new religion - tiny horse obsessed with this song

Mercury just turned retrograde, fyi

love is such a hard thing - noah derkson from the "hopelessness can be sexy" playlist (maybe it's the mustache)

maybe we should try it - do anything #wthmagic 

The problem of resources: the ones you need the least are the easiest to get.

I can only act upon / control myself. But that looks made of at least two, maybe three components. To give it (give), to receive it (take), to rejoice in it (make). 

energy raising (trying)

Trader Joe's has bitches on the merch-branding staff, for sure

freedom - george michael (MM studio) first track on the home alone dance mix - they're each alone (and one sounds like the Despicable Me guy), but it doesn't feel that way

 Cleaning list: 

• my job is the enemy of my work, which is prize winning; 
• my job is the site of increasingly violent harassment the more prizes I win, grinding my career to a stand still; 
• I can't stay living where I am in a 4 story house alone behind Wendys;
• I have to move God knows where, alone to figure that out; 
• I'm in a relationship, technically, which does nothing to change any of the shit I have to suffer and figure out alone.

Up until last summer, I rationalized staying in the relationship because at least there were fancy dinners and functional orgasms, neither of which makes life worse. But then 1 gave up drinking so NO. to fancy wine pairings and 2 my orgasm capacity ground to a halt in the face of that whole long shitty list. 

I am essentially made of f-uck. F-uck you, f-uck off, f-uck this, f-uck me. My f-uck cannot break or I'm f-ucked!

In my work, I rely on people wanting to do what I am asking of them. For me they will talk, write, cry, laugh - whatever somewhat strenuous activity and/or emotional outlay I request. So it's not just my sex life I'm talking about. I mean all of me. To do me, I gotta be feeling it. 

And I am not feeling it. 

My f-uck power, my inner driving force, my dilithium crystal, my magic, is blocked up or off. How am I going fix my life if I have no lust for life?! So first things first, I have to fix my f-uck. 

I tried self-help, looking for representation(s) of sex to get some juice flowing, a vision of a way to be. But there is so little sexy sex on TV that I can tell you episode 3 of Disclaimer has a hot sex scene. High rec 🔥 But I remember that because it's an anomaly :/

I tried books. Hard to find a good one. Lousy sentences are toxic to the clitoral wellbeing of English professors, 50 Shades of just too stupid. If you don't know what "niggardly" means, we are not going to get very far. Susan Minot is a prize winner, however, and Rapture is a blow job. The entire novel from start to finish is one single act of fellatio. I can relate to the woman who is giving the blow job in Rapture. But. The male character's very different experience during the blow job perplexes me. Perhaps Unknown Font wasn't thinking/feeling what I thought when I was giving literary-level blow jobs like that. I have no idea what it was like for him. Someone worshipping your junk, humming OM and other sensation experiments to bring your orgasms closer to God, that's a lot. Maybe too much.

Rapture only left me wondering about that some more. 

I passed every most recent physical w flying colors and my hormone panel is aglow, flowing like a desert river, deep and bracing. The new therapist and psychiatrist both concur as well: I am fine/healthy/sane, but I am unhappy, unsatisfied, unwilling, alllll the un's. 

So that's that. Nebraska has got to find some other woman. I went to AZ with that having been settled in my mind. I've got to start fixing my shit. I scream it at him, NO MORE!

Break ups are so much work. You have to make a bigger mess to clean one up, ugh. I have been TRYING to be decent to the father of my furkids, someone I will run into at work, etc. Be civilized. Isn't that what you're supposed to do? 

I don't know what I'm supposed to do.

Nebraska books a few days in Sedona. He knows I cannot resist that. I want to sit on a vortex like it is a sibian made of the Oversoul. He books me a 90 minute session with a vortex healer. The only type of physical that I fail miserably, my fitbit registering it as workout of some kind even though I am lying on a massage table. My poor throat chakra!!! And what else might help me feel better? Libido medicine has to be highly specific, like gene therapy. I no longer have the brown boots that I wore with that skirt. So I say "boots" (armscrossy). Out of all the shoe and boot places in Sedona, he picks the perfect ones, in a window display, the last pair and in my size. 

He corners me like this. Over and over. Like appeasing a furious zoo gorilla with really great bushels of bananas, which she takes because she's in a glass cage anyway, so fuck it. I love the boots (bananas). Zipping them up, that smell, it's powerful magic 👢. 

Welp, I could try a reverse rapture, sit on his face for approximately a novella. I get him a small journal so he can record his cunnilingus stream of consciousness. For real. I am exhausted, my f*uck is busted, I don't want to fight anymore, and I do not want to hear any more bullshit, so what other good options are there if those lips are moving? Keep yourself busy.

