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.

Three Guys At Work

The 1st guy

"To make these fit, there's a trick. You have to marry them together."
"I wouldn't call it marrying. I'd more say they were..."

I was tired. You could probably even say cranky. My day started with a 6am setup. Continued with a 3pm focus call. And now ended with a 10pm breakdown that didn't actually start til 11pm. I just wanted to go home. But we had to get shit done.

And he was new. So I got it. He was trying to be playful. Trying to make me smile. But, tonight, that wasn't going to happen until the truck was packed, I'd initialed my timesheet, and was walking back to my car.

"Please, not tonight. No vulgar jokes tonight. Normally I'd roll with it, let it ride, but just not tonight."
"It's just marrying seems too permanent for their situation."
"Yeah. Right."

I finished piling the lights in the bin and moved onto another project.

The 2nd guy


"No. Stop. Don't put those in there. They don't go in there."
"Why?"
"Because the four with bases go in there. Those go with the others with clamps."
"Fine. You don't have to get an attitude about it."

I don't like him. Not anymore.

At a certain point I did. I thought he was a decent tech, a decent crew lead. And then I worked with him once where I was his crew lead. He was passive aggressive. A couple of times he outright ignored me when I asked him questions. Thankfully I haven't had to deal with him as my crew since.

And, since, I haven't liked him at all.

So, when I was trying to tell him why he was making a mistake. When I tried to point out his error. When I tried to go against his laziness (because that's what it was). When I tried to instruct him in the proper way to pack that particular case, since I'd been there all day (one of only three who had), he said I was giving him "attitude".

I was just happy I didn't curse him out right there. Though, to be fair, I'm too nice. Even to people who don't deserve it. I'll turn my back and mutter expletives to myself before I stand face-to-face with you, telling you how I really feel. I view that as being polite. I'm sure some of them see it as being weak. And to that, I say, fuck them. My Mom raised me right.

I spoke maybe three words to that guy for the rest of the gig.

In my opinion, his problem is that he's pretty. Very pretty, in fact, so people will often let him have his way. Even when he's wrong. But, lately, not just I have noticed when he fucks up. And he's getting on more than just my nerves.

The 3rd guy


"Ooo, are you taking that home?"

He carried a small vase of purple tulips left behind by the florists. He held it up by his face and playfully stroked the buds.

"Would you like one?"
"Normally I don't accept gig flowers, but sure."

He picked one out of the vase and gave it to me. Another female employee walked over and commented on the flowers. He offered her one as well, which she accepted.

We pushed the last few cases towards the freight elevator.

As we waited behind another company, the group was finally in good spirits. Though we had started late, we were close to finished, having worked really hard to get everything broken down.

When we reached the truck, and pushed the last case on, a wave of relief washed over me. Long day done.

Everyone congregated by the crew lead and waited to initial our timesheetsReacher novel (which I could barely put down all day), in my hands. The purple against the white and red of the cover looked almost artistic. I smiled to myself, happy I'd brought the book inside to help pass the time of the hour wait before we started, and now knowing I'd be able to get back to it soon.

After everyone initialed, we slowly disbursed.

"What are you going to do with them," I asked him, referring to his small vase of tulips.
"I don't know. Hey, do you want them?"

He held it out for me.

"Um, sure."

I took the vase, put my flower back inside it.

I smiled, and remembered, Not every guy I work with is an asshole.

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?

Frustrated

I hated my job tonight.

The short version is that someone else fucked up but I get the blame for the screw up.

I thought I did everything right tonight. Even with the pop up issues. Even with the running back to the warehouse for more equipment, rushing to finish everything on time. I thought I got it right.

And then I learned I didn't because of one small lapse.

The worst was the condescension in the voice of the persons pointing out my error. I kept myself from crying. I didn't want to give the air of loathing surrounding me the joy of seeing my pain. I gathered up my equipment and got out of there as quick as I could.

I keep playing the decision over and over in mind. If I had just... If only I'd... Why didn't he just...

You can drive yourself mad with What Ifs.

Now I'm just left with fatigue and frustration. At my job. At the gentleman who didn't do his. At the women who treated me like an ill-informed fresh-off-the-boat oh-aren't-you-so-cute-but-you're-wrong-and-I'm-gonna-take-the-time-to-point-out-your-wrong-wrongness idiot.

I hated tonight. When I signed out, even with the large amount of hours for which I'll get paid, I was mad. Mad because I know I'll have to keep doing this for the foreseeable future. It will be at the very least two years of community college and a few years of medical school where I'll need this job to get by.

I appreciate that I have this job, knowing there are so many others who don't. But sometimes this job feels like an abusive relationship I just can't get out of. I know it pays my bills. I know it keeps a roof over my head and food on my table. I am grateful for that, really. But when do you say, "Enough is enough?"

Will it have to be like my serving days? Nightmares about customers. Getting yelled at and cursed out to my face. Finding a corner to cry in, only to come back to work to finish my shift. I don't want that.

I nearly cried tonight. Because of my job.

So I will probably get a complaint lodged against me because of the incident. That will make two in my last two gigs.

I got a phone call from my boss during Frolicon stating I had been doing a good job, but could I not talk about my personal life. Apparently someone had complained about me talking about my extracurricular activities. That is a whole other can of worms I do not want to open right now before I pass out to a hopefully blissful sleep. But I have to say, the mere fact that I tolerate shitty misogynistic comments by guys all the time yet I am reprimanded for talking about my life. Hypocrisy much?

Its nights like tonight that remind me this is not the sum total of my life. I don't live to work; I work to live.

This is not what I will be doing ten years from now. This is not my future. This job does not define me.

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.

Bubble

So... this is the blog I didn't post on Friday. The feelings-rich not-fun bad things blog.

This is a rant. This is not sexy or funny. This post is going to touch on some horrible shit that's been happening in our country lately. I give this warning in case you don't want to read something like this today, or from me, or ever. 

