- I loathe stupid people.
- My eyes are bright green and more than one person has asked me if I wear colored contacts. I don't.
- My hair is an unfortunate shade of very dark brown that I got out of a box.
- I was diagnosed OCD and clinical depression in my 20s and I've taken medication for it for two decades.
- I'm 5'3
- I hoard receipts. It's really difficult for me to throw them away. I keep them in a basket that I shred once a year. It takes about a week for me to force myself through that process. My husband sometimes stands with me by the shredder and pats my back. Sometimes I cry. It's the biggest issue I have with OCD so I know I've got it better than most.
- I was bullied mercilessly in junior high because I was more developed than other girls. The girls often called me a slut and the boys would often sexually harass me. This continued straight into my freshman year of high school until I punched a junior in the dick for grabbing my breasts in the hall. The school tried to punish me until I started to demand they call the cops so I could file sexual assault charges against their star forward on the basketball team. His father made him apologize to me while his mother tried to blame me because apparently having breasts at 15 meant I was asking for it.
- I think republicans are irredeemable and disgusting people.
- I'm child free but it wasn't my choice and no I don't want comments about adoption or anything else. Seriously.
- I like my dogs more than most people.
He counts on me to strike up conversations, carry the small talk, and make people feel like they're getting to know him even when they're not. He's the kind of person who'd rather not shake hands but will because he knows it's polite but he honestly doesn't tolerate other people touching him all that well at all.
Except for me.
His sister pointed out to me about a year after I started dating him that she hadn't been invited to hug him since she was in high school. Eventually, she realized he just wasn't comfortable with that level of contact even with family and stopped as she said "inflicting her desire for physical affection on him". I was kind of floored actually because he hugs me (and has since the start) ten to fifteen times a freaking day.
Honestly, he's all up in my space all the damn time.
I'm his person, his safe place, and his comfort all rolled up into one.
I'm an extrovert, you might have noticed, and will talk to strangers just as happily as I will to a person I've known for 20 years if I'm in the mood for conversation. I went to the grocery store the other day and had five conversations with complete strangers about everything from produce to the best organic milk.
As we were leaving the parking lot my husband said, "It must be exhausting being you. It's no wonder you have the following you do online--it's like you have a cult personality or something."
And I responded, "Well I do run a cock worship cult actually so I can't even get mad."
Regardless, I'm all whiny and shit because I can't listen to music on my headphones which is super important because it's a huge part of my writing process so I'm not writing. I've only got about 30k more plotted for my RT story and I've already posted 10k so I'll meet my goal for the month (surely) but it's annoying to be limited by a physical situation versus say a mental one where I'm just not in the mood to write.
So, I've been sitting here playing a stupid Facebook game and I read some intolerant bullshit today that made me pissy I had to take time out in the shower. Well, I didn't have to take a shower during my computer time out but it seemed like a good use of that time.
To check things out, I'm getting an MRI tomorrow though the doctor doesn't expect to find anything. It's just she doesn't currently have a picture of my brain. I told her, that the last time I saw something stupid on the internet that I got a brief look at my brain and it looked normal. ;-)
Anyways, I'm going to try to journal more to sort of make my whole move from LJ to Dreamwidth worth it....that implies I had to work. I didn't. That shit went smooth as silk still I haven't checked for duplicate entries yet and honestly I don't care if there are duplicate entries. More and more the whole thing with LJ and Russia bothers me so I hope people are paying attention to what's being said and they aren't sticking their heads in the sand over the whole thing.
Additionally, the English-language terms of service are no longer considered legally-binding. The new terms prompted wide concern from users who believed that their content would now be targeted under Russian censorship policies, including the country's "gay propaganda" law.
If you value all the work you've put into your journal over the years, you'll move your shit before you're subject to this bullshit.
I haven't had my hair cut/styled in about six months.
Maybe it's because I gained weight due to the PCOS and I felt so "ugh" for months on end that I just stopped caring about my personal appearance. It really isn't about the make-up because as I said, I've rarely worn a lot anyways but in the past I've always made sure to be put together if you know what I mean.
More to the point, this whole time I didn't realize I was having some kind of self esteem thing going on --which is also probably related to depression. Maybe I need a stronger prescription.
PS -- Do not dare give me a lecture about "natural" remedies or recommend I take a walk in the fucking woods or some such nonsense. I've got a chemical imbalance in my brain that requires actual medication prescribed by a real goddamned doctor. Just FYI.
