Jealousy [insert lyric]

So driving to work today two songs came up on the ole iTunes, first was The Killers Mr Brightside, another a little later was El Tango de Roxanne.

Besides being from my effed up eclectic music taste, both of those songs are about one thing: jealousy.

So what a perfect fucking time to discuss exactly that, I don’t have my laptop, so it’s time for you, second string writing goals (which is what this anonablog is, sorry, you’re not third though?)

So, a skeptical observer might find fault with “open” relationships in the sense that, well, how can you be married to or with someone for a long time and NOT get jealous when they started wanting or even liking someone else?

Yeah, I’ve got news for you, you DO get jealous. These are not magic people who lack this emotion. But what they do lack is possessiveness, and the “open” quality, that your SO isn’t sneaking around or lying at all, that you’re both giving each other space to explore certain feelings in a healthy way, really goes a long way. There’s no waking up during the night to find them gone and wondering what lie they’ll feed you this time about there they went.

That being said, that annoying bitch from his college/volunteering that I wrote a whole blog about once, I will never like her. But this doesn’t mean my husband isn’t totally free to fuck her (on his end, she clearly likes playing head games, and not the fun ones, teehee sex joke). I mean I was perfectly civil when she was over but like….I don’t like her….

My husband didn’t like R. All they had in common was the alcoholism. And even with that, with my husband it didn’t consume his identity. Well, it was, but only for a time.

BUT even though he didn’t like him, and it made him jealous that I was so into him, my husband still gave me this space.

AND a weird phenomenon that happens with “open” situations, you’re jealous BOTH ways. For example, that one Saturday where I thought things were definitely going to happen with N, my husband was jealous of both of us.

He was jealous of me because he wished someone he went to school with wanted to fuck him. It’s a fun situation. Or it would’ve been.

He was jealous of N because like, idk, there’s something magical about getting ready for the first time you think you’re going to fuck someone (I can’t be alone in this) and my husband saw me getting ready, specifically when I was sitting on my couch completely ready but without pants on because I was putting lotion of my legs. My husband was watching me from across the room, as I lotioned from ankle to thigh in undies I normally don’t trot out, and I could tell just from the way he was looking at me.

Which I SUPPOSE a different sort of person would have felt bad, and I mean I in no way wanted to hurt him in the slightest, but at the same time I feel like a neglected toy sometimes, like oh, you’re suddenly overwhelmed by the need to have this thing you have ZERO interest in most of the time just because you see someone else has it/wants it. Well gee that makes me feel fucking special. Also whenever we swang he would always have to fuck me like right after the other guy. I didn’t mind per say but I felt like a tree he needed to piss on.

So. In case you were wondering, being open/swingers/poly does involve jealousy, but in the spirit of being open, we’re open about that feeling too, and you work through it like any other. I guess our big thing is being honest about feelings.

Like I want to fuck this person from grad school. Or I want to fuck this chick from political volunteering. I feel that’s better than those thoughts happening without acknowledgement. But I could also be super fucked. Both?

Well this was fun. Stay warm.

~Cassie

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