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Once upon the Facebook there was a random floating copy/paste status that said “type your name and the word needs into google search and post the results.”

Apparently “Sarah needs love and batteries”, in that order.

Sounds about right.

I can add to that list.

I need a hard reset, I need to know my worth, I need someone who sees it, I need to listen to my friends. I need to be alone for a while. I need to finish this fucking book and get it to the editor. I mean it’s technically done but I gotta go over it one more time.

I need to stop with the ‘one more time’. Step up or fuck off. I need to learn what the word done means.

Sarah means Princess in Hebrew and discontent in Greek, I am both of those things, not in that order.

I once wrote, the worst thing about making something out of nothing is when the nothing starts to show through.
That’s all there is right now, nothing.

Sarah needs something.

Gemini season is not being kind to me this year. I look forward to it like Christmas, except that one year when a Mercury retrograde ate it all up like the Nothing from the Never Ending Story.

Even Rob at  https://www.facebook.com/Rob-Brezsnys-Free-Will-Astrology-133041234078/ knows

Actress Marisa Berenson offers a line of anti-aging products that contain an elixir made from the seeds of a desert fruit known as prickly pear. The manufacturing process isn’t easy. To produce a quart of the potion requires 2,000 pounds of seeds. I see you as having a metaphorically similar challenge in the coming weeks, Gemini. To create a small amount of the precious stuff you want, I’m guessing you’ll have to gather a ton of raw materials. And there may be a desert-like phenomena to deal with, as well. 

I want out of the desert.

I was to go ‘away’ twice before the end of June, but here I sit. We aren’t going anywhere.

Things fell apart, the center didn’t hold.

I held, for as long as I could. I usually do, it’s my M.O.

But right now it is looking like a limb torn off (Band of Horses) and like all phantom limbs it is gonna ache and itch for a long time comin’. Better to cut it off now though.

I wasn’t happy.

Like a low grade fever that just slowly sucks all your energy until getting dressed becomes a chore, eating is optional and all I want to do is sleep. Happiness is a shimmering mirage that I can’t reach.

I was talking to my son the other day about the concept of happiness. His friends think he is a mess, and in truth I have been a little worried too. Not now.

Him: It’s better than before. I think for a long time I was actually lying to myself

Me: About?

Him: I wasn’t really that happy before. I’ve just actually come to terms with it

Me: I mean no one is. Life is contentment and just existing with moments of profound up and down that sometimes drag on

Him: But I just mean I was lying to myself when I said I was happy a lot, I was more miserable then than I am now. Now I just show it

Me: It’s not lying so much as hindsight

Him: All my friends have been saying I seem worse than ever but the truth is the opposite

Me: I didn’t understand what actual happiness was until lately

Him: It’s hard

Me: It was all the stuff I took for granted. Peaceful days. Good days with you. Paid bills. A good sleep a good laugh. Not all the big shit, although that’s nice too.

Him: Those are what’s important

Me: We need Canada’s Wonderland passes…speaking of the big stuff

I could use an actual rollercoaster instead of the proverbial one I have been on. It’s just all up and down, no twists, turns or exhilaration, just low grade nausea and an impending sense of are we there yet, I kinda want off.

I love that my son is light years ahead of where I was at 21. I was stumbling and fumbling trying to figure out how to be a parent with no idea who I was as a person. We learned together. He watched everything I went through and god bless him he learned from my mistakes.

Why can’t I?

So shed your skin and let’s get started (Hunters & Collectors)

Sarah needs DMT, to set everything on fire and start over, to get lost, to find my damned self.

And I definitely need love and batteries.

I chime in with a “Haven’t you people ever heard of closing a goddamned door?” Panic at the Disco

Anyone who has ever read anything I have ever written knows this is not my strong suit.

Nostalgia and Forgiveness are two of my many middle names.

But what happens on the day the full strawberry moon is in Sagittarius, with Saturn at the helm and Jupiter picked today to go direct?

Shits gotta stop.

Doors gotta close.

I gotta move. Be it up, down or across. I can’t stay here.

