I was debating what to post today but couldn't decide. And that was CLEARLY because the Lord Baby Jesus knew I'd see this 5 minutes later and laugh so hard my stomach hurt:
"Jesus be a fence around this baby’s mother’s Love Pocket. May it recover, in His MIGHTY name. I IMMEJATELY started doing kegels upon seeing the picture because I got stressed by proxy."
"This baby walked out of his mothers vagina with a career and bills."
"...My uterus just put up a 'closed forever' sign when I read this. Any eggs that were left over just scrambled themselves to save my poor lady bits from that type of destruction. I’ll be over in the corner with my legs crossed thinking about ice packs and Percocet."
P.S. I am aware I'm a bad person. But some of the comments are so, SO funny.
Via Awesomely Luvvie: Whose Precious Giant Newborn is This?
Seems fitting for Groundhog Day, but with advance apologies to the few readers who emailed me to say I shouldn't waste anymore time in this place...
This is the point in the That Guy cycle when I'm worried we're not actually done -- that I'll let my guard down and then he'll pop up somewhere. It's been a discernible pattern, so much that I'm in a mental fighting stance every time I check any element of my digital existence.
I don't think it's going to happen this time. We weren't exactly kind to each other. And he wasn't trying to resurrect our friendship, which it turns out we never HAD. He was just finally confirming he'd been using my body and affection to make himself feel better, and that I was inadequate in both capacities. (Still a great feeling if you ever get the chance.)
Logistically, I don't see how he COULD pop up. He can still see this page because it's public (everybody wave!). I'm not changing that to avoid one person. (Unless it's, like, Dexter.) But I don't think he's going to "like" anything after I gave him a bunch of shit about liking posts about my body or masturbation.
I think I've taken every other precaution, but I'm still a little on edge. When I stopped speaking to him last New Year's, I don't think a month passed thereafter where he didn't remind me he was checking on me -- a text, blog like, Facebook friend request (to my professional account), a LinkedIn profile view. But I probably said enough that he'll avoid setting off that particular powder keg again.
And we'll just save it for therapy that I still miss him. (Shut UP, I don't KNOW. He told me I "claim dysfunction and use it to explain away being wrong," so...yeah, dibs on that. I was crazy, I thought we were friends -- I was wrong. I'm basically Clarissa right now.)
Oddly, I think I'll relax about all this around Valentine's Day, since that'll be about 6 weeks. I'll aim to spend that day finally unclenched, hopefully in more ways than one, with a movie, a glass of wine, my bombass lasagna, and an obscene quantity of really good chocolate. Ideally with a man under me as well, but I think it'll be a decent day either way. Me and my Valentine "Serenity" -- in all the ways. Shiny.
The other day I wrote about That Guy, how I can't block his email address without an existing email, but I'd deleted all his emails, emptied the trash, and sent in a sweeper in case there were any stragglers.
So obviously today I get an email from him saying he'd been going through some books and found two I'd loaned him a million years ago, wanting to make arrangements to return them. (By mail or go-between. Not by seeing me in person. Don't be absurd -- you save "in person" for people you give a fuck about, right?)
So he either saw the post, because he follows this page on Tumblr, or he just happened to have emailed me. I really don't know which.
Also, if he saw it, part of the post was: "There was comfort in the idea of closure, because there'd be no more worrying about letting my guard down when checking email — let’s be honest, stupidly half-hoping I’d ever be worth more than a drunk-texted apology at 3 a.m."
So...if we're going to assume he's seen it, the underlying message of that email is that I'm NOT worth more than that.
Breathing. Breathing. Breathing. I am, like, 150 times stronger than this.
One more on this, and then, sweet baby Jesus willing, I think I'm done.
Possibly (erm, make that probably) inebriated conversation with a male friend...
Friend: "Does That Guy know you're the one writing these posts when he likes them on Tumblr?"
Me: "Yep. I told him about it before I fucked everything up."
