Happy Holiday, You Bastard! 2019

Here we are, embarking on yet another holiday season, which means the time you've been waiting for all year has finally arrived: my annual what-I'm-thankful-for Thanksgiving post. I don't know if you remember or not, but at the time of last year's posting, I had just been broken up with by La Dispute Guy and was not in the best place. This year, things on the surface don't seem much better--despite my post-AVA proclamation about being over M (which totally wasn't a lie but a gun jumping on my part), I'm still hurting a little from the end of that, I'm semi-involved with someone who doesn't make me feel much better about, well, anything at all, and there's the whole new school debacle--but I guess I'm just happier inside because I feel nowhere near as low as I did last year at this time.

Of course, I did run a 5k this morning plus have a really good conversation with someone who used to be super special to me which means you might just be hearing ramblings induced by my residual runner's high and conversation with a former crush, and much like my gun jumping about being over M, I might be horrifically miserable in real life. But right now, goddammit, I feel good, and so before that feeling is gone it's time for


Things That I'm Thankful For, 2019

1. This one may come as a shock, but at the top of the list this year is my relationship with Kei. I think everyone who knows me knows how I feel about Griffin and how close the two of us are, which of course I'm thankful for, but the two of us are just a given, a lot like many mothers and sons. Keifer isn't like that. Keifer doesn't love anyone because he's supposed to or feel the need to carry out any social niceties, and he certainly doesn't pretend to love me or care about me because of the things I do for him (like I suspect he's done with other people in his life) because he's been doing everything on his own since he turned 18. When Keifer texts me his songs or that he loves me or calls to share something about his life, it's because he wants to text me his songs or tell me that he loves me or to share something about his life, not because he should. The way Kei has been for the past few years, it wouldn't have been much of a surprise if he'd slipped away from me, but he's done the opposite of that, and for that, he's the first what-I'm-thankful-for on this list.

2. Griffin. I know, I know, you've heard it all before, but hear me out again. With Kei, I'm grateful for our relationship. With Griffin, I'm grateful just that he exists. That kid--that weirdly intellectual, emotional, daring, caring, creative, musical guru of a kid who's the oddly accurate sum of the math equation Kelly + Glenn = ___________ --amazes me just because he is.

3. My house. Now here's one I never thought I'd be thankful for (seeing as I hate this place), but earlier this month I had to stay at an Airbnb while my house was tented for termites. Because I didn't want to spend a ton of money to stay down the street from my house, I stayed in the cheapest place that would take me and my dogs. That place was a mobile home. Now, maybe I'm just being snobby because that guy I mentioned who I'm semi-involved with along with lots of reviewers on Airbnb thought the place was really nice, but after staying in that mobile home, I really appreciate where I live

4. and while I'm on the subject of Airbnb, I guess that's something I should thank. My dogs have made travel pretty difficult, and in the days before Airbnb, it was sometimes actually impossible because dogs weren't allowed at hotels or if we did get to stay at hotels, we'd get letters or calls threatening to kick us out. Airbnb has made it so I can go to a lot more places than I'd otherwise be able to go.

5. Ms. X. That's not her real name, but my gratitude toward her sure is real. Ms. X is my administrator at my new school, and I like her so much I sent her brownies last week. Funny thing: You know that meme that was recently popular that was like, No one (silence); No one (silence) Absolutely no one (silence); Me: (Insert some statement that typifies a person)? Well, I'm not lying when I say that's how it was when I started. Every single person, and I really do mean every single person, told me how much I was going to love it there but to stay away from Ms. X. It was like, Oh, you're a new English teacher? That's great! Stay away from Ms. X! or some similar incarnation of that, and when I tell you that Ms. X (fine, and the principal who I also happen to really like) is the only thing good about that place, I don't jest. Ms. X, I don't know if you're reading this (although I really hope you're not), but if you are, there's something wrong with ALL OF THEM, not with you.

6. M although not for any reason people who know me would likely expect. I'm not about to be all sentimental like, He taught me this! Or I'll always cherish our time! but rather I'm going to say that it's because of him that I recently had a poem published, have one forthcoming next month, and have been writing and sending to publications again. When the two of us were through, I reworked and sent out a poem I had written about him, and the thing about sending poems is publications like to get more than one; because of this, I also sent out a poem I had lying around for a couple years. While "Los Ambos" or "Los Dos," or whichever name I happen to be calling it, the poem I wrote about him didn't get picked up, the old one did (haven't seen it? Go to Rat's Ass Review and scroll down to Kismet McIntyre), twice (long story), and well, I guess I'm a writer again (not that that ever really stopped).

7. The Wonder Years. I don't know if I've thanked them before (I don't want to look at any old lists so I can later compare and contrast), but their music, like Real Friends who I know I've mentioned in the past, has changed my life. I don't want to say their poetic, profound, pathos-driven lyrics are the direct result of Soupy having the same birthday as me, but I can't bring myself not to say it, either.

8. The opportunity to be able to influence lives. That poem I mentioned before? When I got it published, one of my old students, a writer now herself, messaged me and told me she credits me with her love for writing, and the boy who sat right next to her in the same class ? He's a poet now who just wrote his first poetry book. I'm not saying I'm unique--teachers affect kids' lives every day--but it's still an awesome thing.

9. Being small. This is in no way meant to disparage anybody who's not, but I'm so happy I'm only 5'2" (well, truth be told I'd like to be 5', but it could be way, way worse).

10. Cafe Ba-Ba-Reeba! It's my favorite restaurant in Chicago, the place where, when I was 11 or 12, I had tapas for the first time. It would be crazy if I remembered exactly what I ate that night but I do know for a fact I had goat cheese and calamari and that it kind of paved the way for me being open minded about, and willing to try, different foods throughout my life. Every single time I go to Chicago I have to eat at Ba-Ba-Reeba!, and I swear one year I'm flying there on my birthday just to eat dinner and flying right back.

11. I can't mention Cafe Ba-Ba-Reeba! without mentioning my cousin Paulette. I don't know if I've written about her before, so pardon me if I did, but Paulette, who I hated a lot more often than I loved her, had a tremendously far reaching effect on my life. Although a lot of it wasn't good, much of it was. Paulette, my mom's first cousin, was cool and cosmopolitan--think Chicago's version of Carrie Bradshaw before Carrie Bradshaw was a thing. Once engaged to billionaire restauranteur Richard Melman, who remained her best friend until she not-too-long-ago died, she was...fancy? She took me and my sister to the fanciest, most expensive restaurants in Chicago from the time we were little kids, bought us fancy, expensive clothes, and taught us to appreciate fancy, expensive things. I grew up having a very tumultuous relationship with Paulette, but the longer she's gone, the more I appreciate her influence on my life.

12. Novocaine and nitrous oxide, which may sound dumb, but if you'd just gotten a wisdom tooth pulled two days ago, you'd be thankful for those things, too.

13. The seasoned egg in ramen. (How does it taste so good?)

14. How easy it was for my ears to stretch up this last time. I mean, it was a little bit on the annoying side, but if you only knew what I've been through, the frustration I've felt from this non-sticky bondage tape, you'd understand.

15. Boys with dark brown hair and dark brown eyes, and if you need a visual to go along with that, picture Diego Luna or Jim Sturgess or Freddie Rodriguez or Esai Morales when he was young like in Wildcats or La Bamba, and if you're thinking I have a type, you're not at all wrong

16. except that I have more than one and I'd be remiss to not express my thankfulness for androgynous girls and boys like Timothee Chalamet and Ezra Miller and Kristen Stewart and Ruby Rose and omg, I cannot not mention Gerard Way from the era of Danger Days.

17. I don't mean to sound vain and be repetitive because without looking I'm sure I mentioned this last year, but dude. My fucking hair: These shiny wild curls cascading down my back.

