I’ll be honest. I’ve gotten tired of hearing the word “spoons”. I have issues, but I can normally soldier through. I have several friends that can’t, and it’s hard to understand when having limited options isn’t really something you deal with…at least often. Life isn’t always a breeze for me and never has been (says the sickly attention seeking girl who used to sleep in the nurses office when her parents wouldn’t let her stay home). This is my “not often” time however.
Spoon theory is credited to Christine Miserandino (I will admit my research on that was limited to the first page of Google) and spoons just happened to be the available tangible object of the time. It could also be chocolate bar theory, or money theory (we all fucking know that one), or fork theory…because everyone needs a good fork…am I right? ::rolling eyes at myself because that happens:: Moving on. The point of it is that invisible illnesses limit energy forcing the bearer to pick and choose what they can do throughout the day. You don’t always know what those limits might be so you have to use at least one “spoon/chocolate bar/dollar/fork” less than you think you can use so that there is always something in reserve.
I’m currently at that point where I have to monitor what I “think” I’ve got left. Thankfully I know my chemistry will bounce back in the long run, and I’ll be fine. Though that money theory….no clue when I’ll knoe just how many dollars I need to keep in reserve.
See you next month.
I got the kind of news on thanksgiving day that you keep thinking you’re going to wake up to find it was just a bad dream. Mostly. I knew the possibility of it all. It shouldn’t come as a shock, but when it happens to someone you love very dearly, someone who affects so much of your life, it’s hard to get out of that denial.
Now it colors every aspect of my thoughts and I’m not sure what to write about.
If this was just a diary I would write any drivel that seeps across my addled brain. I’m kind of glad I have an audience…however small. It discourages me from wallowing in my own self pity. It still makes interesting topics difficult however.
So the answer is…write. That’s always the answer. No matter what. Write.
Growing up I remember my father telling me that a woman who has gotten naked with a man cannot be raped. If she’s gone that far with him than she’s obligated to go “all the way”. on the surface I’d say he was a madman, but I think there is an undercurrent of adherence to this belief in this world. I don’t think its openly there, but some part of most people kind of thinks this. I could be just twisted though.
Getting into BDSM one of the first things I was taught is if someone says “red” or calls out an obvious safe word the scene stops. There doesn’t have to be a reason, it doesn’t matter whats going on, and it doesn’t matter who says it everything stops and the person who stopped the scene is cared for. It was this precept that was constantly reiterated that made me comfortable enough to start exploring myself. I was finally ok with the idea that if something made me uncomfortable, no matter what I was doing, I could stop and I wouldn’t be a bad person. Some people are even into that. It’s called ‘tease and denial’ and if I’m a top in anything it would be that. Ha ha! I love being a tease. I don’t like hurting people though so I would only do it to someone who enjoyed that.
Having someone I trust unconditionally has also helped me come out of my shell. I’m a lucky girl.
Have a happy Thanksgiving and I hope you have a lot to be thankful for.
Tonight is…moonshine and Diablo 3.
I have this idea. A girl, about 13, sits down on a park bench to start drawing. She looks to her right and finds a tiny notebook. Being a kid more curious than wary she picks it up. Inside is a strange series of scratches in a multitude of colors of dipped ink. To almost anyone in the world it would only be random doodles, but to this special little girl it’s a map to an extraordinary place.
In another world, closer to this one than you think, a little gray kitty with orange eyes named Elet ransacks her room glimmering in candlelight searching for something she lost. It is something of unbelievable importance. She reassures herself that it’s fine. It’s here and if it’s not then it’s somewhere no one can read it. Little does she know her mistake is about to make two worlds collide.
I’m basing the characters off my daughter and my cats. My daughter will love it. Not sure if it will go anywhere. The ideas are still very much in their infant stage. I can only say this about this new idea:
And now for something completely different!
