i actually did my make up, going out with husband and co-workers. Wish a cliche movie situation would happen and id get to fuck a coworker ive been into for awhile now. My husband thinks its hilarious.
i actually did my make up, going out with husband and co-workers. Wish a cliche movie situation would happen and id get to fuck a coworker ive been into for awhile now. My husband thinks its hilarious.
He can’t text me back anymore because his phone died. He can’t charge his phone because he lost the charger i (laughably) charged on our Menards card because i grew tired of him taking my charger. I noticed his lack of battery this morning and put his phone in airplane mode, to get some charge before i left. He took it off of said charger a few minutes later not knowing why i did what i did, or just not noticing. So he was at 30% when i left, despite efforts both great and small on my part to keep HIS phone charged.
Why dont we have two chargers? Well we cant afford to go buy a second one. I charge one and his idiotic ass loses it less than a month later. Why dont we get a cheap one from a gas station? Because those can fuck up your phone and ruin it, and you better believe we REALLY cant afford to buy a new phone.
So i cant even text him, the cause of all this bullshit.
We were going to meet for lunch at a Thai place i really like. I was really excited. I left my packed lunch at home. Then i checked our bank balanace at my 10 o’clock break. We have $2.95 left. No lunch date. No eating for me at all. I have a fresh bag of disgusting coffee at work, so i’ll make do.
Hes making so little money right now his last paycheck was for $270, for two weeks. Such a goddamn joke. So for the past two weeks ive been BARELY scrapping us by. Having to portion and ration and allocate and scrape and scrimp, i can do it i guess but MY GOD is it disheartening. After all these years. After working so hard. No matter what you CAN say about me, you cant call me lazy.
We got our federal tax return a few days ago. The tax burden placed on us is unreal. The return was JUST enough to cover my federal student loan payment. Sickening, isnt it? So instead of getting reemed really bad on a late loan payment i used all of it on the 7th, the day the loan was due. The hope was that the payment wouldnt withdraw until friday when my husbands next paycheck would direct deposit. I have to go to the bank every friday because my employer will not do direct deposit. So often we NEED the money on my paycheck that Friday. Its all gone to bills and the meager groceries we need to live before the weekend is even over.
Just last month we finished paying off our 2016 back taxes ($200/month) because he couldnt fill out a W4 correctly.
So the loan payment withdrew today. It wasnt late. But now i cant eat. My husband said he would make me something and bring it. Dont let that fool you. Its his father talking, the obnoxious offerer of annoying, unusable suggestions. We have nothing to bring. I well know what food is in our house. He said it seemed like i was intentionally making this worse. I told him id forgotten about my contractual obligation to always be cheerful. Then he gave up. I can bring ALL of his complaints about me down to some expectation of perfection on his part.
Speaking of that.
So you know that we’ve been trying to conceive. Well last night and the night before were two important nights to fuck. First night after some effort he was able to get hard, then, “right before” hes going to come, his dick goes limp. Cue fifteen minutes of him awkwardly yanking at himself to no avail. Then last night, he couldnt even get an erection. He got close, but that time between him coaxing one out (coax is the wrong word, its both timid and violent) and going to put it in, thats long enough to lose it. Then again, lie there while he tries to jack one on, so to speak.
Why dont i suck it?
BECAUSE IT WONT HELP
For the entirety of our relationship, hes had ED. He blamed the drinking and the pills (antidepressants) at first.
After SO many sexually unsatisfied years, a person is going to grow bitter. Why should i be dying to strain my neck and road rash the inside of my mouth because he cant get it up? Because he jacks off to porn three times a day.
Last night, after being told he was obviously trying to pick a fight with me (because of course i want to lashed out at just then) he stormed out. But not before telling me that i needed to say something comforting and i just laid there instead.
NEWSFLASH, DIPSHIT, im incredibly frustrated, NO part of me was worried about soothing his ego last night.
The excuse for the last two nights was he was tired. Because he stays up very late at night playing video games/falling asleep on the couch. He didnt add that second part, but it is certain sure fact.
I guess from the sounds of it, i shouldnt want a kid with him. But im married and im 30. Why dont i get to have a baby because we dont have the money? How much longer do i wait for him to grow up?
