It never ceases to amaze me that as we get to know someone, they shed those onion layers one by one and all of the sudden it's time for the break-up talk, aka, "It's not me baby, it's you."
I liked this guy. He was a decent one. Really fucking attractive. And good in the sack. But I abruptly learned that just because you need to be schooling the masses on the tricks and techniques of oral sex, doesn't mean we should get married and start popping out babies.
I laid out the Good, the Bad, and most of the Ugly on our first date. He returned the favor enough to satisfy me and lead me to decide to go home with him. (Yeah so? I'm a big girl and I can make my own decisions.) As we started spending more time together, (especially after I decided, Okay, you're my boyfriend now and you can call me your girlfriend,) all the things he seemed to be? Like, aggressive, motivated, willing to take on the world one battle at a time? Nowhere to be found.
I was very disappointed. I had friends tell me that if I really wanted to settle down with someone who A) doesn't have a rap sheet, and B) isn't married, then I should just accept his passive nature. "He's a nice guy and he sexes you good right?"
Not good enough for me.
If I'm going to be someone's girl, he better be head over fucking heels crazy about me and prove it, not be worried he's going to scare me off. I don't care how nice you are, grow some fucking balls and 1) Stand up and defend yourself when you've been wronged by someone, (especially your fucking employer!) and 2) Fight with me! I'm stubborn, I'm obnoxious, and I will swear the sky is purple so you better prepared to tell me I'm wrong, no matter how many punches I may throw.
Bottom line is, he didn't step up to the plate and keep me in check. If you act like you don't care what I do, where I go, who I go out with, then it seems to me you simply don't care about ME.
My personality is dominant and I am the shot-caller in my everyday life. Sometimes I want to hand over the reigns and just be pretty on his arm.
Oh yeah, and after I told him I didn't want to sever ties with him totally, I still wanted to keep in touch because things could change so don't be a drama queen and delete me from your Facebook friends, what did I discover this morning? The bastard de-friended me. Fuck you, fuck you very much. Grow the fuck up.
Growing Older, But Definitely Not Growing Up
I don’t know what is happening to me.
It’s like ever since I hit my 27th year, my body is telling me to fuck off.
I can’t skip a day when it comes to washing my hair anymore. If I do my roots get greasier than an oilslick underneath an ‘82 Chevy Silverado. But of course the more I wash it, the bigger the halo of frizz that graces the crown of my head. (Because, as I’ve recently discovered, if I don’t blow it dry, it decides to wave up all on its own. SINCE WHEN? Not when I wanted wavy hair, of course!) Doesn’t matter how much I spend on hair products either. Just makes it greasier.
Don’t get me started on facial hair. I mean, I am Italian, so I accepted the fact that I needed to start shaving my legs at the age of 10, waxing the brows at 13, and that my brother and I would both be trimming our “mustaches” at the same time in the bathroom mirror on occassion. But seriously? When did the brows start creeping up my fucking forehead? It seems like I have to position the tweezers closer and closer to my damn hairline every day.
Not to mention the horrific discovery of a giant black hair coming out of my fucking neck one day. And the fact that my mother pointed it out to me. (I mean, shit, we only have each other, so I sure as hell am not going to let her leave the house with lipstick on her teeth and I expect her to look out for me as well.)
WHAT THE FUCK.
My skin has gone from normal-to-oily to “Here Ma, let me just smear my face all over that fry pan you’re about to cook sausage and peppers in, you won’t need any olive oil!” Doesn’t matter how much I spend on skincare products either, and I guess I’ll be saving money now that I don’t need to moisturize anymore. Thank God I never had/don’t have an issue with acne.
The change in seasons is forging a major assault on my senses as well. My sinuses hurt, and I cannot, cannot drink enough water because all the natural moisture in my body is going straight to my face. (But, and I’m sure this is TMI, I have no problem down there, thank God.)
All I can say is thank God my tits are still where they’re supposed to be. The day I discover my belly button between them is the day I think I’ll just throw my hands up and say, “Well, I had a good run!” And proceed to slit my fucking wrists.
