Have Fun Trying

I’m right about a lot of things. If only I had more time to think, then I would be right more often.

I haven’t been here a lot because I’ve been limiting myself to keeping a diary, a journal, in order to learn more about myself and to think about things. That’s what journaling is for me, it is thinking. And I hope that the time will come when I will be able to go public with what I think. But I fall off the wagon and stop journaling, whenever I start working on something to share, even though I’m not ready. And I am not ready. I’ve never been ready. I don’t know myself well enough. I hear you. Sometimes we just have to take a leap of faith. Like we are never ready to have children, but we need to start or we lose the opportunity. And writings are children. We have more time, but like with children, you need to get pregnant first. And sometimes you just can’t get pregnant.

So that’s what I’m doing right here, with my journals. I am trying to get myself pregnant. I am fucking myself. I am masturbating. I write about writing, about relationships, about work, about nothing, about everything. It is self indulgent. I am learning about every nook and crevice of my mind and soul, really really slowly, too slowly (feels like). And that is because I’m trying to get pregnant.

I like this metaphor. It’s an amazing thing to be pregnant. And fun to try, right? I like freewriting about nothing and everything. It’s fun. I don’t have to procrastinate it, because there are no rules. You just have to Rye Tennything. But when it comes to actually growing a work, of course that’s harder. You can’t quit after you’re already pregnant. I need to get so pregnant that I can’t stop writing that thing that just has to be born.  

So that’s my advice to you this morning. Play with yourself. Fuck yourself. Whether you are a writer, or a musician, or an artist, or whatever is an art to you. Whatever is a calling. Running a business can be a calling. Um. filing tax returns? Regarding whatever it is that floats your boat, fuck yourself until you make yourself pregnant, or at least have fun trying.  

I am the new Seth Godin.


A Sepiphany

I’ve had an epiphany. What do I mean by epiphany? A thought that came to me suddenly that changes the way I am thinking about something. That’s all. It’s not huge. It’s a little awakening. It’s a lawakening. A small epiphany. A sepiphany. Here it is:

I spend a lot of effort justifying my pot smoking. You’ve seen it, if you’ve read my other posts. I detail many positives, how it helps me to combat many symptoms, that might or might not be part of any clinical diagnosis. I make good arguments, in my mind, and support them well, and try hard to convince anyone who is willing to hear them. But now I realize that it is accurate to simply say that I smoke it for depression.

What is depression anyway?

I say that I feel better about who I am, that I am motivated, that I believe I can finish things, that I am willing to push through unpleasant tasks, confident in the satisfaction it will bring me upon completion. I say I am more patient, more in the moment, more attentive as a mom and wife. I enjoy sex more. I say that it is the difference between being happy and unhappy.

What else is it curing for me, than things which are simply put, symptoms of depression? And maybe people understand, or at least accept, that depression is a real thing. Some people will probably still say that I should take something prescribed by a doctor, even if it’s more toxic, and possibly addictive and may not even work (we don’t know), in lieu of something that is proven to work, at least on me, and I’m the only one we’re talking about right now. Actually, I’ve tried that. It’s like going to the eye doctor. They give you one thing and ask you if you feel better. And if you say no, they try something else and ask you, again, for your subjective evaluation. If you say yes (I can see!) you stay on that until maybe you wonder whether it’s just the mindfulness of the question that made you think you felt better. Mindfulness can help. Noticing when you feel good and when you feel bad can help you identify triggers, at least. And then you realize that there is already something that you know works for you and even helps you with the mindfulness.

My neuroscientist friend who says that studies support the notion that pot use affects the developing brain, suggests that it could be the cause of my depression. That’s a valid theory. I don’t know what I would be like if I didn’t smoke at 13. But is he assuming that this is true? Because, I don’t want to tell him how to do his job, but the only scientific conclusion we can make about  its effect on me is that we don’t know.

We can look for evidence to support the theory. We might expect, for example, that if pot caused my depression, then I would not have had symptoms before I started smoking. I have an early memory, early enough that I can’t really pinpoint the time, elementary school, I think, 6th grade at the latest, in which I am standing in front of a mirror crying and saying to the me in the reflection, “I hate myself.” I’m welling up a little remembering what that felt like.

The sense that I don’t like myself goes back. I remember wanting to be an actress because I liked pretending to be someone else. All of that came before I ever smoked pot. Whether there were other effects that were somewhat permanent, I still don’t know, maybe never will. But I haven’t found evidence that there was. 

