Grumpy

~ a rant ~



I am not a morning person. My Mom loves to tell the story of me saying that to her one day in the car while driving me to middle school.

And it's true.

I hate waking up early. Especially for work. Especially if I didn't get enough sleep the night before.

On occasions where multiple days in a row I have not gotten enough sleep, I'll slapped my smart phone's alarm to snooze and yell, "I hate this shit" to no one in particular.

When I'm tired, I can go from zero to bitch in the blink of an eye. When I'm that exhausted, all I want is to be left alone. I can usually survive work if I'm given a task I can do by myself or if I've paired with someone or someones who don't talk to me.

Seriously, don't talk to me when I'm tired. I don't have the patience to deal with people when I'm tired. If you must talk, keep it to short sentences. Trying to strike up a conversation with me will only issue evil thoughts about your torture and death.

The worst, and what I find happens most often when I'm tired, are the people (in particular men) who try to make me smile or laugh. Try to cheer me up.

When I'm tired, I don't want to be cheered up. I want to be left the fuck alone. And I find it irritating when people try to foist their happiness on me. I'm allowed to feel like shit. I'm allowed to be moody, grumpy even.

My general disposition is no concern of yours. I don't owe you a smile. I barely owe you acknowledgement. I don't have to be happy. And when some random thinks he's going to cheer up my day with his winning personality, all I want to do is shove his care and concern down his throat.

I've noticed how bad it can get lately. 6am Load Ins and 1am Load Outs will do that.

Unfortunately, no one wins when trying to catch me in a good mood. If I start my day early, I won't be good til I've slept. And that means a nap. And naps for me happen as infrequently as you might have guessed.

There is only one exception to my tired grumpy self: events. At an event, I can run on three hours of sleep and be happy and chipper. I run off of adrenaline. What new thing will I learn about or see today? Events allow for naps. And orgasms. And a good beating or two. At an event, grumpy I almost never am.

But in real life. If I haven't gotten enough sleep. If I'm over worker and under rested. It's best to steer clear of me. Neither of us will like me when I'm grumpy.

Daily Zen

I'm not a religious person. When pressed by someone to give an answer, I've said in the past I'm pseudo-Christian. I was baptized Catholic. Went to Catholic school for seven years. But my mother converted to Baptist before I started either of those schools. And, when once asked by her, I bluntly said her religion was not for me (a brave and strong willed act, considering I was 14 at the time).

Catholicism is definitely not my bag. I'm too feminist to reclaim that mantel, though I did love the ritual and pageantry of it. Baptists have their music and community atmosphere, but again my morals won't let me be a part of a religion that goes so heavily against my views.

Mostly, I feel adrift when it comes to religion. Sometimes I wonder if there is anything to believe in at all.

But then I get this feeling that there is something, some sort of life force in the universe. I can't really name it. I just know when I see the beauty of a flower, or think about the enormity of our world, and worlds beyond. Or the fact that I have two amazing nieces born from my friends' love, no matter the form it took, I tear up. That life essence is something, though I don't know what.

Lately, in trying to find center in my own life, both personal and professional, I've come upon a random resource to calm the raging storm: Daily Zen. It's a group on FetLife that I joined which posts one or two Zen proverbs each day. I read them, take them in, let my mind linger on their thoughts. It helps.

I am by no means actively seeking out religion or a new way of being for myself. But I appreciate the words. They center me. Make me concentrate on, think about something other than parts of my life I, at times, view as petty or frivolous.

And, since this is my blog, I get to do what I want. Henceforth, I will occasionally share those words with you.

I already have two podcasts: PoeticReadsGray & Daddy's Good Girl. Instead of launching a third, I'm going to occasionally include voice snippets in this blog. Nothing big. Each proverb usually is only a minute or two.

But when the words move me. Make me think. Get me to stop the constant chatter of no-good-very-bad things rolling around in my head, I'll share them with you.

Here are two to start:

listen to ‘DZ_Flower Shower’ on Audioboo

listen to ‘DZ_Real Prosperity’ on Audioboo

Vixen

Her tail hangs on the wall across from my bed. Her diadem lives in my bag of chainmail jewelry. Her boots, moccasin style, are occasionally worn without her preferred outfit: my black wrap dress.

She is one of my alter egos, a persona I love to don when I'm feeling sexy yet playful.

I sometimes think of myself as a vixen, with all that might entail. Sexy. Confident. Gleeful. And, of course, foxy.

She is older than my school girl, more wise and life lived. She is less humble, less demure than my school Gir sometimes can be.

I initially encountered her during my first summer at Ren Faire. Many people walked around the gravel encampment, most in personas that seemed appealing. Was I a bar wench? A lady of the court? A scoundrel or rapscallion? A pilferer?

As we circled around the fairgrounds, I came upon a store that sold, among other things, fox tails. At once I knew: one of those was mine.

I thought about a tail dyed red, but that didn't seem right, even if it was one of my favorite colors. No, I found a black one, felt it, and at once knew it would be mine. I bought it and attached it to my backside immediately.

When I wear my tail, I have a little more pep in my step. I swing my ass a little more. I feel more like a me I love.

I've worn my tail in times where I needed comfort. Or when I wanted to be silly. Or sexy. Or just cause.

I have many personas, all of which I love. But Vixen... She is one I am so glad I found. I will never let her go.

M's

Mania

Three people died in Boston today. One of them was a child. Eight years old. A third grader who attended the Boston Marathon, who possibly cheered on a family member, lost their life today.

More than one hundred people were injured in the dual blasts. Multiple injuries included the loss of limbs. I don't think that is a coincidence. A bombing at a marathon that causes people to lose legs. Someone is trying to say something, though we don't yet know what.

I listen to NPR for my news. They played the sound clips of the blasts. People screaming. Fleeing. The second boom in the background. They talked about the race volunteers and the police assisting with the crowds. All the things you hope will happen when tragedy strikes.