[Trigger Warning]

I live in a bubble. It is a bubble of my own making, my own choosing.

I think it is both a characteristic of my personality and a self preservation device that I tend to see the best in people. I tend to believe the world is a happier, safer, more loving place than I know it to be.

I choose to don rose colored glasses in my everyday because to not do so would have me confront the horrible nature of the world around us all the time, and, frankly, who the fuck wants that?

But life always has a way of breaking my bubble, no more so than in the past month.

When the shooting happened in Newtown, I was at work. I'd been awake since 4:30am and had been working since 5am. The particular facility I was working in that day had poor cell phone service for my carrier, so I had not bothered to check Twitter or social media.

During a break, though, around 10am, one of my coworkers, who did have cell service, popped on Twitter. And then the words "school shooting" and "little kids" came out of her mouth. She is a mother of a child close in age to the children who were killed that day. She was alarmed, scared. I was numb.

I went on with my work day, which would last longer than anyone liked. I got about thirty minutes of sleep that night, not because of concern from the news but because my next gig started at 6am. I didn't have time to think, really think, about the news as it trickled into my existance. I had to work.

The following day, after another eighteen hours of work, eight hours of sleep, and four more hours of work, I found myself in a restaurant with some coworkers eating burgers and barely noticing the President talking about the shooting.

I did, however, have my PDA/hand moment, so I guess my subconscious was tuning in while my id made me push through my job.

As the holidays came, as I saw family and friends, as I felt myself overjoyed by immersion back into my community, it was easy to blow my bubble back up. The shooting had deflated it, but not quite collapsed the structure. Frankly, "school shooting" is a phrase I've heard many times since I was a kid, since Columbine, and another elementary school shooting, and metal detectors, and all the rest you know.

And then, a few days ago, I was on Twitter. And I happened to click on a link. And I read about the rape in Stuebenville.

Pop.

The bubble, which had withstood the shooting mostly because of exhaustion and forced ignorance, finally burst.

And now I'm hearing all those things I was trying to ignore. Now I am noticing how angry I am. How frustrated I am with our govenment. How much I want to scream at the head of the NRA for his fucked up speech. How much I want to scream at this country's rape culture. How scared I am for my four year old niece and the world she was brought into.

I had an appointment with my GYN today. If you've read this blog for a while, you will know I have less than stellar thoughts concerning her, but I keep going back because it's convient. Sometimes I hate how much I put up with because it's convient.

And, as per usual, when I mentioned I wanted an STI screening because it's been six months, and I've had two new "sexual" partners since last seeing her, I could just feel the judging going on in her mind. At least this time she didn't talk. This time she just pursed her lips, mumbled "mmm hmm", and proceeded to take the cultures.

But it's her reaction, that judgement, the belief in the denegration of slut, that is part of the basis for some of the evils in our world.

Now my GYN is far from evil, just a judgemental prude. But it's the culture of judgement. Of slut shaming. Of believing "she wanted it but just couldn't say it". Believing that some rape isn't really rape. Believing that there is an inappropriate way of expressing my sexuality with another consenting adult, or an inappropriate amount of sex that I'm having with an inappropriate amount of people, that is more than rage-making.

Some people have been permeating the thought that if gun laws had been less severe, the Jews could've protected themselves against Hitler. Really? Really!?! Read a fucking history book, go visit the Holocaust museum (I have), and shut the fuck up.

These folks also have a problem with a national registry of guns.  I have to ask, Do you own and drive a car legally?  With the title, tags, and... registration?  Does your car still have its VIN branded on multiple parts of its body?  Then shut the fuck up.

I don't know what it will take to curb the evils of gun violence and sexual violence in this country, but I know what won't. Ignoring the problems won't solve them, but will instead make them worse.

Believing that more guns solve the situation is a level of lunacy I am not willing to even entertain.

Shame around sex, talking about it, teaching it to our children, will only make sexual violence more pervasive.

What happened to compromise? What happened to working together? Oh, right... It's much easier to get elected when you rail against a problem than when you fix it.

Sex is not the enemy; violence is. Sex is not the enemy; rape is. Sex is not the enemy.

Consent counts. Consent, in fact, is all that matters when it comes to sex. No means no. And being too drunk to walk is not an invitation into someone's pants.

When a coach defends his rapist players instead of standing up for their victim, instead of trying to figure out what went wrong, it's obvious that he is part of the problem. When it takes Anonymous to help pull forth the truth, when people are willing to live Tweet this horrendous crime instead of coming to the aid of the victim, I don't know what to think about this country except disgust.

In India, a woman was gang raped and people rioted in the streets. In America, children were killed. In America, a girl was gang raped while people blogged about it. And we are arguing about semantics?

Land of the free and home of the brave...? Complete and total bullshit.

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

Endurance

Warning: This is a rant.

I almost threw up on the plane.

On my flight home, the Captain warned us it would be a rough landing. We were coming in through a heavy downpour. I opened up the window and could make out the storm as we passed through it.

After the first time the plane pitched, I knew I needed to find my vomit bag. My stomach, normally happy to brave the ups and downs of a roller coaster, was having none of this turbulance. I endured because I had no choice, because this was what I had to do to get home.

Our rocky landing wasn't the only thing I had to go through this traveling Monday just to make it back home.

TSA decided, once again, that the rosettes on my boots looked suspicious. But, instead of just opening my bag, seeing the boots, and closing it liked they had the last time I left SFO, this time the trainee inspector decided to swipe down all the pockets of my back pack, unpack the entire bag, and run it all through the scanner again. Oh, and she almost forgot to give me back my $500 boots.

Already pissed off that I'd been hasseled by Homeland Security, I patiently waited for my plane. But at least I was on my way home. At least I would be in my bed by the end of the night.