So unless you have some other reason for wanting to believe that, I don’t think it’s a logical conclusion, either, that kids should take adderall, or lexapro, or whatever else they are prescribing kids today over a less toxic alternative which they may choose to self-medicate with, but would be better off taking under some kind of supervision.

Crying in the mirror as a tweenie was most probably related to my gender dysphoria, which was also a likely founding factor for the chronic minor depression that I have struggled with my entire life. When I smoke pot, I’m not cured of that, but I’m ok with it. I like who I am, despite it, accepting of the feminine and masculine. It seems less significant to me, because I can be happy anyway. Would you deny me that?


I have allowed myself to get out of shape. So much so that when I go for a walk it tires me and I start getting heart palpitations. I also feel bad. And I’m depressed. And I don’t eat well. Not necessarily in that order.

It all accumulates in my stomach.  

They say the stomach is the second brain.  At least for girls it is. For guys it could be the third brain, after the brain.

We all  know what they think with. HA HA HA.

They say this because mood is affected by the stomach. I think there is serotonin there.

For me, when my stomach is bloated, I feel overwhelmed. But when I am hungry for food, I am hungry for life. I like feeling hungry for life. When my stomach feels thin, I feel like there is weight lifted off me, I feel emotionally energetic, almost, dare I say it? happy. When I am in control of my core, I control my life.

I need to feel better.  There’s no doubt about this.

Today, I toked some weed and went for a short bike ride. Then I stopped for some coffee and opened up my laptop, which I carried on my back while I rode.  So, it’s a step in the right direction.

How well I do with this new routine, will be evidenced by whether I keep posting. So you’ll know, dear reader.  Thank you for coming, by the way. If it weren’t for you, I’d have no one. You may be all I need. Please tell me you love me.

Anyway, I have hopes for myself. I’ve always had hopes. And though I’ve never really felt like I was who I wanted to be, there are times when I rise above and can observe myself from the outside, and it’s those times when I can be happy to be alive, because I perceive that I am more than just this. That this is just a piece of me. That it’s ok to just be a piece at any given point in time.

At least I know. At least I know what I am. I don’t know how anyone can live without that. I want to stay there.


Someone recently asked me what it is that I think Marijuana fixes for me. And I said, “oh so many things.” I can describe my ailments and complaints very specifically but not as some defined and established diagnosis. It wouldn’t be incorrect to say that it helps me with my depression, or my ADD or my gender confusion, but that’s just the least of it, almost the frosting, the ancillary benefits. It’s a reasonable question, and if I make the claim that I use it for therapeutic reasons, I ought to be able to explain that. I anticipate having to explain it, despite that I’m never pressed to explain why I drink coffee, or alcohol, or take vitamins or do yoga or write. I can just say I enjoy those things. But there’s pressure when you think something like marijuana is positive and healthy, to defend it. So I wasn’t unprepared. I think about it all the time. But I was also smoking recreationally at the time of this question, asked by a man I was smoking with, who happens to  be a neuroscientist, and so it took me a minute to gather my stoned ass thoughts. But I thought it was a fair question, and not asked with any judgement, given the circumstances, and so I was resolved to make my best attempt despite myself.

Let me start by saying that the recreational smoking that I was doing at the time of this conversation was not the kind that I’m calling medicinal. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it, using marijuana recreationally, just because you like it, and I do that too. But it’s not what I really crave, and it doesn’t address my issues to smoke late at night with friends, and maybe while also having a cocktail. And the more and more I experiment with this the more I feel like I don’t even necessarily like to smoke with people. I don’t like to smoke at night. I don’t like to smoke and drink at the same time.

If I were to use it primarily as a therapeutic aid, and that’s all I need, I would use it differently, and I would argue that for most people in my situation, it should be used less to be used effectively. I’m not saying that all medicinal use should be less, if you’re using if for pain, or for cancer, or for autoimmune disease, or gastrointestinal disorders, or major depression, or anything other than the kinds of things I use it for, then you would have to determine your own appropriate dose, whatever dosage would be considered “therapeutic,” e.g. enough for the desired result, and definitely not less. I think pot is safe enough it’s probably ok to err on the side of too much, but too much can also be a problem.

