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As court proceedings for the insurrection 53 weeks ago continue, I wish the media would stop calling them the name they chose for themselves (oath keepers) and start calling them what they really are, terrorists. Oath Keeper sounds like a sacred duty, not a bunch of ignorant, white bread, brainwashed qanon idiots trying to kill Nancy Pelosi (and Mike Pence for some reason, although I would not have been sad about that) at the behest of a narcissistic cheeto dressed in a suit.

A lot of the last 5 years feels like a bad dream.

But this isn’t about that, not exactly. Actually, not even remotely.

I could pull off a smooth transition paragraph about how I never call anyone by their name. But I do sometimes. Mandabear called Darkling by his given name yesterday and I just let it slide. Things are definitely different lately. And I am not mad about it.

I finally had my job interview on Wednesday and good god, dressing
1. Professionally in business attire and,
2. for my age
is not a strong suit. 

I am the adultier adult, just in ripped jeans and sundresses.

I did good. But my closet looked like it threw up in my room before I was finished. 

I was still me, a long sleeved bodysuit I used to wear at work (in the winter when we were stripper burritos and meat popsicles) underneath a pair of fitted dress pants. And my witch boots that make a very satisfying clack on tiled floors.

The initial interview went great (who knew high functioning anxiety would be a selling point…)  and then the head of a different department came in and interviewed me for a second position. So basically, I have A management job with the company, just not sure which job. I will know next week.

I sat down to write this and I don’t really know what it’s about yet. But I didn’t write yesterday and I am trying to be better.

In the continuing saga of Sarah adulting, I conquered the closet of doom yesterday.
My mom gave me a bin labeled “Sarah’s memory box” and the first thing I pulled out of one manilla envelope was a typed out letter from my mom to me when I was 15 or 16 maybe, explaining why I couldn’t live at home anymore. It was cold, clinical and I suddenly remembered standing in the hallway between the laundry room and the kitchen, holding that letter and the ground swallowing me whole. I shut the box up and jammed it in the closet to be dealt with later. 

Later was yesterday.

The rest of the contents were slightly less toxic. Old report cards, art submissions from the annual fall fair and weirdly 2 book reports. One about Newfoundland and one about the aboriginal tribes of Australia. Which means nothing unless you’re me. Just weird little karma markers in a rubbermaid bin. I saw a lot of “Sarah would be a better student if she applied herself and focused.”

They didn’t have a word nor diagnosis for ADHD back then. I was just a girl, sitting in a classroom fidgeting in my seat while my brain was a million miles away.
My high school report cards were pretty much abysmal. I went from pulling 90’s to 50’s or worse real quick.

I threw a lot of it out, kept a few things.

There were cards from relatives who have passed away, Valentine’s day cards from classmates in grade 2 and every school and family photo for the first 15 awkward years of my life. Good god I was a homely child. They were all taken before someone told me I had an ugly smile and I stopped showing my teeth. I was ugly, my smile wasn’t.

I also purged 7 bags of linens and clothing, reorganized my stripper gear into categories and got that contained. And I packed 2 years of Wolf into a small wicker box. I finally got around to putting all my plane tickets into a cigar box. I doubt I will ever do anything with them but they do serve as a reminder that for a couple of years, I lived and I was free. And as I go barreling towards the land of Adulting, I am not ready to give them up just yet.

There was a box of keepsakes from Newfoundland too. Most notably ticket stubs from the week and a half when Solo, Endgame and Deadpool 2 came out and we made several pilgrimages to the theater for matinee showings. Solo was on my birthday, it was a good day. I miss pre plague life. I miss rollercoasters and movie theaters.

Speaking of rifling through the past. I found a note from Giant. I sent a pic of it to him and we chatted briefly. He asked about my new person. I said ‘he is a nerdy soft dom and I am happy’. He then asked me if I could sum up everyone I knew in 3 words or less. I had to think about it before I replied. ‘Technically, yes, yes I can. But the longer I know someone the wordier I get.’

Giant is my soulmate from another realm. 

“I think I am in the wrong realm and I think everyone can tell.”

It’s true. And looking through all of those old things from my childhood up until last year kinda made it hit home. I feel constantly out of place. I always have, even if I didn’t recognize it. My teachers saw it. 

I do that with relationships too, or I did up until recently.

I think I got attached to the fisherman in Newfoundland because I wanted a reason to stay and be somewhere. He wasn’t ideal, and I knew that. He wasn’t viable and I knew that too, he made himself sound that way, but somewhere not too far below the surface, I knew he was full of shit. And honestly, it wasn’t fair of me to put all of that on one person. I did like the idea that he would be away for chunks of time, it meant I didn’t have to change too much of who I am to fit. 

Things are different now.
I didn’t come back here defeated. I came back because I wanted to.
I stopped trying to figure out where I am supposed to be and now…  

I just am where I am and it’s actually okay. Feels good to stop running from and/or running to people, places and things.

My mind can still wander a million miles away while I sit in my immaculately clean room and talk to you fine folks. Or, and this is new, it can be exactly where I am enjoying the moment.

This job, whichever one I get, signals some semblance of permanence.
Even going on Tinder in December was a kind of acceptance about where I am instead of looking ahead to the next thing.

I can see myself finding a cute apartment in town, close to the stadium and just being here for a while.

And I am not mad about it.

Not excited about the dress pants portion of adulting, but the rest is pretty okay.

Well, this was gonna be a post about butt stuff and safe words and a soft dom, but it didn’t quite go that way.

I try to plan things…but then life happens.

This man I am fucking has yet to find a good nickname, and I find myself accidentally calling him by the one on his business card. I never do that, it’s weird.

He is saved in my phone as “A Good Sex” from a conversation we had about how good sex makes my head quiet for awhile, to which he responded “did I do a good sex?”

The amount of joy that one sentence sparked was, a fucking lot. And yes it was, and continues to be, a very good sex.

I have my own very uniquely cultivated vernacular, as I’m sure all of you are very aware. Stolen tidbits from funny YouTube videos, books, movies and song lyrics, plus inside jokes from friends and family. Point being, it’s mine and I am not ashamed of it, but I do spend a lot of time explaining myself.
It was jolting and strangely comforting to meet someone who speaks my weird little language almost as fluently as I do.

