He Was A Boy. She Was A Girl. Can I Make It Any More Obvious?

The love of my life is gay.

The second love of my life is dying…

…but only because we all are.

The third love of my life is also dying.

I know he’s a cat, but he’s MY cat. He’s just under twelve years old. He’s been through so much with me. Let’s go through the bad things I can recall at this moment, in no particular order, since that’s what we’re here for, right?

  • The guy I dated the longest, (prior to my gay ex-boyfriend/soul mate/love of my life up to that point, and the man I thought I might marry), told me I shouldn’t adopt him and his twin brother. Don’t care why. Later that year when he broke up with me and broke my heart, I never needed my kittwins more. I cried on my Dad’s shoulder for so long that night. You know. My Dad who is no longer alive. I thought the guy wanted to marry me. He didn’t.
  • Law school. Enough said.
  • Preparing for, and passing, two Bar Exams, one of which is considered the second hardest in the nation (second to California, for those who care).
  • Crushes.
  • Heartbreak.
  • Insecurity.
  • Hate.
  • Addiction. To everything which I’ll admit.
  • Cutting. Lots and lots of careful, and painful, and extreme cutting.
  • Abandonment when I moved in with the second love of my life, leaving him behind with his twin brother for nearly five years.
  • Hating myself.
  • My Dad dying.
  • The second love of my life killing me, still, right this second, over, and over, and over, every second of every day.
  • Getting sexually assaulted at work.
  • Getting raped.
  • My hate for myself.
  • Him getting his own death sentence.
  • Today.
  • Hopefully tomorrow.

I used to LOVE this time of year; the week after Daylight Savings Time used to bring me instant joy in the form of more light than dark in the evening.

I, probably like many people, enjoy the lengthier daylight.

The night can be scary. So scary. For so many reasons.

Last night I slept selfishly.

Protecting my baby boy has become priority number one for me.

If that means keeping two to three other cats away throughout the night, then that’s what it means. (That’s what it means.)

I mean, look at him:

Wouldn’t you?

So I don’t sleep much these days.

Waiting.

For his death.

Oh. And. My ex’s Mom texted me this weekend (on her birthday). It really messed me up. How much can a person take?

I have a feeling I’m about to find out.

✌️

This Is Freaking Lame [And Other Allusions To “10 Things I Hate About You”]…And More!

I hate that I can’t read at night

Because I’m not reading you to sleep

 

I hate that I’m wearing your old shirt

It looked much better on you

 

I hate that I want to tell you every single thing I know you’d find interesting, funny, or “so us”

Since you couldn’t reach me anymore if you tried

 

I hate seeing your name on mail

Which is not my fault you’ll never see

 

I hate how much I hate you

Because of course that means I’m not out of love

 

I hate that you were everything

Except for when you weren’t

 

I hate that I know better

Than to bark back up that tree

 

I hate that you can’t hear your voice through my writing

Because I think you’d forgive me a little more than you’d want to

 

I hate when I write through your eyes

Knowing the tears you’d cry when I did

 

I hate that I can’t remember

What it felt like to feel you

 

I hate how many times a day I call myself stupid

Something you really made me believe

 

I hate that you lied in every card, during every hug, and throughout every night

You almost killed my voice

 

I hate that I feel helpless

Though I know it’s not the truth

 

I hate that I let you train me

Like the broken animal I was

 

I hate that I can’t cry, and I really hate that I can’t stop

But mostly I hate the thoughts of you

 

Because I don’t hate that I’m not wrong

In every way you used to see

Let Me Rest In Pieces, You Arrogant Prick

Because of >__________<(reasons), I cannot stop thinking about my ex. It’s been at least six months since our five year union (longer than some marriages!) ended. But I still miss him every day.

Aside from, “check your mailbox [for the apartment keys],” the last words I received from him were, “leave me alone.”

I am taking him at his word.

I thanked him for FINALLY returning the keys AND bid him adieu in my reply message telling him all I was trying to do was leave him alone after I got my keys back.

I am keeping my word.

No contact since then.

Nothing.

I would ask all of my male friends, “he really means he wants me to leave him alone for good, right?” But, I know the answer.

It’s, “duh.”

So I guess I _____ here, alone, thinking about him way too much, and missing the way it used to be.

Thanks a lot, Matt Nathanson.

“Used to be,” is my every moment.

I have a lot of things going for me right now. But making myself happy by making my mate happy isn’t one of them. We REALLY can’t have it all.

✌️

Cry Me A River, Gillette

Gillette Thinks Men Go Through Agony Shaving Their Faces.

Fuck.

You.

Gillette.

I just saw a Gillette commercial that said something like, if not exactly, “guys go through a lot to deal with shave irritation…so buy OUR product…because we believe all men deserve a razor made just for them.”

Naturally, I ran to my bathroom closet like the proud Nasty Woman I am and whimpered upon seeing this:

And even though the people at the company, I think, believe these lady razors take care of ALL of OUR feminine comfort, they don’t. I promise.

And I will be looking up any other affiliates of Gillette and boycotting them for life.

I have never met a single straight man who either actually dated me or tried to date me that didn’t talk about “liking [his] woman shaved,” “HINTING” that he expected me to have no hair on or around my pubic region, (and, maybe legs, but I’m REALLY certain they didn’t care as much about the legs).