For me, the high is almost a side effect. I find that if I get up really early, like 5AM, and take a single hit, then I do yoga, write a little, take a shower, masturbate, just kidding, or maybe not, shave my legs brush my teeth all of that, get dressed for work have some breakfast, drink some coffee, then by the time I go to work, it’s been 3 hours and the high has worn off, but I still feel great all day. I like myself. I prefer to smoke when I’m able to be alone for a couple of hours. I don’t want to interact with people while I’m feeling a little paranoid or if I think they can tell I’m stoned. I’m self conscious about it. It’s for this reason that I don’t even like to use it recreationally unless everyone is doing it, and even then it becomes a waiting game for it to wear off a little. But I am less socially anxious if I come to a group setting a couple hours after having a single hit than I would be right after or even if I had not smoked at all.

That’s therapeutic.

So to answer his question I said this. I said that from the time when I was young, 9th grade, when I first smoked, almost daily, and then on into the later years of high school when I stopped smoking, except occasionally, I knew that what I liked about it was not being high as much as how I felt when I had been smoking, but wasn’t actually high at the moment. And I liked either smoking regularly or not at all. I wasn’t as enamored of the occasional. I wanted to get into a managed state of mind. I explained how it resolves issues that have no particular diagnosis, like how when I smoke I feel connected to my past and my future. Otherwise I feel like my past was a different person, and that my future is outside my control. I am more introspective, more meditative, more still. I feel better, physically. I didn’t go so far as to elaborate on what that meant, that I feel comfortable with my body. I stopped short of intimating anything about my gender diaspora. Not ready to tell people that. I also would not go so far as to say it is any kind of cure. What it does do, is helps me to rise above myself a little and observe almost from the outside. I still would rather be a man, but the body I have doesn’t bother me as much, almost as if, outside of it, it is no longer as much of an interference. I can feel a little more like a man, who just happens to control a woman’s body. I become, as a result, a little less judgmental towards myself. 

That’s therapeutic.

I also find myself having more fortitude. For example, so often it’s the case that I am thinking, that I don’t want to be doing something, my job for instance, and just can’t make myself work, almost like it’s a protest against choices that earlier me made, like I don’t want to benefit from her mistakes, or give her credit, or accept even the possibility that she could have been right. Unhappy with the decisions that got me here, I go so far as to say to myself that “I just am and always will be a failure.” Yes, it’s that bad. Then I smoke, or even 4 hours afterwards, it’s like I suddenly grow ovaries.  I’m like, “why am I being such a wimp,” and I just do it, whatever it is. What else is there to do? That becomes my attitude. Can do. I don’t like my job more, not at all, but I force myself, because I know I’ll feel better if I get things done. I still have to fight distraction, but I’m determined.

I don’t see how that can’t be good.

I don’t want to give too  much credit to the people who always tell us to be like that. It’s not that they’re wrong, the people who always tell you to “just do it,” they’re not. It’s that they’re telling people who find that difficult, to “just” do what they find easy. It’s not helpful, and it makes me feel judged by them when I’m already judging myself. I’m sensitive about that. It would be particularly ironic if the same person who judges me for that, judges me for solving it by smoking pot. I suspect that there are parents who discover that their teens smoke pot and send them for help because they think pot is a problem, when pot could be the solution to a different problem. Hopefully, they address the underlying issue. I once told my therapist, my parents didn’t send me to one, they thought it was quackery, that I wanted to smoke pot, and she said, “what’s stopping you?” So I started again.

He tells me, the neuroscientist, that the evidence shows that pot is bad for developing brains (like mine when I smoked in ninth grade). He has credentials. And he’s a pothead himself, which I mention because I’m often, and for good reasons, skeptical of the sources of scientific evidence, so he’s not biased. I would argue, though, that if you suffer from something that would otherwise be treated with something more toxic, antidepressants, or opiod pain killers, prescription stimulants, acid blockers, etc, then pot may be an even more effective, and most likely safer, alternative to the legal drugs that kids are otherwise prescribed.

I, for one, remember the benefits when I was 13 as being the same as what I experience now in my 50s (I hate saying my age – I may also have age diaspora, lol). It makes me wonder how different my brain really was. In the 9th grade, early I know for drugs, I did well academically. And I had a more active social life and better friendships. I still think of it as the happiest year of my life. Now, not being aware of what I know now, I tended to smoke too much, I tended to suffer too much from the negative side effects, the paranoia, etc, and at the end of the year, I decided it was interfering with my life and I stopped, which is something I often regret, or regret that it took so long to get back into it. But I do typically present this as evidence that it isn’t addictive. I smoked it “too much” for a year and then decided to stop and did.