But I digress…

For blog purposes, I think I’m gonna have to go with Darkling.

He is Ben Barnes’ doppelganger, as previously mentioned.

As I am typing away, I don’t even know if I want to publish anything about him.
He knows about the blog; permission has been given. As much as I want to remember all the funny subtle moments, they feel private somehow, sacred maybe, but that is a big word.
This is a new emotional reaction for me so I don’t know how to describe it. I haven’t dissected it yet.
I do want to remember that we were cuddling naked on the couch and somehow transitioned from watching Creature Comforts and Rejected Cartoons on YouTube to Andre Bocelli and highlights from American Idol. Laughing hysterically to full body goosebumps, and then more sex.

I came home yesterday afternoon and babbled at Mandabear for 15 minutes straight about how wonderful the night before was and showed her a couple videos, but that’s different.

I just thought about another reason why I don’t necessarily want to share too much about the Darkling.

I have a bad habit of comparing and contrasting my current “this one” to ‘that one’ or ‘that other one’, finding comfort in similarities when they are good, and relief in differences when the ones that came before were lacking in certain areas. 

That’s not terribly fair really.

A man is good because he doesn’t do that particular bad thing I didn’t like before?

Nah, fuck that. He is good because he is good.

I am done comparing.

It does really help that he doesn’t remind me of anyone. Darkling is very much just himself, and it’s a really good self. A confident, sexy self really.
And I like how much of myself I am when I am around him, I am equal parts confident, sexy and super dorky. All of these things are well received and reciprocated.

Am I super comfy after he fucks my face and all my make up is everywhere I didn’t put it?
No, not really.
Do I hide my face a bit, yep, definitely
But then he says something hot or funny and I forget about feeling insecure and  I just get up and wash my face.

He is also absolutely hilarious, and belly laughs have been few and far between since the plague started, and for the 2 years before that I was equal parts stressed out, heartbroken and hungover. So this is good.

I know it is going to sound cliché and it is going to be a bumpy transition paragraph, but just hang on.
Once upon a farm life ago I spent every waking minute either on Facebook paying attention to what everyone else was doing or trying to fake and capture ‘good’ moments on camera so I could post them on Facebook and pretend I liked my life.
I stopped that. I left and built a life that I actually did like.
But I was still addicted to Facebook and afraid of missing out on social media things.
And I used my accounts as a diary so I could keep my current thoughts and happy experiences for future joy.

I was still not fully present in the present. Too much of me lived in reliving past experiences.
And there were a lot of  parts of me that preferred to live in projections of the future.
Herein lies a HUGE problem.

I thought I’d got better at living. I kinda did.
But then Final Boss happened, and although I had every reason and right to believe there was something substantial there, it wasn’t real. I took his words and built a life on those. I projected way too far into the future and then had no idea what to do with myself when it didn’t happen.
The one after, I was actually forbidden to do that but it didn’t stop me. I totally did that and it ruined me.
I looked too far ahead and I forgot to be in the moment.
And it’s kinda dumb.
I want the thing I have right in front of me, but then I end up worried about ‘next time’ while ‘this time’ is happening? That makes less than zero sense. Why did I do that?

To be fair, I didn’t realize it was happening until I stopped.
I don’t think I knew how to be any other way.
And I honestly don’t know how or why I stopped, I just did.

Darkling and I had a fabulous first date, so fabulous in fact that I broke the rules.
He drove me home from tacos and we had 2 good sexes, and in between I showed him my toys and told him I watch monster porn while we snuggled.

He had to go home that night and I just kinda shrugged as I closed the door behind him and thought, “well that was fucking awesome.”

Did it help that he stopped mid fuck and said “I want to do this again with you”…well ya.
But that could have easily been negated by the toy tour and porn confessions.
I showed him a lot of my weird really fast. 

And, to be fair to my neurosis, how many times have I heard promises of the sun and moon and more dates and moving in together and all the other things I wanted to hear and it turned out to be nothing but lies and pillow talk?
A fucking lot.
Never believe anything a man says when he is balls deep in your pussy.
I should get t shirts made with that on it.

I honestly have no idea how or why it was different this time, but afterwards, even whilst my pussy was still humming and thrumming and incredibly pleased, I was just happy that it happened, instead of worrying about it never happening again.

Most people stress about the bad shit happening, I don’t. I’ve lived through everything I was ever afraid of, things that would kill other people, sometimes more than once. And just like my third car accident, I handled the bad with grace and strength.
I am weird, my worry centers around the good things never happening again. I have a lifetime full of anecdotal, concrete reasons for this. But I survived the loss of those too, so you know what? Fuck it.

We were getting ready to leave yesterday morning and I mentioned I had brought clean clothes because I had planned on showering at some point instead of watching nature documentaries and snuggling all sex soaked for 3 hours. He asked if I wanted a quick shower. I said “no, just because I had something planned out doesn’t mean it has to happen. I brought sex toys too and we didn’t use them. I am more than happy with how things went.”

It’s true.
Planning ahead is important, yes, but living in the moment with clean pants and vibrators in an easily accessible backpack by the front door is better. 

I was going to write a post about our second date and how the sex was so good I accidentally called him Daddy, which I did, and I will write about a some point and post to Patreon.
But this was good too.

https://www.patreon.com/sarahthegoodwitch

Okay, so… I renewed the website. For 2 more years. Juicy stuff is still going on Patreon.

I still have no idea what I’m doing, but it feels good to be writing again, so ima do it.

Final Boss still owes me $1500 from an emergency vet bill, but he has covid too and last time it took him 18 months and a screaming witch fit from me to get my money back. I never learn, but I love that dog so…

I have other places that energy needs to go, and I have that money spent already. New laptop, new winter coat and paying off the credit card bill from leaving that island. I have a bad feeling he won’t pay me back until the winter coat thing is moot. Laptop continues to limp and I can access my secret stash to pay off the credit card, no point in accruing interest just because I am being stubborn.

