I think there are, like, stages of grief, but I’m too depressed to look it up.
I’ve been staying away from my posts because someone said something very hurtful to me and I was all stubborn about it since I have already confessed I have a lot of healing I need to figure out.
But, I won’t be shut down.
My Brother said something cruel. That’s all I’m going to say about what his actual words were.
When I responded to him that I was really hurt, he replied, “YEAH? WHY DON’T YOU GO BLOG ABOUT IT?”
Not cool, Bro.
Perhaps FAIR. Maybe I deserve that — after pointing fingers and making admittedly untoward exclamations about others in my now deleted but recent post.
But DEFINITELY not cool, Bro.
This space isn’t a joke. Those who take it as one, well, I guess you’re the bullies. I don’t know.
Writing is me, and hate comes and goes about it, but that’s just life.
FACT: My Brother really hurt me when he said that. I can’t stop replaying it in my head. Because, as I’ve written before, when someone says something to me, I believe him/her (at least initially), and if it’s something bad — well — it sucks. I’m hurt.
BETTER FACT: Oh my goodness — to all of you who have been mailing or handing me friendship bracelets since the now deleted post about my Sister!!!
^I am so freaking touched and I feel so incredibly loved! I felt so bad about myself for saying things that were true but hurtful to not just me, that I NEVER IMAGINED those of you who have sent me bracelets you MADE read a different story than the one I came to resent.
I’ve only put one (a beautiful blue one!) on so far (pain, hand, wrist, life problems abound), but I WILL try to post a picture of them all ASAP.
Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you so much for your time and consideration and love and notes.
^YOU have ALL helped me realize that haters are gonna hate, but we’re all just DOING OUR BEST, so thank you for understanding MY pain, AND helping me through it. I’ll NEVER forget your strength and support.
FACT: I am going to try my damnedest to STOP calling ANYONE a “bad Christian.”
Anyone who DOES THAT, is not only DEEPLY TROUBLED, but also just incredibly cruel — and — frankly, not someone who should be judging anyone, like EVER (including me here).
Like, get help, now. You’re not okay.
I shouldn’t have done it when I did, because it’s not for me to judge. I’ve repented and apologized, and asked for forgiveness, and I am at peace with that.
The. End. But.
^Shame on those of us who dared assert such a thing. Upon deep reflection I was truly shocked that I had stooped so awfully low that I dared judge others like that. No one should do that, in my opinion. Myself included, of course! I am ashamed I did.
I had this one person from “my Church,” tell me I was a “bad Christian.” 😆😅😂🤣!!!
I care just enough about “his” opinion to say all he does is use and/or hate on others, so I don’t respect him and barely regard him. Maybe he’s hurting, like me, so he hurts others? Not worth harping on, but my “bad Christian” self GAVE TO HIM, at my own expense, so I did nothing to him directly to deserve that in my opinion. Maybe he doesn’t know what I did for him. Maybe he’s just too blinded by attention to care.
But, just as I pray for all people in that Church, I’ll still pray for him. Oh! Just remembered. He’s the “minion” mentioned a few posts back. (Not worth looking for. TRUST.)
I may be done calling people bad Christians, but I’m not going to pretend people don’t hurt me.
I’ve been trying to say — if you don’t want me to write about you — don’t be shitty in front of me or toward me.
You’re literally giving me content to write about! Stop!
“My Church”, as a reminder, (means the Church I went to my entire life, SINCE BIRTH, until June 2018 when Pious Peter emailed me what qualifications I needed to earn as a member, sending me definitions of who qualified as a member as “proof,” cc-ing the wardens, and, even though I fell under each membership category for qualification, in a private conversation dismissed me from the Parish).
In summation, as I truly, honest to God, try to cleanse myself of posts that speak ill if others, I must say, he is, without a doubt, one of the worst people I have ever known.
And how he “preaches” there (I MUST use the term LOOSELY, because I’ve never learned anything from his meandering sermons. — See John Mulaney’s standup special, “Kid Gorgeous,” for an example of “Pious Peter’s time wasters.”) — I literally can’t even.
Not to mention, I’ve been on the Prayer List for months and months and months and he NEVER offers to come and give me Communion or visit me. He NEVER asks my Mom, who now, sits ALONE most Sundays, about me, though he knows I’m ill — and I know he visits other members of the Church. So what do I file that behavior under? He only cares about politics, and I’m disgusted by him. I know at least two other members who he has “cast out” who agree and are concerned about this behavior.
(I no longer feel comfortable, safe, or welcome in that space, thanks to a significant population of the Church, and I’m not healthy enough to get to that service).
I’m getting it all out.
Peace and Love. ✌️❤️
This is my plea for forgiveness.
I have to come to grips with my reality, AND I want to set the record straight before I let go.
I have been what I consider MY WORST self lately.
I’m not proud of me.
I’m not proud of what I’ve written. Dragging people’s names through the mud, so to speak.
I have deleted the post that I’ve gotten more hits on in the past 48+ hours than I have since the first time I wrote about my sister.
Of course she wasn’t the only person I attacked and blamed for what I described as terrible behavior in that post. It wasn’t a good look for me.
I feel sick about the traffic on my page due to that “Takedown Piece,” (see “The Newsroom,” for the reference).
After some not-to-be-taken-lightly thinking, I justified my actions by telling myself that MY out of character behavior was a direct result of the behavior of others.
But, regardless of my opinions of those people, regardless of their behavior, their actions, or otherwise, I forgot something.
I AM IN NO POSITION TO JUDGE ANYONE.
I wasn’t raised that way.
I wasn’t brought up to tear anyone else down.
I was brought up to be kind.
NO. MATTER. WHAT.