But hey, maybe that’s what I need…something different. Life keeps feeling like dead ends lately. I changed my dating pool – ten plus years younger to almost 30 years older – and it worked. Maybe getting away from more adult lean in my writing will finally help me find my muse? Who knows? I’ll just have to wait and see.
I find myself alone which doesn’t happen often so I did what most moms do on their own and painted my boobs. What? Most moms don’t do this? Right, I’m not most moms.
For the annual pirate gathering this year my crew decided to try a take on “glitter tits” for our friends. It went OK…not great. I didn’t have money for the good gems or correct glitter or paint. It was fun though. I found I really like it. Now when I get a chance to practice I get excited. I’d post pics but….boobs.
Just a short note today. With Thanksgiving coming up I’m debating a “things I’m thankful for” post.
I also saw a random notebook lying on a bench and had a ‘what if’ moment. It might start a serial story.
In case you didn’t notice…I don’t plan shit. Makes life interesting….
A few years ago I was pretty sure I was dying. How sure? When 911 came to my office no one blinked an eye. It wasn’t for me, but everyone else was as sure as I was apparently. The doctors couldn’t figure out what was wrong. Part of that was my fault. I’m not the regular check up kind. A friend of my mine was a recently diagnosed celiac and urged me to take gluten out of my diet. What the hell? I did it and I got better. Decided to stop paying the docs to torture me and cut gluten out of my diet. Should I go back and really find out what happened? Eh…I feel better.
So whats the silver lining? I’ve gained a few pounds over the last few weeks for various reasons. The main reason is I eat more when I’m happy. I don’t want to go back to what I was, I’ve found that if I don’t eat after 6 I lose weight pretty fast. So I fixed an all gluten meal for my kid. Can’t eat it. I was forced to eat the salad which was pretty good. So…silver linings.
I’ve heard this phrase followed by “what the hell does that even mean?” a few times. It means you either keep the cake or you eat it. You don’t get to have it both ways. But why would you want to keep the cake? In the words of Kaylee Fry (Browncoat for life!): Cause I’m pretty.
I use this phrase when I want two things that contradict each other. I want to be rich, but I don’t want to work for it. I want to be paid to write, but only what I want to write. I want to be a kinky girl and a mom/accountant. You either get one or the other right? Well, I’ve been trying to have the last one both ways anyway.
I didn’t write last night because I’m unsure how my daughter meeting my boyfriend went. She’s not talking to me. I can’t believe I’m sharing this stuff publicly, but I have nothing else to write about otherwise, and I’m seriously trying to make this writing thing a habit. Anyway…teen not talking. Typical right? I started re-evaluating why this guy is in my life because this maybe the first honest roadblock I’m up against….and it’s a doozy. Is it worth it to try to work through my daughter not caring for him if that is the case?
First…seriously…is it just the kink? If I take that away do I still like what I have? I’m left with a guy that buys me stuff that I never have to worry about paying for in other ways. A guy that takes care of himself to the point I don’t have to worry about him at all…but I still do. A guy that remembers things about me like I don’t like pink (which he has fun putting me in pink because he’s a sadist, but I digress), or that I can’t eat gluten so he finds places I can eat, or remembers when I take my daughter to the doctor and asks how it went. Oh hell yeah I want to keep that shit for as long as I possibly can. Who has that?! No one I’ve ever met. He could never buy me another thing and I’d still walk barefoot through broken glass to stay with him because of the little things. Of course we are only coming up on our fourth month together. I’ll see where we are in four more.
As it stands right now I’ll not badger the girl on how she feels about the subject. They’ve met. He can actually come to the house once in a while instead of me trying to plan my life around the two of them separately. And in four more months maybe she’ll be like…yeah mom he’s cool and I’ll still have my little things. Then it won’t be a contradiction so I won’t have to worry about keeping cake, storing cake or eating cake….because you know what?
The cake is a lie.