The point of terrorism is to inflict not only harm but fear. Fear to go out. Fear to do anything. Fear to live your life.

Marred

April 15th.

Today was Tax Day, but also Patriot's Day in Boston. Every year they run the race, celebrate the battles at Lexington and Concord. Every year there is a celebration in Boston on April 15th.

What will next year be like?

Menage-a-tois

I heard about the explosions in my car while listening to NPR around 3pm. At first only faint snippets. A few injuries.

I parked, went inside my home, did internet things. And then I read Twitter. And the numbers had grown. And the President was set to speak at 6:10pm.

I got inside my car, turned on the engine. Turned on the radio. I sat, waited, listened to what he had to say. No real new information, but a promise to find out who did this and why. A small comfort in this time of turmoil.

I drove to Popeye's. I bought fried chicken and biscuits. I went to go see my friends.

Because that was what I had planned to do before I learned someone or someones inflicted this horrible act of terrorism (let's call it what it is) upon the people of Boston and its guests.

When I arrived at my friends' home, one of them was pinging people he knew in the area, making sure they were okay.

And then we ate fried chicken and drank wine and watched a movie on a laptop because FUCK YOU!

FUCK YOU whoever did this!

FUCK YOU whoever tried to instill fear in the hearts of people in this country!

FUCK YOU whoever killed a child, two other people, and injured over a hundred others!

FUCK YOU whoever ruined a beautiful joyful day for people who trained for years, raced their hearts out, for the people who cheered and encouraged them, for a city who celebrated!

And FUCK YOU if you think you have won. Because you have not.

I refuse to live in fear. I refuse to be bullied by unknown agents of terror.

I'm working in DC tomorrow. I will still take the Metro to work. I will still do my job. I will not let fear take hold of me. I will not let you win, whoever you are.

Fuck you, fear. Fuck you, terrorists. Fuck you.

L's

Lame

I woke up, not wanting to get out of bed. I was tired from two long days of work. Still, I had more work that day to accomplish. Bills to pay. The same ole song and dance.

I rolled over, tried to fall back to sleep. No go.

I sat up, pulled out my netbook, and wrote. Blog posted, I hopped out of bed, grabbed my robe, and headed to the bathroom.

As I was about to jump into the shower, I noticed some weird scab-like thing on my hip. I scratched at it. It didn't go away. I tried again. It moved.

I freaked out.

I grabbed a pair of tweezers and pulled. And pulled. Finally most of it broke free, but some was still in my skin.

More freaking out.

I took a breath.

I could hear my roommates talking in their room.

"Hey guys, I need your help. And sorry but I'm naked."

They opened their door.

Lending a Hand

I showed them the tissue with the bug on it. One roommate identified it as a deer tick. The other confirmed. And there was still some in my skin.

My tweezers were no good. They used their own. I leaned against the doorjamb as one roommate worked on trying to pull out whatever was left in my skin. The other sat on their bed and observed, giving pithy commentary.

When my first roommate couldn't get the stuff out, the other jumped in. Gave instructions. There was a needle. And then a knife. They both apologized for the pain. I didn't care if it hurt. I just wanted the shit out of my skin.

After some cutting and scrapping, and a flinch or two from me, my body was finally free of the bug's remnants.

"Thinking back, if this had happened to me while I lived alone, I would've freaked," one roommate said. I didn't say it, but I recognized I would've probably done the same. In fact, I kinda had.

Lime

So now I'm on the lookout for any change on my skin on the bite area. I really hope I don't get Lime disease.

My roommates assured me, since I caught the tick before it really started to feed (it was flat when I pulled it off), my chances are low.

It was a relatively mild winter here. The bugs are beginning to wake up. I already found a random stinkbug in my car the other day.

This is just the start of the infestation.

Holla

I suppose I was overdue. It hadn't happened in awhile.

Monday I'm working (happens a lot when I'm working, or on my way to work). My job's tedious and annoying. I'm wearing an ugly orange vest and carrying around two orange flags. I'm a spotter for a forklift as we maneuver gear around in a high foot traffic area.

Most people are following my instructions and walking a safe distance around the lift. Some people I have to yell at because they are so absorbed in their iPhoneAndroidMusicThing that they almost decapitate themselves.

So as I'm blocking people from hurting themselves, one older black gentleman walks by, looks me up and down, and yells, "Oh yeah girl, make that money. Make that money, girl."

I'm startled for a moment. It's been sometime since I've been catcalled. As is my normal way, I ignore him and go on with my day.

Then last night, Tuesday night, the next night, I'm walking towards my load out. Monday was a hard day. Today is no better. 6am load in. 3pm touch ups. 10pm out. I'm tired. I didn't get enough sleep.

Monday was draining. Tuesday is taking its toll. By the time I'm walking towards my strike, I just want to finish the gig and collapse into my bed.

As I walk through the parking lot to the main entrance, I see two guys by a 26' box truck. They're working with another company. I put a car between myself and the two men as I make my way towards the front. They're chatting amicably, and I get this feeling. Sure enough, as I walk by, a high pitched shrill whistle rings through the air.

I'm not startled. I am slightly annoyed. But I was expecting it. I keep walking.

I don't get it. Cat calls (from randoms on the street) have never caught my attention except in negative fashion. Why do guys do it? What's the point?

In my experience as a "shorty", cat calls are the exact opposite way of engendering my affection. At best, I ignore them and go about my day. At worst, I loathe the person hooting in my direction and wish a thousand plagues on their lives.

Has a cat call ever worked? I can't honestly think of one person I know who has responded to a cat call with a phone number. Laughs, maybe. A smile, possibly. But, for me, absolute loathing.

Twice in two days. A record for me solo.

