What. A. Loner.

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.


That Means Everyone’s Sick.

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 🎶
On repeat

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
Many someones

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.

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

The love of my life is gay.

The second love of my life is dying…

…but only because we all are.

The third love of my life is also dying.

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

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

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

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

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

Last night I slept selfishly.

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

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

I mean, look at him:

Wouldn’t you?

So I don’t sleep much these days.


For his death.

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

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


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

I hate that I can’t read at night

Because I’m not reading you to sleep


I hate that I’m wearing your old shirt

It looked much better on you


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

Since you couldn’t reach me anymore if you tried


I hate seeing your name on mail

Which is not my fault you’ll never see


I hate how much I hate you

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


I hate that you were everything

Except for when you weren’t


I hate that I know better

Than to bark back up that tree


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

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


I hate when I write through your eyes

Knowing the tears you’d cry when I did


I hate that I can’t remember

What it felt like to feel you


I hate how many times a day I call myself stupid

Something you really made me believe


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

You almost killed my voice


I hate that I feel helpless

Though I know it’s not the truth


I hate that I let you train me

Like the broken animal I was


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

But mostly I hate the thoughts of you


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

In every way you used to see

Let Me Rest In Pieces, You Arrogant Prick

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

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

I am taking him at his word.

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

I am keeping my word.

No contact since then.


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

It’s, “duh.”

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

Thanks a lot, Matt Nathanson.

“Used to be,” is my every moment.

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


Cry Me A River, Gillette

Gillette Thinks Men Go Through Agony Shaving Their Faces.




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sorry not sorry.
Mic drop.

I’m A Free Bitch, Baby

Valentine’s Day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just like I numb everything else.

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

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

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

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

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

In other words, HAVING IT — SUCKS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m bitter. And? What?

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

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

Just don’t bother being my friend anymore.

I REALLY get NOTHING from you.

I’m used to going it alone.

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

I’ve got this.

I get it.

I don’t get a win.

I never get a win.

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

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

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

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

Today is also my Dad’s Birthday.

Happy 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,


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:




(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.)


Charlie Hunnam Workout routine and Diet plan 2.jpg


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.


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’m Just A Person

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.

One Foot In Front Of The Other.

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.


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.

Peace ✌️

So I Walk, Yeah I Walk.

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.


Of A Revolution.



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:



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.


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.

Depression; it’s what’s for dinner.

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.

And The Way It Used To Be, It Was.

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

“Maybe I should take my time
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
So you take the left, I’ll take the right
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
So raise ’em up, raise ’em up
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
‘Cause I’m no criminal
I’m not your enemy
All I have is life
And I don’t wanna go to Heaven if I can’t get in”
20181207_214929 (1).jpg

In-ie or Out-ie?

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.

I Did A Thing For YOU, That I’ve Never Done For ANYONE — When I Wasn’t Drunk

I took elicit photographs of my body for the explicit purpose of this post.

I’m no longer writing this anonymouslyif I ever wasso there’s my face!…for the world to see. The jig is up. This is me. I covered my new scars for you. You’re welcome.

If you know the people written about in this blog, well, I’m sorry if it bothers you — and by that — I mean my honesty about those people that maybe you think is untrue, unfair, or incredibly self-serving — but fuck you if you don’t believe what I write here.

I’d never lie here.

This is what I do.

I write gritty, honest to God fucking facts about things that happened to me. Check the naturally curly hair, if you will. And ballin’ boots.


Like, I’m COMPLETELY NAKED under those clothes!


Oh, so sexy! LOL!



These were taken in my bedroom mirror. You can check my super cool boots, jeans, tank top, scars, tats, whatever — but I’m not letting ya’ll into my bedroom just yet.

Unless I can somehow make my Mom RICH by getting naked for a camera, I’m afraid, at least at this point in my life, that’s the nakedest you’re probably going to get — all up in this blog. Sorry not sorry AT ALL.

Those pictures are about you needing to see my body — in order to, like — quiet your questions about the fact that I’m about to write about my eating disorder that isn’t an eating disorder at all — except for the fact that I don’t ever want to eat, and — I would guess — four to six days of the week — I don’t. If you do not believe me, I can literally prove it.

