I’m at it again. I’d say someone stop me, but in the past I have NOT responded well to that.

I did one of the weird things that I do. Like I began to notice patterns in my behavior years ago (when I left my parents house, when I was away from the grating racket long enough to hear my thoughts, so on and so forth) but I’m still kind of like….but why? At most of it.

But the thing I did?

Even though I knew it wouldn’t make me happy, I did it anyway.

It’s always some weird version of consumption with me, anyway, isn’t it?

I spent a bunch of money, knowing that it wouldn’t make me feel better, but in fact might make it worse due to guilt, but I still did it anyway. Because nothing actually makes you feel better, but like, you might as well get/have shit you want, right? So goes my poor person for life logic.

What’s got me down? Nothing more than the usual shit. I’m always lonely. I really miss my mom. She’s two hours away but I haven’t seen her in three years. I think my husband has an undiagnosed psychological disorder…possibly plural there. I’m kind of (or just am) a raging alcoholic. The arduous work and turmoil that’s been the general tone of my life up until this point. The total lack of friends. The idea that I’ve worked a lot and for a long time and have no financial indication of such effort going on. The idea that if I want to actually have children I should probably get on that soon but also the idea of having an infant/child to care for and raise sounds HORRIBLE and life-ruining and most days I’m like eh, can’t afford kids anyway…darn…guess I better keep doing what I like with my time.

But that’s all pretty normal, I think, except for the my mom stuff. And there’s nothing I can do about that situation, so I’ve kind of moved on. Sort of. It still makes me really sad. But I mean, so? Some things suck.

But, lets discuss WAY more interesting shit, what I bought:

1) New winter coat. I wore a boring puffy coat the past two winters. I wanted a fancy pea coat that isn’t as warm but looks way nicer. The one I bought has a faux fur collar. It was over half off (So $99)
2) Since I was already on JC Penney.com, I was like well, better get more concealer while I’m at it
3) Since I was on the Sephora section of JCP.com I was like…better get good mascara…..
4) Then, this one is more confusing, I was like…I should buy foundation. I haven’t purchased foundation in at least five years. Since before we got married. It’s obviously a cool thing to have, but I don’t really need it, because I have no reason to get ready for anything. The last time I did a full face of make up was Halloween…then that one Saturday right before Halloween I went out (and I don’t see that scenario occurring again) so…..why did I buy it? It might not seem like such an important question, but the shit I buy is $39. So. More important than $8 foundation.
5) Two new pairs of glasses. I paid out of pocket for an eye exam in February, and was like…yep…gonna get on buying glasses off Zenni with that prescription anytime here…. and finally was like you know what fuck it. I haven’t purchased new glasses in….at least seven years. The prescription is pretty much still the same so that’s not the biggest deal in the world, but still. I didn’t know what kind of glasses to buy for my face shape, namely because I didn’t know my face shape. It’s diamond. That’s why I didn’t know it, that’s not one of the common ones.

So yeah. I’m at it again like always I guess. I at least bought some practical stuff. Not stuff I TOTALLY needed…but…eh. Stuff I sort of needed.
So you could take this as a weird list of stuff I spent $300 on.

Or you could see what I see. That I picked up on patterns of love/affection from the only stable people in my life when I was a child, that things/food=love. I’d blame my Grandma, it sort of is her fault, with her cold ass German upbringing, But she was the only reason I had a remotely normal childhood…so…should I really be finding fault with this woman?

I tried building a memory palace once. It seemed like a good idea. But, idk, it’s so visual. If I’m visualizing something, it’s CF, or the story for after the CF series, or me fucking, I’m not building a memory palace. Maybe I don’t need one? I feel like I should. If you aren’t awesome like me and DON’T know what one of those is…well first I would STRONGLY recommend you purchase these books and read them in this order (Red Dragon, Silence of the Lambs, Hannibal, Hannibal Rising). If you don’t want to read all that, which, I wouldn’t get why, but okay, Hannibal Lecter has a memory palace that he visits, and most of it is the expected hyper classy fanciness, but there’s parts he can’t control. Oubliettes, they’re called. What’s fucking eerie is I read Silence of the Lambs, where Hannibal describes them as “bottle shaped rooms with a trap door at the top” – in Hannibal’s memory palace, there are oubliettes that he cannot contain, filled with shit, with the memories he can’t stop, and when he’s distressed, particularly when his sense of smell is assaulted. And then right after SOL I read Daisy Miller…and what the fuck gets mentioned in there? Fucking oubliettes again. When Daisy and the narrator go visit that one castle together, Daisy stands at the edge of the of an oubliette and cries with dismay or whatever, and the footnote says something along the lines, “dungeons accessible through a trap door at the top, for forgetting prisoners.”

So, that weird foray into literature is brought to you by the idea that I tried to make a memory palace. But the only positive places from my childhood are my Grandma’s apartment, and my bedroom, alone, all by myself, with my cat and all my toys. Those are the two places. I mean I liked the library in my school, and the public library by my house, but the other kids/people, the my mom bitching that she had to drive me to and from the library….so lesser than the first two places I mentioned.

So what I’m saying is, in Hannibal Lecter terms, saying someone’s apartment is the largest portion of your memory palace is really making a statement.

So I try not to fault my Grandma for the ways she specifically made me fucked up. Or my mom. The two of them were/are actual humans who loved me. W is just a fucking monster and J is just soooo fucked up and saddening. And that’s the list, besides my best friend and husband, and that’s different.

So, I’m using my positive relationship with my Grandma as a means of excusing spending excessive amounts of money on myself, because that’s how she showed affection, that and overfeeding. That’s a grandparent thing, and a German thing, so there was no hope there.