The only negative effects of quitting were not distinguishable from the symptoms I suffered before I ever started.

If you don’t want your children to smoke that young, it’s understandable. Keep in mind that if you would view me as a bad role model, that I didn’t do any other kinds of drugs. Among most of my friends today, though I may have smoked pot at a younger age, I am a lightweight. I’ve never done cocaine, or even speed, LSD or mushrooms, blues or reds or yellows or greens, whatever they were. It might be because I recognized early that pot was constructive only if I did it daily and that I was looking for a permanent solution not a a temporary one, to whatever I thought my problem was. If something were to make me feel better, I’d want it all the time, or not at all. And if a drug would inevitably lead to addiction, then I couldn’t use it that way, and I didn’t see the point of doing it at all.

The conclusion I have come to is that I think pot is the key to my happiness, yet important for me to do it at the right times and in small doses. I am a woman with many things to do. I just can’t afford to be stoned all the time, though there are certain things worth doing stoned, yoga and writing, though I think there’s something to be said for sober re-writing. I find that it’s a good wake me up. A good way to start the day, and a good incentive to get up early. If I know my whole day will depend on it, and if I know that as tired as I am when the alarm goes off, that I won’t be as tired once I take a hit, then it can get me up and keep me going strong. By the evening I’m relaxed and tired and ready to sleep well.


For almost as long as I can remember I have suffered from chronic minor depression. It’s always there either in the forefront or hiding in the shadows, but there. It’s characterized by hopelessness, and a deep seeded disappointment in myself. In an effort to be honest, I have purposefully indulged it, and driven myself to some dark places. At one such time I wrote an email to a male friend from a long time ago who I didn’t even date, and apologized to him for having let us both down. I never got a response.

I call it minor for one reason. I have never been suicidal. I don’t know why. I am lucky. I never let go of this irrational belief that things can get better, despite all historical evidence to the contrary.

I have at times looked forward to when I will die, hopefully of old age. Kind of like when you take a vacation and are ready to go home. You may have days left, but you forge on, and keep trying to enjoy yourself, because you know the end will be here soon enough. That’s how I feel about death. Knowing it will come, comforts me, but I don’t have to rush it.

I’m not religious, so I don’t believe that I get to go “home” in the religious sense, or to meet Jesus in heaven, which I don’t really think exists except in the possible sense that our souls may get promoted to some sort of supervisory role in an afterlife, at least I’m open to that idea. So when I say that it will be a beautiful day, it’s not because I think I’m going to meet my maker, it’s because I will have no obligation, or responsibility. There will be no reason, anymore, to try.

When you know it’s over, that’s when you can finally breath, so to speak. Not literally. Literally you might not be able to breath.

But we will all die. That’s the good news. Why rush it?

But seriously, if our spirits live on, if we are all, essentially, immortal, like many religions believe, and I think it’s possibly true, then suicide is futile. Maybe that’s the reason I’ve never considered it a viable option. It might very well be that I believe it to be impossible to kill yourself.

When I was young, and this may have been before I was depressed, I said I’ve had it almost as long as I could remember, I believed that the purpose of life was to have fun. I reasoned myself to this obvious conclusion, when I was first learning how to reason. This was the theory of a child whose mind was as yet unencumbered by the expectations of society. But It is not so different from Thomas Jefferson’s inalienable right to the pursuit of happiness. Could our purpose on this world be anything other than to learn how to be happy? Isn’t that what God would want, if He was unhappy?

If we are part of God, which I also think is a reasonable theory, God would want us to be happy, out of self-interest. It makes sense that the more of us that are happy, the happier God would be. And to the extent it might be possible for us to tap into this collective, if you will, then even more of us could be happy, and God gets even happier. Happiness is contagious!

Maybe this is why people say that service makes them happy. On it’s face, you would have to sacrifice spending time on your own dreams in order to serve others. And yet, those who serve would testify to the opposite. We need everyone to be happy.

My husband thinks my unhappiness as innate. He accepts that about me, without judgement. I ought to be grateful for that but what if it’s not who I have to be? If you accept it, it means you don’t lift a finger to change it. Why I’m depressed wouldn’t matter. It’s just innate. Perhaps it is a defense mechanism for him to think so, so he doesn’t have to take it personally.

I’ll tell you something. At work I often find myself obsessed with trying to figure out why I’m unhappy. It distracts me from working.

