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.

He’s got to be out there somewhere

Do you ever stop to think about how many times you’ve actually had good sex in your life?

Because I did.

It’s not the best record.

I guess I was thinking about it because lately, my husband and I are back into this pattern where we never have sex. It’s just the usual we’re never both in the mood and awake at the same time. His libido is the same, he just jerks off instead. Which worries me. Because one time, that’s how it started, and we all know how it ended. But that isn’t what this is about.

This is about me considering my sexual history, and how any of it was barely even worth it.

Don’t worry, I’m not wasting time on this, I’ve written 10,000 words this weekend. CF is up to 170,000. Yeah. Woo. It’s also almost done. So that’s exciting.

But anyway.

So sex with my first boyfriend Nick was good. That was about the only good thing about that relationship. He was such a jackass. We dated four months.

Then the second guy, Chris, as hot as this guy was, it just wasn’t possible to have good sex with a guy with that small of a dick. It was maybe three times with him max.

Then third was Dan, another like “official” boyfriend. He wasn’t terrible, but like, lazy and selfish kind of sums that guy up in every way, sexually included. We dated eight months.

Fourth was Doug (as you all know him) – that was good sex. Like at one point we had sex standing. A guy that’s strong enough to do that with me is rare enough. I’ve never had anyone else even attempt it. But it was so like messed up in other ways, like I was obviously REALLY into this guy and we had sex a few time, and it was usually really good, but then he was all “I’m not over my ex” with me. His ex from high school. But anyway.

Fifth was Matt. That was once. He was hot enough but the sex was subpar. I was pretty drunk too. Again, once with this guy.

Sixth was my husband, and like, that’s always been all right. It’s never been bad, and he’s more generous than a lot of guys I’ve been with, but again, it’s just not…eh…idk…..it’s just lacking in some way

Seventh was R. I think we know well enough about all that.

Eighth was the first guy from the couple we “swang” with, the ones we went bowling with. We had sex for all of like three minutes. It really sucked. I barely want to count this guy.
Ninth, again, I don’t really count this one, because we never had vaginal sex. He’s actually the only person who’s dick I sucked who I didn’t also fuck.

Huh, what does that say about a person where if she does anything with someone, she does it all? Except anal. I’m not doing that. As much as I write about it, because I have so many fucking gay characters, it’s from watching porn, not personal experience. But anyway.

So yeah, like 8 guys, maybe nine. I don’t know why I thought it was ten. Maybe some day soon…

That’s why I subjected this blog as I did.

Since it didn’t work with R. For reasons of his raging alcoholism. And I was spending too much time with him. I know better now. I’m hugely confident I would do better with that sort of situation now, with someone else. This is not me being into R and wanting him specifically back. I don’t miss him. I miss what we had. We spent so much time together. BUT, at the same time, while the sex was good, he was really selfish and inattentive at the same time. He felt no need to make sure you were taken care of, this I can assure you. But again, I did have sex with this guy like…a ton.

So it didn’t work with R, though it might have. And then there was that brief foray into possibly getting down with N. But alas that didn’t happen either.

So now. I wonder.

He’s got to be out there somewhere. There’s GOT to be some guy who wants this role in my life, who is someone I can have what I want with, who’s smart enough to talk to. It’s not such a tall order. It really isn’t. The guy could have his own life, like be single or not, have a wife or a girlfriend or whatever, it’s not really my business. I am not interested in changing my situation. This is about the…something else, that I’ve felt the need for, for a long, long time.

It’s painful the last good sex I had was R, and even then he was so unideal in other sexual ways it’s hard to even long for him. And with Doug, it’s like, how could he be so stupid not to be into me? And with Nick, he just sucked so much as a person.

So I don’t even want the guys who were good in bed, for various reasons.

So there’s got to be a guy out there. There really does. But I can tell you I’m 30, I’m sick of waiting for him.

When I imagine him, he’s a younger, taller version of Professor I. He lives by himself in a boho apartment. He wears turtlenecks and blazers. He can talk to me, and he wants me, and he wants to do both, and I know that when he looks at me.

It’s not so much to ask.

I’m certain of it.

So I guess until then I’ll be writing CF and relatively content with my husband.

So that’s fine, I guess. Things are like, fine, and stuff.

~Cassie

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

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