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She keeps coming back like a pimple not properly popped. Time for pro active.

“Sarah L___ messaged me on the blog yesterday”.

My boss asked if I could block her.

I laughed, “Why would I? She just showed half a million of my followers what an asshole she is…in triplicate.”

You see dear readers, when I failed to respond to the first 2 attempts left by anonymous and badblood respectively, she left a third comment, on the wrong post, with her actual email.

Ladies and gentlemen, we have us a sloppy stalker.

But no bad blood.

So you’re trying to rub my nose in the idea that he wandered drunk into your bar (I knew where he was to before you messaged by the way) which is geographically closer than mine and thereby easier, and fucked you, which is apparently also very easy to do.

Any port in a storm love, and your harbour is dirty, yet available. Tyler said you weren’t worth it.

That’s the general consensus. Not worth it.

She tried, and failed, to bang a friend of mine over the last couple weeks too.

I apologize my loves.

There will be no more posts about the boy and the old ones will be removed.

I have never deleted a post before, but it must be done. For him.

Except the last one, about Persephone. She felt the need to comment. You realize half a million people saw that right?

I am not much for numbers, didn’t really think about it until she reminded me half a million people have been following along with my life for like 5 years now. They’re kinda on my side. Sis, you left your email address, this is gonna be a bad time for you.

I am used to this, but asking someone else to let their life be open like that is unfair.

I think it’s a bad time for him too and I’m sorry.

I promised to protect him forever.

Least I can do is protect his privacy. In retrospect, I shoulda kept my mouth shut.

I am still learning.

Nothing that can’t be undone.

So be it.

I have other things I can write about. Should be working on the next book anyways.

I’ve played tug-o-war for a few men in my day.

Never got me anything but tired arms from hanging onto something that wasn’t mine.

So, I am letting go.

I have no quarrel with her. I understand how she feels and a part of me feels bad.

I feel worse for him, so I am removing myself from the situation. That is what love is. Wanting the best for someone else to the point that it doesn’t matter if they are with you or not.

You can take almost anything by force or manipulation, except someone’s heart.

Took me a long time to figure that out.

I did a lot of damage in the time called before.

I have also, in my day, stayed in places that were bad for me just because they were comfortable and familiar . The world seemed too big and scary compared to the tiny cell I was used to.

Like how criminals reoffend if they have spent too long in jail because they can’t handle the freedom.

I get it, I do. Any port in a storm.

I’ll just be over here, an island unto myself.

Fuck, truth be told I lapsed a few times. Went running back to the cemetery because the ghosts called my name.

I understand. It’s what I do.

I knew where he was to last night before she saw fit to message me about it.

This is a really tiny island.

I was just relieved he wasn’t in jail or dead.

That’s enough.

Her insistence on announcing she had regained the high ground just serves to show me she is not as secure in her position as she wants me to believe. If she was happy she’d be off and away and enjoying being happy. Alphas don’t run around screaming at everyone they are alphas and picking fights. That’s beta behavior.

No war was ever won by yelling “I’m winning.”

This isn’t war.

You slept with him. Big deal.

Most people find it easier to flip a light switch than get hit by lightning. I understand.

I didn’t come here to play games. Just wanted happiness and peace.
And I just remembered, I carry that around on my own. I appreciate the reminder.

I compete with no one. Especially not her.

Budget Bargain Basement Sarah
Unreasonable hand drawn facsimile Sarah
Diet Sarah with all of the chemicals, none of the nutrients and a really bad aftertaste
Cardboard cut-out 2 dimensional Sarah
Why am I even bothering to write this Sarah

Because I can.

Because I think you want me to. Wish granted. I’m benevolent.

And after you get these 15 minutes of fame you have been clamoring for, I will forget you exist.

White flag is up. Do as you will. I don’t care.

I have been through worse.

I learned years ago when picking an adversary, make sure she’s worthy.

My girl had a boyfriend named Steve, he left her for a girl named Amy Raymond. We somehow decided we could never say her name unless it was both names spit out like tacks and a gypsy curse from our mouths. She was a thorn in my girl’s side.

I met Amy Raymond one night, months after the fact. Went straight home to my girl, shook her awake and said “Dummy, she isn’t worthy of your hate or another minute of your time.” She really was a nothing girl, not a nemesis.

I have had men run from me and hide behind cardboard cut outs of girls. They get brave later.

Or bored. Cardboard is…boring.

This one isn’t much of anything either.

Nemesis according to Snatch
Brick Top: Do you know what “nemesis” means? A righteous infliction of retribution manifested by an appropriate agent. Personified in this case by an ‘orrible cunt… me.

This one is a horrible cunt. But that isn’t what it really means.

nem·e·sis

ˈneməsəs/

noun

a long-standing rival; an archenemy.

I don’t care for the player nor the game. So I am not playing.

Retribution comes on its own.

Things play out the way they are supposed to. This is divine law.

She quoted me back to me, which only proves how unoriginal she really is.

It’s not my job to fight. I tend to the wounded, and its okay if I quote myself.

I don’t even think I could stoop low enough to try. She cheats and steals and lies and does a fuck ton of blow. Fucks his friends, tried to fuck mine, recently even. This whole thing reads like a bad soap opera with a villain that you almost kinda feel sorry for, but you can’t.