Maybe I hate my job, or maybe their are personal reasons. Maybe I don’t like being married, or maybe I just don’t like myself (THAT’S IT!). But why?  

I don’t love my job, but I’m ok with responsibilities. There are sacrifices we make to have the things we want. What makes me unhappy is when I make the sacrifices and still don’t get what I want.

Brainstorming what I want:

  1. Might as well put it out there. I’d rather have a dick. That alone would make me happy, I think.  But it’s not going to happen. 
  2. I don’t have enough time alone.
  3. People judge me, and so I  feel like I need to pretend. I’d like to pretend that I’m pretending. Then I could be myself.

Maybe I need to say things that are so outlandish that people don’t know if I’m kidding.

As for solitude, that should be doable, unless I need too much. I might need less, if I felt free to be myself.

I know. I need to be more honest with my husband. If I can’t be, then I really should leave him. What’s the easier, between two things that seem impossible?

I should tell people I’m unhappy. And when they ask me why I can say “because people judge me.” They can say, “who judges you,” and I can say, “I don’t know.”

I don’t have to tell them that I would prefer to have a dick.

I’ll tell you something else, the only way I can ever focus at work, and the only way I can ever write something that is insightful and true, is if I find a way to be honest.

Wow, epiphany (and duh). I have to be honest to be happy.  I don’t know if that’s good news or bad news.


The potential we have under the umbrella of youth will not materialize and as we grow old we lose that intangible. It won’t matter that we could have been anything we wanted and we’ll have to settle for what we have become.

That’s the quote of the day.

Yesterday I tried something new. It was Saturday and I woke up early, not quite as early as on weekdays, but 6:15 or so. I went out with the dog and took a single toke, came inside, did some yoga for twenty minutes and started writing. I wrote until about 8:00 at which time I decided I would take a break before heading to the coffee shop and writing some more. So three new things about this.

  1. Got up early on the weekend
  2. Wake and bake
  3. Took a break and wrote again.

I wrote insightfully, about writing, about the process that works for me, and how I approach it, and then I actually did approach it that way. Pot makes me introspective and meditative and imaginative and empathetic and self reflective, and physically relaxed. When you feel good, and when your imagination is in full gear, temptations are more palpable. So I have to be guarded against allowing myself to degrade into writing nothing but fantasies about having a dick. There’s a time for that, I suppose, but it’s not when I want to be productive. And I don’t want to get myself wet at the coffee shop. I took a shower while my husband was still in bed. He didn’t know that I had toked. I could tell him. In some ways I’d rather not, and in some ways, I’d like to get it out in the open so that I don’t have to feel like I’m hiding it, which I’m not.

After showering, I took care of a chore, just something I wanted to get done, so that I wouldn’t have it hanging over my head. My husband got up and asked me whether I had plans. I told him that I wanted to get to the coffee shop by 9:00 to get a good seat.

He offered to join me for a coffee first and we walked over. I had a scone, which I ate slowly (for me).  I was done with it by the time he finished his coffee and left. Then I booted up and wrote. I’m happy with what I wrote. It doesn’t matter what it was. 98% percent of writing is practice. It was a good start.

I left at 1:00. My son’s rock and roll band had a gig. I recorded it.

Here’s the amazing thing. I felt good all day. I was not lazy. I can’t think of a better way to describe it. Motivated? Focused? I did everything I needed to do, none of which is typically easy for me, from getting up in the morning, taking care of chores to writing. Walking home I felt sexy, patient and happy and stayed that way the whole day!

I’m telling you, if I dose it right both in quantity and timing it is medicine for me. More commonly I’ll just take the easiest opportunity to smoke, which is in social gatherings at night, but that’s not how or when I need it. That’s not how or when I want it, or how I like it.

During the day I had a short nap, planned for it, because I had gotten up early. By the evening, I was tired and relaxed but not too sleepy. I didn’t smoke again, despite the opportunity, nor did I have a drink. I thought about it, but I didn’t need to and I didn’t want to ruin anything for the next morning.

I went to bed after midnight, but when I woke at 6:15, I got up.

And toked.

I feel good. I feel happy. I’m back at the coffee shop. Walked over with my husband again. I want to try this during the week too, before work. I typically aim to get up at 5:00 during the week, to practice a little yoga and to write in my journal. Aim. Maybe this will help motivate me to succeed. By the time I’d get to work it will have been 3 ½ hours since my toke. I will have showered, brushed my teeth, shaved my underarms or wherever. The pot will wear off, but I’ll still feel good. I’ll be happy and “not lazy.” I won’t be wishing I was somewhere else, or someone else. It would be like a dream come true. A miracle. Seriously.

