Have you considered the fine art of dishonesty? Willis is the Worst Volume 1.

“There’s nothing I hate more than a liar.”
You won’t get that quote correct unless you REALLY over-emphasize the last work, particularly the first syllable. Because that’s how my worthless dumbfuck dad would say it.
It’s funny, but also SO sad, and more than anything just overwhelmingly sickening that he thought lecturing was doing any good. He was REALLY under the impression that all those 45 minutes speeches, consisiting of him rehashing/repeating the same idea over and over and over (OR treating you to a story from his own life, because of course he knew about everything I had already experienced or ever would so he was an expert and could tell me what to think and feel about ANYTHING) were a good way to go about things. Everything about him is so terrible it makes me want to vomit.

What’s the WORST out of ALL of it, and MY FUCK is that a biiiiiig list, is that it’s hard to convey. It’s hard to communicate. You wouldn’t think he’s such a fucking monster, upon first meeting him. BUT, there’s only so long that fucker can keep up his “I’m a normal/functional guy” routine. If you’re someone he sees once a year, once every few years (think a coworker of my mom’s, doctor’s office employees, etc.) then you probably think he’s a regular guy who likes to talk too much.

Yeah, the lecturing, the droning, the LONG, POINTLESS stories that you’ve heard at least a hundred times — all of this induced by some combination of opiods and booze — were him AT. HIS. BEST.

Yes.

The horrible, grating, annoying, controlling, completely incapable of regarding any feelings other than his own, this was “positive” W. Negative mode was just enraged, emotionally lashing out and attacking others as a means of catharsis AND entertainment. Like if you throw 1000 darts at a dart board….isn’t ONE of them going to be a bullseye? That’s kind of how he was. He was also SURE to make sure you felt bad about anything you did, whether you intentionally broke rules, or just made a mistake, you were going to be made to feel like a worthless piece of shit. Must be nice to grow up around a father who isn’t cruel by nature and to amuse himself.

Negative W usually came about when the booze/pills weren’t present, or at least not in abundance, or perhaps were mixed dangerously. There’s a lot of sleeping pills/black out periods and shit mixed in there too. I think they think I don’t remember. I’ll say it like I’ve said it a thousand times, I’m lucky I was the younger one. Three years is a big age difference. My brother was 8 when W ruined our family’s lives. I was only 5. JESUS that’s also the year my mom lost her dad. That literally just hit me. Wow. She did NOT have a good year, at 35. A 5 and an 8 year old at home and your husband (whom you’d married with the religion-fueled intention of never divorcing) ruins everything through sheer stupidity and greed and selfishness. I feel for her. JEEEEEEEZ she was only 4 years older than I am now. WOW.

All right, those weird realizations aside, and I’m sorry for the Pinterest-Recipe-Blog-Level preamble to the main event, but here it is. A story I have from 7th grade, where more than one adult male in my life came together to be shitty, and I was saved ONLY through deep organization.

I didn’t do junior high or middle school. I went to the same building, named only “Religious-word Religious-word School” from preK to 8th grade.
They did quarters, meaning four report cards per school year. I enjoyed this arrangment, as report cards were means for rewards of different sorts for myself. W LOVED flaunting and fawning all over my report cards. In a way I enjoyed it because he would usually give me money or buy me something I wanted. But it also meant all this weird, annoying attention from a guy who, usually, didn’t know my age or grade, despite all of us living together. Then he would lecture my brother awhile for his C-D average, but then we both would get equal monetary rewards. It made NO goddamn sense to me.

Between the quarterly report cards were midterms, less official, but they still had to go home to parents and come back signed.
It was 7th grade, I know for certain. I don’t know which midterm it was. The teacher (a man in his 60s named Bob Mueller) was writing out midterms.
I think it was break time in the early morning. I was sitting in the front row, next to a friend of mine. If I remember correctly, and I do so in a vague way so yeah…unreliable, I think I had just gotten done saying or doing something annoying, or at least not in keeping with what this psycho thought was “appropriate” for “young ladies my age.” Honestly the only thing those shitty Lutheran teachers all had in common was how frequently it REALLY felt like they were trying to make me feel bad for being myself. ANYWAY.

So, he’s writing out midterms, and he says, quietly, still loud enough for my friend and I to hear him, “Cassie got a D.”
I remember a complete stomach drop moment. I DID NOT GET BAD GRADES. EVER. Plus it was enormously unexpected, WHAT could I have possibly gotten a D in.

AND WHY. WHY. WHY DID THE EDUCATOR TELL ME THAT IN FRONT OF A FRIEND OF MINE?

See, I was used to W’s treatment, so the idea, even the notion, of standing up for myself was unreal and unknown.
I HONESTLY remember my friend (her name was Elise) defending me. She at least was good enough to say, “Cassie doesn’t get bad grades.” He then proceeded to HOLD UP MY MIDTERM. It was only for a moment, BUT IT STILL HAPPENED.
I can’t recall if I was incredulous or in panic mode right then, I just remember making whole face paling when he finished writing them out and actually handed them out.
Everything else was to be expected, grade-wise, but then, there it was

Art : D

I had gotten a C on a weekly assignment (a harrowing enough experience for young me), but HOW did one C equate to a whole 1/8 of a school year down the drain???
Later that same school day, I worked up the nerve to inquire. I remember feeling very indignant, but I was also very upset, and I NEVER had to ask for explanations (because they weren’t going to be given, and asking would typically just get me screamed at, by both parents).
But I managed to approach him at his desk, during some quite work time they always gave between subjects, where you could really tell who was going to grow up to be a loser by who dicked around during that time and who actually did their homework. But I digress.

