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

I really sicken myself sometimes

I skipped exercising today so I could have ample time to write, so I could crank out more than a single page before making dinner (which I pathetically have not done since Sunday. Monday we did frozen pizza and last night we got Chinese) and what am I doing? Getting so high that I can’t stop thinking about fucked up shit that happened almost a year ago that I’m TOTALLY not over. Also I keep having this idea that I should make a list, one at time, writing out one thing I don’t like and then one thing I do like about my husband, until I get to a grand total of twenty. I want to see if I can do it. Because. I mean sometimes. I don’t know. The only time I like my husband is if I’m actually with him, do you get me? Like,  if I ever think about shit, I just get madder and madder as the day goes on.

And honestly, it’s been awhile since I’ve thought about it at all, really, but today I just couldn’t stop thinking about, no matter how low I’d sunk, my husband found a way to be way, way worse than me. I guess what really brought this topic to mind was finding some random, scribbled note of my husband’s. He does this. I think because he thinks his thoughts are brilliant. This would not bother me in the slightest, I think it’s wise to write down anything one thinks is wise, but for the fact that it’s SO chaotic. It’s random scribbles on receipts and bits of torn paper and flyers from nightclubs, it’s disgusting. His messiness is my biggest fault with him, it literally rivals his raging OCD. And when I saw OCD, I mean legitimate, diagnosed, it SO crazy to see happening in person, OCD. He was on different meds for it, from time to time, but they only seemed to make him worse in other ways. Well, one of his chaotic scribble notes started out with something along the lines of “A year ago I cheated on my wife.” And I’m sorry, but, am I to NOT read the rest of that? Especially he’s been such an ass about my need for privacy, which oh if this was real life he just would’ve started to flip out because you CANNOT remind him of past mistakes….to the point where it seems like he just thinks we get to pretend like NOTHING ever happened and everyone is totally okay with everything about each other. He’s hiding it behind the mantle of “not living in the past” as he puts it….but he’s the same peter pan syndrome motherfucker I met when I was 20, at least in a lot of ways.

And today, as I’m wasting all of my writing time like an idiot, I realize that I’m not over the fact that last June my husband had sex with someone with a personal (sex) ad on fucking craigslist. If only that law about craigslist not being able to have a sex ads section anymore had been passed sooner, huh? SOOOOO much grief it would have saved me. It still grieves me. I think I know why. I don’t have ANYONE to talk to about it. My husband always uses the “I don’t want to ruin our evening/I’m trying to have a nice morning with you” vein of reasoning for not discussing past, unpleasant topics. So I don’t think it’d be a simple task getting him to talk about it, plus that doesn’t count as “talking about it.” The last two times I’ve seen my best friend since I found out, I just haven’t had it in me. It’s just another conversation I can’t stand the thought of having, so I don’t.  But one might imagine I need to. But, sadly, truly, there’s just no one in my life I trust like that.

I mean, there’s you, Anonablog, but…does it count? How? Maybe like 20% better, but not what it should be.

So, I don’t know a whole post to complain about how I’m still really grossed out and depressed and sickened by my husband’s super gross rando hook up. I mean, I’ve evaluated that it’s good he didn’t fall in love with someone else, in fact the exact opposite…but omg that’s so fucking disgusting. Like if he’ll do that, what else will he do? I should have known. He went to a whorehouse in DC with two Saudi friends of his, he got a blow job because there was no “wait in the lobby” option. I knew about that like two months into our relationship…so I guess this is probably just my fault anyway. My fault for thinking I could trust anyone. I’ll never learn, I know that, but I feel the need to annoyingly point out my errors after they happen. But, the fact remains that even though he went as impersonal as possible…it’s still fucking gross. I still fucking think that he’s probably gone when I wake up at 3am and he’s not in bed. I really, really, really wish I’d woken up the night he was gone. He couldn’t give me the exact day but he said it was a weekday in mid-June.

