[DAY 16] 30-Day Song Challenge

Married Boss: Are we still on for tonight?

Married Employee: Of course, sweetie. I’ll be ready when you are.

Married Boss: I can’t wait.

Married Employee: I just need to pick up my dress.

Married Boss: I can’t wait to see you in it.

I have an interview in three hours. Elsewhere, obviously. Should go great. We know of each other, professionally, and have worked with the same people at different times. If it results in an offer, cross your fingers that the money is right. This area pays abysmally low. The only remaining good thing about my current position is the pay. The aforementioned Hush Money. It’s not wonderful on a national scale, but it’s fucking stellar on a local scale. Fingers crossed?

Okay. Music time.

Day 16: A Song that’s a Classic Favorite

Some of these feel redundant. I’ve used “classics” for other themes. But “classic” is a relative term, anyway, isn’t it? Bleh. A classic favorite. As in a favorite that’s considered a classic? Or a classic favorite in the sense of “Of fucking course that’s one of your favorites.” Let’s go with a “classic song”. From my perspective, anyway.

I fucking love this song. Ever since watching American Beauty when it came out, I’ve associated this song with that film. But I still love it on its own merits, with or without the movie (which I also love). (There I go abusing that word again.)

Enjoy.

Share yours?

[DAY 12] 30-Day Song Challenge (and a work rant)

I’m having a bad day. No. I mean, a really shitty day. I’m pissed the fuck off, and wanna tell my boss where he can stick it. And it won’t be anywhere fun, I assure you. I used to like this job. No. I used to love this job. At least, as much as one can love a job in this capitalist hellhole. I actually looked forward to coming in to the office. But things have rapidly taken a turn for the worse (worst?), and I’ve put myself back on the job market. Let’s throw some bullet points at it, shall we? Because I need to vent.

  • Favorite attorney left the firm a few months ago, because of some serious bullshit she was protecting the rest of us from. (Not that she didn’t have her own baggage. But I loved working with her and miss working with her.)
  • The only attorney left, the boss man whose name is on the door, changed. Rapidly.
    • Leapt off the wagon and is drunk by 10 AM most days.
    • Shifted gears from someone who fosters teamwork and a “family” environment, someone who not only values honest input and feedback but also asks for it/expects it/demands it, to someone who has eyes for only one employee and refuses to hear feedback from anyone else – to the point where if you bring up any ideas/suggestions, you’re branded as argumentative and/or jealous of aforementioned employee. If you really need an idea pushed forward, you have to plant it in her mind. Then she will mention it to him, and voila. Like magic, it’s the bestest idea in the whole wide world.
    • Began fucking said employee. (They are both married.)
    • Vehemently denies anything inappropriate going on, though the community/clients have been openly asking questions.
    • Became careless and left extensive proof of aforementioned affair (just last week).
    • Began targeting employees based on his whore’s whim. (I’m not woman-blaming. They’re both pieces of shit, and I have zero respect for either of them.)
  • Everyone is, one by one, being pushed out by the whore. And slowly replaced with inexperienced “hot chicks” that they both find attractive and willing to work for much lower wages.
  • I’ve been the safest one for quite some time. Until today. Now I have a target on my back, because I’m not kissing the whore’s ass. I was even flat out called a liar today. By my boss. When he asked me about something. I provided him with printed proof and haven’t spoken to him since.

Yeah. It’s bad. Unfortunately, I’m probably stuck for a while. It will be hard to find something that pays as well as he does, at least around here. Feels like hush money, but he pays better than any other firm in the area.

So. I’m glad there’s music to be had. And that I had an “excuse” to come here and get some of this toxicity off of my chest.

Day 12 is an interesting one. (Okay, that’s silly to say. They’re all interesting.) But I’m struggling with how to approach it. Let’s get to it!