I went up to him and asked, probably more tearfully than my memory has preserved, “How can I have a D when my worst grade on a project has been a C?”
His instant response, “I have you down for a 0 for one assignment.”
The dreaded 0/10, the you didn’t even try. You usually got a 5/10 just for turning it in on time with your name on it (some kids couldn’t handle that, but I was not one of them, just like I was one of the ones who did their homework during the time alotted).
Me, “I did every assignment.”
I don’t recall EXACTLY what he said next, so I don’t feel comfortable quoting, but it was something along the lines of he needed to see the assignment so he could record its grade.

If my mom didn’t happen to KEEP every homework assignment that I brought home in a filing cabinet — to be sorted through at the end of the year, the gems put aside for keepsake reasons, the rest thrown out because no one recycled back then, least where I lived — I don’t know what would have happened.

THe shitty pencil drawing I’d received an appropriate C on was the missing one in question. That 7/10 in place a 0 would bring that D to like a B or something.
The rest of that school day, I fretted that the shitty drawing in question had been among the less than admirable assignments that found their way to the trash and not my mom’s filing cabinet.

It was a Friday. Midterms and report cards always went home on a Friday. My dad would also pick me up from school, SOME DAYS.

I was still quite upset from my day of being a poor student.

I made the sorry mistake, one I would never make again, of telling my dad what was wrong.

I’d barely gotten it out, I said something like, “I got a D on my midterm and I asked Mr. Mueller how that was possible, and HE’S missing an assignment I KNOW I did that he saw and graded, so now I have to hope I still have it at home and bring it in so he can change my grade to the B it should be.”

It’s like if a kid was cutting up vegetables to assist their mom in the kitchen, and they go too fast and cut themselves, deeply, to the point of probably needing stitches, and instead of the reaction of one who loves and cares about this kid, the mother shrieks, grabs the child by the wrist, and presses the entire palm of their hand to a red-hot burner.

That’s a REALLY good way to equate W’s reaction to my telling him this story. ALso, I made the sorry mistake of telling him about it right away, while we were on the street in front of the school, and during his screaming fit, he turned around and started violently driving back to the parking lot.

W, “WHY WOULD YOU TELL ME THAT NOW? YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO TELL ME ABOUT THAT WHILE I’M AT HOME TAKING A SHIT, NOT NOW!!!!!” At this point we’re swerving back to my grade school and I’m crying, because I was literally expecting him to comfort me (which shows how stupid I was, 7th grade is too old to still think he was capable of this shit) like my mom would have, or my Grandma, fuck even my brother.

Not good old dad. He literally, out of NOWHERE, starts shrieking at me that I was SO STUPID and HORRIBLE and SELFISH to tell him that, there, while we were still so close to the school, because now he COULDN’T stop himself, he HAD to go confront this teacher.

Never, in a million years, did I think he would do this.

It’s not that 7th grade Cassie didn’t know he could do stuff like this.
It’s that I didn’t think he would be wiling to “out” himself like that at my school. He always tried to put on a weird front when he was around those people…the whole….4 times he was. My mom came to Christmas plays and the Spelling Bees she could manage, my mom took us to church every Sunday. My dad did nothing. He showed up for 8th and 12th grade graduation, and our confirmations (NOT EVEN OUR BAPTISMS, which is this whole other story about how he used religion as a means of control as well).

He parked illegally behind the school, he made he get out of the car with him and show him where my classroom was. I was crying, and a bunch of people I knew were staring. It was a school of like 350ish kids, and with the whole church social situation on top of it all, everyone knew each other.

WHo knows what would have happened if Mr. Mueller had been in his classroom, he was still in the building because he hadn’t locked the door or turned out the lights. BUt he wasn’t there, and then my dad stalked down one floor to the office and made me check to see if he was in the office. Somehow, he wasn’t. I don’t know where he was, the school was three stories, a cafe-gymna-toriam, then the gothic church with it’s connecting basement.

W gave up at this point, maybe freaking the fuck out on me and storming through the school while I trailed behind him — crying this whole time mind you — was enough to make him feel better.

I don’t remember the rest of the drive home.

The issue was easily enough resolved. The assignment was in the drawer with a “C” in one corner in my teacher’s handwriting. I took it in the following Monday, he unapologetically took it, made note of it in his gradebook, and handed it back. That was it.

So which part it worse? That my teacher purposely embarassed me over HIS mistake, and then didn’t even apologize for fucking up so good? Or that my dad attacked and berated ME for telling him about something that upset me. Like that’s how WRONG of a thing that was to do.

IDK if it was because his pride and self worth was tied up in my academic performance (because he ACTED that way, let me tell you) and that this attack wounded him deeply. Or maybe he was strung out on something, or out of something, and he was already in a REALLY bad mood, and on top of everything else (sleeping, being fucked up, watching TV) he had to go pick up one of his kids from school, then the little idiot goes and tells him how her teacher flubbed up and made HER report card look bad. Yeah I don’t write the thought processes of characters like my dad. NOOOO. NOPE. They’re there, being detestale, but I don’t let them escape static.

What if my mom hadn’t kept assignments? I would’ve gotten a C or B- at BEST on the next report card. Jeez. I usually did an A- in art. THey graded on actual talent so sometimes i felt jipped, but most of the time I didn’t try that hard.

This may sound dumb, or not a big deal, and it’s not, not the thing that happened, it’s what the MOTHERFUCKERS DID AND HOW I WAS TREATED. That’s was SO indicative of a lot of my young life. Shitty, horrible human being adults wherever i went. Being punished for things that weren’t remotely my fault. YEP. Those are some Cassie life themes, I’ll tell ya.