And then Murphy's Law struck.

The plane that would've taken me to Dallas/Fort Worth (the hub from which my connecting flight back home left out) had to be taken out of service for a maintenance issue. All of a sudden a full plane of people was scrambling to find ways home.

A flight attendant passed out Customer Service cards. Each one of us got on our phone and spoke with a representative trying to find us new flights while we all also stood in line to get reticketed. After about thirty minutes on the phone, my rep found me an 8pm flight to LA and then a direct flight home. Arrival: 6:45am. As much as it sucked, at least I would be home before my work the next day (today).

However, when I got to the counter, a stroke of luck. The SFO rep found me a direct flight with another carrier, arrival only two hours after my previous expected time.

But then came snag number three: I had to go through security again. I walked out of terminal two, made my way to terminal three, and waited. When I was half way through the security line, I cursed and exited. I'd forgotten to dump my water bottle which I'd filled after my first security check. Back in line, waiting again, I had the unlucky pleasure of being in front of a douchebag who decided to complain about the wait we all had to endure.

After shoving my things through the scanner (along with specifically pulling out my boots to avoid another bag check) I was let through fine. I ate an overpriced but pleasing lunch. I waited for three hours for my now direct flight home.

And just as we were about to board the plane, the attendant asked us to wait just a bit longer. My heart sunk.

Not again. Oh please God not again. This can't happen to me twice, can it?

And, thankfully, it didn't. One of the restrooms on the plane was out of service, but the flight would still happen. We boarded with plenty of room for the less than half capacity of passengers.

I sat. I closed my eyes. I wanted, desparately wanted, to pass out.

But, once we were in the air, I couldn't. Instead I pulled out my netbook and started typing. I got some NaNoWriMo words in. I roughed out a few blogs. I felt better, much better. And I was on my way home.

And then the kid in front of me wouldn't sit still, and decided he wanted his seat all the way back, and oh-my-god-this-movie-is-so-awesome. I moved to the center seat and turned up the volume in my earbuds.

Later, satisfied I'd gotten some work done, I passed out for maybe an hour before we slowly made our descent.

With the jossling of the plane, I kept breathing deep trying to keep the contents of my stomach in my stomach. For about ten to fifteen minutes, I wondered if I would have another first in my life. Thankfully puking on a plane is still a cherry I have not broken.

We landed fine. I am not dead. And even though I still had to endure a ridiculous shuttle ride home (an hour and forty-five minutes when normally it would take about thirty), I did eventually make it.

I walked through my door at 3am. I did not sleep overnight in the airport. My lugguage was not lost (carry-on only bitches!). I made it to work today.

I am tired, worn out, exhausted. But I made it. I survived. I endured.

Angry, A Rant

Fair warning: This is not a sexy post. I will understand if you do not wish to read it.

Fair warning: This post will cover not fun things. Really not fun things.

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

It never occurred to me that people would not realize I am angry. 

But, as I sat on the couch last night chatting with my roommates, who spoke about their experiences with trying to uncloud the eyes of well meaning (or downright ignorant) people, the subject of being angry came up.

I am angry. Very angry. I don't show that side of myself much. I don't like to.

I often display bubbly, or eager, or quiet. There is shy or whimsical or horny. But angry, don't show that much.

However, for one blog entry, let's face it.

As a light skinned black woman with some Native American ancestry, I have quite a bit to be angry about.

There is the state of the lives of current Native Americans; a quick Wikipedia search brought me this gem:

"It has long been recognized that Native Americans are dying of diabetes, alcoholism, tuberculosis, suicide, and other health conditions at shocking rates. Beyond disturbingly high mortality rates, Native Americans also suffer a significantly lower health status and disproportionate rates of disease compared with all other Americans."
— The U.S. Commission on Civil Rights, September 2004[134]

But my knowledge of the lives of Native Americans is as an outsider. So instead I'll focus on my own life experiences.

I grew up in a majority minority city. Still, when I went to high school, I was part of only ten percent of my small class that was black. Hmm...?

Could that be because my high school charged a tuition that the people living in the homes surrounding it couldn't afford? Pretty much.

My parents could afford it, though, because of two factors. One, my father was a doctor and made a decent living. Two, I received an academic scholarship, which paid between a quarter and a third of the cost. 

Before college, I actually never went to public school. My parents always found other schools to send me to.

God, even as I write this, just this, I want to stop.

I shove down my rage at this country, at my life, every day. 

At the blatant sexism. 

At the institutionalize racism. 

At the disgust and hatred for undocumented workers, who are just trying to make their lives better for their families. 

At the acceptance and blindness of those with privilege.

Do you read Captain Awkward? I think they're pretty awesome. I am fairly new to the blog, with my introduction being the lovely gems of entries #322 & #323 (Sad Panda & Proto-Rapist) and #324 (My Friend The Rapist). 

Jesus fucking Christ people.

I mean really. I was yelling at my phone as I read the entries, but thankfully Captain's response to the letters posted calmed me down.

As a woman, I am angry and scared.

Scared one day some guy on my crew is going to get pissed off enough at me to attack me. Angry that un-funny sexist jokes get told by someone higher up than me, so I feel like I can't say anything.

Scared when I drop off the truck at ridiculous o'clock at night, all by myself, someone will be at the warehouse, or just pass by, and decide it would be fun to attack me. Angry that I feel if I voice my fear to anyone but female coworkers, I'll be seen as weak or I worry too much.

Yup, I'm pretty angry.

Still, I know I am privileged to have had a good education. I know I am privileged to be light-skinned, with a skin tone that often baffles people who meet me. ("What are you?" Yup, that gem.) I know I'm privileged. I know I have it better than many others of my race.

But I also see the ownership of the companies I work for, the upper level staff, and the crews I'm a part of, all dominated by white men.