I don’t watch tv. Not my cup of tea. The reality of my life is better than any fiction.

I was brave enough to come here and that is enough.

I remember every word he said.

I am logical enough to admit, maybe I was wrong. Maybe this was a catalyst for something else.

Who knows, we’re just getting to the good part.

I am not worried.

Good luck and god speed little mule.

https://aprilcereijo.tumblr.com/

I am neither in heaven nor hell just now.

Limbo it is.

I miss my card girls.

Especially Tina, she had a way of calling me on out my shit wherein I would immediately sit up and pay attention and stop doing the self-destructive thing I was doing. She also pushed me to work.

I could also just look at her and feel calm. She is back in 8 days.

I love having something to look forward to.

I still watch the door till 9 every night, even though he pulled a mind fuck and showed up at 10 one night, while I was playing cards. I shook, but we talked about this. Tina was next to me and I calmed down, finished the hand and then another…waiting for him to finish his beer, and then another.

I said I was learning.

For a minute he was warning me about coming. I could text him when I wanted and he would answer.

Now nothing.

It’s fine. Everything’s fine.

Things play out the way they are supposed to. This is divine law.

Here by my side an angel
Here by my side the devil
Never turn your back on me
Never turn your back on me again
Here by my side it’s heaven
~Matthew Good

See also

If you are going through hell keep going.
~Winston Churchill

Both have valid points. No one is by my side, and it is hell and so I shall keep going.

Live through this and you won’t look back
~The Stars, Your Ex-Lover is Dead

That is all it’s been lately. Just a series of live through this. Coast for a few hours then cue the next round of fuckery.

This has been my winter of discontent. Even with Florida and Mexico, all I could think about was getting back here. And now I am here and the winter never ends.

Maybe Persephone doesn’t want to leave.

My girl posted this and tagged me the other day…

My Girl: We have to go rescue Persephone, Hades has clearly kept her longer then what was agreed upon!

Me: I think she loved the devil

My Girl: She does, she is married to him…they have an agreement,.. And I think they broke it

Definitely broken.

How about we just let her make up her own damned mind? Could we do that?

There is a lot of debate about Persephone and her place in hell.

Most myths say she was tricked with pomegranate seeds and her mama throws a tantrum every year when she disappears into captivity, we call this winter.

But I have heard others. About how she made a choice, about how she ruled the underworld, stood by her man. Was a bad ass, not a prisoner but a willing participant.

She was picking flowers in a field, minding her own business and found the entrance to the underworld. She wandered down on her own. Made a decision and stayed. And her original name was Kore, which translates to the Destroyer.

She was stubborn and she stayed.

He put Persephone’s thrown right next to his and, unlike the other Gods, allowed her equal rule alongside him. *

That sounds perfect to me. I don’t need to be captured or owned. I came here on my own. Just let me sit beside you and contribute.

The alternate story has her creating Elysium. She made heaven.

I like bad ass Persephone better. I have long understood that devils need love too.

I would gorge on the blood of pomegranates just to stay.

Wake up dead man, can’t you see I’m starving…**

So far it’s just been tastes, nibbles and empty promises of being fed.

Then disappear.

Angel, angel or devil. I was thirsty and you wet my lips***

There is a running joke on this island I find myself on that spring doesn’t exist. It’s not funny because it’s true.

Maybe I don’t get a spring because of the choices I made. I ran to warm places and when I got back he was gone. And I came here anyways. Maybe I am only 2 months into my 3 months of perdition.

And just maybe I want to stay with the devil. Charon would take me home if I asked him to. Cerebos is my lapdog. I might have found this place by accident, but I danced with the devil by choice. And returned of my own volition.

I know he does bad things. I knew what I was getting into when I came here.

All I want to do is sit beside the devil and make hell a little more bearable for both of us.

*https://sites.psu.edu/tetirclblog/2015/02/05/greek-mythology-hades-and-persephone/comment-page-1/

** Holly McNarland

***U2

Rumi says you have to keep breaking your heart till it’s open.

It’s fucking open. I should know. I broke my own heart.

That is how the light gets in, or out I guess. Cue the Stella Polaris in my chest.

As a result I seem to have activated the bat signal that brings all my old lovers a runnin’.

I am suddenly back on their radar.

Like all of them, except 3. Found some reason to reach out and message me.

When I hurt, they rally. Protective circle. Like musk ox, horns out, Sarah in the middle when there is a wolf about.

Here there be wolves.

Broken boys and rescue horses.

Drunken confessions of love, not so subtle suggestions from boys I have met here asking me to go home with them.

Nope. Not gonna happen.

I haven’t forgotten why I am here.

The boy is missing again and I am being comforted by ghosts in my phone.

But none of them are here.

oh god what am I doing here*

Oh here

Whoa here.

I said to my girl the other day “you are mourning a future that never existed outside of your mind. You created it, and once you realize that, you can let it go and make any kind of future you want. Or you can be mad and sad for a couple days and then do as I say.”

I have got to start following my own advice.

I broke my own heart.

She’s going through a break up.

Psychologists say the 4 most traumatic events any human has to go through are

Death

Moving

Break ups

Bankruptcy

I have been through all 4 in the last 2 calendar months. Including being down to my last $100 bucks. I have not been this poor since the beginning. It’s getting better, but it was scary for a minute. I’m bleeding out.