Well, this is the start of a series. I need to be able to give clear examples of memories of complete psycho behavior on his part. I just feel like he’ll eventually do something that warrants a need for such cataloging. I’m glad he doesn’t know where I live, and is literally not computer savy enough to Google something, much less find me. They DEFINITELY don’t have smart phones. It irritates my mom to no end. I gave her my old 5S but she never activated it, as that costs $ as well.

ANyway.

So now maybe it’s slightly clearer, why I hate him. Why I can’t feel sorry for him, at all, because he could’ve like risen above his fuck up, but no, he just wallowed in it, and became a worse and worse version of himself. To this fucking day he torments my mom, and brother, I guess. She calls it simply “acting up” these days. She refers to “not a good weekend” with W, and I remember those. Where he maintained the same SHITTY, horrible mood, that literally made it impossible to be in the same room without him screaming at you for something.

It’s easier to feel sorry for my mom. But I don’t feel sorry enough to forget how like…she stayed…..and stayed….and stayed…..and still does. It makes me just angry enough to have an edge.

~Cassie

Nails, or Good Mood Sunday

I reason with myself it’s an easy enough time to be in a good mood. It’s a Sunday that you wouldn’t call warm, but it’s finally not freezing, either. You have pole dance class at noon, in two and a half hours. It demarcates the single hour of your week you spend not at home or work or driving between the two. Now, since the beginning of February, I’ve been using an hour every Wednesday for therapy.

So now I have two things, two hours of my week, arguably the two most productive hours of my week, and they cost me $52, like clockwork. What’s a girl to do?

See now I’m thinking about money and I’m in less of a good mood. If my husband were here (he’s at work, like usual for Sundays, which is why I think of Sunday morning as more “my” time than Saturdays, when he’s here) he’d admonish me for bringing up something unpleasant so early in the morning. But he’s an expert at just never talking about or dealing with anything, because it’ll be unpleasant (not that he’s ever said that, but live with someone 10 years and tell me you don’t know them) so I tend to get irritated. But frankly I guess I get irritated about almost everything.

Which is why I’m trying to tell myself to be in a good mood.

It is a good morning. I’m drinking black coffee (yes, I’m one of those people) and sparkling water (because dear, I have an obsession) and smoking weed, and writing in CF. Well, editing. I have this cockamamie idea that I’ll have a polished draft to give to my best friend when I see her for my birthday. But that’s 13 days from now. Also this my last two weeks of being thirty. How weird. It wasn’t a great year, I won’t lie, but it had a lot of great moments. I will say that.

Today is one, I guess. I have nothing but writing time until I leave for pole.

After pole, I need to go to a Dollar Tree for painters’ masks, because you need those for my newest distraction endeavor.

Guess what it is.

It’s doing my nails.

See the long backstory is, I was jealous, really jealous, of the girls who went to my private high school whose mother’s were somehow willing to drop as much on their daughter’s beauty routines as on their own. Perhaps it was a bonding thing. I’m not judging, I’m just saying that looking at it right now, I can see why some mothers would be exasperated that these unrealistic $90 salon trips were the norm for some of their daughter’s peer group. So I saw A LOT of girls who got to get their nails done professionally (back then, in the early 00s, it was all acrylic pinks and fancy French tips, I refuse to do this style, for that reason). So I did what young Cassie was like to do, figure out a way around it using my inability to let something go when I’m into it.

So I learned how to do nails, and lo and fucking behold, it’s SUPER cheap (compartatively, to salon prices) to do them yourself. Plus the added grossness of a public place where hands and feet are cleaned and groomed and pampered is nonexistant if you do them at home. So in high school, I would at times have crazy long and fancily-painted nails, all of which I did at home by myself. People would ask me where I got them done.

It’s just another example of how you can get around a lot of the stuff that you want, if you try hard enough.

So, for awhile…let’s say….two years, right around the time I got married until a little before things with R ended (thank God), I was getting my nails done. When I interviewed for the job I have currently, I remember having brown and clear glitter sparkle alternating with a pointed gel job.
But, I got sick of having this extra errand to run at minimum twice a month, and one that involved a lot of time and being around strangers and in a public place and worst of all, coming into physical contact with someone else.

(HUGE SIDE NOTE/FOOTNOTE ON PHYSICAL CONTACT AND CASSIE: I hate, HATE, physical contact with other people. If you’re close enough to me for me to smell you, I do NOT want it to be happening….additional footnote – the ONLY time this is not true is if it’s someone I’m fucking, OR someone I would like to fuck….LITERALLY the only time I will ever ever ever touch someone. I don’t even mean in a sexual or intimate way, I mean in the world’s most professional handshake. In Hannibal at one point, after giving a rousing lecture on the connection between greed and death by hanging, Hannibal Lecter holds onto a pile of books so he isn’t obliged to shake anyone’s hand as they congratulate him on his stunning success at impressing them. I remember reading it and being like…smart..so smart…need to start doing that… So yeah, if someone I’m not fucking or want to fuck hugs me, on the inside, I’m fucking cringing, at best. It’s how I’ve always been. This isn’t to say I’m not physically affectionate…but again…with the people I have sex with. ANYWAY, I just thought I’d explain that, because it’s a huge part of my shit).

So now I’m going to start doing my nails.

I have pole class, then to buy painters’ masks so I don’t breathe in a ton of toxic nail dust.

I think about it…and I go WAY out of my way to not look like a poor person…don’t I….

At least as much as I can.