And my behavior as of late, has taken parts of myself I can’t, and won’t, ever get back.
I don’t feel sorry for myself.
I have never thrown myself a “pity party,” (though a number of relatives who I was finally honest with about their “Christian based” bigotry), might disagree.
And, perhaps, most importantly, I am not making excuses for myself.
To those I have hurt with my words, I deeply apologize. This is not a plea for your specific forgiveness. Even if you were willing to give it, I don’t want it. I will come to terms with my sins when I meet my death.
Gary truly made me a better person when he was around because he spoke the truth, for better or for worse. He world tell me, “eff that person,” or, “you’re too hard on that person.”
One thing. I had to saw apart this GORGEOUS shelf we made together, in order to move to be with my baby kittwins. From this:
Ouch. That really hurt. So that’s a thing that happened. Anyway.
I judge people. We all do. It’s part of our socialization.
I’m not saying whether it’s right or wrong.
I don’t think anyone can help it. (But I do think the torture of law school makes that judgment “gene”(?!?!?!) harder to fight, urging us to become self-righteous vigilantes).
But I’m going to leave that “job” to anyone else right now.
All that being said:
I am truly, most sincerely, sorry for any words I’ve said or actions I’ve taken that have hurt other people, especially anyone alluded to, specifically, in my blog.
This blog was supposed to be my story. I thought I was being true to that.
But now? I believe I was truly behaving aggressively toward others I love and care about (rapists I mentioned along the way excluded).
Many months ago, I was told by several people to “put my oxygen mask first,” you know, that allusion to ✈️ turbulance…imminent death…the cast of “LOST.”
I think that I took that advice way too far.
I warped it to mean, “say exactly what you think, consequences be damned, choose you first, forget what you’ve done before, take the reigns and go.”
I allowed myself to be SO selfish, that I lost myself.
Like, REALLY lost myself.
And I have to cope with that. I hope I can.
Yes, I am deeply suffering.
But, I’ve gotten off track, and it’s time to correct my course.
So I’ll go back to telling MY story. NOT those of others.
Obviously, I don’t live in a vacuum. People will come up in my narrative.
But I’m done calling people out. (I hope.) And I really want to change back to being a person I’m proud of after all.
Do I have excuses? Absolutely? Will I share those excuses? Absolutely. But do any of them justify what I’ve done?
I don’t think so.
But I won’t judge you if you do.
PART II is next.
Oh, change the “n” in “loner” to an “s.” That’s better.
I made a promise to myself that I would be candid and honest in this space. If I cannot be honest in my writing, where can I be? Besides — I truly do believe that pretending everything is one way — when it’s actually another — causes a lot of problems.
That doesn’t mean everything sucks, or is scandalous. It’s just — true.
Full disclosure, I AM a loner. Big time. My entire life I’ve simultaneously wanted to be left completely alone, while ALSO wanting to be SURROUNDED by friends and family and people who love me so I can talk and talk and talk forever.
I have almost no luck with the second part.
I do this thing.
I’ve nick-named it “The All or Nothing Paradox.”
(I’m too afraid to “Google” that to see if it’s actually already “a thing.”)
What it means to me, though, is pretty much self-explanatory. I want everyone, and I want no one. There is NO “in between.”
In fact, I’ve been known to go through these kind of “purging” experiences with friend circles.
Part of it stems from never feeling like I fit in.
And part of it stems from my being paranoid constantly, not to mention insecure.
But — basically, after something happens within a group I’ve been friends with that I don’t like, (usually something I do), or I something happens in that group that I can’t change, or something happens that I’m embarrassed by, I tend to bizz-ounce.
And. I cannot be alone.
And I have praised living alone. But I’ve decided, not only did I absolutely NEED that at the time I experienced it, but I also really need to NOT be doing that anymore. I CAN’T do it.
I moved so I could live with my baby boys. My kittwins. I can live with these loves of my life now. And my baby boy is sick. But he’s letting me pamper him now, Which I like, but I also hate, because Peyton isn’t a cat I’ve been able to “catch”….until now.
Look at this love:
He’s my little Playboy.
I love my Eli too! I’m grateful he’s so healthy:
Don’t talk to me about lighting. They are sleeping cats. Grow up. 😇
Also, this^ is, is my jam.
Do with that pun what you think I’d want you to do.
A Church member commented, “Wow,” on my post regarding the Church stuff I said. This member is SO INTO the family of the dude I called out. I’m sticking to it.
“Wow,” is right.
I said something that someone told me, perhaps expecting it work never be repeated.
But he didn’t say that.
“Aw, Sum Sum. Nooooooo.” As Rick said in Season 3 Episode 2.
So now — people are on notice: don’t say things of that nature to me.
Don’t gossip about things like, “isn’t it CRAZY that this person is dead and probably killed himself and I have to be the first to tell everyone because I get off on it?!” DON’T DO THAT. Then we’d be cool.
I am not scared of your minion writing, “Wow.”
I do, though, miss Gary. Because I’m watching “Rick and Morty,” and Peyton’s dying. And at 4:30 today when I had MINUTES to get to the Post Office — my car’s battery died. So I had to wait for AAA. (Thank God I made it!!!!!!!!!) But $164.13 later, I have a new battery and MORE bad than I can handle:
It made me sad that the AAA guy was IMPRESSED that I knew how to “pop the hood.” SO sad.
But alas, everything worked out. Except of course for the people who hate me hating me, and Peyton dying, and my very desperately needing a job.
