Dear Fucking Diary,


I woke up to a total mess this morning. The ashtray was turned over, there was makeup tossed around and all of my cookies were gone. I guess I was busy in my sleep last night. That’s probably why I’ve been so tired lately. I suspected that I may have been sleepwalking again because, when I wake up in the mornings, things aren’t always the way I remembered them from the night before. Plus, I’ve been sleeping later and later, even though I go to bed at the same time. Sonofabitch! I don’t need this shit right now. I guess I’ll get out my shackles and attach myself to the couch, since I can’t bring myself to sleep in my own fucking bed anymore.

Shit! I’m so pissed off this morning! I’m mad at myself for doing such a bad job on my diet since he died. At first, I was getting sick every day because I was forgetting to eat. Now that I’ve been having my Lady’s Days, I cannot get enough to eat. Fucking hormones. But it’s not just that. I haven’t even been trying. At anything. I go to the chicken place every other day and get enough food to last for a couple of days. They must think I’m fucking crazy. But, economically, you can’t shop cheaper for one person, plus, I don’t have to cook. Which is good, since I’m using the stovetop for counter space at the moment. And I couldn’t shop if I wanted to because my anxiety level stays maxed out all the time. I haven’t even been in a real grocery store for ten years. He always did the shopping. Because I can’t handle nice people in confined spaces. Put me in a room full of lowlifes and fuck ups and I’m just fine. I’d be golden if they started selling groceries in skid row bars.


Yeah…Maybe Not.

I’m really fucking shit up lately. I’m really fucked up lately. Pain days are back in force and it’s like the pain is flexing on me. Showing me who’s boss. Great! I so love that! Because I go for ages without realizing that lil nugget of truth. NOT. Like most total assholes, I pass the pain along to the people I care about most. One, in particular.

I just got back from Mom’s. Three day trip to Hell. So much bullshit going on with my brother and my sons…never one minute to just think or have any peace. I slept on the couch because it hurt too much to walk upstairs to the ‘princess room’ that Mom made for me. She always gets upset, but she didn’t say anything about it this time. She knows what’s up and has finally started to leave me be about things. And somebody needed to be downstairs and awake, anyway, since my brother, the schizo, was on the warpath. That’s one scary motherfucker. I don’t care if he’s ill, he needs to fucking go. He’s a threat to my mother, and he threatened me this trip. I told him what was going to happen the next time he threatened me. The threats stopped. He’s crazy, not stupid. Listening to him yell at Jesus to clean his toilet all day, every day, was quite entertaining in a Shining sort of way. And then there’s my grandfather/Dad. He’s slipping away. Healthy…but very little left of him these days. He’s so old and it’s difficult to look at him and put him in the same box of memories that his former self is in. You know? I guess I just thought Dad would hang in till the end. He had done so well until recently. Now, he’s so senile he doesn’t remember family members. I’m afraid he won’t remember me soon. I love him so much…but he’s not going to be around much longer. I just don’t see how he can be.

I was ready to leave last night after I took my oldest son to Houston to return his rental car. I couldn’t because I was afraid to, after having a lost time situation on the last trip I made at night. I took the last major turn for home, then I faded out and ended up in Louisiana by the time I came to myself. It happens fairly regularly, but normally episodes aren’t that long. It’s like just going into an actual fog. Fun! My memory is shot. Doc says it’s Fibro Fog. Basically, chronic pain fucks your head up. No shit…

So…I got home today and chilled out for a bit. Exish made a good dinner. Afterwards, I dozed off on the couch. My purse was on the floor nearby. Something woke me up and I see Exish looking through my purse for my pain meds. Awkward. I keep them in a small locked thingy that I can carry in my purse. So, he was shit outta luck, anyway. I confronted him after I watched him for a little minute. He actually denied that I saw what I just fucking saw. Seriously. What the fuck? I told him to just be honest and admit what he was doing and why, but he continued to deny it. Like I’m a fucking lunatic and can’t be trusted to know what the Hell I see. I swear…it’s too much. My nerves are so fucking shot and I’m so fucking tired that I cannot deal with one more thing. I have to get to work and get out of here. It’s like living in a psych ward.

