{Damn, I’m coughing a lot. It’s the change of seasons. All these fucking pine needles. I like the way they slide under my feet on walks. I am pieces of an Ancient Egyptian Pyramid rolling across land}

Yup.Thats how I think. EggsSmokeSex live and in action. My brain is a constant flurry of lists, needs, ups, downs, melancholy, acceptance, rage, tenderness, pining. I’m on seven  to eleven day cycles of moods now.

{Mortal Combat}

I’m sure it’s some sort of early onset menopause, I’m not that fucking old. My mother was only 39, when she hit mental pause.

The mania rears its head during season changes.  I am needing freedom. I am needing to not speak lately but I have words pummeling my forethought constantly.

I am a married woman in a sexless marriage. My husband is my best friend, my co parent and business partner. I take a salary and work for myself. Writing. I think I will qualify soon for professional shopper and casino whore. I love the casino. I love the noise, the smell and more than anything I love indoor smoking with a broad array of people to watch. This makes me very happy. Unfortunately I try not to hang around the casino too frequently due to last year’s five digit losses. Rough year. I needed the company of strangers. I am not going to pick ups today because I can’t bear to be around any scrutiny today.

{My entire body reacted to that statement}

Today, I need to take care and foster my need to hide. In plain sight. I don’t hide in bed. I always threaten to go to bed and not get up for a week. I only stay for about ten minutes. I react to all the needs in the household. When I am home I am moving. It is so fucking tiresome. When I am at my ex husband’s house, aka Number One/Triple Ex; he is who i sleep with and hang out with outside of my “family”. Not a secret. I don’t cheat on my husband. My husband aka Number Three is not interested in me physically and is not romantically attracted to me. Number One is. Very much so. I have only introduced Number One to my children as an old friend. He is. We got married when I was twenty. By a tiny black Justice of the Peace in Kentucky. And we aren’t even Southern. A blushing bride was I. Hindsight sure does make me laugh. That shit was funny. Martha fucking Stewart rejects.  I think of it a little dreamily today.

I love them both. Two completely different personalities. The common denominator is they both love me like no others. For what and who I am. Not to say either any on given day doesn’t tell me at least once how I could make my or their life better.

I love Rumi. I also Ruminate. That I keep fairly quelled with Celexa. When I remember to take it. This week is iffy. It’s the October brewing in me. The smell, that smell. The wind excites and annoys me at the same time and I am maniacally aroused by a lot of everything. I am in October as a bear is three weeks before hibernation. I scrimp and I gnaw away at my needs. I cross my t’s and dot my i’s. My hair is colored and I have lost the Summer bloat. I live in a – “what trauma am I prepping for now?”, mode.

I have PTSD, OCD, and battered woman’s syndrome. I am a stoner control freak that loves people but can often not vocalize those feelings and settles for cynicism and disdain. I cannot tolerate ignorance – I genuinely love all races, religions, genders, gay, straight and freak. I make jokes and I use slang and slurs but I love the people. I would never have the need to use a racial slur in an argument. I wanted to be famous when I was little. I watched fame and some local talent show. I still sing really loud and dreamy in the car when I’m alone. I don’t like when my hair is wet. I take hot baths most nights of the year. I daydream. I have always been a day dreamer.

I loved when I discovered self-hypnosis – I would listen to one repeatedly that taught me to put on an ability suit of my choice. Mine was amazing. Cat woman-like only of pliable sterling silver that contoured my body completely and moved with the fluidity of a snake gliding over a golden sand dune. It had a belt and shit of course, but it was that liquid silver that gave it its power and the masturbation that always seemed to follow any sort of hypnosis.

I don’t like things that are gelatinous. I have worked in different fields and genres. I am a trained muscular therapist and I am also trained in structural integration. Which quite frankly I could use for myself in a four-week course at this point. See always daydreaming.

I am definitely a mother and love my kids. Right now I am hiding three cities away in a Starbucks parking lot, writing and really not wanting to go home for eight or nine hours. Doesn’t make me all bad. Thank God, I am not a single parent and have the ability to be a tad odd. Yup. I am a little odd. I often talk to strangers, I wear stilettos and lipstick, sometimes mink to fold clothes. I am obsessed with cultural anthropology and genocide in particular. I love high performance vehicles. I am getting a Porsche later sometime.

{Mmm, Hank in Californication}

I love the people I keep in my life. I say it like that because I have started to only keep people who don’t hurt me or judge me. I have been hurt enough, I don’t care for it anymore and I won’t accept nonsense from people. I talk trash and swear like a truck driver. This weeks word is cunt. I never thought it would come to that. I do not enjoy idle chit-chat. I loathe the ring of the phone. My BBF, best boyfriend, takes care of my flowers in the yard. I love flowers. Roses are my favorite flower.

I am disfunctionally codependent. The eggs lately stand for on eggshells. I don’t take a piss without telling somebody. I am afraid of dying. I am afraid of ghosts and the devil.  I love men. I like them big and heavy. I like bald. I am an addict, recovering alcoholic, sexual abuse/rape survivor, I have a few physical tics that make me feel better and don’t seem to affect my sex appeal. I have been told I am nice to look at. I, as a rule have some form of body dysmorphic disorder. Hence the eating disorders I try to keep in check regularly. There are days I cry because of how ugly I look, and how disgusting I am.

I have a BGF, best girlfriend. Miss Carry does not have any expectations of me other than respect and honesty. I keep her because she brings joy to my life, she accepts my lifestyle and loves my family. She doesn’t judge me. She is also my business partner and brilliant. I told you I do not tolerate stupid anymore. Only for entertainment purposes.

I am the oldest of three. I am not close to my brother anymore. I have lived with my sister or next to her for the past sixteen years. I worry about her constantly. She is acting pretty unstable lately and it’s causing me tsunami strength anxiety. The type that makes it next to impossible to speak. I need to say goodbye and end conversations because the energy tends to grow a finger and creep slowly up the inside of my neck grabbing hold of the back of my tongue.

I wrote poetry in adolescence. Generally dark and suicidal. I was a cutter. I had sex with guys so they would like me. Now I have sex with who I want to – how the fuck I want to. Every day I wonder if it’s going to be okay. I am a member of a Catholic church. A faith that was given to me and I show up to. A place to say a prayer. My church is pretty. I don’t go in much anymore. Though, I really like the comfort of it being the same place I made my first communion and “they” might know me when they talk about my death.

Memento Mori is Latin for “Remember Your Mortality!” So says the gravestone of Joseph Carpen who died at the age of eleven years old on January 11, 1704.

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