girls at the bar at 7:30 which caused Havoc and Mayhem, then pulled me aside in the middle of me being sober and trying to keep everything from exploding

(Narrator: She did NOT keep everything from exploding)

and said “I know that blog post was about me.”

Wait, what?

“What manner of man is this?” (Bram Stoker’s Dracula)

Like seriously? We met once and got drunk. Not blog worthy, until this next level narcissistic shit.

Nope, nuh uh. Not you. Hadn’t thought about you in a really long time, like 5 to 10 minutes after you left last time. And then the fat man to that little boy of a bomb, “(Stalker) Sarah and I were talking about it.”

Wait…what?

I laughed.

Then he got a handful of messages from her (which I was shown) and from some girlfriend he failed to mention (you left your phone open on the bar) and I wandered off. Dodging bullets like Neo in the Matrix after following the white rabbit into Wonderland. Stupid rabbit. Tricks and kids.

How is this still a thing? sis, STAHHHHHHHP.

Said blog post could have been about anyone. He never did mention which exact post it was. Probably one about Dear John (most likely, something about here and away), or maybe the Lovely One.
Could have even been the Last One, he still messages from time to time, or He Who Shall Not Be Named, not The Boy, I don’t write about THAT anymore…there is another that is just my not so little secret.

THAT is done.

Much to the chagrin of a few overly romantic folks who really wanted THAT to work out. And there was a time that I did too. But reality kicked in and his ex is still stalking me and according to him I have 30 boyfriends, which actually equals 2 dick appointments, of which he is neither, who are aware that there are others.

(find the others)

I need to find the others. Or I need to shut up and wait. Who knows what I need. According to Google a search for “Sarah Needs” comes up a blog post I wrote called exactly that, or in the quick search
1. Love
and
2. Batteries,
in that order.
Sounds about right.

Other Sarah needs a hobby or a job with the FBI. Adopt some cats and knit them sweaters, just keep my name out of your fucking mouth child.

What I need is someone I can trust and on this tiny island of gossip and craziness, that doesn’t happen much. I did let my guard all the way down with the Lovely One and did a quadruple shot of whiskey before we left the bar, which culminated in me telling him he was ‘so pretty’ a hundred times if once (he really is pretty, his mom said so too.) Normally righteously wasted me wants to go home and curl up in a ball, but I curled up next to him instead, and it was good amen.

I wandered into the last couple weeks with this feeling of “something is gonna give”. So I sat back and waited. Lo and behold it was me. I stopped doing some of the self destructive shit I did, traded it in for even more destructive self destructive shit. And there was a great kaboom and it was good.

I am feeling more optimistic than I have in a long time. Change is coming, I think sometime in March or April. But in the meantime, I am having belly laughs and grinning like a Cheshire cat instead of bitching and crying like Alice. I might yet get to try that thing I saw on Pornhub.

And I don’t have to dodge bullets.

I know where the car is parked
I know where the cupboards are
I know he isn’t you.

Tori Amos
Hey Jupiter

Sometimes I am not sure where my car is, Brian leaves it places, better than driving drunk by far.
None of the cupboards have doors, so that’s taken care of.
And of course I can tell them apart. I know who is who, and who isn’t and what is bad for me and I do them anyways.

The parable of the snake is me. I am the woman who picks them up, warms them up and gets bit.
Luckily I am also the anti venom.
Its not like bee venom or poison ivy where the toxins accumulate.
Suck it up, spit it out and around we go again.

(Oh look, another purdy snake.)

For all I know Jupiter is still in retrograde and for all my starry eyed witchyness, I couldn’t tell you what that means, nor if its even true.

I can say this.

…this little masochist is ready to confess….

Same song.

Same girl, different bad decision.

If we date at the level of our self esteem, and god help me but I believe this to be true, seriously, god help, like now, please. I am in some serious trouble here. Where was I going with this…

I am a masochist, I gravitate to pain. I wish I could stop.

I had this great opening line for a post and then I stepped in puppy pee, lost it in the clean up.

I am definitely losing it.

Surrounded by drunk toddlers, playing chess with no rules, on a season of Survivor. Cherry Bombs and hurricanes with stripper names.
And here I am, stuck in the middle, relatively alone.

I am on a carousel. Faces change, circumstances don’t.

At least I got laid this time.

And a UTI and scrambled hormones from Plan B.
I only cried a little, no wait, a lot. That was how I spent New Years Eve. Constantly reminding myself ‘these are not my hormones’. Over and over on a loop, spiked with ‘somebody do something’ and a lot of ‘fuck it’ after 2 am and sprinkled with some tears.

