Archives

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

I know this Chuck.

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

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

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

How many times have I fled in the night?

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

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

But this? Really? Come on.

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

I got some of them back.

Some.

Not all.

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

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

Now?

IDGAF

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

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

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

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

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

Everything just keeps getting taken away from me.

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

This is different. My hand was forced.

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

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK

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

Very funny.

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

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

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

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

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

Tell me teacher what’s my lesson? Gary Jules

I felt marginally better yesterday.

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

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

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

I don’t know.

I truly don’t.

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

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

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

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

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

But not this, not like this.

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

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

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

And now I don’t.

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

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

So many blankies.

All gone.

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

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

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

https://www.patreon.com/sarahthegoodwitch

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

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

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

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

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

450 words out of 52 000 as of this afternoon.

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

But this post is.

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

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

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

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

But I don’t even want the first 2.

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

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

Not now.

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

Long story short, I am not doing great.

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

High dose vitamin D3, game changer. 10000 IU.

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

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

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

Guys…

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

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

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

Its embarrassing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Its gross, I am gross. I know it.

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

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

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

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

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

But I remember NOT being that way.

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

I wonder if it like this for all of us.

And there are a lot of us.

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

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

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

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

The second one sounds right.

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

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

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

She made enough sense that it got through to me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe I will be okay.

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

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

https://www.patreon.com/sarahthegoodwitch

I wish I could stop believing, I truly do.

Too much anecdotal proof and the patterns are undeniable.

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

I think I might have liked not knowing better.

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

I made a safety profile on Facebook and fucked myself.

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

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

I had no patience.

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

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

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

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

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

I’m not ready.

But, it’s my own fault.

I didn’t mean to. I never do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This fucking sucks.

I really can’t wax more poetic than that.

5 days until I find out my fate with surgery.

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

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

Add the pandemic fatigue.

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

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

How could things fall apart this hard in a year?

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

I had plans god dammit.

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

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

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

And I am actually scared now.

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

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

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

Thing is, I know the rules.

But I am hand shy.

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

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

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

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

And I do remember the fuckery of 2012 and 2015.

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

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

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

---

If you would like more access to me than this, my patreon is open and filling up with new tidbits weekly.

$5 per month gets you digital copies of both books and right there that is worth it.

I am not above saying I need help, I do. My future is unknown and expensive. Any support is appreciated, and you get something out of it besides just being a good human. More pics, videos and words from me.

https://www.patreon.com/sarahthegoodwitch

one time offerings can be made through paypal halfwildthing@gmail.com

donations will be rewarded with a customized reading, pic or a digital copy of A Wolf & His Witch

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But…

I am not motivated.

I know this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I got dumped for lack of a better word.

For the simple act of being myself.

I got ice queen cold over it.

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

Then I realized something.

I had 7 years of training for this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Queen of California is stepping down. John Mayer

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

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

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

Revenge porn, just not in the usual sense.

I write really well when I am mad.

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

I wish I could get that back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I want my muse back goddammit.

I am here, ready willing and able.

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

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

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

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

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

So here are links to all da tings

https://www.patreon.com/sarahthegoodwitch

We all know that sex can be magical.

Well, not all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

https://tracysdog.com/

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

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

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

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

It has been a journey.

A sexy, strange and often disappointing journey.

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

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

I have wasted enough of my life there.

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

Mama Moon and the Big Spoon

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

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

There are some good dudes left in the world.

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

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

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

It is what it is.

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

And I had my first orgasm.

And my last for 5 years.

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

To continue reading please subscribe to my Patreon. A couple bucks a month gets you access to ultra-personal articles like this one, an exclusive Snapchat and Instagram, video content, card reading and more.

https://www.patreon.com/posts/46326705

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

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

Oh yes.

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

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

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

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

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

I can’t breathe.

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

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

He is complicit. And that fucking sucks.

It sucks because, well just look around.

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

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

This is the awful truth.

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

This is the awful truth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is because they made a choice to hate.