While I think. 

There were convergent points of desire between Unknown Font and me, and I think about those a lot lately. To what extent were those desires mine to begin with and what did I absorb from him? And vice versa. And where did those desires go in each of us since? What forms taken?

I don't have fantasies at all really anymore. It's more like a disorganized hodgepodge slide deck of smut that I click through, looking for something that'll do the trick. Like, just get it done ya know? 

What happens if I stop doing that, what if I stop making it work?, my vagina wondered one day.

A disturbance in The Force. 

(I am only guessing, but I suspect something similar happened to Font. Did something snap? Was his dick no longer willing to "be present"? Does that happen to men? If so, would he would tell me? Inside my head, where I'm not supposed to be able to hear it? Like via The Force, a fuck-jedi bat-signal type deal?)

When I met Nebraska not long before the pandemic, I needed to find a new dude, a chore needing done -_-  I was at my favorite academic event of the year, so more likely to find a member of my species at least. I wanted to do what I always do in hotels: order room service and eat it naked while watching Law&Order SVU. Kinda like eating oreos while watching The Biggest Loser only different. But I made a deal with myself to stand next to the bar for ONE minute of "openness" before I could skedaddle. And a stranger handed me a glass of wine in that one minute.

I asked him a question: what is something a person needs to know to really get you, something nobody knows? I was not expecting an interesting answer and figured that would get rid of him, but he said "I am a spanker of women." (🤔) And you?, he asked. What could I say at that point? "I'm into long fervid cataclysmic affairs." He decided he was in love by the next day. 

Since then, mostly he has behaved like a cardboard cut out of a person. No writing inspired much. I figured the "we" would just bleed out eventually. But it didn't. And I can't afford this anymore now. I am not okay this way.

He holds me off. He's like the woman in Rapture. He doesn't want it to end. He's grown afraid of me, of displeasing me. Of what I might do. I push against the resistance, I might do anything smib As I come back into my skin, seething and starving, I find that my desire is to demand what I want and get it. 

I go to the leather store. I buy a whip just for the leather smell, aroma therapy. The lady ringing me out flirts with me a little. It feels like the gun class. I was expecting, oh I don't know, to feel less unprepared for the end of the world by taking that gun class. But what I actually felt was joy. Childlike joy. #shebang! 

I take the whip back to the work condo complex. I manage only to accidentally smack myself with it a few times. Nebraska is in the other room, he comes in and takes the whip, he says I have to let it do the whipping, just bring it up and let it snap, which he demonstrates and makes a humongous whip CRACK sound. He goes back to what he was doing. 

I practice, working up a sweat, getting it a few times, then a few more, delighting myself with the sound when I land it right. I think of it as a magic object, raising my energy, helping me heal. #witchplay

I take the whip into the next room. I send my energy flying through it and then pull it back. CRACK! "You got it!," he says. Yes. I want you not to bullshit me as you answer some pointed questions. "Or you're going to hit me?" No. 

 

a pentagram above me ft beaver moon - Sedona, AZ

I gotta be the only crazy bitch could use a cigarette in fucking Sedona - but it looks like somebody is listening, I pray 🙏🌪

bad for me - teddy swims ft meghan trainor (acoustic) from the 'my nerves are shot' playlist 

Another thing I've kept all these years. My black leather trench coat. Even though I couldn't move my arms in it after those god forsaken fertility treatments. I put it on this morning and it not just fit, it has all its magic, like a hug made of pure badass. The closest I can get to a hug from my grandma from beyond the grave. She always had complete faith in my power 🙏

move like jagger - maroon 5 watch and learn, I won't show you twice 

Her choice for the last song she listened to on her deathbed. That's who I come from.

 

Ears: is that..??

Me: yeup

Ears: 😳

Me: it is somethin' to see him again

Ears: he looks ... 🤔

Me: like something cuddly wearing a nazi disguise?

Ears: is he okay?

Me: good question - my guess is he would angrily respond to the suggestion that he might not be, but 🤷🏻‍♀️ 

Ears: you have a lot of practice being scary af when you're not okay

Me: I'm doing it right now

Ears: so we might be projecting 

Me: we might be

Us: (looking at the photo again)

Ears: I can't square the cute socks with the nazi vibe

Me: hahaha ya and if that's supposed to be a Hitler mustache, um 

Ears: that's 1970s porn stache 

Me: I love it 🤭 - except "maybe I'll put you in a mass grave face ft I give great face rides ft toasty toes", I can't quite land the plane 

Ears: what happened to him?

Me: life 

Ears: when did he send that?

Me: around 1-2 a.m. from a hotel somewhere full of hockey women in a lobby 🤷🏻‍♀️

Ears: what does he want? I don't mean that in bad way, just (?)