Day 12: A Song from Your Preteen Years

This one is from pre-preteen years. Which I suppose would still be preteen? Chronologically speaking, at least. I was really young when I ran around the parking lot of the apartment complex singing this song at the top of my little lungs. I remember telling my father that I wanted to look like Cyndi Lauper when I grew up. I’ve never forgotten his response: “You ever do some shit like that to your hair, you can find your own place to live. No daughter of mine will run around like some fucking whore.” (Yeah. When I call some cheating-ass cuntbag a whore, I’m not talking about a coolass chick with an orange undercut.) Anyway, I’m still scared to do anything wild with my hair. Related? Who knows. But I still love me some Cyndi Lauper, and this song takes me all the way back to that parking lot in South Louisiana.

Here’s one from 1992. I was twelve, so it’s probably a bit more accurately called a song from my preteens. This song was EVERYWHERE that year. Every. Where.

Same goes for this one, but I much prefer it! The other one just came to mind first.

What songs remind you of your preteens?

[DAY 10] 30-Day Song Challenge

I survived the buttstuff and am back to post Day 10 just before midnight. Sweet biscuits. I made it! (Btw, so far, mostly good news and at least one answer so far, but awaiting biopsy/lab results to know more.)

Today’s theme is another I wish I could skip, but I’m gonna go through with it. Let’s get right to it, shall we?

Day 10: A Song That Makes You Sad

As with many of the others, it’s difficult to narrow down just one. Don’t we all have those cathartic sad playlists? Those that we have to be very careful about when and how often we listen to? I haven’t listened to mine in a long time, because I’ve been on the mend in a lot of ways. And the “sad/down” playlists are risky for the mental state. But I can withstand a few, as long as I don’t dwell too long in it.

Let’s start with this one. Sophia’s “Resisting”. There was a brief time in my life when I listened to this entire album basically on loop. Seemingly endlessly. In the midst of heartache and depression and hopelessness. This was beautiful and cathartic. Sad and uplifting all at once.

From here, it gets undeniably sad. The Frames (and much of Glen Hansard’s work) have a remarkable ability to relate. To pain. To sadness. To hope. To hopes dashed. This is just one of many examples.

I’m treading into dangerous territory here. But let’s keep going, because these are beautiful songs. Sad, though they may be. They’re just so...reminiscent. Such as Damien Rice’s “9 Crimes”.

Another Damien Rice, because fuck.

Fiona Apple certainly belongs here as well.

The entire score Clint Mansell did for The Fountain is something I listen to on occasion. In the dark of night, when I’m in desperate need to feel. To internally emote. To release. To sink and rise and float away on a current of emotion. I can’t even describe what this album does to me. But what I can say is that is is important. Deeply so. This is my favorite.

I’m stopping myself here, before I get too far. Music has that ability, you know? To underscore a mood we’re already in…or to throw a switch and derail your train onto an entirely different track. I’m rapidly approaching that intersection and must proceed with caution.

What songs make you sad? Or underpin your sadness?

[DAY 9] 30-Day Song Challenge (and buttstuff)

I’m feeling good today, great considering the circumstances. I have to leave in two hours to head on in for a colonoscopy and endoscopy. The prep this time was so much easier than the first time I went through this. I guess it’s been about seven years now. Geez. A lot has changed in my life between 35 and 42 (the meaning of life, the universe, and everything). Excepting the need for probing. I’m guessing that will never change.

I may go further into some things that have been going on at a later date, but for now, I will say this. If you have colonoscopy prep in your near future, I have some unsolicited advice for you: For the 2-3 days leading up to the prep day, alter your diet to things such as protein shakes, fruits, and soft foods such as mashed potatoes. No beverages aside from water and clear liquids. No fast food. No junk food. No fried/fatty stuff. (Believe me, I fully comprehend what a tall order that is.) Do all of that prior to your prep day, and things may just go much better for you as they have for me. The first time I went through this, my diet was abominable. I can imagine I was full of fast food and soda and sweets prior to the prep day. And when I say that day was a nightmare I’ve been dreading reliving, it’s a massive understatement. This is obviously never going to be a pleasant experience, but it is certainly possible to lessen the extreme pain and discomfort of it. This time around, I’ve had no pain aside from temporary bloating because of the requisite consumption of excess fluids. But that passes quickly if you’ve prepared your body in advance. So clear the runway, and things will fly more smoothly. (You’re welcome for that awful visual comparison.)