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

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

All of it.

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

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

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

“Fine people on both sides.”

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

And they believe this.

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

Right?

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

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

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

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

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

Well ya.

Obviously.

But seeing that video actually broke my brain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It would be all out war.

There would be no survivors.

I thought we shot active terrorists on sight.

No?

Just brown ones, oh okay.

And Ashli Babbitt.

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

They finally did it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You broke me MAGAts.

Congratulations.

This was my final straw.

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

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

Who am I?

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

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

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

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

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

But can we risk this?

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

I am sad that it has come to this.

I am sad that I have become this.

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

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

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

He is, I can feel it.

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

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

But I can’t pity them.

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

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

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

Exclusive content available by subscription here

https://www.patreon.com/sarahthegoodwitch

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

And a lot of whiskey.

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

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

Including this.

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

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

Tina 2 Chains just shrugged her shoulders and smirked.

“Hope so.”

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

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

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

“Fucking own it.”

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

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

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

But I remember that morning clear as day.

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

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

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

………………..

to continue reading please click the following link.

https://www.patreon.com/posts/46172250

My Patreon subscription is $2 per month for access to additional, exclusive, more controversial and personal articles. Other tiers are available as well.

For less than the price of a cup of coffee, you can read all my secrets.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I went out and made new ones.

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

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

Nah.

Fuck it.

More times than I have fingers and toes.

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

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

I am remembering it fondly.

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

I am more gold than pottery now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I did, and it was good, amen.

Then Wednesday happened.

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

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

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

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

I chickened out.

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

Split again.

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

Vizzini said go back to the beginning.

So here I is.

The beginning of becoming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am both of these women.

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

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

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

I have to accept and embrace all that I am.

And I need to go back to what I was.

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

Back to the beginning.

The idea in itself was sofa king GOOD.

Why did I let it go?

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

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

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

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

Plus, I am totally fine admitting I was afraid.

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

The blackness I was so scared of is absolute freedom.

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

Sometimes both, in equal amounts.

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

No flips, no flops, not wrenching.

Just okay.

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

I went my entire life without a decent nickname. I hand them out like candy. Well thought out, not always flattering, but to the point that if I said Mike, or Joe or Bob, literally no one knows who I am talking about.

Once upon and Annex 20 years ago, I was Sarah with the long hair. It was long, down past my ass. The other Sarah had a bob. Made sense. Lacked imagination, but it made sense.

In perdition I dated a guy, very briefly, we called him White Hat. He told me he had me saved in his phone as the Good Witch.

Things ended badly, then I got over it. But I shirked the nickname because of where it came from. And then I really got over it.

It has never mattered where or how things happen to us, it is what we do with the gifts we are given.

I am what I am.

He saw it.

And I see it too.

I’m seeing a lot of things lately.

---

I have done myself a disservice with my hyper independence and my free giving of love and support while asking for nothing in return.

It is near impossible for me to ask for help.

I pushed away a man I love because it took me over a year to wrap my head around the idea that he liked being needed, that it satisfied him. It doesn’t matter anymore. Just another lesson.

I have started reparations with my family, but after 32 years of not being around, it is difficult.

And now with the pandemic, physical closeness is an impossibility.

I am having surgery sometime soon. Don’t know exactly when.

And by leaving perdition, I have left behind all of the people who could physically care for me.

I used to have 5 besties in the town I live in, that’s why I moved there.
One is gone forever, one heading to perdition herself, the other one just can’t, and two moved away while I was gone.

My son has really left the nest this time. Lives 2 hours away with a union protected job and is now enjoying his first apartment of his very own.

Attica is 3 provinces over nesting in her own way.

Most of my friends exist only online.

I could ask a few other people for help, but I haven’t really maintained any relationships since I left 3 years ago.

I feel like I went home, shoulders slumped in defeat. And it isn’t even home anymore. Just where my stuff is. It’s the roof I have been given and it is a good roof, but it isn’t mine. I never planned on staying, one perdition straight into another. But I am lonely here and I don’t have a job to go to anymore.