I ‘broke up’ with Giant to come here and did not grasp the gravity of how hard that was going to be. I was prepared for most things, but not that. The epiphanies keep coming and they are sharp like knives.

He drunkenly messaged me while I was cloistered in the monastery, declared his love for me, decided I should come home, but with the caveat that I can’t live with him.

To be fair we were talking about our doors always being open to the other so it wasn’t entirely out of context.

Almost romantic.

He says he’s coming for me.

We shall see.

My life resembles a romantic comedy directed by Quentin Tarantino and right now we are in the weird part, somewhere in the middle. I have no idea what is going on, I just trust he knows what he is doing.

Giant says I have come too far to deny myself the grand finale. He is not wrong.

Shit just keeps getting weirder and weirder and I am gonna tell the absolute truth here…thank fuck.

I am grateful for it.

That void that existed in February and spilled into March and April was taxing. Felt like January 473^rd for way too long.

There were 2 break ups to be totally fair. The Last One resurfaced late one night as I pulled into a hotel in Florenceville New Brunswick after being on the road for 14 hours and I could barely believe what I was seeing on my phone. I kept hope alive for a week and then I had to let him go. He said he was coming for me, I asked him not to.

It happened again.

I was on the wagon a week and I slipped off. Woke up at 7am yesterday with a righteous hangover and thirsty as fuck. Looked at my phone and said “Nope”. Got my water and went right back to bed.

Message from the Last One “You okay baby?”

When I woke up the second time, I’d convinced myself I had dreamt it.

Nope.

It was as real as any words are from any of them.

But when ghosts speak, I listen.

Especially when I am achingly alone and everything is fucky.

She broke down and let me in**

I invited more chaos. Let’s see how this plays out.

So we talked.

He left to protect me from the dark he carries around inside him. I know this.

He said I’m his lightning, I know this too.

I remember everything.

And that is how I break my own heart.

I expect them to do as they say.

I don’t need protecting, that is my job.

I would however, like to be rescued, just once.

He says he’s coming for me.

We shall see.

*Alessia Cara
**Fleetwood Mac

If Stompy will rip her own bible to have something to stomp about, what else is she capable of?

Who fucking knows and more importantly? I don’t care to find out.

I am halting the writing of this to check my horoscope, brb.

Shit, cue the tears. Thought we had those in check. Survey says…nope.

He gets me every time…

http://www.freewillastrology.com/horoscopes/20180412.html

Welcome to the Beauty and Truth Lab.

It’s a perfect moment for many reasons, but especially because you are on the verge of finally figuring out exactly what it is you really want more than anything else . . .

Every moment, with all its stars and scars is the perfect one. Even if I can’t see it yet.

I already know what I want. Everybody knows. Except him. He seems to think I don’t know what I am getting into, that I need to be sheltered. Fuck that.

I know exactly what I want, I am here right?

So does the convenience store clerk. Her name is Ophelia and she is lovely.

Her: He better be a saint

Me: Jesus no, I have no use for saints.
He’s like sitting next to a lion, that protects me and listens to me…but only sometimes, then I have to let him go be a beast. And he wanders.

He is currently wandering. So be it. We’re magnets, he will come back.

But that isn’t exactly what this is about.

Everybody also knows, weird shit happens to me. It’s the only reason anyone reads this damned blog. And truth be told, I like my weird little life. Without adventure, things get boring and stagnant. So…technically, I invite all this chaos.

Weird shit happens to me…but it’s like nothing for a long time, then all at once. Like I am driving on this highway at night and I go miles and hours with no sign of anything, then this barrage of billboards hit me so fast and I can’t decipher what the fuck is happening or where I am or where I am going or what the signs say.

I didn’t want to spend the night in the cathouse on my night off. Better to be the fuck away from here. Also…hot tub, king sized bed. We call this winning.

Except.

I didn’t really think this through. I had no idea how close in proximity I was to the place where I spent that one night in heaven with the boy. The one that called me back here. I walked through the parking lot of the church and I saw us in the car, smoking, keeping warm, before heading back to bed. I saw us in the bed, in the reflection of the glass of the fireplace. But the bed was cold this time around and I stayed on my side.

Cue the repressed memories of paradise.

I didn’t really mean to be there, I just had to leave and that place came up first on Google search. So I called. Vacancy, hotel room (lost in me lost in you*)

Not gonna lie, there were a few hot, sad tears rolling down my cheeks, but I got in the Jacuzzi and let my troubles boil and bubble away. Sent my angst down the drain.

Was mildly irritated by the fact that I forgot my pain pills and my laptop cord. I had a headache, real and proverbial butthurt. But I settled in and watched bad movies on AMC instead of my usual Netflix.

I forgot about commercials.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=riNi-4MO42E&pbjreload=10

Here be the background music I was looking for. I still have no idea what the hell is going on though.

It’s my song with Giant, in a beer commercial about anchors.
For a minute I couldn’t breathe.

For a minute it was -30 degrees outside, 25 months ago, my belly was full of scotch and steak. I was sex sore and so sated, my head on Giant’s chest, listening to his heartbeat with one ear and “this” song with the other. I was overwhelmed and asked him if he could stay a while. He said yes. There is no way either one of us could have realized how true that was going to be.