18. This one is kind of an I'm-thankful-it-exists-in-theory-but-have-not-yet-put-it-into-practice thing, and that's anything and everything geared towards GRE math. I'm pretty sure I'm going back to grad school, and while of course I took the GRE before grad school last time, thanks to schools and their time limits on GRE scores, it looks like I'll be taking the test again. When I took the test ten years ago, I scored in the 93rd percentile on the verbal section and 27th percentile in math, and while that was good enough to get into a program for a writing MFA, the programs I've been looking into this time are a little less lax. These GRE materials are (hopefully) going to remind me how to do math.

19. Skincare (both products and procedures). Yes, I'm back to being vain, but I take meticulous care of my skin, and I--along with a lot of other people who comment on it all the time--love the way that it looks.

20. Sports bras.

21. Laura's Classy Canines. They make Hudson and Jazzy so nice and clean and, um, I have a pretty big crush on one of the women who grooms dogs there.

22. The Alchemist, and I mean the coffee house, not the book

23. but while we're talking about books, The Absolute True Diary of a Part-Time Indian? I loved it so much, I hugged it when I finished reading it last week.

24. The weird goings on in my house. If you know me, you know my house is Weird City, USA. From the period of time when I thought the time-space continuum in my house was broken and Keifer from the past was living in his room to the time Sam's friend Angie ran outside crying and refused to come back in because of the weird noises the two of them were hearing in the empty upstairs to a different time when Sam and his boyfriend went upstairs with a bat because they were sure someone was in the house to the time I came home last week to find straight, short black hair all over the basin in my bathroom even though I live alone to the time a few nights ago I found a single blue star sticker lying in the hallway between Griffin's and Keifer's doors, weird stuff is always happening in my house. It's weird, and it's creepy enough that for the past three nights I slept with my bedroom door locked, and I never know what to expect, so naturally I love that it's going on. Some dating site I used to be on--OkCupid? Plenty of Fish?--asked whether we'd prefer interesting things happen or good things. Imagine choosing something good.

25. Having Griffin and Keifer when I did. I know that you know that now that Griffin and Keifer are gone I sometimes get sad, so this might come as a surprise, but I am so glad I did the mom thing early in life. I mean, obviously the mom thing doesn't just end, but you know what does? Having people entirely dependent on you for everything they need. Driving people everywhere they need to go. Washing other people's dishes and almost having a stroke because there are crumbs all over the counter that you just cleaned. There are people I went to high school with who have kids in less than first grade, and all I have to say is, Thank fucking God that's not me.

26. Retrospect.

27. Crystals, 'cause magic and stuff.

28. Boric acid and probiotics and Good Clean Love and the wisdom amassed by all the bv sufferers who came before me.

29. The block button. Seriously, can anything come in handier than the block button on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram? I know I mentioned in the past that I used it to block my ex-husband on Twitter (at least I think I told you), and I may have told you that years and years ago I used it to block C on Facebook. In the past year, I've also blocked M, LDG, LDG's current girlfriend, and a boy whose name starts with I that you don't know about, from Facebook in the first case and Instagram in the latter three. I didn't block any of these people so they couldn't see me because I'm pretty sure that with the exception of Glenn, none of them could care any less about stalking me on social media; I used the block button to keep me from stalking them. It's impossible--impossible!--to get over someone when aspects of their lives are only a button away--and that's not a generalization, it's a fact--and that block button has been my best friend.

30.  The Ross Geller Leftover Thanksgiving Sandwich. If you're a fan of Friends, you know exactly what I'm talking about. What you probably don't know, though, fan of Friends or not, is that Parlour Vegan Bakery makes a vegan version for the holidays--complete with the moist maker--and it's one of the best things I've ever had in my life. Tomorrow Parlour will have that Ross Geller sandwich, and I am so, so thankful for that.

And that, Life's Waiting to Beginners, is that. Another year during which I managed not to die of a broken heart despite the universe's constant murder attempts. Since my number 30 is related to Friends, a totally unintentional thing, I'll leave you with the Friends-related Snapchat I made last year  on Thanksgiving after LDG pushed me over the edge. Watch it if you want, or if you're not in the mood to see me act like an ass, don't. Either way, this is Kismet, signing out, wishing you all a happy Thanksgiving and lots of love and peace.

Small Town Minds Stay Small

Years and years ago--I'm talking years--my ex-husband sent me to a psychic for my birthday. Scoff if you want, but the psychic, Michelle Whitedove, went on to win the psychic challenge on national TV and become a celebrity psychic who now charges, according to her website, $1200 an hour. Maybe you're one of those people who thinks reputable psychic is an oxymoron, but if you're not a disbeliever or if you're on the fence, Michelle Whitedove is pretty much as reputable as psychics get. Among other things that Michelle Whitedove told me, like that I'd get divorced one day despite trying as hard as I could to save things, she told me that my totem animal was a turkey, just like Mother Teresa.

People with a turkey as a totem, according to trustedpsychicmediums.com, "have a lot to teach others" and need to use their voice to "empower others." Also, the turkey "points to adversaries," people who "challenge you to grow, make you feel things, and make you truly see the world that you live in." People with the turkey totem also give whatever they can to people in need.

Maybe you're reading this, seeing my name and Mother Teresa's in the same sentence and scoffing at the thought, but I have to tell you, if that's the case, you don't know me at all. Giving and making people happy is absolutely my thing. Other than my quirky cuteness, my mildly-on-the-odd-side personality, and my tendency to veer toward all-consuming, obsessive behavior, it's the biggest part of me. 

Why do I bring this up now if I saw Michelle Whitedove so many years in the past? How is it relevant to today/tonight?

Well, you know from previous posts that I went to a new school this year after 18 years, but unless you're my Facebook friend or somebody I talk to on a regular basis, you don't know that it's been one of the worst experiences of my life. Like I've told a few friends, in descending order of the biggest bad I've gone through, it goes like this: divorce, rape, my new job. Pretty much nothing else compares.

I could give you a list of reasons my job makes me get into bed earlier than I've gone to bed in my entire life because I don't want to spend my time awake, talk about how the school surely must have been built on some sort of Hellmouth or ancient burial ground that's turning people evil because surely students and teachers alike can't have been this horrible their entire lives, but I won't. Instead I'll tell you about a conversation I had in the last couple weeks.

I was talking to a friend of mine after attending a yoga class that she taught, a friend who I wrote about several years ago, about her love and light. This woman is the epitome of what I want to be. Like I am, she's a strong believer in fate. When we were talking about the hell that is my new school and what I've been going through, she said she wished she knew why I was there, what it was I was supposed to do.

Well, today I figured it out.

Today after the peer counseling teacher--the peer counseling teacher, for fuck's sake, the person who's supposed to be guiding students' behavior--in an incredibly odd chain of events hid behind my door and weirdly ambushed me and then proceeded to bully and berate me in front of a hallway of her students and classroom full of mine, I realized why I was there--well, after I spent the rest of the day sort of shellshocked, the afternoon crying, and tonight feeling sorry for myself, anyway.

I wish I could say this peer counseling thing was an isolated incident, and while in its blatancy it may have been, the sentiment certainly wasn't. If teachers aren't busy searching for me on the Internet, printing out my entire 107-page thesis, and giving it to administration (seriously, what's worse? The attempt to, I don't know, what I can only assume is somehow ruin my life or the callous disregard for the environment?) or badmouthing vegans for no reason at all while I'm two feet away in the bathroom or students aren't writing statements about me for telling them kangaroos have three vaginas (I kid you not. High school students took the time to go into the office and document the fact that I told them how many vaginas a kangaroo has) or parents aren't complaining that I have a painting of a uterus in my room, well then, it's just not a day at my new school.

And that, people who read my blog, is intolerable. The intolerance of the people at my school, the judgment, the Crucible mentality, is one of the farthest things from okay that exists.

I have never in my entire life experienced an environment like this.

I have never encountered such human beings.

And Jesus God, Christ on a bicycle, god mother fucking dammit, is my purpose in that straight-out-of-a-movie-about-an-interloper place.

I'm there because these people need to learn, not about literature or rhetoric or the anatomy of a kangaroo, but about life. About love. About good and bad and nuance and the truth that there is no one truth and that there are no absolutes.

I'm there because small town minds stay small.