I originally wanted to write, “pussy,” because that’s usually the term the men use instead of “pubic region,” but then I thought how much I hate that term. And then I thought about how it probably helped our current POTUS win, and wrote this paragraph.

Hey men! Think shaving your face and everything that comes with it is painful? Shave your pubic area, armpits, and legs, with that Gillette razor made just for you, do nothing for three days, and then tell me if you feel like that Gillette razor, made just for you, took care of EVERYTHING for you AND you were nothing but comfortable.

Heck! Use my lady razor if you think it’ll be less painful.

Grow a beard. And/or feel free to hate me if you want. I don’t care.

Sorry not sorry.
Mic drop.
✌️

I’m A Free Bitch, Baby

Valentine’s Day.

The day that stores and shopping malls everywhere try to get rid of their Christmas inventory by repackaging shit as “a gift from the heart.”

The day that tortures the men who care — only to be met with lack of appreciation.

The day my most recent ex went to get a card last year and ended up chatting with some girl who he basically described as “hot for someone in her pajamas” and “stupid for caring since it was almost 5:00 P.M. and men don’t care about or want, cards,” so he was one of three of the most last minute douches on Valentine’s Day.

I, last year, colored hearts for people, like this one:

This one went to my ex’s married friend. She likes the beach — so I did a sunset kind of thing for her. She’s dead to me now, though. Her choice.

Can we just pause for a second? Every day I get sicker. Every. Day. And maybe it’s not as bad as what some people go through, but it’s still fucking bad. And my friends don’t understand. I can tell they’re growing tired of my handicap.

I can’t do the things I used to be able to do. I fell down three stairs on Sunday night, carrying exactly three bags of cat litter to the laundry area for the cats’ litter boxes at my Mom’s house. I slipped on plastic I couldn’t see due to said bags of litter, fell on my knees, bags fell on me, and immediately started crying. It fucking hurt!

Gross, right? Hard to bend too. It hurts all the time — so I rub burn gel on it so it goes numb and I can pretend I have a normal life.

Just like I numb everything else.

And I’m thrilled this happened the way it did, because I didn’t get an infection, like when I was cleaning up after my Christmas tree and DID, from a pine needle. No joke.

Lately — I must be especially stressed or miserable because my esophageal spasms, another forever condition that doctors know almost nothing about, are flaring up like frat boys on during spring break. (That simile makes more sense in my head.)

For those who want to know what esophageal spasms are, here:

“People who experience esophageal spasms may have the following symptoms:
  • severe chest pain, as if the chest is being squeezed or the person has a heart attack.
  • difficulty swallowing.
  • heartburn.
  • feeling as though an object is stuck in the throat or chest.”

Link info here: https://www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/320926.php

In other words, HAVING IT — SUCKS.


I love so many people. I sent out as many Valentine’s as I could afford.

What do you do when you’re me, and you’ve gone through HELL and you’ve endured more than the people in your life even care to ask you about anymore, because “it’s always something,” and they’re busy, bored, or just don’t care that much about you just so you could be in a PERFECT PLACE in your life right now, instead of stuck?

I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. RAGE more.

I’m going to get my huge Polish nose pierced. I’m going to get tattooed. I’m going to write a book that tells my truth, with the support of my number one fan.

I’m going to stop giving a fuck about being conventional, and do it my way.

I’m going to forget the haters — y’all keep doing you — and I’ll keep thinking you suck, or worse, are proper shit friends, who feign interest in the only things keeping me going.

I’m bitter. And? What?

I’m sorry if the only chance I have to be happy doesn’t fit into your perfect fucking life where you have everything I’ve ever wanted.

We don’t need to keep seeing each other if it’s too much for you.

Just don’t bother being my friend anymore.

I REALLY get NOTHING from you.

I’m used to going it alone.

Between my Dad dying five years ago and my ex leasing me to die inside for the five years subsequent to that, I’m good.

I’ve got this.

I get it.

I don’t get a win.

I never get a win.

I do whatever I can for everyone I can, and I’m tired of THATfeeling pointless.

Time is funny. It’s our most valuable commodity. We can never get it back once it’s gone.

And all these thoughts just because I’m single again on Valentine’s Day.

I can’t let that affect me though. Everything in the past is in the past, right? It’s been six months! It’s like, so annoying that like, I can’t just like, snap out of it already.


Today is also my Dad’s Birthday.

Happy 80th in Heaven, Podgey.

I miss you — my best friend, the man who taught me to treat everyone like family, and the guy who would give the shirt off his back to help anyone — every day.

Every day is a little bit darker because you’re not here.

But, I know that the man who you conversed with at Rocky’s for years and years and years — you know who — the one who looked up our last name online when you just stopped showing up one day — and then went to where Mom works to find out what happened to you — but no one could help him because Mom was also in the hospital — the one who died before Mom got better so she never could give him the information to see you — THAT man — is shooting the shit with you while you sip your morning coffee with Equal, NOT Sweet-n-Low, (which is for posers) — and reading the funnies and political sections of “The Ledger” this morning up there.

I can’t wait to see you again.

I love you,

Goose