We talked till 3am his time

Just to put this into context. I never ever watch tv. Like ever. And this song is beyond obscure.

Your Hand in Mine

Explosions in the Sky

The Earth Is Not a Cold Dead Place

Released: 2003

How does that even happen?

Some indie beer company’s advertising exec pulls a song from 15 years ago and voila, my heart stops because I am in the hotel watching actual television for the first time since I was in that hotel last time.

Sending postcards to himself in the future to remind him of being happy. I do that. Every day.

The world is full of anchors, meant to keep you in place. And sometimes, the only person who can remind you to lift those anchors, is you.

There is message in here somewhere. Something about ships being safe at harbor but that’s not what they are for.

To be completely fair, that particular song is not our song. Ours is Postcard from 1952, same band, same cadence, less heart punch.
It’s the one that is close, the one that I allowed myself to listen to, in the car one varying playlists, because it’s close but not quite. It was safer.

But still. What did that sign just say?

6 months. Go back. I have no fucking idea. Honestly. I got lost somehow.

Something else happened, rather monumental, but I can’t write about it. Let’s just say this island is tiny as fuck and my life is like a weird soap opera directed by Quentin Tarantino with the same cast and premise as Peaky Blinders.

Giant told me I’ve come too far and not to deny myself the finale.

I’ll abide.

Anchors up.

(* Lumineers, Angela)

I just had a massive epiphany in the shower. Like huge.

Shaking from it.

I wrote the following article about an hour ago. But I realized something.

He is to me, what I am to the others.

The idea of caim, a protective circle. The embodiment of calm and soothing. Why they can sleep on me and have good dreams. The reality of sanctuary wherein anyone can knock on the door of a church and be allowed in, the be safe and sheltered without question.

He makes me feel like other people feel around me.

I know what I am now.

I did a thing.

Made it 18 days without speaking to the Giant. Not a record, but all things considered, herculean effort.

Not entirely my fault. Watched Thor Ragnarok and when Chris Helmsworth gets his haircut and enters the arena, ya. That’s what Giant looks like.

The guitar player up the road from work has a penchant for playing John Mayer songs and last night one of the girls danced to Tennessee Whisky by Chris Stapleton. It’s his song for me.

The drawing of three.

I tried to severe things two and a half weeks ago because I thought I was supposed to.

Sent him a Panic at the Disco song.
This is Gospel.
Lyrics like “truth be told I never was yours…if you love me let me go.”
Music was always our first language when speaking to each other so it seemed appropriate.

More truth be told. I fucking missed him.

Told him so. Filled him on how things have been, which is not great.

I sent a screenshot of part of our conversation today to the group chat I have with my girls.

Panda said ew.

I found her reaction strange. I thought he was starting to grow on her by the end. Guess not.

Doesn’t matter. I love the fucker.

Talking to Giant and remembering I am still lovable even when I am a mess. That poor boy let me cry on his kitchen floor, put kittens in my lap, food in my belly and whiskey in my hand, wiped my tears and took me to bed more than once. Bless him.

He loves me consistently and unconditionally and has since the beginning.

The only one guy out of all the guys who have been terrified of me, the idea of me, the intensity of me to stick around and talk me through shit.
To explain to me why he couldn’t stay back then.

I get that I am a lot to handle. I also know I am worth every minute of it. Because he told me so in a way that I believe him.

And I have been a mess around him. My messiest really.

And he stayed.

And I left.

I am beginning to wonder why.

I have been more vulnerable in front of Giant than in front of anyone I have ever known.
It took me losing that luxury to see it.

I think that is what Panda doesn’t quite understand. The comfort and joy of walking through a door that is always open and having a man on the other side who can put you back together with a hug and a forehead kiss.

Talking for hours about stars, mythology and music sipping really good scotch until I forget what I was sad about.

He’s my Charon, always bringing me back from the dead.

His long distant advice was astute. Told me to get through this season. I am Persephone, anxious for spring and this is third winter version 7 point oh my god are you serious right now 4 inches of snow followed by buckets of rain a few hours later. Haven’t seen the sun in days.

“I’m going to follow your advice. Spring will be better. Summer might even be glorious.”

We talked about doors. He said I was a farther walk than before but his was still open.
Acknowledged that it wasn’t time yet.

I thanked him for loving me and he said I made it easy.

I stole this photo from Biker Body Pillow’s shop’s Instagram. I needed it.
If you are ever in Toronto go to Kensington market, Reactive Ink. Tell the boys I say hi.

I miss my people back home. I am not feeling very brave.

Tennessee Whisky came on last night and I almost messaged the Giant. I wasn’t drunk enough to figure out what to say, so I left it alone.

Sober nights make way for better mornings and less regrets.

Woke up a little earlier than I would have preferred but I almost got my 8 hours.

I see a nap in my future. But I am awake now, and writing. That’s something.

Surrender Dorothy.

My wise woman Monika posted this…

Surrender is better
Giving up denotes a lack of faith
Surrender says…ok. I see what is…so what’s next.

https://www.facebook.com/MonikaCarlessAuthor/

I hit rock bottom with my coccyx night before last. As best as I can piece together I poured 6 shots of whiskey on 2 english muffins before 9. We were upstairs talking and my eyes leaked. Haven’t heard much from him since. We will circle back around to that, just give it a minute.