It’s just like…if he can talk himself into thinking that I’d be okay with it happening…only up until such a time as he was done fucking a random internet stranger, then he “realized what mistake he made” and knew he had to keep it a secret. He planned on keeping it from me forever, yet also insists that he would have told me the truth if I had somehow known to ask him point blank if he’d had sex I didn’t know about.

Do you see what I’m dealing with, with him?

Is it me? Please someone fucking tell me,  for real, if this is MY psychological damage, or his. Because…I mean…it COULD be me…I had a fucking messed up childhood. I incurred a lot more than’s fair for a young person. I might not be capable of expressing myself healthily, ever. I might actually even be playing my father’s role in my own marriage…except I have my mother’s work ethic, so I can’t TOTALLY encapsulate his narcissism and pathological laziness. Or is this him? He’s the one who “feels a masculine need to be BADDER” I’m paraphrasing but that is also written in one of his twelve million trash scribble notes. Do you see how bothered i am by this? Everything he does and touches it chaotic and messy and disorganized. The EXACT things I detest, because I had my own share and then some of chaos, as a child. See, does it make sense yet?

But basically, he’s saying that to establish his status as the man in our relationship, he had to do something worse than me. And boy did he find it.

I mean I spent like nine months regularly fucking and staying that night with some douchenozzle I met in grad school who turned out to ONLY be good for sex. He’s lucky he has a nice dick, because when I last saw him it was one of his few remaining positive features. He was just another messed up alcoholic loser, because if that isn’t my type I don’t know what is. At first I was genuinely attracted to him and into banging him, but then it just became weird obligation/routine/distraction from actual problems in life…and it just made the situation with my husband SO much worse. I mean there was awhile there where I was gone three nights a week, every week. I feel bad about that, I really do. But after last July whatever it was, like the 21st I think, I think my guilt was wasted. Because the whole time he was telling me it was okay and secretly freaking out about it internally, that whole time, because it wasn’t at all okay but I was making him feel like he had no choice but to say yes, that whole time, he was just planning how to get back at me. He more or less wrote that.

This is what I get for reading something private, i know. But my issue is that it happened, not that he’s trying to justify himself to himself. That seems normal, at least for him.

I took 1400 words to tell myself I’m not over this and I wish I had someone to talk to. Thank god I skipped working out to write….*eye roll*

 

~Cassie

Superstition is for idiots

I’m not stranger to bad things, but they can’t be caused by a day. When my husband worked at a cemetery, he was convinced something bad was going to happen, just because he was so associated with death and death planning, etc. I had to out and out tell him that nothing could be mystically caused by his employment. Working somewhere doesn’t invite death into your life. Like, I believe in certain spiritual things…but…not that. Nor is any given number unlucky.

Anyway, what I really wanted to write about was something my husband said last night. Many times I go to bed before my husband. He’ll always come in and say goodnight to me when I do so, which usually involves spooning with me for awhile. He accidentally falls asleep with me all the time. Which is part of his charm.

Well last night we were doing exactly that. I said something about how lying there like that, before falling asleep was the best. Then my husband said, “If anything ever happens to me, I want you to know that I’ll still always be right here.”

And, hearing it last night made me cry. Writing it now is making me cry a great deal more. The idea of that memory coming back to truly haunt me, it’s enough to make one cry. At least me.

Because, I mean, what made the problems we used to have so devastating that my husband is really all I have. I mean, think about how alone I am, except for him. I mean it’s all right because we really are one of those couples who spend all of their spare time together, and we enjoy it. In an almost embarrassing (in the sense that it sounds SO trite) my husband really is a dream of mine come true.