I would usually play a full white girl card and declare I am unable to even.

Gonna smudge, salt and sprinkle holy water all over my life and oust the stagnant juju.

It’s not bad juju per say, but something has to give and change and leave.

I think it’s high time to close the god damned door.

It seems to be happening across the board. All of my friends in this long drawn out stasis waking up suddenly, realizing we are on this not-so-merry-go-round and we are all feeling a little nauseous and want off now.

I liken the universe to a giant machine, with wheels and cogs, a clockworks perhaps but with its own sense of stellar timing, nothing like the linear ideals created by man. I know I know everything is as it should be, all our problems have been solved we just haven’t gotten to that point in time yet, whether or not it’s clear the universe is unfolding as it should blah blah blah. But what about what I want?

It’s not in the cards or the cogs it seems. Every turn taking me further and further away.

And it’s all just a little bit of history repeating.

And I am running out of time.

I woke up this morning with a profound and deeply urgent need to rewind time. Go back to the very beginning. When I was a teenager, when I first woke up to some semblance of this self that I am now.

I don’t know if it had something to do with a dream or if I am just not digging this current path I am on. But the need to regress and revert was overwhelming.

I am missing something.

When what I want and what I need and some damned thing that is going to make sense later is occurring I feel like those cogs and wheels that usually turn fairly smoothly hit some kind of transition position and all of the sudden there is a grinding of gears, a screaming of metal. Jerks and pulls. Fits and starts. And all I want to do is duck and cover my ears and wait for it to be over.

But alas. There are bills to pay and a life to live and the dog needs walking and I know. Pretty soon the cogs will find their counterparts, the gods will grease the wheels once again and it will be smooth sailing for a time.

I usually hate this.

It is human to both want change and resist it.

Maybe it’s just the long awaited and final arrival of summer time. The sunshine making everything look new again. The trees and flowers in full bloom.

But it feels right. Terrifying, but right.

Time to put the past in the rear view and get the fuck out of Dodge.

But for tonight, I will just clean and pray for guidance.

Outta Dodge sounds great, but I wouldn’t mind looking at a map and seeing where I am heading.

Choices always were a problem for you.
What you need is someone strong to guide you.
Deaf and blind and dumb and born to follow,
what you need is someone strong to guide you..
like me, like me, like me, like me

If you want to get your soul to heaven, trust in me.
Now don’t judge or question.
You are broken now, but faith can heal you.
Just do everything I tell you to do.

Deaf and blind and dumb and born to follow.
What you need is someone strong to guide you.
Deaf and blind and dumb and born to follow.
Let me lay my holy hand upon you.

My Gods will, becomes me.
When he speaks, he speaks through me.
He has needs like I do.
We both want to rape you.

Tool Opiate

Simmer down just a lil there Maynard.
Rape is not one of the big Christian no-no’s ever notice that?

I get the sentiment though. Giving yourself over to God, brides of Christ. It’s a lil rapey.

Maynard was raised in the church, it colors a lot of his work and I understand that.

I was raised outside of the church and it colors everything I do so ya, I can empathize to a degree.

I had to find my own spirituality.

I think we all should really.

My ex wrote a book proving the existence of god.

He isn’t Christian at all, Atheist actually. Polyamorous pragmatist with Buddhist tendencies to be totally fair.

But ya.

He proved God exists.

I can’t remember how exactly, something about collective consciousness manifesting in actuality.

Seems we accidentally manifested a version of God who’s inactive and apparently Lucifer is down here causing death, cancer, rape, war, child abuse etc…so God gets away with not doing a whole lot, and Satan gets blamed for actual occurrences. I feel like that system is a little flawed.

So be it.

Not my circus nor my monkeys. In fact if any God worth his salt, who created this amazing planet for us to live on, saw us putting monkeys in circuses or any of the other fucked up shit we do to each other or our fellow inhabitants of the planet should have thrown and tantrum of epic proportions some time back in ancient Rome. But those Gods were human, emotional, vengeful, generous and fallible. We traded them in for this sleek new version and he isn’t doing a lot of smiting these days. We are overdue for a reckoning. We could really use another flood down here.