Me: again I'm just guessing, but maybe a really really good laugh (?)

Ears: you are really funny ❤️

Me: ❤️

Welp (so many of my thoughts start with "welp" lately - siiiiiiiigh), can't keep mulling the nazi duckling for a spell, I am about to have to save my own ass some more.

Nebraska lands within hours to fetch me for Phoenix, and to prime that pump I laid out a few hours worth of painfully honest shit that turned him into a sobbing mess, a rocky 'can we cut the crap?' start/end.

Some things are deal breakers with me. Not being able to stop pretending everything is fine/whatever is near the top of the list. I get it, everyone wants to live happily ever after, but acting like you are doing so when I am VERY CLEARLY NOT LIVING HAPPILY EVER AFTER RIGHT NOW is intolerable.

Gaslighting me. Deal breaker.

For happily ever after to be real, you have to be real. DUH. If you were trained to be inauthentic, I dunno what to tell ya, figure out how to fix your shit like a grown ass man. 

I will not perform (fake) anything for anyone for any reason any more. No phase! And while he has a keeptryingdobetter somethingsomething meltdown, I gotta work.

I have so much expertise running rooms of 100+ people while looking scary while I am not okay while at least one man is driving me fucking crazy, I should start a consulting business: how not to be full of shit in front of people who are judging while your own world comes apart. I can do that backwards and in high heels (boots). 

How come it seems so challenging for others to keep it real just sitting in their own living rooms? 

I intend to hold steady. I am going to kick this fucking life-mess of mine in the twat like a grown ass woman.

protection - colin james (ft lucinda) for me, LOUD 

Feelings are just one of the many ways the mind processes information. This day before the Venus change recalls how each person inhabits a unique experience of the world. We all feel things differently. There is no feeling more correct than another. Likewise, it is impossible for a feeling to be wrong. Your feelings, whatever they may be, are acceptable — so accept them.

🤔 I'm gonna hold off on deciding the song for that ...

heaven made the darkness - ruston kelly

I'd had a very long and, for me, good day. I cleaned, I walked several miles, I met with my grad student and landed that like I'm made for it, I listened to a friend closely and gave her what I think might help her. I shit you not, a little girl rode by us on her bike bare legged, no shoes, "All summer she rides her bike naked" says my friend. All of that was using my powers for good, good for myself and good for anyone else I touched.

I'm thinking at him the whole time. I am writing, in other words. To him or about him. All the things I did were a way of writing. House clean bills paid everyone getting what they need and nothing they don't from me - I don't know why this feels important - but I can just sense that it is. Or that it is a reply of some kind from him. Salt of earth.

Then there he is. A few words like bubbles to the surface. He comes up for air, then goes under again. This is his current pattern. Like a mammal in choppy sea.

I can't help myself, I honestly can't because I don't know how I'm doing it, but it feels to me like I can actually feel him. Those little strings, landing all over him, like a physical exam by tendril. And he doesn't feel entirely well to me. I know what he says about eating my pussy or whatever, but it feels like the last thing in the world he needs more of is a woman. (Not this woman, anyway.)

I'm not wonderfully well, let's face it. I'm seething. And starving. So I'm trying to be very careful. Deliberate.

He was married the last time I made him miserable. He said she made him unhappy. But. I was also starving. I didn't give the slightest shit about that little wife once I got a taste of him, in fact I was offended she existed.  The relationship I had with that man's body was religious. In my mind, it was just obviously right. He had come out of nowhere, dropped out of the fucking sky knowing me already as if paying attention, and wanted me as-is, as known. And I knew him too, had been reading his inner monologues for years, a fixture in my peripheral vision that I had gotten used to. It was, I believed, actual magic. I absolutely believed that I was going to fuck him as a constant fact of how the Universe intended things to be. It might even solve climate change!, righting the world itself. We had figured it out, how to be Wrong together made a Right. I mean, I had us bound for life with witchcraft for christ sake. I can see the humor kinda now (slap stick always slays me lol 🤦🏻‍♀️). 

But it is also true that I'm not less dangerous than I was then. I've grown more confident. More powerful. I've been in this body longer. If I felt that about anyone again, I would be even bolder. And I am not in a good place. Fed up as I am utterly 🔥

But 🔥 is not a risk between us, I do not believe. It feels more like he needs a bowl of soup. No (closing my eyes)...needs something sweet. He is 🤔 bitter? (Close my eyes, focus on taste). 

Bile. 

Why? He is leaving her, but bitter bile comes from being left. Abandonment fills you up brackish. You drown in it. It's a very painful way for a selfhood to die.