I'm there because from rides in the middle of the night to phone calls to parents that kids have been afraid to make themselves to the handing over of my credit card for college application fees to the empty rooms in my house being temporarily taken, I do whatever I am able.

I'm there because I take in strays.

Like I told my best friend tonight--like I cried to him--it's an insurmountable job, too much for me to do by myself, but I have no choice.

I'm there because more than anyone I've ever met in my life,

these people need my light.

Now, do I think I'll illuminate their darkness? 

Actually, I think it's a lot more likely I won't have a job not long after tonight. I'm well aware of the potential negative effect of my blog(s) on my life--MP, I'm looking at you with unflinching, unwavering eyes--but I also know if I don't live my truth, I'll die inside, and anyone who can't accept that--who can't accept me--doesn't deserve my light.

I've Just Seen a Face

Before I go any further, I'd just like to say if you watched my recent Instagram story, you should stop reading now and save yourself some time because this post is going to be pretty much a transcript of my story from Sunday night (maybe even with the video thrown in--okay, definitely with the video thrown in), and that's literally all: no deep insights, no reflection, no aha moment to be found. Simple facts and nothing more--

but--

with facts like the ones I'm about to present, who needs more?

***

It may come as a surprise to some people since I'm so apathetic about sports, but I used to be quite the hockey fan, and when I say quite the fan, that's not an exaggeration at all. Not only did I know players' stats from every team in the league, but I also played--and either won or got second place, I don't remember for sure--fantasy hockey with some guys from work. The year of conception of my hockey obsession was 1996, and while oldish people who've been in Florida for a long time or sports fanatics are probably thinking to themselves right now that I'm one of those types of people, becoming a fan because the Panthers had a standout season, going all the way to the Stanley Cup Finals, those people couldn't be more wrong. 

I've never cared about any sport enough to be a fair-weather fan. A team is doing well? Awesome for them, but I still don't give a fuck.

But, dear people who read my blog, you who know me so well, what do I give a fuck about above all else? What could take a girl like me and make it so to this day she could tell you Teemu Selanne scored 76 points his rookie season and in 1996 scored 108 points and played on a line with Paul Kariya on the Mighty Ducks? Or that Tie Domi was one of the best goons? Or that Brian Skrudland, former captain of the Panthers, used to be a Calgary Flame?

Why, a boy, of course.

In 1996, Glenn (spoiler alert: Glenn is not the boy), a longtime hockey fan, dragged me, and I do mean dragged me, to a game. I won't lie: I couldn't stand it at all. I don't remember what it was exactly that I couldn't stand, only that I couldn't wait to get out of the Miami Arena and go home; however, the game's end would bring me no such luck. Back in the old days, if fans waited long enough on the side of the arena, they could see the Panthers as they walked to their cars, say hi and maybe even get something signed. Naturally, this was something Glenn wanted to do, and so I had to do it, too.

Thank the fucking hockey gods.

Why am I thanking the hockey gods? Because it was there, at that Miami Arena side door, that I saw him for the first time: Radek Dvorak, number 9, born March 9, 18-year old rookie, Czech Republic transplant, most perfect man I ever had the privilege of seeing in my entire life. 

Radek Dvorak, whom I became so obsessed with I typed the above info without even thinking hard.

Radek Dvorak, whose (Supra? Celica?) super fast sporty black car I used to follow all the way to the Yamato Road exit in Boca in what I hope were covert high-speed chases.

Radek Dvorak, about whom I wrote the column Devoted to Dvorak in my long-defunct zine.

Radek Dvorak, whose housing development I hung out in for an entire night hoping he'd come home; who I used to watch at practices at Gold Coast Ice Arena; who I actually left work early one night to go and see at Gatsby's so I could hand deliver him three issues of that zine. 

Radek Dvorak, who was on my mother fucking airplane on Sunday night. 

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

OH!

MY!

GOD!

I kid you mother fucking not. 

There I was, standing in the aisle waiting to get to seat 14A, stopped just a foot or so before 12C for a long enough amount of time to have the following thought process beginning the second I noticed the guy in 12C, who was looking downward, talking on the phone:

Hmm, that guy on the phone looks like he's Russian. I fucking love Eastern European guys. He sort of looks familiar. That's not Rustem [guy from the axe bar who asked me out], right? I wonder if it's some Russian guy from the axe bar. No, but wow. He looks awfully cute for an older guy. Wait a minute...wa--I think...is...is that Radek Dvorak? I think that's Radek Dvorak. Look up, look up, look up.

He looks up. Super blue eyes look directly into mine. We stare at each other for about five seconds--do you have any idea how long five seconds is when staring into a stranger's eyes?--I almost die.

I turn to Griffin. I whisper, Oh my God, Griffin. I think that's Radek Dvorak! Griffin tells me whoever it is, he knows I was looking at him because he was staring at me. We were staring at each other, I say.

I turn back around and wait. The man I think is Radek Dvorak hangs up the phone.

Are you Radek Dvorak? I ask.

He says yes.

The man, in fact, is Radek Dvorak.

Radek Dvorak is, in fact, on my airplane. Radek fucking Dvorak is on my plane, two rows in front of the row where I'm going to sit. I feel like I'm going to die.

I open my mouth and say the only thing at this point in time I know how to say, the only words I can think:

I love you.

Silence. We stare. I mean, I just told a complete stranger I love him, what do I expect?

I mean, from the Panthers, like 20 years ago, I say.

You're from Fort Lauderdale? he asks.

Yes, I answer.

We stare.

I'm in awe, I say.

No, don't be, he responds.

Radek Dvorak and I are now having a conversation. In case you didn't get that, I'm now standing in the aisle of a plane having a conversation with the man I was obsessed with and stalked.

We say other things. He tells me he has a hockey school, and I immediately want to have children just so they can go to his hockey school.

We chat a bit more and the line starts to move. I tell Radek goodbye and go to my seat where I stare at the back of his beautiful Slovakian head.

I've thought about almost nothing else since getting off the plane, have had many different iterations of thought.

On the one hand, every time I go through the story in my head or out loud, I'm so happy I want to die. Radek Dvorak was on my plane!

On the other hand, I've wondered, did he know? Did I look familiar? The girl who used to show up everywhere he went? Does he still have the zines I hand delivered? Did he sit on the plane with a gnawing feeling--I know that girl--and go home and look through them for a photo, confirmation that I'm a nut? I could be crazy--well, obviously I'm crazy--but I'm pretty sure I saw recognition in his eyes.

On the last hand, how fucking crazy is life? Never would I imagine a world where the events of Sunday night occurred (the events which I'll be conveying to you in speech below this post in an attempt to convey the actual excitement I felt in case my writing left you with any doubts), not in a million billion trillion years, something that, if we look logically at, tells us indubitably one thing:

You never fucking know. 

Truman Will Always Be Remembered for Dropping the Bomb; I'll Always Be Remembered for My Fuck Ups

"Jesus Christ, I'm 26, all the people I graduated with, all have kids, all have wives, all have people who care if they come home at night, well, Jesus Christ, did I fuck up?"
                                                     
                                                                             --The Wonder Years

I don't think it's in the textbook we use now, but the William Faulkner story "A Rose for Emily" was in every eleventh grade textbook for years. Set in a small Southern town in the years straddling the turn of the 20th century, it's the story of Emily, an aging woman who lived with only her father, an elitist who never let her go on even one single date because he thought no one was good enough. I believe, and this is from memory so don't quote me on it, there's a line that says something akin to, The Griersons always held themselves a little higher than what they really were. When Emily's father dies, she's so lost and alone that she refuses to let his body go or even to acknowledge that he's dead, and years later, after she finally finds a lover, she poisons him and keeps his body in her bed so that she won't be alone.

***

Last week I was looking at a Yankee Candle fundraising catalog for one of my students, initially thinking about how expensive the candles were and that I didn't know how anybody could ever justify spending that much money on candles and then thinking how good the candles smelled and that maybe, just maybe, I would buy one. Help a student out. I was reading the candles' names, first looking specifically for something that had patchouli and then, after not finding one, at the seasonal scents. Apple pumpkin, spiced pumpkin, autumn leaves. It'd be really nice to have the house smell like fall, I thought. I love the smell of fall. Then I turned the page and looked at the winter scents. Christmas Cookie, Christmas Wreath, Christmas Eve. 