I had to give up my superstition of whatever happens on New Year’s is what will continue for the year. This is the island of opposites, thank fuck. Even if it is, wouldn’t be a lot different than last year and I made it through. Perspective is a beautiful thing. I can gladly say the things that once held power over me, don’t anymore. Time does heal, answers always come when they are ready and not a minute sooner. We will get there. But for now I go round and around. Not a fan of the carousel but it’s better than standing still I guess. Roller coasters are always preferred.

I missed my roller coasters this year. And my swimmable ocean, 6 am wake ups on the balcony watching the birds and looking for dolphins. Writing, I get a lot of writing done there. Hours on the road, days really. Gives me lots of time to think and not much else. The nostalgia, I has that.  Keeps coming up in my Facebook memories, I should be just getting back from Florida. My eyes turquoise from swimming, my skin tanned from the sunshine, my face brighter, my heart lighter. I couldn’t get away in time. I went to Ontario instead. It’s okay. It is what it is.

Chris D’elia does this stand up bit about drunk girls and how we make no sense. He isn’t wrong. It has been adopted into the vernacular.
Lines like “Is it what it isn’t?” and “is that your crocodile?” No, its a snake and it’s not mine either. They are never mine. I just pick them up and get bitten remember, and none of us are wearing pants and no one wants to take my job.

Nothing matters to a drunk girl at all, but I am still trying to be sober. And ya, some of it matters.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6XrTj7g714g

My current mental war is between it is what it is, and fight for what you want. Actually that is always what it is. I am tired of fighting and like I said, on a long enough timeline the truth comes out and everything makes some kind of sense.

It is what it is is winning. I knew what I was getting into and it went the way I knew it would. And if the above statement is true (not that one the other one where I stated we date at the level of our self esteem) then please don’t give me what I want. My vagina is an idiot, maybe not an idiot, but definitely a masochist.

In 9 weeks it will be mid March. At some point the trees will start to bud, the leaves and the sun will come back. The neighbors lawn will be full of crocuses, I will be able to at least dip my toes in the ocean, see the whales, wear a sundress, sit outside and be happy. The thing that is making me sad right now will have subsided to a dull ache that only hurts on cold days.

I am not even that sad. It is what it isn’t. It was never gonna be.

I forget where I was going with this.

I forget why I came here.
It happens.

Thankfully with less frequency than the time called ‘before’, but when yet another dude lets me down, I get an old familiar ache, like a long healed broken bone on a cold day, or a phantom limb that itches. Same same, here we go again. How long is it going to hurt this time around and around and around.

Then Brian and I go late night tipsy grocery shopping, or the cabbie takes the route where I can see the boats in the harbor, or something on my car breaks and I go way up the shore and find myself covered in grease laughing at a stubborn bolt in a garage. Playing with a floppy eared dog looking out over the cove as the sun goes down and I am content in the moment.

I think that is the answer. To all the dilemmas, the snakes and the heartache.

“It’s having a thing and then losing it that’ll kill ya.”*

I thought that, I really did. But now I don’t know. Having a thing and enjoying it in the moment, for what it is, then letting it go gracefully, that might be the thing that saves me.

It is what it is.

*Cold Mountain

I no longer have an operational Microsoft program in which to write and edit before I put things here.

This has shown me what a horrible speller I am and I know I am rusty as fuck, can’t blame that on the lack of a program.
I am using this as a diary and nothing more. There is no eloquence here, I don’t remember how to do this and that’s okay. It will come back.

I had no idea where I was going with this when I sat down. Still not entirely sure. I woke up an hour earlier than usual today and decided to write.

That’s all life is, waking up and deciding.

There’s an article tickling the tip of my tongue, The Green Blanket, Old Ringtones and other Portals through Time. This isn’t it. I have notes somewhere and I am looking at the green blanket right now. Wrapped in a different one, fuck it is some fucking cold today. I am praying the bartender left the heat on at the bar. We have been half naked meat popsicles for 2 days now.

I just wrote the words “it will come back” and it set off a chain of thoughts. I am now listening to Hozier. This was my Hulk album. I remember driving on the 401 back from Toronto late at night and almost having to pull over hearing Take Me to Church. Went home and pre-ordered the album. Loved it. Still do. Google says it came out in 2013, time flies. That was the first year of my singleness. The year of Michaels and trip to Los Angeles.