The night went downhill from there, and I was already pretty fucking low.

I have my period too, which is not an excuse but…pelvic sorcery and a lot of pain, both physical and emotional. I was due for a breach.

Always calm or breaching.

I managed somehow to be much less drunk in the middle, then blacked out around 2:30am.
No idea how I got home.
It seems I tangled with a now broken kitchen chair and we both lost. I am now the not so proud owner of a very bruised tailbone. I woke up at 8 the next morning, still drunk, looking like a pinball on tilt trying to get to the bathroom, dry heaving from the booze and the pain in my ass.

I am a stripper with a broken butt. The irony is not lost.

The Weeknd was playing on a loop in my head “I might not make it, this time I might not make it.”

I realized I haven’t been that drunk since 2006, I almost died that night.

But I made it then and I made it now. Got right terrified at the beginning of last night. Then a couple strippers and co-workers rallied around me, kept me off stage and at work. Made a bit of money and surrendered to what is. Life is just gonna hurt for the next while. Bruises heal eventually, hearts too.

I’d just finished healing from the last stupid thing I did to myself. Now this.

I seem to be stuck in a loop of ‘if I can just get through this ____ everything will be okay.’ Then the next ____ happens and I am back at zero.

My Facebook statuses were enough to scare my mom. She checked in on me and I cried a bit as I told her the truth, but it meant a lot to me to be noticed, even if it was me falling apart that got the attention. Some things never change. Forced me to problem solve. This is what is happening and this is what I am going to do about it.

Guru chimed in too. Told me not to fight or run, just freeze and ferfucksakes stop drinking for 2 weeks.

On it.

But darling, if you could see the size of the blessing coming to you, you would understand the magnitude of the battle you are fighting.

I’ve fallen apart before, and once the shattering is complete I rebuild with the broken bits and make something better.

I was scraping my knees along rock bottom, climbed out a bit when the boy held my hand, and when he let go, I fell, hard.

It’s not his fault. I should know better than to put any amount of my happiness in the hands of others, they drop it every time. From what I can recall of our conversation, I think he thinks I want more than he can give. Same song, different mouth.

I want nothing. Just sex. Why is this hard?

He is hard every time he gets near me, I know this.

And so what if I cried a bit? I am beyond frustrated and I am human. I just did a big, huge, terrifying thing. I am allowed to break.

I am Dorothy. I am in Oz. A place where the snow flies sideways. Good witches, bad witches, flying monkeys and a man hiding behind a curtain.

And at some point I will realize I had the power all along.

There’s no place like home.

I’m home.

For the record I do not regret the things I’ve said when I was drunk. Except maybe when I told Mark to leave me on the bathroom floor because I didn’t want anyone seeing the fucked up puddle I had become. Poor guy had to carry me down the stairs, I dressed myself though, so that’s something.

I have also never been on to write drunk and edit sober. Feels too much like lying.

Drunk words are sober thoughts. Everyone knows this.

I am held up and together by so many inebriated “I love you’s” sworn into my collarbones by drunk boys hanging on to me for dear life. Just to let go the next morning when the hangover and reality kicked in.

I’ve done it too. Never said I love you when I didn’t mean it, not lately anyways. Not since I figured out what it meant I mean.
Said shit drunk I wasn’t brave enough to say sober. It happens.

Lately, when I drink, I cry.

I’m beyond frustrated and I can’t keep it contained. Whiskey is the key to the lock on my glass case of emotion.

I mean, I’m actually made of glass. If my mouth doesn’t say it, my eyes will. But my mouth always says it. If not in real life, then here in these pages I write.

Most of the time I am bulletproof, and sometimes there’s a crack.

I am transparent. I live without a filter and I speak without lies.

I sit in my emotions and my truth and sift through them endlessly.

Most people can’t, don’t or won’t, and sometimes I envy them.

They smoke/drink/fuck/run/hide…anything to quiet the noise.

And they lie.

To me.

And themselves.

Sometimes convincingly.

You see dear readers, this is not a new story.

It’s a culmination of all those who came before.

I’ve had a million moments of self-doubt.

Especially when it comes to men. Wherein I have thought, with bone shaking clarity “Maybe I made it all up. Maybe it wasn’t what I thought it was.”

I repeat this till it is true.

It’s easier that way, to blame my imagination. I have a habit of seeing only the good in people I care about, and I tend to take the blame when they leave. It’s just easier.

Time passes, I convince myself of this new ‘truth’ and then…oh and then, I will be looking through this inbox or that one and the earth shakes and the truth comes out.

The actual truth. Spelled out in black and white, in old messages. Their words, not what I imagined, what I remembered and tried to forget.

And then I have to deal with the loss and confusion all over again.

So maybe it isn’t easier.

But I don’t know how to be angry.

Knowing I was right and having them still gone brings no satisfaction at all.

And sometimes they come back.

Always, they always come back. Seriously it’s fucking weird.

My girls back home will kill me if they read this, but here it is.

Lumberjack found me on the Siren’s Snapchat.

Ya, that Lumberjack.

The one who hid his actual girlfriend the whole time.

And I didn’t block him. I let him say what he needed to say, and I forgave him. Just let it go. He is what he is, being angry won’t change what happened.