I just sit a while, smoke a joint, sink into my own body. Go over myself with the tendrils, use myself as a mirror, how it is reacting tells me something about what it is reacting to. 

I don't think I believe him; I don't think he wants to get near me actually. Of course, I can't know, I am having a telepathic exchange with a sea mammal caught in a south Buffalo haboob of some kind. But. If he's getting divorced because he had an affair, he isn't telling me that part / it didn't go well / there is a missing cause for this bile. He's in there, I do feel him in there, but it's underneath something else, a shell of 🤔. I dunno. Entrapment is the word that comes to mind.

Ok, welp, with the information I have, I am tentatively concluding: Something is making him feel mean, has maybe made him mean; he doesn't want to be mean to me. Maybe he thought he did, but when it came down to it, no. Using me is not going to make him feel better.

I'm not people. I've never been people. For all my many faults and shortcomings, I am not that.

 

VIRGO

I wish it were true that the forces of darkness are lined up in opposition to the forces of light. Life would be so much easier for you. But I'm afraid it's not that simple and clear. In my view, a more accurate metaphor might be that the energies of smokey grey are squaring off with the energies of dusky beige. Each side has a touch of both wrongness and rightness, a bit of ugliness and beauty. So what is the most honorable role you can play in this showdown? My suggestion is to develop a third side, an alternate way.

Theory: Not being "in love" back makes people shitty. They can sense you want to mean it. That breaks them into multiple shitty personalities disorder. Just making you say on command over and over I love you too like a "speak!" trick, it's fucked up.

Case study: (gray) beard v beige (heart)

At Como Park, chasing kids, the place filled with men, dispatched there with children to get out from under women's feet. As the only woman there, pretty soon I'm watching all the kids - the little boys are insanely going up all slides and making girls complain about mud on their skirts, toddlers of every kind are accidentally almost killing themselves variously, girls have quickly clumped and exchanged names and are whispering plots, my little psycho is patting and talking to a tree by herself dangerously near a treeline into which I know she will disappear if given a moment's chance (as I would). 

The men are all looking at their smart watches. I am texting my daughter but have my hands full, so I switch to voice and loud enough for all these men to hear me, I say (truthfully) "I am so sick of every damn thing, I'd go with with the first lumberjack who carried me off." I feel them all hear me, smartwatch guys freeze like prey. I read my daughter's response, a woodsy quiet type would be right up your alley, but are there any of those? I say out loud, laughing with purposeful volume, "good point, where have all the cowboys gone?!" 

Men are everywhere, they'll send you dick pics just like "p.s." I assume if I had a penis, I'd maybe want to show it to everyone (?) (I'm not the judgey type). It is irritating, though, how everywhere men are, but try getting into one. I've long suspected authenticity is trained out of them. Trained to think/be one thing and do/say something else. To go down the slide properly and shut up about it. 

I want to march up a slide, stepping over the offending boys and complaining girls, then turn around and slide down, getting all my own mud on my own ass. THAT'S HOW YOU DO IT YA LITTLE SHITS. (My urge is always to teach). 

In the distance is a dog park, my people! (The dogs, I mean.) "I'm going on that naked bike ride later, so I'm taking it easy right now", I say loudly at my phone. There is no naked bike ride, I'm just idly daring anyone to have the balls to ask where to find it. A little boy stops in his tracks, "Do you ride your bike NAKED?" It might be a little cold for that today actually, what do you think? "I would!" 

His father calls him back, says "sorry" in my direction. I look the man over from under my hair, I can see the outline of his dick through his tracks pants and I like the peppery stubble. He stands up straighter. I close my eyes a moment and pull it up my spine, this power that you left me with. I open my eyes and throw it at the man, like silly string made of plastic intention. He starts to walk towards me. I don't smile, I don't look directly at him, I just roll up the strings, my spine like an anchor spool on a boat winding in. "Cmon, lunch!" A woman's voice. He stops. Now I lock eyes with him. His son runs past towards his mother, "I like you!" he calls to me as goodbye. I cut the silly strings (NO ✂️) and go back to watching kids play. His father follows the boy to his wife, I presume.

See how easy this is? But it doesn't work. Even if the man responds, even if he is a fan of cunnilingus and his dick works 👍, even if everything works it still doesn't work. My magic works on them, but theirs does not work on me. If I really really try, if I let the man get close enough, then technically executed orgasms may be had, good for my pelvic floor. I even let a man get an engagement ring onto my hand in exchange. But I just make that man (all men somehow?) miserable.

This process makes me feel guilty, inevitably. I'll create a need inside someone that cannot be met, and I will let him and everyone down (again). If I can't (don't want to = cannot) explore each molecule with my tongue until all his life force has gathered and is responding to my witchy sexthew, it's just a body. And my body knows that, responds like my stomach does to wax fruit.