Now, let’s get to some music, shall we?

Day 9: A Song That Makes You Happy

Today’s theme is a pleasant one, as is the epic sleep I’m sure to have post-anesthesia this evening. Seriously looking forward to that! So! A song that makes you happy. Let’s infuse some cheer and optimism in this bitch!

This one is difficult. Not because I can’t think of one, but because there are so. fucking. many. I mean this first one is a no-brainer. It’s the damn name of the song, and if it doesn’t at least brighten your mood to some teeny tiny degree, you probably need to be on stronger meds than I am. Not that you have to like it, mind you. But it’s so damn … happy.

Another happy song with a similar vibe:

Up next, because we all need Prince in our lives:

For a completely different sound and musical vibe but similar impact, the (almost) always happy-making Bill Withers:

I’m gonna end today’s Happy theme with Lizzo, because damn if that strong woman doesn’t make me happy. And I’m feelin’ good as hell.

What songs spark your happy?

[DAY 1] 30-Day Song Challenge

Guess who’s back. Back again. (Yes, I stole lyrics from a lyrically weak song as an opener to a post about songs. I told you. I’m out of material. Wordless.)

Since I haven’t quite figured out what to say and whether I want to say anything (which I must kinda wanna or I wouldn’t have hacked my own account to get back in just to say I’m wordless), I’ve decided to use a gimmick in hopes I can trick myself into having a compelling reason to post every day for a solid month. Those of you who know me know that this is still unlikely to work, but it’s worth a shot. And maybe, just maybe, this exercise will dredge up other non-gimmicky words.

I won’t hold my breath, for fear of accidental auto(un)erotic asphyxiation.

Without further ado, here lies the challenge:

Day 1: A song you like with a color in the title

This one is a no-brainer for me. It’s obviously Blue in Green. Miles Davis. I’m giving myself bonus points, because that’s clearly two colors. One in another. From an album with a color in the title. Kind of Blue.

Anyway. This is the only possible response I could have to the Day 1 prompt. For me, it conjures love, longing, the push/pull dance of two lovers becoming cautiously acquainted. At once shy and daring, blushing, pleading, the horn and the keys representative of two entangling souls. Please, do yourself a favor, and enjoy this melodious delight. Then, if so inclined, share with me your own personal colorful song.

Parking Lot People

I like to leave the office for my lunch break. I used to have a bad tendency to simply never take a lunch, in jobs past. Now, I make it a point to. I’m not getting paid for that hour, and damnit, I need to be kind to myself. Take the hour. Ingest some fresh air. Get off my ass. De-stress myself as much as possible.

Thing is, my office is in a weird little spot. There are no parks nearby, and it’s not close enough to downtown to go for a stroll. We’re right on a highway, so it’s pretty much either: have lunch at your desk (and continue working, because you won’t be left alone), take your lunch break in your vehicle in the parking lot (weird and awkward), take your lunch to the picnic table out back (and not be left alone), go out to eat (and go broke), or take your lunch to some other random parking lot.

The last option on that list is the one most people in this vicinity seem to gravitate to. I spend nearly every one of my lunch breaks sitting in my vehicle, parked in the parking lot of a local grocery store. And anywhere from five to two dozen other folks are doing the same thing.

All parked in the grocery store parking lot. Eating lunch. Alone. But together. Some listening to music. Some chatting on their phones. Some texting. Some playing games. Some smoking. Some napping. Some exiting their vehicles and sitting on the asphalt, just to be that much closer to fresh air and sunshine.

We exchange occasional nods of acknowledgement when we accidentally make eye contact with fellow Parking Lot People.