Why? How can I say that, knowing what you, my astute readers, know? Well, see, when kids deal with intense mental/emotional stress/trauma, if there’s one odd fringe side effect its the concept that they tend to be very realistic about their expectations of life. Which is why my brother’s sense of entitlement REALLY confuses me….but that’s a discussion for a different time. Plus, remember how I said TV raised me and helped me (along with literature) to conglomerate my own mental parents who raised me, because my real ones were…well…I’ve told you…? Well, when you grow up in the 90s (I was obviously born in 88, I’ve been going on about my 30th birthday IN ONE WEEK for awhile now….and yes ahahahahah my birthday is 4/20 isn’t that ironic, by the way the grow turned out great) you learn a lot about how relationships between white people can go wrong. I recall thinking that I wouldn’t care what random problems I had with my significant other….as long as I had nothing like a relationship my parents had. They NEVER did anything together, in fact it was like they avoided each other as much as possible, unless my dad was high/drunk an in a talking mood, then he’d either go into her part of the house and turn the TV off to lecture her, or just call her out into his room with a TV, where he’d preach to her just like he did to his kids, with the TV on mute so he could be heard but keep watching it. But anyway. I always thought I could handle anything as long as I got to be with someone who genuinely loves me. Because I saw, firsthand, so painfully, what happens when people who do not fucking love each other AT ALL stay married. My mom told me she told my dad, word for word, “It’s like you hate me.” And he really does act like that, like literally all the time. Like he is constantly criticizing her, or just ignoring her, not paying attention or repeatedly checking his watch whenever she’s trying to talk to him. She just wants a happy relationship. He’s done the worst things a spouse can do to their partner. And still she stayed. She’s always trying. She’s such a (passive) nice person. EVERYONE says so. She has a horrible time at work because her coworkers are shitty people who know how to manipulate/take advantage of her, and they fucking do. Predators are everywhere man. I know because I dealt with absolute garbage people at jobs of mine in the past. People who  think because I don’t react with extremely inappropriate and immature behavior, like they do, I must be SO easy to push around, to mock (especially to my face). Plus like…I’m the right level of attractive, would-be alpha females (looks-wise) are going to see me as a potential threat, best to take her down a few pegs.

I think that’s how I make people feel. It’s something, something that I do that makes people treat me like shit. And not appreciate me. AT ALL. And take me COMPLETELY for granted. Like you have no idea how horribly I let people treat me when I was younger. I don’t know how to describe the exact cause of it, but I feel like it has something to do with a chaotic/unstable foundation. Good thing I was smart.

But anyway as you can see, I witnessed a living nightmare every day of my life because of my parents. My only ally would have been my brother, but he had his own reasons to be a shitty person,  I guess. And, I was NOT good at maintaining relationships as a child, with friends, or later on with guys. So I always thought if I had a REAL marriage one day, one where we loved each other…I would get to see what a happy home/family could be like.

I mean that’s really all I want, or ever wanted, out of life. The whole being a writer thing too, but that’s always just been a part of me, like since I learned to read. Now here I am, experiencing it. I mean granted we don’t have kids yet, but I’m 29 I’m sure I’ll have at least 1. Hopefully 2, because I never liked only children when I was a kid.

But, to be honest, I’m just really afraid most of the time, that something horrible is going to happen. Like I feel like I definitely have cherophobia.  I have no idea if that’s real, because I’ve only read about it on Pinterest.

Or I feel like I shouldn’t let myself be too happy, because it won’t let/is going to get ruined. Well, I guess, if I think about it…it’s because when I was young EVERYTHING got ruined. It was a power move on my dad’s/brother’s part. Maybe that’s what’s up with that.

 

 

But anyway, this was not to go on about my childhood again, it was to let you know that despite the many horrible memories, the terrible things I talk/write about on here….my husband and I do truly love one another. We’re both incredibly fucked up too, so there’s that.

 

Anyway, gotta jet.

 

~Cassie

When lunch time is the only time

Deepest apologies, it dawned on me yesterday that I didn’t include the picture yesterday. I didnt mean to picture taunt, I’m always accidentally doing that to my mom, because, as you know, email is the only way I’ve spoken to her for the past three years. It’s good we have that one way to speak to one another, though when she tells me how much she misses me and how well get to see each other somehow….I just don’t have an answer. It’s not my fault the only way she gets to “see me” is if I email her a picture, but IDK I’m sure in her head it kind of is. Everyone in that family is so obsessed with blaming other people for everything , because, I mean obviously, what are they going to do, something healthy?