Nebraska will be here again soon; I will always be like this. It feels increasingly untenable to me as an oft-repeated combination of facts. I can build up some love type care, I can act loving, I can do loving things, my behavior toward him can be respectable. I can be faithful (in deed), dutiful, supportive. I could even marry him and make him very happy for a minute, until it inevitably turned him into some kind of asshole and I would want offleash from that.

So. I am guilty of all this. But I am also fed up with feeling guilty. I mean, ya think I like this? No. Barking "I love you toos" on command (I will not anymore, No). Not to mention all the yessing I've had to cough up at work (also not doing that anymore, No 🖕). Surrounded by constraining behavior demands in every direction like I'm a failing-to-be-domesticated-enough animal. Brimming with love that I cannot feel except for my kids. And the kids cannot take from me the other brimming(s) I am/have, obviously. Nobody can. 

So, what is the "honorable third alternative"? Even if I knew, which I do not, the words would probably get stuck in my throat like chicken bones. 

CTRL + ALT + DEL - Revè

thinking

 

sis doesn't find brother-in-law memes funny 🤷🏻‍♀️🤣

crush - billianne (from 'love in the living room' playlist)

My daughter observed that Nebraska "does not seem to know you very well, even still". That really struck a nerve and stuck, cz I realized: I have done that. I have loved a LOT but/while not understanding my mate very well. And now I know how that feels.

Not being understood = my needs do not get met. And that feels a whole bunch of confusing kinds of shitty. Because they looove you, so you're the "bad" one for not being enough. 

I just mean I've fucked that up before, too. 

Ideally, on a long enough time horizon, exlovers become friends so that they might gain insight(s) about themselves with someone who knows them well and now that there's no reason to be full of shit with each other. (And they may still get each other's jokes, humor being vital and scarce 🙏)....

"What a night", he says, processing the space between how fucking cool the tech specs of the body are and how fragile its soul. Confusing me with the cath particulars, looking for the best metaphor for THE thing: the potential inability to save/protect what is most precious and the complexity of what/who that altogether is. Picking up there, where we left off. Leave off, repeatedly. Unable to include one another as precious enough.

So, let's amend the 'exlovers are valuable friend resources' opinion piece. I am still PRO that but include the following guideline: don't fuck each other. Especially if you've already tried that every which way - as forbidden love true love spiritual practice make up lust big spoon little spoon post-apocalypse casual passion apology compulsion ecstatic learning curve - especially if the casual category failed the most miserably ft sex too good for that.

love somebody - post malone and morgan wallen

chemistry probably unavoidable, possibly quite enjoyable, and feeling fuckable is great  - but I'm going through a NO PHASE

 

Boy poison - a boy's kisses were like a poison, which infected you and after you were exposed you craved more, like an addict.

Susan Minot, Rapture

Two of the world's most famous paintings are the Mona Lisa<>/i> and The Last Supper. Both were made by Leonardo da Vinci (1452–1519), one of the world's most famous painters. Yet the brilliant artist left us with only 24 paintings in total, many of which were unfinished. Why? Here are two of several reasons: He worked slowly and procrastinated constantly. In the coming months, Virgo, I feel you will have resemblances to the version of da Vinci who created The Last Supper and the Mona Lisa. Some of your best, most enduring work will bloom. You will be at the peak of your unique powers. Halloween costume suggestion: Leonardo da Vinci or some great maestro.

Virgos always have horseshit horoscopes. They even leave the typos, like we're gonna clean it up ourselves. Maestro my ass, I'm going as neurotic, i.e. I seem to give a person pause 🐾 enough just as my own little self.

I hope we get to come back - jadea kelly from the reincarnation aspiration playlist

my tarot card advised me to be patient today

All Souls

Tonight, you can die a little and lend a little life to the dead so you can touch each other, like finger tips on glass.

How do you serve the sacrifices and suffering that all your dead took on to BE, incarnate and then dying then dead, so you can be here right now? They all had to go through this life, then be dead on top of it all. I wish they could help me sometimes. I talk to my grandma, ask her to help me hold it together when shit gets so rough. But they've already done so much. I want my dead to rest. Or listen to music. However joy looks once you're finally done, I pray for them to have it. I rolled them a joint. 

I want them to know it is appreciated, all their living and dying. And that I'm sorry I'm not better, more, worth all that. 

