The Crone

I wrote this on the spur of the moment with absolutely no idea what it would be or what would happen. I had the first couple of paragraphs in my head and the rest of it happened on it’s own. It was written just for fun and isn’t intended to be the beginning of a story or anything, it’s just a scene that happened organically. I hope you like it.


Every old crone was once beautiful. Her face, though crumpled now like rolled up paper pulled from a wastebasket and unfurled, was once taut and shining, with the bloom and promise of youth and hope. Not all crones have lost hope, and not all crones have lost youth, either.

The symmetry of the woman’s face, the plump lips, the wide nose, the almond shape of the eyes, with creamy brown and gold irises just a shade lighter than the woman’s hair, which make them seem even brighter by contrast. These features grow and gain experience, and though they are covered by wrinkles and lines and warts, these too are additions to the woman’s features, not detractions.

From the point of a view of an infant, an adult face is a hideous thing, with its oily texture and its small dark hairs sprouting from every surface, and the irritated bumps and sores that sometimes appear on it. From the point of view of an infant, an adult face is not an improvement whatsoever. But that point of view is incorrect. Age only adds, it does not subtract. From the point of view of the adult, the face an aged crone is disgusting, but this point of view too is wrong. And from the point of view of the crone, the face of a corpse is repellant, and fearful.

And from the point of view of the corpse, well, corpses keep their silence so well that it would be hard to know.

It was on these thoughts that the mind of the witch Samantha ruminated, as she sat atop her nightly gazing spot, high on the hill that overlooked the plains. She knew without checking the time that it was nearly midnight, because the moon was shining full, and silver blue light splashed across the deep green grasses, and the grasses did that curious thing that the grasses of the plains do, they began to light up at the touch of moonlight, bioluminescent stalks of green that shone with a white glow. There were flowers out there, among the grasses of the fields, and they too began to glow, the blue and red and purple petals glowing against the moon. It was not a trick of the moonlight, it was the strange habit of the flora of these plains, and it was why Samantha still believed she chose the perfect spot to retire.

It wasn’t so much a retirement, at least not at first. It was concealment. Samantha had fled the purges of her sisters, though she helped as many as she could get to safety, but there came a time when she could do no more to help the others, and she accepted that it was time to go into hiding. That was forty years ago. She was thirty-seven years old then, still in the bloom of her youth, and only just beginning to get lines in her face.

She sighed quietly. She had been so beautiful then. She tried to remind herself that beauty is an illusion, but it didn’t help much. She could feel the wart on the side of her nose itching, but didn’t bother with scratching it. She didn’t want to pull her finger away and see the puss. She had become such a tired cliché of a witch: an old crone in a black cloak, the hood pulled around her face, the gray hair that fell out of the hood flapping in an ungainly way in the night breeze as it caught it in a draft, and she was bent, holding to an old wooden cane, and it was the wart on her nose that completed the storybook caricature of the old witch.

It was a kind of irony, really. In her youth Samantha’s beauty had been the thing that helped the most in convincing others that her people were not monsters to be feared. An old and ugly crone is easy enough to hate, but a beautiful woman, who isn’t going to transform into the crone after a night of passion, and who doesn’t steal the youth of young girls boiled in her cauldron to remain young? Much more difficult to pass judgement on her, especially from men.

It’s very easy to destroy prejudice. Simply provide someone beautiful who fits the prejudiced criteria. As soon as the admirer finds themselves ensnared by desire, their prejudice is broken. It’s a bit like breaking a spell. Except spells don’t work like that in real life, that’s yet another storybook idea.

And yet, here she was. In hiding and alone, the bent crone with her cane, watching the moonlight at the witching hour. Well, some things from the storybooks were true, at least. The witching hour was certainly real, and the moon was a great aid in casting magic.

And that is why Samantha had come. Sitting at her feet was an immense book with a deep green binding that might have been leather, but Samantha couldn’t really be sure. The book had been made by fairies after all, and it had been crafted and bound in another realm, so whatever substitute for leather a fairy might provide could have vastly different qualities. At any rate, Samantha knew from experience that getting the book wet did not smudge its pages, although it did wear a bit on the binding.

The buckled clasp that held the green book together had been undone, and presently a strong gust of wind blew in just the right direction to flip the front cover of the book open halfway, and Samantha gave it a gentle nudge with her shoe. The book opened to the center, at a page where it often liked to open itself, when unguided by Samantha’s hand.

It was a page with a picture of a creature that Samantha had never quite been able to make out. It was a chaotic assemblage of limbs, eyes, mouths, and wings, in such an order that it was difficult to tell how many heads or limbs or wings the thing might have had. She wasn’t even entirely sure it was a creature, but she just had a feeling. There was writing all over the rest of the page, in a beautiful script that glittered in the light. Samantha had not the faintest idea what the words said, because they were written in the language of the fairies, which cannot be read by anyone who attempts to understand it.

Fairy writing, like fairies themselves, is a creature of chaos. It does not have reason and it does not make sense. Trying to make sense of it only makes it more indecipherable. The letters were also not bound to a single shape, they would rearrange themselves on the page when the book was closed or when Samantha looked away, and sometimes there would be fewer words on the page than before. In all her years with the book, Samantha had been able to understand only small slivers of information, and this page in particular always told her different things when she felt she was able to decipher it. But fairies are indecipherable, and so is their writing, and so, incidentally, is their magic.

Samantha shook her head softly. So much time to think about all this, so much time to weigh what to do and not to do, and here she was, at an impasse, unsure of how to proceed.

“Well,” came her voice, a raspy croak, “I suppose we’ll let the fairies sort it out themselves, eh?” She asked the question of the book, and it did not respond, nor did its letters speak to her. “Bah,” she grumbled, and gave the book a little kick.