But! My best friend is engaged and getting married!!!!!! 🥰😘🤩❤️💕💖🎉🐾 And my other best friend is about to have a baby!!!!!!!! OMG!!!!! 🐣🤱🍼🥰👩❤️💋👩💝💞😍💗 And my other best friend is moving back from Michigan to New Jersey in JJJJUUUUULLLLLLYYYY!!!!!!!!!! 🌞🎉😁🤠🙋❤️🥰👩❤️💋👩💒💞😍
So. Monitoring Peyton and my cup of noodles await. And. So. Much. Sugar.
You have to be really careful with a razor
You have to be able to cut just right
Too deep, and your secret pleasure could become an accidental emergency
Too surface level, and what’s the point?
I made a red portrait
It wasn’t created through my smeared blood
My boyfriend begged me and begged me to tell him what I wrote in the portrait
But I was hungry, and tired of explaining my truth
But you know you’re on the right track when you can peel a tissue off the blood without reopening the cut into messiness
How many will you endure tonight?
As many as it takes, bitch
Because you own that shit
🎶 Don’t you ever try to judge me, dude
You don’t know what the fuck I’ve been through 🎶
Your feet are your best weapon
No one will look there
Just as no man will check what you hide under tampons in your bag as you go through security
This information is for your safety, not to abuse
You love someone
Until forever collapses like a mine
Everyone involved is trapped
And recovery is brutal
Then an unexpected twist in your privileged world
Someone you know is dying
Don’t talk about “it”
“It” upsets your Mom when they say “it” out loud
But you get it
We’re all dying
Relatives screaming, “how dare you not appreciate what you have — why must you host a pity party?”
Your reaction will cut ties, I have just learned
I miss G-unit rubbing my neck
He’d touch every muscle and it would be excruciating
But neither of you knew that
Your body screaming in protest while hoping for more
Who’s “The Joker” now?
Why. So. Serious?
If only he’d known
If only you’d known
Maybe the pain could have subsided and accounted for
But being misguided for years?
Being misdiagnosed for years?
Who can endure that?
Not him. Not your Protector. Not the one you BELIEVED this time
For better or worse, until death did you part
You must continue the pain now
It’s not for attention
“Man up,” now
You can take “it”
Society wants you to be sick
Society wants your guilt to fester
Think of all of the jobs you’re keeping alive!
Think of all the people you’re helping by being sick!
Most people don’t believe your illness is real
And most people ask you why you can’t work when you look, sound, and appear, “fine”
I fall asleep now an hour at a time
Always waking up, reaching for something
Know your role
And accept that I know mine.
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).
- 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.
- 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:
So I don’t sleep much these days.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
I can’t ignore
What I’ve done wrong before
I’m a wound
I spread until I don’t
But before you fall again
I can take a lot of hits—
But the fight is never fair when I ask for them
My shell is uncrackable
I’ve tried; you’ve tried
So, the inevitable
Maybe it’s because I’m listening to Eminem’s, “Berzerk,” but I just yelled at no one, “MOTHER FUCKING, FUCK! Recycling hurts!!!” while literally breaking down boxes and boxes and boxes and cutting myself twice.
Tomorrow is recycling night around these parts and I take that shit hella seriously.
Gillette Thinks Men Go Through Agony Shaving Their Faces.
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.
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:
- severe chest pain, as if the chest is being squeezed or the person has a heart attack.
- difficulty swallowing.
- 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 THAT — feeling 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 81st 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,
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! ✌️❤️
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.
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:
(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.)
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.
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.
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.
Merry Christmas to me!!!!!
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.
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.
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.
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.
I promised I’d always be honest here, for you, reader.
The truth is — I am too depressed — and — I’m hating myself too much right now — for so many things — that I’m not capable of putting my shit out there for you to read.
I’m sorry, but.
I’m not okay.
I will live — that’s a promise.
But, I’m not okay.
And I don’t know what to tell you except that I’m miserable enough to have given up on everything I wished for — through my writing — which may mean nothing to anyone — honestly — to the extent that I don’t believe anything good can happen in this world, no matter how hard I try to help others.
I know life’s not fair.
I fucking know that.
But a little sprinkle of appreciation once in awhile would be greatly appreciated and would go a really long way.
If I have to leave this apartment — I’ll likely end up being the person I was when I moved out in the first place. And I guarantee you don’t want to know her.
God speed ya’ll.
Hopefully I check in tomorrow.
It was getting late. Almost 11:30 P.M. This picture had been taken at least a full hour ago:
The friends I met up with were starting to get incoherent, and, although I never mind not drinking around people who are, I don’t love staying around people who are drunk and keep drinking anyway. Especially in bars. I had driven myself to New Brunswick, so I had to drive home. Since I had driven, I hadn’t had anything to drink. That’s my rule and I always stick to it. I would never want to risk hurting anyone.
“I think I’m going to get going, everyone,” I said.
“Yeah, it’s getting late, us too,” another member of the group seemingly gratefully jumped on board. She was the designated driver for two other women in the group. They parked outside the bar. I had parked a bit away, but had always felt safe walking around New Brunswick alone, even at night. I was a smart kid.
“Hey! Where are you going?” the DD asked.
“Oh, I’m in the deck by the hotel. I didn’t feel like dealing with circling the streets and this deck is free and always has spots,” I answered.
“Hop in, we’ll take you,” she replied.
“Are you sure? I’m really okay,” I promised.
“Yes. Besides it’s freezing. Come on,” she convinced me.
She dropped me in front of the hotel as our two other friends drunkenly laughed and sang. “Thank you so much! Drive safely!” I said as I grabbed my purse off of the floor.
“Will do!” she yelled, and they were gone. I started walking to the front of the hotel, the best way to get to the elevators to the parking deck. My keys were out, the longest between my knuckles, just in case.
I walked through the lobby to the elevators which connected the hotel to the parking garage. Unlike when I had parked earlier in the evening, a party of some kind was going on and/or wrapping up in the hotel’s main room.