It was a really good year. Started with an ice storm and ended with a Christmas alone in Narnia prepping for a court case that I ended up winning on my own, with a whole bunch of awesome in between. I miss Narnia and I miss being that isolated and alone. When the Lovely One took me out to the big house in the woods a while back I was hit with glorious nostalgia, standing naked in the window looking out at nothing but trees and snow.

Ya, I hear you. Can you hear me?

I’m howling too.

“Are you coming home for Christmas” the Last One asked.

“No honey, that isn’t home anymore.”

(and neither are you.)

I still haven’t found it exactly. but I like it here. Its been the best of times and the worst.

Whole lotta too little too late.

I eluded to the existence of 3 potentials in my last post. Potential is not the right word at all. Very little here is viable. Nothing grows and no one stays. There was a night a few weeks back wherein a lot of the men I have become friends with were all in the bar at the same time. My feet didn’t touch the ground for a full ten minutes, getting scooped up in bear hug after bear hug. I remembered why I came here and was hit with how much things have changed in a year. I left with the Lovely One.

I highlighted the word NEED in the lyrics that prompted this post. I swear, for 5 years I heard “how easy you are to leave”. Leave, need, home, hope. My brain is a funny thing. I am easy to leave, I think I am easy to need as well.

If we are telling the whole truth, I am just easy. If I like you I like you. I am not complicated. I enjoy being loving and kind. Not in a rush to change that, not sure I could if I tried at this point. Biker Body Pillow thinks I have been alone long enough to be dangerous. I am not changing for anyone.

The second non viable potential, let’s call him Nein and 3/4. Just an emphatic no and his track record for failed attempts to see me. Nope has been taken. He scratched at the door last night and I didn’t let him in.

So, of course today we had a full on conversation and he was sweet to me.

Honestly so sick of this shit. Just feels like a shitty game all the time. I know the rules, I have to pretend to not care, or actually get pushed to that point where seriously zero fucks are available and then they come back. It’s bullshit.

He leaves in a week and a 25% success rate is not worth shaving my legs for. Vibrator is charged and I have pornhub. I’m good thanks.

Vagina is protesting that last statement. Shut up sis. It’s all just broken promises and my head hurts from rationalizing shitty behavior.

The Lovely One seems to be on a 10-12 day cycle wherein he remembers I exist. i am expecting a text in the next 24 hours. Fuck he is pretty to look at. Porno mouth, porno grin. But there is a lot of cocaine on this island, Everyone is doing it or dealing it or both. Which makes that situation non viable as well.
Sucks, we made plans while he was away. We were supposed to have 5 weeks of cooking, snuggling and fucking. He saw my bedroom upon the internet and wanted to sleep in the gypsy nest, but he never came by.
He tried once.
A for effort I guess.
Vagina is also protesting that last statement. I’ll allow it.

What we allow is what will continue.

I saw an interview with Kristen Bell, she was talking about her husband and when they first started dating. He said something along the lines of “you can’t keep storming off every time we have a fight. I love you but I love myself more and I am not going to spend the rest of my life living like this.”

There it is.

Everything can be unlearned. I don’t want to spend my life like this.

High de ho.

Holy shit, yet another long minute since I have been here.

I miss this. I do. I feel like I am doing myself a disservice, how am I supposed to remember if I don’t write things down?

The trek up the hill after a massive blizzard, 200 feet of 2 foot drifts to crash on a couch in a deserted empty house in the woods. Worth it though. Mostly.
The cock blocking staff party well after I had given up.
The continuation of giving up. Letting go and letting God. Not despair, just a shrugging of shoulders. It is what it is.
The worst idea I have ever had, which is what this is going to end up being about.

It took me forever to log into my account. 5 reset passwords and a forgotten username.

I miss my laptop, prior to the shittiest Windows update ever, the great crash of October 2018. She now has dementia. Takes forever to do things, has forgotten and forsaken me. In an added note of hilarity, I decided, while waiting to log in yet again, to put pen to paper. Threw out 5 pens. I don’t love the one that worked, heavy and clunky with no smoothness to it. But it worked. Everything is a metaphor. And god might be trying to tell me something.

I am, at my best, a bad listener. I ask for signs, the misinterpret them on purpose to suit myself. And look where that got me. 3000 km from home on some drunken promises that were forgotten by morning. But not by me.

So here I am.

I do what I can with what I have where I is.

A year ago today I announced my intention to move here after sitting on the idea for 6 weeks.