Then it began, as Samantha knew it would. She had awakened this morning knowing this would happen, and she was sure it was the book telling her somehow, although on this day of all days, she couldn’t read the damn thing. But still, she knew it was time. Time for whatever happened next.

The book began to glow, it’s pages and its letters and even the weird creature with its various appendages, glowing just like the grasses and the flowers of the fields below, and the full light of the moon caught the book in its grasp, and the thing began to gently lift from its position on the ground to hover in the air. Samantha cocked an eyebrow. Her heart began to beat quickly. This was the exciting part. She had no idea how it was going to happen, but she knew it was going to happen.

This was the night that Samantha would die.

She had no idea if it would be painful, or joyous, or rapturous, or completely dull. She hoped there might be a bit of everything. She hoped that after these years of silence, living alone, she would finally have earned some kind of reward. Like the nuns in the old days who draped themselves in black robes and took vows of silence, so to better open their ears and their awareness to understanding their creators words, spoken through nature, here she was, hoping in some way that the same rules might apply to a witch, who did not believe in any particular creator, and did not believe that there was necessarily an afterlife, but who stood here on this cliff in the middle of the night with her heart beating fast in her chest and her face flush with life and excitement, and she hoped against hope that maybe there was something more.

She hoped that maybe the old witches had been right about being reborn when one dies, even though most witches long ago dropped that idea. She hoped that there might be some promise of reunion. That she would see her daughter again. Her daughter, whose memory was still as sharp as a poisonous sting that left fresh wounds every time she turned over the stone in her mind under which the memory was kept.

The books glow became a shining light, so bright that it hurt Samantha’s eyes, but she didn’t look away. You don’t have to worry about staring into the sun and going blind if you’re going to be dead in a moment anyway. She didn’t know what would happen next, and for some reason, that gave her peace.

Because it was over. No more wondering, no more considering, no more thought for what would happen next. It was in the book’s hands now, or in the hands of the fairies, or the old goddesses, or the moon itself, or whatever was making the decisions now. She had worried for so long that the end would bring with it the total annihilation of everything, that she would die fearful and alone, but suddenly she felt that she might come to know the most deep and satisfying peace. It had no occurred to her until this moment that death might actually be a relief, not in a morbid and lugubrious way, but in a genuine and sincere way, that death would be safe, and comfortable, and perfectly peaceful.

She thought that maybe she could finally set down all these burdens that had hunched her back and lined her face and grayed her hair and dried her skin.

She hoped, even now, that she might see her daughter again, even if for an instant. If there were any gods in existence, let them give her that. Just a moment, and then she’d ask for nothing more, she’d be content. Just a moment to see her daughter, to see her daughter as she might have looked when she’d grown past the age of eleven in which she died, to see a young woman with deep caramel eyes and brown hair, and a wide nose and full lips.

A woman with tan skin and strong, wide hands. A woman with one leg slightly shorter than the other, and ears that were too big for her face. A woman who had retained those childhood features but added to them, as time does, as age does. A woman who would one day become the old crone in the cloak.

A woman who was standing, right now, in front of Samantha, stark naked and glowing, glowing with the light that effused the book hovering above the ground, a woman who was smiling at Samantha, a woman who Samantha suddenly realized in a rush of disbelief was not an image projected by her imagination, but who was really standing in front of her.

A woman who was smiling, and who reached out her left hand.

Samantha’s grip loosed on the handle of her cane and she let it fall. She’d never really needed help walking, she just liked having something to hold on to, because it made her feel safe, and somehow, less alone.

“Evgenia?” Samantha asked, even now still a little surprised by the crackling sound of her own voice.

The woman opened her mouth, and Samantha heard a voice that she had been sure she would never hear again, the voice of a little girl who had reached puberty and grown into the beautiful naked woman who stood before Samantha now, a voice that said “My mother, my sweet and patient mother, I’ve come to take you home.”

Samantha put one foot forward and then hesitated, realizing that this was the moment, that it wasn’t out of her hands after all, that she had to make the choice to take the next step, that she had to decide to take Evgenia’s hand, and go wherever it was that they would go next.

To her immense surprise, she realized with a pang of guilt that some part of her didn’t want to go, didn’t want to take the hand of her impossible daughter standing before her.

Evgenia smiled, and kept her hand outstretched. There was understanding in her eyes.

Samantha didn’t step back, but she did lower her hood and take a look around.

She was surrounded by the glowing grass of the plains, and she could still see far below the cliff those endless fields of glowing grass, swaying in the wind. She smelled the cool night air of autumn turning to winter, and in a motion quicker than she knew she was still capable of she loosened the tie of her cape and flung it off, and it caught up in the wind and flew out over the plains. She laughed, and then she pulled loose the tie around her waist that held her cloak on, and she slipped it off, and let it fall to the ground.

The old crone stood naked, bent, and she straightened her back, though it caused her a great deal of pain, and she held her head up and she took a deep breath. She could smell the night air, the coming winter, her own skin, her own musk, and the faintest hint of something she hadn’t smelled since the day Evgenia died, the sweet scent of her daughter, who had now grown into a woman, and whose smell had changed and matured and been added to by time.

