seems i've always got something on the tip of my tongue.    ©

Monday, July 31, 2006

Hoping for a Good Humiliation

I've been begging GayBoy to nominate me for a complete makeover and wardrobe overhaul by way of the good folks at What Not to Wear. My clothing's so wrong, man. So wrong. I have three, maybe four shirts that look decent, one pair of semi-decent jeans that are barely decent now after the X-Guy manhandling them all the time (which he deserves an ass-kicking for from yours truly), and I have, sadly, no leather jacket. No skirts. No good shoes. I'm a fucking mess, and the sad thing is: I have fashion sense! There's no reason in the world I shouldn't look cool, except for the small fact that I've been broke for far too long.

(I've been underemployed for a year and a half or so, and I should've done something about it sooner, but I didn't, so that's life, and here we are.)

I would kill for the makeover. I want to be nominated en masse, but that would mean telling you people all my private information. Not gonna happen.

Sigh. I want to get a makeover. Self-esteem is everything, man. Clothing's important. My stuff's all out of date 'cos I've lost weight and it all looks ridiculous on me now. My hair looks pretty decent since I splurged and got copper & gold highlights on the weekend with a funked-up new punk'do, but there's still the clothes. The sorry-assed, too-big-on-me-now, all-cut-wrong clothes.

Another problem is, they seem to think any chick who's plus-sized is big-boobed. Well, I'm not. I got a handful or so, but that's about it. No monster headlights on this engine, I'm afraid. Do you know how silly some of these shirts look, with darting where there are supposed to be Amazonian boobs of no compare? Tres silly, I assure you.

I deserve to get picked. I want to make an ass out of myself on national television at prime time.

For a $5,000 wardrobe, a trip to New York City, and a top-notch makeover, the list of what I WON'T do is pretty fuckin' short, man.

Sunday, July 30, 2006

What sex is your brain?

I don't usually post quiz things, since they're typically relatively lame, but this one's interesting and confirms what I've always thought, which is that I tend to see the world through pretty masculine eyes. Check your brain here.
  • I scored 18 out of 20 for "angles" under spatial abilities, which is far higher than the average woman, and higher than the average man, as well, and I scored 50% under "spot the difference" in the same category, higher again than the average woman (46%) and the average man (39%).
  • The hand-clasping thing says I'm left-brain dominant, which is probably true.
  • For empathizing, I scored 9 out of 10, which puts me smack-dab between the average man (8) and woman (10.5).
  • Systemizing, I'm a 12 out of 20, higher than the average woman by 4, but below the average man by a piddly .5.
  • On the reading-eyes-for-emotions test, I blew the competition out of the water with 8 out of 10, and both men and women averaged 6 on that test.
  • My fingers ratio indicates I'm female. (Surprise.)
  • On my facial preference, I apparently prefer men with more masculine features, which is in keeping with my tastes in reality.
  • On 3-D shapes, I rocked the casbah with 11 out of 12, compared to 7 and 8 for the average woman and man, respectively.
  • On the words testing, I scored 16, higher than both the average man and woman.
The ultimatum tells me sweet fuck all, really. I asked for half, since I'm a pragmatist, and I'm just happy to get what I get. Apparently asking for less than half is typically female, but I think it's just weak, so I figure I've got backbone and self-esteem. Possibly. ;)

Cool test, though.


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Getting Nailed

I aspire to write something good today, but for now my head's in other spaces. This morning's just getting started after one of my best sleeps in months. I've been so tired so long I've forgotten what good sleeps felt like. Fucking awesome is what they feel like.

Watching Weeds this morning, and it's a great episode with lots of sexual innuendo, but the one that had me cracking right up has to do with Mary Louise Parker introducing her black ("African-American") drug connection friend, Conrad (played by the oh-so-hot Romany Malco) as her "carpenter" for what will soon be her new front business for her drug-dealing escapades, to her uptight-bitch suburban-mom friend, Elizabeth Perkins, who's about to lose her breasts to breast cancer and wants one last night on the town with her Girls.

Perkins's character is seeing Conrad as being a potentially fun night of diversions and convinces her friend and Conrad to head out for a night of clubbing. During the evening, she turns to Conrad and says:

"Is it true that once a white woman's had... a carpenter, she never goes back?"

"Damn right," says Conrad. "When I nail something, it stays nailed."

I need me a carpenter. Incidentally, I've never had a black man, or a carpenter, but they're on the list. That long fucking list. Sigh. Ethnic guys are hot, but I'm not really into Asians. In my world, Persian guys are sexy and African guys are really sexy. I've had an Asian, but not Persian or African. The Asian was nothing to write home about, but I'm not holding that against the whole race, just him.

Fortunately, my sex drive's been out of commission for a while. For some odd reason -- okay, maybe it was reading about a sex scene peppered with drugs and illegal moves -- the one time my drive fired up was yesterday when I was sitting with foils in my hair and my ass in a hairdresser's high chair. How inconvenient is that? Nothing but pretentious hair chicks around and gay men. How bad of timing do my hormones have, anyhow?

And I can't get oral sex -- giving and receiving -- out of my head this morning. Gah!

Depress-o-meter: You know, I'm evening out and think I might stop the depress-o-meter. The stress-o-meter's on fire, but the depression's mellowing. The pills are beginning to take effect, even though they shouldn't be for a couple weeks, and I'm finally sleeping, which is a great tool for fighting this shit. Let's call today a five or a four, then.

Friday, July 28, 2006

For Christ's Sake, Stop the Bleeding!

As you may or may not know, I've been trying to change / suppress my menstrual cycle through the use of prolonged exposure to the Pill. Unfortunately, it's not going as well as I would have hoped.

For those who haven't been exposed to what "period suppression" entails, it's basically the choice to use birth control pills for 12 weeks, then you take a week off. There's a new one coming out called Seasonale, but I don't know how that differs from just staying on any old pill, and I doubt the additional hype is really necessary, since I suspect they're just playing on the ignorance of the public... as most marketers like to do. One can simply take their pill of choice uninterrupted for 12 weeks and achieve the same end. (Now, don't be a moron and do this shit without medical supervision, all right? Get approval from your doctor, talk to them about what to look for, then go bravely forth, young bleeder. Now your shit before you act; don't listen to me or some other person who has no medical training and knows fuck all about the big picture.)

I've been on the pill, now, for 9.5 out of my new "12-week" cycle. I've already had a full-blown, long period that began 2 weeks ago and lasted 8 days, and today I've gotten it again. In between, I was still spotting. So, maybe I'm the odd the one out. Maybe I'm the freak who can't adjust to the hormonal change. I don't know. All I do know is, this really blows.

I did, however, ask the Good Doctor about it and he said it's just my endometirum rebelling. Yeah, well, I wanna get fucking medieval on its ass and quash its little rebellion.

I mean, if I was in a sexually active relationship, this would be really fucking annoying. Fortunately, it's just me and Fingie these days, so we have an understanding and things are going smoothly, no feelings are hurt, but still. Biology blows, man. I thought so in high school and I still think so now. This fucking ranks up there with dissecting frogs, for god's sake.

I wanted to cycle to work today, but now I feel like shit, so yet another day is passing without exercise. In retrospect, 2.5 cups of coffee was a bad plan, since coffee really fucks with cramping, but at least I'm awake.

I took my first anti-depressant pill last night, and that was weird. It's supposed to double as a sleep-aid, so you take it before bed.I had only a half a pill as you're supposed to start slow to minimize the onset of side effects. Still, it conked me right out. I vaguely remember getting out of bed to go to the washroom, as I'm one of those people, and I staggered there with my head bent down, and slammed into the door jamb. My first reaction was, "Not another fucking concussion," (I've had three) as I stumbled backwards, my head smarting, leaving me feeling like I'd suffered a cartoon injury, with the pain lines radiating out into the darkness.

Naturally, I woke up this morning in a fog. I really hope this isn't an indicator of what's to come, because now that I'm on these pills, I'm supposed to remain on them for the next year. That's just the rule of thumb. (Where in the hell did the saying "rule of thumb" come from, anyhow? Ever wonder? I mean, having opposable thumbs is one of the highlights of my life, to be sure, but I don't expect my thumb to be the sovereign entity of my life, so I don't really see it ruling, but perhaps my ignorance is impeding my ability to comprehend this. Hmm.)

On the Depress-o-meter, I'm probably a 6 or 7 out of 10, but I blame the fucking period. There's nothing fun about bleeding seven days, man. It's really, really lame. On a happier note, hung out with the X-Guy last night as "friends" and it was a little awkward but good, and I suspect we'll stay on that path. Oh, and the awkwardness was apparently only on my side of the equation. Whatever, it was there. I'm not that experienced at being friends with exes.