Not only did I renew the website but I cleaned out my gmail (6000+ promotional and social emails) all before I shower so I can go get the wispy remnants of Chewbacca removed from between my legs.
Being back in Hamilton has its advantages. My favorite wax girl is here, plus my nails haven’t looked this pretty since Texas and I can run all my errands in varying circles. I know where to go if I need gas, groceries, pretty smelling candles and a haircut. There’s a logical circuit for everything. 

Also, because I am in one place (relatively speaking) for the foreseeable future, I went back on Tinder, at the worst possible time. Right before I went back to work and just as the holiday season was ramping up. Made the whole ‘finding time for first dates thing’ pretty difficult, but it did weed out some assholes. Dude simmer.
The pic posted with this article is just a screengrab from the interwebz, but I did actually meet a cop who thought that me being a stripper was a ‘conflict of interest’…um excuse me, sir….’you know my job is perfectly legal, right?’

Whateves. 

I got an avalanche of the standard “hey” messages. Ignored those.
A few other ones couldn’t make it much past their first patented line,
ie. [insert something clever] I’d respond, and the next message is invariably “do you have snapchat”.
Ya, I do and no, you can’t have it. I don’t want to see strange dick, ever.

I have a pic saved on my old phone, from the first time I ever tried Tinder. It is Panda making a bad face and pointing her finger at me, reminding me to stay off Tinder and pack for our move.

I think that was when I met the Lumberjack. But I don’t rightly remember. He would have been a spectacular boyfriend if he didn’t already have a girlfriend the entire fucking year he was pretending to be my boyfriend.
I think they have kids now, good for them.

I have learned a lot since then.

This is my 4th foray into Tinderland, since 2016 but the one time I tried in Newfoundland was so bad, can we just not count it? And one other time I think I lasted less than 48 hours, so that doesn’t really count either.

My expectations were buried somewhere below the floor and just a scooch above the fiery pits of hell, so it was uncomfortably warm but not burning. Faithful readers will remember such lovely incidents as the time I got sexually assaulted in a parking lot by a fake dom and a few other disaster stories. But I think Tinder is like labor and delivery, or a mall on Boxing day. Enough time passes and you forget how bad it was so you try it again.

I described my last sexual encounter to my roommate as ‘you know when there’s a fish flopping around in the bottom of a boat? I was the boat.’

So like I said, the bar was well below the floor. And vagina was hangry, so I tried anyway.

I truly don’t think it’s too much to ask for a dude that makes me laugh, can hold a conversation and has something I can at least work with in bed. Headboard is optional. I am not looking for a husband, just a snugglefuck buddy. I give zero fucks about credit scores and cars. Just be nice, don’t ghost and know how to fuck, somewhat… I am a really good teacher, but there is only so much I can do.

My last 2 ‘boyfriends’ were
1. In prison for half the relationship
2. Married and far, far away.

Does anyone remember that old SNL skit…lowered expectations? Ya, that was me after 3 and a half years (collectively) of the above coupled with my previous adventures in Tinderland.

And yet again, all I wanted was  just something like I had with Young Un the First all those years ago. See each other a couple times a week, occasional outside dates, lots of inside dinners and movies, then he would switch into sexy beast mode, fuck my brains out, sleep, repeat.

Speaking of the time called ‘before’, I stumbled upon 2 exes in the app, we had good chats, but I hath been there and I hath done that. Nice to check in and congratulate each other on surviving and thriving thus far. It warms my heart to see them both doing incredibly well. And it is nice to be remembered so fondly.

Don’t look back, you aren’t going that way.

But back to the present. Matched with 50+ dudes. Talked to a dozen of them. Actually vibed with 3. Deleted the rest.
Made dates, one by one.
I got flat out stood up by the first one.
Block.
Next.
Had a mediocre date that was completely spark-less.
Polite goodbye.
The third was a gem of a metrosexual pretty boy who talked over top of me and said things that made my vagina slam shut audibly. He then begrudged me the singular taco and 2 drinks I had, (I offered to pay dude) and decided to blow up my phone with semi literate angry texts and several phone calls before I blocked him. He didn’t want to eat because he didn’t want to mess up his beard, spent the entire time explaining why he is so pretty (he wasn’t really) and also said that attractive blond men were more sexually targeted and assaulted than women. This was in response to me turning down a ride home after I said I was ready to leave. See why my vagina was having none of that?

Block, rinse, repeat.

I almost deleted the app, but decided to clean the slate and start over.
Glad I did.

I haven’t altered the rules of engagement as far as Tinder goes. I get myself to and from the first date. I always have enough cash in my purse to pay for my food. Uber is a godsend to single women everywhere, except when it isn’t. Long gone are the days when I would suffer through a bad date. I have zero issue putting money down on the table and saying ‘this isn’t working for me, good luck with everything’.
And, it’s still a 3 date minimum before sexy time. I’ve found that one night stands are statistically disappointing and we all know I have a pretty healthy selection of sex toys and exes if the itch gets that bad. 

Many moons ago, I broke that rule. For no other reason than I just felt like it. I fucked someone on the first date, while truly believing it was going to be the last, and he pleasantly surprised me by showing up the next day and the day after that. About a month later we had the boyfriend girlfriend conversation and that was that. So began the Chronicles of Cruz. I did a thing and it worked out. I felt safe and comfortable and god dammit, I was horny and he smelled good. And that went fine for 6 months, until it didn’t. I ended up with a drawer at his house and he ended up with a drinking problem, so I emptied the drawer and I left.
No hard feelings, no regrets.

In spite of my historically disastrous tours on Tinder and the trifecta of meh dates, I went on one more. No idea why

Actually, that’s a lie, I do know why.
This one had big dick energy, was wickedly clever when we spoke and, at least in his pictures, bore a striking resemblance to the Darkling from Shadow and Bone. This theory was tested after the second time we fucked on the first date when I pulled a pic of Ben Barnes and held it up next to his face. Mine is actually hotter, mostly because he is real. But the resemblance is pretty uncanny. Doppelganger really.