I waited patiently for the elevator. Soon two other couples joined me, waiting. And then, two men who had clearly had too much to drink and were looking to instigate something. I could literally feel it in my gut as they approached. They started to get louder and louder, looking for an audience. As they looked at me, I regarded them with caution, afraid at this time of night they might take an acknowledgment as an invitation.
The elevator finally came, and the two men went in first. Then the couples.
I hesitated, thinking to myself, just wait for the next one, you’re already nervous. Then, they are clearly watching me, so if I don’t get in, it might actually be worse. They could get off and try to wait with me, and then I’d be alone. At least right now there were four other people who would surely keep them calm. I’m the last in so I’ll be the first out. It’s only three floors. I reluctantly stepped in the right side so I could select the floors myself.
I hit “3” which lit up and asked everyone else, “which floor?”
“That’s us too,” said one couple. I relaxed a little.
“Us too!” said the second couple.
“Yeah, that’s where we’re going too,” said one of the two men, speaking for both of them.
I waited for the doors to close.
“Damn, girl, what you doin’ tonight?” I heard the man behind me say. My back was to him so I pretended he could have been talking to anyone.
“What? You gonna ignore me lookin’ like that?” he went on.
“Yo, check this out. She’s looking for attention too. She’s got that cute little outfit on. You like purple?” The same man asked.
“Whoooo-hoooo, she definitely likes purple,” echoed the second man.
I looked to my left and saw that the men had moved to a different spot on the elevator. How did they do that? And what is taking so long?! I looked at both couples. All four people, staring straight ahead.
“You got plans tonight!” said one of the men to me.
I looked at the couples again. No reaction.
They’re not going to let anything happen to me, I thought.
You already know where you parked. You always memorize it. Keys are out. The second the door opens, you’re going to have to act not scared. Head straight for the car. Hit the button on the remote, get in, and lock the door. You can do this. You parked fairly close to the elevator. You’re the only old green Accord in the lot. Maybe only six to ten cars away. You know what to do.
I had a plan.
While I was thinking more heckling had been going on. The couples were getting more and more uncomfortable. The fact that they were between me and the guys comforted me. They would stop any attempted pursuit, right?
It was extremely clear by now that these men planned to try to talk with me — at the very least once this ride was over.
Floor three. This was it. The doors opened and I started taking large steps toward my car as fast as possible.
“Where you goin,’ sweetheart?” I heard a man say.
“Yeah, don’t play us like that. The night’s not over,” said the other man.
I looked back. The couples were almost out of sight heading in the opposite direction, there were other people walking in the lot but nowhere near me at the moment, while the men — were gaining on me!?
I snapped out of asking myself what kind of people, riding the elevators with their wives, or dates, or girlfriends, or husbands, or boyfriends could possibly let this happen exactly like it was happening.
That’s all I felt. I went into complete flight mode knuckling my key even tighter hitting my remote over and over and over again until I could see my car’s lights blink, indicating it was unlocked. I kept clicking it just in case, moving as fast as I could. I didn’t look back again. But I could hear them. My running must have caused them to run too.
This is how I die, I thought. I’m going to get raped and murdered and no one will ever find me. My Mom, my Dad. Jesus.
GET TO THE FUCKING CAR.
I turned into the driver’s side nook cursing the car next to mine for parking so close. I got in and pushed down the lock holding it there as one of the men tried pulling open the door.
Put the key in the ignition. You’re getting out of here. Turn the car on.
The man outside started banging on my windows and hood. His friend had caught up with him but didn’t touch my car. The guy on my car was getting angrier. Screaming worse and worse things to me that I cannot remember. I was numb.
Holding down the lock with one hand (knowing that really wasn’t doing much) and having turned on the car, I used the other hand to put the car into reverse.
“Yo!” the further away man said.
“What?” the guy on my car yelled back. He put his hands on my trunk and stood there, looking at me through my rear view window. He wasn’t moving.
“Dude, let’s go find something else, she ain’t shit,” the further away man said.
Please work please listen to him oh my God please get the fuck off my car and go away oh God help me please God don’t let them get in.
The man on my car slammed his fists on my trunk twice.
“Yeah, fine! No one needs this shit anyway,” he said, and he walked away heading toward the other man.
I breathed for the first time since I saw the other people in the elevator letting this happen. My hands were shaking. I was terrified. When I was sure they were out of sight I exited the parking deck, certain they would jump out at any point while getting out of there. I couldn’t stop looking in my rear view.
You don’t want to wake Mom and Dad, I thought. They would be asleep by now. Don’t worry them. You’re fine. You’re fine! You made it. You did exactly what you needed to. You survived.
Still, I thought these guys might be tailing me all the way home, so shaken and paranoid that I couldn’t relax even after getting inside my house. I locked the door in two ways, something we never often did in my home growing up. I left my parents a note so they wouldn’t worry about the chain (or break it) and taped it to the doorknob in case they woke up before me.
And then, alone in my room, in disbelief, I drank.
I wrote the following Facebook post at 1:26 A.M., still completely shaken:
Re-reading that, I remember signing up for the self-defense class my first semester of my freshman year of college. I had dated a guy very briefly who, as it turned out, had excessive control issues and major anger issues. I told you, I’m an anxious person. I wanted to make sure I was ready just in case. I remember coming back from class having bruises on my arms and shins from practicing so hard against myself.
And yes, all of the thoughts of self-defense came into my head at some point. Since there were two men, I knew that even if I was lucky enough to disable one by putting my key through his neck I might have to use the other techniques I learned on the other one.
I kept drinking. And drinking. Until I finally fell asleep.