I haven’t gotten my hair cut at a salon in at about four years. If you read my disclaimer you might understand why I don’t like it. Also, it’s expensive. Plus I like having super long hair and it’s NOT hair to cut your own split ends and layer your own hair, it’s just not.
My clothing, the nicer pieces, were all gifts from my mother in law. I buy the random piece (on credit) but that’s about it. I tend to wear things for as long as possible.
With make up, I stopped wearing a ton of it every day, but what I wear every day is still top of the line. Two years ago I had eyeliner tattooed on my eyelids, so that saves money and is the best in many other ways, like it’s always perfect.
But, honestly, since college, when I was FINALLY free of the fucking dress code restrictions of my grade school and high school, people have always noticed/remembered me by my wardrobe. And makeup. Time to add nails, is it not?

Plus idk, it’s something I kind of miss having done, and I’m yet again at a point in my life where I could never afford getting them on the regular basis that they need. My husband took a lower paying job, the lowest paying one he’s had since he graduated college, for better insurance. So we could go to therapy. Which still costs us a combined $60 per week. Then my pole dance class is $22. His gym is $25 every other week and then a twice years $600 infusion, I believe. WHY DOES IT COST SO MUCH TO BE HEALTHY AND LOOK FABULOUS?

Wow that’s like literally the point of this blog and all of my thoughts that aren’t my book, CF. Which still isn’t as good as I want it to be, and I’ve read it BY MY FUCKING SELF so many times that I can’t even begin to look at it objectively.

Anyway, I should get some writing done before class, with the quiet and the cool spring morning and the dozens of active songbirds (so adorably trying to get laid by singing so prettily) and the weed high and all.

I keep myself on a strict cleaning schedule so I don’t neglect anything to grossness but also don’t lose all of my time and energy to cleaning (because instinctively, that’s what I want to do…) and I’m caught up for the weekend. So I can spend the whole afternoon while dinner crockpots itself doing my nails and writing. I’ve been on a vodka kick but I bought some of those Fosters fat boys for this afternoon as well.

Sometimes, I can’t tell

If it’s the weed and the booze and my general state of numbed acquiescence that I brought with me from childhood

Or if my life isn’t actually so bad

I guess it depends on perspective

and your list of needs

All I know is

My best friend, and now my therapist, they both don’t like my husband

Is there something I can’t see?

Or is it just how I put things to them? That I have the same shit-talking negative bent every other member of my family has? I had someone else straight up ask me if I was being abused, from reading this blog.

So I’m literally super confused

And like. Depending on how I feel in any given moment dictates how I feel about my life

AND THAT, dear readers,

is a rare gift from my mother.

See, that’s the thing.

That’s the fucking problem

She, the one with the SUPER depressive personality, and massive inferiority issues, and the mood swings and the stress eating, she was the one example of love I had

Sure, everyone, EVERYONE, always commented on how nice she was. Yeah. In public. When she was around people she was worried about keeping up the facade around. That was NOT the case at home, especially not when it was just her and I.

Anyway. Back to my book.

Love you

~C

I missed your 100th birthday, my bad

First, two picture, one is of us together, you’re doing your trademark thing and hiding as much of your face as possible in the picture. I’m maybe a year old? The other is the cover of the Betty comic you bought me one of the times I was staying at your apartment and I waited there while you went to the grocery store to buy things to please me. I didn’t know what Betty was, but it seemed okay so I acted like I knew it and acted excited when she said “I got you a Betty.” She got my brother Mad Magazine so we were both happy. 

Well, just like last year on November21st, I was going to write this huge long sentimental blogabout my Grandma, since that’s her birthday. But you know what I failed miserably at that in 2017 and 2018 so I’m going to do it todayto make up for it.

I saw a meme the other day, one of those long ass ones that tells a story, about how when someone dies, they go into spectator mode, like in a video game. So your deceased relatives can watch whatever they want, either POV or from above. At the end of the meme, it showed a Pilgrim-esque looking guy standing behind the meme’s main character with the thought bubble “Holy shit he figured it out.”

IF I could find this meme, I’d fucking show you rather than describing it. But it’s one of those ones I thought I saved, but instead, I didn’t, and it has no relevant keywords. So here we are.

BUT, the spirit of this meme is what interest me. Because. What is that IS true? That’s how it in The Lovely Bones, the dead immediately go into full omniscience.

If that is true….

uh…..

Well, you know what, if the dead do watch us, Lord knows my Grandma has truly been enjoying herself judging me all this time. That’s what she liked to do anyway. I grew up thinking talking shit/criticizing was a completely normal mode of expression.

But also, yeah, I could see why she would choose to watch me and not her daughter, or her grandson. Maybe she spends a lot of time with my cousin’s out west. Both of them married and had children and are normal, successful people with Ph.Ds and houses and etc. etc. They lost their mom young, really unexpectedly, to cancer. I’m related to their dad (Grandma’s other son whose still living, there was a third one, another Uncle, and his death when I was 12 marked the exact end to any semblance of security, stability or happiness in my life. I had 6 more years to get through and my fuck they weren’t easy) and it came as a shock to us all when the drinker/smoker of many decades outlived his wife. He was the only person at my wedding who was related to me who wasn’t my W, my mom or my brother. At our 300 person wedding, FOUR of the guests were my relatives. But I digress.

So, if you’re watching this, well, first of all, things are different now, Grandma. You were born in 1918, you’re not going to understand the world of 2018. And if you don’t want to see a foursome don’t watch a foursome. It’s better than observing mom though, isn’t it? I guess the dead can’t do anything to harm the living…because….if they could, I’d frankly be really angry with my Grandma for not car-accidenting that guy out of our lives.