I’d be smoking less too. Responsible and happy. Don’t ask me why this works. I don’t know the biology.

A Whore’s Bath

An ice storm came, and in the middle of the night my husband said to me “what was that?” It was as if he wanted an answer but I only vaguely remember hearing anything, if I even did.  It might have only been because he asked me, and in my sleepy state, my mind made something up. He got up, but nothing in the house seemed to have fallen off its shelves, he said to me as he came back to bed.

A few hours later I tried to look at the clock that’s by my side of the bed (yes, we have our own clocks on our own end tables – his runs fast), and I couldn’t see the lighted numbers. It took me a minute before I said, “the power’s out.”

“I know, I told you that,” he said.

“Well shit,” I said. I had brought my computer home, and set it up in our oldest son’s room, since he was away, because we knew an ice storm was coming and I didn’t think I’d be able to get to the office. It was Saturday, but that has nothing to do with the price of eggs in China.

I was leaning on my elbows wondering about whether I could find another place to work, someplace with power and wifi, when he said, “it’s cold.”

“So snuggle up next to me,” I said.

Now I don’t always like my husband.  I know if you’ve been reading me you may have gathered that.  I feel like he judges me, expects things of me, expects me to be a certain person, but it’s more complicated than that. I always feel like that about everyone. It’s not just him, it’s me. I’ll write more about that at another time, maybe soon, but at this moment, he was there, and we have history, and this simple intimacy was nice perhaps because we knew each other and you know how it is with married people.  We have permission.  And in this case there was a basic and mutual purpose for it. We were keeping each other warm. He rubbed my shoulders. He rubbed my breasts and my nipples and then he moved his hand down and and started massaging my pussy.

What could I do?

“You know, there’s no electricity,” I pointed out.

Cause I thought I might have to go to a coffee shop or something, and I hadn’t been planning on showering in a cold bathroom, but I didn’t want to smell like sex either.

He didn’t comment, so I just enjoyed it, in a kind of non-committal quiet way. Maybe we could just rub on each other through our clothes and that’s it. You know, to stay warm.

We re-positioned and I started rubbing his chest and his dick.

He took off all his clothes, but I didn’t follow suit. I rubbed his naked dick and he rubbed me through my clothes. Then our daughter knocked on the door.

“The power’s out,” I said because sometimes they misinterpret “yes?” or “what?” as “come in.” I thought that was what she was coming to ask about anyway, so I’d head off the question. I guess we should chastise them more when we’re not in a compromising position, as an investment for later, because she came right in anyway.  Dad by this time had the covers up to his neck. I still had my shirt on so it didn’t matter.

“There was a HUGE tree that fell in our backyard and DESTROYED the fence and the trampoline,” she says.

“Oh, that’s what you heard,” I said to my husband.

“I knew I wasn’t crazy,” he said.

Our daughter stood there for a second.

“Well, we can’t do anything about it right now,” I said.

And she left.

Now, in the middle of telling you this story, I suddenly remember that we had already been interrupted once that morning.

The dog was barking earlier and since it had been sleeting the night before he had been resistant to his nighttime outing and I had been concerned that he was about to “shit his pants” so to speak.  On the floor.  So I had gotten up to let him out. I did that before our daughter came in. I know that because I remember worrying that one of the kids might wake up and maybe I had a wet spot on my pajama bottoms from the fooling around we had already started, but I didn’t. Then when she told me about the tree I remember thinking that it was funny that, though I had let the dog out into the back yard, I never once looked back there nor seen that the tree had fallen.

So the dog was the first interruption. Then our daughter.

After she left us alone again we got right back into it. I took my clothes off this time too and he ate me. I rotated and sucked his dick while he ate me, and when we were done with that I got on top of him and fucked him until he came.

I’m not cold anymore,” he said.

“Me neither.”

While I was still warm, I thought I’d brave the cold. I told him I was getting up to take a shower.

“A full one, or just a whore’s bath?” he asked.

“A what?”

“A whore’s bath.”

Though I hadn’t heard that phrase before, I figured out what he meant.

“Just a whore’s bath,” I said, laughing.