Friend: "Before HE fucked everything up. Don't get it twisted."
Me: "Mutual destruction."
Friend: "That's weird, though."
Me: "What, that he knows? Or that he'll like posts about my body but turned down my many offers to do any naughty little thing he wanted to it?"
Friend: "Both. I mean, he made his choice, right?"
Me: "Eh. It's fine. He doesn't read often. If I don't want him to like the posts, I'll just keep writing about feelings. He never did like my feelings."
Via BPhope: Opening the door on hypersexuality:
I don't have bipolar. Or, if I do, it's a really shitty bipolar -- they're still working out my special-snowflake nomenclature. (I tried making "White Trash Bipolar" happen, but oddly, they don't want that in the DSM.) But it hadn't occurred to me until I read this that a) none of the doctors I've been to have asked about any sexual behaviors at all, or that b) it might even be related.
And I can't say I talk about my vagina online and regret the entirety of 2013 and slut-shame myself because it's NOT a factor. (JUST a factor, like I'm not trying to say I have this, either.)
I have friends tell me they could GET me "just sex," but that they won't, because it's not really what I want and I'll make it a Thing and feel bad about myself and they don't want to hear it. But I still do consider bringing in a stunt dick to scratch that particular itch. My friends are right, though -- I'd need some kind of daily therapy lightning round if I did, and I can't afford that, so... tense and pent-up it is!
*twitch* No, really. It's fine...
I just learned it's National Day on Writing, so writers are writing about #WhyIWrite.
So.
1. It keeps me from masturbating constantly in an asylum somewhere. (Also, I've never looked into it, but the really good asylums are probably expensive.)
2. I am a filthy attention whore and every "like" is like being tenderly and lovingly fingered by Jesus.
3. I have almost no other skills.
4. You weirdos seem to enjoy it.
5. I don't know how NOT to write.
I'm doing this "creative lady mixer" thing tonight, kind of a summit of artists, writers, designers, etc.I mentioned before that I'd been debating whether to introduce myself as the writer of this blog because...I don't want to say I'm "ashamed" of it, but maybe a little embarrassed? Even more so now that my most recent post compared my vagina to a log flume.
But I don't know, getting ready this morning, I think there's something kind of hilarious about "vagina as log flume" coming from a nondescript Feyschanel blonde wearing a demure Michelle-Obama-lookin' Lands' End sundress, with a camisole under it to corral errant cleavage. I'd like to think you wouldn't look at me and immediately assume I'm the creator of "my vagina is a log flume." (Worst John Mayer B-side ever.)
"I write a blog about women's issues." That includes sex. (And log flumes, apparently.) If the real writers don't like it, it's not the right group. I have enough friends, fuck it. Let's do this.
I've been debating joining a local blogging group, but I'm hesitant, mostly because I really do want this page to stay... I guess SEMI-private? I don't mind if close friends see it, because they know I'm a sailor-mouth nutcase, and strangers who happen upon it can follow it if they enjoy that, but I'd prefer that, like, my dad not read it, because...ew. And the same thing goes for professional-ish contacts.
I alternate between a blustery, "Pfft, whatEVER, I give ZERO fucks what these people think. I am awesome and hilarious and my tribe gets me" and "I am a Carrie-Bradshaw-wannabe hack who's not funny OR sexy, and they're going to think I'm trashy and find my grandpa and tell him I say 'fuck' on the Internet.'"
Much like the rest of my life, I guess it's time to give some thought to what I want this blog to be -- if I want to continue the id of it all, or maybe write something else under my real name. Or both. Or neither.
UGH. THOUGHTS. We'll add this to career and personal goal development, because you know what I found out, you guys? There are some people who don't just obtain a job and then pray they don't lose it. They, like, DO shit to advance their careers and their lives, and they have these, um... "aspirations," I think was the word? Freaky, right? Next you're gonna tell me people really floss.