I'm sorry - Ziggy Alberts (acoustic) 

dirty prescott kids - outlaw state of mind from 'the world is ending in a week (or not)' playlist 

 

il mare calmo della sera - andrea bocelli ft chris ouch. do you have to be Italian to feel 😭 o solo mio lalalaaaaa (lol)

VIRGO (Aug. 23-Sept. 22). If you had a single wish for your love, it wouldn’t be for fame or riches -- although those wouldn’t hurt -- but it would be to live in emotional sunshine. Irrational confidence will pay off. The grind gets light. Ordinary days become adventures.

Yesssssss. Sunshine again, the whole glad to wake up to my ordinary life thing. The adventures of afternoons. All I need is "irrational confidence", which sounds like my wheelhouse, doesn't it? 🤔

"bed head"

 

118.2lbs exactly. The day my then- primary care doc in Lewiston weighed me in, all was about to be well again, I assured him, thus my looking wonderful in the black yoga outfit I was wearing (showing off), while he was dubious, sitting on the chair below and in front of me, the same as a lover might be to untie panty sidebows, and he questioned my judgment, suspecting that being too trusting might be an undiagnosed condition of mine, a comordidity. I thought about the sex I'd be having if I was right. I can remember his face perfectly, his posture, a semi manspread with the ankle on his knee, his shrugging and looking down at the chart to indicate that he understood that as always I was probably going to ignore anything he said. I noticed just then that our postures matched, I was sitting on one foot, crotch aimed at his face. He looked up for a second, right at me there, I felt sure he could smell me, I shifted a little, yea THAT, it's quite a handful, my vag. Concessions must be made to such a Goddess. He stood, conversation over, subject closed.

But he was right in a way. Not about the soon-returning love of my then-life, but about me. I can't shake the habit of believing in words. You don't have to talk at all really, to anyone, you can easily avoid it with "wow", especially if you're a man, you can pass for the strong silent type saying virtually nothing, so why lie about anything at all ever? What I have not been able to really absorb is that people lie to themselves constantly. And what they're doing by lying to you (often unconsciously) is getting corroboration, like an alibi. All people do this. I do it. We build a coherent narrative of our lives, hoping it's not pathological/unsustainable (but it sometimes is), a coherence of who we are that we can explain to others. I know this, as a fact, it is a constant necessary human foible, I teach the concept for christ sake, but I forget it all the time.

I suspect Nebraska has passed for boring af like Keyser Soza sorta. All he ever says is how much he adores me, NONSTOP, everything I do, on and on 🙄, and everyone (my mom) believes that/him. It's so boring!, you have no idea, like being forced to stare at yourself in a funhouse mirror all day. Now that I'm going amongst his coworkers, ie walking the halls of his world, what I'm learning about him is that he absolutely adores me. He says that and only that to them as well, for YEARS, that's all they know about him also.

All along my gut has recoiled from this. But there is no sense discussing it with anyone. I have tried. I just get the "you have to feel deserving of love" schpeel because of course all women have feelings of low self worth blablabla. So boring. 🤦🏻‍♀️

I am worth enough. Obviously I think so because I have taken the adoration of this man, and others before him, so for granted that I forgot it was bullshit. 

I asked my body her opinion. Very literally, I laid on my back in my sister's house and asked my body how she felt about it all, the brain to vagina via spine hotline (batgirlphone). And immediately got my answer: you've been here, caught in selfbullshit(s), it makes you very angry. 

Yessssss. 

first high - nikki lane

I was just in Lewiston looking at houses for sale. The village bake shoppe is as ever, mile high apple pie. And I weigh 118.2 pounds precisely. That's what we call in the witchbiz a "synchronicity". I don't know how to read signs like that tbh. I tried skimming blog entries in Oct 2014 and gave myself a headache - I'll spare you, kind reader, a linkback 🙄🤦🏻‍♀️🤷🏻‍♀️ -  but I found jealousy to be 1 constant 2 boring 3 bullshit. I didn't remember that, but yesssss. I put it something like "I spend my time wanting a piano to fall on his mother and he thinks I'm thinking about dick" which in a sense I was thinking about dick, HIS DICK 🙄,*I* was the jealous one for christ sake, everybody buying their own bullshit like slapstick. I am not bewitched by dick at the moment, so not the same. But. Nebraska's "affirmation" of me is 1 constant 2 boring and 3 some kind of bullshit. I'm just not sure what kind of bullshit and everyone around us completely buys it, whatever it is (masterful gaslighting). 

Since I don't know who or what all is not to be trusted to put any weight down on it, I'm toe tapping, kicking tires (possible lives) with bare feet, seeing what feels real to the touch.

past the point of rescue - hal ketchum 

Here it comes. I can feel it rolling in from a ways off, like thunder in the desert rumbling the ground and charging the air. 

nobody - niia

muffalotta

I think about it all the time if I'm honest, my shortage of passion. I keenly feel my lack of feeling. 