When I do, when the full measure of shit-i-tude stares me in the face, I just shake my head, take a deep breath, and move on. Because there is rent. And bills to pay. And I have to eat. So I shove down my anger everyday. Everyday.

I turn on the work face or the social face. I give you pleasant or relaxed or upbeat. I give you what you want to see and say what you want to hear because it is just easier.

Most times it's just easier to ignore my anger, easier to not have the conversation. Easier to not feel the despair, the hurt, the pain. Just... easier.

But don't be mistaken. Under the facade, in my heart of hearts, everyday I am angry.

Very angry.

Broken

I feel broken. Chewed up and spit out. Chewed up and shat out.

It's 2:17am when I started typing, technically my birthday. Not the best way to start.

"No, my brains and my bones don't want to take this anymore.../So, why you being a dickhead for?/Stop being a dickhead./Why you being a dickhead for?/You just fucking up situations."

I've been repeating Kate Nash's Dickhead for the past hour. On the drive home. And now in my room as I sit on my bed and write.

I cried in the car. I wailed a little, but then made myself stop. I can't wail in the house; I don't want to wake my roommates.

It was like I was knocked over, drawn down my the undercurrent, wrenched off my feet.

It was suppose to be fun, different. Instead it felt like I was used, drained to my last drop, left with almost nothing.

Today I ran The Rebel Race.

Me and my friends were pretty excited. Well really they were excited; I was nervous as all hell. I hadn't seriously ran since before Fusion. I'd never ran a 5k. Everyone around in the crowd seemed way more in shape.

But I had my friends. And we weren't going to leave each other.

So the race started, and not ten minutes in, we were fucked. The only guy in the group slipped off the monkey bars, landed first on his left arm, and then on his right ankle. His elbow and ankle were in no way good.

And where was the on site medic? Where was someone to say, "Sorry, you have to stop." Nowhere.

My friend, being who he is, kept going, hobbling his way along the rest of the course. I, being who I am, never let him out of my sight.

We'd already decided to walk the majority of the race, as there were bottle necks at just about every obstacle.

As we traveled along, we came to a rope ladder, wooden walls to climb over, but never any volunteer at the apparatus. Some in my group were afraid of heights. I was able to climb up and help to coax them over, staying at the top with them. But where was the volunteer?

And then there was the mud. Oh god, the mud. At one point I was fully submerged in it, multiple times. But no water to wash off my face until I trudged through a few hundred feet of a thick muddy path. I was blind, almost panicking. I wiped my face in the grass just to try and see.

There was no traction as we somehow scaled a mud high with an incline difficult in normal conditions. I fell a few times, but more scary was how many times I almost fell backwards.

And no one was on the course with a radio. No one was available to whisk me away if, heaven forbid, I did fall down that very large, very steep hill.

We didn't talk about it til after we finished, but there came the realization to us that we could've been seriously injured or died.

The scar that's lasted the most with me, though, is on my back. There was a quasi water slide portion near the beginning. The one time there was someone at an obstacle, the person holding the hose told us to cross our arms and slide down on our back.

Little did we know this slide was merely a tarp laid over ground littered with rocks. I didn't know I'd been hurt until my eventual shower at a friend's home a few hours later.

When I felt the sharp ache on my back from the warm water, I knew something was wrong. My friend gasped when I raised my shirt. I was bruised. Abraded. And one very long scratch down my back.

To add insult to injury, water stations on the course ran out of cups and water. Certain pieces of equipment were broken. Their "medal" was a cheap dog tag that for some reason I have not taken off. The free beer ran out, so we had to settle for two free meal tickets, the equivalent of a hot dog. But they, somehow, still had bottles of water to sell us.

As we tried to wash away the mud from our bodies, our clothes, our hair, it just never seemed to end. Piles of shoes, shirts, and other detritus littered the grounds. There was mud everywhere. Everywhere.

And they made us pay for parking, $10 in a field with grass up to our knees and no organization whatsoever.

And our walk away gifts were a cheap draw string bag and a plain white cotton t-shirt with black lettering.

I just feel used, abused. It felt like I'd somehow ended up in a physical impact scene with no consent and no aftercare.

But there was a saving grace: I was to see the Gent tonight. I thought, Okay, that will be my aftercare, spending time with a friend.

When I left Baltimore at 10:45pm, yes I was tired, but by the time I got to his place it would be my birthday. So I drove, preferring softer music this go round instead of my usual Friday night club mixes.

And as I arrived at a spot to leave my car, I was pleased I would get to spend some time with him.

But then he texted saying he was not home yet. And then he texted saying he didn't know how long he would be. Since I was already there, I decided to wait.

I reclined my seat back and let my eyes close. When they opened again, it was 1:15am. I was hot, achy.

I texted him, asking for an ETA. And then I thought, Why am I here?

I texted back, telling him nevermind; I was heading home.

I cried in the car on the way back.

Between the shit storm that was that race, and then waiting for a friend who couldn't be there because he was dealing with another friend's emotional breakdown, I was done.

I was...broken.

Today is my birthday. Happy 29th to me.

Stress

Sleep deprivation sucks.

Nausea. Short temper. Easier to tears. Micro naps while I drive. And, frankly, I stop giving a fuck, at times acting like a bitch.

It's the busy season; I am very sleep deprived.

When I woke up Sunday morning, my room was muggy and hot. I had gotten to sleep around 5am. It was 12:26pm when my body could not stand the heat any longer.

Even though I got a relatively good amount of rest, this followed multiple days of 3-5hrs of sleep and a few 20hr days.

As I laid in bed, I contemplated all the things I had to do. There were, in fact, many errands I wanted to run. It was my first day off since Tuesday.

I didn't want to get out of bed. I didn't want to do anything. But I had a mound of dirty clothes that I absolutely had to wash, not to mention health care paperwork to fill out and Shibaricon packing to start.