So that’s the picture. I would have added it last night but then I’d think about writing about one thing and write a 2500 word blog instead so. I do everything I can to spend as much time in the evening writing as I can. Writing my novel, not this blog. I can only imagine how fucked this anonablog would be if I was focusing all of my attention into it’s contents.

Come to think of it, it’s probably for the best I don’t have to time or energy to REALLY delve into my childhood, because, IDK it’s not an easy thing to pick up every day like an instrument you’re trying to learn. It’s one thing to go back to my novel, but even that even if you’re doing it every day you still lose momentum. I still have to back read a little, be like okay which “he” and “he” are going at it right now? Or whatever.

They said once that a novels sex scenes shouldn’t be gratituous and should only exist to move the plot along.

I perhaps took this too to heart. Because what i have is a novel entirely propelled about by the sexual interactions of the characters. And yeah, you do have your favorites, and it’s not necessarily the one you modeled after yourself. Not that they’re not there.

There are times when I think about how I’m just soooooo fortunate to have so much horrible human being/awful father experience from my own life.

I can’t tell if I would have rather had a happy childhood and grown up secure and stable, or if I’d rather be as I am. I think I’d keep things the same. You know that bullshit about how “the same boiling water that hardens an egg softens a potato, it’s what you’re made of not what you went through”? Well NEVER has a more perfect example of an egg and a potato come to life than my idiot brother and myself. He probably would have turned out shitty even if we had a great dad, that’s my theory on him. And it’s not sibling hate. Please. I wish we had some sort of a normal relationship. Hes so unstable he seriously couldn’t leave our Instagram friendship alone. Out of the blue he would delete me, I wouldn’t find out about it until he sent me a new follow request. Who does that? Who regularly deletes their only sibling on social media for NO reason??? I could never tell what I was going to get when I dealt with him. When he was feeling especially needy, you know because all he does is sabatoge his own life then cry about it, hed do anything for me, including “give the last drop of [his] blood” for me. Then, just as unprovoked as his weird misguided affection, would be the bouts of reviling me. One time I got a new cell phone number, I was probably 23 or so, and I texted it to him, his response was “what do I care? We never speak.” He’s too much like our father. He had no chance in life. But he’s also not worth my time.

Sounds harsh, i would guess a really good person wouldn’t abandon their brother, but never oh never did you hear me say I was that. And I mean I do resent him too. He’s my older brother and all he ever did was pick on me, order me around, contradict everything I said, invalidate anything positive I did, start fights with me out of boredom, attempt to control me in that CREEPY way our dad already was….yeah…..

In fact, every single facet of my brothers behavior was a direct mirroring of how our father treated him.

Note this is not me making his excuse for him. ITS NOT AN EXCUSE. He had the chance to lot be garbage, but consistently for the past 33 years all he’s ever done is choose to be garbage. I guess the hard work involved looks like too much, because he’s pathologocally lazy to the frightening extent our father is. Like they both have a conversion reaction if they think THEIR precious selves might be doing something that someone else could do. Combine that with the ultimate losers mentality (the “no one gives me credit for my meager amount of effort, so I refuse to put in any more”) and do you think you’ll wind up with some winners?

They’re the definition of losers – my dad and brother. The last time my dad has a job that wasn’t embarrassing was when I was 5. He was a cop, but he decided to fraudulently file an insurance report for a stolen rifle that was never stolen, when the department caught wind of it, he was told to take a six month suspension. He refused because he’s an arrogant narcissist, went to court, and lost everything because a TON of higher ups in the department despised him because he’s a horrible human being. I’d go into the rest of his pathetic work history but my lunch is almost over.

My brother and working? Well when he was 20 he got $100,000 as an accident settlement, and that’s just bound to ruin a person, especially one that was already garbage. Of course, I think you can tell who REALLY, really pushed my brother to get that money, because he knew he’d get a lot of it.

Well now I’m pissed off I guess I’ll go.