(Oh, feel free to keep the one-year anniversary congrats coming in, they're making my blah-I'm-bleeding-again! day a little better.)

Oh, come on!

Not ONE Happy Anniversary wish for this blog? Sup with that, people?

Thursday, July 27, 2006

Well, Well, Well, Happy Birthday to Ze Cunt!

This little rag's one year old today.

For the blog's anniversary I bought myself a treat: Anti-depressants and the first season of Weeds. Redundant gift, I know, because Weeds is so fucking funny I shouldn't even need meds, but hey. I'm a fan of overkill.

I'm feeling more like reading than writing now, but expect I'll feel introspective when I get home later, and will probably post around bedtime or something. Or not. Who knows.

Depress-o-meter: Up and down. Between a four and a six for most of the day; I've been working in television captioning for the last two weeks (a return to my old job of six years, and not as glamourous as it sounds, but a nice place to be for a spell) and I was working on a show all day about the abduction and molestation of children, so I have good reason to have been up and down. Life itself is more of a four today.

Wednesday, July 26, 2006

Rockin' – Not Humpin' – In the Free World

There was a lover’s quarrel on tonight’s episode of Rockstar: Supernova, and presumably on last night’s episode, as well, which I missed due to catching the fun of Clerks II at the cinema.

Jill is a pretty hot runt, she’s like 4'10 or something, but boy, you get her Italian angst firing and she might as well be six feet tall, man.

She won the rights to sing the Stones’ Brown Sugar with Supernova member Gilby Clarke (formerly of Guns’n’Roses, Heart, MC5, etc.) shredding some guitar. In her infinite wisdom, she thought it wise to, well, hump Gilby from behind while performing.

Gilby, and this fucking rocks, walked away from her antics. He strode towards the catwalk and got the hell outta there.

Then, the post-song comments were exchanged. Gilby said, “The only thing that really bothered me was the humping... Women in music today have sex, like that’s the only thing they can use. You have more than sex. I think it’s cheap, and it’s weak.”

Overnight, Jill commented that, “I think Gilby’s used to having Axl Rose up there, and it’s a totally different dynamic with a woman on the stage.”

She claimed that she did the humping as a means of getting her emotions out in her vocals.

Gilby retorted, “I played with Heart, two women, and Ann Wilson never had to stoop so low as to hump me to get her emotions out.

The next take from Jill was, I think, incredibly lame, but stay tuned for my opinion after the rehash. She said, “It’s rock and roll. Why is there a double standard where a woman can’t be up there and show her sexuality, but you guys can? You rip your shirts off and stuff like that.”

Gilby scoffed. “All the moves were predictable! I’ve seen it at the Holiday Inn, I’ve seen it everywhere!”

Gilby Clarke gets MY vote for feminist of the year, all right? Bang-fucking-ON, Gilby.

Any mainstream chick out there in rock and roll or pop or whatever is using their booty and boobs as much as their voicebox, all right? Don’t give me this “double standard” bullshit. There’s no double standard.

What he’s saying, honeybunches, is that he’s sick and tired of chicks who think they need to fuck their way to success. He wants talent to speak, not a twat. I’m pretty sure he also doesn’t want to be in a band with a guy like Tommy Lee and a chick who thinks grinding one out’s the only way to extricate her emotions.

If you have talent, brains, a body, and the whole fucking package – and she does – then let that speak. Let it wail. Let it send a blood-curdling scream into orbit. Don’t dumb it down or cheapen it by throwing some suburb blonde bubblegum “here, let me hump you now” bullshit into the mix. It’s trying too hard.

Since when was it only a display of sexuality when you reenacted sex? And why did I miss the bloody memo, huh? No one ever tells me dick.

Oh, right, because IT’S NOT the only display of sexuality! Fuck. That’s like suggesting the only way to be heard is to shout.
sub·tle (sŭt'l) pronunciation
adj., sub·tler, sub·tlest.
    1. So slight as to be difficult to detect or describe; elusive: a subtle smile.
    2. Difficult to understand; abstruse: an argument whose subtle point was lost on her opponent.
  1. Able to make fine distinctions: a subtle mind.
    1. Characterized by skill or ingenuity; clever.
    2. Crafty or sly; devious.
    3. Operating in a hidden, usually injurious way; insidious: a subtle poison.

Dilana, who I'm a secret lesbian for (okay, well, no, but she's got a fan here, man), can be as on-edge as anyone's ever been, but she was at her sexiest when she was her subtlest, during her performance of Nivana's Lithium a few weeks back where she just stood there, fucking STOOD there, staring straight ahead, and raging out the lyrics, her eyes emanating everything they had to, and her body doing nothing. It was so goddamned hot, man, so intense. Yet, subtle, baby.

Ain't you ever fucked someone with your eyes? Ain't you ever been fucked by someone's penetrative gaze? Don't you remember how goddamned HOT that felt? Yeah, well.

And that's what Clarke's saying. Let yourself do your talking – your talent, brains, eyes, pouty lips, the way you wiggle your ass. Don't think you gotta fuck or hump or grind your way to whatever achievement you're after, because if you start down that path, there's not really any other route for you. Respect is a very tenuous thing. Do not be fucking with the respect you have; you may never see it return to you.

It's really bloody cool to hear a guy get on a soapbox about that sort of thing, and I'm thrilled to see it in an arena like dirty, sexy rock and roll.

Have I mentioned how much I dig this show? Huh? It's like crack, man. One hit just ain't enough.

(Depress-o-meter: I forgot to include it! I'm doin' spiff. Holdin' at a 4 or so. Bought some new shirts today, thanks to some anonymous generosity I forgot to report last week, which is good for the old self-esteem, and in my wiley brilliance, I've managed to snag a hairdressing appointment with the chief instructor of a school owned by one of the best, most expensive, most glamourous hair salons in town, and I'll be able to get a rockin' dye job and cut for about $50, instead of the $200+ they charge in their salons. Yeah, all this and brains, too. Tomorrow/today, it's the good doctor and the onslaught of meds. I'm thrilled I'm progressing on my own, and as much as I dislike some of the sacrifices to come via being medicated, I'd rather have the insurance that my good nature will remain for the longterm, and not dissipate in a week, like it has been for the last year. Every time I get happy, I follow it with getting sad. Sick of the cycle. This week, baby, we're cycle-smashin'.)

Tuesday, July 25, 2006

The Brave New Single World

I got out tonight, off my single ass, and met some new people.

The trouble with this city is just how entrenched everyone is and how hard it can be to meet new people.

I joined a social organization a year and a half or so ago, when my self-esteem was only beginning to be picked up off the floor, and tonight I finally made it out to my first event.

Meetup is a place where you can go and find “meet-up” groups that do things you like. Kayaking? Sure! Hiking? Sure! Photography? Sure! D&D? Sure! Dining? Sure! They’re all there. And unlike joining a group where you do varied events all the time, you can go to as few or as many different Meetup groups that you can find to appeal to your sensibilities. (The only fees tend to be a $1 - 2 drop-in fee, since the groups cost money to run each month. Pay and be quiet.)

(The organization is worldwide. Check the website out. More than 2.5 million international members, and more than 14,000 groups.)

The folks there tonight were all in their 30s and 40s, and were all smart, good conversationalists, funny, friendly, and so forth. It wasn’t just one of those things where you know the underlying thought is “who’s coming home with me tonight?” It’s genuinely about just meeting people.

But, hey, betcha some sex happens. I ain't no bookie, but I know a thing or three 'bout odds, baby.

Naturally, I somehow managed to mention I wrote this smutty blog, so maybe they’ll say hi or something in the comments. (Hi!)

The point being: If you’re stuck in single, annoyed at your now-married friends, tired of seeing the latest “adowable!” stream of drool pouring down their kids’ faces, wishing your college friends had managed to evolve by now, or anything like that, then this is an awesome way to meet new people.

When you sign up, sign up for the email as well, so that you get the weekly digest that lists all the events happening that week. That way, you don’t just get notices about the Meetup group you joined, but about everything happening in your city, and on what days. That’s how I saw the listing for Clerks II when I shoulda been working and not checking email, and decided to get off my apathetic ass and head to the flick. (C II rocked, by the way. I'll be writing about the pussy troll sometime. Laughed my ass off. Great fun.)

I’m not a joiner. I don’t wanna join a fucking team or take an art class or do some pottery, because it’s redundant. Same shit every time. I like variety. This way I have it.

Anyhow, some people have asked in the past how you meet new folks and how do you Be a Good Single Person. Well, not by hanging out in bars, not by sitting on your ass at home, but by doing something that allows you to engage with others in a safe environment, and this is that.