Cut to a few weeks later, Monday I think it was. He pops up again with a snap of a rather delicious looking seafood stew of some sort. I said “noms, how are you?”

I have a rather fond memory of him taking me out for a glorious seafood dinner to satisfy a whim I had, and as I was struggling with a crab claw he reached over, cracked it for me and handed it back, smiled and called me a dork. He remembered too, which is why he sent me a pic of my favorite foods. Fucker.

Now, please understand I am drowning. Monday was extra bad, I saw a lifeline and I reached for it.

I said “I need some advice”.

He complied.

Took me a minute to spit out what I wanted to ask. Sometimes I can’t find my words.

I asked if I had been more assertive, less passive would he have still gone back to her.

He said “I thought you were in love.”

(eyeroll*)

I said “I am, and I am scared. I just don’t want to repeat my mistakes.”

There was a long pause and then he said “I can’t believe you are blaming yourself Sarah, I’m a terrible person.”

Followed by, “if this guy is reminding you of me, you might want to run sweetheart.”

It’s not that. Different man, similar situation. Bitch of an ex.

I told him he had potential to be good, just had to fix his broken ego.

I ended it there. No point in continuing.

I didn’t really get an answer, but it was nice to get some closure.

The answer didn’t matter anyways. Not like I could be a bitch if I tried.

I do not demand anything of anyone, I take what I am given and work with it as best I can.

*Typical of him to think I was wanting him back though, I got a good chuckle out of that.
Nope, I can forgive but I won’t forget.  “I may think of you softly from time to time. But I will cut off my hand before I’ll ever reach for you again.” Arthur Miller

Speaking of…

Gelfling found me before I left. Triggered by some pic on Instagram I’m sure. Just wanted to remind me he existed. We chatted briefly. He recalled everything I did and said one night we were together, 4 years after the fact. Even what I was wearing and how my legs sit when I drive.

Fuck you.

I am so tired of being held so fucking sacred, after the fact.

How is a memory of me worth keeping when I wasn’t?

I might be strong and brave and weird and loving and forgiving…

But underneath all of this…

I am just a girl, who wants to believe the sweet things.

Like getting a place together, picking me up from the ferry, taking me home for Sunday supper.
That I am magic and you miss me. I know all these things were said at night, a few beers in, to my face, in my inboxes.
And I can’t help but remember that Friday night when you told me you were shy sober.

This is the one time I want to be remembered. I am right fucking here.

I need a hard reset.

A trip into the woods sounds like bliss right now. I miss my old cabin out in god’s good nowhere and the isolation. I am isolated now, just in a different way where I am surrounded by people, most of them good, but part of me aches for the past, or the future to hurry up and start. Anything but this limbo I am in. I do miss the good times with Panda and my girls. Hamilton was home for a while, but I don’t want to go back there.

I came here with purpose and I am craving him.

If I look back to see where I’m homesick for it’s the time spent alone in the quiet. Sunbathing naked on the porch, the hummingbirds having endless aerial acrobatic dogfights with the bees, the dogs lounging, and good work…like stacking wood and mowing the lawn and the endless playlists. Yes, this.

But that isn’t what I meant to talk about exactly. I do tend to wander off topic.

I’ve watched one movie since I got here.

Silver Linings Playbook.

In my tiny room there is only a tiny tube tv with no HDMI port, so it is laptop or nothing.

Last week when the reality of what I had done hit me like a fucking freight train I cocooned in my room and tried to regroup.

I needed a happy ending. Or to remember they exist.

What I got reminded of, and realized I was lacking, was signs.

When I cannot control what is happening to me (even if I did this to my damned self) I get superstitious.

I think anyone who works in any kind of industry that is based on randomness for money, it becomes a thing. I have a lucky bandana. Little rituals before work. Sometimes they work sometimes they don’t. What it really boils down to is that I am on my hustle or I am not, doesn’t matter what rings I am wearing or what color the bandana I am sitting on is.

But there is another side to that coin.

What it comes down to is rituals and signs.

When the body goes through a traumatic accident, like mine did, all muscle memory is reset to zero. Except when a certain song plays and I sit up like a meerkat and laugh at myself for thinking Jesus is coming.

An old portent triggered a gleeful response years later.

Not actual Jesus. I have been handing out nicknames to people for as long as I have been out in the world. And once, I knew a man we called Jesus.

Music jogs my muscle memories.

I now have YouTube rabbit holes, where I tumble down and find new things, wonders to behold. And alternatively I have playlists saved from varying points in my life.

It’s been a constant stream of Lords of Huron, Ben Howard, Kaleo and Lumineers lately.

Meet Me in the Woods, Take Me Back to the Night We Met and Promise on repeat.

But I needed something different.

In my nostalgia, I clicked on an old list. Took me back to the first time we went to Florida. I came home from that trip and I was free. And that was the beginning.

But it went even further back.

Somewhere in between the new things I had found was an old gem.

Here Comes Your Man, by the Pixies.

My tired little brain instantaneously thought “Jesus is coming.” And I laughed out loud.

You see dear readers, many lifetimes ago, I had a crush on the boy we called Jesus.

And well before we had little GPS’s in our pockets and Facebook check ins and everyone knew what everyone else had for lunch or how they felt about politics or knew what their dogs were doing at any given moment, I had psychic flashes and ‘signs’ about this thing or that boy.