At the same time, whatever. I work a lot. Possibly I deserve some nice things.

That’s all I got.

I literally have ZERO idea how I’m still awake.

I did a standard Friday caffeine intake. First pot of coffee from 6am-8am, second pot of coffee 8am-10am, third 1pm-3pm, then I had four shots of espresso in a drink from Starbucks around 8:30pm. This is standard level for me. Beer wise, I had one tall can (Coors light) before the grocery store (Starbucks and grocery store coincided, duh) then two more tall cans after, and I just finished a regular bottle of Modelo especial. I’m going to be pissed if I drink all of my Saturday beer tonight. But like I don’t feel fucked up or tired. Am I magic? Of course I’ve been smoking weed…but…it’s been a LONG LONG time since I’ve legit felt fucked up from weed. Like. For real. But anyway. I SHOULD go to bed.

I’m going to try and truly crank out the writing this weekend.

OH.

Something else I bought, finally, pole classes! I’m going back on Sunday. It feels like it’s been 10,000 years. I think it’s been 6 weeks. But up until 6 week ago, I was going EVERY Sunday for like eight months. But back to it on Sunday. So excited, but also unexcited about how sore my arms are going to be. But so worth it.

Well, I should be off.

Have a good weekend. Enjoy the cold weather. I like how it makes me want to cuddle. All summer long I was like “Get the fuck away from me,” whenever my cats or my husband were trying to get affectionate. Now it’s enjoyable. Plus it makes you want to be inside more, which is appealing to me in many ways as it is. Clearly all of my life activities revolve around being inside.

Anyway. Have a good weekend. Love you.
~Cassie

That’s my purse! I don’t know you!

I’ve felt very positive all day.

It’s possible the very favorable elections that went down in my state of residence.

It might be the weather.

I love the dreary fall, when all is foggy and rainy and the sky is sixty different shades of steel gray on any given day. When the colors are still out. Mmm. Sure, it’s starting to get cold, but yeah, that’s what happens when there’s fucking seasons. Idk I have enough body fat, I’m not that bothered by winter. I feel like it’s one of those things that separates who’s made of the stuff that’s going to evolve and who’s not.

But I’m an arrogant fuck, to say the least.

So, idk about anyone else’s state of residence, but mine turned blue and all the props went through. Yay. Now just two more years until we can get a new fucking president. Okay that’s all I’m saying on that because this blog is NOT about politics, but at the same time it’s hard not to mention something that’s influencing my mood.

Because, the holidays are coming. And. Those are hard for me.

I don’t like talking about it, but I’m sure I should. And lo and behold my mom brought it up for me today.

She and I emailed, as always. I sent my reply to her email from yesterday this morning on my 10 o’clock break, she sent her reply to that around 4pm. In it, she mentioned how last night (so Tuesday night) she only did the bare minimum she needed to do around the house because she was feeling “down in the dumps” (as I age, I realize how many odd colloquialisms my parents and Grandma used). She said “Christmas commercials on TV don’t help.”
Oh good.

Here we go.
Again, please, don’t take this as me trying to make anyone hate her.
You DO NOT understand how little this woman deserves that, from anyone, especially internet strangers.

It just makes me feel so terrible, but not terrible enough, I guess, to put up with W. I’m not. I will never listen to his voice, ever again. Even if that means part of the remnants of my heart breaking. Sometimes, there’s no other way. And besides, I still do what I can for her. I still email her every fucking day, even when I really would rather not bother. Because my life isn’t so much to talk about, I feel, but IDK I know she’s proud of me. She tells me so all the time. I’ve at least done better than her, in most regards. The only difference is, by my age, she’d had her two children. But, let me tell you, I am so fucking glad I don’t have kids right now.

But I still feel like rotten to my core that my poor mother is so miserable. That there’s nothing I can do is also quite daunting. I feel for her. I really do. It really upsets me. But I can’t, I CANNOT relent. I let it tear at me, how she feels, how I miss her, how I KNOW when she passes away, how all these lost years are going to fucking haunt me, and eat at me. But I cannot go back now, not again. I will never listen to him speak, ever again. He’s 65. Given his substance abuse issues…maybe we’ll get lucky? You’d think I was fucked and shameless for saying such things, but no one who KNOWS what went on (like my husband, or my best friend) fucking corrects me when I crack such jokes that aren’t really jokes. Like how when, one year, my boss’s father had a stroke and passed away on June 3rd, which just so happens to be W’s birthday. I was like…WHAT. How unfair. What’s the freaking meaning of someone ELSE’S dad dying on this day? Why? Why does someone who doesn’t want their dad to go lose him when mine is still around, abusing and torturing my poor mother and brother? What the sweet fucking shit is any of that?

Good thing I think everything that’s fucked is sort of funny, or that would be bumming me out.

But to be honest, it doesn’t. It’s how my life is. It was my dice role. As were other things, other things that are more positive. Some of which I have THOROUGHLY ruminated upon in this blog. Like…how many times can a chick mention how nice her tits are? Well, what can I tell you, I notice it every day. One time, when I was hella wasted, when I lived with my coworker from the pet store, in the house I was living in when I met my husband, we were having a small party, and a third coworker and her gay best friend came over, and I ended up getting so shit faced I changed into lingerie in my bedroom in front of the gay best friend. Again….don’t know why, it just happened. He told my coworker, who told me because this bitch was cray, that he liked my boobs. I was like….good to know even a gay guy is so impressed by them he feels compelled to tell my super psycho coworker about it, who repeats it to me, POSSIBLY in an attempt to embarrass me, but whatever. I am VERY indifferent to my naked body being seen. Why would I? I mean, when certain shit isn’t up to you, not a lot else matters in that regard.