Well. That’s it. It’s Thanksgiving, and I’m pretty preoccupied by the notion that my dead Grandma can see me and is judging me. I mean I don’t care, I’m just saying if SHE could do that, that’s how she would use that ability. But that’s just how she was. I’ve said before how I find it a little hard to criticize even the times she was being horrible, because like, should I find fault with the only reason I’m even a little bit normal? Like whatever part of me wants to fit in and for people to like me…that didn’t come out of nothing. LOOK at my brother. HE’S what happens if someone is over-exposed to W and has no other adult influence. But I spent a ton of time with my mom and Grandma, and my Grandma alone. My brother was taught that W the great I Am and that to even think of listening to someone else, doubting W in the slightest, was a sin on par with damnation.

OH YOU THINK I’M JOKING?

Okay I need to fast forward to the Easter when I was mmmmmm 16. This was when, now that we were teenagers it was 0 hassle to get us up and into church (my mother did this job solo ages 0-15, you know, when there’s work involved in doing so) and suddenly it was life and death importance that we attend his church as well. 1) He started attending a church in a city nearby because his trashy skank coworkers he definitely wanted to fuck and might have at some point (I mean he cosigned on a car with one of them….what does THAT tell you, friends???)

Well I went to a Lutheran high school, so naturally I had Good Friday off from school. W insisted my brother and I go a Good Friday service at his church. His penecostal church. Do you REALIZE what those people are like on Good Friday? AGH, such uncomfortable weirdness.

But of course, when I protested, when I said I didn’t want to go to his church because it made no sense to me that suddenly at 16, despite being a regular attendant of my own church, going to a Lutheran high school, and being an active member of my youth group, I just HAD to start going to HIS church too. Of course his religious bent just works into his narcissism too perfectly, and it was one of the many things he used to put down my mom and I (to a lesser extent). He loved talking shit about that church and how it was (remember this term? I know I’ve told you before) a dead church.

So this GF when I’m 16, he outright asks me, “What’s telling you that you don’t like going to that church?”

As in.

He thinks I was being told, spiritually, by a demon, that I didn’t like that church, because this demon that was allegedly inside me was frightened by the true spiritual power of his superior Pentecostal church. YES. REALLY. That was W’s favorite go-to when you didn’t want to have anything to do with his church.

To him, to his tiny, narrow, tiny, NARROW mind, there could be NO other reason for my not wanting to suddenly be dragged to ANOTHER church. Especially one where I know NO ONE and my dad’s dragging my brother and I along to put on a show for coworkers he’s having shit with or wants to have shit with? LIKE SERIOUSLY. This was my life at 16. Being accused of demon possession because I didn’t want to help my dad nail some skank. Like Jesus fuck. IS IT SURPRISING I have such issues with religion? I mean it feels like I’m going against everything I was ever taught but…JEEZ. Sometimes it feels like you need to? Other times you’re like well there’s no accounting for human error/flaws, and you KNOW W didn’t just come into being one day, that someone whose THAT fucked obviously went through deep trauma himself. Not that that’s enough to like, ever speak to him again, but I’m capable of thinking the thought, at least.

My mom would always hide as much as she could during these exchanges while W had me cornered somewhere, typically my room or the corner of the room he was in if he was awake and not on the toilet, rocking in front of a TV super fucked up and chewing tobacco. Yep. That’s my mental image of my dad. That and him yelling. ANYWAY. My mom would also always just tell me to go along with what W wanted because it made her life easier.

Yep.

And you may be thinking, wow, Cassie, way to go, you turned this tribute post about your Grandma into talking mad shit about W on a different national holiday. Well let me tell you that’s precisely the sort of thing Grandma and I would be talking about if she WERE here, so *tongue sticking out emoji*
I’m going to write and smoke weed all day. At some point we’ll make like bacon and eggs to tide us over. Who the fuck knows when my husband will get up, he went to bed at 5am reeking like vodka. He shaved his pubes in the bathroom sink. I didn’t see him do it, but I can assure you it happened. Oh well. That’s really not that bad it’s just like…okay THIS is why the house can never be up to my personal standards of clean, set by none other than, you guessed it, my Grandma.

I guess my memory palace is mostly just her apartment, then the playground at my grade school in the spring. Then my room when it was filled wall to wall with stuffed animals and Barbies and my Lite Brite and my enormous Fischer Price dollhouse. And I think about her apartment the most. It was like…eerily spotless. The carpet was always perfect. The bathroom was always perfect. I guess I run through the whole place A LOT.

That salmon pink candy dish on the glass and wood end table with the seasonally alternating candies. Root beer barrels. Anise squares. Chocolate peanut clusters. Those squishy pastel after dinner mints. Spice drops. Tiny Reese’s peanut butter cups. Individual Andes mints. It’s strange, for being NOT fat (she was about 5’7” and 140#, so like not a tiny old woman by any means, but she talked about herself like she was 340#, it drove everyone crazy) herself, my Grandma was surely talented at making other people emotionally connect with food. But I also never eat candy. Because it’s bad for your teeth. My teeth need all the help they can get, I can’t control myself from grinding them. I mean I do, but I fucking catch myself doing it all the time. So I can’t be so good then. But, it definitely wore off on my mom. To be certain. When I was a kid, she described overeating after dinner as a “release” I would, years later, realize just how fucked that was of a thing to say. Like. EGH my parents were way too like “Let’s be friends and confidants” with me, and that KIND of fucks up your perception of propriety and boundaries and makes you really grating to some of the other adults in your life, because to them you seem like a petulant, spoiled, arrogant little shit who thinks they can say and do whatever they want as their doormat mother and absent father do nothing. That was a little true, but I don’t think anyone would stop to wonder why my mother and I had that sort of relationship. Plus I was a good kid. I wasn’t fool enough to try and get away with anything under W’s watch, in that tiny house. Besides, I knew I was getting out soon.