My marriage disintegrated after I ended up in a hot tub with two men, neither of which were my husband. Makes me look pretty bad huh? Maybe. I wouldn’t know. I don’t remember shit from that night. I will tell you my husband was there the whole time and even brought me the alcohol. So…fill in your own blanks.
Truth is my marriage ended ages before I just didn’t want to make my child a statistic. I fail at faking emotions though and….it just didn’t work. So now all sorts of things I never thought would happen are happening. It’s not all roses, but its definitely the fire and brimstone I thought would follow me by breaking my oath to stay with him forever.
So tomorrow I’m introducing my soon to be teenager to my 68 year old boyfriend. Oh dear goddess what am I doing? Am I weird? The answer is a resounding YES. I can also honestly say I am happy. I think it’s going to be OK, but it is definitely something I never in a million years thought would happen. My parents are still married…as far as I know. I have no clue what it’s like introducing your kid to a new guy. Especially in our situation. Good things about the age difference? He’s not going to want be a father figure. I don’t have to worry about that. She needs to be respectful, but I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.
A part of me has been dreading this, but I’m kind of looking forward to it now. I get to put my two favorite people in the same place. And the weird? Well that’s just par for the course.
“To trudge: the slow, weary depressing yet determine walk of a man who has nothing left in life except the impulse to simply soldier on.”
That’s me…tonight….with this stupid writing project.
“There’s nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.” -Hemmingway
That’s all wrong. First…Hemingway did not say it (that I can actually find….someone named Red Smith might have) and second…no…no…it’s not fucking easy at all. Some days I look at the white space with its flashing cursor and the damn story or poem is actually written for me. Other (most) days I look at that same space and the little blinking line just sits there mocking me like the smug little shit it is. I could decide to write 365 days a year on how I love to write but I can’t, and then suddenly I would be able to write about that either.
The problem with the opening a vein routine, for me at least, is that I don’t want to fucking hear about it. It’s all daddy issues and fuck my childhood bullshit. And if I don’t want to hear about it than you certainly don’t want to hear about it. Well…you might want to hear about my daddy issues. Not the ones that happened when I was kid…no fuck that. I mean the aftermath. I’m dating a guy 30 years my senior who fucking rocks my world. Not sure if this is daddy issues or just a girl…standing in front of guy….waiting for him to beat her in the fun way because he’s fucking amazing at it. Heh heh.
Ok…I wrote. Fuck all this shit. Diablo 3. Maybe tomorrow I’ll have a little more to write about.
I want this. I want my writing to be my job. However, like anything, the moment you HAVE to do it, it becomes tedious. Last night I was playing a role playing game with friends and attempting to apply for jobs so I did not write. And I should have. This is why I don’t get paid to write…yet.
Honestly I was surfing my phone and watching Star Trek the majority of the time because my character was off playing house with her multi millennial hubby. Oh the stories I could tell from this game, but our characters are quite interesting. Mine, Emily Thorn, was an orphan raised at a catholic orphanage with no idea who the fuck her parents are. I should note this to the game master so it can come into play one day. She was so irritating the orphanage gave her the last name Thorn and she never got adopted. Eventually she became an EMT. She’s tiny with short blond hair and resting bitch face that could possibly kill you. She does light up whenever Hassan is around however.
The group has, over time, communed with enough dark forces that we are hard to hurt, and nearly impossible to kill, so Emily’s functionality as the healer has waned. She more or less just calls her hubby most of the time who hails from the Hyborian age and amassed a large empire over his incredibly long life. Why is he so head over heels in love with Emily? Well she was, and remains, completely different from anyone he’s ever known. Most people grovel and she’s just…whatever. Also it’s nearly impossible to get her to flip out. The Necronomican may have something to do with it as well. (remember those dark forces). We aren’t even anti-heroes. Also everything on TV is real. For instance: Supernatural is a documentary. It’s a fun do anything you want kind of game. And we do…anything. We have a tendency to start every game with: ‘Hey, NSA, if you’re listening this is all role play. We have no intention of actually doing any of this.’