“I’m eating it.” Matt Albie
I have been watching Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip again.
So good for my heart, but it’s so bad for my sleep.
I’m perpetually falling into the trap of just one more episode.
Oh how I long to be able to write like that, on demand. In a writer’s room, for a TV show.
I had that offered to me once but balls were dropped and not in a good growing up kinda way, more like the side of a ball pit giving way and a cascade of plastic spheres once contained and fun just became a big ole mess.
Getting paid to write, now that would be something.
Mind you, too many weeks like this and I would totally get fired.
My muse has gone rogue white girl and we cannot even right now.
My writing is not at a high point. Seriously it’s like awkward, verbal masturbation at this point.
I am trying to work through some shit, bear with me.
My muse might just be napping, or on hiatus for like 3 weeks now.
I think I need to get laid, bad.
Basically I am sucking, and not in a fun way.
I wrote a thing called “My Definition of Submission.” Wherein I admitted to peeing myself, twice, and of course it went somewhat viral. The killer here? Not the puddles on the floor…It’s not even that good. I am not up to my usually skills, feels hacky and pieced together. 999 words of ‘meh’. But it’s the subject matter I suppose.
Every bit of writing advice ever given by a successful writer has contained the idea that even if you suck, keep writing. At no point do I recall them saying ‘even if its shit hit publish and put it on the internet’.
One of my favorite poems of all time was written by a drunk man in love. He hates it, I love it.
Art is subjective. My article about submissiveness is not art, it’s a mess. But, this mess is mine.
I wanted to write about how I, as a strong independent woman, can rationalize and enjoy submitting sexually to a man and still call myself a feminist. About the quality of man this requires, the strength and caring he has shown. About how the battle of the sexes is ridiculous and attempt to wake the world up by stating somehow eloquently that all people regardless of gender identification have the capacity to find a partner that symbiotically fits with them, body mind and soul and anything less is selling yourself short.
I’ve always been this way. I identify as a strong submissive woman. Okay, I haven’t always been strong, but I have made a decision to give myself over to men time and time again. No regrets. Sometimes it works sometimes it doesn’t. But throughout all of it, I have remained myself and waited for a good partner.
And he’s at work for the 40th day in a row.
Self-deprecation and sex, that’s where the hits are. I talk about kindness and redefining love and global philosophies of togetherness and to date my biggest seller? “Fucking Scorpios, a handbook for the criminally insane.” Followed closely by “Sunday Sex Selfies.” And now this. My Definition of Submission, 1000 hits in 16 hours. I’m just gonna let it ride.
And I am having none of it.
I made an educated decision to be with a man who works 16 hour days every day. I think we are closing in on week 5 with no physical contact. We talk every day, a lot about sex lately, and I admit, I am starving. I’m not myself when I am hungry. I know this.
The things we have talked about, and the way he treats me is liberating. I wouldn’t trade it for the things I have had. I have waited longer for less, I truly have. Put my body on lockdown for someone just to have it disregarded, discarded and forgotten.
I don’t want to go back ‘out there’ and try dating again. I believe he is worth waiting for.
It’s been 4 years filled with fun, then heartbreak and disappointment.
I have this scared little part of me that thinks this relationship I am in is a sham, a game, a joke. Him seeing how long I will wait, how far I will open up and having a good chuckle with his friends about it.
And I don’t care.
Because what if it isn’t?
Just like I don’t care about the handful of bad articles I have written. I know they suck. They are just practice, something to keep me going, keep me working through things. And oddly racking up the hits to my website.
Just like I don’t care about the bad relationships I have been in that are the root cause of this paranoia I have. same same. Just practice, just helping me work through shit. To me this life is about exploring, learning, and having some good stories to tell at the end of the day. Even if they don’t come out quite right.
I prayed to the gods to have a relationship I didn’t have to write about, and I got my wish. With that tricksy “okay god, good joke” twist to it.
That being said, I have to write about something, nothing, anything.
I have no idea where this is going, not this article nor this relationship, nor the book I am writing.
But I have made it up to this point in my life not knowing what was coming next, wondering how I survived the things that came before and at this point I can truly say, I am happy where I am.
I’ve tried making plans and decisions and declarations and sometimes/often they go awry.
I wasn’t expecting any of this, but I’ll take it gladly and ask for some more.
“I’m not really a planner, I’m more of a fly by the seat of my pants kinda gal.” Pretty Woman
Worked out for her in the end.