I don’t think Paul and I are going to work out, even though I think I love him more than anything in the world. I just keep flipping shit on him over the most bullshit things. I don’t know why. And I just can’t seem to pull myself out of it. Maybe it’s the pain…lack of sleep…I don’t know. But I feel so fucking pissed all the time. And it might cost me something very dear. And that’s my own fucking fault. He’s such an awesome guy. I’ve never met anyone like him. But even people like him can only take so much. I told him that we need to take a break till Sunday. If I was him, I’d keep on with that break. I’m not really any good for relationship material. I’m a fucking train wreck. I can’t even stand my own self. How can anyone else? Fuck.

I feel like my life is falling apart because of this fibro bullshit. I need a job, but I can’t work like this. My hands and arms feel like they are burning…like actually on fire. It takes forever to type, so I usually do everything on my phone these days with my thumb. When I get finished here, my hands will be shaking. The pain that’s shooting up my arms from the fucked up nerves in them is making my muscles twitch right now. It’s weird to watch. My whole body fucking hurts. I mean…it fucking hurts. I think I’d have to cut my fucking head off to get any real relief from this never ending bullshit. Honestly, I can’t see living with it much longer. I know so many people have it worse. God bless them and their strength and determination. I don’t think I have that kind of strength. Don’t even want to try and conjure it up. So…there’s that.

Anyway…I better go. My fingers are in non-compliant mode and this has taken forever to type. Back to the phone!


Yeah, Well…

This day is moving along rather quickly. I’ve decided that, at 3pm, I’m going to start cooking and cleaning as though I have company coming. Maybe that will get me motivated. If it doesn’t, I’m going to the liquor store for more whiskey and getting blackout drunk. As they say…One must have a plan of action.

Damn, I can’t shake this mood. I am just so fucking tired. Pain level is back up, so I did something I rarely do and took extra pain meds. I hate doing that. I have no intention of going down that road. I’m tired of seeing people becoming addicted. And I know that there is very little that separates them from me, except that I began treatment with a conscious determination that I would not abuse my meds. That’s probably because I was raised by a woman who was addicted to prescription medication for as long as I remember. It’s what finally killed her. I think that was the most merciful side effect she ever suffered, to be honest. In any case, I’m just hurting and bitchy and tired. And it doesn’t look like there’s any clearance in that particular forecast today.

I need to get to the tattoo shop soon. Hopefully on a day when my pain level is low. But you have to book weeks, sometimes months, in advance at the shop I go to. I haven’t even looked around here. I have asked around, and there’s one shop that stands out. I went to their website and they look like a bunch of rock star tattooists. You know…people you pay ridiculous hourly amounts to so they can treat you like you’re never gonna be a cool kid? Yeah. They all work at this shop. All the artists shown were in their twenties with pierced everything and stretched ear lobes. GAG. I’m sorry, but if your ears are stretched to the point that I could put my hand through the hole, I’m gonna gag when I look at you. It’s not your fault, it is, indeed, my own. It’s not even judgmental gagging. It’s natural. I just can’t help it. In spite of that, I always feel like popping that little layer of skin. I don’t know why. I just wanna cover my eyes and reach up there and give it a good yank. Is that bad?

I Fold

The masochist is out of the picture. Already. I’m curious as to how certain words seem to take on a light of ambiguity when someone finds out what is expected of them. Submissive…masochist…sadist…slave. Hm. Seems pretty fucking clear to me. Perhaps I don’t have the ability to tolerate certain things. I enjoy roles. People in their respective roles. My rules . It’s just easier.

I’d love to have big, huge love in my life. While Exish and I have talked a lot of things out, we aren’t truly solid. I know that. It’s nice to get along, though. But, at this point in my life, I just need an ABC situation. I don’t need to be toyed with in any way. While I’d like to have a love relationship with someone, it is not necessary. It complicates things. When you envision, together, a future, love brings on quiet expectations of leeway when it comes to the roles that each person is expected to play. I want…no…I NEED someone who will stay in his fucking lane and not test me at every opportunity.