Other than that, it’s a solo thing. For many. It’s weird and sad and uplifting all at the same time.

And I dunno why, but I just wanted to mention these Parking Lot People, of whom I’m one.

That is all.

 

Sal

She came over last night. Texted first.

Hey you gonna be home 2night?

Yes, I’ll be there by 7 for damn sure – hopefully sooner. What’s up?

Holler when you get settled we can have a nightcap

Sounds good.

~

I’ve only met her twice. She lives across the street and is a friend of my roommates. We sat outside, laughing and toking and sipping alcoholic beverages, trading stories around a fire. (Well, I mostly listened and laughed as Sal and one of my roommates traded stories and bantered.)

I’d ignored her Thanksgiving text.

Hey this is sal across street. I’m making yummy food & watching football if you wanna come over

I heard the soft alert. Picked up the phone. Discovered my roommate must have given Sal my number. Swiped to read the text. Read the text. Turned the screen back off. Flipped my pillow over for a new, cooler side. Smooshed my face back into said pillow. And went back to sleep.

Though I apologized only a couple hours later and was honest about what my day looked like (this time of year is rough on me, y’all, but she was also alone), she hadn’t spoken to me since. And, of course, I’d read into that, but I shouldn’t have.

So this time, I immediately responded. “Sounds good. :-),” was my reply, even though it didn’t. Sound good, that is. It’s fucking cold out, and I knew she’d wanna hang outside. I was hungry. Grumpy. Sleepy. Itching to read my third book in as many days.

But Sal is lonely…no, starved for attention and affection is more like it. Polite. And harmless, if occasionally flirtatious. The roommate she’s closest to was out of town, and the other roommate hides in his room more often than not. So this would just be me. Me and Sal.

~

I get home from work, tend to the kittyboys, bust out the leaf blower to clear the back patio and pool cover, use the bathroom, wash my hands, pop open a sour, and let Sal know I’m home.

I perch myself on a kitchen stool and try to focus on the words of the book in my hand as I wait. Half an hour. Not really frustrated, but wishing I knew if I had time enough to eat.

I’m out back

As I’m opening the sliding glass door from the dining room to the patio, I see Sal standing there, slightly stooped over and cupping her hands to coax a flame from her lighter to the tip of her cigarette. She’s tall: a good six inches taller than me, at least. Sturdy, but not in the way “creative” authors use “sturdy” as some innovative and less-offensive term for “fat.” No, the woman is sturdy. Strong. I don’t know what hair, if any, she has. It’s winter, and I’ve only ever seen her with a hoodie on, over a beanie. No stragglers peeking out. She’s wearing tan colored overalls. The hoodie she’s donned over that is orange, and her beanie is gray. Fuchsia slippers adorn her feet. That’s right: slippers.

She has some mystery foot ailment, you see. I heard hints at it on the first night I met her, but last night she explained.

Doctors don’t know what ‘n the hell’s wrong with my feet. Open wounds. Blisters-like, but not blisters. They’re hard. Can’t stand them fuckin’ shoes any more’n I have to, so I put on my slippers soon ‘s I get home. Reckon I’ll lose my feet one o’ these days. But for now, these slippers sure are nice.

Sal, would you like to sit down?

Naw. I’m use ta standin’, but thanks.

Sal fires up a joint and puff-puff-passes it right on over to me. Of course, I oblige. And she chats.

And chats.

And chats.

That’s all Sal wanted, really, all she needed: someone to talk to. Not necessarily with, but to. And to know that that someone was listening, actually and actively listening. She’d first arrived under the pretense of borrowing something from one of the sheds.

Promise I have permission. Told her I needed a scale, and she says there’s one on the shelf in her shed.

HOLY shit! Holy SHIT! *Sal emerges from the shed, holding aloft a bulky black scale.* I told her it was for WEED. I could stand on this thing! I mean, I’d break the motherfucker, but point is I could fit both my feet on this som’bitch.