I rarely keep quiet that long, but if I check the dates, probably been that long since I wrote something here. Still, not like me at all. I think I am changing again. I would like to keep the writing, and the page. These are good things. My optimism can return any time now. Libido too.
My patience is waning. My innate desire and compulsion to contribute to the happiness of others can fuck right off.

I have to leave for work in 2 hours, totally forgot about that as I was attempting to get in here. I fell asleep in my clothes, it’s hair washing day. Had 2 girls cancel and Brian is sick. I have no choice at this point. Better to save my days off, I think something good is coming.

I have hit this level somewhere past hand shy though. It scares me a bit.

Let down after let down after let down.

I took to covering his mouth when he’d promise tomorrow, or anything at all really. Didn’t change anything. But my superstitions are hard to let go of. They are bred in my bones.

I heard and old Russian proverb. Pray to God, but row to shore.

Praying isn’t enough, heaven knows I tried.

When I went back to Ontario I decided to appease the gods. No use praying for sex and turning it down when it presents itself, I shall not squander the gifts I have been given. I saw the Giant. And it was good, amen.

I thought it had started a trend. I had an amazing date/week with a wonderful man, who sadly lives 19 hours away. I miss him. Funny story. When we finally got around to having sex (half a dozen times) every time he would leave the room, I could hear my pussy whispering “come back now please”. She’s still doing it, just more of a shout now.

I waited for another to come back from away, but it didn’t go well. Too bad, he was lovely too.

And then…

Oh and then…

I was talking to Biker Body Pillow last night (we both had Christmas booty calls that didn’t follow through and were both irritated at best)
I wrote a brief point form list of all the reasons my bc was a bad idea,
He’s rude
Inconsistent
We bicker when we’re fucking
Probably slept with half the strippers on the island
and a whole lot more I cannot go into
Blah blah blah
then stated, “but, vagina likes him”.

BBP in his glorious wisdom and blessing/curse of always telling the truth said

“Dude you sure it’s your vag that likes him and not your constant need for self destruction?”

To which I replied “No, I am not even remotely sure, in fact I think that’s it.”

Last night was the 4th attempt at said booty call. 1 outta 4 is not great odds. 25%. If I only did 25% of my work, or only showed up for one shift in 4, I’d be fired.

So that’s it then.

Time to realize some people ain’t worth my time at all.

And maybe quash that need for self destruction.

Jesus, it feels like years since we’ve been here.*
In true Newfoundland fashion, the sun did come out for a minute today. And I say, “it’s alright”.

I have a notebook full of chicken scratchy blog post ideas and a few posts. It’s my Newfie Notebook.
No, not like that. Although I did kinda show up with luggage, shrug my shoulders and hope for a happy ending. Who knows.

Onto bigger and better things. Well, not big…it is always the little things after all.

I managed to have coffee at my day job. Today. Last week not so much.
I had no customers and forgot my charger…
But
The Lord said, “Let there be coffee”
And there was,
And it was good
Amen

The little things remember.

I am constantly striving for balance, and consistently failing.

Love life is good = I am broke
Money is good = I have zero free time and I am scrambling to jerk off before work so I don’t accidentally eat anyone alive.
Night off = plans fall through or I sleep all day and or I forget what I was supposed to be doing or I can’t afford to do what I want.

My plate is full and something keeps falling off the edge.

I haven’t posted anything to my page in about a month. Haven’t written anything in about that long either.
I am always dealing with this or that, or dead dog tired.

Just the aforementioned chicken scratches in the aforementioned Newfie Notebook. Which I am transcribing here and now. Not gonna lie, I found an old fountain pen and there is something satisfying about the flow of ink to paper. But the keyboard is my one true, grownup love.

It contains a ledger of all of my earnings from the first two trips. Plus brief notes of comings or goings of this one or that one. Blackout nights and accidents in black and white, reminding me yes, I did live through all the things. Yay me and my tenacity. It now contains security codes and employee numbers too. Things have really changed. Everything diligently recorded for posterity. Except that one thing at the bottom of the page that I cannot read.

And the very first page…
My flight info from my first time here. As if I would ever have the luxury of forgetting. 365 days as I type this. Give an hour or two. I mean, IF we’re counting, I am always counting. 16/200. I count most things. An adorable yet horrible habit. This writing down of all the things.

I do it on purpose so I can see. Like now, I know I have come a really long way from that sad girl that got off the plane the first time. Maybe not the second time, but 3rd time seems to be charmed. Semi-charmed. Shit still happens.