Forcing myself out of bed, I grabbed my clothes hamper and lumbered down the stairs. I heard my roommates laughing and talking in the dining room, but choose to not say hi.

In the laundry room, I put down my hamper and opened the washer; clothes inside. I checked the dryer; clothes inside.

I huffed, and then headed to the dining room.

"Whose clothes are in the dryer," I asked, I hope not grumpily.
"Doesn't matter," said DeepEnd. "The dryer's broken."
"Really!"

I stomped my feet. I put my head against the wall.

"I have to go."

I could feel the tears coming as I went back to the laundry room, grabbed my hamper, and rushed back into my room. I stripped off my pajamas. I crawled back into my bed. I cried into my covers, squeezing Tessie tight, wanting the world to go away.

All I wanted was to wash my fucking clothes. All I wanted was to get something, anything done. This was suppose to be my day off.

I was angry. I was upset. I was sleep deprived.

I needed to do something. I wanted to pound a wall, rip something apart.

With a start, I got back out of bed, put on my workout clothes, and went downstairs. In the kitchen, I grabbed a banana and poured a glass of Silk.

"Hun, what are you averaging? An hour of sleep a night?" It seemed SkinnyBitch had an idea of my problem. I gave her a grunt of an answer.

Quickly finishing my food, I went into the Sun Room.

On my iPhone, I started up my Dance/Pop Mix. I turned on the treadmill and started walking. After a minute, I increased the speed. And again. And again. Each minute or two I kept making it go faster, until I was running. Really running. My feet flying up in the air, breathing heavy running.

It was the first time I'd really ran on the tread. My workout is normally a mix of fast walking and jogging.

As my feet pounded on the tread, I imagined my footfalls pounding away my problems, pounding out my anger, pounding away all the bullshit that was my life.

After a few minutes, I lowered the speed. Slowly I came down. Slowly I returned to walking.

And, somehow, it made it all better.

I joined my roommates at the dining room table, feeling more like myself.

I completed no errands Sunday, and, frankly, I think I am the better for it.

Idiots

I don't consider myself a bitch, per se. I am highly opinionated, and, when it comes to my job, I am greatly annoyed when others do not know their shit.

And so it happened that today I had to deal with an annoying dumbass.

I'd worked with him before. For the first hour of our interactions, I thought he was new. Like brand new. Like just started in the business new.

I tried to teach him what I knew and help him with the work. It was a 5am call. I was tired. But I figured if I helped him learn now I wouldn't have to deal with his incompetence later.

And so it happened, that around 6am, as I'm explaining something else to him, he turns to me and says, "I've worked for Company Q before. You don't have to talk to me like I'm a child."

I could have reacted to him in many different ways. I could've just turned and walked away. I could've laughed, considering Company Q is thought of by many in my industry as being full of idiots who don't know shit. I could have told him how pathetic a worker I thought he was if he had experience with another company and yet seemed like he knew nothing.

Instead, I calmly said I was just trying to help him because it seemed liked he didn't understand something.

For the rest of my extremely long gig, I attempted to avoid him. For some strange reason, he seemed to take this as me liking him because he then decided to follow me around and try to talk to me like we were buddies. Like we were equals.

Frankly I was rather angry he was being paid the same amount of money as me to do a piss poor job.

Of course, since I had such a great time with him before, he just had to show up again. Today. Unfortunately he was the only other crew member for my department; therefore I could not get away from him.

I put my headphones in and concentrated on my tasks. At one point he got my attention, saying something to the effect of, "What? Do I have to say your name to talk to you?" Obviously the fact that my project was separate from his AND I was wearing my headphones didn't clue him in to my desire to not fucking talk to him.

He ended up following me around again.

His incompetence shined multiple times. Not properly securing equipment. Not know the correct procedure to manipulate the equipment. And messing with equipment from another department that had nothing to do with his task.

By the end of the day, I just wanted to sit back and laugh. This motherfucker was getting paid the same amount as me. This idiot who didn't bring the proper equipment to work. Who basically calls me condescending but then shows his incompetence at almost every step.

Sometimes I just want to scream.

Why can't people just show up, know their shit, do their job, and leave? Why do I have to deal with idiots?

Why?

[Of course I know the answer. It's because I'm not one.]

Religion and Reproduction

This is a straight-up rant. This post isn't meant to be sexy. It's not specifically about sex, or fucking, or all the fun things my life occasionally entails. Fun Fact: In high school I was voted Most Opinionated. Here is a taste of why.

[Side note: I was also voted Most Boy Crazy. Snicker as you wish.]



NEWS FLASH: Catholics use birth control. Jews use birth controls. Muslims, Buddhists, and even Atheists use birth control. And you know what, that is just one of their many rights as American citizens.

In various religions, it is against their most conservative practices to use condoms, the pill, the patch, the ring, the matchstick, and/or the morning after pill. But you know what, people still use them.

Why?

Because condoms help against spreading disease. Because some women don't want to get pregnant. Because sex is fun and is often enjoyed for more than procreation. Because I wouldn't want to have the child of my rapist. Or my cousin. Or my father. Because, as Americans, it is our right to choose.

I can't help but be pissed when I hear Republican Presidential candidates equate the new healthcare rule concerning contraception coverage to an assault against religious freedom. Unless someone is removing the pills from their dispenser and shoving them down your throat, there is no assault on religious freedom.

You know what is an assault that involves religion? Trying to force your views and practices on people who do not share your beliefs, namely your employees who want to prevent pregnancy but can't because you refuse to cover the medication in their healthcare plans.

This mess has less to do with religion and more to do with women's reproductive rights. But conservatives don't want to talk about that. Women don't have sex for fun. What am I talking about? Meanwhile, those of you who've read my blog, or yah know have had hands on practice, know that thinking is utter bullshit.

The new healthcare rule is, in fact, a step to give women more freedom with their reproductive rights.

