Random Acts of Awesome

So, then came Trevor. The flirting we'd done had always been about him being in charge, him doing things to me. What he'd allow me to do to him, what he WOULDN'T allow me to do to him... the ball was always very much in his court. I'd had plenty of men try and flirt with me like this in the past, but when it came down to the reality, they never followed through. I never let them follow through, because I couldn't let them have that kind of control over me. I had high hopes for the reality of Trevors flirting, though. I'd known him for so long, had such a strong impression of him from before we ever physically met. The first time we met was the first time we fucked. I've already told that story, and it was amazing. It was. Sex can be awkward the first time, though still fun. But our first time wasn't awkward. It was just hot. And the second, and the third, and so on and so forth. We have good chemistry, and it didn't take us long to figure out what...

I always fall a little in love with musicians on the stage. Watching them concentrate on their craft, brows furrowed and deeply shadowed under harsh lights. Lips tucked under teeth, tongue occasionally peeking out as their fingers fly. The musicians I end up loving the most always forget about the audience. They're so caught up in their own sensual world that we don't exist to them anymore. It's like sitting in a dark corner, watching an unwary hedonist masturbate. Beautiful.

I've started this post a couple of times, and have never been able to finish it. It's too... personal, hard as that may be to believe considering the contents of this blog. But there's telling stories, and then there's telling truths. Stories contain truths, but they're a level off, a level removed. You can read them after you've written them and pretend they're universal truths that only peripherally apply to you. Some things can't be stories. This part of me can't be a story. It's too caught up in who I am. Who I am. I am a control freak. Only over myself. I control every aspect of who I am. To lose control of any part of me is anathema. I've been that way for as long as I can remember. I have no idea why, but even as a very young child I had to have control over myself. I don't remember having temper tantrums. Intense emotions scared me, to the point where I'd start to shake and turn red, refusing to release anything into the ether...

I get a lot of traffic from different blogs, most of them sexy. Like Green Silk Cord, with the ridiculously hot Ella, who had my blog up on her side roll. And I always feel kind of bad that more of my content isn't interesting, and sexy, and titillating. Some of it was, just enough to tease. But for the most part, this is my journal. And journals are ALWAYS boring. Doesn't matter how good a writer you are, or what you write about. Because journals are inherently selfish. I'm not trying to entertain others, I'm trying to work out shit in my own head. Every single person in the world is trying to work out shit in their own head. It's not unique, and it's not designed to be. So, sorry about that. But also, fuck off. It's my journal. If you want interesting, go read Salon. Or The Bloggess, or Novarella, or Ree Drummond, or any other number of amazing entertainers out there who are talented enough to couch their thoughts and reality in such a way as to make i...

I was going through some photos from last year, and it got me to thinking. How is it possible for me to have changed so much in such a short period of time? I remember how I felt in those photos, my thoughts and emotions, the circumstances of my life. And it's exponentially different from who I am now. I feel like I lost my youth in the year that's gone by. So mellowdramatic... I'm sure 43 year old me will look back at 33 year old me and think "Shut the fuck up, child". But for now... I don't know how to explain it. I went from feeling like a titanium encrusted rock star with limitless possibility waiting on the horizon, to a frumpy, quiet housewife who worries more about bills and dinner, and is content to have sex every now and then. And it's not like I'm not content in that skin. I'm actually more consistently happy now than I have been before. It's a constant, low key sort of mellow buzz. I'm not constantly nervous in my life, like...

Maybe not so new... Morose has always been boring, I suppose. Goths, Emo kids, maudlin poets... boring. Sorry, but it's true. There's nothing less appealing than lack of enthusiasm. And I've been rather distinctly lacking in enthusiasm. And therefore boring. Especially to myself, but I haven't wanted to subject it to the world in general. The thing is, I've been... lonely, for lack of a better word. I'm surrounded by people, but I'm not connecting to any of them. And it makes me feel lonely. Feeling lonely makes me feel pathetic, feeling pathetic makes me feel like I look desperate, and looking desperate is the death knell for human interaction. It's a vicious, stupid circle. Fuck you, Pacific NW Winter, for making me maudlin and mopey. And fuck you, brain, for not being strong enough to withstand it. Thing is, I HAVE enthusiasm. It's just hard to access. It feels like it's getting stolen, or at least repressed. I think some things in my li...

I'm at that sweet spot now, between buzzed and drunk. Still not drunk enough to deeply regret it in the morning, but just buzzed enough to believe you don't have to care. I've started on the Absinthe, and I'm smoking a giant cigar, so the regret might still come... But for now, I can feel just the blunted edge of shame, not the Sharp edge of self hatred. I'm feeling like a coward tonight, and I hate that feeling. I'm brave about so many things, and cowardly about so few. I'm hiding away in my home tonight, and tomorrow I'm making a decision to not do something that I probably should. So. Tonight I hide in the alcohol and tobacco. How very trite.