Once, though, when I went on a high school trip to Puerto Rico, our group encountered cat calls multiple times a day. Then again, we were a group of eight sixteen and seventeen year old girls in the middle of a Latin cultural Mecca. To not be cat called would've been odd.

Groan

Waking up and my elbow aches because, in the middle of the night, I turned over and ended up sleeping on it funny. And now that I'm awake, I can't just drift back into a snooze-ful slumber because the pain, though not debilitating, is annoying enough to distract me.

Trying to snooze for an hour, only to finally give up, brush my teeth, and hop back into bed.

Gray sky outside is foreboding. I wonder if it will rain. No running today.

I sit up on my bed, pull out my netbook, and look up information for an open call for submissions. Jotting down the requirements, ideas for my story pop into my head. Revisiting an idea I had yet to flush out, I realize it's perfect. I start typing.

And then I stop. The ache in my arm is gone, replaced now with a desire to go back to sleep. But I know it will not be in my best interest; too many things to do before work.

And then I remember how I felt the night before as I tried to go to sleep. And I realize, "Shit, I have to dealing with feelings. Stupid stupid feelings. There went my morning."

I open my netbook back up. I type more, no longer caring about cadence or developing a story. I type my thoughts, all the feelings, until I have pages on my screen of the things I tried to ignore. All the things I hoped would be lost in my dreams.

I read the words back. I edit, add to, and save the document.

I do it again for other feelings, less impactful thoughts that still warrant some time. I flush it all out before I have to be more productive. I run out of time for more fun writing.

I get up. I throw on work clothes. I eat food. I watch a touch of NetFlix. I mend my work pants cause I don't want to buy new ones yet. I leave for work.

Outside today. I find a parking spot not effected by rush hour. I wait til closer to my call time. I keep a look out for meter maids. I try not to bake in my car. I pay the meter. I walk to the site. I work.

And work.

And work.

Four hours, what I was slated for, turns into five. And six.

I get really pissed. I cancel my dinner plans. I reschedule for Wednesday. I try to not yell at people who are being stupid. I remind myself I'm angry because my blood sugar has dropped. And I'm working outside. And my job sucks sometimes. I breathe.

I end work at the 6.5hr mark. I try not to be mad anymore since I am on my way home.

I drive a friend to their car. I buy fast food, cause at this point I really don't give a shit.

I sit on my couch with a roommate watching Nathan Fillion and Stana Katic be awesome. I feel better about my life.

I finish my food. I finish the show. I clean up some in the kitchen. I drag my ass upstairs to my bedroom.

And then I realize, after I start taking off my disgusting work clothes, that my clean clothes are downstairs in the dryer. GROAN. No bed just yet.

I drag my ass downstairs. I retrieve my clothes. I come back upstairs.

Brush my teeth. Get into bed. Open my netbook. Type. Wish I had more time to write, but a 6am call looms.

The good news: I learned today I was accepted into community college. Maybe less groaning in my future?

Ever

~erotica~



Ever let your mind wander...

Ever ride public transportation, look at the people around you, and ponder what they're thinking about? Their shitty day? What they have planned for their night? The person sitting next to them? The person they want next to them? You?

Ever catch eyes with someone and question what they meant by their glance? Was it on purpose? By accident? Were they imagining you as they would have you, right there, on the dirty floor, not caring who watched? Were they envisioning you naked, waiting, wanting them? Were you their fantasy, attainable or ever elusive?

Ever notice some random looking at you? Checking you out. Up and down. As you stand and they sit. As you're reading or looking out the window. As you're far away from that bus or train, but they are there, right there, imagining who knows what about you.

Ever think about just going for it? Meeting their stare. Making your way over to them. Trying to look sexy as you avoid bumping into people or seats. Not taking your eyes off them. Looming above them. Or sitting close to them. And asking, flat out, "What are you thinking about?"

Ever have the balls to make the offer? Will it be their place or yours? Now? Right now? Is it before or after work? Is it cold, both of you bundled up, but enough figure showing to know you'll like what you see later? Is it warm, you both showing off the goods for any and everyone to see?

Ever been bold, daring? Guiding them up the stairs to your small apartment. Ignoring the looks of the neighbors as you pass in the hallway. Not caring that you weren't expecting a guest. Dropping your coat by the door. Your bag by the couch. Leaving the windows unshielded. Offering them a drink, no matter the time. Handing them their liquor. Throwing yours back. Leaving the glass or bottle or can on the counter. Slowly unbuttoning your shirt. Or sliding off your strap. Or pulling fabric up off your torso. Looking at them as if to say, "What are you waiting for?"

Ever get exactly what you want when you want it from a person you've just met? Their hands all over your body. Their tongue tracing the lines of your flesh. Kisses. Bites. Caresses. Sucking. Fucking. Never using names. Letting yourself go. Letting yourself be as nasty, carnal, ferocious, all-in as you've always dreamed.

Ever cum and not know what name to scream, who to thank, for your pleasure?

Ever just not give a fuck?

Cute

I am sick and tired of one word I hear all the time: cute.

People often use that word to describe me. People, during first introductions, will use it. People who have never known each other will utter the exact same sentence to compliment my looks.

"You are cute."

I get it. I totally get it. The smile. The curls. The school girl outfits. The cheeks. The dimples. Especially the dimples.

I'm not saying I'm not cute. That would be a denial of a basic fact. That is not why I'm writing this.

It's just.

I know one might be happy to be called such a sweet description. There are far worse things a person could be called. But sometimes that word makes me want to bash my head up against a wall.

I hear it all the time. ALL THE TIME.

No one has, or of yet, called me that word during sex. (If they had, our fun would've ended far too soon.) But for a person who is so sexual, for a footloose and fancy free slut like me, cute can feel less than apt.

Why not sexy? Or provocative? Or enchanting?