If you made it through this post kudos to you, if you care, even more awesome. But I AM bitching and just may continue to do so because why? Because I can. I’ve been through enough bullshit in my life to be thankful that at this point, aside from the massive amount of debt I’m in and the fact that I have no savings starting to gain interest in any kind of bank account, my biggest concern is painfully dry sinuses, frizzy hair, and oily skin. But hey, I still manage to look like a million bucks every day, even if I’ve only got $5 in my pocket.
It’s like ever since I hit my 27th year, my body is telling me to fuck off.
I can’t skip a day when it comes to washing my hair anymore. If I do my roots get greasier than an oilslick underneath an ‘82 Chevy Silverado. But of course the more I wash it, the bigger the halo of frizz that graces the crown of my head. (Because, as I’ve recently discovered, if I don’t blow it dry, it decides to wave up all on its own. SINCE WHEN? Not when I wanted wavy hair, of course!) Doesn’t matter how much I spend on hair products either. Just makes it greasier.
Don’t get me started on facial hair. I mean, I am Italian, so I accepted the fact that I needed to start shaving my legs at the age of 10, waxing the brows at 13, and that my brother and I would both be trimming our “mustaches” at the same time in the bathroom mirror on occassion. But seriously? When did the brows start creeping up my fucking forehead? It seems like I have to position the tweezers closer and closer to my damn hairline every day.
Not to mention the horrific discovery of a giant black hair coming out of my fucking neck one day. And the fact that my mother pointed it out to me. (I mean, shit, we only have each other, so I sure as hell am not going to let her leave the house with lipstick on her teeth and I expect her to look out for me as well.)
WHAT THE FUCK.
My skin has gone from normal-to-oily to “Here Ma, let me just smear my face all over that fry pan you’re about to cook sausage and peppers in, you won’t need any olive oil!” Doesn’t matter how much I spend on skincare products either, and I guess I’ll be saving money now that I don’t need to moisturize anymore. Thank God I never had/don’t have an issue with acne.
The change in seasons is forging a major assault on my senses as well. My sinuses hurt, and I cannot, cannot drink enough water because all the natural moisture in my body is going straight to my face. (But, and I’m sure this is TMI, I have no problem down there, thank God.)
All I can say is thank God my tits are still where they’re supposed to be. The day I discover my belly button between them is the day I think I’ll just throw my hands up and say, “Well, I had a good run!” And proceed to slit my fucking wrists.
If you made it through this post kudos to you, if you care, even more awesome. But I AM bitching and just may continue to do so because why? Because I can. I’ve been through enough bullshit in my life to be thankful that at this point, aside from the massive amount of debt I’m in and the fact that I have no savings starting to gain interest in any kind of bank account, my biggest concern is painfully dry sinuses, frizzy hair, and oily skin. But hey, I still manage to look like a million bucks every day, even if I’ve only got $5 in my pocket.
To Be [A Slut] Or Not To Be
From January 10, 2010
So my reputation has surpassed me. It took the most unsuspecting person to point it out, even though I subconsciously have been aware of this fact. Am I ready to settle down? I don't know. Am I having fun picking and choosing my sexual partners? I don't know anymore. Do I want to be the girl at my current watering hole that every guy has been with? I'm pretty sure I already am. However, that does not bother me much, because I knew from the second I walked into this place that it was highly doubtful a suitable mate would ever walk through the door.
I believe I am entering a new phase in my sexual journey. While I enjoy sex, and I love to experiment, is it really necessary for the number of people I have slept with to keep growing? I am becoming uneasy with adding to my track record. So I've made a pact with myself - no more new encounters for the time being. I'm not strapping on a chastity belt and throwing away the key by any means. I'm just starting to feel jaded by the one-nighters. There's not much satisfaction in the Liz Phair "Fuck and Run"-esque kick I've been on since my Ex and I split up. I've got enough cock in the arsenal to keep me in line, at least for the time being. There's Buzzard, HB, The Other Photographer, The Boy...