***

My parents weren't holiday people. We celebrated holidays when I was growing up, but not much was really done. Maybe we carved a pumpkin once or twice but I could be wrong; if I'm not wrong and we did, I'm definitely right when I say that was the only Halloween thing that would have been done. Definitely no decorations or anything along those lines. Same sentiment for Christmas. Sometimes we had a tree but to be honest, I don't know how it got decorated because I don't remember decorating it at all. I never believed in Santa Claus. Stupid kid things like that (tooth fairies and Easter bunnies and cartoons and not knowing exactly where babies come from or not watching your downstairs neighbors shotgun weed into your seven-year-old sister's mouth) weren't endorsed in my house. 

We all know how it goes. Grown ups either emulate what their own parents did or go as far from it as they possibly can. I chose the latter. Other than pulling out the pumpkin decorations every Halloween and making Thanksgiving dinner, I didn't do very much for those holidays, but Christmas? Christmas was my thing.

From orchestrating designated family Christmas-tree decorating time every year to making the same exact Christmas morning breakfast every year since Griffin was three to Glenn and the kids and I doing Christmas Eve-y things until the kids went to bed and then he and I staying up and wrapping presents and leaving evidence of Santa Claus around, I had Christmas down. And Christmas dinner? Please. The year I got married I declared I wanted Christmas dinner to be at my house and invited everybody I possibly could. I had special Christmas placemats and special Christmas napkins and special Christmas tree napkin holders that I put on special Christmas tablecloths (yes, tablecloths plural because when you invite everybody you possibly can, one table isn't enough). Erin lived with Glenn and me then, and she and I woke up early and cooked a million things: mashed potatoes and scalloped potatoes and broccoli Jennifer and sweet potato casserole and gravy and two kinds of stuffing and rolls and maybe Erin made macaroni and cheese but I'm not entirely positive (unlike how I am entirely positive that we had brisket instead of roast because I totally forgot to defrost the roast the night before and on Christmas Day I had to run to a kosher grocer in Emerald Hills and take what I could get).

I did Christmas dinners for years, and at the peak I probably had 20 people in my house, but just like we know how the following of parental patterns goes, we know how the evolution of life does, too. My aunt and uncle, who moved to Chicago, were the first ones to stop coming. Not long after, my parents moved to Charlotte. My sister soon got divorced, which not only meant her husband no longer came, but my nephew rarely did, either, because he was with his father. Erin broke up with her long-time boyfriend, Ben, and started dating her now-husband, and as she crossed over to his side, not only did she and Ben disappear, but so did her sister and her then-boyfriend, Brian. Curt moved far, far away. I got divorced. Griffin split his time between me and his dad (I got breakfast).

My overflowing house? A thing of the past.

Last year I went to my sister's and her boyfriend's for Christmas: They just sold their house and left the state; Griffin lives in Orlando; Keifer lives in Jacksonville.

I literally am the only one left.

***

I had a pseudo son. About six months after Keifer moved out, while I was in Tampa scoring AP exams, he moved in. The night I got back, we hung out in my room and took pictures and facetimed one of my old students and all talked. The next day he came down in the morning and I made us both eggs. We sat at the table and talked about boys. One night not long after, his boyfriend came over and spent the night, but not long after that, he started sleeping at his boyfriend's or mom's house much more often than not.

About a month ago when I was at Target I saw a Dia de los Muertos cookie decorating kit and, having been a Mexican revolutionary in a past life, was extremely excited. When I messaged my pseudo son to see if he wanted to decorate cookies sugar skull style, he told me to buy the kit.

He's since moved out.

***

I sat there with that Yankee Candle catalog looking at the smells of Christmas and fall, one second thinking about how nice the house could potentially smell, the next second thinking about the way the house used to smell and the second after that about the way the house used to be. The second that came next? I was standing there crying in front of my class as one of my students got up and gave me a hug.

I was just trying to raise money, the girl who gave me the catalog said to the class. I'm sorry, Ms. McIntyre.

***

I just said goodbye to Keifer who I saw this weekend for only the third time in ten months. When he was here, the two of us were talking.

I told him I thought maybe I made a mistake. It's the first time I've ever said those words out loud.

He assured me I didn't. He reminded me of how things were.

I know that he's right, that I'm just feeling sorry for myself.

It's just so hard to remember when I'm enveloped in how things are. 

Look for the Stars as the Sun Goes Down

About four months ago, maybe five, I was sitting in my classroom when Griffin sent me a text telling me that Angels and Airwaves was coming down on September 10. For those of you unaware, Angels and Airwaves, or AVA, part of "the holy trinity of Blink-182, Angels and Airwaves, and +44/Boxcar Racer," according to one of my posts from 2012, is a band that while not a part of my technical formative years, may as well have been because they had such a significant effect on not only my life, but the lives of all four people who at one time lived in this house. 

Lest you question the importance of AVA on the people who hail from the Marthentyre residence, when presale tickets went on sale near the end of last school year, Glenn, who I'm pretty sure everyone knows can't stand me at all, told Griffin I could use his special code to buy some for me and Keifer in case they sold out. AVA is just...well, they're just us, or at least the us that once was.

When I looked up the show, which was in Orlando, I saw it was on a Tuesday, but I didn't care. I'd been working at MHS long enough to miss a day of school near the beginning of the year; plus, formative, seminal band and stuff. Missing work instead of the show was the only option...when I worked at Miramar High. As you all know, that's no longer the case.

Still, seminal band and stuff. I couldn't miss the show (and neither could Kei, who was planning on taking a bus from Jacksonville to meet me at the show (Griffin would be going with Glenn and his girlfriend, Chanel)), but I also couldn't miss work. As unappealing as the thought of it was, I'd just have to drive to Orlando after school and then home again the same night. Sure, the next day at work would be awful, but it was one day. I'd live.

Well, as the show got closer, the thought of making the drive there and back in one night and working the next day got less and less appealing, and then, as you know, the whole being faux broken--fauxkin?--up with by M thing happened on Friday night, so by the time Monday morning came around, the day before the show, I could think of about a million things I'd rather do than go. Still, AVA was coming and Kei and I had plans, so I bought him his bus ticket to Orlando and did everything I could to minimize the exhaustion and stress I knew the next day would bring: picked out my clothes, packed my breakfast and lunch, did everything I had to do extra early so I could get in bed by 11:00 since I knew I'd be up until about 2:30 the next day...

I think this is now my favorite expression because it applies to literally everything in my life, but the best laid plans of mice and men, right? 2:30 in the morning the boy who now only sort of lives in my house comes waltzing in, slamming the door and waking both Hudson and me up, and I couldn't get back to bed until after 4. What kind of mood do you think I was in the next day? And what kind of mood do you think I was in when, at 2:15 in the afternoon while I was discussing "The Gilded Six-Bits," Kei called to tell me he got to the bus station early but the bus was backing out and they refused to let him board, so I was out the money for a concert ticket and bus ticket and going to the concert alone while Griffin was going to be there with Glenn and Chanel?

If you're thinking I was in the kind of mood that would make me want to kill everyone and get in bed and never get back out, you're thinking too positively. Upset doesn't even begin to cover it.

I called Griffin and told him I didn't know if I was going to the show and got in bed to take a power nap. I decided I'd sleep for 20 minutes and then decide, but really since the second Kei called me, I had already decided I wouldn't go. The notion I had a decision to make was just me being my usual non-committal self. 

At 4:00 my alarm went off. I got up. Got out of bed. Decided again I wouldn't go. Drive for three-and-a-half hours there, watch a show all by myself, and then make the trip back home, most likely having to stop at rest stops for power naps like when I made the same trip for Joyce Manor last year? Uh-uh. Absolutely not. 

Then I had a conversation with myself as I very often do, and it came down to me asking myself this: Which decision would be worse? I knew either way I'd have regrets; it was just a matter of which I'd regret more. 