How many times do self-defense moves ruminate in your mind while walking anywhere throughout the day? Are you always watching others? Getting a grasp on your surroundings, potential weak spots, people who don’t look safe, etc.?
Now, I say, “people who don’t look safe,” because of the second time that I was almost attacked. They didn’t look safe. And as it turned out, they weren’t.
But first, I promised you the responses to my Facebook post:
I numbered (poorly) “1,” “2,” and “3,” because those people were out with me earlier in the night. “2” and “3” were in the car that dropped me off, if that’s at all relevant. The rest of the comments:
Number “4” up there is the friend who dropped me off in front of the hotel.
I wrote the thing at the bottom with the yellow cover-up over it. My response was prompted by the person who I have written “nickname” near, above. (He used a nickname which would give away who he is — to probably more people than he’d like — so I had to kill it.)
But what the actual fuck?
Yeah, I should have done something differently. <– SARCASM INCLUDED. Jesus Christ.
I tried to walk to my car.
That’s it, people! I didn’t provoke, invite, or otherwise suggest I wanted any part of the rest of the evening of these men. So that was a totally fucked up response.
Unfortunately, it, and those like it, are not uncommon. A lot of people do this. It’s almost never appropriate. Victim blaming is NOT okay and it NEEDS to stop PERMANENTLY.
A couple of things.
I am SO MUCH MORE VOCAL online about things like this NOW than I was six years ago when this happened. I was still in shock when I wrote it. I had over 800 Facebook “friends” at the time. This matters only insofar as getting only eleven comments was pretty pathetic, I felt, especially at the time.
I’m not Facebook friends with ANY of the people numbered anymore. And I’m not friends with them in real life either. They know one of my rapists. And I couldn’t deal with that. Especially after I told number “2” about the rape, and subsequently saw her in photos with the rapist on Facebook afterwards. (See earlier blog posts for that rant.) Just like I’m not about to be “friends” with the rapist who sent me that request, I’m not going to be friends with people who are friends with my rapist, ESPECIALLY if you know he raped me.
So now, I protect myself. It is legal to carry pepper spray of a certain concentration and below in New Jersey. So I do. And every time I feel unsafe I walk with it out and opened. And one time, I thought it was going to be the only thing that saved my life. But one bedtime story is enough for tonight, kids.
Reliving all this trauma takes a toll on me that needs to be monitored.
I’ll share my second experience and my run in with “security” at the O.A.R. concert next time (probably).
NO ONE should have to exist in this world feeling unsafe just because they are out alone. Women don’t need escorts anymore, although, sometimes I think to myself, I sure wouldn’t mind a friend to make me feel safer walking everywhere I go. Maybe that’s why I pick larger men to date. For safety. Except they can turn that on you too, as I well know.
Just know, if you’re reading this, and you’ve never had to experience something like it, worry about it, etc., count yourself lucky and blessed. I have friends who get harassed weekly, if not more, on the street — merely for existing in public as women.
I ask that if you are a woman especially, but if you are a man as well, that you stand up and don’t allow that shit to happen. If you’re with someone who says something he/she shouldn’t to someone going about their day, take control and make it right.
All we have is life.
Okay. I wanted to tell you why Friday night’s concert experience started off with a very livid me. I was going to start this post with all of the reasons I have to walk down the street with pepper spray out “just in case” — you know — because I was born with ovaries — and identify as a cisgender woman.
My scheduled programming is interrupted as I just got a Facebook friend request from someone who I KNOW fucking RAPED someone I deeply care about — some years back.
Soooooo. THAT actually happened, in real life. This “friend” request. Jesus Christ.
And I don’t know how to process it all quite yet. I wanted to immediately reply via message “are you fucking serious? I know you raped __________. I’d rethink wanting into my life.“
But I stopped myself.
It’s not my place.
It wouldn’t help anyone at this point.
And it’s not my story to tell.
So I won’t.
I just can’t fucking believe people.
I won’t click on his profile, but from the picture alone it looks like he has children since we were friends in real life. If my father was a rapist I’d be pretty fucked up, I’d think. I hope they NEVER know that part of him.
We have a number of mutual friends in common. I’d love for them to know what kind of person he is — BUT I keep secrets I’m asked to keep.
To be 100% clear — I am not making any type of threat to him — about him — regarding him — however it needs to be heard/read/said to you. Because I will not let that shit into my life.
So, as I “pray” on THAT — so to speak — I need some time to finish writing my post about what I have to do now to feel safe.
Basically it starts with an incident not that long ago.
December 8th was the six year anniversary of me getting chased to my car by two men — in a parking deck.
People could have intervened but did not — and one of the men almost caught me. He wouldn’t get off of my car for what felt like an eternity.
I had never been so terrified in my entire life. Now, I know better. Well, to my credit — I already knew better then.
I am extremely anxious by nature which makes me super observant and hyper vigilant and a quick thinker in emergencies — situations which you never want to be in — well — at least I certainly don’t.
I was lucky I was able to make — and execute — a plan.
I’ll share the full story when I’m feeling less angry at all the above, but believe me I’ll share it soon. I hope tomorrow if I’m up to it.
I intend to share snapshots of what I posted on Facebook about it six years ago, and what my Facebook friends commented in reply to that post.
I will, of course, protect their identities.
But it needs to be seen to understand the full story. People accidentally, I believe, or at least unintentionally, blamed me in some ways in those comments. And that wasn’t okay then, and it’s not now.
People say it’s the fault of a victim for what she was wearing. Here’s me that night. Think I was asking for it?
I was only a victim of attempted assault then…damn.
Kings of live performances.