Just kidding. It’s nice writing about them but not having to deal with them. Because my brother and dad are waste of space garbage people whose faults SO outweigh their positive traits it’s not even worth knowing then.

So, if you have a shit parent, try imagining what itd be like to not ever deal them. I strongly recommend. (Disclaimer-not for the weak of heart or spirit)

Just go with it

Not anything specific, that’s just how I’ve always lived my life. It’s been going okay for me, I guess.

Let’s see, what’s new. Well, as if we’re even surprised, nothing fun or spontaneously sexual happened with my work outing. I wish, right? Well, at least with the one, but upon meeting that dude’s wife….uhh….there’s no nice way to say what I have to say about all that *eye roll eye roll eye roll* it’s just that I can’t stand anyone whose entitled, I really can’t. It’s my parents fault, I had to watch them entitle and ruin my brother.

Not much is really going on. Ive been going to that poledancing class for the past few weeks, just as I suspected it’s fun but an insane amount of work, and I am terrible. Like embarrassingly terrible. But I guess it’s important to keep going back. Its not often that I find an athletic activity that I’m actually into. Just wish I had the necessary upper body strength. Perhaps one day….

I am in the process of looking for a new job. So many things are a toss up right now. I’m kind of waiting to see if I get a new job or get pregnant first. We’ve been trying, I can tell you that much. My husband has some really specific cum fetishes so that works out (if you’re dying to know he’s got this thing with the idea of cum dripping out of someone, I’m like where have you been it always does that) I wouldn’t say I hate my current job, but there’s a lot about it that I don’t want to deal with anymore and let’s face it no one earns a masters in English to work in logistics.

Speaking of actually using my degree, I should let you know that I’ve really come a long way towards having a ful rough draft. The picture below is my story board, it’s the first book all in one place. The stuff with blue highlight is already written, so now it’s just a matter of getting the rest done and smoothing it into a cohesive rough draft good enough to hand to other people and ask for their opinions. Then, its self publishing time. I like how self publishing gives the writer all of the control. We all know how I like control….lol…..

It’s not the easiest thing to ask someone whose input would be worth while to read a full draft. I’ve been dropping hints with my best friend, but she just graduated from medical school as starts a legit doctor job in June so….IDK if I should expect her to be able to help.

Next Saturday I’m actually going to see my three friends from the job I had 2005-2012, one of them would be a good candidate. Well see where the conversation goes when I see them, mostly they just want to talk about their kids. I’m not telling them were trying, I don’t want to tell anyone. Plus it could take five years so who knows.

So yeah, this might be my most upbeat post ever, but it wasn’t meant that way. Not to say I’m feeling down either. Naturally, I fall into that laid back don’t give a fuck category, I really do. I wonder sometimes about how I would be as a person if I hadn’t been SO exposed to my parents’ mental illness as a child. I mean I know I’ve spent some time discussing how my dad is a piece of shit psychotic narcissist, but I mean I never forgot to remember that my mom was the one keeping us there, too weak to leave or even stand up for herself, or us. And I guess it was a side effect of being so miserably unhappy in her marriage, because she surely was the most depressive mother a person could ask for. She used all of her cheerfulness, all of the joy and happiness that’s naturally a part of any given person’s demeanor, impressing strangers. In being he sweet, passive one at work, she’d come home and yell at me when she really wanted to yell at my dad and her shitty coworkers. People were always telling me how nice my mom was, how she just never get mad……yeeeeeeah those types of people are the worst kind to be around when they feel secure. My mom only felt secure when it was her and I. And no matter how many times a person can be told to not speak to their child about ALL of their adult problems, someone like my mom isn’t going to listen. Because even the ones getting abused, they still just want to be able to inflict that same suffering on someone else. The only breaking of the cycle is possible, but it is not easy. I know very well how hard it is.

See, there’s that Cassie tone. Well lunch is almost over so I should peace.

