Sunday, June 24, 2018

As Told by Kismet

Because if one thing defines me more than anything else, it's not being on time--okay, maybe that's not completely right. Never being on time would be if one of two things defines me more than anything else--the final installment of 30 days of blogging straight is late. I'm not trying to make excuses, but I drove from Fort Lauderdale to Chattanooga, Tennessee, yesterday where I had to first room hop and then hotel hop as a result of, in one hotel,  little flying bugs, dried poop on a toilet seat, and blood-spotted sheets, and in another hotel, the actual body of a bedbug dead on the sheet and then finally settle for sleeping in my car in a rest stop starting at four in the morning. I knew I had to write a blog, but because of the aforementioned along with the crack pipe wielding man at hotel number two,  it was not my top priority. To be honest, after sleeping a total of two hours in a Tennessee rest stop last night and driving today over twelve hours straight, it's still not exactly thing to do number one, but I really want to get it done. After having written every day except one for an entire month, I couldn't not debrief.

It's been so long, and I've written so much, you probably don't remember why I started this endeavor. Just a reminder in case you don't:  The entire purpose of this was to make myself want to write. Did it work? Eh. I definitely think of writing differently now, like for instance if something happens, I make mental notes as it's going on, thinking to myself, this can go in my blog (I've always come up with blog posts almost in their entirety while I run, but this is different. These ideas come no matter what), and I also feel like I don't know what I'm going to do with myself now that I don't have to write. As good as that maybe sounds, though, it's all not. I've touched on this before, but my rigidity makes writing something of a burden due to my feeling like I have to write, and that is the absolute opposite of my intent.

So what else? What else came from this thirty-days of write? Other than the self-explorations you've already seen in my posts, which I appreciate, I didn't learn anything about myself, but I think maybe you learned about me--but maybe I'm wrong. Maybe you already knew I was an impatient, boy crazy, bumbling mass of awkwardness. Even if you did, I still feel like any semblance of normalcy I may have had is entirely gone. I definitely never played any kind of pretend, but when writing sporadically, it's just much more likely that only certain things will come out. When writing every day, you pretty much get everything I've got, at least where mental health is concerned. You've seen me super up and you've seen me super down. I don't think I'm much different from other people in that regard other than, as I've previously discussed, my tendency to have no guard. You also may have learned, even though this one probably isn't new, that I don't much care who knows what where I'm concerned. However, what you probably don't know is that despite how it may seem, there is a lot that goes on in my life--like, a lot a lot--that, people who read my blog, you still don't know.

I didn't lie when I said I was an open book, it was the gods' honest truth. But what open book reveals all its secrets in chapter one? Or two? Or three? Or even four, or five, or six? Good open books wait until near, if not the actual, close.

People who read my blog, I am not even close.

Friday, June 22, 2018

And to Think That I'm Somebody's Daughter

So in less than twelve hours--I'm hoping less than 10--the kid who leaves lube all over the house, the girl he uses the lube with, and I will be embarking on a trip to Milwaukee, Chicago, and Columbus. I should probably be a lot more excited, but the prospect of being the sole driver on an over 3,000 mile trip isn't exactly the most appealing thing plus I'm having BTJ issues again, and I have to say, regarding him, I need to be done. You know what? I thought I was going to write about my trip, but I'm going to say some things about BTJ instead which really are observations about myself and not about BTJ at all.

When I first met BTJ, I wasn't sure I liked him. After the second time we hung out--really, even after the third--I just wasn't sure. I knew I liked hanging out with him, but I really didn't love doing anything else. I mean, it was nice, but it wasn't wow. Two things to make you better understand: one, my good friend said he was convenient but my kitty didn't like BTJ (this would be a much wittier statement if you knew his real name) and two, I bought a maca chocolate bar on impulse while I was in line at Lucky's with the intent of eating it before he came over because I wanted to want what he wasn't making me want (does that make any sense?).

It wasn't until BTJ didn't text me back that I started to care. When I was trying to decide whether to text him or not, that same good friend asked, How did we get here? You didn't even like him at all, and let me tell you, she wasn't wrong. Also not wrong, which you already know, is that we're not compatible in the way that we kiss, and you don't know some other things because they're super personal, but they're also amiss. So every single sign screams WRONG WAY, yet what do I do? I continue to proceed, not even with any particular caution at all.