Samantha opened her eyes and with a satisfied smile she lunged forward, and Evgenia laughed as her arms grasped her mother, and as Evgenia tumbled backward and Samantha tumbled forward, gravity stopped and they were floating too, in the light suffusing the book, and Samantha placed her lips against her daughters lips and kissed her, and Samantha’s heart swelled and swelled and swelled until there was a burst of sparkling light, and everything Samantha had ever known became one with her and her daughter, and all the fear, all the pain, all the love and hatred and suffering and trying and failing, sex and food and water, blood and tears and pain and excrement and urine and sweet flowers in the spring and chills in the winter, and breezes that drifted in through the crack in the window, and two men who slept on each side of her and whose breathing matched her own, and her mother leaning down and handing Samantha a little white stone which was to become her heart stone and which would hold her magic, and these things and many more things which hadn’t happened but which might have happened, all the possibilities entangling in a light that shone brighter and brighter, and the warmth of her naked daughter pressed against her body, and Samantha’s arms were holding the woman her daughter had become, and she didn’t have let go of her this time.

And the light shot toward the sky and then all that was left were sparkling motes of light in the air like fireflies, and the book landed hard on the ground with a thud, it’s cover closed, and the belt fastened around it.

And the book slept.

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Operation Organize Everything: Part 2

(Note: Some of the following journal entries have some really explicit sexual stuff in them. I didn’t want to slap a “NSFW” in the title, so I thought I’d just include a little note/disclaimer. If you want to read some sexually explicit tales from my life, have fun!)

Journal Entry: Nov. 12, 2014

I spent the evening with a boy. Wow. It was pretty unbelievable. We met online, he seemed sweet and clever and he made me laugh. When I met him, he gave me an affectionate hug. He came over to my place and brought in a six pack of beer. I had one. We talked. He seemed to be a little awkward being in new surroundings, but when I invited him to come sit on the bed with me, he came right over. He actually wanted to watch Will and Grace instead of a movie, which was awesome.

We were watching an episode, chuckling, and then I turned to face him. He knew I was going in for a kiss. He kissed me. It was a deep kiss, he likes to use a lot of tongue. He likes to bite my lip. I held him close. He offered no resistance when I ran my hands along his lean body, feelings everything. He was the first one to make a sexual move, he pulled my pants off and sucked my cock. It was pretty awesome. When it was my turn, I was amazed at the size of his when it bobbed out from his underwear. I could taste his precum when I put it in my mouth.

I licked his asshole. It was his first time. I fingered him, and he loved it, it was his first time for that too.  As we tumbled around, kissing, feeling, sucking, touching, I asked him if he wanted me to fuck him. Through his heavy breathing he nodded and replied he did. I got him ready, I fingered him, let him get relaxed, and then I entered him. I was the first to ever be inside of him. I’ve never known what that felt like. It’s not that it gave me some kind of sexual pleasure to know it, but an emotional connection to him. I whispered to him that he was safe, that I had him, that I was taking care of him. He became accustomed to the new sensation quickly. We ended up fucking in several positions. As he came closer, his moaning became beautiful whimpers of pleasure. His orgasm was beautiful, and mine followed soon after. We spent a long time each other’s arms.

We held each other close. I whispered that I liked him, he said he liked me too. He told me I was cute. He didn’t say very much, but the few little compliments he paid me made me feel so happy. I held him close, his hairy, lean chest against my own, feeling his heart beating fast, kissing him, giving him soft little kisses on his cheeks and anywhere else. I laid my head in his lap, I absently played with his cock and his balls. I kissed them affectionately. I kissed him just about anywhere. We talked more. He told me about himself. I shared my stories. We finished our episode of Will and Grace and I held him close.

My whole life since I started dating I’ve been putting pressure on things. The first time I fell in love, I sat down and wrote my thoughts on a wordpad document, like I’m doing right now. And things happened on their own. I did some of my usual needy things, I asked if he liked me, asked if I’d see him again, I even asked him if he would consider us “dating,” (meaning that we aren’t boyfriens but we’re seeing each other), and he pretty much agreed that we were, though he doesn’t like labels. He said he didn’t plan on seeing anybody else right now. I told him I didn’t either.

I’m tired. I’m fulfilled. I’m calm. I haven’t even had my medicine and I’m calm. I’m relaxed. I’m sitting hear, my body spent (we had sex a second time too, he was the one who wanted to do it, how wonderful that I’m not the only horny one around here), my head swimming, my eyes heavy, feeling so relaxed. It was nice.

He said my name for me just before I came. And his name, by with way, is Tyler. I call him Ty.

Journal Entry: Jun 25, 2015

It’s been a while since I’ve written. The last couple of months in my life have been full of change. Until a few months ago, most of my energy was dedicated to overcoming my recently failed relationship, and coming to a better of understanding of what I believe about spirituality and the Universe.

There was a day when, for whatever reason, I decided I was simply through looking for love. I wanted it, sure, and I felt a desperate and consuming loneliness. But then, I’ve always felt that way. Since I was a child, I’ve lost myself in my memories, and felt alone, and sad. It’s just the way it is for me. There are certain things about myself that just are the way they are: I can only do things in extremes, I either fully love or fully hate things, rarely can I find a middle ground, even about things I truly don’t have much of an opinion on. It’s just more comfortable for me to choose a side and switch later if I need to.

On this particular day, I decided it wasn’t worth it to keep searching aimlessly for a partner. I probably wasn’t ready for a new one anyway, I was still getting over the last one, and projecting my fears and insecurities the last relationship had left me with onto new people, all of whom it seemed weren’t the right match for me anyway. But then, no one had ever seemed like a real match. It was possible that I was simply matchless, and I do think that all people are unique so why couldn’t I be so unique that I just didn’t have a perfect match? Don’t get me wrong, I don’t believe in having a predestined soulmate or even really the idea of having a “match,” but it did happen that I hadn’t yet met anyone who aligned with me even to near-perfection, much less perfectly.