About ten minutes after I made my decision, this

,

and it's one of the best decisions I've made in my life.

I wish I could explain to you the way I felt at the AVA show, the sense of hope, and happiness, and fulfillment, and wonder. I wish I could make you understand that it was just exactly where I was supposed to be at just exactly that time. I wish that you could feel what I felt at the AVA show. Everybody should be have the chance to feel like that at some point in their lives.

Now is the time when I tell you that if you're wondering how long it will take me to get over my most recent instance of utter despair and heart-wrenching pain--the fauxk up--the one that made me sob on my bathroom floor Friday night, hunker down in my house all weekend right after, and swear off boys for an indefinite amount of time, already turning down two dates, one with D from my super quick cheat sheet, the answer, apparently, is two days fewer than it's been, so that's, what? Four days and a few hours with Tom DeLonge? 

As it turns out, I was right not so long ago when I said I probably wasn't really the ittiest, bittiest, teeniest, tiniest, microscopickest, infinitesimallest bit in love with M but instead one-hundred percent high on  dopamine and oxytocin whenever I was around him. By Monday after school, all AVA issues aside, I was already feeling better, so much so that I told my cousin that I felt oddly all right, by Tuesday when I was on my way to the show, he barely crossed my mind, and when I was there? I off-and-on thought about exactly one guy the whole time, and it certainly wasn't anybody in the Kismet department of my life. 

When I left the show and went the wrong way because I can't follow directions even with a gps, I wasn't happy I was lost and way north of Orlando, but I was still in a good mood. At 2:00 when I ran over a humongous rock in the middle of the turnpike and my tire blew out causing me to swerve all over the road and then have to wait for somebody to come and put on my spare? Nary a negative thought. AVA restored what on Friday I thought I lost but didn't because six-heart sex on a five-heart scale is pretty fucking nice, but my light? That's all mine.

I've said this before, and I'll say it again (not the sugar thing; that's just common sense):

I've Been Here Before a Few Times

So for the second time in a little less than a year, someone who isn't my boyfriend broke up with me. Unlike last time with La Dispute Guy, this one can't be called a noyfriend, though, because M was really never anything more than a lover to me (albeit the most amazing one to ever take up 80 inches of my bed, and boy do I feel sorry for the guy who comes next. Actually, fuck the guy who comes next. Who I really feel sorry for in this scenario is me). I wish I could say that also unlike the last time with LDG, this time it doesn't hurt, M being nothing more than a lover and all, but you guys know me well enough to know that I can't. 

You guys know me well enough to know I'm currently right around the stage of wanting to die, the one with the feeling of nausea in my tummy and a heavy feeling in my throat and chest, the one where I get all teary at just a thought, the accidental reading of a car registration confirmation while scrolling through my texts, or even the opening of my fridge on which sits this:

What's April 30, Day of the Happy aka Dia del Feliz? you ask. The first time Kelly, Rodoshi, Sumaya, and Sam were ever simultaneously happy about a boy except in Sumaya's case her boy was a girl because she's gay, but you get the point. The four of us sat there during lunch at 12:50 on April 30, the day after M and I met, right after he'd sent the Todo a su tiempo text that would have a much bigger effect on my way of thinking and my life than he ever could have known, and marveled at the anomalous situation. This day has to be commemorated, one of us said (I don't remember who, but surprisingly, it wasn't me), so Rodoshi wrote it down and put it up on my bulletin board so we wouldn't forget. When I cleared my room out at MHS in the middle of August--three and a half months later and surprisingly we were all still happy over the same boys except Sumaya's girl in place of a boy--I moved it to my fridge, and it's made me really happy every day. Today, though? The same way Sumaya's boy is a girl instead of a boy, my happy is complete and utter despair.

The thing about being broken up with by someone who's not your boyfriend, and I think I'm becoming expert enough at this situation to know what I'm talking about, is you're the only one who experiences anything sad, and while I'm on the only-one-who-experiences-anything-sad track, I have to say the break up isn't the only thing to which it applies. If the person you're seeing isn't your boyfriend, it goes to reason that you're not his girlfriend, so he doesn't have to take any of your shit. This means you don't give it. If something bothers you, you don't say anything because you're really hoping inside that one day the not boyfriend/not girlfriend thing might be a thing of the past, and, well, giving shit? Not the way to make it happen. The whole time you're not dating the boy who's not your boyfriend, you're also doing everything he could possibly want, not just because you want to because he makes you so happy you feel like you could burst, but for the same reason as above. As a result of this mixture of circumstance, the boy who's not your boyfriend, the one who never planned to be anything other than a boy who's not your boyfriend and therefore didn't get attached nor do any boyfriend things for you yet got every single bit of your best girlfriend parts because, well, frankly, because you're a hopeless and hopeful idiot who hasn't yet learned, never experiences anything sad, neither during nor after the non-relationship.

In short, like I used to cry to my parents: it's not fair. It's not fair, and I think I can't do it anymore, at least not for a while. Pretty much right after I got over LDG, I went to M, and yes, I was so mostly happy for four months it was like I was living another person's life, but really that's only because it takes so little to make me happy, and if I look back at the entire situation objectively, I shouldn't have let myself feel so much which of course where I'm involved is like saying I should no longer pee, and so the only solution is an indefinite moratorium from boys.

(This should be a blast.)

This morning, I cried, and when I say I cried, baby, did I cry, to my Snapchat followers, and I'd apologize but if they want me cute in my undies, they've got to put up with the occasional puffy-faced tears, not just about M, but about the pizza and pancakes and holiday morning French toast that were so long a part of my life but no longer are. Believe me when I say you don't want to see the whole thing, but the details really aren't important, and it came down to this in the end:

As you can see, I'm not in a good place. I feel wretched right now. Wretched, and lonely, and devastatingly sad.

But

I suppose I do have to say that if, like I asserted in this morning's snap, eventually everything is gone, that means this sadness one day will be, too. 

A Bit Strange and a Little Bit Manic

Yesterday while I was crafting a poem, and I say crafting instead of writing because it was borne from poetry magnets--lots and lots of poetry magnets; my God, I don't understand why I have so many poetry magnets--I came to a realization. I can't share that realization with you because I think I'm going to turn it into an actual an essay, the kind I used to write when I cared about such things, but I can tell you it's sort of a big one, at least to me. I can also tell you that having four days off because of Labor Day and the hurricane gave me some time for reflecting on recent events which  means it's update time, so now you're going to have to think about them, too.

The first order of business we'll take care of is

That Wacko from Creep Who I Thought Disappeared 

A couple weeks ago I got a message and a friend request from some random guy on the same site where the lunatic from Creep and I met. If I didn't block him last week, I'd show you our messages for the sake of both accuracy and laziness, but I did, so I'm going to have to actually think. His name was Jay, he was 26, and for maybe fifteen minutes, he was pretty charming and cute. We talked for maybe four days total except one of the middle ones we didn't talk at all, and the only reason we talked on the third day is he messaged me saying something about how I'd disappeared. The first day he said something about wanting to--and I quote--own a slut (end quote move to paraphrase) because his fwb got into a relationship and they weren't seeing each other anymore, and when I asked him why they were only fwb, he said something like, I didn't really want a relationship and honestly, I still don't, to which I replied, But you want to own a slut? and he said, Well, the way it is on this site like tell her who she can and can't fuck, and I was thinking, Dude, that is not the way this world works no matter what kind of site you think you're on, but instead of saying that, I just didn't reply.

Two days later Jay messaged me telling me not to disappear. I told him I got distracted. I also told him that he seemed like a really nice guy, but I wanted him to know that I was already seeing people and not looking for anyone else and didn't want to waste his time. He thanked me for my honesty, and I thought that was the end.

That was not the end.

The next day this guy, this fucking guy who I barely talked to but had the decency to be nice to and honest with despite the fact that he contacted me when he was shopping for a slut, messaged me and said, and I kid you not, Well, it looks like you fucked me anyway. Now, normally I'd just let it go, but I have to tell you, I am just so over guys thinking I owe them anything at all that I couldn't. I told him I wasn't here for any sort of male entitlement he might have--I think my exact words were, Dude, I am not here for your male entitlement plus maybe some other things I don't remember--and his reply? I hope you never have the Popeye's chicken sand which, [sic] and well, this is where things get strange.