My phone died today, because I seized the deadness of the day and did a bunch of paperwork, follow up messages and emails, started the schedule for next week for my other other job. The friendships and alliances I have made these last few months, along with my leadership skills will be tested this week on Sirens St. John’s Survivor (stripper edition). Zero girls in the house for a few days…no guaranteed girls working. Just gotta hope for the best and bring chocolate.

Lees girls = Mo money + No free time this week coming. Magic 8-ball sees doubles in my future. I might just pray for rain.

Too bad, just went back on Tinder.

Ya, you heard that right, on the island of misfit toys, ghosts and fuckbois. It’s pretty comical.

We’re just gonna go ahead and blame that on Vagina.

She just keeps moaning, “It’s been 84 years.”

Except I had a Tinder date last night and she actually yawned.

The food was really good.

But I coulda tagged along with Suzie Q and B to the Keg and been home in my comfy sweats by 9. Instead of nice supper, followed by a nice walk along the harbor and the Longest Drive Home Ever.

His ex that he is nowhere near over, is an addict and I know way more about her than I should.

It was nice he was honest, and like I said, supper was great. But he isn’t over her, and my free therapy is reserved for those I know and love.

To be fair, I am not over mine either. I have applied logic to it and there is no way I am scratching that scab and oozing all the grossness all over a stranger. Just gonna leave it and let it heal best I can.

Some days are easier than others. I suffer in silence mostly.

(they mostly come out at night; mostly.)**

I got drunk and cried about that last week. Day 56 of sobriety of anyone was counting, I was. I had to add 10 days to my 90 day goal. And people who never met “the Sarah that came before” got a crash course. There was some angry drunk texts that I didn’t regret surprisingly. I did regret breaking my 56 day streak.

But, as Mark so eloquently pointed out, he used to be proud if I got through one day without weeping.

5 days in 9 weeks.

I am doing fucking fabulous.

Mostly.

I miss parts of who I was. I miss writing and my page. They are still there, like neglected toys in the sandbox, I should go brush them off and start again.

I miss my stable full of boys back home.

No strings, just suppers and snugglefucks.

It was the best of times.

I’m a chef and a nympho. One would think it would be easier than this, but it hasn’t been.

I suppose I could use all the time spent not fucking to write and post. I have shit of my own that I ought to be doing. Carve out an hour or two every morning that is mine and mine alone. Start the coffee, let the dogs out, drink the coffee and write. Like the good old days.

Would help exponentially if my laptop was fixed. But we’ll get there. That is the way this island is, big voids of nothing punctuated by rushes of everything.

Wind is always changing and bringing changes galore.

Over the last week a few things that were lost to me have resurfaced, including a relic of my first time here, something I left behind came back***.

Good omens.

It was warm out today and I danced in the rain.

And I know next week, with it’s empty girl’s house, will work out. It always does.

I think life is just like that.

My job is to have a bit of blind faith.
Prepare for the worst and hope for the best.

*Beatles
**Aliens
***a pillowcase Stalker Sarah, just a nice soft pillowcase, jesus sis.

Love, it will not betray you dismay or enslave you
It will set you free
Be more like the man you were made to be.

Oh Marcus Mumford, ain’t that the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the fucking truth.

So… help me God.

Posted this meme to Instagram, got an insta message in my inbox from the Last One.

You should have kissed me longer.

Seriously Sparky? Fuck you, I tried and you bailed.

Lord I am tired.

And another one.

“I came back for you”, I said finally, out loud and everything, like a big girl, using my words and shit.

“That makes me feel good”, he replied

And at some point, the morning after, as I was applying poultices to my busted heart and walking home tired, sore and not terribly sated, I finally saw everything clearly.
A marquee lit up in the darkness saying simply, “what about me?”
When do I get to feel good?
What have you done other than promise tomorrow and show up weeks later just to repeat the same pattern?

“I’ve been trying to get you home for a week now.”

2 tings there buddy, what about all the weeks that came before, and see also do or do not, there is no try*.

It is what it is, and it’s not enough.

Speaking of…

The Nope was in the bar last night, I was not.

He messaged to let me know. Because no one would bother to tell me, he is not like the others.

I replied ‘I have no interest in watching you drink beer and yammer on about all your sexual conquests since I saw you last’.
I am good on my couch, watching the Good Place, in my good place.

The opposite of love is indifference. I never loved him, but I am definitely indifferent.

I don’t want to be passed over for addictions, hillbilly heroin, money, sex, coke, whatever. I am better than all of that and I know it.