Maybe I will just start making them work a little harder at getting into these pants. Make them put forth a little more effort. While I am far from perfect, I still think I'm a pretty decent catch. I don't need a lobotomy to keep this pact; I can still trudge on with my aggressive personality, but there's a big difference in approaching someone I'm physically attracted to just to brush my hand against their crotch and approaching someone to strike up a conversation out of sheer intrigue.
Update: What the fuck was I thinking? I'm never going to run for president so do I really care about a reputation? I've replaced most of the FWBs that caused me strife with ones who DON'T. Last night I was talking with a girl at the bar and she said to me, "Why do you call yourself a slut? If you see something you want and you go after it, that doesn't make you a slut. It means you're a self-confident, powerful woman who knows what she wants." I raised my glass to her. Or my beer bottle. I can't remember.
So my reputation has surpassed me. It took the most unsuspecting person to point it out, even though I subconsciously have been aware of this fact. Am I ready to settle down? I don't know. Am I having fun picking and choosing my sexual partners? I don't know anymore. Do I want to be the girl at my current watering hole that every guy has been with? I'm pretty sure I already am. However, that does not bother me much, because I knew from the second I walked into this place that it was highly doubtful a suitable mate would ever walk through the door.
I believe I am entering a new phase in my sexual journey. While I enjoy sex, and I love to experiment, is it really necessary for the number of people I have slept with to keep growing? I am becoming uneasy with adding to my track record. So I've made a pact with myself - no more new encounters for the time being. I'm not strapping on a chastity belt and throwing away the key by any means. I'm just starting to feel jaded by the one-nighters. There's not much satisfaction in the Liz Phair "Fuck and Run"-esque kick I've been on since my Ex and I split up. I've got enough cock in the arsenal to keep me in line, at least for the time being. There's Buzzard, HB, The Other Photographer, The Boy...
Maybe I will just start making them work a little harder at getting into these pants. Make them put forth a little more effort. While I am far from perfect, I still think I'm a pretty decent catch. I don't need a lobotomy to keep this pact; I can still trudge on with my aggressive personality, but there's a big difference in approaching someone I'm physically attracted to just to brush my hand against their crotch and approaching someone to strike up a conversation out of sheer intrigue.
Update: What the fuck was I thinking? I'm never going to run for president so do I really care about a reputation? I've replaced most of the FWBs that caused me strife with ones who DON'T. Last night I was talking with a girl at the bar and she said to me, "Why do you call yourself a slut? If you see something you want and you go after it, that doesn't make you a slut. It means you're a self-confident, powerful woman who knows what she wants." I raised my glass to her. Or my beer bottle. I can't remember.
Do Not Stop or Start Taking This Medication Without Consulting Your Doctor
So my bouts with the depression have subsided significantly over the past few months. I don't really know what snapped me out of my funk; all I know is that I was really bad off for a while there and caused alot of people I care about to worry relentlessly.
I decided on my own (well, technically my health insurance company decided for me when my coverage was terminated due to me not paying the monthly premium,) to ween myself off of the medication I was taking daily to keep me...normal. Bad idea. Very, VERY bad idea. I was taking 300 mg of Effexor XR once a day, and Effexor is not an anti-depressant you can just stop taking. If I ever forgot to take it just once, the withdrawal symptoms kicked in almost immediately. I got the shakes, cottonmouth, and my brain felt like it was rattling around in my skull. Literally. I felt the damn thing vibrate.
So I started out gradually. I would take 2 of the dark red capsules every other day. And since 30 days worth would have cost me over $300 without insurance, I'd have the pharmacy just fill me ten at a time. Once the symptoms became managable, I went to taking only 150 mg every other day. Then I'd spread the days out as far as I could. It was a fucking nightmare. I was going through full-blown withdrawal and felt like I was stuck in hell. I couldn't afford to go to the doctor to get off the meds the proper, and safer, way, so I had to do what I had to do right?
I have enough background in pharmacology to know that I wasn't going to be able just stop taking the 150 mg pills. Ideally I would have gone from 300, down to 150, down to 75, and then down to 37.5 if need be. But again, I couldn't afford to sit in the doctor's office just to have him write me a script for a lower dosage. So I just dosed myself.