Why not engaging? Or just plain hot?

Cute seems so small, almost dismissive, in comparison to just about any other compliment when it comes to looks.

Curvaceous. Cunning. Coy.

I could just as easily be called any of the descriptors I've used thus far. Yet, it is cute I always get.

Cute makes its way into conversation as offhand comments, out of context interjections, never falling from my lips.

Once someone who I found to be drop dead sexy called me cute during our initial flirtation. In that instance, I didn't fault them. Nor did their words take away from the fact I wanted them to do any and everything to me. Still, it was a slight sting to the moment, a paper cut on the edge of an unforgettable encounter.

There have been times when cute was far away, not existing in my world. The one moment I keep going back to was about a year ago. As the Gent and I were fucking, he looked down on me, I looked up at him, and he called me beautiful.  As he drove his cock in and out of me, I believed him. For those precious breaths, I felt special. I felt sexy and gorgeous and irresistible. I felt beautiful. But those moments are too few and far between.

I can't run away from the word. I can't deny its existence, much like one can't deny the face staring back at them in the mirror. I see it everyday. I see why people use that word to describe me. It is appropriate. It is a part of who I am, and how the world perceives me, whether I like it or not.

It is a four letter word I've learned to live with, though if I never hear it again it will be too soon.

Fuck it, I'm cute.

However, I would love it if the world saw, and knew, I was more than just that little word.

A Little Motivation

So I was in my car, driving from a gig to my house, listening to NPR the other day. I was only a minute or two away from home when a local news segment came on. The feature: decision day for medical school students. This was the day when they all learned at what hospital they'd be working.

One of the students featured was a woman who had changed careers mid-life. At the age of thirty-five, she transitioned from a career in theatre to attempting a career in medicine. In the years since she started medical school, she'd gotten married and had children; she had an entirely new life.

As I listened to this small news story on my way home from the job I am trying to transition out of, I started crying. Right there, in my car, over a small news story, tears trickled down my face. I was grateful I was most of the way home. I pulled into my driveway and pulled myself back together.

There it was. There I was. There was where I could be. A person with a similar background as me had already done what I am just starting, the long road to a career in medicine.

I've been pretty up front with how scary and nervous making this whole process is for me. There are a number of hurdles I need to jump through before I can even apply for medical school. At least two years of community college. Studying for and taking the MCATs. Figuring out how I'm going to pay for all the learning I will need. All the while I know I will have to stay in my job, make sacrifices with my time, with my friends, with my family, and, sadly, with the many kinky adventures you read about here.

But this one little news story of how someone else, someone I don't know yet who is somewhat similar to me, that one news story is what I needed to hear.

I'm sure, in the years to come, during the struggle, during the not-so-fun times, I will remember those five minutes on my radio. I will remember that someone like me, someone who didn't come to medicine early, made it there anyway.

Sometimes you just need a little motivation, a little reminder, a glimmer of hope along the way.

Fuck You Knowledge

I get sad.

It's not for any real medical reason, but every time the seasons change I go into a funk. My general mood drops to bleh, and I find myself not wanting to do anything but plant my ass on the couch, alternating between watching NetFlix and sleep.

I know the things I should be doing to combat this (exercise, writing, actually getting normal sleep each night), but the life I have set up for myself combats my needs. I work, at times, insane hours making it difficult for me to create a regular sleep pattern. Being tired makes it hard (very hard) to write, and with so little time I prioritize sleep over a run. Plus I once tried to run when I was super tired. I just ended up walking for more than half of it, and not even at a fast pace. Basically my body yelled at me, saying WhatTheFuck, GoToBed! I've listened ever since.

When it goes from Summer to Fall or, in my current circumstance, from Winter to Spring, I am reminded of the passage of time. I am reminded that half a year has gone by. Another six months of my life lived. And, no matter how amazing the days were, another six months I will never have again.

I am afraid of death. I am afraid to die. [Yes, this is another heavy blog. Deal.]

So, spoiler alert:

There is this part at the end of The Green Mile where the main character is narrating over the images on screen, and he's talking about how he knows he will someday die, but it will be a long time for him to wait, because if the Michael Clark Duncan character can make a mouse live however many years, how long does that mean he, a grown man, will last.

I get what the guy is saying; I understand the scariness of seeing your friends and family die around you. I understand his existence will be depressing... for him.

But I can see the flip side of that, too. I can see the years of watching the changes in the world. I can see the possibilities for innovation, evolution, change. I can only imagine all the things I will miss out when I am gone, because some day I will not be here.

I don't believe in heaven or hell. I believe, when you die, that's it. Like going to sleep, but never waking up. You rest.

Maybe, possibly, my brain will fire a neuron that will flow through my glia, but my consciousness will experience it as an ever lasting memory. Hopefully, if this is what they mean by heaven or hell, it is joyful or comforting. Even for the worst of us, I hope that.

If not, give me rest.

I understand the appeal of vampires, staying young and living forever. At a sacrifice, yes, but is the alternative a blessing or the ultimate curse? No one knows, until you know.

I read a quote recently, and I know I am about to butcher it, but it said roughly this: Humans are the only animal that tells time, and yet a dog does not need a watch to know when it is time to eat or go outside. Humans are blessed with knowledge, yet it is their curse, for since they are the only animal who knows time, they are also the only ones who are keenly aware that it is running out.

In 4.5 billion years, the Earth will be gobbled up by the Sun when it becomes a red giant star. 4.5 billion years left on this planet. Granted, we will probably kill ourselves out by then, but... 4.5 billion years.

And I get 80+, if I'm lucky.

Fuck you knowledge.

Work

There is this guy I occasionally work with.

He's not the most attractive man. Not particularly muscular or athletic in any way. He doesn't have a face you'd think of as handsome per say.