I don’t know if it is my medications, my vitamins, or Pedialyte that keeps me going, but “thanks” to whatever it is.

So, the pictures above are of me dancing in completely different states of dressed. (That’s the saying, right? LMFAO.)

I really don’t care what you think of my body.

I don’t maintain it, utilize it, or worship it, for anyone but me. ACCEPT THAT. It’s a fact — between now and when I’m with — “the one” — who I may marry — or will call my partner for life — that it’s all mine. It’s my best asset.

If you want to call me fat, that’s fine by me!

Fact: being fat doesn’t mean I’m not beautiful. Fact: I know I’m not “hot,” and I’m not trying to be, in any of these pictures; I actually took them FOR YOU, READER, while I was dancing today in my bedroom. Fact: Bears beat Battlestars.

My/The point in sharing ANY of these potentially embarrassing photos is to prove to you that I am aware that I’m not skinny — especially for someone who doesn’t eat.

And there’s a reason for that, probably.

I guess I’m showing you that I’m chubby and I know it (and I own it) — so my incredibly ridiculous failure to eat isn’t because it’s going to continue to make me thinner. It hasn’t yet. And this has been going on for a long time. Look at that chub! I’m not thinner. It’s been suggested that my body is holding onto everything it can because I don’t eat.

Whatever, man. Life. Am I right?

On a kind of a different but similar note, I am not into “really skinny” guys — which sucks when I imagine fucking movie stars like Ezra Miller (https://www.imdb.com/name/nm3009232/?ref_=tt_cl_t5)! Jesus Christ his face is beautiful and I want to have him.

But, I’m into a bit of the chub.

Some extra loving.

Muscles instead of chub also works.

But straight up skinny or short (I’m 5′ 8″) — I can’t. Sorry not sorry.

Very importantly, I also want you to know that I HATE wasting food because of [infinite reasons here]. I never waste food if I can at all help it. So, that means, if a Blizzard hits, I’d be a pretty good person to know. Get it? I have lots of non-perishables, because I don’t eat, so perishables would be wasted on me.

Once again, I have several conjectures as to what is going on other than those written above. Maybe I’m not mentally healthy enough to feel like I should take care of myself insofar as I need sustenance to survive. Maybe I wish I were a size four again, although, as I’ve said, I really hated being hit on so much when I was skinny (and thus to many of those who are not me — “hot”). Maybe something else is going on. I don’t know.

What I DO know is that I don’t crave food. I don’t enjoy eating.

I don’t care about it at all.

Meals are not a priority to me, unless I am making one to feed someone else. I will open my fridge, see limitless possibilities, and close it again, unable to even utilize my microwave to feed myself — oh so fucking easily.

I feel the need to once again remind you that this isn’t about weight — CONSCIOUSLY.

I try so fucking hard to cook and feed myself. Every day, it’s a fucking nightmare of a struggle.

I. Just. Don’t. Care.

Living alone also means I can FINALLY fucking walk around in my underwear and t-shirt when I am home without my ex grabbing my ass.

“Oh, that’s sooooo horrible!” men and some women may sarcastically react.

Well, although I get your point, it was actually horrible. I’m a sexual assault victim.  Like, period. I’ve been sexually assaulted at least three dozen times. So — that shit? — fucking matters.

So what did Mr. Ex do? He would wait until I was up to my elbows in soap and water washing his dishes (he ate a LOT — and I don’t eat…remember?), and he would come up behind me — stick his junk into my backside — and grab my breasts — because, duh, I was helpless to stop him(!!!!!!!!) with a glass in one hand and and a sponge in my other.

Still think I’m a Bitch and he’s a great guy, those of you who did?

That behavior is fucking RIDICULOUS. It’s pathetic and sad. If he was SO HORNY he really should have just fucking left and fucked all the (of age) teenagers he’s into in the ass so I didn’t have to deal with his disgusting dick.

EVEN AFTER I TOLD HIM HE WAS LITERALLY MOLESTING ME (definition: “sexual assault or abuse of a person, especially a woman or child,” or, “the action of pestering or harassing someone in an aggressive or persistent manner“), his reaction was, “I don’t like when you put it like that. Don’t say it like that. That makes me feel like a creep.” He’d complain that if I would just let him touch me “normally,” he wouldn’t have to do things like that. MOTHER-FUCKING ASSHOLE of a GUY.