Im so hungry. The coffee is giving me a headache. I could have borrowed money from a coworker, i guess, but the thought of humiliating myself like that, on top of everything else, id start crying before i even started. My mom would ALWAYS make ME go beg. Not her, she was embarrassed. Even into adulthood. Can your boyfriend’s parents help with your car insurance? We told you we would cover it while you put yourself through college, but of course that was bullshit, my dad talking loudly so others would hear.
Im hungry. Itll be all right when i get home. But why, WHY, is that all my life is? Just get through high school, then you’ll be able to get away from him. Just get through college, then you’ll get a good job and will be stable, a new sensation in your life. Just wait for your husband to finish college, then hell start actually contributing instead of the opposite. Just wait until he finds a job. Just wait until….and then….Theres no then.I just wasted an hour upsetting myself.Maybe i deserve constant frustration, for some reason i cannot see
But some people get rewarded like it is. I guess I shouldn’t point fingers. A lot of people would look at me and be like “sure, there was no genetic gambling that you won big on….” My mom always says “it’s too bad we were born beautiful and not rich” and of course she means it as a joke, but it’s like…kind of true in my case. It’s funny because younger me never would have guessed I’d grow up to be this confident (say arrogant if you must, I don’t mind the label, plus any of my astute readers have a real good idea of why I’m insecure and arrogance is the veil of the insecure soooooo….) . See because I used to take the constant social rejection as a sign I just wasn’t good looking enough. Yeah, I don’t think that was it. But I mean I still lived with my narcissistic psychopath of a dad back then, so it made every aspect of my life warped, including my perception of the behavior of others, and my ability to express emotions in a proper or healthy way. Okay we all know I still have extreme trouble with that second one but bear with me, I’m only 30. Well almost. We are still trying to get pregnant. I saw my in laws on Sunday and out of the blue my MIL brought up that she would pay for daycare if we had kids, because she doesn’t want us to not have kids because we’re worried about paying for them. She said it’s not because she wants grandkids but because she knows we’d be great parents. That’s my in laws, always dropping this mind blowing generosity on us/me. I had like a fairy tale wedding(as much as they know about it) and it was solely due to them.
Okay gotta to work now, these were just some pre work thoughts I had about how unfair it is that some people are just born fucking rich as fuck. What dicks.
Loss makes the ordinary tragic.
When her son died, my Grandma told me how (not in these words) it broke her heart all over again whenever she thought of something she wanted to tell him. They would talk on the phone every night. She spent a lot of her evenings on her cord telephone with her kids, now that I think about it.
I was supposed to be that for my mom, as well as her daughter. It was impossible so I quit both. Now, we have more of a real parent child thing going. I think in part because I’ve started telling her more. Because I have no one else to talk to. Because I mean, especially after this past Christmas, it’s kind of obvious my best friend and I are now that “acquaintance from back in the day” situation. Which is all right, I’m sure we won’t ever live near one another again anyway. But without her, I have 1 person left.
And I mean you can say it’s my fault, but if you’ve gathered even a scrap of what I’ve been laying down….you’ll see I made the one sane choice
But still, pretty lonely
When I email my mom, I’m sometimes at a loss for things to talk about. There are clearly things I don’t mention to her, and certain topics we’re always hashing over. One thing I like to tell her about is what crafts I’m working on or want to work on. Today I mentioned to her that I wanted to make a few things for Valentine’s Day, since every house is going to look so bare after Christmas comes down. She responded in a way I know wasn’t meant to devastate but it did anyway. She said she sure wished we could work on them together.
Yeah, to a lot of people it’s twelve shades of pathetic that it makes me want to cry, this very simple notion that I would like to do mundane effeminate tasks with my mom, and I cannot. I venture any of those people are not in my situation.
No one is in my situation. There’s a reason I talk to a blog about this. And everything else. I mean what we call a life like mine? Cassie spends first eighteen years with unstable abusers who are so mired in debt they’ll never get out….to grow up and just do the same shit all over.
Wish I didn’t have to craft alone.
Wish I could see my mom.
Wish my worthless father would just die. Not that he’s even sick. Of course not. Life is notoriously cruel.
But, like I obsess about, there’s only so many hours in a day. And now that I have a second, at-home job my mind is constantly fixated on working on creative projects. It used to happen as soon as the semester started, then it would die off by the time final papers were turned in. So I haven’t earned a cent from my at home job in weeks, but I’ve been writing every day. When I can. After I bike before I make dinner. With laptop set up on the kitchen table so my husband can play video games in the living room without distracting me. As much as I can on the weekends. Sometimes I regret that I learned long, long ago that cleanliness=happiness, because it goes the other way too. It could be worse, but it still bothers me.