Back to the Last One. He is making furniture now. Says he wants to build me something. Not sure if that is textbook irony, or just annoying.
Something small that can be shipped if it has to be, he said.

“It has to be, I am really far away” I said.

“You’ll be back”.

Oh Sparky…

Magic 8 ball says, not fucking likely. And even if I did go back, I would go further west or anywhere but there. That version of my future burned to the ground and there was nothing to put out the flames.

There is no warmth in that burning. There is no pattern with his come here, gone away, except when I post a good selfie to Instagram. Then he remembers and interupts my forgetting.

It has been a year to the day that the Last One ghosted worse than any ghost has ever ghosted. For almost week I thought he had really died. Took months to sort everything out.
He disappearing catapulted me to where I am now. I see this clearly.
Panda made me come here to get me out of my head after weeks of weeping.
He still checks in from time to time, they all do.
I got an explanation for Christmas, and a call to come back to him in February as I crossed the border from Quebec to New Brunswick on my way here. I didn’t turn around and go back.
He was on his way over to the house with flowers, to take me out proper and start over. But I don’t live there anymore.
It’s easy to see the why now, but back then I was inconsolable.
It’s like those pictures where you have to relax your eyes to see what is underneath.
And as I sit in Brian’s kitchen with good company and good coffee, I can see the sailboat.
And it’s good.

I am finally sleeping in my own bed. After 7 and a half months of twins punctuated with a few hotel room kings.
I am sleeping so much better these days. I had a dream last week. In my dream I knew the moon was new and hidden from view, but I could see it, low and huge on the horizon. I have no idea what it means, but I woke up feeling peaceful.

I drifted back off and fell into that lucid dream state wherein I had some control over my subconscious and man oh man I cussed out Mister within an inch of his life. There are parasites in the bar and I do not want them around. Hard enough holding everything together without the extra energy suckers.

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

Tool, Jambi

I thought he said leech…like this whole time, about a decade or so. Tomato, toe mah toe I suppose. Whoops.
I confuse ‘home’ and ‘hope’ too, depending on where my head is and how busted my heart is in any given moment.

And there is legion, for they are many.

My heart is a marionette with tangled red strings pulling her this way and that. Takes a lot for me to cut one. I know the damage it can do.

I am Lady Luck for all those around me. Especially the ones in the inner sanctum. The door is always open, some simply chose not to walk through it, hovering around just outside instead. And I won’t make them. I don’t force anyone. This is the land of free will. Show me what you can do.

I know what I am and what I am capable of, and on a long enough timeline they figure it out.

Usually it’s too little too late. Like the drunken finale on the Friday before the Sunday I left, 197/200. Like a promised knick-knack shelf in the mail that still hasn’t arrived. Like asking if I am back and doing nothing about it, except staying away, good boy.

Doesn’t matter now. I came back for me this time, and I am happy.

Full moon has come and gone. The Harvest Moon at that. Time to be reaping what was sown, and I am.

And it’s not so terrible this time around.

I can only surmise that I wasn’t as bad as I thought I was when I was here last. I was pretty fucking bad.

“We needed someone like you for a long time. I am glad you are here.”

“I am glad you came back, I would have lost a really good friend if you had stayed gone.”

“Don’t let that bitch bother you, you are the queen of this place, straighten your crown already and own it, we all love you and you’re killing it.”

That last one came when I needed it. I got some nasty messages a week or so after I got here. So did the bartender.

She just called the bar. Asked who was working. Asked for Mark. Then asked for you. When I said you weren’t in tonight she said “that’s fine I’ll deal with that little slut myself”

Sigh

Sigh is right. Let it go sis.

You weren’t happy or capable.

Running strippers when she had never been one, nor worked a day in her life. Treating girls like numbers, and shit.

I am a little slut, but not in the way she meant it. And if by “dealing with me” she meant drinking a few bottles of wine and burning any and all bridges she had to me, ya, I’m totally dealt with.
I spent the better part of 3 hours a day for over 4 months on the phone with the woman basically doing her job for her, but we bonded, somewhat. And she tore all that down with a wrecking ball of misspelled insults.

She was making mountains out of a molehill then getting pissy when I just stepped around it. Attempted sabotage and blackmail that I also stepped around. I understand leverage and I don’t need it to do my job.

She showed up at the bar throwing sloppy drunk shade…why? I don’t know. This isn’t your house anymore, never really was. It’s not my house either, but I keep it clean and functioning.
I am literally just doing a job, which I am rather fond of, even if it means cleaning up mess after mess. And it does. It is my wheelhouse, I got this.