That scale was a source of random jokes over the course of the next hour or so, but her true purpose was to chat. No, to not be alone. If only for a little while.

~

The longer she was there, the happier I became. And not because of the herb. I didn’t let myself partake enough to be too far gone. I just became aware of how special it was to her to not be alone for a while, and I indulged in that feeling a bit myself. Allowed myself to be happy and present, rather than silently willing time to fast-forward to a not-so-distant future point when Sal’d be gone and I’d be alone again.

Sal’s forty-nine years old. Did I tell you that? A forty-nine year old self-described “uber butch” lesbian, who tries really hard not to flirt with me but would “eat [me] from sundown to sunup” if I let her. She’s actually cut it out, so I can relax and enjoy conversing. (First night in her presence was rough, lemme tell ya. She was relentless.)

She filled me in on weighty chunks of her life story last night.

Her father molested her as a child. For ten years. Ten. Fucking Years. The state finally found out when she was twelve. (That’s right. TEN. YEARS. By the time she was TWELVE. Let that shit sink in.) No thanks to her mother, who knew all along and said nothing. Did nothing. She was placed in foster care, group homes, but ran away and struck out on her own at sixteen.

Her relationships have composed of a series of women whom she busts her ass for, remodeling kitchens, constructing retaining walls, designing elaborate landscapes, building furniture to desired specifications, staining and restaining this surface and that. Only to be brushed aside when the last project on the list gets checked off. The last one was so nuts, she locked Sal in their bedroom (with her own children witnessing it all) for twelve hours. Barricaded her there. Then called the police on Sal and had her jailed, making all these wild accusations about her life being endangered. Even the woman’s kids reported on Sal’s behalf that their mother was the crazy one, here.

~

There were tears in Sal’s eyes as she told me of her adoptive parents. She’s going to live with them in Upstate New York, where she’s from. Moving sometime before Christmas.

She just met them a couple of months ago and went to visit them for a couple of weeks.

My dad has cancer. I know this is gonna sound bad but I don’t mean it but I do but I was hoping that som’bitch would die while I was in the area. So I could poke that motherfucker and make damn sure he’s really dead.

Turns out, the woman watched Sal grow up. She was married to Sal’s father before Sal’s mother was. Sal’s father cheated on her with Sal’s mother. This woman never had children and always hated the way Sal was treated. Watched her grow up…from a distance. Even attended her ballgames. But never said a word. Not even when Sal could have used somebody when she went into the system at twelve.

But the woman is there for Sal now. The woman and her husband, both. And they’re – no shit – adopting Sal. Formal, legit, legal papers are being drawn up, so Sal will have the family – the parents – she’s always longed for. She already calls her “mama.”

She was so excited. So fucking excited. Her eyes were filled with it – this giddy, unvarnished excitement that we tend to call “child-like.” But why can’t adults feel that way, too? Yes, there’s a lot to Sal that can be considered “child-like” and under-developed. But she’s also a grownass woman, one that has lived her whole life in search of someone to love her. Need her. Cherish her. Value her. Parent her. Nurture her. And by god, her excitement and relief and hope and regret and optimism and fear were palpable. Palpable. 

She tried to apologize, and I had to stop her. Express to her how special this all is and how I’m sharing in her excitement and hope.

You’re fun, Stephanie. *smiles genuinely at me* Really fun. This was fun – thank you for talking to me.

No, Sal. Thank you. Really.

~

Sal left me with more jokes about the incongruous scale, hopes that her old beater truck is up to the several-hundred mile journey ahead, and half a joint.

I shall enjoy it this evening, while reflecting on Sal and her journeys past, present, and future. And the little, tiny slice of her life I’ve gotten to share in before she moves on to her next chapter.

Or perhaps I’ll invite her over and actively engage…save the reflecting for days Sal-past.

Part 3: The part where I say, “I can’t do this.”

As in, I can’t write this. Not in the way I set out to. Not in a full purging of details, getting it all out in a neat and tidy summing up.