I do think of this blog often, though I’m sure you can’t tell. But the time that was once devoted to my 1750 word blogs is funneled elsewhere. I’m aware it’s hilarious I talk about how I want kids yet I can’t stop myself from complaining about not having any time. I have no delusions about the stress of motherhood.
Also it could be argued I’m on this blog less because I have less I need to tell internet strangers about. I still haven’t told another soul about the incidents of last July. Because I still maintain that my husband freaking out on me (a backlash for my whole heartedly attacking him) was worse than when I cornered him into admitting what he did.
I guess a person would say it hasn’t been all that long, that I’m expecting better from someone who has proven they’re not better.
But I mean, emotions aside aren’t the two options to get over something or to not? And if you get over it you have to figure what you want, like is this too much to forgive? Do I just leave? Do I make him leave? What if that’s not what you want?
Not that I knew why I wanted that, but I can imagine now it probably had something to do with the idea that I do love him. And practically, I’m not starting over, I’m not explaining my family situation to an outsider. I don’t like doing that. Not because I don’t want to talk about it, but because it makes other people so uncomfortable, and then it just turns awkward. I guess most people don’t fantasize about one of their parents dying every day. But I do. I also work on a novel every day, and am never not thinking about my characters like they’re real fucking people. So clearly I’m all sorts of special.
I’ve been having my husband read the excerpts I’ve deemed ready. He likes it so far, is good at pointing out when I’m getting confusing, but it is SO strange hearing someone else say their names.
It’s lived in my head too long, I’ve thought about them too much. If I don’t write their story I’ll probably go insane, not from the weight of my own genius but from the steering disappointment in myself.
So, one day Cassie Stevens’ picture will grace the back cover of a novel, until then I have so much else to work on I’d have to be crazy to ever think myself bored.
Things are all right with my husband and I. He hasn’t snuck out and had sex with a stranger from Craigslist since July…so…..
well lunch is almost over. I’ll make attempts to do this more during lunch, which is more than enough time for me to eat but it’s also sacred reading time. I just finished Drown by Junot Diaz, and I’m very sad there’s nothing else of his for me to read.
I have this selective inspiration, it’s been fucking with me since high school. I get my first job, and only on the awful days I had to work 4-9 after school would I feel the genuine rush of inspiration necessary to try and write eloquent thought at 16. In college, much the same. Of course I was working much more by then, but when you spend roughly eight months out of the year in college full time, when you just have to work full time during the summer, it’s almost like you’re on vacation…and I would go entire summers without writing a fucking thing…only to be DYING to the second the fall semester started.
So as an adult, I would have to come up with something really clever to get myself to actually write, right?
Well, maybe I did it.
Because one of the obnoxiously fucked things about me is how I’m really good at putting in whatever effort I need to to exist and provide for myself and my cats, but deep down I’m perpetually disappointed with how lazy I am. And how fruitless and pointless MOST things seem. But mainly that first thing. And I’m a special sort of fucked, from my dad’s side to be certain, where I’m always going to sabotage myself a little bit. It’s like they’re all the same sort of person who not only think of the shitty thing to say, they also ALWAYS say the shitty thing. You know the type I mean.
But, I think I figured some loophole. Remember the at-home job I got recently through my current job? Well, at first I had a very gung-ho spirit about the endeavor, but now it’s been a month and I keep finding excuses not to do it. Because, more than anything, I want to spend my spare time writing.
Let me tell you about last weekend.
I spent most of Sunday writing. I got like 14 pages. I guess that doesn’t sound like a lot. But when i say “most of Sunday” I mean the few spare hours I could have spent cleaning or some shit. I did do other things, like take out the trash and cook dinner, but I could have gotten more intense with the cleaning because it seems and feels and looks like this house always needs it. And fuck knows I won’t get assistance from anywhere else. But my husband works at least 56 hours a week now, and he leaves when I leave (which is at 6am twice a week and 7am the other days) but gets home hours after I do. So it’s a lot easier for me to be complacent about constantly looking after all aspects of life except his going to work now.