Hey Catholic hospital, you're a fucking hospital first! Hey Catholic college, you're a fucking college first! And you know what? Plenty of your employees aren't fucking Catholic!

So yes, you need to cover this portion of their healthcare in your plans just like you cover vasectomies and Viagra. And even if an employee is Catholic or Jewish or Muslim, they get to choose what goes into their body, if they want to use condoms, or have sex for fun, or prevent a pregnancy, whether from a lover or from a rapist.

I get so sick and tired of members of the right spouting bullshit trying to trump up the vote. This time they're speaking to misogynists who still believe they have a say in what I do with my body. It's my fucking body, assholes. Step the fuck off!

Mitt Romney, while governor of Massachusetts, passed a law requiring Catholic hospitals to offer emergency contraception to rape victims.

Please, re-read that last statement.

It is important because of a few choice points: 1- If the law was created, it usually means they had to make it in the first place, as in Catholic hospitals were NOT offering emergency contraception to rape victims. (Lemonade moments in-fucking-deed) 2- Romney is a fucking opportunist hypocrite, criticizing the President on reproductive rights after having signed into law similar rights in his own state. & 3- What the fuck, Catholic hospitals!?! Seriously, what the fuck!?!

I was baptized Catholic, and reached my first communion before my mother converted to Baptist. I went to a Catholic middle and high school. I went to a public college. I call myself Christian because I believe there is something greater than myself. Call it God. Call it the essence that is life. There is something.

But you know one thing I did learn while suffering through Religion classes I gave little to no weight to: There was this cool guy named Jesus who, if he were alive today, would be a Socialist. Feeding the poor. Healing the sick. You're probably going to hell if you're rich. And, shit, keeping the wine flowing and the party going. Cool guy.

One part about this current "debate" that I find incredibly disturbing is the Quiverfull movement. First, no birth control whatsoever? Not even the rhythm method? Scary. But beyond that, the idea that you can have enough children to eventually out populate the left/liberals/Democrats, and thereby usher our country into a conservative utopia, downgrades women into baby making machines, children into votes, and liberty and freedom into just buzz words.

But hey, why am I surprised? I'm a black woman and a bleeding heart liberal. It isn't like this country has been so welcoming of my kind, even if I was born here.

[Fun fact: go Google 'Mississippi apendectomy'. I just learned about this a few months ago. This country is so fucked up.]

/rant

Fair and Balanced

Recently I performed a civic act and showed up, early, for jury duty. 

In this particular instance of a ritual everyone has to go through, sooner or later, everything went right. Our summons time changed from 8:30am to 1pm because no cases were on the docket for the morning. Almost everyone showed up early. We had a nice lady for our point of contact. We sat through a not-horrible ten minute video explaining the process. We patiently waited for a case to arise. Not three hours later, we were all informed we could go; no cases would be held that day. It should have been an almost enjoyable experience.

But the moment that has stuck in my craw, the instance that continues to nag me in my side...

At the end of our instructional video, the judges "thanked us" by showing a picture of each and every one of themselves. And as judge after judge passed on the screen, I got angrier and angrier. The video had spoken about how just and fair our legal system was. It spoke about our laws and equal rights. And yet, as I counted, picture after picture, there was a sea of whiteness.

The final total, when the video ended, was one black man, one black woman, six white women, and fourteen white men. Fourteen. As in more than the sum of the rest of the judges. As in double the number of women. Yeah, fair and balanced my ass.

I don't know if I was the only person who noticed this. I don't know if anyone else cared. But it pissed me off something big.

When people of my race are more likely to be arrested, more likely to be incarcerated, more likely to die under the death penalty, how can anyone deign to say our judicial system is fair and balanced?

Don't get me wrong; I have no desire to have been born anywhere else. I know good and well, in many other countries, I would not even be allowed to drive a car, let alone receive the education I worked for, and live the open life I have. But the rights I do so enjoy are marred by how far our country still has to go.

Occasionally I have moments when I regret my decision to have gone into theatre, regret using my intelligence on my writing, regret not pushing myself into a profession that could help people of my race in this country.  Waiting in that jury lounge was one of them.

When I visited my mother today, in the home where I spent half my life, I was reminded of how poor my family is. I actively forget how old her house is, how hard it was for her to raise me, how much money she still owes me that she borrowed ages ago. I actively forget how my extended family struggles, how my home city, behind its veneer, is splintered and broken.

But when I sat there in the jury lounge, ready to start writing and zone out for a few hours, reality slapped me in the face. Because our country's legal system is not fair and balanced. My future children have the deck stacked against them. And if anyone wants to argue with me, go look to see what the makeup of your local judgeships are.

All The Reasons Why

I didn't get home til after 2am yesterday.

I was tired and worked a 16hr day.
 
I was nervous and scared, being in the house by myself.  My brain goes to bad places when I'm alone at night.

The time I planned to have today was evaporated by outside issues.

My treadmill time this morning was more important.

Preparing for having people over this evening was more important.

Finding cigars for possible play tonight was more important.

Grocery shopping was more important.

Cooking lunches for the week, talking to the roommates, and Kinky Trivial Pursuit was more important.

I'm drunk right now and probably shouldn't being writing anything.  And yet I'm posting this.

I'm also quite horny and find it difficult to concentrate on anything longer than a few sentences. Hence the nature of this blog.

Since I am drunk, I am acting like a pouty child because I didn't get what I wanted.  I don't like me like this.  In fact, I hate me like this.  I do not want to write when I am in this mood; I suspect I will both love and hate anything I create while in this frame of mind.  But I'm at a computer typing away.  

This post doesn't count.

Distance

Of all the impediments to kinky fun times, there is no other motherfucker like distance. The nature of our subculture, with its multiple get togethers at various locations both in the states and around the world, lends to connections formed with people who, regrettably, do not live near you. And no matter how much you care for someone, geography doesn't give a shit.