It's his eyes; the knowing behind them. And his demeanor; it's always obvious who's in charge.

Every time I work with, without fail, the thoughts come.

Recently I was standing in a hallway waiting for a freight elevator to return to the floor. I leaned against the wall, my arms behind me, my hands resting at the small of my back, my hips just a bit forward.

I knew he would be on that elevator when it returned. Instantly my mind painted the scene.

The doors opening. He'd see me, be looking at me already, right in my eyes, as the doors parted. He step straight towards me, pin me against the wall, gripping my arms. He'd lean down (He's much taller than me) and have this sinister look on his face. I wouldn't know if he was sizing me up or just debating what he wanted to do first.

He'd kiss me, taking the embrace rather than sharing a moment of pleasure. His nails would dig a little harder into skin. He'd bite my lip, pull on the skin as he stared at me dead in my eyes, daring me to react. I wouldn't flinch, wouldn't whimper. Not yet.

He'd unbuckle my belt, slip his hand in. Then I'd whimper.

My lip free, I'd instinctively close my eyes, lose myself in the dance of his fingers on my clit, his digits so close to my pussy. One long slow caress of my wet lips.

And then he'd bring his hand up, right to my face. I'd open my eyes, and lick my essence off of his fingers. I would demonstrate for him what I hoped would be in my future, another of his appendages in my mouth. My tongue licking the way I knew men loved. Rolling my tongue ring all over, flicking it across the tip of his finger.

He'd grip my hair, punishment for my brattiness. The resolve would return to my face. He'd take hold of my chin, tilt my head up. His eyes burning through me.

"Get to work," he'd say. And I would enjoy my labor.

Every time I come home from a gig where he is on it, without fail, my panties are soaked.

The Plan

I took my own advice the other day. I had time to kill during a gig, so I sat and thought about what I wanted from my life. What I wanted from my career. What I wanted in love.

I wrote down two goals for five years from now. I thought about them, let them linger inside me for a while.

And then my Mom got sick. And I visited her every day I could while she was in the hospital.

As I walked through the same doors multiple times, and saw the same people each day, it became clear what I wanted. I don't want to be an EMT. I want to be a doctor.

In a strange twist of fate, during a conversation with one of my mother's other visitors, the woman talked about the son of a friend. He was just turning thirty. He had just finished medical school and was about to start his work in a hospital. As I sat there, listening to this woman chat with my mother, I thought, That could've been me. I could've been a doctor by now.

As I walked through the halls of that hospital, every time I saw someone in a white lab coat, especially in groups, I kept thinking, They could've been my colleagues.

So I made the decision. I'm going for it. I'm going to become a doctor.

I suppose the decision may be both the easiest and hardest part of this process. Now that I've made the decision, named it, said it, breathed life to it, I have to take the first steps, start the journey, the long hard slog to my goal.

Just in doing some basic searching on the interwebs, I know it will be at minimum two years before I can even apply to med school. I have 32 credits of sciences I need to take, not to mention I need double check my English credits still count. I'll need to study for and take the MCATs too. There is just so much to do. It's all very overwhelming.

My life is going to fundamentally change come Fall of this year. I plan to enroll in the local community college for my credits, two lab sciences a semester for the next two years. I would've gone back to my old university, but the cost would've been more than double the price of the community college. Not even a question of what decision I was going to make.

I am scared shitless. Scared I'll not be good enough. Scared that it is too late for me to try. Scared that it will all be for naught. But I have to try. I have to know if I had the goods, if I was meant to be a doctor.

There was one good thing that came out of my conversation with my father yesterday. He casually mentioned that before my sister died she was pursuing a career in medicine. Part of the reason why I didn't go down that road was because of pressure from my mother, whether she realized it or not, to not walk in my father's footsteps, to not pursue medicine because of some odd notion of my place and her place in his life.

I reject my mother's example of humility to others for the sake of I don't know what.

I am smart. Super smart. I am brave, courageous, much more daring than she has ever been. And I am better than a doormat.

I'm going for this, come hell or high water. I'm going to become a doctor, or crash and burn while trying.

Distressed

It started Monday night.  At first it was just a tickle in my throat, nothing new.  I fell asleep with a cough drop under my tongue like I'd done many a time before, believing this would be enough.

When I awoke the next morning, I still had a tickle in my throat, but it was just a tickle.  And I still had work...

As my day went on, the tickle mutated, growing into pain, bad pain, and my cough drops weren't helping.  In fact, it seemed like my cough drops were triggering coughing fits.  There were other symptoms: intermittant nausia and dizziness, feeling weaker than normal.  None of these were good signs.

By the time we were finishing up our tear down, I had to keep myself from crying.  I'd started coughing occasionally, and it hurt, really hurt, whenever I coughed.  I knew, just knew, something was very wrong.

The next morning I went to Patient First.  They tested me for strep and the flu, both negative.  Still, the doctor thought I probably had the flu anyway; he perscribed a flu medication plus some liquid codeine.  I filled the scripts, went home, changed clothes, and went back to work.

Wednesday was to be an easy day, a half day, a simple gig.  But, as I worked, I could feel it.  I couldn't move, couldn't function like I normally would.  It took me much longer to perform simple tasks, and it took so much energy out of me to just get through this simplest of gigs.

That day I continued to drink fluids.  Tea helped to soothe my throat.  I went to sleep at 11pm having taken my first dose of the codiene, the drug giving me a nice dull haze to slip into.

And then I woke up at 2am.  My throat was on fire, worse than it had been before.  I chugged more ginger ale, rolled over, and made myself fall back to sleep.

And then I woke up at 5am.  My throat felt even worse.  I made myself a hot toddy, went downstairs, and watched random television hoping my throat would feel better.  It didn't.

I tried to stay strong.  I kept hoping my pain would ease.  But there came a point when I was ready to ball.  I tried to speak to a roommate around 8am, and each word was a new level of pain.