When my ex-Glenn and I first met, we couldn't stand each other. At all. After that first night, we bumped into each other at coffeehouses once or twice, and the hate was still there. Almost a year after that first night, he came into the CD store where I worked, and when he, our friend Marnie, and their friend Ben made plans to go out that night, I invited myself along. After a few drinks, my ex-Glenn and I ended up having sex in my car (because do I ever do anything else?), and not long after, Marnie relayed something about how much he still couldn't stand me. To be honest, I could never really stand him, but hearing that he couldn't stand me and there was no way in hell we'd ever go out? Guess what became the main mission of me.

I have a problem, I'm aware. I often only seem to care when the other person seems to not. I'm sitting here all upset and mopey about BTJ again despite the fact that practically nothing about him is right, despite the fact that after the other night while I was lying in bed not getting kissed, I was thinking, This is totally not okay and I will never do this again, words I need to apply not just to the other night, not just to BTJ, but to this pattern that has played out, that continues to play out for my entire life.

Thursday, June 21, 2018

The Kid's Not All Right

There's lube all over my house.

This may not seem blog worthy, but it's annoying enough that it is to me.

I've always been super open about sex with Griffin and Keifer, it's the truth. Since forever I've tried to make sure it was completely normalized and no shame or embarrassment was attached. The only two rules I ever set for them regarding sex was that I wanted them both to wait to have it until they were 15, which they did (although I'm sure that has more to do with circumstance than rules), and then once they were having it, I didn't want them to have sex in the house while I was home. Pretty much anything other than that was left up to them, a common sense free for all, I guess, but when you leave sex discretion up to teenaged boys, can you guess what happens to the common sense?

Lube all over the house. That's what happens to common sense.

Not too long ago, I got in the shower, and there it was right next to my shampoo: a bottle of lube. I've also found lube on the futon in my back room in the not so distant past, and tonight Griffin found a bottle of it next to the couch.

Fucking lube.

I'm happy Keifer isn't weirdly sexually repressed, make no mistake, but there's definitely such a thing as too not repressed. Well, at least involving one's mom. The things I know about Kei and sex--I'm talking likes, I'm talking dislikes, I'm talking locations, I'm talking details--are things no mother needs to know, and yet, no matter how many times I say something, I still stumble upon almost empty bottles of lube, which actually as I type that right now makes me think of an argument Keifer and I got into last week when he said he can't wait to get his own apartment so he can freely have sex. Apparently, our living situation prevents him from just whipping it out and shtupping Erica whenever he wants, and that's not acceptable, which now that that's been said brings me unexpectedly to what I argued with Kei on my end.

An Overview of What I Argued with Kei on My End

So my sixteen-year-old son has the nerve to complain to me that he can't have sex in the house whenever he wants because I'm home too much, yet that motherfucker never goes anywhere other than school which of course is when I'm at work which means unlike him, I really can't have sex in my house ever, like at all (okay, since the argument that's no longer true because BTJ and I totally had sex in my house on Monday night while Keifer was downstairs, but that's the first time I've done that since I got divorced). The number of times I've had sex in my car in the last three years because Keifer is always home and I date guys who still live at their parents' house is insane, and Keifer has the nerve to complain about sex to me and tell me he can't wait to move out? And then tell me it's entirely my fault that I'm in this situation because I'm the one with kids?

Ramble. Ramble, ramble, ramble. Ramble some more. 

This post was rambling, I know, and didn't really seem to have a point--like did I want to write about Keifer's misguided comfort with sex where I'm concerned? About how maybe I don't like his "misguided" comfort with sex but being comfortable with sex is always something good? About how I might still be dating A if he ever could have come over when he had a chance? About how once when I complained to my ex-Glenn that I always have to have sex in my car because Keifer never goes to his house, he said, Here's a tip. Date an adult? About the irony that I'm the age I am with my own house but really can't have sex in it even though almost thirty years ago when I lived with my parents I had sex in my house all the time? To all these questions except the first, the answer started out as no and turned into a yes--but complete exhaustion coupled with 29 days' worth of posts has apparently made me incapable of writing with any type of focus and voila! You get a nearly incoherent mess (kind of like my entire life, but it is way too late to go into that).

