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

Ten Things I Know About Me (And I Guess Now You Do Too)

1. I always have to have a beverage in my bag/purse/car/hand, etc. at all times OR I cannot stop thinking about it and get thirsty and scared.

2. I am always dehydrated. I literally cannot hydrate myself and it occasionally causes a lot of cognitive and/or movement problems.

3. I’m going to be getting more tattoos. I never thought I would, after the last one, but the idea of having them in personal, weird, and secret places — entices me. I love great and creative tattoos. They’re hot. On men and women. It’s a personal preference; I understand that but God damn if I don’t enjoy objectifying a tattooed man.

4. I love the car air freshener scent, “Black Ice,” so I get packs as a gift very often from friends and family. I have about fifteen of them unopened in my glove compartment right now.

5. I am hyper sensitive to smells and scents, (and who am I kidding…everything else) both good and bad. (My high school boyfriend had the best smell. He always insisted it was just his deodorant, which lead to a very interesting conversation starter for my friends about me. “She loves smelling men’s armpits!” It was not awesome for me, in and of itself, but, it did lead to some pretty great smells.) Whatever smells I smell – go a very long way in choosing a partner to hold on to. I hope someday soon I’ll find a man on the same page as me, who will want to get married (and be pampered every chance I get since that’s just what I do — for — reasons), AND wants children as much as I do, and now that so many of my friends have babies, or are pregnant, now, already, every time a smell bothers me, I think, “I wonder what this is going to be like when I’m pregnant.” Maybe I’ll get lucky and everything will smell amazing!

6. This is me in 2007, with now Patriot’s player (boooooooo) Devin McCourty, (yaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyy), 2018-2019 season’s Super Bowl Champion. I was reminiscing about this with my college roommate. She convinced me to go to the Spring training “game,” and I remembered there being a looooong line for Ray because everyone wanted Ray Rice’s signature!!! And I had already heard some pretty bad things about his character, so I was like, “fuck that!” and I now I have a picture with a Super Bowl champ (who is also my Facebook friend, as is his brother, Jason, soooooo, go Rutgers! All because my roommate and I took a chance on the love of the game). (I’ve also only slept three hours in two days so I think I’m funnier than I am.)

7. My cats, the kittwins, below, are named after Peyton and Eli Manning. It took me three months to name them. I rescued them in August, so being an Eli Manning fan and all, the timeline checks out. Fur color makes obvious who is who.

8. I SERIOUSLY, like SERIOUSLY, reject everything sprung on me. “Do you want to go to the movies in an hour?” No! “Do you want to go to Target in an hour?” No! “Will you help me with reaching that item, Dear?” Yes! I get used a lot in ShopRite, hahahahaha. If it’s helping someone thing, I guess I always say, “yes.” But don’t just be like, “let’s spend Christmas in North Korea this year,” AND expect happiness. At least I’m aware of it? The thing is, though, if you give me a bit to consider a proposal of sorts, I’ll usually agree the second time you ask. I’ve been in therapy for 15+ years and I have no idea where that shit comes from, so if you have ideas — let’s hear ’em!

9. I don’t eat, or rather, don’t eat like anyone I’ve ever known. I told my Mom that since it’s definitely not anorexia (I obvi have a hot bod and happen to like my own softness over bones —– OMG I already hate myself for writing that statement out loud in my blog — and maybe even paper if you print my blogs to enjoy during your morning commute on the train or something — hey, a woman can dream), because food is good if you want to be healthy, and I do. But I essentially need prescription drugs just to get me to eat. This really sucks, because food is exceptionally delicious. I really love food. I also really hate the process of eating. (I would say it is because I’d rather talk than eat when with others), but I’m hella single now, AND a middle child, so I feel like that anyway.

10. If you’re a man and you’re grossed out by a woman, women, or anyone at all — talking about periods or menstruation, you are probably not mature enough to be having sex. I could never be with a man who was that immature.