One day a friend and I just happened to be discussing depression and anxiety and comparing the meds we've taken over the years. Turns out, her doctor had her on the Effexor as well, but it didn't do the trick for her. She still had two bottles of it leftover, one of 75s and one of 37.5s. She got them to me as quickly as she could.
Once I started taking the 75s, I felt so much better physically. Surprisingly, my mental health did not suffer as much as one would think it should have during this time. I wasn't taking the 75s very long when I realized I had stopped taking them altogether. And my head didn't feel like it was about to fall off of my shoulders.
Today I am chemical free, aside from popping a few Prevacids on occassion because my stomach likes to tell me to fuck off, and honestly? I like to drink, alot. And I like spicy food. So that doesn't count.
Although I really should start thinking about going back on the Pill....
I decided on my own (well, technically my health insurance company decided for me when my coverage was terminated due to me not paying the monthly premium,) to ween myself off of the medication I was taking daily to keep me...normal. Bad idea. Very, VERY bad idea. I was taking 300 mg of Effexor XR once a day, and Effexor is not an anti-depressant you can just stop taking. If I ever forgot to take it just once, the withdrawal symptoms kicked in almost immediately. I got the shakes, cottonmouth, and my brain felt like it was rattling around in my skull. Literally. I felt the damn thing vibrate.
So I started out gradually. I would take 2 of the dark red capsules every other day. And since 30 days worth would have cost me over $300 without insurance, I'd have the pharmacy just fill me ten at a time. Once the symptoms became managable, I went to taking only 150 mg every other day. Then I'd spread the days out as far as I could. It was a fucking nightmare. I was going through full-blown withdrawal and felt like I was stuck in hell. I couldn't afford to go to the doctor to get off the meds the proper, and safer, way, so I had to do what I had to do right?
I have enough background in pharmacology to know that I wasn't going to be able just stop taking the 150 mg pills. Ideally I would have gone from 300, down to 150, down to 75, and then down to 37.5 if need be. But again, I couldn't afford to sit in the doctor's office just to have him write me a script for a lower dosage. So I just dosed myself.
One day a friend and I just happened to be discussing depression and anxiety and comparing the meds we've taken over the years. Turns out, her doctor had her on the Effexor as well, but it didn't do the trick for her. She still had two bottles of it leftover, one of 75s and one of 37.5s. She got them to me as quickly as she could.
Once I started taking the 75s, I felt so much better physically. Surprisingly, my mental health did not suffer as much as one would think it should have during this time. I wasn't taking the 75s very long when I realized I had stopped taking them altogether. And my head didn't feel like it was about to fall off of my shoulders.
Today I am chemical free, aside from popping a few Prevacids on occassion because my stomach likes to tell me to fuck off, and honestly? I like to drink, alot. And I like spicy food. So that doesn't count.
Although I really should start thinking about going back on the Pill....
The Land of Fuck by Erica Jong
The land of fuck
is not for sale.
Caught between
the muslin curtains
of the nursery
and the red damask
of the whorehouse,
the gambling den,
the mafia chieftans'
restaurant
(in whose backroom the big men
with big bellies,
big guns,
and little dicks
gamble lives
away
on a flipped card
or a throw
of bones)-
The land of fuck
is not for sale.
You can steal it
if you dare.
In a dream
you can ascend
to the special room
above the shadowy El
where, amid the rattling trains
carrying bug-eyed
exhibitionists
and drooling
adolescent boys
with perpeptual
hard-ons,
the students of Fuck
go to spill their lives away
and the semen pools
under their luminous chairs.
The Land of Fuck
is not for sale
anymore than
the sea is,
and it smells the same.
Ocean wreckage
at low tide: salt and rot
and sea meat left in the sun
too long,
sweet slime
between epochs of bone
and dust.
The Land of Fuck
is not for sale -
which does not mean
it has no price.
The tax
is tranquility, calm,
and the stillness of life.
The Land of Fuck
has a price.
is not for sale.
Caught between
the muslin curtains
of the nursery
and the red damask
of the whorehouse,
the gambling den,
the mafia chieftans'
restaurant
(in whose backroom the big men
with big bellies,
big guns,
and little dicks
gamble lives
away
on a flipped card
or a throw
of bones)-
The land of fuck
is not for sale.