Tuesday, June 19, 2018

Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me; Your Tongue Is Like Poison

I didn't blog last night.


It's awful, I'm aware, but I didn't even know. I had a super busy day, waiting to be released from scoring essays until almost 5 and then had to make an almost 300-mile drive that of course I got lost on because I'm the most incapable person in the world when it comes to directions, and I had no data, and, therefore, no gps. While going the wrong way on the expressway could have set me back only a half hour if even that because I called my guardian angel aka Griffin to look up a route for me from his laptop, it turned out to be way longer because it fortuitously brought me to Ybor City where I stopped for some vegan pho and an eiskaffe, which was one of the best coffee drinks I've ever had. I didn't even get on the road until almost 8, which means I didn't even get home until right around 11; I still had to run, and I don't think I've told you this, but BTJ and I have been talking since I sent my NC-17 text, and he was coming to my house which means I was going to be seeing him for the first time since that Sunday in the beginning of June, so blogging wasn't really on my mind.

Anyway. I'd like to talk making out.

For my entire life up until tonight sometime around 5:00, I considered French kissing to be making out. Like, to me the two things were exactly the same. I'm not sure my mind has completely changed, but I can say that I'm now aware this isn't necessarily what everyone thinks*.

*For the purpose of this post along with everything I ever say or do for the rest of my life, when I say kiss, I mean French kiss. If I mean something else, you'll know. 

I've mentioned before, people who read my blog, that I love to kiss. It's not something I ever thought I had to make clear, but when I say kiss, I mean what I've always thought of as making out, and while I'm aware not everyone loves kissing as much as me, I totally thought it was something almost everybody does. I have a friend who doesn't--saliva grosses her out--and I've always thought it was the craziest thing. Once when she said something jokingly about us getting married, I told her I could never do it because she doesn't like to kiss, and while there are a lot more reasons that marriage isn't in our cards, it's true. I could never have a happy sexual relationship with someone who doesn't like to kiss.

Which brings me to last night.

I told you BTJ came over when I got home. I also told you we kissed a lot the other times he came over, and I mean kissed kissed, like real kisses, not the pussy pop kind--for fuck's sake, he bruised my tongue. So imagine my surprise when after our first time having sex and I was all over him trying to make out, he laughed at me and said something about me searching for his tongue, prompting a conversation that led to his revealing that when he kisses, he doesn't like to use his tongue.


But it literally said on my Bumble profile making out is one of my loves. 

Yeah, but making out doesn't have to be with tongue.

What? Yes, it does. It totally does.

I consider any kind of open mouth kissing to be making out.

What? No. If it's not French kissing, it's not making out. 

Tongues are just gross. They make me think of octopus tentacles crashing together. I can feel the bumps on a tongue. What are they called?

Taste buds?


I feel like I've been duped.


And maybe you think I'm being petulant and making an unnecessary big deal, but I swear I wouldn't have had sex with him if I'd known his kissing stance. There's also no way I'd have felt as into him as I did because there is no way I could ever be seriously into anyone if I knew beforehand my tongue was going to be forced to languish in the confines of my mouth when I want to make out.


Today I decided to look up making out. See if BTJ was wrong about what constitutes making out or if I was. You know what? It turns out we both were. According to a bunch of sites and public opinion, making out isn't just kissing, French or otherwise, but kissing plus beyond. Making out, according to the Internet, includes, in addition to kissing, some or all of the following things: petting, heavy petting (which differs from plain only petting because the former is above the waist and the latter is below it), dry humping, and really just about anything related to sex that isn't actual fucking.

Maybe BTJ and I were both wrong, but he was definitely more wrong. All the things above normally occur, I have no doubt, alongside the presence of a not-relegated-to-the-bottom-of-the-mouth, equated-to-a-mollusk fucking tongue.

Fucking duped. 

Monday, June 18, 2018

The Weight of the World Would Be Okay if It Would Pick a Shoulder to Lean On so I Could Stand Up Straight

Something I never thought I'd say: Holy Jesus, I wish that cute Korean doctor would leave me the fuck alone.

But looksie here, I'm saying it.