It’s it hilarious that I didn’t even like start getting fucked up until I was 21? Like I’d been drunk on rare occasion before then, and I started smoking when I was 19 (weed and cigarettes) but I didn’t start drinking on the reg until I met my husband.
I’m not blaming him, at all.

Because I don’t blame anyone for my actions. Because, that’s stupid. I’m just pointing out these things coincided.

It wasn’t until I started getting fucked up that I realized I could get away from them.

What the sweet fuck does that even mean though?

Like does growing up in a fucked situation make your brain want that feeling, even though it knows it’s bad? Because I fucking promise you, I’m the last person to cause drama. Like. That’s just NOT an activity I participate in. I do everything I can to avoid it, BUT, I’m not great at backing down if I get challenged. I feel a little bit like a proverbial bulldog with something in its jaw in those moments. But anyway.

I think I might just be trying to blame my drinking on my childhood. What shocking, new behavior, for an addict.

Can’t figure out if I’m a sex addict. Probably not? I feel like I’d be getting laid more if I were, right? Pfft.

Just like I tried blaming the fact that I was married and had my side relationship with R happening right at the same time as my final break with my parents. Like I wanted a distraction from thinking about shit, and boy spending three nights a week at his dad’s house was definitely that. And to me the whole time my husband said it was okay, to him the whole time he was begging me to stay and I was doing what I wanted anyway.

Well whatever.

Wow this does not have a Thanksgiving theme to it at all. Sorry, anyone in the festive spirit who reads this. I honestly don’t like this holiday. It’s about “giving thanks” but also overeating and consumerism? Bleh. We’re going to my sister-in-laws. I am not pumped about the email I’ll probably get from my mom on Monday. But that’s awhile from now so whatever.

I was shopping online for Christmas gifts and kind of drunkenly bought myself three pairs of black boots……………whoops. I kind of remembered it this morning and was like…wow Cassie, maybe a bit excessive. But also, they were on hella sale because Black Friday started like a week ago, sale wise. So whatever. I went on innocently enough to get a scarf to match my new coat with rewards I’d earned from buying the coat. But, alcohol. So three pairs of boots, a hat/glove set, a velour/sherpa scarf and moisturizer later….i was done. But I also finished my best friend’s birthday and Christmas shopping too, so, actual gift buying also happening.

Jeez, I sound like I have a shopping problem. Well going shopping and eating were the two joys in life, so my Grandma taught me. So maybe I’m more like her than I realize. Plus I don’t do this often. Of course I earned another reward..so….we’ll see….I WISH I had a fucking reason to need sexy lingerie. Younger Cassie would be distraught over how far my undie situation has fallen. I mean for one, I weigh a great deal more than I did when I was 21, so the all Victoria’s Secret collection I had going pretty much all had to go, a loooong time ago. I used to always be wearing matching underwear/bra. Now, the only time that happens is when they’re both black, which is likely, because black is practical when you’re me and pretty much only wear black clothing. The underwear I brought out of special hiding to wear that one Saturday back in October worked their way into the normal rotation but now when I wear them I’m like….well some luck you were. Not that I really believe in having “lucky” objects, I’m really not superstitious. I own a book entitled The Encyclopedia of Superstition, but never mind all that. That was a Barnes and Noble find when I was a child, that had a spooky dust jacket that I threw out because it scared me more than once at night. I’m actually proud I kept it all this time. My copy of Homeless Bird, my SIGNED copy, was water damaged from my transporting it to and from work for Halloween. That made me sad.

Okay. This has been a WEIRD blog post. Enjoy your holidays, and your families, if you are so inclined. Just because I seem to sneer at “normal” people doesn’t mean I don’t get why it’s fun to be normal. I just…hate football, and the Pilgrims were murderers, and turkey tastes like napkins. That last part is a Brooklyn 99 quote, before I get sued.

Well, enjoy your long weekends. Fuck knows I am. Yesterday I got the hashtags of death with my book. I corrupted the file of it I had on my laptop beyond repair. BUT, I had it on a flash drive, so all was not lost. I need to buy Microsoft Word. Yeah I get I know I bought all the boots, but that was with a store charge (duh). I need cold hard cash for Word. I refuse to use “real” credit cards. Store charges make it worth your while, and honestly buying small increments of make up and work clothing isn’t SO bad, now is it? Anyway.

I need to get back to my real writing, that I now back up A LOT more frequently. I spent 1pm-4pm yesterday BARELY holding my shit together. Like just barely. But it’s all good now. Yet again, my worst freak out recently has been over nothing. Which is funny, because I DON’T freak out over the shit I should. Soooo funny how that works….ahhhhhh.

When this new insurance from my husband’s new job kicks in, we’re both looking into therapy, don’t worry.

Peace.

~Cassie

If you knew me even a little you’d be well aware I don’t understand the concept of “moderation”

OKAY this is getting weird. I literally am awake and drunk and can’t concentrate on CF enough to work on editing draft #2. I want to talk about myself too much. It’s an astounding problem I have. I get I’m self absorbed. I promise that I have to be. I still feel incredible amounts of compassion for others, I’m just certain that I’m terrible at showing it. Like. I fucking wish I was a sociopath like W. Do you realize how convenient it must be to not feel feelings? OMF they’re what’s been holding me back all this time. But, then, if it’s the last part of yourself that still feels human (that is, unviolated) should you really fight it so? The same goes for how jealous I am of atheists. Must be nice to be sure of yourself. I hope for your sake that you’re right, but I don’t really think so. Like. Think about how vast and profound and infinite and pointless and small and all-encompassing and affirming and destroying and EVERY other combination of contradictions you can muster, think of the true awe-inducing beauty we have access to, even in our everyday lives. You’re telling me we’ve evolved as we have all on our own? I feel like life is WAY too complex for all of that.