Again, we have managed to manifest this omnipotent being into existence and then held him responsible for sweet fuck all.

This I don’t get. Too many juxtapositions and glaring discrepancies.

But if you need a security blanket and you want to call it God, by all means. Whatever gets you through the night. I get that.

That was not the point of this post.

I know someone in the beginning stages of AA.

And since the second word is anonymous I shall not say whom.

They are struggling with the idea of giving themselves over to a higher power.

I get that. It is a little culty and preachy. So how do I help this person find their version of god?

I have my own shortcuts to the divine.

Anyone who wants to say that caffeine is not a drug has not ingested 5 cups on an empty stomach, on very little broken sleep, whilst emotionally charged, mildly traumatized and euphoric due to a warm sunny day mid-March. I think I saw god. (Facebook Status, mid-March apparently)

I see god often.

Or my version of god that is.

He lives in the sunshine. In the funny old lady noises my dog makes. In the dimple on that boys right cheek. In the color of his dissipating irises when he looks at me and his pupils dilate. In the first feeling of his hands on me and every moment after. In certain tones and notes of particular songs. In sunrises, sunsets, skinny dipping. In love and laughter and most definitely in that first sip of coffee in the morning.

Heeeeey. Wait a minute.

Isn’t the Devil in the details?

I might actually worship Satan. Satanists believe that women are valuable creatures not chattel. That our base instincts are not flaws to be beaten down, but gifts to explore. Ya, I think I’m team Morningstar.

My AA person expressed jealousy that I find joy in walking along the beach picking up rocks.

I do.

I am definitely a little things person. I wasn’t always.

I would reserve my happiness for the big things and they came so rarely, ended so quickly, left me feeling really empty afterwards.

I had to look inwards. Quiet the outside world. Be in the moment and realize what actual brought me joy, no matter how small.

Once upon a time I sat in Milton, one warm summer morning, sipping my coffee on the back deck, sun rising, dew twinkling, watching an aerial dogfight play out between a thousand dragonflies, witnessing the impossible flight of the bumblebees, and being privy to intermittent visits of a dozen hummingbirds it dawned on me… Only the small things matter. That is where my god lives.

My friend’s might lie in the memory of temples climbed. The smell of incense, the chanting of monks, the realization that we are all small and only part of something larger.

That seems like a good place to start looking for God or something godlike.

Fuck, I haven’t been writing lately and it’s kinda killin me. Its feeling “like a limb torn off” Band of Horses.

“I am writing about you in the blog this week, hope that’s okay.”

I said this to both my Human Serotonin and the girl we call S___ Moon at work last night.

They were fine with it. Human Serotonin knows everyone gets nicknames. I have to remember this when speaking of my exes, she doesn’t know their actual names. She asked what I was gonna call all of my friends exes, starting with hers…Six Nine the Tailbone Destroyer, Giant was already taken. Everyone else’s kinda falls into the category of Drug Dealing or Drug Addict pieces of shit, except S___ Moon’s…we have always called him Big Dick, it suits him and I couldn’t tell you what his real name is. He’s a dick.

So, why all the talk of exes?

Because apparently, wherever the moon is, or some planetary alignment of massive backsliding cosmic fuckery, we are all running headlong backwards into the arms of our exes. Myself included.

I try not to carry an air or moral superiority, especially with my friends. I know exactly what it feels like to fall down seven times, and I know the only important thing is standing up the eighth. I was stuck like glue to ex hubby, for years. Even after I escaped Perdition we still talked, until he read ye olde blog and realized who I really am.

For all intents and purposes…a turbo slut.

Luckily, I have since surrounded myself with friends who also love fucking and do not judge me. And the ex I have gravitated back to is quite fine with how much I enjoy sex.

So there’s that then.

But what is with the exes lately? Not just me, but ALL my girls, both the core group and those who have their own separate orbits around us?