It’s fucking me up in a few ways. So while I’ve come to feel obligated to tell the tale (by my own doing, I mean), I have to allow myself to not. Bits and pieces may appear, randomly peppered in here and there. Or hell, maybe I’ll change my mind and resume the full telling.

But for now, I need to put it aside because it has become a roadblock for me here. And it’s not putting me in a good mental space, spending so much time dedicated to telling it or thinking on how to tell it or what to tell or how in depth to delve or is it even fucking safe to do so.

Anyway.

Hi. I’ll write more soon. About something unrelated, most likely.

Part 2: The Beginning

Have you ever heard the supposed-Italian proverb, “A bad beginning makes a bad ending”? Well. You’ve heard of it now, and it gives you a succinct understanding of where this is headed: a bad ending. (Or was it?)

Trigger Warning

Before we go any further, I wanna break my own “rule” of not saying “trigger warning.” I haven’t been around for a while, and there may be new people lurking that don’t know to expect to be triggered. Telling you now, expect it. I don’t know if it will be in this part or the next, but I will be talking about abuse (physical, psychological, emotional, sexual). I will be talking about substance abuse: i.e. alcoholism/a raging alcoholic and meth. I will be talking about severe Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD). I will be talking about theft. I will be talking about infidelity. I may be talking about rape. There. That should give you at least an idea of what to expect. So move forward with caution, or not at all. Totally cool.

Happy Birthday to Me

I met Dirk (that’s his name now) the day after my birthday last year. That’s July 2017. We were supposed to meet the day before, on my birthday. He changed plans at the last second. (Red Flag #1 – don’t worry; I won’t be counting those. There aren’t enough numbers to cover them all.) He was late, and I had to wait for him. (Red Flag #2) He’d already been drinking by the time he got there. (Red Flag #3. Okay. I’ll stop. You get the point, and so did I. I just chose to ignore it.)

I was wildly uncomfortable, because it was clear, straight away, that I was on a date with someone whom was exactly opposite my personality and not at all my type. He was wild, outspoken, obnoxious, mouthy, and such a fucking bro…but also jocular, incredibly charming, and dead fucking sexy.

So I stayed. Against my better judgment, which was screaming at me and pounding away at the door to my common sense. I locked that bitch and stayed.

And So It Begins

Thus commenced the maddening, ill-fated relationship that followed. What came next was a series of random, unscheduled, nights spent together. Yeah, I’m not gonna go into detail on that. For your sake and for mine. Let’s just say, I’ve dubbed him Dirk for a reason. And so I had fun. I worked hard to separate my heart from it all and remain emotionally divested. It worked, for a time. It worked until he decided he needed to draw me closer to use and manipulate me more thoroughly and efficiently.

It went like this: Random Tuesday night, I get a call. Wham, bam, thank you Dirk. Random Thursday night, perhaps a week later, I get a text. Wham, bam, thank you Dirk. Perhaps a week or so would pass. I think I’ll never hear from him again. I’m strangely happy about that. Though I was having fun, his personality was so fucking intense, I could only handle it in small doses and was always relieved when he was gone. Random Saturday afternoon, I get a text. Yeah. You get the idea.

This went on for a couple of months. Until one day, the text was something like, “I miss your face. I miss your gorgeous smile and your awesome fucking giggles and your dimples. I need to see you.” (I don’t have dimples.)

Uhm. What? Really? Since when do you say shit like that…my eyebrows are raised, and I’m skeptical. But flattered. And charmed.

“I’m fucking serious! Can I come see you?”

Duh. I mean. It’s been a while at this point, and I could use another marathon Dirking. “I’m warning you if you say yes, I’m gonna stay a while.”

How long is a while?

“I dunno couple weeks”

You sure about that? Just a couple weeks?

“Yup, I gotta be on the road soon, so it can’t be longer than that.”

~

And so began Part 3: Cohabitation. Not trying to be all cliff-hangery, y’all. I can only handle this shit in short bursts.