Peace and love y’all! ✌️❤️

Sex Sells To The Distracted (E.G. I’m Sleeping My Way Out Of This One).

Editor’s Note: My original post made little sense. Don’t fall a bunch, get a chronic illness whose main objective is to give you pain and exhaust you and confuse you, or fall asleep and hit “publish” before final editing. But I’m done apologizing for myself. Even if it’s uncomfortable.

This whole post was supposed to be kind of ironic. I wanted to complain about how men judge women based on their ability to sext correctly WHILE using Charlie Hunnam as a visual sex object.

Hey y’all!

So I wrote last night and I guess the blogging bug hit me….OR, maybe I am looking for your advice, dear readers.

Stay tuned next post to find out which one is true. April Fools, Bitches! (What a dumb joke at 3:00 A.M.!!!)

First, and to get it out of the way, I’m looking for advice.

The thing I want to share is that I’ve decided to remain celibate until marriage — for now. And, before you freak the fuck out — this decision has nothing to do with any sort of religious beliefs. It’s far more about me being true to myself and wanting to know 100% what I want in the bedroom.

Let’s face it, women, we could send 100,000 “sexy” pics to an honorable, yet horny man, or, just do it for fun (seriously, I swear on my life, I’m not saying that’s in any way wrong, trashy, asking for “bad news,” slutty, etc.), those are just the names I’ve been called since posting last night’s picture (and the worst thing is I didn’t expect anything less), but mostly, that’s not really our thing. Guys, however, seem to really enjoy it. I think coupled with online dating, this is especially but not exclusively true.

I’ve been told that’s because men are “visual creatures.” But I have eyes! In fact I quite enjoy using my eyes too.

Second, Charlie Hunnam is the most gorgeous. Just EVER. 6′ 1″ ladies! Look:

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(King Arthur: The Legend of the Sword. Accent + best body ever — why can this dude not knock on my door? Like — if he were my mailman I would definitely sleep with him.)

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God DAMN —– he IS sex. Add a man bun and a love for me and we’re in business!

Now that that’s over with.

I posted a picture of myself that I’m proud of, in my last post. I did it my way.

My ex always used to try and make me feel as bad as possible which also meant killing whatever else was peaking through to compliment me.

So I’ve been talking with the cute guy I met at the cover I went to alone – Mr. O.A.R. – since December 7th – over two months without exchanging pictures that I am not comfortable seeing nor showing…could it be?

My O.A.R. friend whom I met at the concert works and calls me sexy while I’m dressed!!! Without seeing me naked?! WTF?

I’ve never been even close to promiscuous…probably by God’s standards. But of course I’m not angelic. And that matters in any relationship.

So, Mr. O.A.R., (whose name I know but you won’t for now) – who IS freaking HOT – and by the way – I like my men kind.

Mr. O.A.R man hasn’t said he can’t be with me because I don’t want casual sex, which he has mentioned that’s what he’s looking for, himself. Anyone who knows anything about me knows why that’s not for me.

But this hot 🔥🔥🔥 29 year old still texts me and asks me about my life, and feels me how sexy I am.

So the advice I need reader, is whether you think I’m crazy for standing by my weird new celibacy thing? Is it super abnormal at my age? Do I care about my age when it comes to this? Could this help me heal?

Help me help myself!

But if you find Charlie Hunnam, single again, dibs. I called dibs. So, I get him. Sorry to sexually exploit one of the hottest men on planet Earth, but we’re all human, sometimes.

Peace ✌️

How’s It Gonna Be Cause Oblivion?

I’ve been off the grid for a minute. Not at all writing blocked, just really sad. Thinking about my ex this time of year sucks. It was just his 37th birthday. Who cares, right? But I always tried for him. Appreciated or not. I never thought we wouldn’t be together forever. Not in a million years.

The good thing about my thinking about the ex lately, is how much I respect myself now compared to when he was here. For instance, this picture:

So, aside from the lower left hand corner of the image, which is just my bare leg, I felt confident and carefree. I felt awesome.

Could it be?