I don’t have the best pictures, and I won’t apologize for that, because it’s a lot more important for me to experience them than to capture them on my phone. I happened to have the best seat I’ve ever had to date which conveniently had a plexiglass barrier in front of it, so things wouldn’t fall over the balcony, I’m guessing, which made it really easy for me to record some of their songs without having to pay attention to my phone, so that was really a win win for me.
They have a cult following which I have recently (see: my Friday post) described as what feels like a religion. Marc, the lead singer, will, during “That Was A Crazy Game of Poker,” put down his mic, and hear a packed venue recite the lyrics, “gotta throw it all down and kiss that shit goodbye!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
“Kiss it goodbye” are the original lyrics. But if you’re a fan, you know you should be singing “kiss that shit goodbye” by now.
As far as concerts go, I’ll never love seeing a band live more than O.A.R.
(Although seeing Eminem with D-12, Lil Jon, 50 Cent, etc. on The Anger Management Tour 14 years ago — (fuck me!) — was a dream come true, and I will always cherish getting to see D-12 prior to Proof’s death, boy-band dancing to “My Band,” Em showing his ass to the crowd, and the electricity when the entirety of Madison Square Garden was pulsing to “Lose Yourself,” an experience I shared with my sister, and will always treasure.)
I used to wonder why people would see a group so many times, especially a group that plays as many old songs as it does new ones — a group that sings things they wrote when they began, twenty-two years ago. Now I know. I get it.
Here’s me, alone, pre-show, taking an obligatory selfie:
ON GOING ALONE
Well, like I mentioned in my Friday night post, I really wasn’t “alone.” As I said, I forgot that you’re never really alone when you go to see O.A.R.
And guess what! 🎶I met a guy, and I liked it!🎶 (Sung like Katy Perry’s “I Kissed a Girl” — just imagine it all right?! Hahaha, ahhhh I crack myself up.)
Actually I met several guys, all of whom ended up sitting near me and were also alone due to a variety of circumstances. They were all super receptive when I started conversations with them and, I think, grateful for the company between the opening acts. The show started at 7:00 but I left just before midnight — I’ve NEVER been to a show that was that long. It didn’t feel like five hours, but it was boring before my companions showed up.
The first guy I spoke to had never seen O.A.R. before so I told him I’d been to a bunch of shows and tried to explain what they were like. I think I did a pretty good job. I told him during certain songs people were basically going to go completely insane because it’s just like that. I told him I couldn’t really do it justice but he would experience it once the show started. During “That Was a Crazy Game of Poker” he leaned over to me and said “I get it now!” He really enjoyed them, which made me happy. It’s normal to be happy when someone you like — likes the thing you told them they would like — right? If it’s not that’s also okay because I’m cool with not being normal, as any of you who read this blog on any kind of consistent or semi-consistent basis by now well know.
The guy that I mentioned in my Katy Perry parody arrived, like, as O.A.R. came on stage. He was really awesome. He’s been to over sixty (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) shows! The man put me to shame! Although it had previously been my conversation starter with the first guy I met, I don’t recall exactly how being alone came up with him. Maybe he just noticed. But I must have said something because after the show he asked me if I was in a Facebook group for fans who basically just meet up and know each other and get together because they’re fans. I, of course, looked at him like a deer in the headlights, so he asked if I had Facebook at all. I said yes, so he pulled up the group and told me I should totally join and I did, when I got home. He was super sweet, even saying, “from now on, even if you’re ‘alone’ at a show you’ll never actually be alone,” and he smiled. Not that I needed taking care of, but it felt like he was taking me under his wing, and not in a condescending way. People who are fans of O.A.R. like he is, aren’t bad people.
So between the two of those guys especially, I didn’t actually feel alone except when I first arrived. We were on our feet dancing, singing, and really getting into the show together. I LOVE it when I’m near fans that aren’t afraid to go where their bodies take them during a set, because that’s just what happens to me naturally when I see O.A.R., and sometimes I feel self-conscious about it — something the superfan and I bonded over after the show was over as well. He made a comment that he was really happy to be between me and the guy on his other side because he’s usually on the floor where that’s pretty normal behavior, and in getting a seat he was afraid it wouldn’t be like that but it totally was. I completely agreed.
I would say that going alone, even next to this friendly cute guy I was vibing on, (is that a phrase? “vibing on?” — doesn’t matter) I have never felt less self conscious at one of their shows.
I just was. I existed. I moved how and when I wanted to and I sang how and when I wanted to, and it felt fucking amazing, truly. I just let go — so to speak. And nothing bad happened when I did. And THAT? Is beautiful.
Even if you went into a show pretty grumpy or pissed, I don’t think it’s possible you wouldn’t feel elation by the time it was over, whether they’re your jam or not. I actually did enter the show pissed for reasons I will detail later in this entry, so take my word for it.
Unless you’re like my ex who would (not unlike every other time I was around him) be on his phone the whole time and only told me after several shows that he didn’t even like them. I was surprised. Apparently he only liked one of their songs. I’m repeating myself but we never shared the same taste in music. Again, although I was open to his music, he hated the music I shared with him and would often tell me how terrible everything I shared with him was. Asshole. (It was a five year relationship, people. It still lingers. Especially the things like that which hurt me pretty deeply.) Like I said, I’m trying to quit writing about him, clearly I’m not there yet. But he was SUCH a buzz-kill at every concert I went to with him. I never understood that. Why go at all? It clearly wasn’t to “be” with me or try to enjoy it because he was never really “present” and he acted above it all.
I am so happy I finally have music back in my life almost all the time since he’s been gone. It helps me think, create, feel. It does what it does!