Everyone prefers this, my meh state/mood. And it does matter to me that the people I care for are happy with me. And it matters a lot to me that I rarely let anyone down and never from lack of trying, stability being helpful for that, feeling meh being helpful for stability. But. I'll go off the rails sooner or later just to enliven my existence. I've done crazy shit like disappear in New Orleans for umteen hours, for instance, for that very reason. What I don't understand is 1 lying about it ("maybe I was drugged" = maybe I was abducted by aliens = either scenario would leave you without your pants) and then 2 pretending it never happened by making me discuss your SANDWICH. At length. I finally turned the phone off. A kindness, forcing him to just shut up about what he is eating already.

He isn't lying to me because I don't care. I soberly faced down the lies I cared about (what is actually possible) (not much). So he's talking to himself not really to me. What is the point of that?, I often wonder. Does everybody talk every day about the nothing they mostly did then the chicken they mostly ate? Maybe everyone else gets the point of that [?] 

I experiment - if I just don't say anything at all, how long does it take him to notice? If I say only the avoidant phrases ("wow that's crazy") that TJ taught me, I can do that for days. Maybe forever! That's marriage, saying shit like "wow" forever and serially agreeing that the kids/dogs are adorable. Maybe that's why everyone seemingly wants to get married all the time, so they can retire conversationally to "wow", the intimacy equivalent of assisted living.

I crave the intimacy equivalent of a muffalotta but different.

(sigh) (the radio game in Earline, see if it'll cheer me up:)

Play me a song.

miles on it - marshmello

Play me another one.

thinking bout you - dustin lynch

Play me another.

I'll make love to you - boys II men

Ok, that was kinda funny 🤭

Nebraska went missing shortly after midnight in New Orleans, on a trip with college buddies all named something like Jeff (Dave). I joked that everybody has to get hammered and do something regrettable with somebody named something like Jeff in NOLA. I wasn't really joking, more like slightly daring him, go on dude, do something unacceptable. One of the many weird things about Nebraska is the truth of him is obscured by his insistence that he be taken entirely at face value. He "loves G...", that's what everyone knows about him because he says that over and over and over and over. Being the object of that sentence, I can assure you he's just blowing smoke, a cloaking device in the form of words.

After 12:18, nobody could find him til late afternoon, when he turned up beaten and disoriented, doesn't remember anything and/but is "sorry". The apology compulsion. Instinctive camouflage and (notreally)apologies constantly. I do not judge it, everybody is crazy somehow, but I know it isn't benign. Lying all the time makes a person feel physically stressed and chronically shitty, like chewing your nails down to bloody necrosis risk levels. And I'll just let him do it, let him be whoever whatever however he says he is. 

I think about it all the time if I'm honest, my shortage of passion. I keenly feel my lack of feeling. 

I already know what I will say ("wow that's so crazy" "so glad you're alright" "you should try to enjoy the rest of your trip" "where are you going to have dinner?") I am very glad Nebraska is OK, I was quite worried when he was missing, but I won't press him on the bullshit story of it because I don't care to know his truth(s). 

19-2000-gorillaz (soulchild remix)

Update: Sure enough, the next text I get is about what he is having for lunch. Oysters and ginger beer.

Phoenix, yesss

Being in front of 100+ M1s and M2s, a duck to water ❤️. Teaching smartypanties is my sweet spot. It's female physicians who are my keenest audience now vs "male nurses", which makes sense. I'm always talking to the people with a qualifier attached to them. One student shared with me what she is currently reading 

I ordered myself a copy

view of pool ft morning coffee

It's gonna be 106 degrees today, but still, it's hard not to like Phoenix 🤔
 

right back to it - waxahatchee hmm 🧐

I'll be right back to you, boy

Where have all the cowboys gone? - Lola kirke ft kaitlin Butts where is his shiny gun ? lalalaaa

girlfriends night out - halfway thru one of them asks what venison is (?) like what part of the cow is that (?) 🤣 #gamemeatlove

Off to Phoenix, where it is 104 degrees today. How does one look good in that temp while sort of interviewing for a job (an endless series of awkward howdy's with deans)? With Nebraska a mile up my ass saying annoying stupid shit like "see you like me" if I so much as like my fucking salad? 

Meanwhile my dad rented his upstairs apartment with all my stuff in it, then sold the place with the tenant and my stuff in it, then announced he was coming here "for a visit" since he has no plans regarding where to go. I haven't lived with my father since I was 16 for a lot of reasons, chiefly his being an asshole and the author of every urge I have to punch men in the face at hello. So I told him I was going to Omaha, let him go visit Nebraska, they can bore each other while stewing in mutual hostility while watching PBS at top volume #twobirdsonestone

Yesterday my tarot card was The Lovers. But nothing happened. Not even a slightly flirty meme text from a friend, nada. So I made up a story about a middle aged professor who, after pulling a pointless Lovers card, donates a meager amount of money to a local deaf school so that she can be invited to their fundraisers where she hopes to find a lover who can neither hear her nor speak, who is as brimming with frustrations as she and as thrumming with things unspoken.