Just don’t take anyone’s picture, or take video of them, without their permission. They might hold some terrifying blood grudge against you. And maybe they’re too smart to act on it, but maybe the world’s more based on karmic justice than one realizes. Maybe accidents happen. Maybe no matter what a crazy person says, it sounds ominous.

I do not think that I’m crazy.

I’m just lonely. And I know what I’m looking for in life but only in a vague, abstract way. I guess that’s better than nothing. And I’m gifted with my natural ability to work incredibly hard.

So, today my mom started in on her holiday guilting.

And, if I could, if it wouldn’t get my WordPress reported, I would post a ton of nudes on here, because I fucking like taking them – that’s something I have to give my husband credit for teaching me, because before I never thought any pic of me was good enough, but idk, my husband helped a lot with that. He definitely sees me in the best possible light at all times, in all ways. He also is bipolar. More on that later, I’m not in the mood for getting into that topic but just let me tell you, it makes more sense than I could possibly ever explain. Luckily he got a job that has phenomenal insurance, because we both fucking need therapy. I’m never making light of therapy or counseling when I mention it. I wish I could afford it. The sporadic times I’ve been exposed to it, it helped a great deal. But new insurance kicks in next month, so we’ll see.

Also, shout out to writing in a journalistic type manner, because I would probably be dead without it.

Well, on that fucking goddamn cheery note, I think I’ll be off.

Good Wednesday evening, to you all.

Remember – there’s a difference between pleasure and happiness. You work for happiness.

~Cassie

Bleh, or Unedited Stream of Consciousness Pt. 1

OKAY so, lies. I started the second chapter of Second Person, entitled Hair, but yeah…I don’t fucking have it in me to start getting into why the smell of dirty hair makes me gag. It’s not a natural squeamishness. You don’t work pet store retail for ten years and retain any sense of physical disgust. And while it feels SO wrong to leave yet another story open-ended…well, that’s where I’m at.

My husband is going to be MIA until Wednesday. He was also missing all weekend.

Call me a cunt because I’m mad my husband is volunteering for a very important mid-term election. But….do you remember? Remember her? Yeah. It’s still her. I will never not be convinced that he does this because fucking S is involved. I can’t remember if I gave her name, and I am NOT about to reread the blog I wrote when she was at my fucking house. That was….an interesting time…..

So yeah, strap in, this is about to me bitching hard about my husband.

In the sense that, I think one of the tenets of his OCD is to never EVER let go of anything, just…cling to shit that makes no sense….like….we got into one of our Top Ten worst fights because I threw out an old undershirt of his that I couldn’t bleach the stains out of. Like….he saw that I’d thrown it out…..lost his ever-loving mind, and decided going to a liquor store and buying a fifth of corn whiskey (why are details like that so easy to remember?) and chugging it on our balcony while LOUDLY bitching to his friend about me over the phone was the way to deal with the UNREAL stress of an old undershirt being thrown out. Of course, there was a bit more to the story. Isn’t there always? But it was the most I’ve ever hated him before our wedding night. Wait. Second most.

Let’s rank them:

Worst: Wedding Night
2nd place: When we went to MY coworkers party and he got SHIT FACED on Jameson and just….omg….made a drunken lunatic fool of himself at their apartment, like when he found out I wanted to go home because of how he was acting he bolted out the door, out the building, through the parking lot, wouldn’t get in the fucking car. Then when I finally convinced him to do so….that twenty minute car ride back to our apartment was like…..dude…….If I ever said anything like that to his overly sensitive ass….jesus he would’ve fucking killed himself. Then when I get home, he takes off again. Just runs out of my car. He disappeared for a few hours. I have no idea where he went or what he did. Neither does he. I remember, and will always remember, staring out the balcony door, wondering if he was going to get arrested (spoiler, we did NOT have bail $….do we EVER have money??) or pass out in the street and get run over. This was ALSO the night he shoved me through the closet door. Yeah.

Sometimes people, even ones you love, they do things that forever lower themselves in your estimation. Maybe I did that to him when I spent too much with with R. But you know what. All three of these things happened WAY before R came into the picture.

3rd place: Corn whiskey incident. I started smoking again after this one.

I remember one time, pretty recently, when we were rehashing what a terrible emotionally abusive thundercunt I am, I remember snapping, and for one instant, I was talking to him like I want to, not like I know I should. And I said, in a tone I do not usually use, “Well, you ruined our wedding night, and nothing is ever going to change that.” Then I just kept watching him.

That really was the worst disappointment of my life. Serves me right for having high hopes, right?

Gosh. I wonder what emotionally healthy people do when they’re upset.

I’m literally keeping a record of wrongs and ranking them.

This is not what together people do.

I’d imagine.

Well.

Speaking of my unideal habits.

I did it again.

I was upset about many things happening in my life but I figured trolling internet strangers for sex was the key to happiness.

I wish everyone who thinks extraneous sex is going to fix their shit could live as my husband and I do for a week. They would see, like all other things, it’s not what it’s cracked up to be.

Because I mean. IDK. I guess it doesn’t damage one’s self esteem when you make a profile on a few different “come fuck me” apps and like…the offers/interest just pour in.

Like one dude even got to the point where I sent him my Kik. (so rare) But then….like he suggests we get drinks this Wednesday. I mean. That SOUNDS fun. But then, on Kik, the guy’s like “So what do you usually get to drink?”

And like.

Okay, it’s not that specific question.

It’s that this person doesn’t know me AT ALL. His interest is based off of my pictures and a short blurb. What’s the point in all of that?

Fucking is just a mechanical release we go through.

Because I, like many, conflated fucking and love from a young age. I’m not saying they’re mutually exclusive, but they are not automatically inclusive either. I taught my husband that.