I feel like I am on the Millennium Falcon, just floating out in space just as I realize ‘that’s no moon’ I am already in the tractor beam getting pulled back in. Powerless to stop it, and I don’t really want to. Feels like I am being pulled back home.

It’s my 43^rd run around the sun. Maybe slipping back into something comfortable and familiar isn’t a bad thing. I can already see that things are better this time than they were before.

Biker Body Pillow once said “Sarah, you aren’t psychic, I don’t believe in that shit. But I’ll give you this. You have a memory like a steel trap, a mind that can see all angles and you read patterns like Rain Man counts cards. This is why you think you know what people are gonna do before they do it.”
BBP was rarely wrong about much of anything and he ain’t wrong about me.

So what is to be done with these patterns I see?

What good is it?

I can’t count cards that I know of. Math eludes me. Angles, engines, square roots…nope. I cannae.

Give me word problems and I will lay them all out for you.

Aaaaand then you’re just gonna do whatever you want anyways. As will I.

I am getting better at trusting my gut, not doing the things that make my insides twist and turn. I have found that it is infinitely easier to avoid the knots than to try and untie them after the fact.

But that’s just me.

I have done something that I now believe to be uncommon.

I have sat in my loneliness, I have seen my flaws and shrugged my shoulders at them.

I have watched everything spiral out and in again and I honestly cannot begin to tell you what is better. When everything is circling close and comforting or when you are way out at the edges and you can look inwards to get a fresh perspective and see all the things for what they are. Zoomed in or out, both views have good things to offer.

It’s when everyone and everything goes off the rails at the same time and you forgot to put on your seatbelt and there is a rough transition that feels like it’s never gonna end. Like a needle skipping on a record of what should be your favorite song but it’s just noise and it hurts your head.

I can relate to Sex and the City. I am a girl, I have 3 close girlfriends, a Mr. Big and this blog.

And when everybody goes off the rails and leaves me behind to manage the wreckage I am prone to feeling abandoned and/or surrounded by ‘too many Samanthas’. I gotta be Carrie, Charlotte and Miranda all by my damned self while they drink, fuck and make bad life decisions. It’s easier when we take turns, but every once in a while…perfect storm.

And that’s where we’re at.

Gravitational pulls, Death Stars, big dicks and a lot of history repeating.

Like being on Space Mountain at Disney. The first time I rode it I closed my eyes, I was scared and somehow that made it scarier. I am on it again with my eyes open. Its dark and I can’t see the next drop or turn, but I’ve ridden this ride before and I really like it

I saw Tool on the side stage at Lollapalooza in 1993, again in 2007 and a birthday miracle occurred and I am going to see them again. Once a decade.

“I’ve come round, full circle” Prison Sex

I wrote this after I saw them the last time. I was a mess, shit was falling apart with ex hubby, my friend Kerry rescued me.

I am amazed at who I was and who I have become.