I would actually DISSUADE you from just joining a class or something. Couple reasons: One, you don't liek the people, you're fucked. No variety, same thing every week, no change in people, and it probably costs a lot more. This is an endless array of meets that occur on a plethora of topics, with a wide variety of people. Can't beat it.

Check it. You might like it. I did.

Depress-o-meter: I said it well on The Ditch, but I’m at about a 3 tonight (outta 10 with 10 blowing bad). There is life after relationship, and I’m optimistic about mine. Yes, I will still go on the meds. This is chemical, my fuctedness, so I want to fight it for once and for all. But I have ALL the pieces in place and all the tools with which to fight this – (been watching my diet, exercising, sleeping, etc) and I shall be a victor! The spoils will be mine!

RANT(ish): Fuck that Couch!

My couch is gone. My piece of shit, black vinyl couch is gone. In its place is a new, black-and-blue cloth (presumably piece of shit but thus far unproven as such) couch that I was given as a warranty replacement.

Also gone is its history.

All those nights spent cuddling with cute guys, the dirty s-e-x, the nakedness, the hinge-testing activities, the massages, the naked nibbling of foods and sipping of wine, the fumbling for protection hidden in the coffee table, the whispered jokes, restrained moans, gasping – all of it, gone.

My slate, and my couch, are clean.

I’m entering into this, “Fuck you, I’m single?” phase now. I’m too fucking cool to be single. I’m good in bed. I’m cute. I’m a fucking fab cook. I’m doting. I’m expressive. I’m clear in what I say. I listen well. I empathize. I intellectualize. And I know how to laugh.

Single? Fucking hell.

I’ve been through the denial and the sadness, and now I’m into anger. Not at him, not really, but maybe a bit. It’s really, though, just “it all.” At myself, in particular. I shoulda fucking walked sooner. Now, here I am, the middle of summer, and no one fun to play with. The beginning of the relationship, great. The last 8-10 weeks, I was already practically checked out emotionally as I was certain it would end. I knew what was coming, I understood the mindfuck of healing, but he didn’t. Yet I was stupid enough to stick around, hoping, like an idiot, things would change. I knew better then, and I know far better now. But it is what it is. And now, here I am.

Single. Again.

I’m the original “love yourself, love singleness!” cheerleader, but, fuck, man, getting together with someone’s pretty cool too, and I was right to be optimistic. So, yes, thrown for a loop, collecting myself, and doing a bit of a mess of it, but I’ll get my shit together. I always do.

What really pisses me off, though, about singleness, is society.

It screams at you SO fucking loud. You’re only as good as the company you keep. You’re only as good as the company you keep. You’re only as good as the company you keep. You’re only as good as the company you keep.

It’s a mindless fucking droning that is echoed by film, tv, ads, and music. Everywhere you look, it’s about “the one you love” and “forever.” Without someone, you might as well be nothing.

Me, I like dining out. Have you ever gone to a decent restaurant and eaten alone? I have. It sort of feels like the time I was in a wheelchair back when I had a leg injury and had to get around an amusement park for the day. Half the people eye you with respect and empathy, and the others eye you with some kind of sympathy and pity.

“Oh, she must have been stood up. No one eats alone.”

Yeah? No one, huh? Fuck you and your lame-ass stats keeping, buddy. I eat alone, and I like it. Catch up on my reading, you know? These days, I just do it in the kinds of places that “lonely” people are acceptable in – diners, coffee shops, the like. That’s a money thing, not because I’m letting the bastards get me down. But, these days, I don’t really enjoy fine dining without company. I can cook that well at home, and get great satisfaction in it, so if I’m spending the dime, I want some flesh on my arm and an ass by my side, you know?

I’m liking the new couch. I’m glad I no longer think of any of the guys I’ve been with on that couch. I’m glad the memories are, in a way, purged. I’m really fucking happy about that.

Along with the couch, I’ve also rolled up my area rugs and put them in the storeroom for the season. I figure there’s greatly reduced probabilities of rolling around in pursuit of carpet burn as I have dirty, naughty sex on the floor, so why deal with vacuuming and mustiness in the middle of a heatwave. Hardwood floors rock.

Yeah, fuck all this. I, too, dislike being single in a society that thinks I’m wrong to be this way. Being single takes time to adjust to, it takes much love of oneself, and a love for independence and spontanaeity. Going through hard times is not conducive to any of those things. As my life settles down, my love of being solo will return, if I don’t find me some masculine specimen before that.

I don’t want a relationship, I don’t think, right now, but I wouldn’t mind a little play time, if you know what I’m saying. So, I’m hatching a plan and continuing what I started a couple weeks ago in regards to getting back out into the world.

Life’s fucked right up, but it ought to settle on down soon. And then, I'll be back.

Depress-o-meter: I'm, what, a 6 today? Got through the night with no dope, no drinking, not too much attitude. (Not like I've been drinking much, or that I ever do, but I have certainly been smoking dope. Waaaay too much!) That first night of "good behaviour" usually is sleepless, but I got six hours. The worst is over. That's good. Now to keep keepin' on.

Monday, July 24, 2006

Of Readers and Stalkers

Dear Readers–

I love your comments (when you bother to leave them – grr, lazy days of summer!–typical in blogland) and I love your emails. I love that you trust me with deep, dark secrets, and that you feel some kind of connection strong enough to make you return. It’s awesome.

Now and then, though, someone comes along who gets a little too attached. Emails get too revelatory, proffers of drinks become repetitive, that sort of thing. I doubt any harm is ever meant, and in fact, it’s likely the opposite. It’s flattering, really, but it can be a little troubling.

Now, this applies to maybe one out of a hundred readers who outs themselves to me, so, please, don't think this is a general rule of thumb!

There’s a tendency at times to forget that you know me (and other bloggers) only through the plug in your wall or your ISP. We’re names, personas, images, and beyond that, we are indeed enigmas to you. Most of us would rather remain that way.

I’m searchable. Hell, you can find my photo if you know where to look. It doesn’t take rocket science. My phone number is unlisted for a reason, though.

I love flattery. I love comments. I love people trusting me. But, don’t forget, I’m a literary chick. I can read. If you offer me drinks, or you invite me out when you’re in town, and you don’t hear from me, the odds are pretty good I’m either not in the mood, or just don’t want to bother. And that’s the prerogative, you know? Sometimes life’s too fucking chaotic to send a note.

Every now and then I surprise myself and say yes and have a drink with a reader. It’s always weird. I always enjoy myself. I seldom would ever do it if I knew it was a single guy hoping he had a chance with me, though, because that just gets bizarre.

But, I’m single now, so who knows.

Am I saying never ask me to do anything? Nah. Don’t take it personally if I’m not interested, though. It’s all whim on my end, and when you’re the person being read, and you’re the person being, well, pursued, it only makes good sense to be skeptical and apprehensive. And, believe me, I can be.

While I like getting emails, and don’t mind at all being offered tough questions that do need resolutions, I cannot be anyone’s mailbox shrink right now. Keep sending Q’s and dilemmas, though. Just keep it within reason. (One email, not five, etc.)

I’ve been hesitant to post anything like this ‘cos I don’t want to ruin a good thing, but what the hell. Let’s say it:

Like me, love me, just don’t expect a lifelong friendship. Blogging is very masturbatory. Without you, it’d be exactly that. With you, it becomes more interactive. I enjoy that. Just know that I just don’t have enough of me to give a little to everyone. And right now, I don’t think I have enough of me to give anyone.

Still, I love my audience, love my comments, love my readers, love my email, but just want to keep these things real. Be like Phil, man, keep it real.

Depress-o-meter: Ah, I plummeted. Closer to a 7.5 or 8 out of 10, with 10 sucking hard, tonight. Just a bunch of stuff in my mind. Read the Ditch if you want more on that.

Monday Mumblings, And Sugasm #39

Welcome to Monday. We're glad to have you join the ranks of the employed, and hope you're also looking forwards to the many hours this week that we'll be sucking your soul out through a straw. We ask that any individuality and personal preferences you possess be left at the door, and this week only, we're letting you go without the chains and tethers mercilessly binding you. Hey, we're freedom fighters too. Now, please, don't enjoy your stay, and don't forget, your clock is five minutes fast.


Yes, clearly I'm looking forwards to work this morning. Insomnia hit me last night. Unfortunately, the job I'm doing this week -- my old job in captioning for film and tv -- requires bonafide brain power and actual effort as well as strict adherence to deadlines. In short, it sucks when I'm tired. My new job starts next week and it's going to be less of a hassle on tired days, I bet.