But when I went from having regular good sex (at 18) to like…nothing, or worse than nothing guys that underperformed and weren’t open/cool about it, I noticed something. If I didn’t masturbate at least one a week I would start having sexual dreams. I’m not saying dreams where someone’s fucking, I mean dreams where I make myself come. Then you wake up and are like….ohhhhhhkay……It only ever happens when I haven’t bothered to masturbate in like two weeks. So, it hasn’t come up in like….a LONG time. Ever since I started writing CF as hard as I can.

Because, to be honest, when I write, especially when I dedicate a bunch of time to it, I kind of like…have to go get off every once in awhile.

Which I guess is a good sign. If your writing doesn’t turn YOU on, how is it going to do so for the rest of the world?

So. Today I deleted my slut apps (as I like to call them) and started wondering on what it would take for me to REALLY be into a guy.

For awhile, I formulated what the application would be like, if I could get guys applying for the position (ha, position).

I shall regale you with some of it:

Start:

1) What’s your Myers-Briggs type? (Skip Questions 2-3 if you know)
2) If your answer to Question 1 was “I don’t know,” are you willing to take the test? (Visit 13personalities.com and return)
3) If your answer to Question 2 was “No,” then we’re done here, have a great day.

4) What did you do your first summer after high school?

5) What fictional characters meant most to you as a child?
6) How many niche interests do you have? (This is not a trick question, I expect at least two)
7) What’s something you’re a snob about? The longer the answer the better.

8) What’s something that’s popular that you couldn’t give two fucks less about?

9) If it was guaranteed that you would always have work and afford to live comfortably, what job would you have?
10) How many books do you own?

11) How tall are you?
12) Describe your jawline in one sentence.
13) Liken your eye color to any every day object.
14) Describe your relationship with your parents using a meteorological metaphor.
15) How much and what kind of original creative work do you produce in a given month?

……Yeah, I’m hearing it. I want a male version of me. I GET IT. I GET IT I GET IT. If I could somehow move heaven and earth to make a male Cassie (what would his name be? Jackie? Is that close enough? Okay here on out, if I refer to Jackie, y’all better recall this blog) I fucking would.

Stupid Frankenstein. Giving me the idea that if someone wants to create badly enough they will. Albeit to HORRID consequences. But I can’t reread Frankenstein. It’ll never be like it was with Professor I want to fuck real bad from undergrad college. I was in college a loooong time, and it’s not often you come across a truly gifted instructor. He was. Among many other things. I still hold out some abstract, remote hope that that’ll happen one day. I know I told y’all the story of when I went to ask for my letter of recommendation, right? Oh lawd. This was NOT my imagination. Long story short, Professor Iwannafuck was trying to help me grasp what I would want to write about in my application letter for grad school, he said something along the lines of, “I would write that ‘I’ve always been interested in the beautiful, the exotic…the strange…’”
And….okay…..

The WAY he said those things. The way he looked at me when he said them….we both knew that he was talking about me.

Which…okay I don’t get where he got EXOTIC from….I’m literally from the town the university is within. But I mean. The other two. FOR SURE sound like me.

But, when he said that, I remember looking at him a little differently, like I changed my regard and probably smirked. And he turned red.

I embarrassed this guy without even speaking.

Ah, you should see the deviant smile I get when I relive this memory.

But alas, since then, aside from the professional email interactions we had re: grad school, the only time I’ve been brought to his attention was when I added him on Linked In.

I should’ve tried to fuck him back when, shouldn’t I? I mean these days adding someone on Linked In is basically giving them the wink. Or so I’ve been told.

So. I guess I’d rather work on CF and hold out for Professor I (let’s just call him that so he stops sound like a character in an old porno) than meet some rando who like is barely hot enough for me, let alone smart enough. SO few dudes are smart enough. Again. I get what I sound like. I can’t control it. It’s the real version of me that I so rarely let loose. Why would I? Do you think the real me is winning any friends? Is my life not indicative of the answer to that question? It sure as fuck should be.

I’m reminded of a scene from Seinfeld, a show I watched religiously as a child because we didn’t have cable (well, we had pirated cable on one TV, and W watched TV whenever he was awake…so….I didn’t have cable). There’s a scene where George Costanza snorts and says, “I don’t know that I’m pathetic?”

And really, I’ve never identified with something more.

Of course, GC is like the gross one of his group of friends. Do guys who look like that get laid that often? I mean, for me, I could see myself fucking any guy no matter what he looked like IF he met other qualifiers (1) being nice/awesome, 2) smelling good, 3) ability to make me laugh 4) $$ spent on me, okay I get this one is bad but I can’t control what turns me on, plus it’s my Grandma’s fault she taught me that means love, that and food)

But, at the same time, I feel the GC quote a little too much.

Because, IDK, most days I feel pretty pathetic, in a just a myriad of manners. Does that work? I feel like it doesn’t. Whatever.

I’m pathetically broke, always have been.

I married the first guy who didn’t treat me like total shit. That worked out, but holy fucking fuck shit that was NOT easy….

It’s like I have some disease that prevents me from maintain friendships. Like shingles, only socially. Ew I don’t know why I picked shingles.

But yeah. I mean. The pathetic state stems from the loneliness. That, no matter how smart and attractive you are….STILL no one wants anything to do with you…gee….you must be pretty fucking unlikable, Cassie. Why is it no matter WHERE you go, you just don’t fit in and no one bothers to give a fuck about you enough to get to know you?

This is just what’s going on in my head at any given moment.

What does one do with this sort of neediness?