“I know the pieces fit” Schism

I thought I was shy, I thought I was timid, I thought I was a pacifist, I thought I couldn’t fight…I have lived most of my life believing these things to be true…and then oh and then…
“I’ve been crawling on my belly clearing out what could have been.
I’ve been wallowing in my own chaotic insecure delusions.
I want to feel the change consume me; feel the outside turning in.
I want to feel the metamorphosis and cleansing of enduring.
My shadow. My shadow.
Change is coming,
Now is my time.”
46 & 2 ~TOOL
Kerry invited me to Tool, I fucking love Tool, in the music segment on my myspace it says “a choir of angles could not make a sweeter sound than when Maynard James Keenan sings”. It is the truth.
She said we were going to be in the pit, and to be honest with you, I was terrified. Every time she said or typed the word “pit” I would panic a little. To the point where I almost traded tickets at Tim Horton’s so I could have myself a nice safe seat, but I didn’t.
As we stood in line for beer I looked around and my fear was rationalized, compounded and multiplied, I came to the horrid realization that I was standing in the middle of a fucking frat party. No cool people in sight, just meat-headed jocks and little rocker boys, and a very small handful of women all of whom were in various stages of getting drunk. I was astounded by the number of flip flops adorning the feet of both sexes.
We walked onto the floor an hour early; we each pissed on our 18 square inches of concrete and claimed them as our own. Not enough space that we were being greedy mind you, just enough to move and breathe and see and experience and enjoy. We made friends with the cool people who had their pieces of concrete floor near to us. 4 deep from the barrier on the left hand side by the speaker. Our new friends included one big guy, three tiny 20 year old girls and one of the tiny girl’s boyfriends who shall now be known forever as “the nice boy on my left.”
I am by nature or nurture (I am not sure which), claustrophobic, my greatest fear is the mob mentality and being crushed by the masses. I had no desire to get shoved kicked pushed squished groped and yet I knew all of things were bound to happen. I steadied my self for a rough couple of hours, plotted my escape routes and finally just said fuck it.
At approximately 9:15pm the music started and I found myself in the middle of a war, a sea of little teenage dirt bag fuckers (who have no idea what a mosh pit is and just for the fucking record were in kindergarten and still wetting the bed when I first saw Tool) decided to interrupt me while I was absorbing and Maynard sang his lungs out.
Sweaty doped up sneaky fuckers trying to push ahead, moving the whole crowd as they cut and shoved trying to take what was ours. My chest constricted in panic, my veins filled with battery acid, bodies pressed into me from every angle and I was falling. I could still see the barrier to my left and I calmed down a little, I had fallen into a friendly back, he turned to check on me and gave me an arm to steady myself.
Fight or flee and I surprised the fuck out of myself. I fought.
Evidently I am not to be fucked with when Maynard and my personal space are involved.
Evidently I am a violent girl.
I grabbed the large friendly guy in front of me and twisted his t shirt into my hands, dug my feet in and shoved back as hard as I could while the nice boy on my left grinned his devilish grin at me and did the same.
Kerry turned and checked on me, and I was a little panicked, I admit it, but I signaled to her I was okay by making a mean face and holding up my elbow. My experience waitressing in the narrowest busiest bar on Yonge Street was easily applied to my present situation. My mini battle was won and I was kinda sorta starting to feel a little bit brave.
So it continued for the next 2 hours.
I was repeatedly invited into the fold, into the “safe” pocket. Fuck that, no thanks; something in me NEEDED to be able to back up. I felt obligated to keep my space hold the line and keep these numb fucks away from my friends.
Some asswipe put his arm around my waist in a protective familiar manner and got both his feet stomped with my boots and both my elbows to the gut, he backed off. One boy left his chin print as a contusion on my arm unfortunately for me I was aiming for his nose. I got kicked and elbowed and punched and I loved it. I kicked punched and elbowed back and I loved that even more.
Some other big stoned and drunk fuck tried to push me out of his way and I knocked him over on his ass and laughed so hard at the look on his face when he realized I was a girl. Another guy started howling triumphantly when he had successfully grabbed my tit as a mini mosh pit broke out behind us, the nice boy on my left saw it, waited for me to nod approval and punched the idiot in the throat and cut him off mid howl. It was a satisfying noise. I paid back the favour 5 minutes later when I pulled him out of the way of a crowd surfer just in time stop him from receiving a boot to the head.
Oh the nice boy on my left, he had my back and I had his. He looked up at me with great adoration throughout the evening. He never once insulted me by trying to shield me, he knew I was getting off on it and so was he, we held the line, fighting on and off back to back and sharing smokes in between.
I held my elbow up to a guy’s throat, screamed at him that he wasn’t welcome (not quite that politely mind you) and he backed off.
At one point we earned a 6 foot pocket of space behind us.
I watched Kerry through the crowd; she grabbed and shoved a kid back by his throat never missing a beat. She took on a huge fucker Harry Manback asshole who was going to step on our girls and she won.
My moment of triumph came when some dumb fuck tried to cut in front of me and step one of the tiny girls I was feeling maternally protective over and I could not abide by that, I hooked my arm around his neck picked him up and put him behind me then elbowed his kidney for good measure.
I feel SO GOD DAMN STRONG.