Play me a song.

grassfire - mike mckenna from the #badtimes playlist

I do need a pedicure

 VIRGO (Aug. 23-Sept. 22). Many mistakes get made in the relentless pursuit of external validation in the form of money. As the ancient poet Horace wrote, "All for a seat down front at some bad play?" You'll avoid the mistakes as you let love be not only your purpose and fuel but also your reward.

pretty archie - familiar feeling

My heart propelled into place by a massive force and left here, a lonely erratic. ~ The Mighty Red, Louise Erdrich

Today, 27 years ago, my son was born. I can still see his face clear as anything, not crying, just looking intently at me, such a piercing looking of trust I have never seen on any other human's face. It cracked my broken heart. 

 

VIRGO

 (August 23-September 22)

Here are my bold decrees: You are entitled to extra bonuses and special privileges in the coming weeks. The biggest piece of every cake and pie should go to you, as should the freshest wonders, the most provocative revelations, and the wildest breakthroughs. I invite you to give and take extravagant amounts of everything you regard as sweet, rich, and nourishing. I hope you will begin cultivating a skill you are destined to master. I trust you will receive clear and direct answers to at least two nagging questions.

Two nagging questions. 🤔  

• Second Murderer. I am one, my liege,
  Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world1125
  Have so incensed that I am reckless what
  I do to spite the world.

• First Murderer. And I another
  So weary with disasters, tugg'd with fortune,
  That I would set my lie on any chance,1130
  To mend it, or be rid on't.

~Macbeth

sturgill - breakers roar

scrapbooking ft #offleash(again)

Update: resignation terms accepted, then they offered the $ to a friend I picked out to take it. Very smart guy, and decent. I went from scorched earth to helping him behind the scenes 🙄 Just as well, better for my karma, and that friend isn't the one I want to understand better, the one who comes from Outrage, a little town in Kentucky.

My boss remains in the acursed universe (of which I am the center, of course lol). I'm writing hexes into pulp novels in which Witches fuck whoever they want and are unruly, and the central witch-damsel casts a spell to make the bad man capable of erections but never able to cum again, not EVER. And he pops huge boners around his bosslady too. 

Spite fantasy fiction, that has to be a thing.

______________

There is something in me that will not bend. It's not my finest quality. It's why I break. And when I break, I break shit, logically enough I would argue. 

When I was just an actual teacher, everything came together there for a spell and I was happy.  But then I was flung from one intrusive need after another, impositions on my wellbeing. And all the successes at work, "the personal growth", since then has been, well frankly "pretty good for the money" as Times New Roman used to say.  A person should not marry / stay married to "pretty good for the money" because, well for a lot of reasons, but topping the list is that the other party, the person/thing you've married, expects stuff from you all the time. And every time you give in, give over, you resent it. Then you seethe. Then you leave. Or, you cannot leave so easily, you're stuck (tenured or equivalent), in which case you growl, then bite, because you are not a dog. Maybe you don't lose your mind and you don't start to go murdersuicidey, maybe that's just me 🤔 (🤨 you don't?)

I do wonder what this all will get me / is getting me. More fun, would be great  🤔 I wonder how you get that 🤔

medicine - grace potter and the nocturnals

my name ain't mercy

His forms of madness are mildly fascinating except when she remembers she is supposed to find him a sufficient object of all her attention, as she is for him. She is the center of his universe, he says. She's not quite sure what the universe is. She thought she knew until she tried to put it into words, but her words for it were nothing like his nor like the words of that nice condescending black physicist on television. In her words, the universe is the planets and our guts and dirt and thoughts and time and everything hurdling in sweeping circles tethered to a cosmic center that is surely awful on a scale too bright to fathom without burning the eyeballs of your soul to smithereens. It stood to reason then, she supposed, that he could not see her at all. He insisted on her attention when at the same time it did not seem like he needed her there, that she could warm him as a thought from a guzzillion lightyears away just as well. Better, actually. A million miles away, he was free to imagine Her as anything without having to close his eyes. What he would say if she were physically present would be the same: "I'm really looking forward to my sandwich", he might say, while she was on fire right there in the kitchen. Because a person cannot look directly at a sun. 

"Suffocate Isolate"

see

40 lightyears away - lee harvey osmond

bonus track - if I could I would ❤️ + still want a chicken