The application is sort of for real, but also sort of a joke. Just in the sense that the guy I want is NOT the sort of guy who would fill out an online lets-fuck app. Least…I don’t think….see I say that because I know I wouldn’t fill one of those out, and let’s face it, I’ve known a long, long time I just want a male version of myself. I literally want a male Cassie.

Sigh. I don’t think that could possibly exist.

This has been one WEIRD post.

Thank god I still manage to be so into myself despite feeling I’m super pathetic as a human being.

Because I am.

Once my fucking damnable feelings get involved with anything, it’s like…lights out logic, I can hear you shrieking at me from the outskirts but yeah…sorry…YOU’RE not in control anymore….we’ll need you when the emotions crash out, like they do, to carry on the wreckage, as you always do.

And so on and so forth until I’ve just tired my mind out.

Do you think there’s enough words to make it better? To make it stop or go away? Or is that not the point?

See, I’ll do something without a point.

I’ll love someone who doesn’t deserve it. I’ll care when I should not fucking care.

I’ll convince myself I’m doing what I want, when I’m doing what I feel. Which are like never congruent.

I do know what I want.

That’s not the issue.

The issue is finding it.

And it is a person.

And also an it. Because it’s also a special situation/relationship with that person.

He’s got to be out there.

I guess I shouldn’t be allowed to want this “him” and my husband. I’m not at all ever intending to give up my current situation. I’ve invested too much at this point. Not starting over if I can help it. Plus. Love and other shit I don’t feel like discussing right now because I am in a WEIRD mood. Like drunk but not angry or horny….so like…what??? What is this? I don’t even think I have a word for it.

But still. There’s possibly some reason as to why other men still fascinate me. Some much more than others. You can tell how invested you are in something happening with someone by how disappointed you are when it doesn’t pan out. I’m like certain of this by this point in my life. D was fucking wonderful at that. I decided Doug should be reduced to D, because I don’t get why I didn’t give him a letter to begin with. He’s truly not special. He was fool enough not to lock me down when I was nineteen. God I was hot back then. You don’t even know, blog, you don’t even know. I’m hot now, but I was like…..fifty pounds lighter, if not more, back then….siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh

Anyway

I guess I should get back to fixing my deep fuck up with CF.

I kind of ruined my second to last chapter and now I’m staring at plot holes, wondering how to Spackle them.

Anyway.

I hope this autumn evening finds you well. FUCKING VOTE TOMORROW.

~Cassie

Sir, I would argue most things don’t have a point

Want to know a pretty embarrassing yet still totally true secret?

The only thing stopping me from trying to fuck this one professor from my undergrad now is the idea that if I’m ever a published author it’ll be more of an excuse to contact him than…just randomly deciding to do it on Linked In.

So like…I’m saving that attempt at seduction for when I have a true reason to be contact him. IF I add professors to the acknowledgments, still undecided if I will, he would be one of them, along with like three others from undergrad and….one…..from grad school. That’s one thing I always found fucking hilarious. I liked the professors at my first college, the one in my hometown. I didn’t get along with any of the students. I don’t know what it was, just no one ever talked to me, unless they were complimenting me. God that sounded bad when I read it. Whatever. I stand by it because it’s accurate. Like one time when I was leaving a psych class in undergrad, a girl asked me, “Do you do your own make up?” Which is pretty cool thing to be asked, because it’s implying they noticed such an intensity/variation in your face art (as I like to call it) that it seems like you’re having someone else do it for you. But…I didn’t know what to say to her question besides, “Yeah.” Like….if I were different, I would’ve started a conversation there. Because that was probably what this other girl was trying to do. I’m jut SO bad at those sorts of things. Like…either I was never taught, or I just never learned or absorbed it, but I NEVER know what to do or say. There’s of course my good friend alcohol. I mean, I already like drinking (I feel like I might have mentioned that by this point? Yeah it’s probably come up) and then I’m like nervous, and awkward, and dying to do anything to make myself more outgoing/likable. Yeah that’s a dangerous recipe. And the fucking product is a hungover Cassie the next day. The last time I really did that was when I went to that work outing last February. I drank like….a tall boy, a pitcher, another tall boy, then two more talls at a B Dubs. Which I hate that restaurant because they’re way overpriced but my young, bougie coworkers think its the best. I’m like, oh they’re too young to have taken the time to try anyone good..I see….But yeah, I was hungover as hellllllll the next day.

Then, in grad school I liked (in some cases, REALLY liked…huh? get it?) the students, but less so the professors. There were maybe two…possibly three if you throw out the bitterness on the third one which was hard to ignore at times, who I really liked. And I had higher hopes for grad school, IDK why. I guess I got laid way more because of grad school.

But anyway, SPEAKING of work.

So.

I was being a huge ridiculous pessimist. Like W. Which is why I’m normally a self-proclaimed cynical optimist (like, make the best of things, but remember shit happens, k?).

But I mean, her email was a LITTLE ominous. Even best friend agreed. And she’s the last person who would become emotionally distraught. She’s so effing clinical. I mean, I know why, so it’s fine. She shows her love in the funniest of ways, just like my 100% first generation from Germany grandmother. So to me it makes sense. I always found it very strange that best friend tests INFJ and I test INTJ because…to see our interactions….you would think that’s reversed.

I think I know why. But I don’t have time to get into that. Plus. I can’t talk about her childhood without bringing up my own. And again, no time.

So my boss gave me a great review, and $1/hour raise (I make $19.50/hour now….again no idea where my money goes) and she wanted to conduct it on Saturday because she wanted to discuss moving my career forward with the company because she likes keeping good people with the company. And she does. She demanded the president of the company invent a job for someone because he wanted to leave our department to work for an automotive company. He still left our department, but to go work for the president directly. So yeah, if she values someone, she like fights to keep them.