Now my dilemma is whether I have the energy to cycle, and whether I have the energy to do all my tutoring this week, and if I don't who it is I'll be cancelling on. Hmm.

If you've not noticed, I was posting like a rabid whore with finger-flicking disease and too much time on her hands this weekend. It was fun. Useless and subpar, but fun. This was a good posting, though, and I think you should read it. But I really think you should leave me a comment somewhere, because I'm feeling comment-needy on this Monday and would love for folks to say hello as they're popping through. What's up, how's your summer?

I'll try to write a little tonight or tomorrow morning. No promises. Insomnia messes with everything. I'm going to try to cycle, and if I manage that, that's the big accomplishment that I need to have, as opposed to the ribe tucchus method of writing. Meanwhile, see below the Depress-o-meter for Sugasm, where real writing can be found with the flick of a wrist.


Depress-o-meter: Um, no sleep, stuck working, have an appointment after work, need to plan out my week better, and as a result, I'm a stressed-out 5 or 6 out of 10. Hey, it's Monday. I could be worse. I'm making blueberry muffins in a moment, and they're always perky for moods. I hate being tired. Grr.

Meanwhile, the best of the sex blogs and the bloggers who blog 'em. This is week #39 of the Sugasm.

HHNT!!!!!! (
I Feel Myself, I Really Do : ) (
Porn Week Vacation (
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
The Anticipation (
Being Submissive (
Late night deviant (
Mmm Tentacle-y (
My Orgasm and Sexual Desire Secrets (
RANT: On the Rag with The Goddesses (
Self image is a wonderful thing, most of the time (
Tag - Past Love - Story 2 - Self-discovery and Healing (
Those damn slutty bisexuals (
Sex News
Bush for “Products and Services,” Not Birth Control (
Gay Gamers are Coming Out of the Closet (
Next Door Nikki on Jerry Springer (
There’s Got To Be A Joke Here Somewhere (
BDSM and Fetish
Guessing Games (
How about a cookie (
Isabella’s Eyes - Part IV (
Spanking at t’mill (

A VERY long drive home (
Yes Master (
Static Electricity–and no, it wasn’t caused by the phone (
Unbeknownst To The Roommate (
You want some popcorn with that? (
Sex Work
Haze Goes to Prison (
Long nails dig into the submissive mind (
Tease and Denial with My sissy bitch (
Erotic Writing and Experiences
7/16 by Rex: Soap Suds (
The Bed, the Bath, and Beyond (
A Bit of Pink Alone Time (
Blush (
Can you hear that..? (
Cold Hands, Hot strokes (
Good Thing It Wasn’t Windy Today… (
His Kind of Woman (
Hot Mami is OPP (part one) (
I left my heart in San Francisco (
Just the, um, three of us? part one……. (
Nocturnal Confessions #1 (
Trees again (
Wet (

Sunday, July 23, 2006

Mm, Mm, Double Mm!

Besides chocolate, is there anything yummier than sexy, sweaty, muscular furniture delivery guys? I got a double-dose of goodness when the boys just arrived with my new sofa. Wisely, I had some homemade lemonade in the fridge, and like all who knock upon my door, they left satiated.

As for the couch, when buying cheap, all I can say is, the extended warranty is worth the money. My new couch is so much more comfy than the old. It has support! I am highly anticipating getting to know it better. Sadly, the prospects of getting laid on it are non-existent at the moment, but that'd just be too much good at one time.

Depress-o-meter: I think we're at a solid 3.75 out of 10, with 10 sucking hard. I'm relaxed, ignoring the insanities of the week to come, and mostly satisfied with the clean-up job I've done today, quite happy with the state of my new couch, even though the cheap-as-fuck plastic legs stymied my intellectual progress while unwrapping the beast. But if it's comfortable, this negates the cheap legs, right? I just won't be installing decorative pot-lighting in my floor anytime soon to highlight them, is all. Aside from that, I'm drinking iced french-press coffee with kahlua (a wise woman, yes?) and about to tackle the chopping efforts towards making gazpacho for me and my Vancouver GayBoy to enjoy later. (As well as heading out to buy white wine and some salmon for ceviche. Envy us. Who says life can't be good in a heat wave?) I feel better than I have in a few days because today marks some actual accomplishments, and the knowledge that my crap sofa is gone for good. What's the point of having a nice home you love when your primary piece of furniture is a piece of crap? The thing had duct-tape on it. Do *I* seem the duct-tape type?! Yeesh. Gone, gone, gone, daddy, gone. Time to listen to the Femmes, baby.

Saturday, July 22, 2006

Holy Milestone, Batman

Sometime in the next 36 hours or so, my 500,000th hit will occur. How cool is this shit? And shy of my first anniversary, too. Love that.

I'm melting. It's 28/84 degrees in my apartment, after 11pm. I like warmth, but this shit's got to stop. This is the kind of weather that makes you think of some tragic jazz ballad played by some dude in a wife-beater on the streets of New York, backlit by streetlight, you know? It's that fucking hot and humid.

I have a few cool ideas kicking around for postings. I will tackle them this week. I'm going to put a little pressure on myself to meet three specific goals a day. Small accomplishments. It's like a work-to-live program or something, I think. Routine is comforting in challenging times. One of those will be to tackle three specific ideas I've jotted down this weekend. Challenging ones, too. Could be okay.


Depress-o-meter: Wow, these weekend things work, you know. I would have to say I am a soaring 4.25 out of 10, with 10 being the lousiest. I was leaning towards 4.33, but decided to grade on a curve. Ah, look, my sense of humour is returning. Yes, Frodo. Home. Speaking of home, I made homemade old-fashioned minted lemonade. If only I had bourbon. Fuck, it's good. I digress. I am now giving myself specific goals. I am starting to realize that if fighting depression is work, then I must strategize as I would in any career. I wrote a list of 35 goals today. (Stuff like, eat less fat; rediscover music; make real food more; be fit; give in to weed less; get up earlier; have fun; fight; go to the woods. Things that point me in a direction but don't force me to an end, you know what I mean? No pressure, just ambition.) I have simple ideas for the week: Clean the place tomorrow, enjoy the evening. Each day this week, be active in some way for 30 minutes or more (cycling means an hour or more per day). Spend an hour-ish playing with podcasting gear daily in an attempt at edumacatin'. Write daily. Preferably for both blogs. Force this shit. Just call me Hannibal. I love it when a plan comes together. But first you gotta have a plan. So. This is the goal. Here I invoke the Human Caveat: I am human, ergo I fuck up and often fall short. But I try.* Anyhow. I want to get some momentum building. I'll still get pills, but if I start forcing it now and start onto the pills, I may be able to keep the wagon wheels rolling. Hey, I'm trying on optimism for size, and hoping I can wear it well.

*There's a saying: "Aim for the stars; if you fall short, your head will still be in the clouds." Try. Hard. Fall short. Deal. Progress is progress, man.

Friday, July 21, 2006

Gripping Craig's List ad of the day:

Find your Bulgarian soulmate and discover Bulgaria with Velida Agency! Bulgarian singles ladies! Free 7 days trial!

I mean, the ladies come with a seven-day trial? I believe in customer satisfaction, lord knows I do, but that's really just too much work. Wouldn't 25 minutes suffice? And, dear god, some of the people on that site are just not the kind of people I'd be paying money for the privilege to meet. You hear what I'm saying? Five-finger discount.

Beginner's Fun with Role Play

It's my Friday night in. There's a party I should be at, but I'm simply too burnt-out. It's about 30 degrees out (90 f) and I'm melting. I'm enjoying some wine and my ambitious steak dinner has devolved to merely decent baguette (despite their posh rep, Urban Fare's $2.19 baguette is not all that) and some double-cream French brie. The wine, a screw-cap medal-winner Cab-Shiraz from Australia, is really hitting the spot with a nice fruit finish and low tannic threshold. The secret to red wine in the summer is blasting it in the freezer, since "room temperature" is talking about European mean temperatures a few hundred years ago. It is, ideally, 15c / 60f, surely not 90! Is so mm. What I'd really love this weekend is some sangria. There's a fucking project for tomorrow, eh?

In short, it's nice-ish. The night could be better. My headspace still sucks. But I've become distracted by A History of Violence, by one of my country's pre-eminent directeurs, David Cronenberg. (Naked Lunch, among many others.)


In Cronenberg's A History of Violence, we're given a great beginner's demonstration of how to perform low-stress, low-prep role playing games.

In that scene, Viggo Mortensen's character is seduced by his wife, who says, "We never got to be teenagers together... I'm going to fix that."