So, yeah. That’s basically the meat of the onion of this post.

Oh, and if I dated or hooked up with you in any meaningful capacity, you should expect you will at some point — if you have not been already — part of this blog. Everything is “game” now. I’m doing this for real. It’s my life.

Sleep well, everyone. I’ll write more tomorrow.

Denial – It’s Not Just Limbo Anymore — REVIVED

An August 4, 2014 Revival.

In college I dated a guy who was obsessed with preaching that “being happy” was a stupid goal. In interviewing me for the position of His Girlfriend, he asked me if I thought I deserved to be loved by someone else. Although now I look back at that with condemnation, at the time, I suppose he was just projecting issues from former relationships.

But, it always stuck with me. Since when is believing you deserve to be loved a prerequisite to relationship status? In fact, I believe this question comes from laziness of the purest form: if you ask me if I am worthy of you and I say “yes, I believe I am,” then you can hold that against me whenever I need reassurance in the future, forever, and ever Amen.

Of course I’m conflating two issues. The first is that our partners have become lazy. We date people who expect us to maintain our own emotional needs so that they can go on with their lives without worrying about us.

The second is that happiness is not something to be desired. I’ll never know what that old boyfriend wanted out of life in place of happiness. Although I could just ask him, I no longer care enough about his opinion to bother.

The thing is — for all of my anger — I am a remarkably happy person. There are things that are awful that happen in life. Accepted. But I’m happy. I’ve never been less than grateful. I’m privileged and well loved. I have had opportunities others haven’t. I can make decisions for myself.

My problems only inflate when I look to others for recognition or acceptance/approval. For example, I had been accustomed to doing something that no one I knew thought was acceptable — as this post is a revival — and I’m owning my self-harm — in talking about cutting. It made me feel better (and still fucking does), every time I engage in it. I was taught that this behavior was unacceptable and would have “serious consequences.” So I did it better. Secret-er. (Sic.) Guess what. I still feel better when I do it and there are no consequences. But when it peaks beyond it’s secrecy, I can become ashamed. And I ponder over this. I can’t not care. It’s not in my DNA.

So why do we lie to ourselves and pretend that the status quo will suddenly, out of nowhere, make us happy? I myself advocate that I shouldn’t care if my boyfriend(s) have thought someone else was beautiful when they hadn’t told me I am in…as long as I could remember. But you know what? It still felt shitty to hear it. I still cared…and I resented that tremendously.

First of all, because I’m not here to be pretty for anyone. So, I hate that I feel bad about not feeling pretty.

And second, because — damnit — I’m not a robot. I have feelings. I want to be maintained. And I expect my loves to read my very intricate and perfectly logical/emotional mind.

Let’s be clear:

1. I simultaneously do and do not care what you think.

2. I want to be loved and happy and I want to create those things for myself. Your disapproval or detrimental commentary makes me violent.

3. “Justified” is the best television show you’re not watching.

4. I get to determine what makes me perfect – and you get to determine what makes you prefect.

5. If I’m worthy of anything, it’s self-love. No one else on this planet gets to define, outline, suggest, or ANYTHING otherwise – that I could be better “if….” And that goes for you, too.

Feeling numb – by your own hand – only works to some extent. It’s helpful in getting by moment to moment. But really. When you wake up in the morning and face yourself…the numbness is gone, and getting it back won’t fix a thing you have in front of you. I have always believed I’m my own worst enemy. But it scares me that I could be someone else’s as well.

Pinch Me, From A Bare Naked Lady

Fresh out of the shower, (well, I finally put clothes on. — for someone who engages in self-harm I sure cannot stand the touch of most clothing to my skin — if I could be naked  24/7 and only interact with the fabric known as terrycloth I’d be a happy woman) I sit here, writing this: my first “Shower Experience.” 

To define “Shower Experience,” I can only allude to scenes from movies or television shows where a character is SO FREAKING HAPPY to be under the water of his/her shower head, FINALLY able to wash his/her HELL of a day OFF. That’s all I really mean.

To my recollection, I have not had THE “Shower Experience” until tonight…which is kind of incredible…considering I have had a lot of days from Hell. 