I have plenty of ideas so it's not that I don't have any ideas to work on and to be honest I probably have about 50 works in progress that I could spend time on.
I just...don't want to.
I've been writing for three decades so, of course, there have been times when I simply have no desire to do it but I always hate these points in my life as I feel stifled and weird.
There's this moat of dismal around my creative mind and I don't even want to get in the boat and try to cross it.
It's such a weird place to be.
- I like to sit in certain places in the places I go often (especially the library or the cafe)
- I park my car in certain areas of parking lots and have been known to wait for a spot to open up.
- I write with a certain kind of pen and changing that pen can be stressful (like when a company changes a design or stops making my pen altogether)
- I do certain things in certain places -- write there, read in the chair, do work at my main computer, don't do work on my laptop.
- I have a few minor hoarding issues -- that I work very hard to keep under control so I don't end up on an episode of Hoarders. I allow myself to keep notebooks, pens, bags, purses but nothing else.
Sometimes forcing myself to throw things away can be traumatic as fuck. Today, I made myself throw some things away that I'd been keeping for no real reason (receipts, old magazines, catalogs--I wish I was kidding) and I thought I was okay with it. I mean there was no panic before hand and my husband came upstairs. He asked me a question about something and I just had a complete and utter meltdown. I burst into tears and cried for twenty minutes solid.
I have this deep sense of shame attached to my OCD and often it drives me crazy that throwing away a fucking receipt can lead to such a loss of control. It's embarrassing -- this attachment I have to old mail and receipts. It makes no sense but then I guess if it made sense I wouldn't keep it for months at a time in a basket until I force myself to go through it and throw it away.
My husband is a real trooper though and that's the truth of it. He just made me some tea and put me on the couch and let me cry until I was done.
I can't remember his question and I'm a thousand percent sure I did't answer it.
Now, my mother is firmly of the belief that you can only buy GOOD watermelon between July 1st and August 31st. She's very serious about this and will not buy a watermelon even a day outside of this time period. I'm not patient enough to wait for the magical Watermelon Witching Hour (tm). So I bought one the last week of June.
I set up my watermelon cutting tools (large knife, cutting board, some bowls to store it in my frig, a garbage bag for the rind) and start peeling my watermelon like I was taught to do on Youtube in an honestly much slower fashion than the YouTube guy. Regardless, I have the tools, the technique, and this beautiful watermelon. I cut off the rind, slice it half to start cutting my little watermelon squares and...much to my horror it is not seedless. It had all the seeds. I mean it, it had all the seeds I've avoided in the years since seedless watermelons became a thing in grocery stores.
The betrayal was real.
But I'm not wasteful so I cut my very seedy watermelon and we ate it. It wasn't terrible but I don't particularly enjoy spitting seeds out.
Yesterday, the husband and I were at a popular warehouse store and they had big bins of seedless watermelon everywhere. But my betrayal was fresh--would I get all the seeds again? The man assured me that statistically speaking it was unlikely that I'd be so betrayed again so I picked one out (with much less joy than normal).
I cut it and it was perfect. I called my mother to tell her that perhaps there is something to her Watermelon Witching Hour thing after all.
My whole day is actually clear because I made it a writing day on my calendars...and yet I'm nearly full to the brim with the idea that I've forgotten to do something very important. It's deeply annoying. In fact, it's so distracting that I can't even write like I have planned. The last time this happened I binge-watched MacGyver on Netflix. All seven seasons. Granted, it took more than a day but the point remains. This is an issue.
In other news, as I'm sure many of you are already asking yourselves if I know about the reboot of MacGyver. I know and I'm actually kind of looking forward to it. I hope they don't fuck it up.
I'm entering another round of medical testing -- the new specialist put lupus and rheumatoid arthritis on the table today. I've known that was coming for a while so more tests, x-rays, and blood work. More stress.
Sometimes, I spend the first forty-five minutes of day crying because I pretty much hurt all over. It's get better after I start moving but moving is the really hard part. I can't spend more than twenty minutes on my feet without them both feeling like they're on fire.
Pain makes me mean. There is no way around it. The more it hurts the more impatient, ill-tempered, and hostile I am. I take over the counter pain meds mostly because the narcotics scare the fuck out of me.
Pain makes it hard to sleep and almost impossible to get rest so you wake up exhausted and honestly just genuinely depressed because you know it's not going to get any better as the day goes on.
Pain makes it hard to concentrate.