She abandons him in the bedroom for an uncomfortable length of time as she vanishes into the washroom to prepare for her antics. Finally, she emerges in a high school cheerleading costume and stands there in the doorway, toying with her oh-so-short skirt to reveal a pair of girlie white cotton feminine briefs, complete with a little frilly ribbing.

Just standing there, hiking her skirt up enough to show these oh-so-innocent little panties is enough to drop his jaw.

The fact is, role playing may seem stupid and weird, but why should it? As children, we grow up pretending to be other people and we think it's fun. "You be the patient and I'll be the doctor. Open up and say, ahhhhhh. And maybe a little oooooh."

When does the switch get flipped that tells us pretending to be someone else is bad? Why do we feel so silly? What's so absurd about remembering to play over the age of 18, hmm?

The thing about sex is that it's supposed to be that one time -- that one time -- when we let our guard down enough to be utterly vulnerable. We're there, naked, in every sense. Splayed and ready for enjoyment. And then, we lose a little control. For the good? For the bad? You decide.

Men and women tend to be pretty different in some regards, outside of the obvious, I mean. For instance, the reliability and comfort factor of a relationship tends to be really important to a woman's sense of security. Men can get a little nervous about that, and they like to have things shaken up sometimes so they don't begin to feel trapped. Don't get all silly and think, "Oh, my man doesn't feel trapped." What, YOU never feel trapped? Admit it. You KNOW he does. It's primal. Who we are. Get over it, but bloody well accept it. Everyone knows what feeling trapped is like.

So, it's simple -- you just change things up. Cook a different meal, wear a different perfume. Wear a wig, even, on a playful night in. Or, adopt a costume. (Change the decor of a room to be more masculine and dark for the night. Anything that adds new elements or airs will make the experience richer for the guy. Just cleaning up and tidying it will make a woman happy, sadly.)

And why shouldn't variety make it richer? Variety is the spice of life.

One of the things I always loved about sex in the car was that it meant never having to have sex in the same place twice. Nothing quite like a game of strip Monopoly come rent time in the back of a hatchback, you know what I'm saying? One time by a river, another on a lonely stretch of rural dirt road, another in the abandoned car lot on a full moon night. It's almost worth the handle imprint on the ass, the rug burn, and the crick in the back, you know?

There's a digression for you. (Hi, I'm Steff, and I'll be your tourguide tonight.)

What I loved about the role play scene in A History of Violence is how incredibly simple it is. It's realistic. It's easy to do. It doesn't take a whole night of arranging and wooing. It's reasonably spontaneous on one partner's part, and is almost like a gift. Or, you can plan to play in advance. Set a date on the calendar... "Saturday, July 29th, 6pm: RP Games."

Role play ain't just for dungeons nor dragons, you know.

The advantage in booking the night and time in advance, where you explicitly say "This is what we'll do" is that you get this wonderful goodness that comes in the form of committing to be together in every way... and the anticipation it brings. Guys LOVE to know they're getting laid at a certain time. Let them look forwards to it with a little idea of what the night is to bring them, and man, you could find yourself with a pretty eager guy. Don't you agree, boys?

If you're a newbie to this shit, there's nothing to be concerned about. You're playing dress-up and having a cheap evening in, okay? That's about the size of it. The pay-out is a little no-holds-barred fun that allows you to forget about who you are for a little while and adopt a fantasy life. It's not stupid or childish, it's just fun. Let your pride take a walk, and have a little fun, will ya?

If you're a vixen-wanna-be, then check out the beginning of the movie (15 minutes in, give or take -- I haven't watched it all yet, so I'm not giving a whole-movie review; just scene approval!). Watch the scene where she seduces him, and pick up cues from that. The "Let's go, Wildcats!" jump was a little much for me -- after all, do you really want to risk jumping on your loverman's mid-section when you're about to try to get nailed? And another point, if you've taken the time to get a costume and have an idea in mind for playtime, take a moment and clean the kid's toys off the bed! Jesus Christ! Get them out of sight. That happens at the beginning of this scene, when Viggo's cleaning the toys off his bed, and that's not really the cool thing to have happen. You're about to get shagged -- who wants to think of their kids? Again, Jesus!

It's not rocket science, people. It's fun. It's carnal, it's biblical, it's illegal in some states, but it's just downright fun. Why, someone oughta charge some admission.

DEPRESS-O-METER: Tonight's rating is a six out of ten, with ten being the lousiest. I did what had to be done today, to the minimum. I've not done anything exciting or newsworthy. I could be out, being single and having fun, but I'm too tired, so I'm staying in, which is probably the right move, but because I'm depressed anyhow, I'm judging myself for it. I am, however, happy that I have a plan of attack for the depression now. (This is part of it.) I'm turning it into a project or an experiement. "How fast can diligence turn a Sad Steff into a Happy Steff, and can it be done on the cheap?" I'm happy I've written this, because it's a departure from the recent past and kind of fun at times, so I feel good about that. I'm really bloody hot, though, and know my weekend will likely not be fun, but will be busy, and that's not kosher. Probably better than doing nothing, which is likely what I'd be doing if Obligations weren't having a staring contest with me. So, overall? Partly cloudy with sunny breaks and a strange fog off the horizon all day long. Sort of.

This is an ongoing record of my new attempts to banish recent depressions, and will occur with each post. Stay tuned. How will Steff rank tomorrow?

Photo from:

On the State of the Steff

It's official. I'm depressed. Next Thursday, I'm seeing the doc to go back on meds for the first time in a few years.

I started the birth control pill again last October, and it has been fucking with my equilibrium since. (I've changed several brands, but the first one sent me spiralling into a deep depression I had to claw out of, but never really emerged from.) I was beginning to get a grasp on it the old-fashioned "I'm too tough for depression to beat me!" trouper kind of way, but then life reared up and got ugly, and I'm losing my grasp.

Depression's a terribly stigmatic thing to admit to suffering. Just admitting it makes you look like an incapable pussy who's running from a scary monster. There's too much ignorance about depression as a disease, and there's too much misunderstanding of what it can (and does) do to its sufferers.

Me, I hate admitting I can't cope. I hate admitting that, right now, I'm weak and having a real, real hard time just fighting the good fight. The realization hit me yesterday that, if something else were to befall me in the "happenstance" category these days, I just don't think I could wage that war. I'm too burnt out. The energy levels, gone.

So, then, what do I do? Pretend? Put on a smilie face and hope it all looks better than it feels? Oh, that'll work. Or do I give into the agoraphobia and lock the door? Yeah, that'll work. Maybe I try to find balance? Hey, there's an idea, but what is balance anyhow? Who says, "Yep, that's balanced!" Is there a dinging bell I'll hear when I finally have it right?

And that's the thing. There's no tried and true method for beating depression. It still confuses medicine and practitioners. It's not like the weight loss secret of, "Eat a little less, exercise a little more." Its roots come from a dark place that's physically impossible to shine a light on.

Depression is perceived as a systematic sign of weakness and this society has little, if any, patience for it.

It doesn't matter that I could make you laugh within five minutes of meeting you, or make you feel like you've known me for years. It doesn't matter that I'll understand most problems you bring to me and be able to give you worthy advice on it. It doesn't matter that I've been through more in my 32 years than most have. It doesn't matter that I'm about as resourceful as any person you'll ever meet.

I'm still suffering from depression. I've been fighting, and I was winning, and now the tide has turned.

So, I'm swallowing my pride, telling you where I stand, and promising to keep a light ongoing record (I'm toying with a depress-o-meter passage at the end of postings after I get back on the meds, to kind of keep a record of the small but steady changes in mood, primarily for those who are having a hard time deciding if they need help out of their own private hells or not).

I'm not the kind of person you think about when you think "depressive," but the truth is, I've dealt with that demon off and on since my late teens. Most of the time, I'm pretty good. I know what to look for and know how to fight it -- me time, indulging myself, exercise, healthy outlets, punk rock music, heh -- and so forth, so this is why I've suddenly decided to change strategies in my fight, and why you may hear more of it.

Anyhow, great concert last night, but I fear I'm too tired for my party tonight, so I'll be taking a "me" night in. Since I'll soon be on meds and won't be able to enjoy a bottle of wine solo anymore (shouldn't really drink on meds), I plan to instead cook a mighty meal fit for a king and drink incredibly good wine to celebrate my lowering of my defenses and accepting my humanity. My fight has changed this week in that I'm kicking my ass physically with cycling and working on a healthier diet. I just know I won't get the results I want soon enough, and who really wants to live in the dark any longer than necessary, huh?

Happy Friday, kids. My week's looking up.

Wednesday, July 19, 2006

RANT: On the Rag with The Goddesses

Okay, I'm into the whole love-yoself-sistah feminist self-worship thing and all that, to an extent.