A somewhat paraphrased/sometimes exact transcript:

Your wish is granted because I don't eat meat.

Now you're not only an asshole, you're a lying asshole.

Ummm why would I be lying? Lots of people are vegetarians.

I don't know one.

That's probably because you're blue collar.

Don't assume things about me, asshole.

You don't know one vegetarian and you can't spell the word sandwich. It's really more of an inference than an assumption.

I know for a fact you're not a vegetarian.

Dude. I haven't had chicken in over eight years, I said, but let's for a second pretend I had. He knows for a fact, well, anything about me at all? What? That's not weird as fuck.

END SOMEWHAT PARAPHRASED/SOMETIMES EXACT TRANSCRIPT

The two of us went back and forth for longer than I'd like to admit (sometimes I really just like to be mean to people), moving from his assertion about my being a meat eater to how much money he thinks I make as a teacher and why I shouldn't dare call him blue collar to his asking me for my phone number about three times.

You got me, I said. I constantly eat meat and make no money at all.

Good. Now that we got that out of the way, why don't you give my your number already? he asked.

Wait. Is this, like, you trying to establish dominance? I asked, and I don't remember what he said, but it was something about it not being that but that he had to let me know I couldn't treat him that way, something weird enough for me to go back to his profile to look around. This is what I saw:

One photo on one extremely new profile. No friends. No interactions. No About Me. No nothing at all. Something was definitely amiss, and I'm pretty sure weird incel guy was in the midst of it.

Blocked.

Now, this next update is a little awkward and weird, but probably not any more awkward and weird than I, and plus I've actually had a few people ask me about this, so it looks like there's no getting around talking about

My Vaginal Health and the Removal of my IUD

Well, first of all, you'll all be happy to know the removal went swimmingly. I went in for my appointment, waited naked from the waist down for about an hour or so, lay down for my doctor, felt a tiny bit of pressure, said Ow! and there he was showing me my IUD. It was as easy as that. While we talked birth control pills, he handed me a pad, but I was bleeding so little I didn't even put it on, and when I left the office, I went straight to Publix where I picked up my new prescription.

I'd love to tell you it's been all bunnies and unicorns and rainbows in my vagina from that day out except not really because holy crap would that be a freak show, but you get what I mean. I can't do that, though, because despite not bleeding for the first couple days, after my second day on the pill came the blood and when I say came the blood, I mean it gushed. I thought it was just going to be a normal period since I hadn't had one in so long, but I bled for probably ten days, and I didn't just period bleed, like that rosy pink that leads to red and then turns rusty brown, I crimson red bled and every time I thought I was done I did it again. It did eventually stop, though, so that was great except the blood wasn't the only thing that stopped--my desire to have sex did, too.

Okay, people who read my blog, if you question anything about me at all, I'm betting it's not my interest in sex, but when I tell you the pill had an effect on it, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph did the pill have an effect. After about two weeks I called my doctor's office and was like, No, no, no, MC, this cannot be, and we tried a new pill. After about a week things started returning to normal, but I'm not super sure if it's the new pill or circumstance. I guess time will find out.

And the PH balance? Some days I feel okay, and some days I don't. I guess we need time for that one, too.

Hmmm. I think it's possible there's not much more for me to report on but okay, fine, we'll talk about 

How My Happiness is Panning Out

My happiness, I'm happy to report, is still around, and I'm even happier to report that two or three days ago, I wasn't happy at all; in fact, I was in a horrible mood. I know, you're thinking, Why the fuck are you happy that you were sad? Or mad? Or whatever negative Nelliedom you were visiting? and well, that's exactly why; I was visiting negative Nelliedom, but I didn't move in! I tend to go through wild extremes--wild, wild extremes--with my moods, and usually when I fall, I can't get up, at least not without some outside force, but this time, I got up, and I did it all on my own! I'm not sure how I did it except that I'm pretty sure music and dancing played a really big part and this is where I should maybe mention I have a  music and dancing problem, and it sounds like a silly problem, I know, but like I was telling Griffin yesterday, it really takes a toll because I turn on music, and it makes me happy, and when I'm happy, I dance, and it literally keeps me from getting anything done. I was supposed to make my students a quiz yesterday but I couldn't stop dancing long enough to do it, and I was supposed to grade papers but I danced through that time, too, and I was supposed to write this blog but I couldn't sit for long enough to do it, and well, it looks like happy dancing is both saving and ruining my life and maybe too much of a good thing really exists and now that I think about it, maybe mania takes different forms, one form being that of 

Magnetic Poetry and the Realization I Can't Talk About 

While I can't talk about my realization and while my poem is only crafted and not written, it definitely ties into the updates about all things Kis, and so for your reading pleasure, lovely people who read my blog, I'll leave you with this:

Amen.

Passing Through a Screen Door

Do you remember how a few posts ago I talked about how happy I am now and how part of that happiness stems from my newfound spirituality and how part of that spirituality encompasses working with crystals, setting them with intentions to facilitate change and to allow me to be open and accepting of that change? Well, something that seemed totally impossible in the past due to my all-encompassing fear of things unknown has actually come to pass, and I know it's partially, if not totally, due to that work: After eighteen years of first weeks of school at Miramar High (or twenty-one if you want to count the three years I went to high school there), I finally had a first week somewhere else. I won't lie and say the change was the easiest thing I ever experienced, but you know what? It was a lot less terrifying than I thought it would be, and best of all, I didn't drop dead.

But you know what? I don't want to write about that anymore. I thought I did when I initially started this post, but in quintessential Kismet fashion, it's been days since I started writing, and those days have led me someplace else, and while that someplace else is kind of connected, it's also kind of not.

Let's go back a few weeks to a date I went on with a guy named Dan (who, incidentally, made fun of Blink-182 at the end of the night when I mentioned having had a Blink sticker on my car in the past and then, when I showed him the Blink-182 tattoo on my wrist, continued ridiculing them and then had the nerve to ask me out again. Like, dude. As if) who told me he had two autistic kids. When I got home that night, I mentioned to--my roommate? Super good friend? Boy who calls me Emo Madre? Substitute son?--Sam how lucky I am that both Griffin and Keifer are okay. That feeling has been reinforced many times in the past week since I started at my new school where I've been exposed to far more ESE students than I'm used to and then extra reinforced when I got an email about a student who just last year was diagnosed with a rare disease that's so uncommon, it's a disease most people probably don't know. If not for the fact that when I was eight or nine years old, a former classmate of mine had a heart attack and died not long after being diagnosed with it, I also wouldn't know.

I was thinking about that kid, who also happens to be autistic, on my way home from work today, and about his poor mom, which led to more thoughts of Griffin and Keifer and how lucky I am, and in a thought process you probably didn't expect, it led to my thinking about boys and sex (but let's come the fuck on. The vast majority of my thoughts lead to boys and sex. You can't be entirely shocked).

I thought about how even though I absolutely, positively, one-hundred percent know it to be ridiculously untrue and a wild overstatement caused by nothing more than dopamine and oxytocin induced by five-heart-rated sex, there might be an itty bitty, teeny tiny, microscopic, infinitesimal possibility that I might be the ittiest, bittiest, teeniest, tiniest, microscopickest, infinitesimallest bit in love although I think the diction I'm in the throes of a crush is probably a better choice of words.  I thought about that, and I thought about how much happy it gives me, and I thought about how in the past, it would have given me lots of sad because in the past, I would have been all, What is this? and Why is this not _________? and Why does _____________? but now I'm all like, heart-eye emoji and, well, actually, that's it. I'm all like heart-emoji and nothing else.

Heart-eye emoji, full stop. That's motherfucking me.

And why is that me? And how does this connect to autistic kids and sick kids and the thought of young people dying?

There's so much bad in the world. So much. So much bad and so much sad, and at some point in my recent history, I've begun to pay less attention to the sad--in my immediate world, anyway--and acknowledge the good.