~Cassie

Update time

Well, in the vein of trying to seem positive….how have things been?
Pretty decent. It’s that weird time of the year where I take advantage of all the free time winter affords us, and I get a lot of errands and old To Do List items checked off. One of which was getting an eye exam, going to the OB/GYN, going to the regular doctor for a physical because I haven’t done that in like ten years, and the that book class – that was last Tuesday.

It was called “How to Write a Book in 30 Days and Self-Publish.” I can’t tell, yet, I guess, if it was worth the collective $70 it cost me. It was a 3 hour spiel, all at once last Tuesday. The instructor was likeable and energetic enough, and he gave us each (all 3) of us a copy of his first book as a gift. It’s actually a valuable tool, because it’s an extraordinarily well done self-published book. I’ll be honest, younger me thought self-publishing was something lesser-than writers had to do. But, it’s so fitting to my personality to want to be in total control of this shit, self-publishing will probably be the way for me. When I get there. I know I will. I’ve firmly resolved to do the following, until I’m done:
1 hour of writing every weeknight (this can easily be done if I limit Netflix/Hulu watching)
3.5 hours of writing every Saturday and Sunday.
That’s 12 hours spent writing every week. I’m using a stopwatch to  not include the MANY breaks I take, like for household tasks, smoking weed, making coffee, etc, etc.
That’s making writing a part time job for myself. Which clearly I need to do since I can so obviously write a book.
I did that weird thing I do in that class, where because I slightly mishear, or simply don’t want to tell the truth, for some unknown reason, I lie. He asked us if any of us blogged. I didn’t hear the word right so I just shook my head no. HA, do I blog. Sorry, blog, I disavowed you in public, but it wasn’t out of shame. I kind of proud of this disturbing mess. Because that’s a great way to describe my real self. But, you better believe it, I don’t act like my real self all that often. I mean, have you SEEN some of these passages? I’ve tolerated some really fucking up shit, you know? And I’m not saying it’s good or healthy, in fact I really hope I’ve gotten the opposite point across. But, also, I don’t know, no one’s perfect, you know? You end up regretting some decisions you’ve made, but you’re allegedly only going to REALLY be haunted by what you left undone, in the end. That’s what they say anyway. Plus, what was I going to say, I keep an anon-a-blog about my abusive childhood? Yeah, that’ll really lighten the mood of any room.

I’ve also made the decision that when I do publish, I won’t use the name Cassie Stevens. This is something separate from what my writing career ~might~ one day be. I don’t want THIS being linked with THAT. Sorry, but as obsessive architect/control freak, I truly must insist on it being this way.

Last December, just a bit after Christmas, I legally changed my last name to my husband’s. We’ve been married three and a half years, at this point, but I just did it now. I didn’t tell him until his birthday, on January fourth, and he was very moved by it. Which was so my intention. At first I didn’t want to change my name, because I didn’t think it was fair that I, the wife, was the one who had to go through an obnoxious identity change at the middle of my twenties. But you know what won out, over that? The idea that I wouldn’t have the same last name as my dad. So, sad to say, that truly is what motivated that. So, I will publish under some combination of my first name, middle name, or their initials, and my now real very common last name. My first last name was as rare as my married name is common, I’ll give it that. It’s one of the reasons I liked it. My labs or customer accounts were never getting mixed up with anyone else’s. Now, it could definitely happen.

But, in less dark news. I bought a standing desk. Well, more like an extensive laptop stand. I’ll post a picture, since i like picture with diary/journal/blog entries. I like it, because it was worrying me that I was going to be spending 12 extra hours a week in a chair, staring at a computer. I already do that 42 hours a week at work. So now at least I’m standing or stretching one leg on a kitchen chair while I work on it. And this.

Also, in fun news, my work thing last Saturday when I really did myself up (see pic from last time) went well, though of course I got inappropriately wasted. Imagine. Me, drinking too much in a social situation….yeah…I’ll pause for the shock to wear off…..