We had our 3rd date the day before yesterday. The sex continues to impress and the company is spectacular. We fucked while watching Team America and giggling uncontrollably. It was hilarious, ludicrous and quite divine.

And exactly what I needed.

The current song on Spotify is The Badger by the Tea Party.

I met the lead singer a few times, he is a bit of a pompous douche, still thinks it’s the 90’s.A lot of dudes who were big deals in the 90’s have just not let that shit go.

This song is just instrumental with an odd time signature. I like it a lot. Reminds me of dancing in the office space of my old apartment with Giant. Probably in 2017. And before that, the Lippencott house in the 90’s with Jesus.

I noticed another eerie similarity between this year and 2017. Betty White died this year right before the new year. Carrie Fisher did the same in the holiday season between 2016 and 2017.

I am not one to mourn celebrity deaths, Robin Williams stung a bit and I still remember where I was when I heard the news. There are darknesses in life, and there are lights. These 3 were lights and it is hard when they go out. The world just seems dimmer for it.

I cried in front of Chewbacca at the new Disney Star Wars theme park in Florida in 2019. The whole thing was overwhelming, I was walking into my childhood. Remembering going to see Return of the Jedi with my entire family in Lansing Michigan. There had been a massive thunderstorm and the street outside the theater was flooded, but we powered through. I was wearing my brand new jelly shoes, and I was grateful for the plastic. Remembering my dad for years afterwards bellowing “Jabba the Hutt” before cannonballing into the neighbor’s pool and creating father sized tidal waves, which is to say, tsunamis.
I cried because on one of the rides, there was Princess Leia telling us we were her only hope, and 3 years after her death, it hit me much like the waves in the pool.

We were walking under the Millenium Falcon at the time and Chewbacca just happened to be there, probably coming off a break. He offered me a hug (in noises and gestures) and I didn’t take it. I regret this.

Would have made my inner child very happy even though I probably would have gotten salt and snot all over his costume.

Other things should be left in the past, like shoulder pads. While this might seem like blasphemy, I watched a couple of episodes of Golden Girls and it just seems dated. I realize it was progressive for the 80’s, but it just made me cringe at what we used to think was okay.

I am trying to change my morning routine and I cringe at what I used to think was okay. I was only on my phone for 19 minutes after I woke up, instead of the normal hour and 19 minutes. I tried to meditate, didn’t go so good, but the attempt was there. I cleared my mind for maybe 30 accumulative seconds, I had a hard time sitting still. I did a couple yoga stretches after. My back is aching from some new exercises I tried, plus the evil car ride home yesterday and sleeping on a couch for 6 days.  

I am currently staring at a small box of magic mushrooms. The voice narrating that line in my head is Special Agent Dale Cooper, as in “Diane, I am holding in my hand a box of chocolate bunnies”.

See? I am not as good at this as I used to be. My writing muscles have atrophied, like so many other things, and just like my real muscles.

I know the bridge between being at kiddos and the mushrooms, ie I gave him the capsules I had when I got mad at my ex hubby for a minute (ex hubby gave them to me in the first place) and now we can’t find them and I want them back. When my brain opened the door to the world I was writing about in the new book, those capsules were the key. I poked around kiddo’s place looking for them but to no avail. I respect his privacy way too much and they weren’t anywhere obvious. But I do have a box with a few grams of uber shrooms that someone gave me and I am trying to figure out how to dose myself properly so I can go back to working on the book. I really just have to talk to Giant, he knows things, but I don’t know if I want to talk to him right now. Drogo might know.

I spent 6 days at kiddo’s house scrolling through instagram and saving yoga/exercise videos. Did a few. Hurt now.

I also realized it takes about 26 food videos before I get hungry. My new year’s resolution was to eat less and be pescatarian again, but I changed it. Eat whatever I want (as long as I make it) and move more, even if it hurts. It does, I mentioned that right?

I also woke up naturally, and the first time, instead of putting on my sleep mask and going back to bed until 11. I am  going to uber to my waxing appointment and walk back. Stop at the mall and run errands. Walk some more. Baby steps.

Maybe tomorrow I can meditate for one minute out of the 7 I try. Maybe tomorrow yoga will hurt a bit less. Maybe not, won’t know unless I try.

You wanna know something funny? This was supposed to be a post about ex hubby messaging my new instagram account to say Merry Christmas, and how much it annoyed me. But did it? I forgot about it until yesterday when I had another message request and saw his. I had a lot of time to think on my way home yesterday. Traffic was slow because of the blizzards, plural, and shitty roads. Took over 3 hours door to door.

He’s never going to change. We have spoken a handful of times since we split 10 years ago (god it feels good to say that) and sometimes it goes decently for a while, but it always degrades into him being judgmental, or delusional or angry or even a delightful combination of all 3.This time I am just not going to engage.

I think the lesson there is this

If you are the least loved person in the house, you’re in the wrong house. Michael Xavier

Happened in Newfoundland, twice. Happened in Texas. And instead of dragging it out by digging my heels in and holding on for dear life, I left. I have nothing to prove to anyone.

Maybe I am getting better.

Oh Newfoundland, you whiskey soaked bitch.

Things that I loved, things that I lost, things I held sacred that I dropped.

Audioslave

They were all there. Waiting.

I think I didn’t see 3 people from my past chaotic adventure time on the island of misfit toys. Errrbody else waltzed into the bar at least once. It was good, mostly. (mostly they come at night, mostly)

4th (or 5th) verse, same as the first.

I met the cutest patootie of a baby stripper and we would pass the time wrapped up in blankets in the mezzanine, talking about conspiracy theories and the metaphysical. She’d steal my cheetos but jump up to refill my water for me. I told her my theory about how I died and Newfoundland was my perdition. She didn’t like that. Couldn’t figure out her place in it if that was the truth. The use of all my extras and past cast in the story of my life kinda made that theory more real. Or, it’s just season 5 and the writers are out of ideas. Then I would get drunk and do baby stripper stage school for a few hours.

I just realized (now, while editing) that I have terminated several toxic relationships with women this year, 4 someones who I thought were friends, weren’t. Including a woman who told me she hated my ‘smart college mouth’ and here is where I leave off.