My bad habit stopped almost as soon as he did. I have lost more than twenty-five pounds. I’m feeling healthy about my body. I feel clear. Or maybe clean?

I must also note that I have started a personal journal just about sex, and about my relationships, and it’s helping me process a lot of difficult shit.

So yay for words(!!!!!) and letting go of what I can only describe as “a forced me.”

Although I know he’d never read this blog, in fact, because I’m counting on that, all I have to say is: I miss you G-bear. It never mattered who was wise. We were both assholes.

I just don’t want to be an asshole anymore.

(For the most part — I mean a woman’s GOT to get HERS.)

But I don’t want to be anything resembling an asshole — EVER — in a relationship again. Even though it’s looking like it will never be ours.

Peace ✌️

10 Reasons 2019 Is Already Better Than 2018.

1. I can sleep alone with the window open all night long in the winter under 8 blankets, feeling SAFE, for the first time in years, and breathe in the fresh, amazing, cold January air without anyone complaining.

2. I’m happily single. So when the cute guy I met at the O.A.R. concert texted me on Christmas to politely ask if I am single, I could happily reply, “yes.”

3. As a happily single woman living on her own, I make my own rules. And no one can judge, criticize, or otherwise tell me how stupid those rules are. For example, naming things whatever I want to name them.

4. Music, all the time. Music I love, music that’s new, music in the shower. Music.

5. On demand, and books. I’ll never, ever, be lacking in the story department.

6. I have a land line now. And I don’t get criticized for it every time I bring it up. And all my calls come through!!!

7. I’m pursuing my dream FINALLY and saying goodbye to something that only ever brought me misery. Telling my parents I passed two BAR exams on my first try — and their being proud of me — only good thing that happened regarding my career choice since going to law school. I know my Dad would be just as proud of me for finally pursuing something that makes me happy. My Mom supports me every day.

8. I can cook. And not just for me, but for my Mom too. (Probably the biggest shock of this list!)

9. I cannot THANK ENOUGH THE PEOPLE who reached out to me from all walks of life after my recent darker post. The LOVE, KINDNESS, and WILLINGNESS TO HELP, and to tell me you CARE that I’m here, and everything else that you said, was beyond AMAZING. I am blessed and never feel otherwise. Depression brings significant lows. I can’t and will never apologize for the reality of that. Thank you all for your amazing kind words and for checking in on me in whatever way you did.
Likewise, if you think you know better than me, that you can teach me a lesson, or that you can pretend to know my circumstance in some arrogant, preachy, out of touch way, I don’t need you in my life. To quote a very good friend, “comparison is the thief of joy.” I know people are in worse circumstances than mine, but reminding ANYONE with depression of that is probably on the top ten list of the WORST things you can say to us. So I’ll pass — on all forthcoming condescending idiocy. But I wish you good luck in your own life, truly. Just take that log out of your eye.

10. I’m optimistic.

Peace ✌️

Give Me A Reason…

My second threat happened within then last two years. I went to see my therapist who is “stationed” in a “BAD NEIGHBORHOOD” — some bullshit label I fucking hate to use in the first place. People are circumstances of their surroundings — so fucking whatever.

Anyway. I was walking as usual from my car through the alley to the front door where I get buzzed in. You see, it’s locked due to the “BAD NEIGHBORHOOD.”

By way of background, I usually only have to wait five long seconds, at most, to be buzzed in by the receptionist, who I consider a friend, at this point.

But not this day.

My safety was compromised this day.

I walked with my pepper spray out, quickly, walking “with purpose” as my Middle School Chorus teacher used to say, eyes pealed for predators. I knew by that time not to trust anyone. Not someone I knew, (had been raped the first time already), and not someone I didn’t (I had learned enough from the Rape Crisis Center I volunteered at by then).

As I approached the building, and thus, door, to be buzzed in, I saw two men across the street from me. I said to myself, “don’t make rash judgments based on bullshit, you’re paranoid.”

Then they crossed the street.