This realization came with sadness. I was going to dedicate my time and energy to better understanding myself, to educating myself, to searching for my own beliefs, discovering my truest identity, making myself into the most authentic version of myself I could be. But this came at a cost: even in the most unhappy of times I’ve kept hope alive that I can still find someone who will be good for me if I just keep trying. It’s not really in my nature to give up hope. It’s happened to me before, and there have been plenty of times when I’ve given up through my actions, but rarely has hope been entirely extinguished for me, if ever. I found myself curled up in my bed, listening to sad music on a loop, and crying until I fell asleep.

When I woke up I felt a little better. It was the first day of the rest of my life. I was dedicating myself to me now.

I really don’t like how they say that love finds you when you stop looking for it. How cruel is that, that if it were true, only the people who didn’t appreciate love, who didn’t care enough not to give up hope, would be blessed with it, whereas those who sought it tirelessly and never stopped hoping could never find it?

For whatever reason, it’s one of those weird little addages that seems to constantly happen to everyone, the idea that you can finally find something when you’re not looking for it. I don’t know if it’s a cosmic joke or something to do with balance in the universe, or if life just sucks that way, but for whatever reason, things changed for me that night.

I was on Facebook and I happen to be part of some group that’s purpose is to connect LGBT people for dating, and this particular one happened to be for gay men, including transgender men. I had joined a lot of these groups when I became single, and I found such freedom in doing so. I saw a post from a guy who said he and his boyfriend were looking for a third partner in the hopes of creating a polyamorous relationship. I’ve really loved the idea of polyamory and particularly on some spiritual level the idea of three people in a relationship, there’s something inherently mystical about the number three, and a long time ago I came to the conclusion that if I were to be comfortable in a relationship, it would have to be one where I’m free to explore and feel whatever I want to, with no limitations.

At any rate, I wished this guy luck on his quest, and said I was sure he’d find someone because he was a cutie. I don’t remember exactly what happened next but I must have went to go have a look at his profile because I found him attractive, and that’s when I realized that he lives nearby. So nearby in fact that he was only about fifteen minutes up the road. I sent him a message and decided to chat with him, and within an instant we were conversing, and it was really good. There were so many things about him that I found attractive: he was a writer, he was intelligent, he understood the things I made references to, he had great taste in music (and it also happened to align pretty well with my own), we had so many similar interests. I found myself getting really excited. Could it be that on this day, when I had decided to stop looking for love, the right guy had just wandered into my life and found me?

I called him and talked with him a bit. His boyfriend was nearby and the first thing I noticed was that they laughed a lot when I spoke to them, they found me interesting in funny. I’ve always found that to be missing in my relationships. My high school best friend always ends up with people who have a good sense of humour, and who she laughs with. They have inside jokes and they smile and laugh and have fun around each other, but I’ve never had that in a relationship before, and there have been times when I’ve seen them acting that way and it’s made me feel incredibly disheartened about my own relationships, which usually involve me and someone else peacefully coexisting at best. Maybe I did love those guys, but that doesn’t mean we had fun together, or that I was fulfilled.

This new guy on the phone told me he and his boyfriend were going to go get something to eat so he should probably go. It was the middle of the night and only a few restaurants were open so I asked if they wanted to meet up, and they were both very excited about the idea. My best friend did a little bit of research on this guy, as he is wont to do because he worries about me and wants to make sure I’m safe, and he pretty much gave me his blessing by saying that this guy seemed really interesting and had published a lot of books online. I was actually starting to get very excited, but I remained skeptical: something will come up. Yes, he does seem to be an incredibly good match for me, but I’ll discover something unpleasant about him that changes it all, or we’ll meet and have no natural connection, or something. Things don’t just fall into your lap like this without some kind of consequence.

When I met him, I literally found myself unable to speak in the middle of sentences because I would get distracted by how beautiful his eyes were. Both he and his boyfriend were attractive, and the more we talked, the better we all got along. We ended up going back to their place and having sex, and it was the most incredible and sexually fulfilling experience I’d ever had. I felt so safe and affectionate and frankly I just kept waiting for something bad to happen. I shared this with my new guy friend and he said he’d been thinking the same thing.

But nothing bad happened, at least not as far as our connection was concerned. The more time went by, the more we seemed drawn to each other. I found myself missing him terribly when I had to go home to go to work, and spending ever free second with him and his boyfriend. The three of us would drive around town, eat, go to the movies, and everywhere we went, we laughed. That was the thing that really got me: we just kept laughing. We were always smiling. And my new love interest seemed to know all the right things to say and do. It just kept getting better.

As nothing can be without balance, however, things in my life did become incredibly turbulent. My mother became increasingly difficult when it came to me spending time with my new friends, and I wasn’t sure exactly what to call them, they were definitely love interests but I was terrified of making any commitment, or even thinking of calling anyone “boyfriend.” Being someone’s boyfriend had always turned out bad for me, that kind of commitment was restraining and counterproductive, it stifled who I was, destroyed my creativity, and kept me chained to someone else. It wasn’t something I wanted to experience again.

As I said, my mother became more and more difficult to be around. Honestly, I could go into the specifics, I could recount the incredibly hurtful and bigoted things she and her husband both said to me, but what really matters is that it got bad. She kicked me out of the house and made me live outside in a camper. Now, this isn’t actually all that terrible a turn of events, since I used to live in their backyard in a camper for about a year, and I had a pretty peaceful existance out there with my own TV and music and space. But this time was different: I was only allowed inside the house to use the bathroom (and even this was actually prohibited, I’d been told that if I needed to use the bathroom I could drive to the gas station, but luckily I didn’t really get much argument when I decided to come inside anyway), and I wasn’t allowed to eat any of their food.