Something happened to me last night. I changed. I have been feeling weak and now I am so far from it. I am bruised and sore and so very deaf and I have never been more full of pride. I danced hard when I could and I fought hard when I had to and I started wanting it, I wanted someone to shove me so I could shove back. The scared girl I was is gone. Last night I fell asleep sated and dreamt of fighting.
That feeling isn’t going away. I spent 33 years avoiding physical confrontation, now all I have to say is please fuck with me, just give me one good reason.

Oh yes, I really hadn’t forgotten, the music was magnificent wondrous glorious and spectacular. I was filled and refilled with great reverence and awe. Maynard’s voice was seraphic. I experienced an auditory and visual orgasm that rarely waned and constantly climaxed, and just when I thought I couldn’t possibly stand the beauty and power of it there was another wave to carry me further along to a new pinnacle of ecstasy. We were so close I could feel every bass chord and drum beat resonate through my chest. I have never experienced something so perfect, and I might never again. My eyes sparkled and shone while I cried from the joy of simply being there, and I would not have been surprised if Maynard had grown wings.

Rob Breszney put forth yet another challenge. This time to write a letter to our future selves. Brain storming ideas for things we want to accomplish this year.

I do the opposite.

Every day.

Each morning, I get up, make coffee, light a cigarette and immediately head to the On This Day app on my Facebook.

Caffeine, nicotine and a time capsule for breakfast.

I go back in time instead of planning ahead. But the past is so cozy and already figured out and compartmentalized and my sins are forgiven or washed away or just forgotten.

Not the worst way to start the day.

Reminds me that I was in some really dark places, and some really beautiful ones too.

I gotta be honest. I don’t miss farm spring with the floods and the mud and the goose bites. Mind you a lot of those things could have been avoided if I was in charge.

I let a lot of life happen to me.

It is not a good habit.

I don’t know how to stick up for myself at all. I am always afraid I will get yelled at or left. So I am complacent in how I am treated. Until I am not. I hit a wall and I’m done.

Houston, we have a problem.

Him: You know what you deserve

Me: Do I?

Him: I wonder sometimes honestly if you know your worth….

Me: You know I don’t

Him: I wish you could see yourself through my eyes for just a moment

Me: Me too

Him: That’s why you go to these boys that don’t step up…Baby you are so fucking amazing….you have a mind second to none….you have style and grace and the sex drive of a goddess….and a body that should be fucked daily….and cuddled….and have someone that pushes your mind….but I can tell you all day….until you see it……

Me: I love you. Thank you

Him: I love you….I’ve always got your back.

I think that is my wish. Or my brain stormy idea of what I want to accomplish. When people talk to me like Habibi just did up there, I want to believe them. And I want to believe them because I know it’s the truth, not just because I value his opinion. We dated ages ago and super briefly, he has no agenda or reason to blow sunshine up my ass, other than I am feeling a bit dark right now and he sees it. In the grand scheme of things he listens to me babble and whine way more than I listen to him. I look back on so many conversations and I cringe when I see that he came to me to talk and I somehow turn it around and make it all about me. But, he loves me anyways.

I fuck up. Lawds yes I do. Why can’t I love me anyways? I love others who fuck up. My middle name is Forgiveness.

I try so hard to give them what they need.

But what about me?

Sometimes I need things.

Why is that so hard to say out loud?

I don’t need much. Food, snuggles, sex, a walk on the beach, some texts containing dirty memes and a forehead kiss now and again..

I wonder if men think that I am playing some kind of game, wherein I say and behave in a way that dictates I am not complicated but really, I’m just reeling them in and my secret identity is Super High Maintenance Girl.

I’m not.

The other shoe isn’t going to drop.

I hate shoes. See above where I would rather just be barefoot on the beach.

I started thinking ‘one day someone will appreciate me’ then I stopped.

I think as long as I appreciate me, my thoughts, actions/reactions, my way of doing things and feeling things. As long as I enjoy my own ride and find pleasure, profundity and meaning in the things I do and feel. Then ultimately everything is alright.