No, nothing fun or sexual or swinger-y happened, le sigh. What can you do? There’s always dreamin’

Also in fun news, I signed up for a pole dancing class. It’s just an intro. It’s an hour, tomorrow at noon. I’m hoping I like it, I’m always looking for exercise I actually enjoy, because then I’ll actually do it. Like biking, indoors, on my stationary bike, in front of my TV, with a La Croix and a bowl….just like I like. But maybe this pole dancing class will work. MAYBE, the loser said, I’ll meet someone to hang out with there too. I’m kind of hoping. I was hoping a little for the writing class, but not as much as the pole dancing. The other two participants at the writing course (there was supposed to be a fourth who didn’t show) were both women. One was I’d guess late forties, the other was probably younger than me, but she was married. Both were nice enough, but we were all definite introverts. It’s weird when we’re around one another in public, because there’s just nothing but heavy awkward silence. The speaker seemed to think my hyper-protective stance over what I was actually working on was comical. We had him sign our books, because I think it’s cool to have an author-signed book, and he was like ” Good luck on your writing, whatever it is!” I was like oh ha ha ha ha ha, very funny, Don. I get it, I’m weird. That’s so the first time I’ve been told that.

So tomorrow pole dancing class. I also want to finish my new resume and start applying for other jobs, because I’m really sick of living in this area, and really the only thing I came down here for was to go to grad school, and that’s been over almost three years now.

BUT, I want to write more than work on the resume, so I should go do that first. And I’ unfortunately only twenty minutes in. So….quite a bit to go, I’d say. But I know I can do it. And we already go grocery shopping and picking up my car from Belle Tire out of the way.

Sidenote – when you have a standing desk, you really do feel the need to pompously think about how fucking healthy you’re being right now.

It’s fun

So can life be, even when many, many, many, many, many parts of it are an utter suckfest.

It’ll be two weeks tomorrow, it was my mom’s 60th birthday. I didn’t even get to see her. She’s two hours away. But I refuse to see or speak to my dad. There’s no being mentally healthy with someone like him in your life, so decisions have to be made, am I right?

Sorry to end on a bummer, but that’s me, right?

Hope you’re all doing well

PS  – the second picture is my husband and my bestest kitty – I was leaving for work one day and I was like, aww my favoritest boys are snoozing together….must take picture…..

 

~Cassie

By now you can probably tell what happened

I have this selective inspiration, it’s been fucking with me since high school. I get my first job, and only on the awful days I had to work 4-9 after school would I feel the genuine rush of inspiration necessary to try and write eloquent thought at 16. In college, much the same. Of course I was working much more by then, but when you spend roughly eight months out of the year in college full time, when you just have to work full time during the summer, it’s almost like you’re on vacation…and I would go entire summers without writing a fucking thing…only to be DYING to the second the fall semester started.

So as an adult, I would have to come up  with something really clever to get myself to actually write, right?

Well, maybe I did it.

Because one of the obnoxiously fucked things about me is how I’m really good at putting in whatever effort I need to to exist and provide for myself and my cats, but deep down I’m perpetually disappointed with how lazy I am. And how fruitless and pointless MOST things seem. But mainly that first thing. And I’m a special sort of fucked, from my dad’s side to be certain, where I’m always going to sabotage myself a little bit. It’s like they’re all the same sort of person who not only think of the shitty thing to say, they also ALWAYS say the shitty thing. You know the type I mean.

But, I think I figured some loophole. Remember the at-home job I got recently through my current job? Well, at first I had a very gung-ho spirit about the endeavor, but now it’s been a month and I keep finding excuses not to do it. Because, more than anything, I want to spend my spare time writing.

Let me tell you about last weekend.

I spent most of Sunday writing. I got like 14 pages. I guess that doesn’t sound like a lot. But when i say “most of Sunday” I mean the few spare hours I could have spent cleaning or some shit. I did do other things, like take out the trash and cook dinner, but I could have gotten more intense with the cleaning because it seems and feels and looks like this house always needs it. And fuck knows I won’t get assistance from anywhere else. But my husband works at least 56 hours a week now, and he leaves when I leave (which is at 6am twice a week and 7am the other days) but gets home hours after I do. So it’s a lot easier for me to be complacent about constantly looking after all aspects of life except his going to work now.