I used to go to a bar called the Dance Cave religiously every Wednesday. My friends were there, the music was amazing and it was kinda like church. I felt weird if I didn’t go. I would see my people, confess my sins, sing, dance and just feel better after. And sometimes Jesus was there.

Not every Wednesday mind you. Just every time the Pixies were played. That song specifically. The guitars riff would kick in and I would instantaneously be on high alert. Head bobbing up and down, watching the door. And Every. Single. Time (but once) at some point, there he would be. Jesus. And it was good amen.

We were having a conversation last night outside the strip club about religion. And the usual points were made about imaginary authority figures and mass population control. Old Testament god versus New Testament god. But when it came down to ‘why did we ever come up with religion in the first place’ I knew the answer. Before science we had no idea why sometimes the earth would shake or the sun would go out in the middle of the day. So we invented beings even bigger and more terrifying than those phenomenon to explain why the world gets weird sometimes.

Ritual is the same thing. One time a girl fell into a volcano and it finally rained after a long dry spell so every year to bring the rain, toss in another virgin to appease the gods.

Personally? I can google anything I don’t understand. I was never much one for churches. I do pray, but in my own way.

When things aren’t going exactly my way, I pray a little harder and try to look for signs.

Logical me knows there has to be something bigger than all this. Not a vengeful god whose stomach rumbles and refuses to make rain until he gets fed.

And if there were sacrifices to be made, good god I have made them.

I leapt into the volcano willingly.

There is a wait so long
You’ll never wait so long

Here comes your man

(The Pixies)

I started re-watching The Good Place on Netflix.

I won’t spoil any of it, if you haven’t seen it, you should.

13 easily digestible episodes about 24 minutes long. It’s adorable.

The opening scene is Kristen Bell opening her eyes in a waiting room and the first thing she sees is a sign that says

“Welcome! Everything is fine.”

I have been saying everything’s fine a lot lately.

Even when it isn’t.

I know exactly what I am doing. I am casting a spell of intent that it will be fine, trust and faith.

I know it will be, it always is.

Better than fine.

I’ve had tastes of how amazing it will be, at the top of the stairs, the whole world goes away when he kisses me and it is absolute bliss.

And there have been times where it most certainly was not.

Those are the times I say it with almost a madness in my voice that reaches my eyes and scares people a bit.

I forget I can be intimidating on occasion just by existing.  But add some intense emotions and ya, I’m intense. Trying to keep myself in check just now.

“Don’t listen to a word I say, the screams all sound the same.” Of Monsters and Men (and yes I miss our) Little Talks

I’m forcing myself to remember everything works out in the end. And I don’t really want this to end.

If I have to baby step and backslide into this new chapter, okay.

Deep down in my heart of hearts I know all of this is worth it.

The moon didn’t make me do this, I made a decision and followed through.

I drove 3 days away from home for a boy and a new life.

And I kinda was expecting to open my eyes to see a sign that said “Welcome! Everything is fine.”

Instead? I didn’t get the room I booked so I had to improvise, I got sucked into a crazy vortex by a crazy stripper, I missed my kid and my dog like limbs, I got Stompy Magoo stomping around upstairs, the money didn’t come right away and neither did the boy.

Where was I going with this?

Oh ya.

Cosmic fuckery.

As I type this it’s a full blue moon in Libra smack dab in the middle of retrograde.

I messaged the boy last night and he hasn’t replied. We’re having a hard time finding time to see each other and it is driving me nuts. That mantra I had shouting in my head upon meeting him has only gotten louder than bombs now that he is close again.

Boy

Bed

Now

Once upon a time, something similar happened. Not on this magnitude but similar enough that as I was making coffee this morning it struck me that I had the dress rehearsal for this 4 years ago. My last year in the cabin in the woods. I was pms’ing on a full moon smack dab in the middle of retrograde and I handled things badly. Tripped over all my lines, missed all my cues and it was over just like that. To be fair, he was my second fuckboy ever, I had no idea what I was getting into add to that I met him on the first day of retrograde and it just went way uphill real fast then dropped off into an oblivion of miscommunication and then none at all.

I already wrote all of that down in triplicate. I have had crushes on boys before, this one was a little different than the rest, but in retrospect he was just a boy. He had some magic to him, I never saw more deer than I did for the two weeks we dated, but then it was just over. I remember seeing a dead deer on the side of the road and thinking ‘that’s done then’. And I moved on.

Lesson to be learned from that and him?
Don’t start anything new in retrograde and lines of communication are gonna be a little fucky.

One thought came clearly as I sipped that first sip of deliciousness and I calmed all the way down.

Don’t panic.

I love it when shit I have been through serves a purpose. It is so satisfying, like perfect circles.

There will be another perfect circle. With this boy, on a bed, maybe not just now.

16 days left before Mercury stations direct.

I have waited this long, I can wait some more.

In the interest of self-preservation I think I won’t drink tonight.

Strip clubs and full moons are notoriously insane enough without me pouring booze on things.

I’m learning.

I have a group chat going with the girls from home, I regale them with tales of Stompy as they occur, and I figured it was time to share with all y’all.

It’s taken me a good long while to settle into any kind of routine here.