Let me set the scene. I had a day from Hell. I could go through all of the painfully stupid details but I’ll spare you if you promise to trust me on what I’m about to tell you.

I HATE showering. It’s a thing that started up about a year and a half ago. I used to love showering. I don’t know what it’s about.

Conjectures are that: it’s part of my chronic pain — just the idea of the pressure of the water hurts — but I think that’s because getting under the water does hurt; or maybe it gives me PTSD remembering being in the shower after dozens of assaults (performed by the same person); or maybe — I’m just clinically crazy.

My ex, to his credit, bought us one of those “rain” shower heads pretty soon after this began for me. It makes the water pressure a LOT less intense (and takes some getting used to, because, for me, it means a longer showers) but it is supposed to make it feel like you are showering in the nice, non-painful rain — rather than, I guess, like, a slightly bigger hose nozzle.(? LOL?) Unfortunately, it doesn’t help my anxiety about showering. It doesn’t make showering more bearable in any way, but it’s not worse.

The point in sharing, basically all of the above, was to try to prove to you that I must have had a REALLY had a day from Hell to take a shower. I promise I’m not gross. I force myself to shower. I just kind of have to work myself up to it. So, to decide, without planning, that I was going to shower on the fly, was a HUGE FUCKING DEAL for me.

Four paragraphs later, our story begins. I turned on the water trying to set the temperature to “tolerable.” I grabbed my JBL speaker and turned my Spotify station “Post Trauma” (yes, that’s it’s real name) up loudly. Loud enough for my upstairs neighbor to hear it if she were in the room above me…and also maybe from her bedroom where she is sleeping…I don’t care. Sorry, not sorry, but a little sorry. Because of her, I was already walking around my apartment with blinds open in my bra and underwear. My ex and I never used to have even one single strand of a blind open. Not one. (Jesus I have to believe there is someone else out there for me.) The place looked like a hoarder’s paradise before he left. Now, I’m proud of what I’ve done with it. The thing is, I used to walk around naked — kind of as much as I could — especially since my ex wasn’t home a lot and I felt safe — and I am not super happy with changing that pleasure, so it is what it is. Either “sorry,” or, “you’re welcome,” neighbors who happen to see me naked through my open windows. Dealer’s choice.

I took off all my jewelry, then took the meds I’m supposed to take at that time, and got totally naked. I adjusted the temperature of the water, and slowly, forcing myself, stepped under the water. 

It is in fact super fucking weird thinking about my shower habits yet alone sharing them with anyone reading this. I have never put my head under the water a lot. Only as needed. I don’t know if that’s weird because I don’t remember being taught “how” to utilize the water while showering — except that it is meant to wash oneself — kind of a broad concept now that I’m writing about my “Shower Experience.

The first song that came on my playlist of over five hundred songs was Hinder’s “Lips of an Angel.” I know…but I dug it. I took a deep, “this is happening” breath, and put my head under the shower head, the water covering my ears and head completely, (so I could barely hear my music playing) and breathed out with the thought, “this feels perfect.”


THE “Shower Experience!

I instantaneously felt better in every way. It was as if the water was the most perfect temperature I’ve ever had it set to. I ran my hands gently trough my hair and then again. I felt so free — and beautiful — and pure — and amazing — taking in the dramatic lyrics of the song I was listening to. I turned around and faced the shower head just as the voice through the speaker sang deeply of his concern for her now significant other’s potential wrath upon her at their elicit conversation, and then the statement that he didn’t think his now significant other had “a clue” that they were talking. Full lyrics here if you wish to dabble: https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/hinder/lipsofanangel.html

I began to think of all of the heartbreaking truth in the conversation I imagined these two ex-lovers having, thinking about what he looks like and what she looks like and if he’s in the bathroom (I turned my back to the shower head again, and grabbed my shampoo) hiding — and she’s outside smoking a cigarette — you know, since she made the call to him — (suds in my hair abound) and I thought about how hurt (albeit — kind of controlling) their significant others would feel, if they knew, and/or found out. That’s some real shit right there, dawg.