They had no discernible reason to cross the fucking street.

“Fucking fuck,” I thought. “Don’t lose your shit,” I thought.

They regarded me in a way that I can only describe as unnerving.

I pushed my button to be buzzed in. I waited.

Nothing happened.

Next, I heard, “we can take this bitch.” Then, “yeah man.”

Great. pepper spray out, I was ready to throw my bag one way, spray one of the guys with that, then jump into self-defense mode with the other. I knew I might have to run to my car to avoid being hurt — or —- raped — or worse.

I prepared myself. I knew I had to be ready to fight then flight.

And I was buzzed in.

It’s not okay.

I’M NOT OKAY. I won’t be. Maybe ever. Thanks, exes.

This isn’t a “happy ending” to my “story,” okay?

Sure, I avoided a situation and maybe a tragedy I didn’t want to deal with. Thank God, right? But the fact that it happened at all is a problem.

There are women you know who don’t have pepper spray, who don’t have self-defense training, who aren’t paranoid because they haven’t been attacked before.

And if no one was there to buzz me in, I might not be here right now writing this shit.

Feminists want equality, definitely. But we also want fucking safety when we go outside.

Women don’t do to men the shit men do to them. We just DON’T.

So I’m not the shoulder to cry on to complain about inequality between feminists and men who think “equality” means allowing a woman to get raped.

Grow up.

Fucking whatever.

BREATHE — TAKE A SHOT — A SMOKE — FUCKING WHATEVER.

Totally new thing.

How do YOU deal with missing someone you don’t even really know?

Can you tell me how I’m supposed to deal with it?

Because I just can’t stop crying. So. That’s really [not] fucking helpful.

This guy — who I really admired and liked and appreciated and thought was attractive and looked at beyond “the whatever friend etc. zone,” died this past summer. It was not a suicide; a freak accident — health related.

When I went to his Wake with my Mom, I tried to be strong — my Mom knew the Mother of the deceased since High School — but I saw one picture of him in Uniform (Iraq) standing between his Mother and Father and it was over.

“Sobbing.” doesn’t do what happened to me then, justice. I was one person away from giving my condolences to his Mother.

There was NOTHING I could do.

I grabbed her, hugged her, and said through sobs of gasps, “I am so sorry,” and eventually, “he was such an amazing person.”

She replied, “he always wanted to ask you out, and I told him you had a boyfriend.”

I said, “I would have gone out with him anyway. I wish he had asked me.”

We held onto each other like we were holding on for life, literally.

Have you ever hugged someone like your life depended on it? THAT’S what this was. And we’ve been very close ever since.

FUCK.

He deserves better than this lame ass written bullshit here.

There’s a song — on all of my playlists now — all of them — and I’m decorating a Christmas tree tonight. So important, right? And this song comes on. And at an important part of the song, something in my vicinity moves.

So I start talking to HIM. The “dead guy.”

Because why the fuck not?

And all of a sudden I break down and can’t stop crying.

Maybe for the life he should have lived.

Maybe for the life we could have had together.

Maybe for what I missed out on.

Maybe because I’ll never be able to talk to him again — maybe hoping he just hears me and regards me.

Maybe because I’ll never ever ever ever ever ever know that love.

Maybe because this season fucking sucks for broken families.

Maybe because I’m completely unstable.

But I talked to him for MINUTES through tears until I gave up decorating my tree and came here to write, for you.

I’m so depressed I don’t believe in anything good right now.

If you care, you have my contact info.

Give me a reason to care.

Give me a reason to keep writing.

Give me any reason if you want me to be here.

Author’s Note: I am not suicidal.

I appreciate everyone who has reached out to me. I didn’t mean to scare everyone, and I apologize and feel very bad about that.

I’m clearly having a very difficult time with the season. I know it is a difficult time for a lot of other people. I will be okay. I was writing perhaps a little too honestly.

I promise I won’t give up on myself.

Sorry for scaring you. Thank you to those who reached out to me. It is everything.

Peace.