Maybe it’s me. I mean…I can’t even talk to someone online for a day without running them off. And I don’t want to involve myself in the local ‘scene’, as it were. Honestly, I’m shocked that there even is one here. In any case, I have never been a ‘scene’ type. I’ve been to a couple of conventions in Houston, but that’s different. I prefer my personal life to stay on the low. I’m out to the people who matter, but I have no desire to be recognized by Mistress Fucksalot at the Dollar General. Shit…

I think I give up. Truly. Fuck it. It’s not worth it. I am not emotionally equipped to deal with searching for something as specific as what I want. Then, to find it and have it all go to Hell…No…cannot deal with it. That sucks. It sucks sooooo much. All I know for sure is that men are lying motherfuckers. I have no use for any of them, in terms of a real relationship. My emotional reserve is depleted and I am done trying to avoid settling. I’d rather have nothing than settle for less than I want. I have Exish to hang with…my boys…Mom. My grandson. Plenty of people in my life. I don’t need to bring any more drama into the mix than is already present. Fuck. It. All.

Oh, my! – A ceaseless ramble on the state of my personal union, as it were.

I changed my profile on the vanilla dating site. It reads: ‘Looking for sub male. Must be strong and manly, with an intense desire to serve.’ I wonder if I should be more explicit…’Must enjoy breathtaking pain and the sound of laughter’. Hmmm, probably not. However, since I changed it, less than a full day ago, men are coming out of the woodwork. Men who read my old profile and passed me over. That absolutely pisses me off. And, yes, I do ask them about it. No, I haven’t gotten a real answer thus far.

I think the reason the responses I’m getting make me angry is because they feel like a judgement. I said essentially the same thing on my old profile, but in a much more indirect way. Perhaps it made them have to think too much. Who knows? But, I doubt that’s why. I think it’s because they think that, due to my sexual bend, I’m a loose woman. That could not be further from the truth. I don’t care what day and age we’re living in, I am not one to sleep around. I don’t think it’s good for the soul. And, for what it’s worth, I do enough things that aren’t good for me, already. In about an hour, I’m going to the liquor store and then I’ll be doing one of those very things shortly after. See? So, why do I need to fuck everything that moves, putting myself at risk for all kinds of nasty, microscopic this and that? (Yes, I have heard of condoms. If they worked 100% of the time, I might be inclined to ride every dick I could find. In any case, they aren’t, so I don’t.)

The Widower has taken things to a new, uncomfy, level. I do think it’s sweet that, every morning, I get a new text with a cyber rose and well wishes for the day. And, every night, I get the same, along with kind words and wishes of sweet dreams. I also get texts saying that, if he has to knock on every door in Texas, he’s gonna find me and we’re going to live happily ever after. Recently, he said that if I am not with someone else in a year, he is going to find me and marry me. He has recently started throwing the word ‘love’ around, as well. He saw my picture and thinks I’m a blue eyed Mexican. That’s a common misconception about me. I don’t know why. In any case, he noted that it’s rare to fight a light eyed latina in Texas, and that it was like finding a diamond, or some such thing as that. (I’m sure I’ve already written about this, but memory is not a friend of mine.). Anyway,. he’s brought this up more than once now. He’s Mexican and I don’t have the heart to tell him I’m just your usual Heinz 57 mutt of a white girl. I don’t want him to feel insulted. But, like I said, it’s a common mistake people make about me. I think it’s funny and wonder why it even makes a difference. I don’t go up to people of any race and question their heritage. It doesn’t matter to me, as long as you’re a nice person, I’m cool with you. But, I digress…

Tomorrow, Exish and I are going down to the coast. I cannot remember a trip I’ve dreaded as badly. Since I left the old house when we moved here, I have not been back. I have no intention of going back, either. I don’t want to see it, remember anything that happened there, or set foot on the land on which it sits. We’ll be getting to Mom’s house late afternoon, and I hope to meet my new great-nephew. He’s such a lil chunk! I can’t wait to hold him!