(Notes I leave myself on Facebook)

Clickbait. Any post with the words fuck or pussy.

For all you know this could be an article about cats. But realistically, it’s me. You know it ain’t.

My numbers have been a little low lately, but I’m not a tease.

It’s really about vaginas.

A girl I work with walked towards me in the smoking paddock. She was back lit by the fading sunlight. Photographers call this the golden hour because everything looks beautiful bathed in glowing golden sunlight at dusk and dawn.
Things I cannot shake, my eye for finding photos and my overthinking of everything and attempting to get it all down. I suppose they are the same thing. Capturing moments one way or another.

Got off track. Back now.

Shes a beautiful girl, freckled tanned skin, long dark hair, light eyes, funny as fuck and a nice body on her. She was wearing a low rise white thong, super see through and had the prettiest camel toe I had ever seen.

Camel toe is such a crass term for what this was. Just a delicate outline of a pretty pussy. Sheathed in soft white fabric, just being cute in the glow of a sunset.

I have worked in strip clubs since 1997. And although I had some squeamish moments, usually during lunch shift at my first club, when as a waitress I would deliver a club sandwich to a guy in perverts row and invariably come face to pussy I guess with some girl’s vagina. The stage was set at eye level on purpose, can’t be avoided really. I’d blush, put the sammich down and go on about my day.

Needless to say, I have seen a LOT of vaginas in my day.

I got used to it rather quickly, fairly desensitized I guess. Except that one time when I was yet again, putting a beer down in perverts row, looked up just as I heard the girls name announced and realized I was staring into my ex-husbands ex-girlfriends pussy. Like inches from my face. That threw me a bit. I had not learned then to quell my jealousy and I honestly didn’t know how to feel. That isn’t a thing that happens often outside of my world, no precedents set for that exactly. In retrospect, it was a mild discomfort, nothing more.

At the same bar there happened to be a girl with what can only be described as a large vagina. Rather than revolting, it was fascinating, her clit was bigger than my thumb. Her lips in a perpetual state of swollen. I am not ashamed to admit, every time she went on stage I stared. I could only begin to imagine what that felt like….both to be her and to fuck her. Alas I never found out.

When it came to stripping myself I would often do the reverse of the norm and take my panties off on the second song rather than my bra. I hate my tits, my pussy is/was kinda adorable. I have an innie, been proud of how that part of my body looked for quite some time. So, choosing to reveal that first and having 3 less minutes with my boobs out and thereby open to ridicule worked just fine for me.

These days…sadly no. Panties stay on as long as possible. And I’ll tell you why.

I had a bad Brazilian. You know, where you trust another person to apply hot wax to your holiest of holies and violently rip the hair out because its summer time and you are at the beach every damned day. Ya one of those. I had been going to the same place quite happily for 3 months. But this time was different. Maybe she was having a bad day. Maybe I didn’t tip her enough, who knows, but this time Bitch burned me and skinned me. My skin is still recovering. I now have chronic cystic ingrown and my once pretty pussy has scars and bumps.

I have spent 5 months and over $500 on creams, lotions, scrubby things, pills etc trying to get her back to her former glory. I miss her. I truly do. She is my most favorite and fun body part. Which is why, I am committing to 90 days of medication to fix it once and for all at the cost of making me extremely light sensitive. I worship the sun. We only get 90 days of it in Canada. But if it works it will be worth it.

I hate feeling insecure and shy about it during sex. I suppose this is what a lot of women feel all the time, without the excuse of a bad wax. But just because society has vilified this part of us. This wondrous amazing part.

Butch: You think guys would find that attractive?
Fabienne: I don’t give a damn what men find attractive. It’s unfortunate what we find pleasing to the touch and pleasing to the eye is seldom the same. 

(Pulp Fiction)

It’s true.

My pussy is a magical thing. I have tantric orgasms that span over minutes and more glorious minutes. When I am aroused my lips puff up and my clit peeks out between them at the top reaching towards whomever is making me feel this way.

