No Fucking February

Not no fucks.

I rarely give fucks anymore. The world is a mess and I am worried but it is way bigger than me or that boy that never called me back or the never ending saga of the dramarama survivor game played out nightly at the strip club I work at.

If Bill Murray taught me anything it is that you will be stuck in an infinite loop of the same old same old until you figure out how to get it right.

So, on this note, on this day before Groundhog Day I have a tiny announcement to make.

I think it is time to be celibate. No boys, no dates, no sex.

I picked the shortest month on purpose, I am not good at this. I love boys. Muscly yummy sexy sweaty boys with sex on top. And I love sex, like a lot a lot.

Spent yesterday working on the book and jerked off twice.

I haven’t been writing any blog posts at all and I know this one is going to suck all the balls I won’t be sucking but it really feels good to just ramble on about nothing.

I think that is the key, the nothing.

I haven’t been writing because nothing has happened to shake up my strange little life. No great personal crisis has arisen that needed working out here no grand epiphanies or new adventures.

My word count goal for today was 2000, I am not even close, because I came over here to blather on instead.

I needed it, I missed you guys.

I got a lot of other things accomplished in absentia.

Being on lockdown is not the worst thing ever, feels like rest.

I came back from away with a renewed sense of purpose and that quickly fell apart.

I was going to slough off old habits and build new. But it was grey for all but 14 hours in January and I got tired and mired in the muck of life.

I am still smoking…speaking of

Okay back now.

I am still drinking.

Missed the gym today due to a righteous hangover.

Blah blah blah.

But rent got paid, laundry got done, I did actually make it to the gym. More blah blah blah.

I have been singing the same song for weeks now. And I am not alone.

I noticed a trend on my Facebook feed yesterday. My sisters in sorrow were remarking that they were feeling a little better. We follow similar patterns of ups and downs and in this I found a glimmer of hope.

With reason.

I woke up this morning at 9 am, which is totally normal. What was not normal is that for a second there I thought I was going to get away with feeling okay after a night of hard drinking. Turns out I was still drunk, but I forced myself outside because…

The sun came out.

It’s still out.

This is exciting.

The birds are singing, people are smiling, and Panda is in an infectiously good mood.

I realized today that it is the eve of Imbolc.

One of my most favorite of days. Loosely translates to the Quickening. The sap starts running in the trees and the ewes start lactating. Feels a lot like hope to me.

It is entirely possible that I picked the worst time to shut down my sex life, what with all the quickening and running and renewed hope, but it doesn’t feel that way.

Feels like a self-imposed month of grey days. Stasis. A real effort at hibernating before I get reborn in spring.

I have to take next week off work for medical reasons and in that week I will try to knock out all of the things I haven’t been able to accomplish since I got back. I am forever doing what Jane says and trying again tomorrow. Now if I could just stop reliving the rest of the song like some Groundhog Day loop and really be done with Sergio instead of telling him to wait right here for me.

I’m gonna kick tomorrow.

The book is going quite nicely. 3407 words done yesterday, still patching and fleshing out old work, changing pronouns and tenses. I also found things I had forgotten I had written and good god damn they are good.

The afterword is done, I just need to get her from point A to point Z with a minor plot twist. Which will be a lot easier without any real life plot twists.

So, without further ado, all fuckboys past, present and future. Don’t bother knocking, I’m home, but you can’t come in. Try again in March.