Spitting in a Wishing Well (The Breeders)

January 13, 2017

Tell the wolves I am home.

One of those phrases that can be taken two ways. Love those.

When I realized this I howled.

It all comes back to Wendy and the lost boys.

They find me when it’s time and not a second sooner.

Tell them I came home to them.

Tell them I am home for them.

I realize fully when dealing with fuckbois, lost boys and young un’s that, in a sense, for all intents and purposes, I am being used.

Humans use other humans for warmth, sex, companionship, understanding etc.

Problems arise when it is one-sided. One always taking and never giving. Gets draining after a while.

Fuckbois are notorious for this.

Someone said “calling a boy a fuckboi is like slut shaming a girl”.

No, it isn’t.

Someone else replied “Fuckbois are not called fuckbois for fucking. They are fuckbois because of how they treat the girls they fuck, which is usually badly.”

However, if you just want to get laid…by all means. Go for it.

Speaking of…

That Cassadaga psychic said a few things, one of which foretold the return of an ex. 2 days later Wolfling showed up in my inbox with a ‘what are you up to tonight?’ I howled again.

I am that Panic at the Disco song, and as such have never heard of closing a god damn door.

I am 1400 miles away. I am safe here.

I am safe regardless, I know him, his patterns, and the way he does things. The way he treats me outside of the bedroom is pretty fucking horrendous, but the sex is pretty fucking good and his pillow talk game is on point.

He said I should call him when I get home.

“At this point? With you? I’m bulletproof.” AHS

We shall see.

Sometimes bruising my cervix helps distract from the bruises on my heart.
And I left a movie at his house.

“I can’t just leave Karen, it’s not simple, my cd’s are in his truck. I have like 30 or 40 cd’s in his truck I have to put up with his shit for at least another 6 months.” Dane Cook


Moving on, or maybe sideways…

Once upon a time a girl I knew got herself knocked up by an advanced level fuckboi.

He bailed. She struggled. I helped her out to the tune of about 6 grand. Between buying her groceries, taking her out for lunch, smokes, helping with rent and taking emergency cab trips over so she could pass the baby to me and shower etc. 6 grand in 6 months.

I don’t regret it. I’ve justified the whole situation by realizing I was helping the baby, not her. Baby is alive and well, mission accomplished. I’ve made peace with it. It was never about the money, it was about how she treated me like shit after.

While in Florida this time around, a man approached us in a grocery store parking lot crying saying his van had been stolen. Asked for 50 cents and I gave him a handful of change. We went about our shopping and saw him again an hour later singing the same sad song to another group of people.

Once on a family vacation we pulled off at a scenic outlook. A man approached my dad and said the same sad story, went so far as to get our mailing address to ‘send back the money’. My dad said to us after “never loan out what you can’t afford to lose.” and it stuck with me.

Didn’t stop me from handing out change to panhandlers when I moved to Toronto, if I had it and they needed it why not? I was picky about who I gave change to, women and punk kids mostly. My change, my choice.

When I was 15 I was broke and I panhandled. My friends made me do it because I seemed to get more sympathy/money somehow.
So I get it.
I get lots of things. Being down and out. Being pimped out.

I have been a stripper for almost half my life and had many a ‘financially abusive boyfriend’ which is just another way of saying pimp.

The entirety of this convoluted post has been me avoiding the actual issue. Did a good job.

But here it is…

A boy asked me for money.

My philosophy on money is that it comes and goes. If I have it and someone needs it I give it.
When I need it, it comes, sometimes when I don’t need it money comes, I am blessed like that.

So I gave it to him.

It was a bad idea.

I felt a little ill.

I felt the annoyance that I felt in the parking lot when the guy cried crocodile tears for 50 cents.

I felt the betrayal of that girl with the baby.

The anger when a girl who owed me 500 bucks refused to give my hungry child 20 bucks for lunch.

When you give money to friends and they don’t give it back you are basically paying them to stay out of your life.

I’d have rathered he stayed.

I’m still too young and too cute to be a sugar mama, maybe when I’m 50 or 60. Probably not even then. I’m way too concerned with freewill and people staying in my life because they want to not because I’m manipulating them.

This is where my line is.
I don’t mind being home for the wolves/cubs/fuckbois.
I know what they do and why they do it.
Their comfort and joy is mine too and I do so love getting laid.

It’s a barter system.

Sylvia Plath said


I’m a different kind of girl-machine wherein they put sex in to get coins and kindness out, but…

When you attempt to use me for money what you’re doing is spitting in a wishing well.

The best things in life are given freely, I am those things.

Fool me once. Okay baby.

Second time? Fuck boy. Transaction denied, funds unavailable.

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