This was essentially my mother’s way of putting me on the street without actually putting me on the street. From the outside, she’d just made me live outside, where I had my own space away from her and we didn’t collide so much. But in reality, I was living in a sweltering hot camper in the middle of a very hot spring that was already turning into summer, with no air condition, and no food or water of my own. The first night she put me out there, the family had not only made dinner, but there were three boxes of leftovers from eating out nights before in the refrigerator. My mother left a single bottle of water and half a bag of potato chips on the back porch for my dinner, and refused to share any of the food inside the house with me. I became increasingly anxious, there was no way out of this situation. My two new love interests could provide me a place to sleep for a night or two, but they were living with family and couldn’t just let me move in, and though they were trying to get a place of their own, in which I’d be more than welcome to stay, they hadn’t been able to yet.

It was a confusing and incredibly upsetting time, probably for everyone if not just for me. My new boy was talented, creative, interesting, fun, and beautiful, and his boyfriend and I were becoming closer too. We all ended up staying in a hotel together for a few days, and on my new boy’s birthday, I was in bed with him, laying on top of him and smiling down, when I went to say something, and I honestly don’t remember what, but I prefaced it with a “Guess what?” He got excited and told me he thought I was going to ask him to be my boyfriend. At that moment, seeing the joy on his face, feeling the rush of heat through my chest, and how much I already knew I was falling in love with him, it seemed, for the first time in my life, like asking someone to be my boyfriend might not come with the messy consequences of feeling trapped and unable to breathe.

I warned him. I told him I’ve had serious trouble being in relationships before, and that I often feel stifled, and that I may need more freedom than he realizes, that the terms of our relationship might need to be altered as the need arises. He didn’t mind any of this. And so I asked. And he said yes. We were officially boyfriends. The smiles on our faces and the passion of our kiss told me I’d made the right decision. The best thing was, I could feel all of that doubt and indecision and fear that always accompanied the beginning of a new relationship creeping up on me, but it didn’t hurt, it didn’t cause me anxiety, I just simply saw that it was there and smiled, because I knew I truly didn’t feel that way.

As for my new boyfriend’s current boyfriend, I waited a little while before I was ready to ask him too. I wanted us to have a special moment too, and eventually we did. We reached a point where the three of us were not only in a relationship, but the situation demanded that it might be a good idea for all of us to find a place.

Now, I know that’s not a good idea at the beginning of relationship. The strain of living in close quarters destroys relationships, I know from experience. But we didn’t seem to have many other options: they needed to leave their family’s house, and I clearly wasn’t going to survive living with no food in a hot camper in my mother’s backyard. There are a million details about what happened, but an apartment was found, and a move-in was arranged. The only real problem was that we’d have to wait for essentially another month.

It was a long month. I went back and forth between my boyfriends’ family and my family, and I no longer had a job since I’d been working with my mother before and she, of course, fired me (as she is prone to do at the slightest provocation). Eventually there was a tenuous agreement between myself and my boyfriend’s mother that I could stay there for a short time, but she wasn’t really incredibly keen on it, she just didn’t have the heart to put me out on the street. I say that it was tenuous because not all of this was ever really said, it was more implied. The situation became tense: my bofriends and I started to argue, and moving in was suddenly becoming a very shaky situation where it looked like we might not have the money or the means to move in. I was terrified, I had no other options, even if I broke up with these guys, moving into this apartment was the only option for me, I had nowhere else to go.

The fighting was tense for a few days. It wasn’t physical fighting, just arguing, hurt feelings, but we always made up, and it was real making up too, not the way my previous boyfriends and I had pretended to make up and just endured one another for another day. We got the apartment, we moved in, the arguing calmed way down, and after a few weeks and a failed attempt at working in retail again, I went back to my job with my mother, who has so far been much easier to get along with. Her response to learning I have two boyfriends was probably the response you would expect from a conservative Southern Christian, but I don’t really care.

Journal Entry: July 7, 2015

One very frustrating area of my life is relationships, and that’s mostly because I suck at them. I really do try my best, but not only can I never make them work, they just never feel right. It’s ironic because I can be so emotionally dependent and so overly nurturing and caring that it seems like a stable relationship would be ideal for me, but strangely, I become very quickly unsettled every time. Every time I’ve had the “let’s be boyfriends” talk with a guy, it’s strangely never very exciting. Usually it’s incredibly stressful.

This is the way relationships typically go for me: I meet a guy, probably online or through a friend, and we start talking, usually over the phone. I really love being able to have long conversations with people, and I know that I’m interested in a guy when we can carry on conversations that last well into the night and eat up every minute on my cell phone. I’m talking six-hour conversations here, usually with a lot of “Whoops, my cell phone died and I had to plug it in,” or “I’m just walking around the block in the middle of the night while talking to you.”

When we meet, usually for a meal, there’s a mixture of feelings: on the one hand, there’s an instant grinding neediness that wells up inside me. I may not express it to him, but inside I’m thinking “Okay, he’s cute. Maybe this feature could be better but it’s alright, maybe he’ll love me. Maybe he’ll hold me and whisper sweet nothings into my ear at night, and maybe our warm bodies will caress in the moonlight and my heart will race and his lips will kiss mine and I can spend every night safe with him, not alone, tossing around in an empty bed in an empty room and an empty life with no love!”