Pain makes it hard to think.
Pain makes it really easy not to give a fuck.
Pain just breaks you one fucking day at a time.
I'm gonna go some eat cheese cake because fuck all this.
I think, sometimes, that you don't realize how much stress you're suffering under until your situation changes in a drastic way and that source of stress is removed. Over the past month, I've been going through a battery of tests for leukemia. The reason being is that I had all the symptoms (but one) of someone with chronic leukemia. All of the blood work that has been done came back negative today -- now they're testing for other things and I might have a bone marrow biopsy in my future just to be sure. But the thing is when the doctor told me she wanted to check for leukemia my brain sort of went sideways on me.
I worry a lot about breast cancer - I have every reason to. But leukemia? I wasn't worried about that. I had tests done about five years ago because of an elevated white blood cell count and everything came back fine. I thought that was just off the table for future concern which I know is stupid. Hindsight really is a motherfucker.
The doctor ordered some more tests today because obviously there is something wrong and the bone tenderness in particular is worrying for both me and my doctor. A consistant amount of pressure on practically any large bone in my body causes a moderate amount of pain. It doesn't hurt as I sit here though if I crossed my legs on my foot stool -- the bottom leg would start to hurt almost immediately. It's such a weird situation.
So, it's not leukemia. I can take those dire numbers off the table because the average life expectancy for someone with chronic leukemia is just ten fucking years after diagnosis. I've had that number brewing around in my head for almost an entire month.
Anyways, lately I've been short-tempered and it's shone itself in a variety of ways in my online life. I came home this afternoon after going over all of the results and just crawled into my bed. The relief was was so intense it actually gave me a headche. How odd is that?
Dramatic Huffing Man: I wanted that.
Your First Lady of Porn: I got to it first.
Dramatic Huffing Man: You had three in your cart already-- you should give me the fourth one.
Your First Lady of Porn: No, I'm getting all four.
Dramatic Huffing Man: A good Christian would share.
Your First Lady of Porn: I'm not even a Christian so fuck off.
I walk away. He follows. Huffs and tries to talk to me again. He follows me all the way to frozen foods where I'm trying to navigate around three thousand (okay -- just five) people to get to the frozen french fries.
Dramatic Huffing Man: Just give me the fourth one or else.
(WOW -- I must have an asshole-magnet in my ass. I swear OR there are a lot of men who really can't handle being told no by a woman)
I turn and stare at him.
Your First Lady of Porn: OR else what, exactly? Are you going to take it from me? Are you going to report me to the manager of the store for failing to bow down to your old white dude entitlement? Are you going to call the cops and tell them I'm not giving you what you want? Seriously, just what do you plan to do?
He huffed twice and stalked off while every one around just stared. But, I'm a bitch so I couldn't let him walk away without shouting after him --- "Happy holidays, asshole!"
The things I do for my Cock Provider.
I'm having a birthday party and everyone is welcome to attend:
There will be a live chat and probably a few callers. We only have 2 hours so I don't know how many I'll be able to take. Please don't get upset if I don't get to take your call!
Also check out my birthday post on my site:
You guys are all super awesome!
I was outside with Sisko tossing around his kong toy and he was graciously fetching for me and I sat down in a chair on my patio.... and right into a puddle of water because, duh, it rained all day. But it was warm outside so I said fuck it and sat there and continued to toss this toy. Eventually I got up, tossed the toy some more, cleaned up the patio and what not. Now, because it was still about 70 degrees, by the time I went into the house I was essentially dry. I changed out my gardening pants (which I was wearing because I don't care if the dogs get them dirty) and pulled on a pair of yoga pants. Then I went about my evening.
Fast forward several hours later, I was in the bathroom... and there is no delicate way to put this. So I was peeing and I finished and I used toilet paper to take care of that, right? Only it came away ... hot pink. Being a girl and exceedingly comfortable with my own junk I grabbed a mirror and did an inspection... SIGH. I really regret that very thorough shave I gave myself. But not as much as I regret the hot pink panties I was wearing when I sat down in that puddle of water.
Oh, the trials of being a girl.
We're at the sinks when someone enters the bathroom--obviously female--but dressed kind of masculine with a very short hair cut. There was a another woman in bathroom, and she made a little huffy sound and asked, "Are we in the wrong bathroom?"
And my mother said, "I'm not. Honey, are you in the wrong bathroom?"
"Nope. Does Wal-Mart have a bathroom for intolerant, judgmental bitches? Because maybe she's in the wrong bathroom."