I am apparently one of those people.

I kind of like…can’t tell when someone’s just being a hard ass or if they’re being emotionally abusive. I mean to ME those are the same thing. But also, because of my endurance/tolerance levels, I can put up with SO much stress and still seem calm. That’s not what’s happening internally, but I’m like always a mess in there. Organized chaos, as I like to think of it.

So. Now you know one of my many embarrassing fun facts. I don’t even want to call them secrets because they don’t matter that much. I just know better than to tell people about most of my shit. Because, like 98% of the time, they do NOT fucking care. And that’s fine. People are busy with their own compartmentalizing and repressions and so on and so forth. Ain’t no one gotta tell me about how some people are SO talented at hiding how horrible their life really is, those feelings have nothing better to do, and they’ve grown so strong over time from such constant misery, that they start eating away at you. Literally. Not in the makes you thin sense. In the cripples your bones with pain way. You can call it slipped discs, and bulging discs, you can get repeated back surgeries, you can be reduced to needing a walker or some means of assistance just to get around, you can listen the entire time to your spouse in your ear reminding you this is happening because you’re so overweight and have been for so long……but your grown ass daughter who bailed on you knows the truth.

I was talking about my mom just then.

That was something I realized, I think there’s times when someone might read this and think one of the many times I’m describing what’s going on with my parents, and it seems like I’m talking about my own marriage, because I get weirdly second person about some shit. IDK why it’s involuntary. I always have to edit the shit out of my blogs, because when I get stream of consciousness I drop thoughts to never return to them. I’ll write a very eloquent subject to a sentence, then add a period and move on. Like….why did we mention this…

I know I speak in the plural about myself.

It’s not an MPD thing, I swear. It’s like…you know how you have to become your own father figure/hero, in some cases? So like, if you do that, you develop an inner dialogue with your inner self. The one that’s always telling you what you KNOW you need to do.

Like move on.

Stop thinking about the unhappy past.

Stop comparing yourself to others.

Stop wondering why over deprivations and barely acknowledging the good.

Stop trying to fuck people you wanted back-when. It never goes well.

But, now we’re back to why I started this blog.

I really need to go get real writing done.

Sorry blog, to me this is almost masturbatory. Enjoyable and all, but….does it have a point?

Although, I’ve got to say…..it makes me significantly hopeful how normal/happy this blog is compared to say…the livejournal that I had when I was 17-20…..HOLY shit……the bitch was so dark and sad and lonely I fucking let it die. Livejournal only keeps stuff for so long.

In fact I have a history of erasing myself on social media.

I turned off my Xanga, social lifeline in high school, once I started college.

I deleted my Myspace when I started liking Facebook.

I had to stop using Livejournal because….shit was dark.

I deleted Facebook and Instagram July 2017 because that was when I realized I couldn’t take the bullshit anymore.

Now it’s just Twitter, but only one real life person is on there. So far. One day I’ll have to make a bunch of social media accounts for my pen name. But I’ll worry about that problem later.

So. You guys know the stories of the two times I HAVE gone back and fucked someone I wanted to real bad at one point.

The first was the guy you all know as Doug. The post I wrote about him last April is still my most viewed blog. Okay I’ll link it for fun. So we all know how that went: Doug or “You’re gonna want to strap yourself in for this next one.”

Then there was R.

Because I was way into him the entire time I knew him in grad school. What can I say? I met him in a Shakespeare class fall 2014. It’s easy to remember because it was around when I got engaged.

I was honestly pretty infatuated with him for quite some time. He was very attractive (he would be still but…your drinking, your constant sedentary lifestyle, your unstoppable mountain of inactivity stemming from depression….you know….) He had a very broody prettiness to him, and fucking excellent hair, and all right, yeah, great dick. Obviously. What do you think I was putting up with and for what? Honestly, at the beginning, unless I was done up, R looked like he might’ve been too hot for me. Like, he had a certain presence, and a shit ton of tattoos (it’s fun fucking a person with a bunch of tattoos, it’s like having sex with an art museum) and all that. Which is funny because his appearance didn’t match his personality at all. Which I liked about him. And, I also liked that he talked to me. All the time. Over facebook messenger, over text, he’d only call if he was wasted and upset. So still a lot but never for normal reasons. Then he called me a lot when he was in jail but that was out of sheer boredom. He was in jail over my birthday and called on my birthday but then didn’t acknowledge he even knew what day it was, when I have possibly the most memorable birthday ever.

So….again, R was another time when I was like…SUPER into the idea of fucking someone…then after a few years had passed, it randomly and actually happened.

Wait.

It’s always 2 years.

WEIRD.

Doug was 2 years after high school ended.

R was 2 years after I met him.

I guess, if you count attempts, N was two years after he first contacted me, (asked if we were swingers, then was like oh let me check with my wife, then was like oh wait nevermind she’s not into it anymore). That was actually what prompted my husband to make that profile and why we met up with those two different couples fall 2016. It’s like when we thought about the notion it seemed appealing so when N and his situation didn’t pan out we were like well lets see what else is out there. Yeah not much. The guys especially were just total goons. I barely count the last one as a sexual partner because all that ever happened was I sucked his dick forever. Which of course is easier to do when you’re plastered. But yeah, dude could NOT maintain an erection once a condom touched his dick-skin. Let me tell you. Like. If you have such an aversion…perhaps the sexually deviant life is not for you….

So when I say I’ve had sex with ten guys, I kind of only BARELY count that 10th guy, because to me to count as a sexual partner there needs to be some dick in vagina. Just a personal estimation of the word’s meaning, is all.