I had warm water, though the room was cold. Ran the shower over mostly my bottom half, except for when I reached for the soap and water ran down my back. I made it quick so to leave some warm water for him, and got out. The bathroom was a little steamy, so must have warmed up a bit, though it didn’t feel like it. I dried off quickly and as I put clothes on I was thinking maybe I should have taken a full bath after all. I still smelled sex. Maybe it was the bed. Maybe it was the room. Maybe it was my underarms. I didn’t smell it outside my room once I had dressed .It was cold so I guessed it wouldn’t matter. I was wearing many layers.

Then I let the dog in.  Just kidding. The dog had been in.

It was a good way to start the day, and a nice moment with my husband.  I would ultimately find a way to work, at a girlfriends house nearby, and the rest of the day would pretty much suck.

First Post of 2017

It’s a new year.  So why not start anew? My resolution is to figure out who I am once and for all, to be completely honest, with myself and mostly honest with you too.  Speak my mind, do what is right for myself.  

For all of the time I was growing up, living at home with my parents, sharing a room with my sister, I looked forward to when I could move out and live on my own. I made a mistake that I didn’t take more time by myself before I jumped into the relationship that eventually made me someone’s wife. I had my own apartment and I was trying to figure out who I was. I just needed to take a little more time up front and I might have gotten somewhere, but instead I have spent my entire life so far uncertain of who I really am, feeling like I am defined by what other people are or expect. I can assert myself, I just don’t know what I want to assert. Not that I was making shit loads of progress in the half a year that I actually lived alone, living in a neighborhood where I didn’t even have any friends, but it was a start. I hadn’t gotten that far, but I had a long long way to go, as Billie Holiday might have sang.

But, it’s a new year and I haven’t given up. I’m older and wiser and I don’t have to let all these people derail my plans for self awareness. The more I write the better I get to know myself, and I want to spend more time doing that. If only I wasn’t a business woman. That’s fucking time consuming. What did I want to do that for anyway? I’ve got expenses now. The family depends on me. So until I retire, can I really afford to find myself? And when can I retire? If I could start making some money writing, I could retire in 5 years. If not, then maybe eight. But oh shit, Carrie Fisher died and wasn’t she just 60? Of course she was young when Star Wars first came out, but I was younger.I wanted to be her. Actually I wanted to be Luke Skywalker. The point is, we have no guarantees. I could die too, just around the time I finally have the time to figure out what I’m alive for. I want in my old age to be able to look back at something I did with pride. The guy who played the padre in MASH just died too. He was 84. Now he wasn’t a great actor, and it wasn’t even that great a role, but he was a part of something that was great. Even though maybe it was short lived, at 84 right before he died he could think back and say, I got to be part of something that was meaningful and fun and remembered. Maybe that’s it, maybe I just want to be remembered.

I should have been an actress. That’s what I really wanted. Once I gave that up, then giving up became natural to me, because everything else I pretended to want to be was just a consolation prize. Once I decided that I had missed that window, even though I probably hadn’t, everything else was a substitute, writing, music, photography.  The only other thing that might could have come close to making me feel whole was if I had learned many languages and lived in other countries, where I could pretend to be foreign. That would have been the kind of acting I might have enjoyed, even though it was real life. I like to pretend. Because I feel and have always felt so limited by convention. I should tell my husband that I want to role play. But I don’t get the sense that he wants to do that. he’s satisfied with who he is. What’s wrong with him? 

My Life Falls Short

If I wrote an autobiography no one would want to read it. It wouldn’t be inspiring, because it is not the story of success. Ok,sure,I have a lot to be grateful for. I have it good, People on the outside would say so, possibly even chide me for suggesting otherwise. I’ve been lucky, and I also deserve some credit. People love me and I love them (maybe I don’t love myself enough). There are successes, by any objective standard, but my life falls short of some key things that I have always wanted. That would be the title of my story, “My life falls short.” I guess, whose life doesn’t? It would be a realistic story, one that people could probably relate to, but what would they learn from it? Why would they want their own negative narrative reinforced by mine? That is a story they know already, and if they don’t, they will think I am pathetic and want me to get off my fat ass and do something. Truth told, I have no idea whether people can learn from my experience. But bottom line, my life is marked by inaction and indecision and that can’t possibly be as interesting as the lives of people who tried things, even if they failed. In fact, a person can try things, motivate herself to be courageous, despite the fear of failure, particularly if she wants to be a writer, like I do, if for nothing else, for the story. But I do not face things and never have, and I don’t get a story or learn from mistakes. I have never faced anything my entire life. I have not faced much. I occasionally displayed the courage to face something.