I took two Tylenol, another dose of the codiene, curled up on the cough, my body in a tight ball, and cried myself to a restless sleep that lasted about an hour.

And then came the weezing.  It felt like something was obstructing my airway, like mucus was half covering my throat.  Every breath was a labor.  I gave it sometime, thinking it would go away.  With each breath, I grew more and more scared.

Finally, I couldn't deny it anymore.  I picked up my phone and typed out a note.  I walked up to the kitchen, where one of my roommates was fixing something.  I showed her my phone.

I'm having difficulty breathing; I think I need to go to the hospital.

She didn't need my note to realize I was not good.  You could hear every breath enter and exit my body.  We rushed to get shoes on my, grab my wallet, and bundle up against the frigid cold.

By the time we had gotten to the hospital, I had hacking coughed enough that whatever was hampering my breathing had been dislodged, but I had given up on talking; it just hurt too much.  I wrote out all my answers to the intake secretary. 

We waited for about an hour before they took me to the back.  As the nurse spoke, I just kept writing.

Before she even asked me any questions, I pointed to notes I'd already written:
Symptoms - painfully sore throat, chills, intermittant nausea and dizziness, weak.
It hurts to swallow, cough, or talk.
My pain is at an 8, a 9/10 when I cough.  Yesterday it was a 7.

They put in an IV.  They took blood for tests.  They gave me pain meds and fluids for dehydration.

About an hour later, with the tests run, and nothing coming up again, they had a diagnosis: throat infection.  They perscribed an antibiotic, more codiene in case I needed it, and gave me a doctor's note.

I'm still to take the meds Patient First perscribed, holding onto the hospital's codiene in case I run out.

It is so very hard for me to admit when I'm hurting, to admit when I'm in real pain.  It's incredibly difficult for me to take myself to the hospital.  But the fear...  That was the hardest part of all.

When you don't know what is wrong with your body, when all the things you try that normally work no longer make you better, when you don't understand what is wrong but you know something is wrong...  The fear was the worst part.

But I'm okay now.  The pain meds took me down to a 4 before I left the hospital.  I've been hovering there or slightly below ever since, making sure to take the Tylenol and codiene regularly.

Because when I don't, when the time comes up for me to take my next dosage, and I can feel the pain grow just a little.  When it feels like a cheese grater is against my throat ready to slough off its fill, the fear comes back and I wonder if my breaths will be my last.

For being the daughter of a doctor and a medical secretary, I kind of suck at this whole health thing.

Makeup

Today I want to talk about a subject that, for me, is frivolous. It has almost no impact on my life, yet is prevalent throughout our culture: makeup.

Some of you who know me may smile at the thought of me writing an entire blog entry about this topic, being that I don't in fact ever wear makeup, but that is part of the reason why I decided to take a moment from my hectic day and expound a bit on the subject.

Recently a male friend, when I offhandedly mentioned that I don't wear makeup, asked me why. I thought about it for a bit. Not many people ask me that question. Most just accept the fact when I randomly mention it and move on.

There are the practical reasons why I don't. It saves me money and time in my hectic day. It isn't necessary for me to be made up for my job, and could actually be a distraction/hassle in my work.

There are the superficial personal reasons. When I was young and tried it with my mother once, I didn't like the feel of it on my skin. I've seen my mother all done up (she LOVES makeup, by the way). The look just didn't fit my personality; it's just not me.

And then there are my deeper thoughts about the cultural practice in general.

I'm not trying to sound above others when I say this, but I like knowing I look the same to someone when I go to bed with them as when I wake up beside them.

I don't see the need to hide my flaws from people, to smooth over the blemishes on my face. I like to believe there are people who will be attracted to me for me, flaws and all.

I find it empowering to not have to wear makeup, to not have to conform to this particular cultural norm, to just step up and step out as plain old me, accepting, embracing my less than perfect skin and still feeling beautiful.

I've seen certain people, my mother included, for whom makeup is an art that heightens their beauty. With them, I understand why they love such adornment. There is a reason why professional are called makeup artists, because it is an art. But it is just not something that I wish to absorb into my own sensibilities.

The closest I've come to wearing makeup is body glitter on my eye lids and cheekbones to accentuate my face. And, truth be told, I like it when I find the random flecks of glitter here or there on my person.

I've thought about trying mascara, though this would specifically be for scenes. Being that I cry a lot, I've wondered how it would look to have my face blackened from my tears. But I have yet to play with this.

I have one tube of lip gloss that is probably five plus years old, as well a single tube of black lipstick that I've owned since high school. Neither has been used in years.

I adorn myself in jewelry (necklaces, earrings, bracelets). I have a growing and eclectic sock collection. I'm increasing the hot dress section of my wardrobe, and I hope to increase my shoe selection as well (though, with a 10 wide foot that has been challenging).

There are plenty of ways that I am very much a girl. There is no doubt about that. But this one thing, this one part of the cultural stereotype of feminine, just does not fit me. And, well, I'm okay with that.

Deadline

I can hear laughter, chatting. I still need to shower, wash my hair, and change my clothes. My bottle of champagne is not yet in the refrigerator. I haven't even grabbed dinner yet.

I literally walked into the house about five minutes ago after working ten hours today.

I'm sitting on my bed, work clothes off, feverishly typing on my netbook trying to not disappointment myself.

I set a few goals this year, but none has been so difficult as writing for this blog.

Everyday. Well, an average of everyday, I strove to write one entry. Whether my aim was erotica, a rant, some random story about my life, or, more often than not, a retelling of a kinky adventure, I set out a year ago to push myself to produce more content than I ever had before.

One lesson I learned about my motivational style was rather simple yet had eluded me til now: Set a deadline.