I don’t mention my number of partners because I’m like…omg look at my superiority….because I REALLY cannot stand people like that. Coming from the community/life I was raised in….that’s very much a real thing. I know women who got pregnant right after their wedding then had a premature baby who felt the need to post on Facebook how people were making “unfair assumptions” about them – that they got knocked up and that’s why they got married. Could you imagine feeling the need to do this?

I mention my number as like, a matter of record keeping. Who knows, it might increase soon.

If I find someone worthwhile. This is not easy.

I may or may not have started an Ashley Madison, and a Wild+. My husband has like a Tinder, a Grindr, a Bumble and a Wild+ so.

But so far the ones hot enough to be worth my time don’t seem into me.

Which okay sure.

That’s the thing like. There’s a too perfect quote for still feeling fine when someone isn’t into your appearance, and it comes from someone I saw perform live, it was awesome: “You can be the ripest, juiciest peach in the world, and there’s still going to be somebody who hates peaches.”

So you know. Plus like, IDK there’s a certain body type I am not at all like, so if that was someone’s preference I could see a “yeah no thanks” from a lot of those dudes. Plus I’m suuuuper fussy. I mean. Why wouldn’t I be? There is no rush.

So. This started as I’m going to use CF, when it’s done, to try and fuck a professor from my undergrad. Then I briefly mentioned how my pissing on about my work review was totally unnecessary, then I got distracted yet again. What a shock. Weed man. Makes you creative. Also makes you dyslexic and ADD. Maybe that’s just me. But still, I feel like I need weed. With booze I’m like….okay….you should probably go back to not doing that again…..but….also….hard…..

Anyway.

I haven’t been drinking this weekend. I’m sick. I’ve been chugging cough syrup, I’m not going to also drink. Like. Cmon. Liver. I need that bitch. Of course I’m still smoking. I’m not insane.

SO anyway. The only fun in my foreseeable future is a needle-in-a-haystack find on online dating.

There’s one guy on AM who needs to be a little more intellectual or a little more attractive, and he would do. But….IDK…..he goes a line too far with certain things that make me think he’d be CRINGE in public/person.

I like having shit to look forward to.

There’s working on CF.

There’s Thanksgiving. Not the fucking holiday, are you kidding me? Then I have to deal with my mom emailing me over her sadness at not seeing me AND spend all of it with my in laws. They’re stressful people. And my husband acts really weird around them. So I don’t like the holiday, I fee like Jake Peralta feels about Thanksgiving, “The pilgrims were murderers and turkey tastes like napkins.” BUT, it is a four day weekend. So that’s fun. I spent Black Friday 2016 hung over from a swinging adventure. Still hate that term by the way, need to invent a better one and inculcate it into the mainstream lexicon. I spent Black Friday 2017 making Christmas wreaths and watching Six Feet Under. What weird magical Cassie joy will this year hold.

My team at work won second place, the prize for our incredible hard work is a subpar lunch. But still. Our seven person team came in second, up against departments like 4 times as big. And we made and brought in everything, and we all had bitchin’ costumes. The team who won first just bought tons and tons and shit, and they were three huge departments in a conglomerate. I’m still proud of us. We tied the department who won 1st, for 1st, last year.

There’s true drama over Halloween at my work.

It’s my favorite little thing about that place.

And, I guess my boss is waiting for them to invent a job and when they do she’s going to put my name in for it.

That’s why she wanted the review to happen when we were alone. Because people listen.

SO the opposite of what I thought.

So that’s tight.

I also was honest and told her that I was thinking of leaving the company because I don’t want to live in this area anymore. I just don’t like this part of the state. Like, it’s not that great, the people from down here just act like it’s the fucking best thing ever.

She said it’s possible I could move and still work for the company. That that might actually work well with what position she wants me to take, when it exists.

SO. There’s that also.

Anyway. I’ve wasted a frighteningly amount of time now…so…to CF!

~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

What the goddamn fucking shit is going on with this past week, am I on some sort of reality TV show right now?

Just absorb the message of that email:

I’ve gotten three reviews from this exact boss before. This is first time she’s ever requested we do so on a Saturday…and for the specific reason that she wants to do it when no one else is there…..BUT WHY.

I guess if I walk in on Saturday and someone from HR is with her I’ll know. She said it’ll take “approximately thirty minutes.” I’m literally filled with questions and confusion and dread. OMFG it’s been the week for those feelings, hasn’t it???

Like, I would love to say I’m not upset and angry about shit. But I am. I wish I wasn’t. If there was something I could magically fucking do to stop consistently thinking about the same shit, I would do it. I mean I tried rage stigmata, but my hands aren’t strong enough not like they were when I was a kid. At least now I just have to hold it together at work. My husband is good, VERY good, about emotional support. That and his unique status as the first/only guy to ever EVER appreciate me for the awesome person I am are why I’m still with him AND married to him AND took his last name. Again, these things did not occur magically, they are possibly my hardest “earned things that aren’t things” as I like to call them. Like my friendship with my best friend, which most people don’t have with someone from the 8th grade. Or the fact that my ENTIRE life people have been telling me I’m a strong/talented/good writer. Or that my husband tells me all the time that I’ll always have a husband who loves me.

Oh my fucking god, like WHAT IS THIS WEEK? Do you realize how normal and happy and excited I felt last Thursday compared to today?