I’m not looking forward to seeing Youngest. The last time I went down there, a couple of weeks ago, I didn’t see him. Didn’t even tell him I was there till right before I left. He asked for money, of course. I did leave him a little cash with Mom. The time before, I only saw him when I bailed him out of jail. I fucking miss him so much. But I can’t take any more of his…I don’t know. His shit? His relentless refusal to conform to even the smallest societal rule…the way he just doesn’t give a fuck. I love him so much that I can’t even put it into words, but I just cannot do this with him anymore or I’m going to fucking die. I think that the decade of fighting for him when he was so strung out he couldn’t function was enough. I feel like I’ve been to war. If I had known, at the outset of that decade, that you cannot fight dope, I would’ve let it run its course. Truly. Considering the toll it has taken on me and my family I would not have lifted a finger had I only known. Dope wins every fucking time. Finally, the threat of doing hard time at the TDC brought an end to his dope problem. But the alcohol has remained. Doesn’t it always? First to the party…last to leave.

All I know is that I can’t finance his alcoholism or even make it easy for him. I thought he was doing better, but recently discovered that I could not have been more wrong. My hands are coming off that wheel. They have to. I can’t survive this any other way. And I don’t care if that sounds selfish.

Lights Out

The lights at the old house are scheduled to be turned off today. Youngest said that he’s cool with that, that he’s lived without lights before. Yes, son…I know. Back when you were a dope fiend and you and your friends built the ‘fort’ down by the bay. I’m sorry, but I don’t consider that a stellar experience to look back on.

I can’t believe that I’m letting this happen. But it needs to happen. Youngest is an able bodied young man who should be working and, at the very least, paying utilities on a place he’s living in free of charge. I know that jobs are hard to come by, but he could flip a burger, for crying out loud.

Neither of my boys are materialistic. I’m happy for that. Oldest, a gamer, doesn’t care much for fancy clothes or cars…anything others might be able to judge his success by. He’d rather play his games and stack his money up in the bank. You will never find a more dependable or hard worker. Youngest…that’s another story. He has, in the past, chosen homelessness to living by any rules. He thinks that everyone should be given some land and a house and so on, (“God, Mom…how is it fair for people to have so much and people like me have nothing?” Oh…you mean people who WORK???) You know…like a Communist. His friends are all into the Che Guevera thing, and sit on their soap boxes railing against ‘the man’. Most of them are drug users and alcoholics. Shocking, isn’t it?

While political me says that little fucker gets what he gets, Mother me is dying right now. I feel like I’m skinless. I cannot understand how he can choose alcohol over a job or a place to live…over his son. If he doesn’t start paying child support, which is scheduled to begin at the end of the month, he’ll end up in jail. Which is probably where he needs to be, but not for that. I will say that his ‘baby mamma’, formerly his fiance, is going to get the short end of things by taking him to task on child support. No matter what his situation has been, he’s contributed twice what the state is requiring throughout the time they’ve been apart. If he had a dollar, his baby’s mom had fifty cents. Now, that’s all changed. And I think that Youngest is throwing in the towel. I feel it. It’s something I can’t explain, but when I talked with him the other day, something in his voice was very different. That worries me to no end.

I don’t know how this is all going to end. I can wish and hope and pray all I want to, but this is his own path to walk. I know he feels abandoned, but he’s go to deal with himself NOW. If not, the TDC will make room for him. At least then, I’ll know where he’s at all the time and that he’s not drinking. So…there ya have it.



I miss home today, although I’m not certain exactly what that means anymore. I feel uncomfortable in my skin…in my brain…in this physical embodiment of self. It seems used up and irrelevant to me. Nevertheless, I’m  bound by flesh to this earth and all the insanity that comes with it.