Since when I mentioned the Korean doctor to you once a few months ago I didn't tell you very much, let me give you the rundown super fast. We met on Tinder and started talking in February 2016, met in real life not long after, saw each other for a little over a month, text frequently and even (gasp!) talked on the phone, and then one day we were texting while he was at work in June (not being a real doctor. He was in medical school at the time), and both of us just stopped. I have no idea who text who last, I just know that he was the one who always initiated the texts and never sent me one again, and I wasn't interested enough to see what was going on.

On March 31 he messaged me out of the blue, and I swear he won't leave me alone. At first I felt like I had to be nice, so I entertained him when he made small talk, asking me about school and if I still run and telling me how much he enjoyed spending time with me when we were seeing each other. A few days in when he started getting overly flirty talking about when we used to have sex and pestering me to let him read my secret blog, I wasn't nice at all; in fact, on April 3 he said, "I'll leave you alone until we get comfortable again about being friends." I didn't respond.

He text again April 25 and was super strange and then on April 29 to apologize for the inappropriate text which was "unprofessional...and it was embarrassing." I didn't respond.

May 7 he text, just asking me how it's going. I didn't respond.

I shouldn't have responded when he text me on May 31, so in a way this is my fault, but I wasn't responding to be friends. He sent me a super long text asking for my opinion on school kid psychology for some research he was doing on school shootings. It seemed legitimate enough, so I answered back. No small talk, no okay, now we're friends, just my observations on students' mental health.

He text me again on Tuesday night, so that was what? June 12? I was in the middle of writing a blog and not thinking about what I was doing, so I answered him back. We didn't text for super long, just long enough for him to tell me he thinks about me from time to time, start reminiscing about my "sexual energy that borders almost predatory," ask me if I have a type, and tell me not to be a stranger and we'll grab coffee when I get back. I told him I had to go.

Last night, June 16, I'm texting someone else and he texts me again. This time all the sex talk is gone. He's majorly depressed. He's lonely and he's deflated and he's empty and he's sad and he can't focus. I tell him I feel sad and lonely all the time and he just has to learn how to cope so he asks me how to cope and he asks when it gets better and he says he wants it to get better soon and he sounds like a child but he's 28 or 29. So I tell him I lie down on the counter a lot and I listen to happy music and I run and I run and I run, and I tell him I tell myself that this is the life that I chose and sometimes it's really good, and when I'm telling him I'm asking myself how or why this is happening, I'm not even nice to him, how can I be the only person he has, how can he be desperately texting a girl he barely dated two years ago who clearly wants nothing to do with him, and then I realize he really must not have anyone so I have to be nice, and I know this is the opposite of nice but the Korean doctor I have no interest in at all is a responsibility I just do not want.

Sunday, June 17, 2018

All She Wanted Was a Pepsi

I passed a taco place called Taco Bus on my way to Cafe Hey, that coffeehouse from the other night, and since tacos are one of my favorite things to put in my mouth, I got so excited, I almost didn't make it to the cafe. I did, though, as you know, but I told myself I'd eat there before going home, and tonight I made it back. While I did have some really amazing poblano pepper and mushroom tacos, I'm not here to talk about food. I'm here to talk about the homeless girl I bought dinner instead. 

I was sitting outside eating my tacos when she approached. As soon as she said, Excuse me, could you, I started to say no because I expected something about money to finish that question. It didn't, though. Can you buy me something to eat? she asked. I don't need money. Just food. My instinct was still to say no, but then I thought about it. This poor girl was hungry, and it's not like I'm poor. It's also not like she was asking for money to do who knows what with. She wanted food. How could I say no to buying the girl food?

Sure, I said. I'll buy you something to eat. Let's go in.  

I picked up my mostly eaten food, put my purse over my head, and walked into Taco Bus with the girl behind me. Do you know what you want? I asked. 

Shrimp quesadilla, no vegetables, she answered right away and then added that's what she always gets when people buy her food. Apparently it happens all the time. (That's not salt, by the way. Just facts.)

Shrimp quesadilla, no vegetables, I said to the guy behind the counter and then turned to the girl. Okay, I said. Here's your receipt. I handed it to her and went back outside to finish dinner.

You think my story's over but it's ready to begin.

She sat with me. 