I know, and this is just what’s going through my mind while I’m smiling over the chit-chat before our meals even arrive. By this point, I’ve already started to doubt the relationship that doesn’t even exist: “Am I ready for this? What if he doesn’t really get me? What if I end up being the only one who cares? He seems nice, but do I really want to be with him FOREVER? I mean, if things go well now, then eventually I’ll have to make a decision about whether or not to commit to him, and if I commit, well then there goes my chances of ever being with anyone else, ever experiencing the excitement of meeting someone new, ever having another first kiss or a first night in bed together or a first holiday together or meeting his family for the first time, now it’s just me and this guy forever. And what if things go bad? Then I have to break up, and I have to deal with my heart being broken and taking his stuff out of my room and giving him back clothes that he left at my house and spending six months crying myself to sleep at night and having crappy self-pity hookup sex with guys online to try and fill the void he’s left in my heart. Maybe this isn’t worth it. Maybe this was all a bad idea.”

When he smiles and asks what’s on my mind, I laugh nervously and sigh. Try to take a breath, I tell myself, and I just say, “Oh, nothing.”

But that’s the thing, I can’t NOT over think things. It’s just in my nature. I’m not actually sure that I NEED to change that about myself. People over the years have told me to stop thinking so much, but I’m sorry, thinking is what I do best, and I can’t just stop because it’s inconvenient and raises a lot of questions. If things are going well between me a guy, I start to suffer this really bad separation anxiety when he’s not around, and I’ll become really depressed, just eating or playing video games or going to work to have something to do to occupy myself until the next time I see him. I’ll keep on rolling over every question and concern I just mentioned, but I’ll miss him at the same time, and to a degree that is probably unhealthy for having just meet someone. I’ll talk to him on the phone and say, “You know I really missed you today,” and I’ll hear him smile and say “Yeah I missed you too.” But I doubt he really missed me as much as I missed him. He probably missed me in like, a normal way, whereas spent the entire day thinking about our entire future together and how terrified I am of making a commitment to marry him, and exactly how I’m going to deal with raising children when I’m not grown myself, and we haven’t even agreed to a second date yet.

So yeah, I jump the gun, emotionally and mentally. The saddest part is that I don’t do it on purpose. I’ve trained myself NOT to go bat shit crazy on day one, and I do this to the best of my ability, but some things I just can’t avoid doing. Sex is another big thing that I have to deal with. I’ve always had a very open attitude about sexuality, and I don’t mind being as graphic as the other person can handle if they’re willing to talk about sex. When I meet a guy and I think he’s cute, I do this thing that I know is really stereotypical and probably makes the whole gay community, or men in general look bad, because I’m doing something that people might expect me to do, but I just start wondering about his penis. I want to know how big it is, what it’s shaped like, if I’m going to like it. I prefer big ones but I don’t mind if it’s average, but what if it’s just average or it’s small? Now I have to spend the rest of my life with this guy whose dick isn’t satisfactory and I’ll be constantly wishing I could experience sex with a guy who had a bigger one. As I’m writing this I understand how incredibly shallow this sounds. It’s not my intent to be shallow and I don’t actually judge whether or not I’m going to be in a relationship with a guy based on the size of his cock, but I would be lying if I didn’t say these incredibly base sexual thoughts didn’t fly through my head.

Then we actually have sex, and it’s usually VERY quickly. If we don’t have the full-on penetration, there’s usually some form of fooling around on the first encounter. Now, I’m inclined to think that a lot of the guys I’ve met would be just fine saving that for a second or third date, but since I happen to come on to them on the first meeting they don’t mind going there too. The problem is, now in addition to the worries I’ve already amassed in my own mind, I have a whole new load of sexual issues to worry about (no pun intended).

If the sex wasn’t that great, then I’m thinking, “Great, he’s really nice but I don’t think I’m satisfied by him sexually, and now if we end up together I’ll be sexually unsatisfied for the rest of my life,” because in my head we’ve already made a commitment, gotten engaged, and we’re getting married tomorrow and having a baby the next day. I can’t NOT look at the picture, I can’t just live in the moment and leave my worries about tomorrow for tomorrow, because I know that if things continue to go well with a guy, I’m well on my way to saying “Let’s be boyfriends,” which is, in a sad way, like saying “Let’s be in a relationship with no foreseeable end where I have no way out without causing us both incredible pain, and I give up my chance of ever meeting someone who IS perfect for me if you turn out not to be, and I have no sexual or emotional freedom, and I have to edit what I say and do to conform to the way I’m supposed to act when I’m in a relationship, and I can’t hit on other guys or even think about other guys without feeling inadvertently guilty whether you want me to or not, and I start to cause you intense levels of anxiety because I worry about every little thing.”

Now, almost invariably, I express some or most of these feelings to the guy in question, and in most instances, he smiles and says it’s cute that I worry so much and kisses me. And yes, I am human, and yes I will forget about my worry for a little while, and just enjoy spending time with him. And sometimes it goes really well. But in the back of my mind I’ll be thinking, “So, is this it? It doesn’t FEEL like I’ve found my soul mate. I didn’t fall in love with him at first sight. I don’t even believe in soul mates or love at first sight, but is this someone I feel like I’m going to wake up every morning smiling at because I can’t believe how lucky I am to be with him, or am I just moderately happy with him? Am I settling? And if I am settling, why? Why do I continue to be in this relationship if it isn’t filling me with constant beatific joy? People talk about being in love and wanting to tell the world, shout it from the rooftops, but I don’t feel that way. Does that mean this isn’t right? Oh god what am I doing, I already made a commitment to this guy and now I’m not sure if I made a huge mistake or not!” Then I’ll take a breath and tell myself, “No it’s okay, it’s still early, give him a chance, take it slow.” But the next time we’re together, all I’ll be thinking is, “Is this the one? Have I made a mistake? I’m trying to give him a chance but I don’t feel like everything is perfect yet.”