No one pays more attention to you than a bitch who hates your guts.

You wanna know what I have to say…pay me.

Head on over to Patreon and subscribe.

https://www.patreon.com/sarahthegoodwitch

It’s me.

I’ve been in the same clothes since I left my house on Saturday.
It’s Monday (I think) we are in the perilous early days of January where every day seems to go on for decades and time gets slippy. Plus the plague kinda made bathing optional for us who were so inclined to lose track of time and cleanliness.
(I have showered since I started writing this, self shaming does wonders for motivation)

Those of us with isolation issues, executive function disorder and depression have had a really fun, sexy time.
I don’t think that it helps that after 2 years of having escape plans (and actually escaping) and places to go, people to see. I have none of those things.

No dangling carrots. Transcendent or otherwise.

No countdowns til…anything really.

I have job interviews sometime next week, I have to move sometime around August, I think I have a date this weekend. But no big trips or anything, not in the foreseeable future.

I don’t even really have a way of keeping track of anything from the time called before anymore either.
Facebook is still gone, never to return. I learned to live without my memories, but I miss them. Instagram got taken away in the fall sometime. I tried to fight it but there is a glitch I can’t get around.
I do have the blog, and snapchat says 2 years ago today I was getting settled in on the ferry leaving Newfoundland.

I remember that drive, blizzard after blizzard, crawling the last 2 hours behind a dude in an old pick up doing 60km an hour. We made it. The ferry was terrible, some guy puked near my chair, I slept on the floor and some other dude touched me (accidentally) in my sleep and gave me the major wiggins. I got wicked sick on the car ride home and moved into the room of blue rubbermaids.

So began 2 years of attic living, Covid and traveling regardless.
I was in New York, Texas, Arizona, Florida and spent a happy winter in Mexico avoiding the Ontario cold.

Speaking of cold…

Things with Wolf are…done I guess is the right way to put it. He decided to exit very slowly stage left. Now sends obligatory holiday emails. It’s gross.
I don’t even know how to respond.

In other equally depressing news…

I am currently working 2.5 hours away from home after being in Newfoundland for a few months. Newfoundland deserves a few posts of its own. They will come.

My new routine is leave Wednesday morning, work work work work work, home Sunday morning. Get ready to leave on Tuesday then lather, rinse, repeat. I hate it. I hate being away from home. I thought I was going to like it. I don’t. My work wife left me and we started closing early because of restrictions, again.

I had time off over the holidays to be home, and yet, here I sit. At kiddo’s house, also 2.5 hours away from home. He finally got a vacation and I am cat sitting. But I feel like the entirety of December I have just been pulled to places I don’t want to be and it isn’t over yet. But I can see a light, it’s called Thursday.

After wanting to be anywhere but there for the last couple years. I miss it. I renovated the living room and took it from brown leather bachelor to happy yellow Mexican bohemian, and I like it. I miss my plants and my stashed gummi bears and cheetos. I could buy more gummi bears and cheetos, but that would mean leaving the house in a town I am unfamiliar with, and I just don’t have the spoons. Not yet, maybe after my shower.

I tested positive for Covid on Christmas day, so I had an excuse for my sloth and hermit like behavior, now I just don’t want to leave. 

I feel like I am on hold, waiting to start my new life. 

This is not an entirely new feeling. In fact I am having mad deja vu.

Picture it, Hamilton 2017.

Piecing together my past, I was in Florida with Panda 4 years ago today. I got up and wrote from the balcony at a Disney Resort. There were giraffes, it was nice.

God, I miss theme parks.

I have a plan to migrate the blog over to Patreon. I have been neglecting my people over there something fierce. Been planning that for a long time now, not the neglect, the upkeep, the migration. Had 2 years of lockdown, 3 months in Mexico with nothing to do but swim and write, more months in Texas waiting on Wolf with nothing to do but swim and write. Hours upon hours in the girls house with nothing to do but shower, work and write. I didn’t do it then, I am going to try and do it now.

I miss writing every day. My laptop is broken, but it still works.
Me too really. I am broken but I still work.

I just scrolled through ye olde blog and I think my theory is somewhat correct.
I am reliving 2017. 

Oh look, another cosmic do over.

I love those.

I will inevitably find more similarities, but in the last couple weeks, I have…
applied for 2 of my old jobs back, with serious promotions and pay raises. I didn’t even apply really, so much as I was asked back. I am flattered. Jobs and boys always want me back.
Speaking of, Wolfling and Big Spoon resurfaced, I think one of them was 2017 (both actually, I checked).
The same 2 jobs I had before I ran off to Newfoundland in November of 2017. Maybe that will be the endgame, try to make it work here and end up back there. My magic 8 ball has been on the fritz for a long while now, so who knows.

2017 wasn’t a bad year, not exactly. It started out with me healing and dealing with the end of a long distance relationship with someone who pretended to be something they weren’t. Check. Way ahead of the game really. He dropped the ball and picked up a bottle last July.

Fucked someone who way way too young for me. Kinda check.
Maybe I am learning.

Realized that atrophy is the worst way to die, now trying to apply that to my life now where I am beating this dead stripping horse. Insanity is definitely doing the same thing over and over while expecting different results, and I really don’t want to be a stripper anymore.

And that about covers January.

In 2017 the “way too young boy” borrowed money and a book and never returned.

I got over it. I kept dating, successfully even, until it wasn’t. 

We moved in August 2017, that is already lining up to be true too.

And, I published my first book by the end of that year and went off to new adventures. This run around the sun I have that other book that has sat dormant because it’s written about someone who left me and I don’t know how to move forward, oh ya, this is a do-over.

AAAAAAAaaaaand just got the message that work is shut down for 3 weeks because of omicron, so, I guess I have time now.

There is a story from when I was 22 months old wherein my grandparents were watching me while my mother was in the hospital birthing my little sister.

They took me to the hardware store with them whilst running errands and I climbed on a small plastic horse with wheels. When it was time to leave the store I threw a fit and kept saying “that’s my horsey”. Now neither of my grandparents were the overindulging, spoiling type, but on this occasion, for whatever reason, after 5 minutes of trying to reason with me, my grandfather picked the horse up with me on it’s back, put it on the counter and said “you heard her, ring it up.”