Her names--one of her two "government names" that belonged to her daughters who were stolen from her so she uses their names--were Athena for sure and Alisha I'm pretty sure. She seemed normal enough if not horrifically challenged in the dientes at first, and at first, I guess I mean for about one minute flat. She just kept thanking me and telling me about how she usually gets food, and, well, if I wasn't the conversationalist that I am and didn't ask her so many questions, I'd never know that she's insane. 

The first thing I found out about Athena Alisha is that she just got back to Tampa after being in Wisconsin, California, and Louisiana not because she wanted to be but because she was taken by some very bad people and luckily escaped to Louisiana where she lived for what I found to be a confusing amount of time, maybe not as confusing as the fact that when I asked her how old she was she told me her reincarnated years were 31 but then later told me the people who took her to Wisconsin killed her and there are Polaroid pictures of it and everything yet there she was--I mean, if she was murdered just not too long ago in Wisconsin, how is her reincarnation age 31?--but confusing nevertheless.

I also found out that she has a brother/husband whose name is totally escaping me right now but I'm sure it will come back, and that he saved her in Wisconsin, and he saves her here all the time, and he comes before her looking different sometimes, just like Diablo, who's one of her stepfathers, and that she and her brother/husband have a son named Elijah who sexually molested them and people want them to sacrifice him but she can't do that to her son. She does, however, let angry things come out of her mouth sometimes, violent things, and she does violent things sometimes, but only when the bad people make her. She's sliced people in half, but only because she had no choice. Oh, she also showed me the spots where she recently had an IV when she was in the hospital after the police found her with half a bitten off toe.

After ten, maybe fifteen minutes of talking to Athena Ashley, I told her it was nice meeting her and I hoped she'd stay safe, and I went on my way.

While I was sitting there hearing her story, a lot of it which I haven't relayed (like, do you know she doesn't even know where she's from? And I'm pretty sure she thinks she's God), her story that I initially got out of her because I thought it would be good research for something I might one day write, I felt so sad. This girl seemed so genuinely nice and so genuinely believed the things she believed because she was so genuinely mentally ill, it was hard to take. 

How many people? How many people out there are just like her? You know, we see these homeless people and we harumph and we grumble and we say they should get jobs, but let me tell you, people who read my blog, there is no way on the gods' green earth that this girl could have a job. She was, to put it in not nice terms, batshit insane. 

I mean, I'm not making it up when I say I think she thought she was God. Well, except actually, that in contrast to the things she said that led me to that belief, she also said, after telling me she had leukemia, diabetes, and one other thing I can't remember, and I said I was sorry, not to be sorry, that she's not afraid at all because He'll take care of her. 

You know, because he's doing such a marvelous job so far. 

(Kirby! That's the brother/husband. It just came.)

Friday, June 15, 2018


I've been thinking a lot about what I want to write tonight, and when I say thinking a lot about what I want to write tonight, I don't mean trying to figure out what I want to write, I mean I had an idea of something I want to write but have been going back and forth. It's a profession of sorts, of something that in no way needs to be said, something that no good could could come of if anything were to come at all.

I decided to not write the post; I'm just going to write about why I can't write it instead.

The problem, however, is that to write this post correctly, I have to reveal too much, so I'm sorry to inform you, people who read my blog, this one isn't going to make a lot of sense.

What I planned to do was to write about the guys who have been bothering me lately, to tell you how annoying they all are, not because I'm like ooh, everybody wants me because I promise you that's not going on, but because I wanted to tell you that there are only two guys I have any interest in at all. BTJ is obviously one, and the other one is the one who I was going to talk about tonight, to tell you how it's so weird that he's even on my mind and the reason why, but I decided that's not for this blog. I want to tell you, but if I do, he'll totally know who he is; I want to tell you why I can't let you know who he is, but if I do that, he'll also probably know, so admittedly there's very little I can tell you at all.

What I can tell you, though, is this: writing this blog the way I wanted to write it would do nothing but start trouble. It would start up something--or try to start up something because in all honesty that would be the primary reason for my writing it--that doesn't need to be started--that can't practically be started, thank God (thank God? Yes! thank God...I suppose)--that could ruin people's lives.

Why, then, if making this interest known could cause so much damage, is it something I remotely want to do? Why consider it at all?

Because I'm selfish, duh. Because I want what I want. Because I fail the marshmallow test miserably. Because I'm all about my id.


I've already ruined enough lives. It's a business I no longer want to be in.