And I mean. I get it. I get the notion that, like, okay if there is a God, where were they when [X]? Yeah. I don’t know. I fucking wonder myself. But. I don’t know how to say it other than this: there’s an answer, and I don’t know it, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. I’ve been really confused on the specifics of religion for a long time, myself.

TO digress onto a weird ass topic. I was raised Lutheran. I went a Lutheran grade school and high school, ages 3-18. I was confirmed in a Lutheran church and was active in my church youth group for the first two years of high school. BUT, in keeping with W’s typical narcissistic egomania, he was REALLY into “born-again” Pentecostal Christianity. The people who “speak in tongues” and generally act a fool in church. He watched (and probably still does) televangelists. I mean, of course, right? Why wouldn’t he have this weird, horrible, weird, embarrassing habit/trait? Why wouldn’t he somehow manage to ruin religion for his family? He didn’t give a fuck about going to church with his kids until they were teenagers, then all of a sudden it was a matter of life and death that they attended his church as well as my still being very active in the Lutheran church I went to with my mother. But you know what W’s constant comment about that church was? “Well that’s a dead church.” He had this BELOVED analogy about church’s being like meals, spiritual sustenance (just talking about this is giving me a tension headache, btw) He was OBSESSED with calling it that, every chance he got.

And you know what?
You know that car accident that ruined my brother’s life? Like moreso than W did?

It happened because my brother was driving to a nearby city separately from W to attend W’s church with him. The teenager who caused the accident was speeding on the highway in the rain because it was Sunday, the first day of summer camp where she and her two friends who were in the car with her were going to be counselors. They were all fine. My brother who was the only one who was hurt. Then you know, the Vicodin problem that naturally progressed into a heroin problem. He’s on methadone to this day, if you want perspective here. And the getting $100,000 in an insurance settlement and pissing it all away in like…two years. And having nothing to show for it. W pushed/worked/connived for my brother to get that money because he’s a greedy worthless lazy fuck and he knew he’d be able to get his hands on some of it. According to what my brother at one point told me, he gave W about $10,000. My brother claims he never would have agreed to this much if he hadn’t been high on Vicodin when W asked.

Yep.

That’s my family all right.

But no, be weird and judgmental that I have nothing to do with them, everyone I tell about the situation. It’s fine.

Like whatever. I honestly and literally do not care what people think. But sometimes I’m like…HA if only people knew the real truth.

That’s what CF is. It’s someone writing an expose on what REALLY happened with all these rich/powerful/famous people in these two small countries. The rest is just fucking backdrop, my dears. Not that it isn’t excellently and fearfully made. Jeeeeez I’m drunk. I’m not used to alcohol. I’m really not.

So things I’m excited about:
I’m sure I’ll see best friend for holiday season.
Three day work week next week

New glasses are dope and fit well (I have a VERY shallow bridge to my nose, not that I’m complaining, but it makes glasses hard).

Writing process is going well, getting chipped away at every day.

New coat is also dope, makes me feel mildly like a drug dealer/pimp, which is an aesthetic I’m into so it’s tight

If CF seems good enough to N, then maybe it’ll be good enough for Professor I. And just having even a slight chance of seeing him again fills me with a euphoria ecstasy cannot match. Or acid. Or shrooms. What can I say, I’m pretty cool, I’ve done some drugs. Not like my brother though. He got the opiod gene, I got the booze gene, these are just fucking goddamn facts. Opiates me sick. I got a Vicodin prescription for my wisdom teeth, just like 20 or so, I think I took three, and they made me feel worse than the surgery. I took too Vicodin for fun the day I went to an Eminem concert in Detroit (the one with Jay Z) and I puked all over the parking lot at Comerica. Someone walking by shouted, “Bring it up, girl!” I waved at him but kept puking. Fucking Vicodin. That night ended up getting ruined by my husband’s near psychotic behavior whilst wasted on expensive ballpark beer, but I digress.

So these are the things I look forward to, or at least am curious about. With CF it’s not so much blind hopefulness, as I’m thinking all of my hard work will pay off one day. It’s not about money, in the slightest, it’s about people reading it and liking it. It’s about being a good fucking writer. Which is all I’ve ever wanted or cared about. It’s always what’s mattered most. It’s always been the biggest part of my identity, since I fucking learned to read. I’ve always felt like a writer, since I was a child, it’s not something I grew into or chose to become. It’s just been there. I guess I knew I needed an outlet, and naturally I would have to find a silent one that I could keep hidden.

Holy shit, is that what we all have in common? It’s something. It’s got to be something. Again, I know there’s an answer but I can’t help you with specifics.

I don’t like Thanksgiving, family holidays make me sad. But we only have to drive to my husband’s sister’s about 40 minutes away, so that’s nice. And they’re doing Thanksgiving at actual dinner time, so we don’t have to leave our place until like 4 or 5pm that day. Then I’m off the following day. It’s a rare long weekend for me, so naturally I have huge writing goals. And I need to put out Christmas decorations, because I like decorating. And crafting. I’m a little like my mother, what can I say. So the long weekend is a thing to look forward too at any rate. Also of course any and all progression on writing one’s first novel is also exciting.