So, garbled long story short, I wrote 14 pages of fiction on Sunday. When I was done for the day I asked my husband if he wanted to read it. He said yes but then he also actually read some of it too. He seemed really positive about it, he had genuinely nice things to say it, and specific compliments are always good to know. I mean maybe it was a smoke show, but more likely not.
And I do the opposite writing of what I do with food. You start with the best parts writing. So of course by the best parts, I mean the sex scenes. So that’s what I always start with. Or some other really intense scene, but mostly the sexual ones. I can’t help it, it’s entirely a part of my nature. It was during English class in the seventh grade when I realized I could daydream sexual fantasies. Not of myself at that age with anyone, but of characters that I would carry with me mentally for years and would still be writing about here at the end of my twenties. I was 13 when I was watching a Disney movie in theater (The Princess Diaries, if you must know) when I realized the adrenaline of sexual tension was a drug of its very own. This isn’t to say I was overly indulgent in sexual excursions at a young age. I wouldn’t have sex for the first time until after I was 18. Like all other true aspects of my personality, this was almost entirely in my head. I only say almost because I was writing from time to time, but I recall tapering off by the end of high school. I’d feel inspired on work days but sometimes it seemed like that only was because I couldn’t. Don’t we all self-sabotage by yearning after that which we know we shouldn’t?
So, I spent a whole day writing, then a whole Monday thinking about a different sex scene I wanted to write about. But the time it takes to get into that mode, it’s hard to come by on a weekday. I think I’ve mentioned a few thousand times about that, by this point. And now, throw the fact that I wanted to work from home and make extra money eating even more of my time….it can make it rough to be creative. I’m trying to resolve to dedicate large blocks of time on the weekends to writing. Because honestly I’ll just spend it cleaning or watching TV or maybe making something crafty. And the house is just going to be gross again the next week anyway, so a lot of the time it’s like is this even worth it, even a little?
So, in conclusion, I spent as much time as I could after work writing, instead of working my second job. Because there’s something more practical to do, my brain is just dying to write. I guess it’s a good thing. But I also feel so compelled to work as much as I can in an attempt to save myself from future financial drowning. But then, again, that also feels REALLY pointless because, guess, JUST GUESS, what my student loan balances are as of this month? In total, I’m at $111,666.88. So, an extra $180 every two weeks in exchange for ALL creative time….do you see why that’s so depressing to think about?
But other than all that, my life has been pretty good. To get kind of dear-diary with you, here are things in my life as of now:
I stopped taking birth control. To kind of see if I get knocked up without radically trying. Because I mean the reality that one can only have biological children before a certain age is there, no matter how fucked things were so shortly ago. I mean, no one knows more than me that I might really come to rue this remark, but I think my husband is actually getting better. He’s been sober since August 2015. So that’s something. Things have been good since they got SO fucking bad. Like we really haven’t gotten into any sort of a fight since then, beyond bickering while driving. He’s really into sex a lot more lately, which is always significantly easier for me on days I’ve been writing sex scenes for hours. I mean, is that hard to deduce? I’m not saying I can’t have sex whenever, I can, to the extent that I’ve already graphically described for you all. But, truth be told, mechanically speaking, my husband and I aren’t a perfect match, you know? Do you not? Okay, in case I’m being too cryptic. There’s a certain amount of puzzle-piece-like luck as far as genitals are concerned that’s involved when one bangs another person. We can’t help it when someone with a great dick for your vagina specifically is a shitty, alcoholic suck fest of a human being. A list of the great mistakes of my twenties would start with R, to be certain. And, while I actually love and respect my husband, sometimes we can have compatibility issues, at least as far as my personal enjoyment/comfort goes. It’s not the end of the world, and it is remarkably improved if I’m, you now, good to go from writing. My husband remarked on it a few times on Sunday, if you get my drift. Which by this point, you really should.
So, there’s that detail. That’s so not the sort of thing I’d ever talk about in my regular life. I mean I have discussions of that nature with my husband, but no one else.
Speaking of things that…I don’t know I couldn’t possibly tell anyone in my actual life, I have been SO into the idea of fantasizing about my one coworker. Like, I’m a little shocked by the level of time I put into it. And I can’t even place where it’s really coming from. So who knows where that’s headed. It’s nice to have an actual person to fantasize about, though. Thinking about characters while you’re actually masturbating is annoying, because I already fucking think about them enough could I catch a break?
Anyway, gotta go. As I’m sure you’ve surmised by now I’m as unstable yet very stable as ever.