I get slip ‘n’ slide wet under the right circumstances. I get tighter the more I get fucked and apparently the spasms that occur inside me feel as good to my partner as they do to me.

I just finished the book. The evil book I have been bitching about and working on for 2 years.

Its porn. Vaginas come into play often. So many puns so little time, that’ll have to do.

But in having to come up with descriptive terms over and over 350+ pages I think I learned to love them a little more.

The sensitive skin of his intense erection felt every miniscule movement of her muscles trying to draw him inside, like pink swaying anemones, dancing out, playfully attempting to bring him home and feed on him.

All pussies, great and small.

Every artist is a cannibal every poet is a thief, all kill their inspiration then sing about their grief. U2

I am going to lose some friends over this. I know it. I have made peace with this. If they bail because I feel compelled to stick up for someone who has always been there for me, so be it. Warmth can only come from a burning and love always comes due in blood. (SK) and I owe him. I’ll bleed.

Once upon a time in a strip club far, far away two baby strippers (19 and 20 respectively) I knew and loved got in a fight about something and never spoke to each other again. Couldn’t tell you what the fight was about. You know why?
Because they both respected my friendship with the other and never asked me to pick a side nor called me in to bitch about the other.

They are the standard to which I hold all my present company.

Two
Baby
Strippers

I am reminded of Kings 3:25 King Solomon ordering the baby to be cut in half. The one who truly loved him screamed no, would rather lose the baby than see it bleed. I am screaming NO now and you are insisting on cutting the baby.

Do you need his blood for ink?

You can’t put tape over your mouth and let your fingers do the talking.
That isn’t silence.
Silence is dignified.

Silence also gives consent. Again I scream, No. Just no.

Oh honey. You can’t call it a smear campaign if it’s just the other half of the truth. His opinion of what went wrong. Also, you were kinda the monkey that threw the first turd and the second third fourth etc so ya. There’s that then.

That’s the same as telling someone to leave and getting angry when they walk out the door.

Oh wait, isn’t that what happened?

If someone says you hurt them you don’t get to decide you didn’t. Louis CK

You hurt him.

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and right doing there is a field. I’ll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass the world is too full to talk about.
Rumi.

I don’t believe in absolute right or wrong, everything is truly shades of grey.
Here I have found peace. But that ain’t your thing.

“Great minds discuss ideas; average minds discuss events; small minds discuss people.”
– Eleanor Roosevelt

I am not a snack for your starving ego.
I am soul food for someone who actually has one.
(Me)

Ya, that.

You can’t chew someone up, spit them out and complain about the taste it left. He just wanted what you promised.

You can’t give someone shit for talking to an ex when yours is on his way over to your house.

Didn’t he cheat, steal and lie?

Wasn’t there prolific poetry about that break up too?

Who is collecting writers now?

I understand that there are bad men out there. Bad men doing bad things to women.
I’ve been through a lot and I also know I put myself in those positions. I stopped sabotaging my own heart, stopped running AT red flags and I’ve been rather happy ever since.
I know I gravitate to wolves and I don’t complain about the bite marks or the wandering or the howling.
I make my own bed and I fuck in it.

We are barely sentient apes. We fumble and mumble and trip over our ill-timed words and erections and ourselves…our stupid selves. And we are astonished that you love us. Please. Keep loving us.
Lawrence Bayne

I know not all men. The guy I am defending is one of the good ones, the one I just quoted too. My father is one, my mister and my son. All good men.

I believe, fundamentally most people are inherently good. Otherwise we woulda kinda died out as a species by now.

I post a lot of memes.
I am almost numb to them at this point.

I post a lot of things from a female perspective, because, I am the proud owner of a vagina.

Due in large part to said vagina and the state of the world I post a heavy amount of female positive posts.
Women are my sisters and when I lift them up I also rise.

I don’t have to step on the bones of men to elevate myself.

Yes, some days the bastards grind me down.

Some days the bitches grind me down even harder.

Today is one of those days.

Leave him alone.

Keep {his} name out of your fucking mouth (Orange is the New Black)