When Keifer first told me he wasn't going to college, I was upset, and when he first got a moon tattoo on his face, my initial reaction wasn't the best, but after reflecting on those things, I realized he was happy(ish) and healthy and living his life, and, really, what more could a parent want? I saw the good in his choices, and just like that, I was happy again.

When I was in my car thinking those sad thoughts today, the ones that led to the sex and the boys, I made a conscious decision to see the beauty in things instead of the flaws, to focus on that which makes my heart full instead of what could make it empty and while at that point in my car, thoughts of that which I find beautiful and that which makes my heart full veered in a direction we won't talk about, I suppose the notion behind the thought action actually does bring me back to the initial intent of this post and my leaving MHS.

When at first I put in for a transfer, I cried for days, and when I packed up my room and left? When I looked at my desk and saw this?

When this?

Great googly moogly, can we talk emotion, por favor?

It was like the finale of a long-running TV show. As I walked out of the place where everybody knows my name and into an obscure spinoff, I certainly felt sad, but I felt excited, too: excited for the new opportunities to come, excited for a new beginning, and excited that even if the change turns out to be a horrific disaster, in what was such an atypical move until recently but is now becoming a more typical part of my life, I invited and accepted change into my life.

And that, people who read my blog, is a beautiful fucking thing. 

Creep

I think we can all agree that I tend to not shy away from discussing the disturbing, and I recently experienced something that disturbed me so much, I can't let it go undiscussed. As it was unfolding, I kept thinking that it was just a typical, if extreme and weird, case of a man thinking that women belong to him or owe him something, which I discussed a few years ago here, but the day before yesterday and then yesterday especially, the situation really transcended that idea.

Now, before I go any further, I'd like to point out that not very much in the realm of girl-boy interaction shocks or disturbs me anymore, and it takes kind of a lot for me to get freaked out and worry about my safety--like I always tell people who express concern that I run or walk in the middle of the night or ask if I'm ever scared to live/travel/do things alone, the only things I'm truly afraid of are zombies and vampires and ghosts--but this guy gave me the wiggins bad. Like, bad bad, and maybe for you to understand how bad, I should tell you I recently went out with a guy who may be a white supremacist, who makes guns from a 3D printer in his house, who was locked out of his google docs account for something to do with gun silencers although I just learned they're not really called that because the sound is only reduced by a certain percent, and who, despite the warnings from a lot of people I respect, I'm going out with again.

This guy I'm about to tell you about freaked me out way worse than that. Way, way worse than that.

About two weeks ago--Saturday, July 20, to be exact--I got a message from this guy who's in the same online community as me. Think Reddit, but not. We talked a lot and he seemed nice and decent, so when he asked for my phone number and Snapchat, I gave them to him. By the second night of talking, he said a few things that gave me pause, but I guess for you to understand, you need a little more background.

First, the site where we met is sort of an unconventional one, and there's way more, um, sensitive personal information (although not necessarily identifiable personal information if that makes any sense) on it than on most websites. I know that's sort of vague, but it's all I can give. Also, he had access to--and read--writings of mine going back to 2014 that detail relationships I've had and currently have with people, including LDG, M, and somebody who I've dated off and on for years (who actually reads this blog you're reading right now, which makes this sort of weird, who I suppose we'll call Clyde since I should probably give him a name). Anyway, the point is, this guy knew going in that I'm seeing other men and exactly how I feel about each one.

So, again: By the second night of our talking, something he said gave me pause, which is, "Well I'm here watching all of them have fun." Now, remember. The them in that insanely inappropriate statement is three specific other men, one who's been around for several years, one who's been around for one, and one who's been around for three months as opposed to this schmuck who wasn't even technically around, but like an idiot, after he apologized and explained, I let it go. A few days later, though, we had a discussion on Snapchat that I'm actually going to post snap by snap so just like I did, you could watch it unfold.

Let me just reiterate before I start that this man and I never met and that he knew about the other people I see from the get-go. Also, I have to say that you know I'm not one for censorship, but a couple things seemed too racy to post plus I didn't want to post his name, not to protect him, but to protect me thus the annoying black lines.

 

At this point, I'd like to point out that the blank blank statement was about something that happened in 2016.

Okay, can we stop for a second to look at what this guy, this guy who I never met, who I'd been talking to for about a week, had the nerve, the fucking nerve to say to me? It sucks to hear about other guys and he's not getting shit? Like...what? What?? Like he really felt that was okay enough to type?

I have to interrupt again. I discard him a lot? It's called being a bit jealous? We never fucking met. We never fucking met, and he's talking about me discarding him? I, just--what?

Not that I should have to explain myself, but this whack job was texting me all the time. I'd tell him I had to go or was in the middle of doing something and the texts and snaps just would not stop. To be honest, that should have been my first clue. Even the first day when I told him I had to get ready for work, he wouldn't stop sending me texts. Like, dude, back the fuck off.

*If you're looking for a clue that unveils who LDG is, you're not going to find it. First of all, you don't know him, I promise. Second, it says Gavin under the black because that's his name in the elsewhere that I write; however, it's not his name in real life.

I'm pretty sure he meant follow his cues here since he's never talked to M to get any advice.

So I'm going to be honest. Up until that last thing that he said, this guy probably could have talked his way out. But as soon as he typed the sentence plus the fragment, I'm here talking about being bf and gf. While he gets all the fun, any chance in hell he had was one-hundred percent done. Nobody, and I mean nobody is entitled to any fun--or for that matter, anything at all--from me, least of all this namby pamby little bitch boy who I never even met.

He doesn't want to hear any of this nonsense? Is he kidding?

Low blows? Low blows? Yes. That I-choose-not-to-have-coffee-with-you statement was really below the belt.

So were you surprising me or someone else? Could this motherfucker be any more of an ass? Like, he's an imbecile to boot.

Okay, so this guy, who I never met, who knew about these guys who had been around way before we in any way existed in each other's realities, went on and on about everybody else having "all the fun" and then actually had the gall to tell me that I'm mean and harsh with him? Let me tell you something, he is so lucky he met the Kismet I am now and not the Kelly I used to be because he has no idea what was going through my head.

I didn't reply to that last snap because why? He has no idea what's going on in my actual life and I certainly didn't feel any need or desire to explain. Instead, I took my sister's phone and took pictures of all his snaps because I was too afraid for him to know I took screenshots. Two days later he sent me a text saying he hoped I made it back safely from my trip and the next day he messaged me, How's your weekend been, to which I replied (copied and pasted with the omission of his name so nothing is misrepresented), Listen, F, we decided the other night we’re not doing this. I don’t want to not respond to you because I think that’s shitty, but we should probably stop talking. 

The following day he replied to a snap story saying I have a beautiful smile, which I ignored, later he snapped that he was sorry, that he didn't mean what he said, which I also ignored, and the next morning, which was yesterday, when I woke up I had a snap from him that I put off opening until finally curiosity got the better of me, and God, I wish I weren't such a curious fucking cat because it was a video of him jacking off.

I physically recoiled. Immediately I told him he was revolting and never to contact me again, waited to make sure he saw the reply, and went to block him, which I did, but not before I saw his response of LOL.

I swear to you that when it comes to sex, few things bother me, and it's not like I haven't seen or gotten videos of that ilk, but when I opened that video and saw what it was, the disgust I felt, I couldn't explain. He didn't send that video to me to be enticing or because he thought I'd think it was hot, he sent that video to me in a sick, sinister way, a menacing way, and I have the heebie jeebies thinking about it now (and the fact that he's a resident or intern or something at NSU and is actually going to be interacting with women on a somewhat-close, intimate basis one day makes it even worse).

And that, people who probably wish you'd stopped reading way at the top of the page, is my sordid tale. What I at first thought was a garden variety, albeit somewhat extreme tale of a man feeling entitled to a woman turns out, at least in my opinion, to be something worse. Not only did our final communication lead me to believe he's threatening in, I don't know,  a sexually predatory? way, upon rereading our messages, I also think he's mentally disturbed. A normal example of entitlement would be this DM from A, who tried to reappear in my life about a month ago after being out of it for a little over a year and who told me he reads my blog which I only mention because he obviously knows the hierarchy of things yet somehow thought it wasn't applicable to him.