I just helped put one friend on a bus that will take him four hours away. Another is hopping on a plane tomorrow and traveling across the pond for a few weeks. A third is already there.

The intensity of the affection we all share heightens the connections we make. BDSM, at least in my life, is not for the casual dabbler. It is a part of who I am. And to find others with the same sentiment and love for this life is a gift I have no intent on returning.

But as much as I love it, it hurts. I want nothing more than to have all my friends near me, a stone's throw from my front door, or mere foot steps from my bedroom. But life does not wrap up so easily in a pretty red bow. You fall for people far away and you deal.

Every minute, every moment counts more for us. A kiss here, a scene there, for me at least, is greater than the average "date" I've had in vanilla settings. All of my kink seems imbued with a greater, denser energy. Every smile, every hug is precious, perhaps because we all know at any moment it could be gone.

I don't fear jail or prosecution. I fear twists of fate, life deciding to throw a carpet bomb on our happy little existance. I fear the drunk driver, the psycho ex, the hurtful parent. In short, I am not Superman and cannot protect the people I love from the unknown dangers that lie ahead.

Therefore, every second I am with you, I am with you, present, soaking in all of you that I can, knowing we will soon part once more. Our return to one another will be sweet with the fulfilled longing, but the patience of waiting is a bitter brew swallowed daily, tempered by texts, tweets, and telephone chats.

We all love; we all deal, even if it is a bitch.

The Slave Of Many Masters

It feels kind of shitty to even be writing this; I'm about expound on a problem I know people would love to have. But it's my fucking blog, so hmph. And yes, I am pouting.

Often, too often, I feel torn between the many people in my life. My family and high school friends live an hour drive away. My niece, my best friend's daughter, is growing up so quickly, getting bigger every time I see her, saying more and turning into a tiny human. And though we have a connection, I often feel like I'm missing out on her life, not being there for the formative moments of this developing person I love.

My job rocks...and my job sucks. Since I work freelance, I, to a certain degree, choose my own schedule. This allows for huge amounts of freedom when it comes to taking off for big kink events or anything planned out ahead of time. But, and this is a big but, it leaves no flexibility for the spontaneous fun that occurs in any other normal person's life. My roommates planned a party tonight on a whim just a few days ago, far too short of a notice for me to take off work. By the grace of fate, I am able to attend (once I finish this post), but otherwise I would be working til 1am.

And now that I'm at home, people streaming in for the revelry, I am again torn. I sit on the floor of my bedroom typing, listening to the heaving breathing of two of my friends sleeping. I want nothing more than to curl up and join them. (And, seeing as we all went to bed at 6am, but I woke up at 8:15am for work, I should do just that.) But my mind is racing, remembering that I did not write yesterday, and that I need to write today. And I can hear all the people downstairs laughing and drinking, getting ready to play Kinky Trivial Pursuit. I want to join in on their fun, but what of my cuddle time with the two in my bed, two people who soon will travel away for a few weeks. Should I not cherish these quiet moments with them while I can.

It feels selfish to write this post. Oh, I have so many friends, I just can't hang out with all of them. But it's more than that, and I know it. I love so many people, to let any of them down is heartbreaking. Everyday it feels like I am missing important parts of their lives, while also having less of a life than I could because I cannot be with all of them. If I were three people, maybe I would come close to fulfilling all the obligations I've taken on (work, family and kink). But I am one, fractured inside by my want to please everyone, so that it feels like I please no one, especially myself.

Rambling

Back to your regularly scheduled kinky hotness soon.  Today, though, I need to just type and see what appears on my screen.

I'm on a beach vacation with my best friend and her family.  They love me; I love them; it's been good.  However, for most of my time spent here, my body has existed absent my mind.  Too many thoughts have been rattling around inside my head, hence this post.

Typos
I.  HATE.  TYPOS!!!  After re-reading a recent post (DOF 2011: Sunday Part 1) and finding a bunch of mistakes and clunky language, I went back and revised/rewrote quite a bit of the entry. 

Encouraged by these fixes, I then found myself re-reading some of the very first posts I wrote for this blog.  I made it through almost the entire first year before I saw it, plan as day.  Where there should have been 'piles', I wrote 'pills.'   

ANGER!!! 

FRUSTRATION!!! 

That post was three years old.  Three years of my mistake existing on the internet and me not doing a damn thing to fix it.

As a writer, for me, there is nothing so grating, so irritating, so downright blood-in-the-eyes inspiring as a spelling mistake, dropped punctuation, or stunted word flow. 

I enjoy what I do.  I love spinning tales.  But it is the simple mistake that is currently haunting my creative thoughts.

For every post I create, I spend half my time writing and the other half revising.  I read each post at least twice, beginning to end, looking for errors and breaks in flow.  I try my damnedest to write a post worthy of reading.  But, even with all my efforts, without fail, for every blog I write and read, and re-read, there will be at least one little mistake, one misspelling, a 'their' instead of 'they're,' an 'out' instead of an 'our,' a fucking dropped coma or repetitive word that makes me want to throw my fucking laptop across the room.

Woo-Saa...Woo-Saa...Woo-Saa...

But, I endeavor on, even though I know it will be highly ironic, and incredibly maddening, when I find the typo in this blog.


Fear 
I live a fairly open life.  I write about my adventures on the interwebs and talk about my extra-curricular life to family, friends, and folks at work. 

Granted, I have it easy.  People in my job either are very interested and amused or they genuinely don't give a shit.  I have yet, thankfully, to run into someone who is adamantly against whom I am and what I do.  Of the friends and family who know, they're either also in the scene or love me more than their objections to my life.

Still, when a friend made a suggestion recently, I found myself taken aback and almost ready to flee.  Okay, maybe not literally run away from my then current location, but a jittery feeling crept up inside.