I rinsed as the next song came on. It was Secondhand Serenade’s “Your Call,” whose lyrics can be found here (especially since I don’t think that many people know who that is): https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/secondhandserenade/yourcall.html

It’s another sad-ish song (I began my second shampooing — if you get nothing else out of this post — let it be this — ALWAYS, ALWAYS shampoo twice — the second amount of shampoo need only be about the size of a quarter to get full sudsing action just like your first shampooing — if you engage in shampooing — TRUST) about a relationship which could possibly be resuscitated.  I’m telling you, THE “Shower Experience.” The artist sang,

“Stripped and polished,
I am new, I am fresh
I am feeling so ambitious,
You and me, flesh to flesh”

Like a total, “hello God, it’s me, JustCallMeTaco with this playlist right now!!!!! Thank you.”

I listened and the words brought back painful memories of the person who introduced me this artist, only one of two people I know who ever intentionally listened to him. The introducer, if you will, and I had been labeled soulmates. Maybe we still are.

All that matters for the purpose of this story, is that we used to think we were soulmates. The definition of “soulmate” is: “a person ideally suited to another as a close friend or romantic partner.” But this person, who told me we’d be married and have children by the time we were twenty-six, is now married to a man, for more than four years now, who barely talks to me anymore.

It makes me feel really sad.

Like, too sad.

Like in a — I only applied to two colleges got wait-listed for my first choice so said screw it and followed him to my second choice thinking we’d work everything out except he was gay and couldn’t tell me even though we were together for the immediate years before he “came out” but I wanted to stay near him anyway because I had no idea so I was happy I went there so I at least got to milk all of the time I could out of him while I could in a world where he tells me he thinks about me every day, constantly, all the time and I don’t believe him and he was one of the original witnesses of my first cutting but said nothing to anyone including me about it and he knows me well enough to help me but he doesn’t  — kind of sad.

Take that shit in for a second. I was conditioning my hair, re-living those times that made me feel sick. Still, the lyrics cited above, said it all. I was really feeling fantastic and admired my playlist for hitting a home run during this difficult time of taking a shower. Now take that shit in for a second.

Next up, and last, while under water, was “Pinch Me” by the Barenaked Ladies, lyrics here: https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/barenakedladies/pinchme.html

I love that song. I remember being in high school and in my bedroom and hearing them come on the radio, which I guess I listened to a lot, while I was crushing hard on my high school boyfriend (same guy as written about in the “too sad” section). It wasn’t their most popular song. Not by a loooooooonnnnnnnng shot. But it was my favorite song of theirs.

It was now time to scrub my body including my newly made cuts and eventual scars (and I tend to go at everything “hard,” so it’s pretty painful during this point in my shower). The lyrics:

“On an evening such as this
It’s hard to tell if I exist
If I packed a car and leave this town
Who’ll notice that I’m not around?
I could hide out under there
I just made you say ‘underwear’
I could leave but I’ll just stay
All my stuff’s here anyway.”

The lyrics are ominous, and yet, comical as well, without breaking the solemnity of the artist and song. As I viciously scrubbed at my newly made (and now opening cuts — fuck!), the irony of the lyrics juxtaposed with my own misery and simultaneous happiness (not to mention how stuck I feel) seemed so perfectly intentional.

I rinsed out my conditioner and for the first time since that shower head has been there, I noticed I could see my reflection directly under it. I watched myself as the water dripped down, cleansing everything, and I could not believe that I had never realized I basically had a mirror in my shower. Check it! (taken post-shower) — and my apparently spider-like/exorcist grip:


Author’s Note: Any pictures that may have reflected images of anything I never meant you to see are unintentional and hopefully non-existent.

I decided I would see how much of my make-up I could really get off in the shower utilizing this new found instrument. I was able to get a lot off, but not all of it. So I determined an experiment was in order. I would use cotton balls and make-up removing liquid (as is my usual routine when I don’t shower) to see just how much make-up was left even after a shower.

I turned off the shower knobs at the same time, taking care not the let the hot water burn me. Turning the shower knobs on and off is actually physically painful for me. My ex sometimes turned them on for me in an attempt to quiet my anxiety about stepping under. (This was before the chronic pain really kicked my ass, of course.) It feels like I have to turn them too hard. It feels exactly like I shouldn’t have to try so hard to turn them all of the way off. It’s an everyday normal activity that I now despise.

I shook myself off like a dog. I do this every time I shower. I don’t care what you think about that.