This sort of thing blows my mind. Personally, if I was 12 or 13, and I had a granola-chomping mother who was foisting this "love your period, love your womanhood" crap down my throat, I'd spontaneously combust.

I hate when people take something that's really inconvenient and annoying and try to exalt some greatness into it. Sure, having a period is a reminder that we're female and a conscious realization of our ability to create and bear life. Nice, fabulous, wonderful. Will that get the stains out of my bedsheets, too, or is that just a lovely little inconcrete and essentially useless euphemistic piece of bullshit?

Oh, I say it's the latter. These people are right up there with the fucking naive twits who think a bird shitting on you means good luck. People will tell themselves anything if it means pocketing the cash for another therapy session.

Fuck, man. All I need to remind me that I am woman, ergo I fucking rock, are my tits. That I have a twat is just bonus, okay? My whole fucking body tells me I am woman, ergo I roar. I don't need to pull a South Park, bleed for seven days, and miraculously stump the odds by living just to know that I've got the DNA freebie strand, okay? My period is the bane of my existence. I fucking hate it. I wish I never had to bleed again. I'm presently in the middle of trying to suppress my period for three months at a time, but the three months has been split into six weeks thanks to an unwanted period this week.

Now, a bloody tangent. So, I'm, you know, there on my throne, unwrapping the first of a new pack of pads, and the Always "Wings" adhesive cover tab has "Have a happy period" written all across the fucking thing.

Happy? You want me to be happy about cramps, bloating, irritability, alcohol sensitivity, and the constant risk of staining undergarments, clothing, and sheets for the better part of a week? Yeah, sure, okay, and while we're at it, you want me to be thrilled about losing my paycheck, crashing my car, and finding my husband in bed with his secretary? Fuck right off.

Goddamned marketers.

But back to the initial topic: I'd like to send a big fuck you out to all the women who try to make me feel guilty about the fact that I think having menses is the absolutely worst part about being female. It doesn't mean I hate my femininity, it means I hate mood swings and pain and messes and feeling unclean. How is that wrong? Fucking sanctimonious crap is what that is. Get off your high horse and join the rest of us on this little plane we like to call "Reality."

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

I'll take two and a side'a yum, please.

Ah, Dilana, you tasty morsel, you.

Isn't she hot? Maybe she's not really your type, but the minute she opens her mouth and talks, she hooks you in. On stage, in CBS's Rockstar: Supernova, she's a fuckin' foxy vixen. She's practically a female Kurt Cobain. She's just on. This woman's something fierce, baby.

What's cool, though, is that she's got this undeniable stage presence and this almost violent personality up there. She radiates intensity. Sit her down for a chat, and she becomes this incredibly vulnerable and articulate woman. It's this wonderful, sexy, powerful female dichotomy I really wish could drive this world more. Be strong, be weak, be everything in between. Just be, baby.

There are few women who get me titillated, but she gets a nod. When you think about wanting to be loved, it's by people who feel as intensely as this woman appears to. Hot. Fuckin' hot is what that is.

This is the first time in my life I have wasted a precious second or more to spend time voting in a reality show contest. Sigh. The streak is over, kids.

But it was a free vote, at least. Whew.

More Than You Need To Know

I was at the drug store yesterday, buying some deodorant. I've discovered that my old office is filled with as many fraily girlie-girls as ever, and they still like the temperature to hover in Death Valley realms. Fuckin' hell, literally. Naturally, I'm stuck in the management's office, and they've got problems with it being even hotter than the rest of the office. It's maddening.

So, I've switched brands now, of the underarm stuff. I've always bought generic, 'cos a couple drug stores have the good stuff bought with their own labels on it, right? Last time, I bought the Canadian Superstore's generic. NEVER again! That shit was pilling up and everything. Superstore, you suck! Funny, they're known for their generic stuff. This, hands down, was the worst underarm product I have ever, ever used. Bad! Bad! Say no! Walk past! Never!

Yesterday, I bought Ban for the first time. The scent suckered me in. "Sweet Surrender," is what it's called. Hey, I've got to tell you, I don't mind smelling like sweet surrender. Call it honesty in advertising, if you must. Crumble under my spell, boys.

(And if you're wondering, it's an interesting mix of floral and fruit scents. I think there's a little papaya in there. It smells edible... something I'm always in agreement with.)

Monday, July 17, 2006

Oh, For God's Sake!

Okay, to the anonymous who left the comment that has inspired this rant:

It's okay, I'm not taking it personally, and I understand you were coming from a nice place and being genuine. Still. It ain't you, it's society, and I've been meaning to comment on this for awhile.


I just broke up with someone, and I'm a bit touchy about it, even now, a whopping eight days later. I know, all these hours and days have passed us by, a whopping eight days and six hours, and I ought to certainly be all good and better and fine about it.

But I'm not. I know, I'm hoping to nip this in the bud before a stunning two weeks has passed, but I'm so emotionally stunted that I'm not sure I'll quite manage that.

Okay, obnoxious mode is off.

Here's the deal: I fucking hate the western culture of pretending we're stoic and tough and good and fine just a few days after any kind of adversity befalls us.

It's like old-school hockey. "Holy smokes! Didja see that hit?! That boy had his bell rung but good. The coach is looking him over, and he's giving some shakes of his head. Holy hell, he's joining the team again. This kid's a trouper -- bell ringing and keeps on singing!"

Back in the day, you took your hits like a man and played through, no matter what the cost. Naturally, it turned out the costs were high.

You have to understand, strong and stoic are things I strive to be. I understand life's hard and comes with challenges, and it ain't all fun and games. I've had some really hard times in the last decade particularly, and I think I've handled them all pretty well. Never perfect, but who among us is?

If I just up and dropped the thing with the ex, and all the struggles I've hit this week, you know what? You'd stop reading me. Because I would cease to be myself. It's this overly analytical, detail-focused, mildly obsessive, often compulsive cynical satirist you've come to enjoy. That's who I am. I'm a rebel without a cause, a thinker without a clue, and a poser with no apologies. That's me. I get lost in the chaos that is my life because I am absolutely unapologetically self-obsessed.

I'm not at all the guru some people have taken me for. (WHY have you done this?) What I am, is a really, really, really good reality surfer.

See, whatever comes at me, I find a way to ride it until it breaks. I'm very good. I've had to be. I don't have a smooth-sailing life in the least. Ahh, I'm so in it for the drama, man.

Anyhow, whatever. The point is, my relationship ended just a week ago. I'm not gonna just drop the topic and be magically healed like I've just had a Jerry Falwell moment or something. Anyone who does is just asking to get fucked mentally, because that's not how to deal with troubles. Own it, experience it, make love to it, and let it go. Don't just chuck it and hope the garbage guys come.

I'll be moving on from this, you can bet your ass on that. Soon, too, probably, but it'll happen after I've really come to learn something from the experience. See, my life is lived because I choose to examine it -- and now, immediately, not some 50 years down the road as I write my memoirs.

Keep in mind: This week holds a party, a concert, a big social night out, and maybe a couple other things. It's busy. I'm not sitting around on my ass as much as it might sound. When I am around, I need to learn a little about podcasting.

The podcast looms in the nearer future now. A matter of weeks, for sure, probably three of them. The trouble I now have is that I need to design a new blog. I will be keeping the Cunt alive, and feeding it periodically, but there'll be a new blog, Smut & Steff, a companion blog to my podcast. You'll see photos and notes and such about things inspiring me any given week, some postings of mine, and that sort of thing. I intend to have it be a very symbiotic relationship, sort of like blog+podcast=steffness, I hope.

So, a new blog, a new podcast... much looms. In the meantime, deal with my self-involved life -- I can't afford therapy, and you're a sexy listener, so I'm thinking it's working just fine for the short-term. Don't worry, I'll get some rest and shit sometime this week and my writing will snap back on soonish, I suspect.

Thoughts On a Monday

I shouldn’t be doing what I’m doing, but “shouldn’t” doesn’t have much control over my life, so the status quo shall maintain.

I’m down to one cup of strong Italian coffee left in my French press, and Capote is on pause. The eggs were perfectly cooked, but the bacon was a tad too done. The belly is adequately full.

Somewhere on my horizon looms the dirty threat of work, but I’m railing against it until the last possible minute. I can work a shorter day today if need be, and that may need to be. I don’t really care – I’ve needed a mental break, and for the first time in a few weeks, yesterday and thus far today have provided just that.

The last lines uttered in the scene I just paused were, ““Talk about anything,” he said, because he didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts,” or something like that.