A year already has a put in place schedule for me to follow, and the end of each month made for a natural constant goal for me to keep up with. A few times I fell short and needed to write one or two extra blogs for the next month. However, with that steady reminder of my constant aim, I slogged threw this year.

And now, with just under four hours til my ultimate deadline (when I initially wrote the rough draft of this entry), I am trying to meet my very last goal for this year. I'm not sure if I will, but dammit I'm going to try.

I've worked hard and I want to do this. I want to prove to myself that I can do this, that I can push myself to finish. Writing isn't hard, despite what people may say. But finishing? Finishing is a bitch ass motherfucker.

And with this lesson conveyed, and hopefully learned, seconds dripping away quickly, I'm one of six blogs complete.

Six words

And now for something different...

So I was watching some more TED Talks before bed tonight, and one of them featured a man named Sebastian Wernicke. I watched two of his talks actually, and both dealt with synthesizing TED Talks down. With the plethora of ideas floating around among, at the time, one thousand posted talks online, he endeavored to shrink that wealth of information down to a more workable amount, specifically six words. Both his talks are awesome and available on www.ted.com.

With his idea as inspiration, which technically he pilfered from Hemingway, but whatevs, I'm going to write some six word stories for you tonight. And, should any of them stick in my mind for longer than the next twenty minutes to an hour (the average time I spend on a blog at night), I may just expand them later in the month, which is not much more on us.

Of course, should you like one or more of my shortest of stories, please feel free to say such in a comment. No promises, but I could be swayed to work more on one or more of the ideas below should the interest of you, my fair readers, be so piqued.

Also, I will let you in on the most obvious of cheats. Should December 31st arrive and I am still behind on blogs, I will create six word stories to fill out my obligation to myself for this year.

(My goals/plans/ideas blog for my next three hundred and sixty-five days on this earth is also coming soon, though I fear it may not be til after the new year has arrived. I'll see what I can do, though.)

So, as promised, without further ado, please enjoy the following six word stories:

1) MoMa: Inventing Impressionism; awe inspiring hour.

2) Can't speak but need to scream.

3) I feel lost all the time.

4) The dark is the bad place.

5) Sweet one. Kind one. Lost one.

6) I'm happy because he left me.

7) I've missed you every moment since.

8) I know you don't love me.

9) Our family is more than bloodlines.

10) Kiss me. Fuck me. Leave me.

11) Stop yourself from being that girl.

I hope everyone had a Merry Christmas, or, should you celebrate another winter holiday, or no holiday at all for that matter, I hope you, at the very least, had a pleasing Tuesday.

Tease

It was just so perfectly timed.

The thought popped into my head.

Sitting on a couch, reading a book, waiting for him to return home. Hearing him entering, but my not responding. Just reading my book; no care in the world.

He drops his things. Immediately drops to his knees. Pulls my skirt up. And begins eating me out.

I'd drop the book, loosing my place, but oh-my-god not caring.

Resting my hands in his hair. Reclining my head back. Moaning. Riding his face. Grinding against his tongue and lips.

That passion. That not-caring-or-giving-a-fuck-I-want-you-that-much lust. Getting lost in it. Drowning in it. Never wanting to come up for air.

That thought, those images playing around in my head.

And then the song came on.

My car radio playing while I'm out shopping for gifts. Hearing the back beat swell right before the DJ stops talking. Just enough time for recognition and move to action. Turning up the volume. Blaring the music and lyrics.

And now they are together: my fantasy and the soundtrack for that fuck.

The memory of the smell of my wet pussy. The imagined feel of his lips on my clit. My remembered moans. And the sound of the music. The evoking words. The heavy bass. The dark yet sensuous song booming from my car's speakers into my ears.

For four minutes, I lived in my mind. Imagining my tensed muscles. His supple lips. My gasps and groans. I felt the warmth grow inside me. Felt the rising to my high. Wished, for once, more than anything else, that my brain could make my fantasy come true.

And then the song ended.

Must Eat Pussy

I have not been on OKCupid for long, but in my brief stint I have grown disheartened, disillusioned, and dis, I mean pissed, off in general by the crop of folk migrating my way.

It seems so simple, and yet it also seems to be the hardest thing in the world: a person who I find attractive sending me a coherent thoughtful message.

As such, I have decided to soon augment my profile with some information that will hopefully weed out unsuitable applicants who come upon my page. Of course they may just ignore my words all together, but at least I tried a little harder.

Henceforth, here are some of the basic standards I intend to hold up as the introductory requirements for me even considering someone for possible dates.

1) Thou shalt not be a douche.

You can be an asshole, if you are a fun lovable asshole. There are assholes in my life that have done some asshole-ish things to me, but I asked for it. Assholes can make things way more interesting, can push you to be more honest than you might want to be. Fun lovable assholes are good.

You can be geeky. In fact, I would prefer you at least be a little bit geeky. Geeky is fucking awesome. We can geek out about Battlestar Galactica or Harry Potter or the Avengers. We can share our geekiness with each other and marvel in all the geeky awesomeness that we are. Geekiness is a plus.

You can be passionate, ecstatic, full of life and energy. You can run around ready to teach and learn and grow and shape the people around you and reshape yourself.

You can be quiet, reserved, yet a totally great person I want to be around. You don't need to be loud or boisterous. Just being yourself is great in and out itself, without all the bells and whistles.

But a douche... 

A douche brings everyone down. A douche turns awesome to awkward. A douche takes the party from YAY! to meh. I will find it very hard to like you, let alone date you, if you are a douche. No douches accepted; please keep it moving if you are a douche.

2) Thou shalt not be a hermit.

My last "relationship" involved me with an anti-social individual. Most of our time was spent at either my place or his (or ours when we moved in together). I tried to be happy with it just being us, or me leaving to go do things alone with my friends. All the time. Never with him. But I was lying to myself.