I was given permission to drink one night, and a regular bought me a double whiskey. I looked at it, literally drooling and wanting. But I couldn’t go back to zero, so I walked into the changeroom, shaking and gave it away. It wouldn’t have tasted as good as the words ‘I am 9 days sober’ did coming out of my mouth. And Mark’s haunting request “please don’t be like S_____.” I won’t. I love Mark more than I love whisky and that’s saying something.

I was 23 days sober last night. Everything still hurts, but it is getting marginally easier. I danced sober the first 3 years. I have no muscle memory left from those days, the car wreck erased everything and took 60% of my flexibility, but it’s just practice, like anything. I can do this. It’s on the list.

People are still trying to buy me shots. Old habits die harder in others. Like showing up for work.

I don’t get to pick my shifts anymore, I just get to pick them up as I am needed, whether it be behind the bar in a dress or on the floor in my underwear. It is nice to be necessary.

I think I always was, or I wouldn’t have this job. There was a me shaped void.

Seems like everyone wanted it, but they don’t want to do the actual work. The cleaning up puke of a table in Denny’s at 4am. The locker checks when something goes missing. The working of the shit shifts. Bribing the girls with food, finding what is needed, handing out smokes and tampons like Halloween candy. Sending my man out for actual candy as we all synced up our periods to the moon. Buying shots out of pocket on the dead nights when I know it’s going to get better soon, just wait.

It’s NOT being Mermaid and waltzing in like I own the place and hate everyone. I ask permission to come late, the girls have to agree. I love my fellow strippers, always have always will, even when they make it hard. We are all equal, just taking our clothes off for money. There is no status here.

Mermaid made it hardest of all, took every little thing I had for comfort out of spite, over a boy I wouldn’t touch with my worst enemy’s dead dick. She falsified emails from ‘customers’ and got rid of the cards on dead nights, my blanket on the cold ones. But she quit in a stompy blaze of glory, tried to walk into the only other strip club on this tiny rock and was turned away after 80% of the staff threatened to quit if she was allowed back.

I was welcomed back in Hamilton with open arms and listened to my old boss go off about her for about an hour, so if anyone is winning here…it might be me, the one that was asked to come back. I am welcome everywhere I have ever worked.

Because I work.

I had to reiterate last night, “no I do not pad the schedule in my favor, I am sick as a dog and I am here because I knew one of the girls wanted to leave early.” Mark chimed in and said she is only here because she has to be here. And it’s true. 3 girls bailed and 2 needed the night off, so I came. These girls I have asking me not to over hire like the one that came before me, then blowing shifts like it’s nothing.
It isn’t nothing, it’s my night off, and it’s one more night in heels sober.
It’s hard.
But it’s my job.

Had another one lose her mind because I get a filler shift at another bar that belongs to my boss. You wanna work til 3am and be at another job to open for noon and stand around for 7 hours? Take a good look at what you are so jealous of sis. She guaranteed never working again by blowing up at my boss over it.

On a long enough timeline the trash takes itself out.

There are women here who do not want me to succeed. They don’t want me here at all. But they don’t want to put in the work either. And all three torched their own bridges.

I make way less money now. Carrying trays watching all my girls book VIPs. Staying sober and shy as fuck on the weekends while they drink and dance. I missed it so bad on several occasions I was ready to quit my current position and rejoin them. But I won’t.

There have been miracles here and there wherein I thought I wouldn’t be able to make it, where I thought I wasn’t going to pull something off, then my phone rings and a girl comes just in time. I see them and I say thank you.

It’s easier this time around. My dog is here, my living room is coming together, my bed is made and my closet is overflowing with the things I missed. I stopped by the girl’s house at 5am to put out a proverbial fire the other night. Popped my head into room one and was struck by memories of misery. I have no fondness for that chunk of my life. It got a little better when I moved up to the third floor, but better than absolute shit is still shit.

I didn’t think I was gone long enough to be missed, but I was. This time I am supported and loved, and I am sober enough to see it. I have a good man by my side, I picked the right friend this time. I have respect because I have earned it. I have my tiny dog and my things. I have a home instead of a room in a house. And everything is coming together, slowly but surely.

That’s how it always goes, a big void of nothing, then everything all at once.

I have never been one to squander second chances, and life is a lot smoother now than it once was.

“I don’t understand how she can do that. She overdosed, almost died and she still does blow?”

Addiction is a powerful thing. Makes you cheat, steal and lie.