My dad backed over it with the car shortly after, and promptly replaced it, and I still have a scar on my knee from the sister (who was being born when I got my horsey) ramming me at full speed into a trunk in the hallway where we were playing. My mother offered me the very same trunk recently. I have no idea where that horse went.

We moved to a subdivision shortly after the scar and the neighbourhood kids and I ran wild around the area. The gravel pit behind the subdivision, the pond full of frogs, turtle and tetanus, the empty lot with its underground stream and cedar forest and over the fence down the lane every spring to see the lambs a guy had on his little mini farm.

Further down the lane and across the road was a falling down barn with 3 paddocks and 3 horses. 

I was obsessed. The guy who owned them let me pet them and feed them grass from the other side of the fence. I was brave enough to ask him if I could ride them but they were pacers, sulky horses. But I loved them anyways. I remember I renamed them Gemini, Morgan and something else.

I went to Pentacostal church camp with the neighbor across the street specifically because they had horses. I got the same horse 2 years in a row and we, I should say she won the barrels, she didn’t care about me, she just loved to run. But I loved her anyways.

Fast forward to farm life.

I, and a few other horse ladies. rescued auction horses. Kept them from being sold for meat.

Disclaimer, human beings have done some serious physical and psychological damage to some horses and I think the best thing for them is to live out their last days getting fat and unbothered by people before leaving the earth. They are angry, scared and dangerous. I won’t eat horse meat, but there are things worse than death.

I also need to add another disclaimer. I am not a horse lady. For all my wishing and wanting as a kid, I never had a horse. And somewhere between Angie, my lil spitfire camp horse, and having a farm, I got scared of horses. Nothing happened, I am just really insecure now. About a lot of things. Didn’t stop me from buying meat horses and bringing them home. There were a few instances where I could have been hurt very badly, but my deep, unshakeable reverence for these behemoths in the field, plus the hand of god a couple times I swear, kept me from dying or breaking limbs. I believe horses can sense your heart, and they knew I wasn’t going to hurt them, even though I looked the same as those who had hurt them before. My girls, and boys were silly, stupid, bratty and sometimes mean and I miss them.
RIP Lightning, you deserved better.

I haven’t written enough lately to think of a smooth transition, so ‘this is your captain speaking, the seatbelt light is on, please prepare for some light to moderate turbulence as we enter the next paragraph.’

I was laying in bed with Wolf and we always do a little recap after, once I can remember my name, and since I spend quite a bit of our sessions in subspace, I am not always aware of what I am doing, what time it is, what planet I am on etc.

He has gotten into the habit of counting when I black out just to make sure I am not gone too long. 8 seconds is enough. The orgasms come in waves and sometimes they are tsunamis and I drown for a minute, then break the surface gasping for air. Best description I can muster.

He calls what he does to me his art, and this pleases me. I have extrapolated and understand, that it is indeed art, but like a mosaic. He breaks me apart and puts me back together again in a pleasing way. And the conversations we have after are like a gallery showing. My praise is good for his ego, and his praise is necessary to quell my insecurities. I have never been able to absolutely let go with a partner before, the trust was never there before him.

In this safe space, and exploring subspace I don’t have much control over my actions or reactions. We practice consensual non consent, so ‘no’ doesn’t mean no. Nothing means no, except the safe word donuts, which can be padded with a description as in “breathing donuts” doesn’t mean stop exactly, just reposition so I can fill my lungs. 

I am a vocal submissive. Not loud exactly, and not dirty talk so much. I purr sometimes, I moan before I tip over the edge, I giggle and cry and with him, due to his um…size I tend to say nonononononono as my body attempts to get used to being beaten up from the inside. Doesn’t help, just gives me the illusion of control then I have a massive orgasm and I don’t care that it hurts.

What I didn’t realize is the other vernacular I use.

Which happens to sound a lot like

“Hey” “Ho” something else that sounds like “at tat tat”  and as you may have guessed it “whoa”. As in whoa horsey. In the same tone and volume I would use in the field to communicate with my beasts.

Twenty two months I have been with this man, and this last time was the first time he was ever specific about the ‘words’ I use, and I fucking HOWLED. 

In a vulnerable position with a large creature that could do me harm if he wanted to, I have reverted to the reverence and language I used to stay safe and communicate with my horses. 

I have the same kind of love and respect for him as I did for them, they were never mine, you can’t own something that powerful and magnificent, but I love him anyways.

He’s my horsey.

I am headed for a reunion of sorts.

Today he asked what he perceived to be a difficult question.

“Do we have to wear condoms this time.”

I don’t know why he waited so long to ask. Maybe his hesitation comes from his lack of dating experience, how do you ask that.
Maybe my nonchalance comes from my experiences over the last decade.

I don’t know how long he mulled over this query, I don’t know how vexxed he was about it.

All I know is that for better or worse, I haven’t had any sexual contact with anyone but him, since him. 

I know I can, and honestly, that has been enough. That and my box full of toys.

That being said…

I want you to park that big Mack truck
Right in this little garage (Cardi B, WAP)

There are some ho’s in this house.

I love sex, we all know this. I have had a lot of it. Not in the last while, but in my lifetime, yes.

To me, unprotected sex is a priviledge, not a right or something to be handed out like candy on Halloween. Something that needs to be earned through trust and time and tests. It is a gift we both enjoy and benefit from.

I know I wrote a whole big book about cuck sex, orgies and being used as a cum dumpster. But that was fiction for fiction’s sake. (link below)

Have I always been staunchly safe? Nope. And I have paid for it.

I remember the year after my marriage when I was finally privy to all the exploits of my ex. All the secrets his friends and his harem had kept from me came out like a flood. For the next year and a half, every 6 months, making an appointment at a clinic with fear in my belly and a shake in my voice, and stressing until I saw the negative results. Bullet dodged.

But in the immortal words of Willem Dafoe in Boondock Saints

“IT WAS A FIREFIGHT.”