You know what I found TRULY unfair? How misery doesn’t burn calories. I mean, it should, right? You can say the whole lost-my-appetite-due-to-sadness and yes that does happen to me all the time but I’m still an alcoholic who truly prefers beer. Jesus I haven’t worked out in like a week. But it’s cool because I haven’t been able to afford pole classes in a month. It’s $75 for 4, and it’s $ I just haven’t had. Which is so fucking embarrassing and pathetic. I’m thirty, I’ve been working since I was 16, I worked full time through a bachelors and a masters….and I’ve been living paycheck to paycheck the entire time. My husband is a barista. Yeah. I work REALLY hard at not comparing myself to others…which is good….because I really often think about how no one else I know rents anymore or drives the car they had when they were 19. But whatever. I’d trade actual, genuine friendships/FWB over that other shit. But spoiler I don’t get that either. I see my best friend roughly three times a year, on a good year.

Why doesn’t crying burn calories? It goddamn should. All it does is make my under-eye area super puffy, then the next day it’s a little more wrinkled than it was. How DEEPLY unfair is it that crying causes eye wrinkles???? Like…clearly I already HAVE problems please no more.

Speaking of, I read something that said donating blood burns a shit ton of calories and prevents cancer.

Do you think that last one is true, or is it like Red Cross propaganda? The calories makes sense because like…they steal a pint of your blood and all.

The game plan.

I am on my first tall can.

I have one more.

Before he goes to spar, I’m going to ask my husband to get my the shit for my favorite mixed drink. Prepare yourselves, because I’m about to reveal how trash I really am. It’s rum (a cheap one, because we’re broke AF like always on Thursdays, so probably Castillo…yeah….Castillo.) and wild cherry pepsi on ice. Don’t tell me that isn’t perfect and amazing. But it’s probably just as calorie-laden as beer.

BUT the drunk from booze is different than beer drunk. Personally, I HATE wine drunk. I know, revoke my vagina right now. Like most people I don’t like who I become on tequila, I don’t like any of the “brown” liquors (despite LOVING the phrase “stuff it down with brown,” I just pretend it pertains to beer…although I only like light beers like pilsners or heffeweizens or kolsch. OMFG I love Kolsch beer. Okay I sound like one of the pretension douches. Get this straight, 90% of the time I drink Coors Light from the can. I don’t even pour it in a glass because then I have to wash that glass.

So I’m going to get very, very drunk tonight. I work at 6am tomorrow, and it’s going to be a day spent ENTIRELY thinking about how my boss is making me drive to work an EIGHTH time this week to give me my review when no one else is around. There’s literally no chance it’s for a GOOD reason. W used to do this to me. He’d have to break away from a lecture/screaming session because the POS needs to chill out all the time (by “chill out” I mean sit and watch TV and drink coffee and chew tobacco and get high on pain meds/booze) THEN when he’s done chilling out…if he doesn’t feel the need to nap (thank god W never had a job to get in the way of his lifestyle) it was right back to it. I’d be in my room, or watching TV in a room separate from the room HE watched TV in…and there he’d come, charging in, all angry (even moreso this time because you know, heightened level of fucked up-ed-ness) just to bring it up all over again, and just keep saying the same shit over and over. That’s part of his I’m-going-to-wear-you-down-mentally play. W never stopped being a shitbag cop. No one knows this more than his family. With my mom, he’d come charging into the room where she was attempting to dissociate and say, “AND ANOTHER THING,” that’s how he always started it. Like…keep that fight going…don’t let bad feelings die…bring up mistakes someone made 5 years ago when you’re mad at them for something completely unrelated….just you know, the mean (WOW that was a mistype but a spooky one…) the MANY things he did on a constant basis that I grew up thinking were normal. I was the only one smart enough to get away out of the four of us. I guess W’s way out is a little dark, but you know what the fucker chose his lot in life when he ruined my childhood and my brother’s sanity.

This is why, more than ANYTHING else, I’ve so far controlled my urges to contact N again. Because I’m seriously obsessed by the idea.

Not over sex.

Please.

Do I LOOK desperate? Look at my ass in this dress. You could crack walnuts with that thing.

IMG_0150_Moment.jpg

BUT, like….I fucking NEED beta readers. And who else do I know who’s smart besides my very busy best friend? My husband is already my very first reader.

Is this me lying to myself?

IDK. I don’t think so?

I don’t mean to be mean but like….it’s not like the guy is SO good-looking I can’t be around him without it getting weird for my hypersexual self. Like the MEGA fine director who sits by me who says good morning to me on certain mornings. I literally cannot look at him and talk to him at the same time without turning SO red. We had a guy in sales, one who I had to work with because I remove sold units when the buyers come get them, and EVERY time he came over and talked to me, I could feel my face turning red as the conversation went on. Omg he was so cute. I added him on Linked In and he never accepted. He left the company kind of bitterly, but he bothered to come over and say good-bye to me when he said he was probably going to be leaving because he asked for more money and if he didn’t get it he was leaving. SO tragic the day Donnie left. I said his name. It’s common enough I guess. So, I don’t have all that going on with N. Plus I’m great at looking terrible when I want to. It’s a skill if you’re trying not to get creeped on. Not saying N was creepy with me…in fact the opposite…if taunting someone with sex (twice!) is the opposite of being a creeper.

So. I could potentially see asking him to read CF (nickname clusterfuck).

But then part of my brain is like What are you doing? Do you WANT to have to kick yourself later? Why do you love that SO Cassie, mmm? Do you know? Why are you intent on pursuing the men who behave as if you couldn’t possibly matter that much to them?

I always know.

I’d say that’s the deepest loss in all of this.

God I CANNOT stop obsessing over this.

It’s just like when I was like….8-12 years younger than I am now.
Well that’s probably not the best sign.

SIGH.

Well, I think I’m going to finish this night out by writing maybe another page – because side note I want to try and write every day in November – then I’m going to drink heavily and play Friday the 13th online, which is a dope game, if you’re so inclined to gaming.

‘Til next time

The soon to be unemployed

~Cassie