Mom frowned, "well, they should have a separate bathroom for intolerant, judgmental bitches -- I don't like you being around bad influences."
"Then you guys shouldn't stay in Wal-Mart long, this place is full of intolerant, judgmental bitches," the new woman said.
The Huffy woman stomps out in a snit.
And my mom exchanged a fist bump with the new woman and asked where she got her hair cut.
Twenty-five minutes later, my mom was sitting in a Cost Cutters getting her hair cut the exact same way. I got my hair cut, too. It's the shortest it's been since I was fifteen.
I get this contact form:
This is going to sound crazy but I just noticed in reading Harry Potter & the Soulmate Bond that you have Hermione keeping her... private place hairless. Why?"
- - - -
First, if you're going to have Minion status you're just going to have to Minion Up and call it a PUSSY.
Second? Well, I actually wrote most of this story as a young woman and I've been shaving myself bare since I was sixteen. I hate pubic hair. I tend to write women shaved or with very little hair as a result. This is an author quirk. If I don't have them bare I rarely mention their pubic hair at all.
I'm a firm believer in manscaping, too.
PS- This is easily the best ever use of the "I'm Stalking You" subject line in my contact form.
So, Cock Provider hasn't had much to say about my whole radio show thing beyond making sure he doesn't get on the air by accident.
I told him that the package I picked out on BlogTalk Radio would allow me up to 2 hours a day if I wanted. And he looked at me like I was a weirdo and asked, "Do you really have that much to say?"
And I stared at him (kind of horrified to be honest) and asked, "You don't?"
And he was like straight-up, no hesitation, "Nope."
Gonna do a test show tonight to figure out my dashboard. Call me if you have time:
I have some nosy ass bitches for neighbors. I fit in like a mother fucker.
9:30 AM - Door bell rings, Cock Provider goes to answer it because I'm not allowed to answer the door on his Sabbath because I have no respect for religion and he'd prefer that I not insult people on the Lord's day if they come to the door to sell Jesus.
9:32 AM - He comes into my office and says, "your Old Lady Posse is at the door. They want you to walk Sisko with them around the corner because one of them heard yelling on the next street over." (Aside, I'm the youngest woman on my street by at least 20 years)
I say, "put his harness on while I find my shoes!" He does this grudgingly and I'm out the door to investigate the goings on with the OLP at 9:36.
We power walk down the street (they are extremely fit ladies. I'm exhausted now by the way) and around the corner. Unfortunately there is nothing casual about the six of us walking down the street (even with a couple of dogs as an excuse). But that turned out to not be a problem since practically everyone living on the street was out on their front lawns anyway watching the... screaming fit two women were having over the fact that apparently one of their dogs is in heat (a French bulldog) and the other's dog (a spaniel mix of some sort) mounted her like a boss.
They came to blows twice before their husbands separated them. Meanwhile, we're all just standing there watching the show because why bother with pretending we aren't when like 15 people are standing out on their laws watching already? Sisko is so bored he looks like he's contemplating a nap when Roscoe (a Miniture Pinscher one of the old ladies borrowed from a neighbor man for her 'cover') started barking. He barked so hard he was bouncing. Sisko stared at him for a few seconds then just Gibbs-Smacked him. Roscoe fell over with a huff.
Our laughter drew the ire of the two women fighting over the dogs and I barely kept my old lady neighbors from getting a genuine fist fight.
Now, the five year old is bossy. No, really, she's probably the boss of you -- you just haven't met her yet. Let's call her Mini-Me.
The eight year old is totally a Princess and will tell you straight up if she doesn't like you, your behavior, your words, your thoughts, your politics, and your shoes.
I'm only slightly convinced that the nine year old means "ballerina" when she says she wants to be a Dancer. (She'd hardly be the first woman in my family to make a more exotic path).
They all three got tablets for Christmas. Somehow, Princess' tablet suddenly has a SD card in it that it didn't have when we bought them. Now, about six months ago Stoic Nephew lost the mini SD card that goes in his PSP and he blamed Padawan for taking it (which he didn't) but that's what brothers do. I had to produce a freaking receipt to prove to Stoic Nephew that I purchased the SD card that Padawan had in his Galaxy tab.
Now, as you might suspect, Stoic Nephew is pretty convinced that Princess has his SD card and her response to this accusation was:
"Why you gotta bring up old stuff?"
My sister blames me.
I regret nothing.