Of course, we all have the choice of whether or not to remain in this cosmic dump site, or to move on. Unfortunately, moving on requires a blood sacrifice that I’m not prepared to make at this time. Damn it. Damn my weakness, my indecisiveness…my fear. Those are the things that keep me tethered to this asylum, inescapable.

Love…love was once something that bound me, as well. But I don’t view love as being more than an inconvenience at this point. It is a stumbling block…a millstone around my neck. I’m finished with love. Just considering the concept makes me ill. Love. Really? What is that? The Bible outlines it beautifully. Unfortunately, flawed creatures that we are, we humans cannot make a real connection to anything that selfless. So, fuck that, too.

God, I have never felt like such a prisoner. Even murderers are allowed some time out of their cages each day. For me, the sentence I serve allows for no such reprieve.

Self pity? No. Clarity, yes. At every turn, it seems, my view of the reality that is my life becomes more clear. I feel suffocated by the blood that runs through my veins. The demands it makes overwhelm me…smother me. I am a slave to it. But, that will only be true until I finally find that place of strength within that allows me to take my well deserved leave. Sadly, I doubt that I will find it today.

meaningless word vomit

The sun is bright today, and it’s very quiet out here in the countryside. Exish is working around the property, doing this and that. The girls, (Pepper and Jez, his dogs), are running around, right behind him, and the cats are inside with me. I’m listening to Guns N Roses through my earphones…very low volume…just so I can hear enough to sing along.

Exish was asleep on the couch when I woke up this morning. I sat in my chair and watched him sleep for the longest time. His face looks nothing like the boy I married. It’s weathered and hard looking now. His body, broken down after thirty years in the oilfield. I love his hands. They are rough and calloused…the hands of a hard working man. As I watch him, I’m taken with love and desire and pain…so much pain. I reached over and brushed the hair from his eyes and watched him a bit longer before waking him. When I did, I acted as though I had just gotten out of bed. Can’t let the wolf know what the lamb has been up to…

I ‘met’ a man online yesterday. His messages were frightening. I could see that his words were carefully chosen and meant to leave an impact. They did. I liked it. Because I can be frightening, as well. And, I was. I can’t help but laugh as I think about it. When engaging someone in a conversation geared specifically to cause intimidation and fear, never underestimate who you are…engaging. I learned the art of creating fear from my stalker, M, many years ago. I endured four long years of it. But he never once knew how afraid I was of him. In the end, he was the one afraid of me. Suffice to say that I don’t do ‘victim’ very well, and I’m exceedingly patient when I need to be. If you’re going to fuck with my life, you’d best not slip up, even once. If you do, I’ve got you. Game over. For M, it took four years. He was very good at what he did. Top of his game. But even the best can falter. Lucky for me. VERY unlucky for M. lol!

In any case, this man wants to meet. Admittedly, I was somewhat taken by his demented and twisted manner of chatting online. However, after talking to him by phone, I find him rather irritating. As it turns out, he is a very ‘safe’ person. I do appreciate that in a man. It’s a great quality. But in contrast to who he presented himself as, ‘safe’ was a huge letdown. He reminded me of a hall monitor…somewhat of a tattle-tale. You know? I expected to hear something else in his voice when he answered. Instead, he sounded fearful. It made me feel bad. I coddled him for a bit to reassure him that I wasn’t scary and I knew he wasn’t, either, etc. Out of nowhere, he began to swear that he’d never stalk me, or otherwise insert himself into my life uninvited. He said he had no desire to have the sheriff show up at his door, cops all over the yard in front of the neighbors. WHAT??? It was as though he had actually experienced the situation. THAT was a type of creepy that I could not top, nor did I have a desire to. I explained that he would never have the opportunity to force himself into my life, anyway, because ol Margaret, (my trusty pistola), was always on duty. lol! Shit! What is wrong with people??? “Why, yes, I’d love to meet, date…make love to you. But, when it’s over, I may have to kill you.” Again…SHIT!