I'm not saying I'll expect us to do everything together, because no. But we will do some things together. 

I can, at times, be a little social butterfly. Yes, I go to quite a few events and visit my friends all over this great planet. But if I had a partner, a person I was fully committed to, I would make more than enough time for us, just us. And then I would want you to come along for the ride, experiencing some of the fun stuff with me.

I want a travel companion, a concert buddy, a hotel roommate, a lover, and a friend.

3) Thou shalt talk.

Not only was my Ex anti-social, he didn't talk about his feelings. Ever. Very big problem.

I'm not saying I expect us to go into marathon gab sessions where we explore the inner reaches of our moral code, dissect the influence of our parents and siblings on who we are, and finally realize the thing that has held us back from true enlightenment.

But I do expect us to talk. Tell me if something upsets you. Makes you happy. How was your day? I want to know that. Is there something bothering you? Something you want to expound on that makes you happy.

Talk. Because if you don't then we will have problems because...

4) We shall be poly.

I am poly. I am poly. I don't stop being poly just because I don't currently have any partners, nor will I cease to be poly because the immensity of your love with fill me to the brim with all the blahblahblah.

No. I am poly.

I have the great capacity to love many people, and would love to have multiple special important lovers in my life. I want partners, dammit, and the idea of denying myself a full rich life because someone wants to change my mind or, worse still, change me, is heartbreaking. And a definite dealbreaker.

I am all for us going slow, not jumping into a W configuration with random semi-permanent offshoots. But if poly is not a possibility for you, if merely the idea of multiple caring emotionally invested lovers does not compute, we shouldn't even start.

Inevitably, when I tell you about this person I met, or this friendship that is developing into something more, and you tense up, or turn cold, we will be done. You will make an ultimatum or remain quiet until one day blowing up at me, and that will be it. And what would our time together have been for if you lied to both me and yourself from the beginning.

& 5) Thou shalt meet the basics and fucking exceed them.

- You have a job or are actively searching for steady employment.

- You own your own car or have the ability to transport yourself without my assistance.

- You do not live with your parents. (Roommates, great. Parents, no.)

- You can write grammatically correct sentences, which will then form a coherent paragraph, possibly leading to multiple thoughts encompassed in a short essay.

- YOU READS BOOKS! Not a sports page. Not a magazine. But a book. (Bonus points if you know the reference. If not, your welcome.)

- You have the ability to engage in intelligent thoughtful conversation on a range of topics and issues. (For example: You know the difference between Iran and Iraq. And you can find them on a map.)

- You are not an ultra-conservative Republican. No. Just no. Trust me; no.

- You are kinky, or you are kink aware and accepting, realizing I will need to find my kink elsewhere.

- You wholeheartedly accept gay people, their civil right to marriage and families. 

- You are pro-choice.

- You enjoy whit and humor, both high and low brow.

- You practice basic hygiene rituals. (See above link.)

- MUST EAT PUSSY! This is a dealbreaker. Seriously, if you don't eat pussy, don't even say hi. Don't try to be funny or witty or baby step around it. No. Just don't. So. Fucking. Annoying.

If you can abide by all of the above, and then some, then maybe, MAYBE you can date a poetic.

Because that's another thing.  Just because you meet the minimum doesn't mean we'll click.  It doesn't mean I'll find you attractive or you, after inspecting the goods, will find me attractive.  And that's okay. 

But, for the love of all that is good, the fact that people can't even meet the minimum is rage-making.

/rant

Shadow Career

Sometimes I hate my job.

I know this is true of most people. I suppose it's been true of just about every job I've had. There comes a point when all I want to do is scream at someone or to someone. I need to release my pain. I need to tell people how much I hate my life when I am functioning in this work capacity. But that release never happens.

What does happen is I question my staying. I question coming to work the next day. I question if this is what I want to keep doing. And my hatred for my job increasing almost every day after.

Recently I've had some shitty gigs. I was under staffed. Had little time. The gear wasn't correct. The client was demanding. You name it, I've probably dealt with it.

With me being in a leadership position, all the stress of my job gets heaped onto me. It's my responsibility to get everything set and ready by the time guests walk through the doors. It's my responsilibity to guide my crew, delegate projects, and do the hard parts of the job, the parts no one else is willing to. It all falls on me.

Lately I've been wondering if it's worth it. Is the extra pay really worth all the extra stress?

One element that hasn't helped is my current relationship status, as in none.

When I was with my Ex, it was very hard to go to load outs at night. I'd leave him, watching some random thing on tv, knowing he'd be asleep by the time I got home. I'd eat dinner with him, knowing there was a count down until I had to go. I hated it.

Since we broke up, I've realized how much harder it is to go through a busy seasn without that emotional support. For as many faults as he had (and there were many), there was still that person I would come home to and bitch about my day. And he always had this uncanny way of building me back up. He encouraged me, told me how great I was at my job, how kickass I was as a tech.

I have no desire to go back to my Ex. None. But I do miss the pep talks. The cuddles at night. The arms to hold onto me when I was ready to cry from all the stress.

NaNoRiMo is coming up. I'm going to be participating for the first time. I have my novel idea flushed out fairly well in my head, as well as some notes jotted down on paper.

I am a writer. And, lately, every time I've been at work I've asked myself, Why am I doing this? Why am I here? I should be writing.

Gray has been needling me lately. After I mentioned how I contemplated being a doctor when I was younger, he's tried to push me to research more about going back to school. He's said, and this is very true, people don't leave their positions in life until it gets too hard for them to stay.

I don't think I'll become a doctor, but I am coming to a point where staying in my current job is close to unbearable.

I am a writer. I know this in my bones. It's time I do more than this blog, more than talking about being a paid author. It's time I actually do it.

It's time for me to commit to my real career and let my shadow career fall away. It's time for me to be a writer.