Logic dictates cheating death once should be enough to make someone stop the thing that caused it, but obviously (from her runny nose and vacant eyes) she didn’t quit.

I’m no better. Broke my tailbone, broke my own heart and I kept drinking and loving. Blacked out more on this rock than I ever have in my life and still ordered another shot.

Last night was night 2 fully sober. Stage is slowly becoming less terrifying. My hands still itch to be holding my (long broken) sippy cup, my throat wants the burn and water isn’t cutting it, but I am ultra-super mega hydrated so I supposed that’s good.

I still won’t say I quit. I didn’t. I was told not to drink, at all, and I am listening. The only thing I am proud of is not having that shot on my way in yesterday nor shots when I got home to fall asleep. That I have some control over. Mark said fully sober and I will abide. I love Mark more than whiskey.

I prayed for this. Some kind of intervention. Someone telling me that I was more important than bar sales.

It’s a different kind of wonderful to be awake and aware at the end of the night and to make sure the ones I care about are alright. I know they got home okay because I watched them. Falling asleep with effort, yet peacefully instead of blacking the fuck out.

I have been lead into temptation.

Past has passed, but the ghosts still appear. Two times since I have been back I felt sucker punched to the heart chakra by news of the old ones, and twice I have not cried nor drank even though my eyes and mouth watered and I wanted to.

I had 5 drinks in the 18 days I was home. Plus the 3 shots to get on the ferry away from here. I didn’t want to go.
Rode horses, went in the water, spent time with random friends in serendipitous ways. Not how I planned anything, but it was lovely.
Universe take the wheel.

I might be evolving again.

I don’t think it was enough time for a factory reset, but Do what you can with what you have where you are. Theodore Roosevelt

I am trying Teddy, I really am this time.

It would be real fucking easy to get overwhelmed right now.
Stuff is in limbo.
Bank account looking worse for the wear due to the move.
Laptop down.
Whole new routine to settle into.
The added oddness of sobriety and remembering how to function/dance whiskey-free.
The splendor that could be this new house if I could get rolling and get money and get my stuff.
Then I remembered moving to farmy all those years ago.
5 years of 2 bachelors, knotty pine walls and country dirt.
And I made it shine.
I’m on my 4th laptop and it always works out somehow.
I work in a place where money comes easily and frequently, I just have to ask for it.
My stuff will get here.
I’ll sleep in my bed for the first time since February 17th 2018. My fall clothes will come. Hats and socks and things I need.
And I remember the hangovers and the blank nights I don’t want. So this is better.
I hear people say ‘we missed you’ and ‘ it wasn’t the same without you.’ ‘She’s a good girl, be good to her.’
And I believe them.

I feel like I’m home.
I feel loved.

I also remember how to eat the elephant.
One bite at a time.

Laptop slipped into a coma a week into me being here. Sketchy YouTube to mp3 site, little virus and down she went.

It was looking bleak and then a miracle occurred.

Isn’t that always the way?

6 years ago (when this happened the last time) I panicked and shrieked loud enough to make the banshees in the woods take notice and count me as one of their own. I had set aside my Lorazepam and regretted it. Poured some whiskey on my anxiety instead. Eventually a solution was found and I ended up with this one I am using now, my darling hp Envy. The old memory ripped from the other and transferred into here. I lost a few things, it’s inevitable. Machines are still as fallible as the men who made them.

This time was no different, except for my reaction.

When letting go of the past you must be willing to let go of all of it, even the good. Come forward, be present, it’s never going to be like that again, good or bad. Nothing will come of lingering except hurt.
(I wrote that years ago)

Yes, there were twinges and pangs. I tried not to think of what I might lose, and I won.

Memories. Photos upon photos. 6 years of writing, finished and unfinished symphonies. Books started and forgotten until I couldn’t look at them anymore. Isn’t that just the way things are? Taking for granted the things right in front of us until they are taken away or just wander off because they can’t fucking take it anymore, or they get a virus and won’t load.

I left a note on the kitchen counter last night saying “what is in here is more important than the machine itself, please don’t factory reset.” And I fell asleep to my iTunes sleepy playlist via my laptop.

Douglas Adams wrote “Don’t panic.”

No point in it…all the time you spend trying to get back what they took from you, more is going out the door. No Country for Old Men, Cormac McCarthy

Brother Matt said ‘the rewrites are always better anyways’.

Hmph, three wise men, all in alignment.

I believe this to be absolute truth. That is what this is, one big cosmic do-over rewrite.

No panic, only gratitude and lessons to learn.