No idea how I got out unscathed. Call it the grace of god. Or that scene in Pulp Fiction where Samuel L Jackson decides to change his life after seeing the bullet holes in the wall behind him.

I did change my life. Mostly.

Years later I had a whoops with a crazy boy who decided me shirking his request for a round two warranted him lying to me about his sexual health status. I will NEVER forget the 2 weeks I waited for bloodwork, and then another 6 months of not being sure until my blood was collected, tested again and deemed virus free.

He was pretty and sweet in the beginning. He had to have been or he wouldn’t have come home with me. But he fucked like a jackhammer with a loose wire and I didn’t desire another ride. The condom came off mid fuck and I didn’t stop because I wanted it over with. 

A split second decision with 6 months of consequences. He stalked and harassed me. And I was very afraid.

And the Final Boss oops a couple years back that had me taking a Plan B on New Year’s Eve.
I spent the night overwhelmingly busy at work, bleeding profusely and bawling my eyes out telling anyone within earshot, “these aren’t even my hormones.”

Plan B sucks.

I got tested after that too. And again before my current, and one more time when we were trying to figure out why I hurt every day.

Even Giant, who I have been sleeping with on and off since the leap year before last, wore a condom. It’s the ‘on and off’ that deems it necessary. I know he is looking to settle down, I have wandered and because of these things we have never been each other’s only for long enough for the condom to come off.

I am reminded of Sophia’s speech when Celie has a knife to Mister’s throat.
“He ain’t worth it. Don’t trade places with what I’ve been through.”

None of them are. And please don’t.

I never start out writing cautionary tales, but this definitely is one.

I am, by definition, a succubus and a sex eater. I am not myself unless I have my Snickers. I know this. When I hit 4 months with no reprieve in sight, I started looking around for a snack. Thought I found one, but I think I have become spoiled. I’m used to epic sex and if I can’t have that I want things to be easy and honest. He wasn’t. And I don’t do 4:26am ‘babe’ booty calls.

I think back to my first year in Hamilton when all I had to do was think about wanting sex and one of my boys would appear. Or the pseudo relationships that came before/during/after where we weren’t really dating, but someone I cared about was at my house a few times a week doing the dishes after I made dinner, we’d curl up on the couch and watch half a movie and then go fuck until we fell asleep. One would wander off and another would appear.

We never hit the point of monogamous enough for the condom-less sex conversation. 

Maybe I lucked out. Most of them were 20 somethings who didn’t protest the rules, didn’t even question them. I reached into the wooden box by my bed, pulled out a condom and that was that. Maybe there is hope for the future, maybe I chose wisely, until I didn’t.

And then there is the whole idea that sex is an exchange of energy.

Prior to (and during) my marriage I had crappy to decent to mediocre sex, mostly. A couple partners from my 20’s were noteworthy and have been mentioned in this blog. 

But my attitude about sex and my self worth were so far removed from how I am now, I don’t understand the decisions ‘past me’ made. But I forgive her.

It’s easy to say that now. I have sipped the sacred elixir from the Holy Grail of lovers. My ideas of sexual satisfaction have been forever altered. I have attained new levels of subspace and gratification. I have now been loved in my entirety by a lover and it changes everything. I have joined the yang to my yin and recreational sex just seems beneath me.

And I know that if the itch gets too much for me to scratch on my own, I can indulge without consequences from Him. Because he knows me and understands what I am.

That being said, he is my Primary. The only one who is allowed inside me without barriers.
This is my personal rule for my poly relationships.
I remember sitting in the ‘feature’ room above a strip club, holding a porn start while she cried because he boyfriend had broken their personal rule about fucking other porn stars without a condom on and she was devastated. I had an epiphany in that moment as I was wiping her raccoon eyes about boundaries and respect and how any version of a relationship was possible as long as the 2 people in it understood each other and followed the rules of engagement. I was 26 and that lesson has stayed with me always.

And I understand his queries and concerns. 

I couldn’t help but feel a little pride when I told him the truth. I successfully navigated a long trek through the desert of no sex and immerged victorious.

“I guess I have a lot of making up to do then.”

Yes please.

I had a rapid session of good luck over the last couple days and I am grateful.

A couple unexpected windfalls, a tarot reading from my Colorado witch (2 really) and the girl that I was working with who I felt invisible next to, has decided to leave.

Do not get me wrong, I fucking love this girl. She is beautiful, sweet, personable and a really good stripper. I am a bad stripper. I overthink everything, I forget to smile, I don’t talk to as many customers as I should and I talk to some of them for too long. A, B, C always be closing, I suck at closing. I was never a good sales girl. I have that whole ‘freewill is paramount’ loop in my head, always. I figure if they wanted to they would, even though I have anecdotal proof to the contrary.

I look like a bitch.

And I know it.

I have lost track of the number of times some dude has said “I wanted you for a long time but I was too scared to talk to you.”

I am also very sweet, funny and kind when you get to know me but for the bulk of clientele who wander into a stripclub, they want approachable girls who approach them. And although I know this, I am still bad at it.

I am also shy in new venues.

My entire career has been x number of years at club A, B or C.

Too many close call fights over customers. But this place doesn’t seem to be like that.

I should know by now (and have written) that there is no stripper mecca. There is no perfect place. But the one I am in now is pretty close. I just need to get my shit together a little  better.

The old days are long gone and I still maintain my ex husband stole my 30’s where I could have been doing things differently aka ‘right’.

I still danced when I was married. On and off, sometimes in secret so I could leave, after physiotherapy for that bad car wreck, my old boss at one of my clubs took pity on bent and broken me and let me do my 3 stages when there was no one around. I do acknowledge that dancing was a huge part of my recovery. I lost my grace and found it again. And I made enough to put first, last and next on my old apartment and furnish it without him knowing.

And there was a club up in the wilds near the farm.

Where the Birthday Sex fire occurred and I met one of my best friends.

There are a few things worse than being a pimp. Peophile, murderer, rapist, politician, especially the one who approved paying the mentally challenged 45 cents an hour for manual labour, pimp and then rat…in that order.

Hubby knew I worked there and took the money I made, then denied I ever gave it to him and after a while, I stopped giving it to him. After another while, I left him and stayed in the cathouse above the club.