Journal Entry: November 20, 2015

Bad things that happened today: I was very nervous about my new job. My feet hurt and I was feeling pressured at the cash wrap to deliver on the metrics and promotions. I was a bit overwhelmed. I felt conflicted about the bank vs. the bookstore. I wasn’t sure retail was where I wanted to be, even though I like the bookstore as a customer. The bank rejected me after two interviews and a few forms, possibly because of my credit.  Roxie scratched me when I got home, grr. I felt a little guilty for feeling up Zack today when we cuddled. I don’t think Robert would mind THAT much, but I know I was being bad. Even though I liked watching HP and the Deathly Hallows (Part 2, for the record), it changed up my routine, I watched it in the dark, and it kind of stressed me out a little bit, though it did inspire me. I parked too close to the store on my first day of work. I want a lot of stuff from the bookstore I dont’ have money for. I’m running out of negative things to say but I’m trying to get it all out. I’m not crazy about doing a fake-ish customer service persona when I’m at work. Oh I forgot a big one, Kris shot himself in the woods near someone’s house, my mother is very upset. I talked to her on the phone. Just hearing her voice shook and upset me. Guess I’ve learned I’m not really ready to talk to her yet. It is very sad about Kris. I don’t know if it’s inappropriate to say I saw it coming, I noticed he was getting rid of his stuff, or selling things, and seemed to be getting his affairs in order like he was ready to go. I hope he’s at peace. I believe people have a right to choose death. It’s their life, they can choose to end it if they can’t bear living. But I do hope people can also heal and have happy lives. I don’t know, it’s a weird thing. Also I’m spending too much time on Facebook, I want to eliminate that, and get all my writing in one place on a blog, and then put my creative output there.

Good things: I got to play FFXIII-2 when I got home. It was relaxing to sit down after working. I took a nap with Zack. I’m enjoying playing FFXII: Revenant Wings, and also reading Lord of the Rings. I posted on Facebook a brief summary of my experiences so far in Delaware. That should update people. I’m getting inspired just by playing Final Fantasy XII: Revenant Wings. I’m excited to get a journal and write things down in it (I may copy all my old outlines). Random: I have Darren Hayes’ song Talk Talk Talk stuck in my head. I’m enjoying Mozart. I like Sirius XM, they have a Broadway and Classical station. Also, I’m kind of thinking I might get more into Missy Elliot. Though I can’t torrent anymore. That should go in the bad things section. Nah. Okay I’m tired and running out of stuff to say. I have Pepsi! Yay for soda addictions! And I am hopefully going to fall asleep at a reasonable time. Goodnight!

Operation Organize Everything: Part 1

I’ve embarked on something I like to call Operation Organize Everything. Basically this is my attempt to pull the MANY scattered notepad documents, sticky note documents, photos, poems, music, and just about everything else together in some organized fashion. I’ve already mostly finished the poetry organization (fun fact: there are currently 102 poems with my name on them, about five of which are small collections of one-liners or just ideas that haven’t yet become full poems), and though I’ve gotten most of my old notes gathered in one place, it’s still going to be a monumental task to go through the several notepads I’ve kept on various phones and devices. My current cell phone has a notes feature with over 300 notes, with everything from song ideas, novel ideas, character ideas, and outright clips of speeches given by characters or outlines for stories, to lyrics, poetry, and journal entries.

Part of what I love about having this blog is that it’s a nice place to keep everything together, all in one spot. I like knowing that if something happened to me tomorrow, there would be some kind of faithful record of my thoughts, actions and ideas. So in that vein, I’m probably going to be posting a few things that are collections of writings I’ve uncovered. Some of them are recent, some of them are a year or more old, I honestly don’t know what everything will be yet. However, I’m going to kick off with this. I can’t say that these posts as part of Operation Organize Everything will be particularly structured or well thought-out, because they’re mostly comprised of snippets from word pad documents and some of them seem to have been pulled from my Facebook feed at one point or another.

Still, it’s nice to have them collected here, so that one day I can look back and know what I was thinking and writing about. It’s important to always question, and if you want to be a writer, it’s important to always write.

On The Premiere of American Horror Story: Hotel

I was very excited for American Horror Story: Hotel. I made it through 40 minutes and I turned the fucking thing off. What a complete disappointment. No substance, no story, no character building, just shit. It was literally just jump scares and shock shock shock. From a man being crucified to a bed along with his dead lover, being fed Viagra so that he’d stay hard inside of her corpse while his eyes and tongue were gouged out, to the fleshy zombie hidden inside a mattress, the gay heroine addict being ass-raped while Sarah Paulson gently whispered for his confession of love, and Lady Gaga having a cocaine-fueled four-way vampire knife slashing blood orgy…. it’s just appalling. This was not only disgusting because of it’s complete lack of anything lacking depth (and the fact that the show is now clearly just a Lady Gaga vehicle, devoting several minutes to showing her from every angle), but the fact that this contained literally ever kind of physical, mental, and emotional RAPE I can imagine, all within the span of an hour, and I didn’t even finish it.

I’m like, literally shaking from the panic attack I had watching this total shit. Not planning on coming back for more. I genuinely loved Asylum and Coven, the characters were portrayed with grace and finesse, but this… this is just a goddamn bloodbath for the sake of being a bloodbath. It’s Ryan Murphy’s talentless, crass stereotype-fueled jump scare fodder all the way.