I stepped out of the tub carefully onto my new bright floor mat and grabbed my towel. I always hated how cold it was stepping out of a warm shower. I lived in this place once that had a “post-shower warmer” for when you stepped out of the shower. It made you warm. That’s it. But it felt great. When I’m rich, maybe I’ll invest in something like that. (I believe something in season 1 or 2 of “Breaking Bad” was utilized as part of a plot point to achieve the same goal of post-shower warmth.)

Look, I don’t like to talk about this too much, but I’m an awesome fucking woman. I’m a Bitch who simultaneously wants to make everyone’s day better. I hate everyone until I breathe. It’s good that I breathe, like, all the time so far in my life.

And, now that I am single for the first time in five years (bring it up too much, don’t I? trying to quit, promise) and live alone for the first time EVER (I highly recommend this by the way — an entire three months in) — I get to do things I never really got to do before.

My ex and I occasionally left messages in the mirror for each other. Now, with enough steam, the mirror reads “[My name] (hearts) herself 10/26.”

By way of backstory, my ex once wrote “no one believes you” and it literally fucked with me for months. When I finally had the courage to bring it up, he said it just came to him and he thought that if someone saw that — it would really fuck with them — and he thought that might be funny to observe.

But, to a rape victim (he knew I had been raped by this point), what he wrote, actually caused me a tremendous amount of agony.

Victims, survivors, all of us need to be believed.

It was just fucked up. It still fucking bothers me to this day, joke or not. It wasn’t funny. And I cannot reiterate enough times that he actually put in writing to me, “you are not a victim,” post break-up.

Not only am I survivor but I am a victim. I was his victim. And that worked for him until I started speaking up for myself gradually regaining my sanity and strength all these years after my Dad died.

WOW, am I getting off track!

Okay. So I see myself in the mirror and the song “Love My Like You Do” by Ellie Goulding comes on. I just started straight up naked dancing in my bathroom and singing at the top of my lungs:

“You’re the fear, I don’t care
‘Cause I’ve never been so high
Follow me to the dark
Let me take you past our satellites
You can see the world you brought to life”

I brush my teeth while singing:

“So love me like you do, lo-lo-love me like you do
Love me like you do, lo-lo-love me like you do
Touch me like you do, to-to-touch me like you do
What are you waiting for?”

Weird, right? But it was so fun. I was having a straight-up dance party in my bathroom, naked, without anyone or anything to interrupt or stop me. I was freely allowed to listen to my weird as fuck music and sing along without offending anyone. I rocked out with me choch out. “Choch” is not in the dictionary regarding what I am referring to, but, I think anyone reading this knows what I’m referring to. If you don’t, you probably shouldn’t be reading this shit.

I just — fucking — let — go — for once. For fucking once. And I thought, “Right now is when I am going to make my life everything I have ever wanted it to be. I’m going to work on getting over my past. I’m going to pursue my passion and succeed because I believe in me when I embrace those parts of me. I cannot fail. I wish it hadn’t taken me so long to figure out that I was supposed to be living my life instead of the one I thought I was supposed to be living. I felt weightless, and for the first time in as long as I can remember: Pure. Bliss.

I then had to tend to my cuts, using this:


Guess what, Johnson & Johnson?! Your “Hurt-free first aid antiseptic pain relieving liquid” IS NOT FUCKING HURT FREE! I already knew this, as I have previously used it, so I was ready for the seemingly eternal sting, but it always surprises me, nevertheless. How funny is that poster, by the way? It makes me laugh when I look at it. So, this picture was a staged, post-shower experience. If I didn’t feel so guilty about posting my self-harm I would upload a picture of what I’ve done to my forearm, but I’m not okay with doing that. Just imagine the tiny bit you can (yes, I did this on purpose) see on the left side of the above picture, repeated thirty-one times, (I counted just for this post), ending just before touching my other tattoo. It is approximately three inches of cuts similar to the one pictured above in length.

I also wanted to finish my experiment, so I took pictures of the cotton balls I used to take my makeup all of the way off to show you what a shower for me cannot get to: 20181126_011338.jpg

That’s the residue from my left and right eyes. (Sorry about the hair, women shed a lot, deal with it.)


That’s what was leftover of my lipstick. (Again, sorry for the hair. Women shed a lot. But no, seriously. Deal with it.)