When I thought I had Lyme Disease at least I thought, “Okay, I take the meds, get rid of this bacteria in my system and then my body can start healing. Might not be the day I take my last pill, might even be a couple years from then, but I will heal.”

And because I had been quasi functioning with it for x amount of time, we figured about 2 years, I thought I could keep going.

But it wasn’t that. And even as I sit here typing this, more silicone is leaking from my stupid implant and wandering around my body causing havoc.

Take them out, sure, easy answer…but what about the rest of it? How do I get it out of me?

I honestly don’t know what to do and I am scared.

Flashbacks of pneumonia in Milton. 7 days of fever and delirium. Alone.

Well, I had the dogs, Nina nine times, Alice and Mika.

Never underestimate the healing power of 3 dogs refusing to leave your side.

Alice is gone, Mika too. Nina lives with her daddy a million miles away.

Kidlet has the kittens.

It’s just me and my attic and my house plants, and a car that won’t start.

And this is going to be 3 times that 7 days, bare minimum.

I could ask Giant; I might have to. The first 72 hours is going to be near impossible to survive alone. But that runs the risk of forever altering our relationship.

The impending vulnerability is almost as terrifying as the aftermath.

There is a distinct possibility of permanent, life altering mutilation to get these things out.

I am Tobias Funke in Arrested Development, graft versus host. Desperately trying to justify keeping my implants even as I get sicker and sicker every day.

I have headaches, debilitating hip pain that stops my legs from working, lethargy, numbness, inflammation literally everywhere, shooting random pain, dizziness, and vertigo with the occasional fainting spell. I used to drink 4 or 5 times a week to function and that was not sustainable.

I have always had stripping to fall back on and the ability to use my body to support me.

Even with missing one third of the things that make a woman a woman, don’t get at me about this, I am judging myself and no one else. I have a birth defect and it has colored my entire existence.

I have been a dancer on and off for over half my life.

It has saved me from every disaster that has befallen me.

It is an integral part of my identity and my livelihood.

I have always handled everything life has thrown at me. Always survived, but this feels like too much.

Every shake up and loss of this last year and I am not close to being out of the mess.

I have to get through this, there are no other options besides giving up and dying.

And as I looked into my future and saw nothing but blackness, I wondered if that was possible.

Is that what is going to happen? Is my heart going to give out? Has the silicone leeching through my body damaged me in an irreparable way?

Am I always going to feel like this?

I remembered being on a plane last year and hoping to god it would just crash because I couldn’t keep going like this.

I did keep going.

That’s what we do.

Other than once before in my life I never really wanted to give up.

Mid farm fuckery I had a handful of pills ready to swallow and just check out for good.

High school sweetheart called me out of the blue, after 5 years of no contact. He kept me on the phone til the battery died. I didn’t tell him. I didn’t tell anyone. I kept taking the pills instead two at a time, numbing out instead of checking out.

Eventually I left and things got better. Then worse, then better again.

I always had this tenacity masquerading as optimism, that things might not get better exactly, but they would be different, and I wanted to know what that would feel like.

I don’t have that this time.

I am flip flopping between Eeyore and Chicken Little.

I already know this year is going to be hard, call it a self-fulfilling prophecy if you want, I am past caring.

I am pre-tired.

I am literally always tired.

And I am really scared.

I am okay being alone, but this loneliness and forced isolation is too much.

I know what Chuck Palahniuk said, and I am holding onto that as much as I can.

It is only after we have lost everything that we are free to do anything.

But this is a lot to lose. I feel like everything good and stable in my life is being ripped away from me violently.

I can’t see the other side and my Pollyanna optimism is gone.

My Kittenface girl helped me make a Patreon account.

And this is as close as I can get to asking for help.

Help.

Please.

https://www.patreon.com/sarahthegoodwitch

If it was real, it won’t matter. If it wasn’t real, it doesn’t matter.