You can steal it
if you dare.
In a dream
you can ascend
to the special room
above the shadowy El
where, amid the rattling trains
carrying bug-eyed
exhibitionists
and drooling
adolescent boys
with perpeptual
hard-ons,
the students of Fuck
go to spill their lives away
and the semen pools
under their luminous chairs.
The Land of Fuck
is not for sale
anymore than
the sea is,
and it smells the same.
Ocean wreckage
at low tide: salt and rot
and sea meat left in the sun
too long,
sweet slime
between epochs of bone
and dust.
The Land of Fuck
is not for sale -
which does not mean
it has no price.
The tax
is tranquility, calm,
and the stillness of life.
The Land of Fuck
has a price.
Boys
From Saturday, February 27, 2010
I love boys.
I can't get enough of boys.
I am addicted to boys.
I am under their spells
and under their thumbs.
Is that so wrong?
I don't discriminate
when it comes to boys.
I love boys.
Boys whose hair I can grab
in fistfuls.
Boys with none to pull on.
Boys covered in tattoos.
Boys with no tattoos.
Tall and skinny boys.
Tall and stocky boys.
Boys with piercings.
Boys with goatees.
Ones with bright blue eyes,
ones with dark brown eyes.
Boys that drive big loud trucks.
Ones that shoot guns,
ones that flash dimples.
Boys that love me,
boy that hurt me.
I love boys.
Ones that treat me right,
ones that break my heart.
Boys to spend the night with,
boys to kick out of my bed.
Ones that make me scream in pain,
ones that make me scream in pleasure
and ones that can do both.
Oh, how I love boys.
Boys that ride motorcycles.
Younger ones, older ones,
ones close to my age.
Boys that fuck me,
boys that make love to me.
The ones that exist
only in my imagination,
the ones that I see
almost every day.
Boy friends, boy lovers.
What difference does it make?
They are all still my boys.
Even if I can never
call some of them mine.
Whether I've cried over them
or under them, I love boys.
Whether they've used their weapon
for my destruction or my pleasure,
I can't stop loving them.
I love boys with my heart
or I love boys with my cunt.
I let them decide which it is
they want to accept.
I love boys even when
they don't love me back.
Boys I've known for years,
boys I have yet to meet.
I love them even when
I say I hate them.
Boys with a twinkle in their eye,
boys with a sinister one.
Ones that make me cum,
ones I will not allow
between my legs.
God, I love boys.
I love boys.
I can't get enough of boys.
I am addicted to boys.
I am under their spells
and under their thumbs.
Is that so wrong?
I don't discriminate
when it comes to boys.
I love boys.
Boys whose hair I can grab
in fistfuls.
Boys with none to pull on.
Boys covered in tattoos.
Boys with no tattoos.
Tall and skinny boys.
Tall and stocky boys.
Boys with piercings.
Boys with goatees.
Ones with bright blue eyes,
ones with dark brown eyes.
Boys that drive big loud trucks.
Ones that shoot guns,
ones that flash dimples.
Boys that love me,
boy that hurt me.
I love boys.
Ones that treat me right,
ones that break my heart.
Boys to spend the night with,
boys to kick out of my bed.
Ones that make me scream in pain,
ones that make me scream in pleasure
and ones that can do both.
Oh, how I love boys.
Boys that ride motorcycles.
Younger ones, older ones,
ones close to my age.
Boys that fuck me,
boys that make love to me.
The ones that exist
only in my imagination,
the ones that I see
almost every day.
Boy friends, boy lovers.
What difference does it make?
They are all still my boys.
Even if I can never
call some of them mine.
Whether I've cried over them
or under them, I love boys.
Whether they've used their weapon
for my destruction or my pleasure,
I can't stop loving them.
I love boys with my heart
or I love boys with my cunt.
I let them decide which it is
they want to accept.
I love boys even when
they don't love me back.
Boys I've known for years,
boys I have yet to meet.
I love them even when
I say I hate them.