I have been writing for almost as long as I could read.  I still remember being seven or eight and showing Ella my pink notebook (don't ask me why it was that color; I am not a fan of pink).  In it, I'd written maybe half a dozen to a dozen poems. 

In elementary school, I wrote action adventures similar to the Indiana Jones movies and Stephen King's The Stand.  Middle school was journaling.  High school was erotica.  College, what else but plays.  I have been a writer my entire life.  I've just never been paid for it.

But, recently, a friend read my blog and told me, "You're quite a talented blogger.  You could easily turn that into a book." 

At the time, I didn't know why this took me aback.  I thought maybe because it was seemingly out of the blue.  Maybe because I hadn't been critiqued on my work for so long; I'd forgotten people actually had opinions.  Maybe because I had hung my hope on finishing my thriller novel, which I haven't touched in a year.  Maybe because my friend has published work; I highly respect his opinions.  I didn't know why, but, in the same instance, I was both flattered and fearful.

In my head, their comment meant two things:
1- I really have been dragging my feet on getting published. 
2- Why has my ass been dragging on finishing my works and getting published?

And just as soon as I asked myself the question, I knew the answer: FEAR.  The little hater.  The inner demon.  Self doubt.  Insecurity.  It didn't just pervade my thoughts while living my kinky life.  I think it permeates all aspects of my life.  And that shit needs to stop.

In my head, I'd been telling myself my writing wasn't good enough.  It was good, but who would publish it?  Who would buy it?  Who would read it?  And if they did, wouldn't I be judged on how I lived? 

Yah know what, fuck 'em.

I could do it.  I could be a published writer.  Granted, this is not how I'd expected or anticipated it.  If anything, it's better.  I love writing about my life, the little details, reliving the moments that touched me so and still leave impressions to this day.  Why not share my life with the world and maybe somehow spin making a living out of it? 

My kink life, my work life, my entire adult life has been about making myself be brave when all I want to do is run and hide under the table.  Time to man up.


Three
Currently there are three people in my life I would literally do anything for.  I haven't told them; they don't need to know.  I care for them deeply and am so ecstatic to have them in my life, whatever way they can be, that my feelings towards them need to stay in my head.  I don't need my mental shit ruining my friendships.

But, and there is always is a but, sometimes it really fucking sucks. 

They never mean to, but the slightest indication this way or that from any of them holds an emotional sway over me I'm not always happy about.

For instance, one day recently I wasn't feeling my best.  One short text message from one of them and my mood turned on a fucking dime, plastering a smile on my face for the rest of the afternoon and evening.  I was feeling okay one night this week and a phone call from another sent me over the moon.  I was in a fairly good mood earlier, but a text from the last one rubbed me the wrong way.  Now, I'm feeling less than myself.

I don't know what to do about this.  I don't think there is anything I can do.  I am certainly not extricating them from my life; they mean too much to me.  Even with the emotional swings, to not have any of them would hurt more than any unintentional comment or gesture on their part.

And none of this is their fault; it's just the way my mind works.  I get attached and have to work my way through it. 

Reminding myself others are not as perceptive as I am helps.  Also, that people are not as sensitive and don't remember every little detail or interaction like I do.  And, reminding myself these people care about me deeply too, even when my little hater is shouting doubts.

Habete fidem; desine fatigo.

Have faith; stop worrying.
~


So yeah, my head's a bit of a mess.  It doesn't help that I've barely worked this month.  My money is fine; the recent move severely decreased my bills.  It is the actual act of working that I've, almost, missed.  There is just something about the physical nature of what I do that gets me out of my head.  When I have to make sure lights aren't going to fall on people and truss towers aren't going to tip over, the worries of my life come into perspective.

It also doesn't help that I haven't rigged since I've been on this vacation.  I didn't realize how meditative, how calming and centering my rope time is until it was gone.  Binding myself, lifting myself in the air, and settling into the feel of my body in that unnatural state is much more fulfilling than I ever imagined.  I should have known when, during the 'Hot Ball Of Crazy' era, one of my stress reliefs was self-bondage.  Rope holds a special place for me.  I'm just now beginning to acknowledge and embrace this. 

Fuck, what I would give for a good hard point and no threat of cops or creeps coming by.  Or even three six foot bamboo sticks and a closet.  I could make that shit work.

But no.  I have to wait til Saturday. 

Three days.

Night Owl

It's 3:27am and I'm awake. This is not insomnia; I'm just awake. Not really sleepy, cause I took a nap around 10pm til 11:45pm, but I think I'll make myself sleep soon.

So, I moved, mostly. About a third of my shit is around me now, in a house I'm sharing with three friends, who happen to all be in a relationship, and another friend who is riding our couch for the summer. Yup, we're that house.

I forget lots of things, as displayed in previous posts. Tonight's forgetting: most people don't randomly stay up nights just fucking around on their phones. To be fair, before this move, I would've been watching random cable TV, which I think is a little more normal.

So, um, yeah. There are people here. I can't just stomp around, dancing randomly to my Thriller album (vinyl; yup, I'm cool). Staying up requires me to be semi-quiet, thereby muffling my outbursts of laughter. And it's dark, like making me uncomfortable dark. (Yes, I admit it: I'm an adult who's scared of the dark. Bite me.)

So, compromise. That thing I haven't had to do for a year. We meet again, fucker.

My job, by nature, gives me an odd schedule and weird sleeping habits. I was able to stay up at camp (a long post to come about that later) til 5/6am every night cause I'm used to running on little to no sleep. Oh, and of course the adrenaline helped.

But now that I'm living with people who have 9-5 jobs, I have to remember to tip toe at night, come in through the side door because they bolted the front (yeah, that will need to change; fucking pissy arrangement there), and try to be, fuck, considerate.

Living with friends is fun… right?