Still not quite there. Leaning heavy on Red Bulls and 5 hour energy shots on the nights we are open til 3.

I’d basically quit dancing for 2+ years before I came here in November and I think, knowing I was only going to be here for two weeks upped my ability to suck it up and deal with the late nights, the self-inflicted assault on my liver, the weird sleep patterns, the forced naps, the lack of my stuff and my things and clothes and routine.

And then there is the boy.

But I am here now, he is here now and I am not leaving.

My brain is slowly coming to terms with this, body is slow to follow. Heart is so very happy, so there is that then.

My circadian rhythm reaaaaaaallllly wants me up with the sun.

There are not a lot of sunny days here so when it peeks around the side of the blackout curtains…ya, I wanna get up.

Also, the crackheads tend to take it outside when it’s sunny, so who needs an alarm clock really, when I have a rousing chorus of “bitch better have my money” around noon on nice days.

I used to get up at 6, 7 or 8. Have a couple cups of coffee, take my vitamins, smoke my cigarettes and negate the vitamins I just took completely and write for an hour or 16, then go about my day.

That is not happening here. My entire life is sporadic at best.

I need to sleep til after noon or get a nap in somehow. Otherwise I become a stabby-sleepy-sooky stripper and it’s not fun for anyone.

And since my room in the cathouse is right beside the better bathroom and the only living room and right underneath Stompy Magoo I’m pretty much fucked.

Now I am not sure if it’s cocaine psychosis or bipolar disorder or a fun little combo of both but good god damn it is getting worse by the day.

Once upon a time I had a bipolar roommate. He decided I was a witch, and I am, but he also snuck into my room with a filleting knife and tried to kill me in my sleep but got scared of the cats who were on my bed hissing at him and woke me up. He also tried to push me over the stair railing. He also did a lot of cocaine and had a lot of conspiracy theories about god.

She left this out yesterday.

I think she thinks I need to get clean and right with the Lord. Or maybe they weren’t meant for me at all and her paranoia is just contagious.

She never leaves anything out for the record. Hoards every little thing in her room, including the can opener. So maybe they are for me.
Little does she know I am quite right with God, all the gods really.

Luke 6:30 Give to everyone who asks of you and if anyone takes what belongs to you, do not demand it back.

I know you ate my cookies and my chocolate eggs sis, its fine, I can buy more.

She is miserable and ready to snap, I see it. And good god do I hear it. Standing at the top of the stairs having a religious experience singing off key to Drake “God’s Plan”. Her favorite lyric is “I only love my bed and my mom I’m sorry” she giggles after that line, and then “God’s Plan” at the top of her ample lungs. She listens to both the radio and some kind of manic preacher while she spends hours upon hours in the kitchen. Loves cooking maple bacon, but only on days when I have a raging hangover. She must have been a middle child because she doesn’t speak so much as yells every sentence ever whether it be on the phone or yelling at me because I left the stovetop dirty one time and it is worse somehow she says, because she’s black and tired of cleaning up after everyone all the time.

Honey, no one asked you to rage/coke clean both bathrooms on a Saturday morning with sleeping strippers 3 feet away from where you were thumping banging and splashing and mumbling loudly, how does one manage to mumble so loudly?

I don’t know which is worse, when she is brooding and miserable or when she is violently happy. Both are indicative of a storm coming.

It made landfall yesterday. After I had spent 20 minutes on the phone with the boss’s wife trying to figure out when Stompy’s birthday was because I knew it was close and she seemed proper vexed about being stuck here for it. After I had gone outside in the rain to collect a package from the postman for her and gently, quietly put it outside her door. After I had tiptoed around for the entirety of the day because I knew she had been on a bender the night before.

The apex of my irritation. After 5 weeks of badly timed laundry, interrupted sleep, not being able to use the kitchen at all, snide comments, listening to the entire 5 minute speech she made up in her head before confronting me about some egg droplets on the stove wherein she said “we all used her as a guinea pig” (I understand the sentiment but wrong animal) and it’s worse because I’m white and she’s black and she feels like a slave (bitch please) even though the second she said it I was up and cleaning and apologizing. Was the vacuum nap incident of 2018.

I had just put my head down and up she sprang from her full day off sleeping it off, whatever it was. Bad timing, no big deal. She doesn’t walk, she stomps, hence Stompy Magoo. We have a 6’3” 200 pound bouncer living upstairs and he doesn’t even walk that heavy. Fine, I turned my music up a smidge, pulled the pillow over my ear. Then she ups the ante and starts up the vacuum and moving the furniture. I admit it, I snapped, the crimson flood is about to hit the whole house, we have all been snappy, I get it. But…all I said was “_____, I am trying to nap.”

Her answer “Oh I’m in trouble now.”

Well ya, but not because of me, because of what she did next.

She snapped, and stomped and snorted and slammed the bathroom door so hard she broke the trim.

Ya, the same bathroom that is right outside my bedroom door.

And even then, when the owner of the house and club showed up 20 minutes later, I still covered her ass and said the trim must have come off due to repetitive stress and use and gave him a hammer and nails to fix it.

She’s being moved downstairs. Not because of me.

I did try but I am a bad liar and not the only person on this floor who has issues with her.

I know she is going to blame it on me. So I am just gonna sleep with a chair pushed under my doorknob until she leaves.