Although I LOVED the set — NO complaints — really — they did not play my “favorite” song of theirs. Favorite is in quotes because it’s not always the same. I like to hear them all. And I have 40 favorites. So, yeah. But, my “favorite” song to see them perform live is called “City on Down.” This post is so long even I need some visual stimulation right about now so here are some of the lyrics:
I just took that pic for ya’ll. Sorry not sorry for my Christmas lights kind of being all up in the glare there. Sorry the picture itself isn’t good. I keep this around my apartment. It’s important to me for a lot of reasons. It’s not my best handwriting by a long shot but truthfully I was probably crying while writing it. I have a few others like this around, and here’s why: when someone close to me dies, I usually send their family some or all of the lyrics on a card just like this one, because it is a nice, and, I believe, calming, idea. Whenever I read it I get chills and it grounds me, and, well, to be blunt, encourages me to stop acting like a punk ass bitch when I’m acting like one.
I read the lyrics to this song during my Dad’s repast following his funeral (one month shy exactly of five years ago, today). My Mom remembers it as the song I wrote out for her after one of our most beloved pets died and I made, like, a memory frame for her. I guess I do a lot of really weird things. People always seem to classify them as “thoughtful,” though, so, no harm no foul?
Although I have been planning to get an “Of A Revolution” tattoo for a few years now (and I will as soon as I am certain on where I want to get it and how I want it to look), I don’t own a single piece of “merchandise” of theirs other than their albums — no t-shirts or stickers or anything like that. Just ticket stubs and albums. So I decided that since I was alone and wasn’t affecting anyone by browsing what they had for sale, I would. I am finally the proud owner of my very own O.A.R. t-shirt! I’ve never seen it for sale at their events before, and it’s all about the song “Peace,” another favorite. The lyrics to this song have always made me emotional, and I have this thing with gardening and my Dad and Mom so it was kismit:
Speaking of kismit — my Mom, encouraging me to go to the concert had said to me, “maybe you’ll meet another guy there who is also alone and it will be kismit!” In many ways she was right. Thanks to the kind superfan I gained a lot which I did not have prior to going! So I guess I also get my E.S.P. from my Mom.
END OF SECTION (UNTIL TOMORROW’S POST — A TEASER FOR WHICH WILL BE AT THE END OF THIS POST)
People who I try to tell about seeing O.A.R. live often react by saying, “so they’re like Dave Matthews Band.” No. Hard pass. I can’t speak for all of us, but there are at least two of us who feel insulted by that comparison for some reason. One person who I met at this last show and I laughed about having had similar conversations.
I guess what I’m trying to express, and not as well as I think I did in my Friday night post I might add, is that those of us who are basically addicted to going to see O.A.R. live do not have anything else in our lives that compares to those experiences.
I’ve NEVER left a show disappointed.
I’ve NEVER not felt better after seeing them live.
It is, in fact, a high that I cannot keep from seeking time and time again. And I don’t drink or drug at concerts. A lot of people do and that’s cool as long as you act right, but since I’m usually driving I just don’t. And I really don’t feel the need to relax more than I do through listening to their music. And that feels pretty fucking amazing.
I went to a concert to see Dan + Shay open for Rascal Flatts this past summer at PNC Arts Center. In my opinion it should have been the other way around, but whatevs.
Anyway, I only mention this concert because a funny thing happened that I think is one of the many ways you can tell a superior band from an inferior one. Rascal Flatts started singing, “Just a small town girl…” and the entirety of The PNC Banks Art Center sang the rest of the first verse and chorus of that song, even though the band had stopped playing the music behind it WELL before we stopped. Then, the lead singer of Rascal Flatts said something like, “Wow! That was insane! I was not expecting that. Now let’s hear that kind of enthusiasm for one of ours!” and they began to play. I didn’t know the song, and apparently I wasn’t the only one. It was nowhere near what had happened moments before, and I felt embarrassed for them.
One of my FAVORITE parts of seeing O.A.R. live is when Marc stops singing during LITERALLY ANY SONG in the set — ANY — SONG — and lets the crowd sing for ourselves. I like to think that there isn’t a better feeling for the members of O.A.R. than standing back and listening to hundreds and hundreds of people singing their lyrics back to them verbatim, in unison, with such passion. We have studied, memorized, and even worshiped their work.
This is the video I recorded of “Shattered,” on Friday, a song played on the radio, so even if you don’t really know who O.A.R. is, you may have heard it before. If you’re not interested in watching the whole thing — (shame on you! — just kidding) — go to minute 2:43 in to see what I’m talking about. You can hear the crowd almost as loudly as Marc throughout the whole song though.
You might say, “that’s true for any band, fans memorize lyrics and like to sing along.” It’s not like that for “any” band, or every band. I feel like I’m coming off a little elitist writing about them this way, but it’s not meant to be like that. I’m just trying to tell you how I experience them. And I know I’m not alone. I’ve been to dozens of other concerts, and it’s never the same. Not. Ever.
For a song you’re not going to hear on the radio, “That Was a Crazy Game of Poker,” well, it’s twelve minutes long so I’m having some issues uploading it (tonight anyway), but if I could, you’d be able to hear the fans sing alone to a song that most people cannot even figure out the words to, particularly non-fans (I mentioned it above). It is usually performed during the Encore, not always, but it was on Friday night, and this is what the floor looked like after the show:
Yup. That’s thousands of playing cards because it’s a thing we do. The insanity that breaks out when the band let’s us know, (coyly playing with us before breaking into the song through a series of “maybe this is it!!!!!!!!!!” chords) that yes, it is in fact this song — is indescribable. It’s everything I ever want to feel. It’s better than the best feeling you’ve ever felt. (I guess it is a little describable.)