Every cathouse I have ever stayed in is a bizarre palette of mistints from the local hardware store coating the walls either in all the colors of an easter egg or varying shades of band aid beige. Lists of rules that no one really follows, aged and water stained, peeling up at the corners placed randomly throughout, punctuated with artwork salvaged from the garbage leftover after rummage sales, always slightly crooked and a clock, like we want to know what time it is. The air is filled with ancient and fresh cigarette smoke, steam from someone’s shower and a hint of expensive shampoo and cheap body spray.

This particular one was garish shades of pink, like pepto bismol left in the sun to darken and harden or in the rain to dilute and fade and by the time I moved in, streaks of smoke from a house fire.

It all started with the Birthday Sex song.

…

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It has been a long minute since I spoke to you fine folks. This is going to come out like a diary entry.

The catfish poet was constantly criticizing my blog posts. “You’re too open, it’s not a diary darling.” But it is. I say my truth, and this part of what I write isn’t for the money, it is for my memory and sanity, so ya, it is a fucking diary. Neglected as of late, but here I am, trying and shit.

I had plans to bring my Roku north so this old laptop wasn’t my only source of entertainment and stuck on the weird side table at the end of my cat house bed and instead, in my la[p where it belongs. But I forgot, for like 3 weeks straight.

My routine is not great. Up at 11 or so. Down for coffee, watch a movie or two while doing stretches in my room. Eat a tapas style lunch around 2, nap til 3, shower, work, eat, rinse, repeat.
Kept meaning to bring my yoga mat too, forgot that also.

I got stuck in the new book at the part where they finally get together because for a long while that felt like an impossibility, but i think I can now.

I also meant to take a couple pics of my stripper room, I don’t think most folks understand how that works. Why would you, unless you yourself are a traveling stripper. I had one whole experience in my 22 years dancing and that place got lit on fire during a fight about the birthday sex song. But that whole experience was atypical and a story for another day.

I could just buy another Roku. But I haven’t.

Stripper money is a funny thing. It comes and goes in waves. Sometimes overlapping. I was treating myself to a blow out the day before heading to work, a polish change on my claws or new nails, pop into the grocery store across the street to feed myself for the week and suddenly a night or two’s worth of money, poof, gone. Then the phone bill comes due on a bad week and my car still needs fixing, I paid my taxes this morning. I keep waiting for a bonus night at work, and it hasn’t happened yet, in 5 weeks. Just steady, always with one garbage night to throw off my average. 5 weeks running. I am due 5 bonus nights in the near future. Let those overlap instead.

Last week I made meals with what I had on hand, snapped a nail moving furniture the day before I was to work, my roots are coming in and I just left all of it. An experiment to see if it made a difference, it didn’t. I have bigger goals, I don’t need to be fancy. I do need to work harder.

I have decided to lean into what is. Roommate moves into his new house in Belize in 4 days. That leaves me the house I am in all to myself. In all of it’s smoky, leather, grey, bachelor glory.

For at least a year.

I spent last tuesday decluttering, wiping down, sorting and ultimately filling 2 bins worth of donations at Value Village.

I got rid of 8 bags of my own clothes and leftover crap. Next will be the uncomfortable leather couches and the glass tables.

I’d be a fool to move. And it might be foolish to redecorate, but the stuff I salvaged from Newfoundland sits 200 yards from my front door in a now unnecessary storage space. The money saved in storage fees is enough to justify a coat of paint and a new couch. Besides, I nest, it’s what I do. And I will have this place looking like something out of a magazine soon, Good for resale when we get there right? And good for my brain, I hated feeling that ‘ugh’ when I walked in the door after 4 days gone. Anyone who follows my Instagram knows what I am capable of as far as making houses into homes goes. It’s my thing.

My favorite saying, “Do what you can, with what you have, where you are.” One of the Roosevelts, Teddy I think. I have nice things across the street and I live here now. It is what is.

There are some downsides. My last friend here left last Thursday. I am doing all of this alone. I mean, it’s just Milton part 2 after the Potato moved out. I did all of that alone. We are back in grey lockdown so I couldn’t go meet new people even if I had any idea how to do that. No social media. I am isolated as fuuuuuck.

No fuck boys to play with neither here nor there, which sucks.

I did try. Only found one that might work and after 2 failed attempts I got a 4:26am ‘babe’ text. That is a privilege, not a right. After which I did give him a shot at redemption and he made out with a 19 year old at the bar 20 minutes after inviting me home, so that is dead in the water. I think the idea is dead in the water really. I should know better than to think anything viable would be found at a small town strip club. That only ever happened 3 times in all my years.

And besides, it is just a distraction. I am there to make money and lots of it. I have a condo, a jeep and trailer to buy, and now a couch. I am seriously thinking pink, never had a pink couch before.

And then there is the tit issue.

I really should have written something last week after the appointment. I finally got to the consultation stage of this horrendous adventure and wow that was not what I had expected.

Apparently there is no rupture.

Which means nothing is covered by insurance or the manufacturer and they still don’t know why I am sick exactly. I know 10 things it isn’t.

Doesn’t explain the lump I keep feeling, nor the way I have been feeling in general. I mean Breast Implant Illness isn’t dependent on a rupture, my body could just be fighting and rejecting the intact implants. And there is an anomaly and a lot of swelling they can’t explain. But now it’s a multi thousand dollar venture for me to get these out to see if I feel better and ya. Fuck. 

I am waiting on a mammogram and another ultrasound, then I will be getting a second opinion. But for now, I am still in expensive limbo. The stretching, constant movement and my renewed drinking has helped with pain management. I limp most mornings, exacerbated by giving myself a B 12 shot and having that butt cheek grabbed extra hard by a customer 12 hours post injection, that wasn’t a fun morning. But at least I knew what was wrong.

So that’s it. You’re all caught up.

Still sick, but better. No good dick at work or home. No tit replacement, yet. But I get to redecorate. I am safe, relatively happy and about to go get my nails done and refill my vegetable crisper and in 2 days I can keep filling my coffers.