My Fake Tracklist For A Kylie Minogue Christmas Album

What the tracklist for the Kylie Christmas album SHOULD have been:

1 Can’t Get Jew Outta My Head

2 Better the Jesus You Know

3 Give Me Just A Little More Presents

4 Christmas Light Years

5 Red Hooded Woman (Mrs. Clause)

6 Spinning (The Dradle) Around

7 ‘Twas The Night Before A Night Like This

8 Looking For An Angel (On Top of the Tree)

9 Kiss Me Once (Under the Mistletoe)

10 More More More Chocolate

On The State of American Affairs

Call me a misanthrope, but this country has just completely gone to hell. It’s unsafe to go to school because statistically there’s a pretty good chance you’ll get shot to death, you can’t be in a relationship because if someone gets pregnant or if you WANT to plan a family, all of your options are taken away, if you want to get married the clerks might just refuse to give you service, if you want to buy a goddamn cake you can be turned away at the door. Everywhere you go there are religious people holding signs telling you to go burn in hell, walk into a hospital and there’s an ethical debate about whether or not to treat you, walk outside with skin that isn’t the right color and you’re likely to get shot dead just for EXISTING, and the people who shot you will be portrayed as heroes.

I’m just so done and over it.

On The Pope

I swear to god if I see one more Pope story in my news feed… the man is absolutely NO different than any other hate-mongering, homophobic, xenophobic, misogynist before him, he just smiles a lot and has a well-oiled PR machine that puts a spin on him to make him SEEM progressive, but not one OUNCE of change has been made in the Catholic church, and considering he is the one all-knowing vicar of Christ on Earth, he actually has the POWER to, with one word, change the doctrine, stop the violence, hatred, disease, sexual abuse, child rape, and ignorance the Catholic church is spreading throughout the world, but he isn’t BECAUSE HE ISN’T ANY DIFFERENT THAN HIS PREDECESSORS.

When the Vatican returns the treasures they stole, when he truly does something Christians and “sells all he has and gives it to the poor” (someone important in Christianity said that, can’t remember who, mighta been Jesus), and goes out and helps the poor rather than sitting on a golden throne (not an exaggeration by the way), then talk to me about how fucking progressive he is.

Charlatans Battling Other Charlatans

“The medical establishment and big pharma wants to steal your money! They know the cures but they don’t tell you so they can keep you sick! Here, instead of letting them steal your money, buy my three $25 hardback books about the secrets to health, this $60 bottle of essential oils, and all of these supplements for $14 each!”

On Cell Phones

I really hate cell phones. Put them down, people.

I don’t actually care about people having electronic devices. But there’s a difference between being uninterested in what’s happening around you and looking down at a Kindle to read or a video game to play, and holding a phone in front of your face AT ALL TIMES. People go to concerts and spend the entire time RECORDING the concert that they’re MISSING. They go to amusement parks and plays and movies and spend the whole time taking pictures of themselves there instead of experiencing it. No one poses for a picture while a nice stranger or the uncle holds the camera and says “Say cheese everyone!” Now it’s possible to document your every moment, to such a degree that you no longer need to EXPERIENCE those moments.

I never thought I’d be the one to say this, having been raised by television, Gameboy, and Playstation screens, but people need to look up at the world around them. These devices need to be used to ENHANCE the experience of life, not replace it.

An Orientation-Flipped Version of Anti-Gay Arguments

I know, it isn’t politically correct,but I’m just going to speak my mind.

Heterosexuals.

Now, I’m personally not heterophobic, but I just wish they’d keep their lifestyle to themselves. I don’t want to have that straight lifestyle flaunted at me when I’m out just minding my business, trying to shop for groceries or eat a meal. I mean, what if my KIDS see that? What are they going to think? What are me and my husband supposed to say when our daughter comes home and says that there’s a boy in her class who likes GIRLS? No parent should have to have that kind of conversation with their children.

What a straight person chooses to do in the privacy of their own bedroom, behind a closed door, with the lights out and a flashing caution sign hung on the front door, is their business. Well, mostly. For some reason I really can’t seem to stop thinking about it, and talking about it, but like I said it’s their business. How am I supposed to continue being who I am, and married to my beautiful husband, knowing that there are men out there who just think it’s okay to marry women??

Personally, I don’t think the framers of our constitution ever intended for heterosexual marriage to be an issue that would ever be discussed. Our nation’s founders would be apalled to see the straight “pride” parades taking place across our nation, to see men and women kissing one another on television, or to hear music on the radio about “acceptance” of that lifestyle. It’s sick, it’s wrong, and I don’t care if it offends someone, I have the right to speak my mind. If straight people would just try hard enough, they could turn away from their lifestyle and be normal, homosexual men and women, like everyone else. But no, we’re supposed to be “tolerant,” well I won’t be.

And I don’t care if anyone likes it.

On Roadkill

So guys, tell me if you think this makes me weird. I live in the South, and I know that there’s roadkill everywhere you go but I feel like there’s gotta be a significantly higher amount in rural/forested areas like the one I live in. Whenever I see a dead possum, squirell, or other animal laying in the road or on the side of the road, I really, really seriously think about bringing along some gloves, trash bags, and a shovel, pulling my truck over, and finding a place in the woods to bury them.

A long time ago back in Georgia there was a dead cat in the road, and this thought occurred to me that someone should bury that animal, give it some dignity. The fact that it’s a CAT means that ultimately someone probably will, but a possum? No, they’re just left to die on the side of the road because they aren’t one of our domesticated animals. But when I DIDN’T bury that cat, I drove by every day and watched it’s little body get smashed further into the pavement by cars running it over, and ever since then, I can’t help but think, if I were a possum and I died tragically because some stupid humans decided to pave over my natural habitat and hit me with one of their gassed-up death machines, I would want someone to return my body to the earth, or at least to a place where scavengers can come and feed on me, not lay there in the middle of the road to be run over again and again.

I’m totally willing to be the creepy guy in the neighborhood who buries dead roadkill. Does this make me weird or what?