And then I did an “artsy” braggy shot to show off my super amazing bathroom decor:


Oops!!! Toes. I’ll get a pedicure, stat.

After taking all of these pictures I put my hair up comfortably (I love how amazingly smooth my hair feels just after showering. It’s so soft. How do “they” get those products to do that?!)

I assessed myself. I addressed my body. I determined I’m my best self. 

I also determined that at any point in time, everyone is their best selves. Even if you’re not trying to be your best, you’re, like, by definition, the best you can be in any given moment. So we really are all just doing our best.

I felt, FINALLY, my best tonight. I feel like I am a fucking amazing person who is too interesting to define in any practical or actual way. I cannot be understood completely. I cannot be tamed. I cannot be anything but what I believe to be the honest me. And from now on, I won’t do anything but what I want to myself. I am chasing my dreams. I can’t fail. I won’t.

Dancing happily around MY apartment naked to a playlist called “Post Trauma?” That’s me for life now, baby. 

I’m scared to death that I have decided to embrace my dream at the expense of someone else. I hate that I’m doing that. But I owe it to myself. I really do. Because what I have to write, photograph, and say — you’d want to see. I promise.

So, I’m officially announcing that I am in the not-so-beginning stages of writing a book. You won’t want to put it down. I can’t say what it’s about yet, but, I have read different drafts of chapters to a variety of different people, and, it’s content, nor writing, has never been critiqued to a crushing degree. I mean, not even close. Everyone, and I do mean EVERYONE, wants to know MORE. I can take an honest critique. That’s a lot of what my Creative Writing experiences are about. I forced myself to write different false stories focusing on honing my craft in different ways, and I read them out loud along with my classmates, and they were well received as well. So now I know: it’s not just the compelling voyeuristic content, but my writing itself that’s gripping people. I can proceed now, with confidence, that I’m not boring.

So stay tuned world.

I’m also scared that I have a new crush. I just kind of find myself thinking of him in all kinds of scenarios with me. I imagine what it would look like shopping next to him, meeting his parents, kissing him, making him laugh, reading to him, watching him do whatever he does, and, of course, the thing which I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to do without triggering an atomic bomb of PTSD again.

But a Bitch can pretend everything will happen organically and without trauma as she dances around her apartment naked, right?

Oh my God! There is also this guy who has been “in” my life since I was in college who I know asks after me. I ask after him as well. He’s a smartass. He has a smart mouth. He is TOTALLY into me. I know because I know. Because I know. But, if by any chance you, Mr. guy I’m talking about, are reading this, know that, don’t feel weird, please; it’s okay that I know. Because I am too. I am TOTALLY into you. I have been forever.

This person and I have never been single at the same time. We just keep “missing” one another. It’s a lot like that movie, “A Lot Like Love,” except I doubt it’ll ever happen for us. I want to be optimistic in every way possible, I swear to God I do. But, when we could have been together, I was so insecure I couldn’t imagine he thought of me in any kind of way, when in fact, I totally could have “had him” and he could have “had me,” so to speak. This is the kind of thing that really kills me.

This is how my mind plays out this situation basically on sporadic repeat: I’m living my life, la dee da, “oh my gosh, [he] liked my social media post once! damn, I wish we had been able to talk to each other about our feelings without being so insecure, his mind is so sexy it makes me want to jump him, fuck! I’m not single, oh my gosh, (ten months later) [he] liked my social media post once again!, he speaks his mind without apologies and will always challenge me when we are together, and vice versa, a sparring partner but of the sexiest variety, which makes me want to jump him, fuck! he’s not single.” REPEAT.

I’ve been told — literally — TOLD — you seem happy. Perfect! I REALLY want you to be genuinely happy. But I can’t not tell you by proxy (this post) that I’m also a little sad for me.

We get one life. One. One chance to make it with who and what we have in it. You have my number.

But I’m not embarrassed by my body’s visceral reactions anymore. I’ll never allow that type of — self — or otherwise — censorship — again.

All real talk.

Vulnerable, scary, shit.

Holy shit.

When the fuck did I grow a pair of ovaries and woman the fuck up?!?!?!

Oh yeah.

A long time ago.

I just forgot.

It won’t happen twice.


And hear THAT.