This is the kind of masculine entitlement I've learned to expect. I hate to say it, but this behavior is normal.

A guy I never met not only thinking I owe him something and need to change my clearly established behavior but also acting as if we had some type of relationship and were, like, made for each other or something delusional like that?

That is some sick fucking shit.

This Party Sucks

Can we just take a minute, please, to talk about all the things that have been in my vagina in the past few years? And before you think I've finally lost it, can we also acknowledge the fact that the vagina is just another body part, specifically, in my opinion, one that the conversation about needs to be normalized? And lastly, can you just calm down? Because when I say things that have been in my vagina, I'm not talking about for fun.

About a month ago when I was in Tampa, I overheard a conversation between two men. One of the men said that he had a strange night the night before, that he'd gone running and then just sat in a park, drenched with sweat, and waited until he was completely dry. Of course he did, I thought, because he doesn't have a vagina. If I sat around in soaking wet workout clothes, I'd have a yeast infection the next day, and I thought about the time when I was at Universal Studios with a group of friends a few years ago--all boys except me--and got so drenched on one of the water rides that I went back to the hotel to shower and change while they stayed a couple more hours hanging out because I was afraid of that very thing.

I also thought, when I heard that guy talk about sitting in his own juices for a lengthy amount of time, about how my friends who have vaginas and I always talk about the unfairness of the vagina and how, no matter how you look at it, we got the short end of the stick. If you look at it from a religious point of view and believe God was doling out the genitalia, like, dude, what the fuck? Men were given something that's basically wash and go while women got what? Their own personal ecosystem with a delicate balance of good and bad bacteria that happens to be maybe an inch away from the home of some of the worst bacteria there is? Flora that's thrown into a tizzy from panty hose or stockings, tight pants or jeans, non-cotton undies or a thong? Far be it for me to be the one to accuse God of misogyny, but how could I not? How more religious women aren't in an uproar over this, I'll never understand. If, on the other hand, you're not religious but believe in science instead, often marveling at the perfect creation of different forms of life, you especially have to wonder what was going on when the vagina came about. What biological sense is there in the vagina having a ph of 4 to 4.5 while semen has a ph between 7.1 and 8? Of all the things that should interfere with a healthy vagina, semen should be the last. Sure, an argument could be made for where saliva does or doesn't biologically belong with its ph of over 6, but semen? Semen and the vagina are literally MFEO.

And yet...

all those things that have been in my vagina in the past few years?

Let's talk cause and effect.

A few years ago I got an IUD and can you say why doesn't a warning come with this thing? Okay, fine, a warning does come with this thing, but not about ph. Intermittent bleeding? Warning. Acne? Warning. Mood swings? Warning. Uterine wall perforation? Warning. Ph issues causing bv nearly every time a woman has sex? A lot of searching had to be done before finding the lawsuits about that, and I don't know what they're brainwashing doctors with because despite the lawsuits and numerous accounts online, both my gynecologist and nurse practitioner I see at the gynecologist still are acting like a connection doesn't exist.

Admittedly, I've been lucky. I didn't think so at first, but once I started doing research--and when I tell you I've done research, baby, I have done Research, and that capital R is no mistake. At this point, I probably know more about vaginal flora, ph, bv, and bv treatment than my nurse practitioner, and actually, that's a fact because the last time I was in and told her about the promising studies using vitamin C, she had no idea. Also, those ph numbers above? From the top of my head. You want to know what color a vaginal ph strip turns at varying ph levels? Drop me a comment and we'll have a chat--I found out how lucky I am.

First, I'm lucky because a woman doesn't have to have an IUD to get bv, but I didn't ever get it until I got mine put in. Some women have it pretty much their entire lives, IUD or not. Second, I'm lucky because when I said something about ph levels being thrown out of whack nearly every time a woman has sex, I wasn't exaggerating; in fact, that was an understatement because for some women, it's not nearly, it's every because if the ph of the semen doesn't do it, the condom they use as a precaution may. When I started researching bv three years ago when I got it for the first time, I felt like I stepped into a horror magazine. Click after click led me to account after account of woman after woman who got bv and then couldn't shake it no matter what she did. These women would be on perpetual cycles of treatment, first an antibiotic to get rid of the bv and then something to get rid of the resulting yeast infection (because of course the vagina, annoying cunt that she is, develops a yeast infection almost any time a woman takes antibiotics because thanks to a misogynistic god/failure of nature, we can't even take fucking medicine without adverse effects) for years, and the bv would just come back as soon as they had sex or were tired and run down or used soap on their vagina instead of treating it like the self-cleaning entity that it is, and the stuff I read about when the bv would come back? The symptoms?

I wanted to cry.

Luckily, though--oh, so luckily--I got/get almost none of them. Other than a feeling that something just isn't right, my slightly high ph causes pretty much no issues at all; still, that doesn't do anything to assuage the fear that one day it might, that one day I might face the horrors that one in four women of reproductive age face. Also luckily, I don't get bv every time I have sex, and that really is luckily because I'd probably die by suicide if I did. I have no explanation for why my body is a fan of some people's chemistry and not others', but my body loved C and loves LDG (who it turns out isn't so much a thing of the past which really shouldn't surprise anybody at this point) while it passionately despised The Korean and is undecided about how it feels about M: sometimes it's a fan, sometimes it isn't (I, on the other hand, am always a fan. Probably his biggest).

And that, people who know way too much about my life, brings me to the reason why my vagina has been home to so many things that normally the vagina isn't home to in the last three years.

I don't like medication or drugs. At all. When I had major surgery a year and a half ago and was cut in half, I didn't take one of the pain pills I was prescribed, and I'd much rather let a sickness run its course than take anything that ends in cillan or cycline or whatever other ending antibiotics have that I wouldn't know because I don't take them. Plus, the medical treatment for bv has all sorts of adverse effects, all pretty much for nothing because the bv just ends up coming back. So while I did take the recommended course of treatment the first time around, I stockpiled my prescriptions and turned to alternative methods. Because bv is such a huge problem--because vaginas are the most poorly constructed body parts that exist--because if there is a god, he's apparently a man, and if there's not, the universe is just inherently anti-women--there's no shortage of sites with homeopathic, natural, and alternative remedies for bv, many that seem to work much better than the standard medical thing.

Plain, no-sugar-added, yogurt-covered tampon? It's been there. Tea tree oil? Yep. Hydrogen peroxide? Only once, but si. Garlic? It's a natural antibacterial, so, um...yeah. I have, in fact, had a clove of garlic inside my vagina. Vitamin C pills? Six nights in a row while I sleep, two out of six months down, in an attempt to change the biofilm that exists (funny story about when at first I bought a pill that didn't dissolve. I woke up the morning after inserting it, checked to make sure it was gone, and lo and behold, I still had an entire pill shoved all the way against my cervix, and let me tell you, I was terrified I'd have to go to my nurse practitioner, mortified, and have her fish it out because although I could feel it with the tip of my finger, I just couldn't make the grab. It turned out, however, my pelvic floor muscles are stronger than I thought, and thank the fucking lord, I was able to push that baby out). Oral probiotics double dutying as vaginal suppositories? Do I even have to say yes?

Pretty much the only thing I haven't tried is the widely accepted boric acid route, which is one capsule inserted for I believe it's 14 to 16 nights, and I'm hoping I won't have to because next week I'm finally getting rid of this IUD. Well, trying to anyway. Because I'm me--the me whose gym literally fucking blew up one day after I wrote how much consistently working out has changed my life--the doctor who inserted it put it up too far and cut the string too short. My nurse practitioner, who I've been seeing so long, she delivered Keifer, who turned 18 today, said I need twilight anesthesia and a special instrument to take it out, but the gynecologist she works underneath? Well, he's a man. He insists on trying without those things.

M says I have an extremely high threshold for pain. I guess we're going to see.