I miss knowing what was real.

New moon next Tuesday.

I have Ruby Thewes in my head yelling, “shut that door, it’s freezing, and shut this door it’s freezing.”

Aye Ruby, it is.

Finally shutting that Sagittarian new moon eclipse portal from last month. Dummy me didn’t realize it was still open. I need to pay better attention.

The universe is a big water park apparently, miles and miles of tunnels and slides and long lines.

I hate water parks.

Which is weird because I love water.

I think I took a wrong turn down a portal and I can’t get back to where I was.

We really aren’t supposed to stay in one place forever, I know that. But the loss is so fresh I have barely been able to accept it, much less grieve.

I have no idea where to go. I don’t know where I am.

I have this laundry list of shit I gotta do.

Covid test, quarantine, surgery consultation, Patreon account, see if I can get back to my old Milton routine where I actually did stuff in some semblance of order. I used to get up early, write, schedule posts for the day and then go to work. I need some structure and discipline.
2020 turned into this phenomenon of too much free time and I squandered it.
I’ll go back to work IF it opens, more content and promotion if it doesn’t.
I want to work so bad.
Almost a calendar year of ‘meantime’.
I’ll keep plugging away at the new book and try harder to sell the others. Maybe do part 2 and 3 of Wolf and Witch and get that over with.

I need some closure. I need a map out of here.

I am the Gunslinger slowly going insane because I once existed in a parallel paradigm and it is no longer real, but it was, he was, but he wasn’t and it isn’t.

Apparently Mars started doing a thing last July and it was bad juju, conflicts and skirmishes, cosmic fuckery most foul. It ends today but that is cold comfort, damage is done. Would I have done anything any differently if I knew that before? Maybe, but I didn’t.

Can’t be helped now.

Live through this and you won’t look back ~ Stars

Brian used to make fun of me about knowing where the planets were and attributing anything to them at all really, then he would ask me what the moon was doing. I found that island to be quite backwards though. Full moons were peaceful, new moons were tangly as fuck. So much blood.

January 14^th to 30^th we get a tiny wee retrograde reprieve. Then Papa Mercury does his first backwards dance of 2021. Again for 3 outta 4 weeks during Gemini season. I had a nuclear meltdown over Gelfling last time that happened. June 7^th 2015. I wrote about it so I wouldn’t forget. Irrevocable damage. We are still pleasant to each other, but truth be told, I haven’t thought about him in months, until yesterday’s uncontained explosion. He was supposed to tattoo my stomach last year, I know it won’t hurt if he does it.
Maybe this year or the one after. Time is not a linear thing for him. He lives in the portals I trip through. It is his state of existence.

I don’t care for it.

At least I get to turn 47 the day before that retrograde begins.

6 years of learning what not to do. I still do it anyways.

Yesterday even. No retrograde to blame, just insecure me.

Went too far, said too much, couldn’t shut up even though logic was screaming at me to just stop.
I vividly remembered breaking things with Gelfling, and I kept going.

Some things need to be broken.

I am tired of being good and being quiet and subservient.

Got me stuck here, in nowhere, with nothing.

Questioning my worth and my memories. Was it even real? Was this a game?

Standing in the desert with a mouthful of the things I wish I had said. No idea which way to go.

I know that if was supposed to be elsewhere without a heart full of regret, I would be. No going back now. But I really liked where I was.

And at some point, Brian is going to be right and I can’t gesture broadly at the universe and blame the planets or the moon. It just is what it is.

There are no mistakes, just things you do and things you don’t do. Olivier Martinez

2015 feels like a few months back, probably because the weather is the same now as it was then, and I just repeated a pattern.
I haven’t even been here a month and it feels like years.
2020 flew and stalled.
And none of it feels real.

I guess it wasn’t.

Or it isn’t now.

I will adjust, it’s what I do.

(Gunslinger reference, by Stephen King and Cold Mountain quote, by Charles Frazier)