Yeah…I’m at a low point. Seems like I’m not doing much of a job at picking myself up, either. It’s pathetic. I hate myself for it, but I’m feeling really low on strength, emotionally and physically. I just can’t seem to get it together. And I’m 48 years old. That’s pretty fucking old to be such a hot mess. My diet has gone to Hell in a handbasket since Exish has been home. Even when we get along, I’m nervous all the time when I’m around him and eat a lot more. My hair is falling out again and I just feel bad. I finished off another bottle of whiskey. I’ve been living here since the middle of April. Since then, I’ve consumed more booze than I have in the last ten years, altogether. Granted, that wasn’t a huge amount, anyway, (I stay on top of my drinking issues), but it’s too much for me. I have to nip this in the bud. I can’t go out like that. It’s so typical of someone in my gene pool. I come from a long line of highly functional alcoholics. And, like I said in a previous post, I seem to have managed to pass those genes on to my youngest son. So, there is no way I can drop the ball on this one. How can I help him if he knows that I’m a drunk, too?

Exish and I are going to move furniture around today. It’s time to get things settled a bit more…decorate…nest. I actually love this little house. It feels like an apartment, which I LOVE, and has a decent layout. It’s perfect for one person, great for two. I’d like to redo the bathroom some time in the near future. I want a huge soaking tub. The way the plumbing is situated, it would be just a cosmetic redo, so it wouldn’t be too hard on the budget. But it’s okay the way it is. I should just be happy with that. I never feel settled. I’m always thinking things could be better. In all fairness, I have had to move from a giant house into a one bedroom loft, basically. I think I deserve just one perk…Right?  🙂

I just wish I had a real partner in life. A man who has never hurt me, and never would. I’m not one of those people who gets stuck on how ‘hurt’ they are or have been. But I don’t like living with the memories. I don’t like that the lies and betrayal changed me. Yet, I can’t change back. I don’t even remember what I was like before. Not really. I know there were years, when the boys were little, that I was as happy as I’ve ever been. I kept a beautiful home, had lots of friends and family over all the time, had amazing parties. My children were happy and our house was always buzzing with the sound of children playing. It was just so…fun. And meaningful. Traditional. Loving. Those are things I barely relate to anymore. I feel so uncertain of where I should go from here.

Well, I should get going. I’ve rambled on about myself long enough…saying a whole lot about nothing.

Adios, Mr. Wonderful!

Since I was so confused and agitated about my moral issues yesterday, I decided to spread it around a little. So, I called Mr. Wonderful and picked a fight with him. Of course, this was after he sent me pictures of his enormous…I shit you not…ENORMOUS penis. Frankly, I’m happy that I started that argument and handled it like a complete child, driving him way way awayyyyy. I don’t think I could bring myself to deal with a johnson the size of a fire hydrant. Holy shit!

It’s funny how quickly people will haul ass the minute you start shit with them. It’s just like the scene in Fight Club, where they were supposed to start fights with random strangers. Nobody wanted to fight them, no matter how hard they tried to pick a fight. It’s human nature. You’re either confrontational, or you’re not.  But you’d think that a verbal spar wouldn’t be so daunting to some people. Frankly, I love it. A good fight is like rain…it clears the air and lets you in on secrets that would never come out under less pressurized circumstances. It’s basically verbal recon.

Anyway…that’s the update. I haven’t slept all night because I’m hurting physically and am sort of in a pissy mood. So I tanked up on DayQuil and I feel pretty damn good. lol! It won’t last, but I’ll enjoy it for now. I got a lot done on the house and that’s always a good thing. For me. Miss Unorganized.



you act as though you own me

chattel, and nothing more am i to you

i am drowning in your demands and expectations

you are a pain machine that never runs low on fuel

i have shed enough tears that it could run forever on them, alone

i believe that pleases you

and i don’t know why

my mind is static with questions

as i try to understand what i have done to you

my heart wanders aimlessly through a desert of your making

your perfect creation reflected in a loveless drought

inside, i have died a thousand deaths

awaiting the one which finally, and mercifully, takes me away to my Forever