So, today I am really feeling like I wish I was different. That’s not new, but some days are worse than others. Is that what draws one to the arts, acting, music, writing, photography, comedy, art? The sense that we wish we were different, that we don’t think we belong, that people don’t understand us, or expect something that we are not? Is the artistic drive born out of a quest to feel happy with who you are, when you’re not? And does it help you get there? I want that. I know it sounds weird, that’s why I don’t like to talk about it. It’s hard to say out loud, it’s hard to know how other people will react. Will they understand? These are the kinds of things I want to explore. I want to have an understanding of the human condition, or at least my human condition. I want to know myself, and I don’t want to hide from everyone. But I’m not sure that I can even understand me.

If I were to write an autobiography, would I simply tell stories, if I even have any, if I can even remember, of things that happened to me? Or will I tell about how I felt about things. It has to be how I felt about things. And it, of course, needs to be honest. Why can’t I just be honest? Judge me if you will. Ex communicate me from your life if you will. And then I can write about how that makes me feel also. It hurts too much, or at least I’m afraid it will.

You know how you’re more likely to admit something if it’s funny? Comedians admit lots of shit about themselves, and no one judges them because they’re funny.

Well that’s for the sake of the joke, because the joke is all that is holy. It’s like when Steve Martin said he couldn’t be a woman because he would just play with his breasts all day, or Ron White said that if you found a lifesize doll of a woman in his closet, you’d assume he was fucking it, and you’d be right.

But even if it weren’t funny, I feel like it would also be easier to admit something if you wrote well about it. It could be moving. The problem is, you have to take a chance, cause you don’t know what will move people. You could totally bomb, and then you’re just out there, all alone.

Honesty moves people. It interests people, or at least I think it would. Maybe it depends on what you have to be honest about.

They Will Learn

All I’ve ever wanted out of life was to relax and to like myself. I wish I realized that earlier in life, but it is what it is. If you know what you want, you can work towards getting it. But if you don’t know, then you keep making the same mistakes over again. Some people relax and they don’t even have to try. Then there’s people like me. Most of the time I don’t even know I’m not relaxed. I even forget sometimes that I don’t like myself. It reveals itself, often in my darkest moments, as something obvious. Am I in the majority here? Or is that strange?

The question we, and I’m not talking to the happy ones now, have to ask ourselves is what do we need to be, to be someone we are proud of? Seriously, lose weight? Then do it. I’m actually working on that myself, and making progress and feeling better about myself. Sounds cliche, but it didn’t start out about weight. Because I just feel better if I eat well and if I eat less. And then I realized that I feel better when I have less fat. And then after that I realized that I also like to look good.

But its not superficial like it sounds, cause when I feel good, that also makes me more focused, my mind is clear, and doing things that are physically taxing is also easier. I can feel inflammation these days. If I eat poorly, I feel the inflammation. It is hard going hungry, hard not snacking when there’s nothing else to do, but at those times when you have something to distract you from it, after you have been good, you just perform so much better, whatever it is. The discipline is paying off, so far.

Spoiler alert if you haven’t watched all of the Gilmore Girls yet. I just got to the episode where Rory loses her virginity. It’s the same episode where Lorelai and Luke finally find each other and start dating. The series has been setting both of those up for seasons, so they both had the potential to be real let downs. but the way they juxtaposed them both in the same episode was very well done. Lorelai’s went perfectly, it was nice and sweet and wasn’t, in the end, fraught with misunderstandings and frustration (I almost want to stop watching now in case they screw it up). For Rory, despite two hot and heavy boyfriends she just never did it. They set up the climax (so to speak) perfectly and in the end, I think more dramatically than any other way they could have done it. It catapulted Rory into womanhood, not because she finally (I say finally like I wasn’t older than her) had sex, but because she did it in a way she will likely always regret. That defines adulthood, to me, more than anything, that we all must learn to live with our regrets.

I regret almost everything. It’s stupid, I know, I didn’t say I wasn’t stupid. I freely admit that. I think if I could relax, and if I could like myself, I wouldn’t make so many mistakes. I miss youth mostly not because I want to be thin, or pretty, or healthy, or full of potential, or even to heal fast, but because I want do overs. That look of wisdom and experience you might see in my eye sometime as I behold the children in my life, comes from knowing that mistakes and regrets are what age you. What they don’t know, and what they don’t learn from us, they will learn the hard way. That’s the way it is.