Boys with a twinkle in their eye,
boys with a sinister one.
Ones that make me cum,
ones I will not allow
between my legs.
God, I love boys.
I'm Back!
I'm going to get back into updating this thing. Stupid Tumblr has to be awesome and take up most of the time I spend on the damn computer. Oh yeah, and then there's life, too.
Currently,
-Ma and I are still in the house. It's still rocky and a little uncertain, but we're still here, and I believe in my heart she's not going anywhere. I will fuck someone's day up if they try to make her. Seriously. I will fuck their day UP.
-I've severed my ties with my father, for the most part. I see him at family functions, but I've moved on from trying to sustain a relationship. I was given the responsibility of closing down the shop over the summer when he started his new job. The last straw was having a contractor try to rip me a new asshole because of my father's actions. Nothing like telling a guy you don't even know that what your father does is no longer any of your business, you don't give a shit, and to please fuck off with tears rolling down your face. After that episode I calmly but firmly told my father that I was walking away from the business, that I don't care what he does in his spare time, I don't care anymore if he's drinking, and I did not appreciate getting bitched at as a result of his actions. That was that and I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders.
-As for the other toxic man in my life, the infamous Buzzard, all ties have been severed with him as well and Holy fuck it's like I can breathe again! We haven't spoken since the 4th of July. To this day I don't know why, but I do know that I am SO much better off.
But I do love the fact that I'm still fucking one of his friends, unbeknownst to Buzzard of course, and his cousin and I are talking again.
-Work is going really well and I am kicking serious ass.
-I have found a wonderful friend in Andy, my road dog, my sidekick, my partner-in-crime. And Tyler. The three of us are the ultimate, most entertaining Shit Show of Wilmington.
-My nephew is growing up SO fast! He just turned a year old and he's walking and talking and seriously? The most beautiful baby. Ever. No doubt about it.
-Yeah, I still sleep around like it's my job, (sometimes I wish it were because I'd be making serious loot and maybe actually pay off my student loans before I die,) but it's all in good fun.
So hopefully I can manage to keep this blog fresh, as I've been tweaking my writing style, and for anyone who actually does take the time to read it, thanks. I hope you continue to enjoy.
Love,
Dane
Currently,
-Ma and I are still in the house. It's still rocky and a little uncertain, but we're still here, and I believe in my heart she's not going anywhere. I will fuck someone's day up if they try to make her. Seriously. I will fuck their day UP.
-I've severed my ties with my father, for the most part. I see him at family functions, but I've moved on from trying to sustain a relationship. I was given the responsibility of closing down the shop over the summer when he started his new job. The last straw was having a contractor try to rip me a new asshole because of my father's actions. Nothing like telling a guy you don't even know that what your father does is no longer any of your business, you don't give a shit, and to please fuck off with tears rolling down your face. After that episode I calmly but firmly told my father that I was walking away from the business, that I don't care what he does in his spare time, I don't care anymore if he's drinking, and I did not appreciate getting bitched at as a result of his actions. That was that and I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders.
-As for the other toxic man in my life, the infamous Buzzard, all ties have been severed with him as well and Holy fuck it's like I can breathe again! We haven't spoken since the 4th of July. To this day I don't know why, but I do know that I am SO much better off.
But I do love the fact that I'm still fucking one of his friends, unbeknownst to Buzzard of course, and his cousin and I are talking again.
-Work is going really well and I am kicking serious ass.
-I have found a wonderful friend in Andy, my road dog, my sidekick, my partner-in-crime. And Tyler. The three of us are the ultimate, most entertaining Shit Show of Wilmington.
-My nephew is growing up SO fast! He just turned a year old and he's walking and talking and seriously? The most beautiful baby. Ever. No doubt about it.
-Yeah, I still sleep around like it's my job, (sometimes I wish it were because I'd be making serious loot and maybe actually pay off my student loans before I die,) but it's all in good fun.
So hopefully I can manage to keep this blog fresh, as I've been tweaking my writing style, and for anyone who actually does take the time to read it, thanks. I hope you continue to enjoy.
Love,
Dane
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