Thanks for reading! I’ll leave you with a few things. I wish you “Peace”:
🎶I just wanna make you laugh
I just wanna see that smile
Babe we’re only here, oh, for a little while
I just wanna hold you till, we fall asleep
I want love, I want us, I want you, I want me, and I want peace🎶
On a totally unrelated note, I locked myself out of my apartment tonight (car keys attached to the house key) right before I was supposed to meet my Mom for our weekly grocery shopping trip, and successfully “broke in” by climbing in through a window that is NOT close to the ground, but WAS my only option. I’m extremely proud of this as it was not easy and I definitely could have broken a lot of body parts. I didn’t even think I’d be able to hoist my fat ass but did. So, suck it, “haters!” I wouldn’t recommend trying to break in the same way if I were you. Fight Club Rules up in here, that’s all I’m sayin’.
So, it was a perfect night — that is — once I actually got past “security.” And do I have a HELL of a story for you about THAT for tomorrow. Pepper spray WAS involved, party people.
I forgot to have dinner!
I didn’t get to finish my O.A.R. post tonight because of extenuating circumstances. I was doing good deeds and got home really late. My brain hurts and I need sleep.
Plus, going to that concert last night really kicked my ass.
Fucking chronic pain. Fucking depression.
Stay tuned tomorrow night for the real deal.
Peace and love.
I’m too to write a full post about the O.A.R. concert tonight. But I will say this: I forgot. I forgot that you’re never alone when you’re at an O.A.R. concert. It is an impossibility. There is so much love and camaraderie between the members of the band and those of us who paid to come see them, all united in a vibe that is almost, if not actually, inexplicable. It’s the best therapy ever for those of us who follow them. I try to see them at least once a year, but, if I remembered how I feel right now more often then maybe I would try to see them more than that.
Experiencing O.A.R. live for those of us who “get it,” is like experiencing religion. It is like everything is better. It is like a pep talk through lyrics and music and understanding. It is what I hope dying feels like. It’s the best feeling in the world when they play a set you love (and you always love the set if you’re a fan, no matter what it is). It is like a Holy experience, if one ever existed. I definitely feel like humanity is worth investing in after seeing them. Every single time. It renews my Faith in everything. Seeing hundreds of decks of cards being thrown around is a better Communion than any I’ve ever received at church. If that doesn’t make sense to you, I’m betting you’ve never been to see O.A.R. live. If it does mean something to you, we should be friends.
Look, I’m not trying to shit on church. But ESPECIALLY lately, after this new “‘priest’ in charge” came to the church I have belonged to for thirty-three years, that is, my entire life, I don’t believe in anything that is said or goes on there. I just don’t. He has killed my Faith in church. (I used to be a member, independent of my Mom, and because of this “priest,” and how he handled several situations, INCREDIBLY poorly, and not at all like “a man of God,” I killed my membership, and he was HAPPY. What a fucking horrible way to be.) Forget that asshole. He’s not a good person. All he seems to care about is politics, like the politics of the town — not being political with the parishioners, otherwise he would not have been so happy to lose a member of a church who takes pledges from only about twenty people a year. THAT’S IT! TWENTY! So why the HELL would I listen to ANYTHING that came out of his hateful, self-serving, stupid fucking mouth? I wouldn’t. I don’t. I couldn’t respect him LESS.
So, when I go listen to O.A.R. sing “Heaven,” a favorite of mine, I kind of think about my life and where I am and what I’m doing, and aside from cursing, a lot, and hating people like this “priest,” I think I’m doing pretty fucking okay as far as being a good person goes. If I died tomorrow I’d be okay with that. (If you’re surprised by that, feel free to tell me why. I welcome commentary as long as it’s reasonable.)
And when you’re at a live performance like I was tonight, that’s Gospel right there. I used to have a Priest whose teachings were in line with the below lyrics. That’s why I’m so angry about what is going on right now with the church I used to know. Those lyrics are fucking beautiful. That’s how we SHOULD feel (whether we go to church or don’t. NO MATTER WHAT!!!!!!) That’s how I want to feel. And when I see O.A.R., I do feel that way.
Bedtime for me. But a little teaser for the full O.A.R. post, I absolutely loved being there by myself.
And a VERY SPECIAL shout out to my very best friend, who literally tracked and watched me walk to and from the venue/my car via an app to make sure I was safe. You are truly an amazing human being and made me feel so loved and cared about tonight. I cannot believe I am lucky enough to have you in my life. I know that if you could have been there with me tonight you would have. You’re THE definition of THE BEST <3!!!
Some of the lyrics of “Heaven” as I heard them tonight
And build this life by my own design
With no direction that is in between
Everything I love and everything I need
So bring it back, all I want is understanding
To live my life the way that I planned it
Wouldn’t change a thing
Man, it feels like Heaven underneath my feet
Under arrest, we’re undivided
Oh oh oh oh
I don’t wanna go to Heaven if I can’t get in
You take the low, I’ll take the high
You lock the gate, I hear the cry
Everybody got a problem with the way I live
I don’t wanna go to Heaven if I can’t get in
All I ever wanted was a shot at your love
I know, and I believe
Everything we got is everything we need
Oh, love will get you higher
I set my heart on fire
I know, it’s what you see
Don’t wanna go to Heaven if they don’t want me
I’m not your enemy
All I have is life
And I don’t wanna go to Heaven if I can’t get in”
This is going to blow your mind. But I realized something today.
When we are lighting candles on a birthday cake we are told to light the candles farthest away from us to the middle candles finally to the candles closest to us.
I realized, when I was pouring my Pedialyte powder into three water bottles tonight, that it’s essential to put the caps back on the water starting with the bottle closest to you, and working your way out to the bottle farthest from you.
So that’s a thing I thought about.
I think I’m wiped out considering I find the above interesting. And also because I thought about it at all.
Weird until the end, folks.