More to come.

 

Part 1: The Reason

Over a year ago now, I wrote about gingers, specifically the abundance of gingers in my foray into the Portland(ish) dating scene. I directly referenced a few, in particular. I ended up taking a chance on one of those gingers; I believe I referred to him as something like the “simple, but wild one.”

Why on earth would I saddle myself up to a “simple, but wild one”? I’ve asked myself that same question, as have some of my most important friends in the world. (Looking at you, Tomas and stupidityhole and Cheeky.)

One of the easiest conclusions that I’ve come to is this: Despite moving across the country, escaping my own personal hell that was Louisiana, to pursue a lifelong dream of the Pacific Northwest…I found myself soon fallen into the same patterns, the same rut: that of work, cheap fast food or no food at all, bingewatching some bullshit show, not being able to focus on reading…on words, and spending most of my time alone and moping, in bed. I knew a physical move wouldn’t fix anything other than the immediate surrounding stimuli that fucked me up on the daily in Louisiana. I knew it would take real effort. But I was failing at it.

So I started dating. I never felt comfortable doing so in Louisiana, partly because my better-part-of-5-year-separation took that long to culminate in a divorce, and partly because I’d have never been comfortable dating there. Running into my ex while out on a date, or even trying to date someone and get serious with someone in a place I knew I couldn’t stay. Couldn’t live. Couldn’t breathe.

So I started dating. Dating sites, of course. How else was a recluse going to meet anyone? I met some terrible people, but I met some damn good people, too. I had some fun. I had some prospects for serious. (I learned quickly that in modern dating, one has to openly profess they are monogamous if they have any hopes of landing someone who isn’t into “ethical non-monogamy.” Y’all. You do you, but that’s just not my jam. I’ve tried to be open to it, but it’s just not me. It’s so far out of my comfort zone that it can only end in misery.)

I also quickly learned that, while I wanted someone whom would date me exclusively while we decided whether or not we were compatible, I also wasn’t ready to plummet straight into some til-death-do-us-part thing. Another thing I learned is that I get bored easily. Very easily. I don’t want to sit on the couch, night after night, bingewatching tv. I don’t want to waste my life away watching other people live theirs. I don’t want to talk about politics, every single day, day in and day out. And no, I don’t want to rush into marriage and move into your parent’s farmhouse, for fuck’s sake.

I wanted…needed…craved…excitement, stimulation, new.

Enter the “simple, but wild one.” I’ll come up with something to call him at some point, but for now, that will do.

He was wild. He was unpredictable. He was untamed. He wasn’t interested in anything serious. He wanted to go out. He wanted to do things. And oh dear god, was he fun. The most fun I’d ever had with a boy I was seeing regularly. There was an edge of danger to it all, and it was fucking thrilling.

And so, I allowed myself to get carried away with it. Sucked into his insane fucking charisma and magnetism. I willfully turned a blind eye to the enormous red flags that anyone who’s ever known him can see (like his extreme levels of narcissism and sociopathy and alcoholism). I willfully entered into a thing that caused everyone I knew – including the few of his friends I was allowed to meet – to seriously inquire, “What the hell are you doing with him?” (That question got more and more searing as time went on, more and more pressing, more and more concerning from the asker, and more and more telling to me of just how obvious it was to absolutely everyone what a brutal fucking mistake I was making.)

But, son of a bitch, I was having fun. I was living life with reckless abandon, something most people get out of their systems in their teens. Something I’d never done.

That. Is the reason. Well. That is the surface reason. More reasons will be expressed in future chapters. Like the whole, I lived so much of my life in fear of winding up with a replica of my father. And I did. Not only did I “wind up” with him, I dove headlong into it.

This isn’t a tale I can tell in one sitting, hence the parsing of it into chapters. I don’t have the energy for it, nor do I have the desire to give it that much time and attention in one sitting.

But that. That is my version of a beginning for this. That is my reason for what came to pass.