Other than that, not much is happening. I’m back in the swing of things (ha) at pole. One of these days I’m going to take the time to get done up at home and record some new pole videos. Maybe I’ll wait until I’m in slightly better shape. But don’t I always say that? Anyway, I guess I’ll be off.

Write it when? Fucking First.

For who? For fucking you.

~Cassie

This is what happens when I drink vodka.

I love you, and I miss you. And I don’t even know who you are.

I’ve felt this way before. Sort the clutter, man the chaos, recognize the longing that’s been there since you were old enough to recognize emptiness (all around you).

Persevere. Be strong. That’s all you’ve ever needed.

Most days you aren’t hopeful, but you at least wonder what’s to come.

Hair – pictures first

This is my hair on its own, wild and weird and natty, as I like to call it. Also the carrots aren’t intentionally product placed, I just eat a lot of carrots

But then, if I brush it, and don’t move or touch it, it’s so pretty:

I know you’ve seen this last one already, I just like it *angel halo emoji*

I’m working on Chapter Two: Hair, I really am

~Cassie

Squish

Well. We all know what it’s time for. More obsessing. I tried to not think about it all day, some pleasant distractions helped, but I mean….I’m still kind of like oh my god what the fuck about tomorrow. And today didn’t help…

The head of security, the ex-cop (gee….yes….hard to imagine why I don’t like those….why maybe even the sight of the standard navy blue uniform with the shiny black shoes and belt and the hat, makes my insides cringe and I’m suddenly wondering why I’m sweating) said good morning to me as he walked past my desk…his office is quite near my desk. This is the first morning he’s ever done that. Could be a coincidence. Could be my stoner paranoia. Could be that he’s totally in on whatever is happening tomorrow morning.

I don’t do well with dread.

I mean, do I seem like I do well with ANY negative emotions? I’ve just had my fill, I guess. Plus like…I feel like I go out of my way to not be shitty to other people. I’m generally in a good mood. Like whatever. We’ll see.

My boss, the one giving this review I have to come in on a fucking Saturday for, was like…almost strangely nice towards me today. I acted totally normal. At one point when I was alone with a different boss and wanted to ask if it was normal to come in on a Saturday for a review. I just don’t get it.

It’s either going to be really bad or really good.

Wouldn’t it be hilarious if it was something really awesome? Like they want me to head up a new Creative Department? That’s not a thing, it’s just something my mind came up with when I was trying to explore all possible scenarios so I don’t freak out.

My husband is like…your boss knows you “get emotional”….she might need to broach a topic with you that she knows you’re going to react badly to.

I was like………ohhhhhhh

So that might be it

Maybe I come in smelling like pot and the ex-cop smells it.

Maybe I’ve like…been a cunt too many times to too many people. I seldom put up with shit. I know I’ve pulled some idiotic moves before too. I get upset. I start thinking irrationally, or not at all. I can’t possibly process my emotions, let alone say what I want to say when I’m upset. I’m just not. I have the relationships that I have because I just don’t get emotional with my best friend, ever, and my husband knows how to handle me, after all of this time. It only takes so much exposure to W to really be able to explain away like 90% of my shitty behavior (for an emotionally intelligent person).

Maybe I’m the only one who hasn’t gone anywhere in the department since I got there. Which is true.

I have no idea.

Can you tell how little I like not knowing something I want to know?

My in-laws are in town this weekend for a convention for one of my MIL’s hobbies, and I REALLY don’t feel like dealing with the random comments about the lack of cleanliness in one/more parts of the house…and the near-constant criticism of my husband. She always irks the shit out of me, but obviously I just hide it and act normal then hate her for it afterwards. Because. That’s Cassie.

So. Oddly enough, N read the blogs about him.

That’s also something rare with him.

He’s the only real life person who’s read my blog.

Aside from the select ones I’ve let my husband see.

There are some he can’t see.

He doesn’t want to. He knows that. I know that. I don’t really want to relive those memories. Who the fuck would?

So N like contacts me and apologizes and explains more of wtf was going on in a way that makes toooootal sense. So like…perhaps I’m just less pissed.

When an INTJ figures out why they’re feeling an emotion, they tend to let a lot of anger go.

See my issue is, I think INTJ tends to come out of like…a sharp mind under less than idea conditions. Being strikingly uncommon and generally reclusive doesn’t help matters. If I wasn’t also an alcoholic I feel like I would have zero chance, socially. I guess being attractive helps a little.

So. Idk. I guess I feel better about the N situation. I mean if I can like mock up a non-disclosure agreement about CF that he’s willing to sign…maybe we can talk (lol…but not joking, they’re standard boiler plate). I’m serious. I don’t email my work. I don’t talk about it online EVER. My personal computer is RARELY online. I use my phone for all of that. It’s not that hard to use your phone as a laptop and your laptop as a word processor, which is what I do. If my husband and I text about it we use initials only to regard characters. I won’t let anyone know the title. I’m only going to give it to my best friend in person. How could I trust the mail? How much scanning is involved, these days?

I know this sounds absurb. But idk. I have some pretty dope ideas.

Again. I know how I sound.

I just don’t care.

Like whatever. Fucking hate me.

Some days I hate me too. But most days I’m like…damn Cassie, look at you always at least trying as fucking hard as possible.

Again. I’ve spent every waking moment since Thursday morning worried about tomorrow. This is all pretty dumb. In a weird way it’d be exciting to be thinking about Monday with a very dfferent outlook than my usual.

That old, annoying adage is proving true yet again. The one my impatient, impulsive self grinds at most.

Time will tell.

~Cassie