I wonder sometimes if that’s why Becoming Single is often so hard for us. We finally feel like the scary silences are broken by this voice of this Other who has acclimatized themselves to becoming a part of our lives. And, one day, they go. For good, for bad, for now, for all time, they simply go.

Then, silence. And in that silence, questions of doubt, of your worth, of your import, they all start to whisper and wail in the walls of your mind, and then where are you? In a storm of your making. A thought storm whirling around your newly deserted cerebellum.

It doesn’t matter that I don’t think it’s me that caused our break-up. It doesn’t matter that I believe myself to be a good person to know and a kindred heart. It doesn’t matter that I know what talents I have an all areas of my life. What matters is, I’ve suddenly found myself single again. Naturally, the next step is to wonder what’s wrong with myself and why it didn’t work.

I’ve done a little of that this past week, but not nearly as much as I would have expected. Probably one of the least likely questions for me to ask myself, actually, is “why me?”

I once wrote a rant about how much existentialists piss me off, and how much I hate that question, “Why me? Why me?” I think I said, “Why you? Because it’s your fucking turn!” Maybe that’s as simple as it really is. I don’t ask why I go through adversity. I know why, ‘cos shit happens, and this shit is my shit, and trying to figure it out beyond that is gonna give me an embollism.

Sitting around after a week like I’ve had and wondering “Why me?” isn’t exactly productive. I do it, though, but to a different end.

I don’t remember how much I’ve said, but the people who laid me off on day two of employment have offered to have me back to the job on August 1st, and I’ve agreed. To tell you the truth, when I first started that job, I was expecting to be hired for another on my very first morning with them. I wound up catching my prospective new employer at a bad time, tried calling later, and remain in the dark about that job to this day. The point is, I walked into my “new” job with a really bad attitude. I didn’t want to be there, and wanted to be hired for another job by noon.

In short, I was a fucking spoiled brat who was living anywhere but in the present. WHAT IF I lost that job to get reminded of how appreciative we ought to be about everything that comes our way? What if I lost it to be shown just how wrong negativity and cynicism can be? I thought I would hate the job, because my perception was that it was 80% bookkeeping. Know what? That’s the last dude’s incompetence. In my world, it’s 6-8 hours a week, and that’s after having been around for a week. In fact, now that I’ve been there a week, I know the job’s a good fit for me. What’s more, I’ll be awesome at it.

So, this week and next week, I’m working for my old employers. (Never burn bridges.) Then, I’ll return. It’s nice, it’s the first job I’ve had in a long time where I’ve been able to walk in, figure out what needs doing, and not have anyone on my back micromanaging me. Some of us folk have motivation and a sense of work ethic, you know, and we work better without being told what to do. That’s me! If there’s anything I felt at the end of my day Friday, I’d have to say empowerment would be the word.

In the end, I’m glad to be single this week. I’ve been through the ringer, and while it’s awesome to have someone around to be a support and all, there’s also something to be said for enduring adversity on your own. This has been the second worst summer of my life. Hands down. Only the summer when my mother died was worse than this. And I’m so proud, I guess, that I’ve kept it together to a degree. I’ve not let all of you in as much as I could have about all the things I’ve been feeling. Those who read The Ditch probably know more about that side of my life of late, but either way, I’ve been stifling some of the fear.

I had a boyfriend once who fancied himself a philosopher. We were talking about insanity and Catch-22. If you think you can go insane, does that mean you’re more sane, or already insane? I believed then, as I do now, that it means you’re probably less likely to go insane if you realize the potential you hold for becoming insane, if that makes any sense.

After this past month, I can tell you unequivocally that I think it’s possible I could one day lose my sanity. I don’t think I ever will, but I could. This past six weeks felt pretty fucking close to it, but it never did happen.

I’m finally in silence, though. Not only am I single again, but the constant bickering going on at the back of my mind has ceased – the insecurities, the worries, the wonders. For now, it’s ceased.

There’s the old saying, “Why do I keep hitting myself in the head with a hammer?” The answer? “Because it feels so good when I stop.” Welcome to my life. And this, this is “stopped,” and it feels so-o-o good.

Saturday, July 15, 2006

The Best Craig's List Personal Of the Day

Is right here.

Methinks he stays single.

On the Upside & Sugasm #38

While I miss the Guy, and I do, I'd like to get the friendship thing started, but I think he needs space. It's tough. I worry a little. Depression's a bitch. He's fighting the good fight, but I'd like to be around and helpful in that friend-only capacity. I don't know if there's a future for us. I'm beginning to realize how much more lacking the relationship was than full, for most of it, there, and possibly one day down the line he'll get back to being who he was at the beginning. It's only through friendship I'd regain the trust to be in a relationship again. But while he's fighting depression, I'm fighting the same, but borne of frustration and challenges and overcoming adversity. My year... whew, people, I'm gonna be a changed woman by the time I sit down and write my Christmas Eve Reflection for the year. Oh, this side of the struggle has had a hell of a view. I dunno how much the status-quo of friends and ex-lovers will be maintainable. If I get this potential job in the film industry that I have a bigwig swinging that bat to land me, then my life changes 180 degres: socially, financially, even chronologically. I'll be busy all the time, meeting important people, earning tonnes of overtime... Man, that'd be an awesome job. Challenging, rewarding, and I'd be fucking phenomenal in that capacity, and it'd be a dream coming true -- working on a film production. Making magic happen, baby. (But I argue I do that already. ;)

Anyhow: I'm employed now, I *think*, and it's not as reliable as I'd like, but I like the people, have been enjoying the challenge, and feel my week has concluded FAR better than it began.

I've received my last podcasting equipment! This week, I try to learn how to use it. I've emailed the ex-Guy to help me with it, but haven't heard back. Fingers crossed. He used to be a radio man, so I could use his guidance.

But now that I'm single again, I have that one thing that's good: complete freedom to do whatever the fuck I want. That's always nice.

Right now, I'm going to smoke some dope and roll back under my blanket and snooze. I need the break. Then, I watch one of the new movies I got. (I mentioned some on my other blog: Three for $20, and a goodly person PayPal'd me to say I had good taste, and to go buy them: Good Night and Good Luck, Capote, and Walk the Line. The last two of which I wrote of in the same piece a few months ago. And I've borrowed Munich, which I have lower expectations of, but will watch when I wake up.)

This is my weekend: Sleep, movie, clean-up, bike ride across town to Brother's pad, teach Big Brother how to cook a little for his birthday, hang with the nephew, get stupid with Brother, crash, breakfast with friend, bike home, have drinks with new person. All good. Not alone too much -- important after a break-up -- and busy, but hopefully productive and relaxing, too!

Anyhow, like you care about any of that shit anyhow. No, you want writing, writing like this:

This week’s best of the sex blogs by the bloggers who blog them.

SugarJoy has a New Webmistress (
Blogathon 2006 (

Sex Work and Humor
A Cornucopia of Perversion (
How to Spot Breast Implants (
F’n Amazing Webcam Show (
All About My Summer Vacation (

Erotic Writing and Experiences
UFC - Ultimate F(*)#&@&$ Club (
7/10 by Rex: A Tale of Two Roxies (
Morning After (
Tired? (
Friday Night Teaser (
Facets of an Assignation (
First HNT Dream (
coming in her mouth and in the trees (
Comfortably Decadent - Part Three (
Doesn’t Anyone Here Want Their Ass Licked? (
“The Meeting” a work of fiction (
Shibari Thursday (
Stand and Deliver (
A Fantasy in White (
Featured Article - Exploring Alternative Relationships (part 1) (
Bust a (Porn) Move (
Staff Pick (
Flash of Clarity / Flash of Mia (
Reader Question - Blow Me… Please (


Neighbor Affair: What could be more patriotic? (
Masked Nude Beauty (
Danni makes a splash! Squirting video and more… (
WebMistress Feature Gallery: Flashing Utah (

BDSM and Fetish
Isabella’s Eyes - Part III (
Spankable Blog Award (
HNT 22 - 4th of July Editon (
Doctor Who: the (should have been a) Spanking Episode (
My Lil Barmaid Sissy Bitch (
Redemption (
Waiting for Punishment in a Fantasy Manor (
And Now for the Video! (

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Closet Slut (?) (
The Ugly Cry (
Black Dicks in White Chicks: pornographic fantasies of miscegenation, black power, and the colonization of interracial desire (

Thursday, July 13, 2006

Wait a Sec!: Thoughts about Depression

If you think the following post slams my ex in any way, you're an idiot. Acknowledging someone's shortcomings isn't vindictive. And acknowledging that they have good reason to have their faults is also not vindictive.

For some reason, we live in a world where being passive and inaccurate is mistaken for "being nice." C'mon, none of us is perfect. I burp, you know. I offer advice without being asked (hence this board, heh... gets it a little out of my system. Not entirely, but it helps). I'm opinionated. I'm blunt. I can be moody. I'm bitterly sarcastic. I'm narrow-minded. I'm judgmental.

It's all true.

So to call me something that's true is, well, not vindictive in the least. It's merely right.

I fuckin' hate how you can't say anything bad about anything and not be perceived as negative, hateful, or cynical. It's so fucking stupid. It sucks. They suck. C'mon, grow a fucking spine. Have an opinion. Say what you think. Fuck that, just THINK.

And while I'm all rared up with no place to go, let's get onto this topic of calling DEPRESSED a SWIPE.

Hey, depression's a fucking ILLNESS, man. Sometimes it can be almost untreatable. It's a hard fucking road to travel. Calling the stating of a person as "depressed" a "swipe" means depression isn't a real thing. It's dismissive of the horrific struggles faced by all those people who can't understand why they feel the black hell they feel. Don't fucking disrespect them by suggesting that their clinical state is merely an insult or a swipe, and not the gaping black hell of existence they know it to be, ALL RIGHT?

This isn't the "wah, I'm having a bad day" depression I speak of, that I know firsthand; this is the "I'm scared to go outside because something might trigger a descent again" kind of blackness that literally puts a fear of God into you.

When I call my ex-boyfriend depressed, I call him that with nothing but tenderness and sorrow. I feel for him. I wish I could help him. There is nothing, not anything, that I can do for him. How I wish I could. I can't. That's just the state of depression for you. Somehow you got to find your way out, but this isn't some spelunking game. This is sinking. It's a shipwreck of the heart, and shit, man, Lost is going on Season Three, you know what I'm saying here? If you don't get found, man...

Depression is the bane of my life. I've travelled that road too often to feel anything but empathy for its sufferers.

My brother broke my heart last week when he told me he was crying every day these days, missing being a husband and a father, he said. Broke my heart. What do you say to a man who feels so emotionally crushed in the face of his not being able to be the man he wants to be? I believe depression's harder for men simply because they're told to not listen to their emotions most of their lives, and here's this thing of darkness screaming at you every waking moment, or drowing out the noise in your life, and you can't ignore it. It's there, always. I think men feel more helpless with it, but women are kind of conditioned to know our body does this to us, and we're brainwashed to believe we're the weaker, more emotional sex, so we somehow cope better as a result of it. Men have to bottle it up for pride's sake, and the price they pay's just horrific sometimes.

I recommend this brilliant book by William Styron. Brilliant literary take on the journey of depression by one of the best writers in the world. His was chemically induced (though some of us would argue they all, in one context or another, are) and spiralled towards suicide. It'll wake you up to a more intellectualized and concrete look at the psychosis of depression.

I believe I'll always be somewhat prone to depression. Now, though, I realize that no matter how dark it gets, I find moments of joy. I need to always remember that.

Anyhow. I wasn't sniping. This is one breakup where no one really is to blame.

And to the reader who expressed concern that a great relationship could die at the hands of something stupid like a broken leg, well...

...welcome to the real world. I have been alive for 394 months. This relationship ate up maybe five months of it. And it feels like so much more. The connection went deep, fast, and there it is. Such is life. Broken hearts hurt, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise. When it breaks, you can hear it cracking. In fact, they did a study last year that proves for once and for all that you really can die of a broken heart.

Yep, Broken Heart Syndrome occurs when there is a sudden tragedy that hits you. A death, a diagnosis, a theft, whatever. It mimics a heart attack and can require hospitalization, after which (2-3 days) the people can leave in decent health.

Every friend I've lost, every lover who left or drifted away, every relative, they've all taught me something. Some are dead and gone but remain with me now. Some hurt me in ways I'll never forgive them for but to this day I remember things they've said, that we did, and it will always stay with me.

And that's life.

There's a valley in Eastern BC, outside a little town called Nelson. The natives there have a legend that it's the valley of the lost souls. The belief is, when you're broken in spirit or body, you go there, by the river, and in time, it will heal your soul. When you leave, you leave whole but for the little piece of your soul that remains, and then heals the next broken spirit who happens by.

And that's what love and broken hearts are. You hurt, you heal, and a bit of that experience stays behind to make you better, stronger, than you had been before.

So, my heart's a little worse for wear, as is my ex's, and that's how it goes. We are what we are, broken. And there's no shame in it.

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

A Fondness for Figments

I’m feeling a little blue. I’m getting a stiff back, so I know my mattress needs flipping. I’ve just done that, and have changed my sheets besides. If anything reminds you you’re single, it’s changing the sheets.

You’re changing them because it’s been long enough. It’s time. Not because you got hot’n’sweaty and did wrong-but-so-right things.

It’s sorta sad, but not because I can’t handle being single. Been here, done this.

What makes me sad is having to remind myself that I’ve made the right move. We both decided to end the relationship, for somewhat different reasons. My reasons are not really ones I wanted to express to him, but that I’m sure he’s aware of. It’s kind of hard for me to admit it, though. I’m getting a little chokey just thinking of putting it down, because it feels like casting judgment, but the judgment’s long been done, so I might as well.

See, the guy I’ve broken up with isn’t good for me. In fact, he’s somewhat bad for me. He’s depressed, he’s self-obsessed, constantly distracted, and inattentive. It’s not good. It’s also not who he really is. But it’s who he is today. And I can’t begrudge it as I know what’s preceded it.

The trouble is, I’m trying to keep alive a memory of who he was before all that shit. A guy who was an upbeat skeptic with weird quirks and a cute smile, who won my trust and a bit of my faith for a while there.

The latter guy’s still around in ever-so-brief flashes, but they’re not the present. They’re animated flashbacks, maybe (hopefully) flash-forwards.

Keeping that memory alive is fucking with my resolve that the right choice has been made. The guy I just broke up with, well, he’s not really good enough for me. I’m a caring, attentive, loving woman, and I need that back. For his own reasons, he couldn’t provide that. I may understand, but I can’t live with that. No one really ought to have to.

I really, really hate having to choose between who a person is versus who they once were, but we all have to make those choices. I don’t believe in staying in a relationship longer than I have to, because if I do, it eats away at me. I’me constantly reminded I’m less attractive to them, for one reason or another, than I used to be. I’m forever wishing we could talk like we did in the old days. A whole lot of thoughts run rampant, all the time. I find when I’m unhappy in a relationship, I don’t live in the present. I get analytical and think of anything but that moment.

At this moment, I hope that old guy makes a return and when we revisit things, it’s a hit. That’s what I hope today. Do I expect it? Um. Hope ain’t faith, ‘nuff said. Get it?

Six months from now, who knows where the fuck I am. Six months from now, what if I’ve landed the job of a lifetime after what is, inarguably, the most challenging time I’ve ever faced? Who is THAT woman, huh? Who’s she? How’d she get there from here? That’s what I wanna know. I ain’t got no answers, and they’re a damned long time in coming.

I just don’t think this shit’s going to keep me down. Nothing’s ever done so before, but I’ve never stood all the way up after a fall-down, you know? I’ve never WANTED it this bad before.

How do I go from who I am today to who I am then, to wanting someone I was with a year before? I don’t know. I don’t know the path to take for that journey, and I don’t know what my life holds.

I know that I feel sad. I mourn for what mighta been, and what now might never be. At the moment, I hope I feel like I can go there again. It was a comfortable relationship when it worked. It was funny, irreverent, open, playful, and good. Then it changed. Sigh. I digress.

Now I’ve gone way off point, so let’s just get out that big ol’ hammer and nail this one down.

If your relationship is shit, and you spend more time thinking about then than you do of tomorrow, then maybe it’s time to admit that the person you’re with isn’t the person you fell for. Put on them boots and walk the fuck on. Life’s too short to live in the past. Don’t be scared of your future. Respect it, cherish it, ‘cos soon it’s gonna be your past. Futures, you can change. Pasts, well, they become baggage or cocktail-party stories. If you’re in love with a memory, you’re making a mistake.


I saw my mom die at 57, and the last thing I need to forget is just how short life is. Why spend it doing the wrong things, right? That’s my motto. (I’m also opposed to doing the right things wrong.)

So, this I need to remind myself every time I’m sad I’m alone again: Beats the shit out of hanging out with an almost-boyfriend who’s depressed and can’t let me in. As a friend, I’ll cherish him. As a boyfriend, I was sometimes wanting to smack him good. And the future, well, who knows. I think, either way, some good stuff’s on the road and is headed to me. I’m just gonna keep up the good fight and hang on to the faith. Cogito ergo sum.