So, garbled long story short, I wrote 14 pages of fiction on Sunday. When I was done for the day I asked my husband if he wanted to read it. He said yes but then he also actually read some of it too. He seemed really positive about it, he had genuinely nice things to say it, and specific compliments are always good to know. I mean maybe it was a smoke show, but more likely not.

And I do the opposite writing of what I do with food. You start with the best parts writing. So of course by the best parts, I mean the sex scenes. So that’s what I always start with. Or some other really intense scene, but mostly the sexual ones. I can’t help it, it’s entirely a part of my nature. It was during English class in the seventh grade when I realized I could daydream sexual fantasies. Not of myself at that age with anyone, but of characters that I would carry with me mentally for years and would still be writing about here at the end of my twenties. I was 13 when I was watching a Disney movie in theater (The Princess Diaries, if you must know) when I realized the adrenaline of sexual tension was a drug of its very own. This isn’t to say I was overly indulgent in sexual excursions at a young age. I wouldn’t have sex for the first time until after I was 18. Like all other true aspects of my personality, this was almost entirely in my head. I only say almost because I was writing from time to time, but I recall tapering off by the end of high school. I’d feel inspired on work days but sometimes it seemed like that only was because I couldn’t. Don’t we all self-sabotage by yearning after that which we know we shouldn’t?

So, I spent a whole day writing, then a whole Monday thinking about a different sex scene I wanted to write about. But the time it takes to get into that mode, it’s hard to come by on a weekday. I think I’ve mentioned a few thousand times about that, by this point. And now, throw the fact that I wanted to work from home and make extra money eating even more of my time….it can make it rough to be creative. I’m trying to resolve to dedicate large blocks of time on the weekends to writing. Because honestly I’ll just spend it cleaning or watching TV or maybe making something crafty. And the house is just going to be gross again the next week anyway, so a lot of the time it’s like is this even worth it, even a little?

So, in conclusion, I spent as much time as I could after work writing, instead of working my second job. Because there’s something more practical to do, my brain is just dying to write. I guess it’s a good thing. But I also feel so compelled to work as much as I can in an attempt to save myself from future financial drowning. But then, again, that also feels REALLY pointless because, guess, JUST GUESS, what my student loan balances are as of this month? In total, I’m at $111,666.88. So, an extra $180 every two weeks in exchange for ALL creative time….do you see why that’s so depressing to think about?

But other than all that, my life has been pretty good. To get kind of dear-diary with you, here are things in my life as of now:
I stopped taking birth control. To kind of see if I get knocked up without radically trying. Because I mean the reality that one can only have biological children before a certain age is there, no matter how fucked things were so shortly ago. I mean, no one knows more than me that I might really come to rue this remark, but I think my husband is actually getting better. He’s been sober since August 2015. So that’s something. Things have been good since they got SO fucking bad. Like we really haven’t gotten into any sort of a fight since then, beyond bickering while driving. He’s really into sex a lot more lately, which is always significantly easier for me on days I’ve been writing sex scenes for hours. I mean, is that hard to deduce? I’m not saying I can’t have sex whenever, I can, to the extent that I’ve already graphically described for you all. But, truth be told, mechanically speaking, my husband and I aren’t a perfect match, you know? Do you not? Okay, in case I’m being too cryptic. There’s a certain amount of puzzle-piece-like luck as far as genitals are concerned that’s involved when one bangs another person. We can’t help it when someone with a great dick for your vagina specifically is a shitty, alcoholic suck fest of a human being. A list of the great mistakes of my twenties would start with R, to be certain. And, while I actually love and respect my husband, sometimes we can have compatibility issues, at least as far as my personal enjoyment/comfort goes. It’s not the end of the world, and it is remarkably improved if I’m, you now, good to go from writing. My husband remarked on it a few times on Sunday, if you get my drift. Which by this point, you really should.

So, there’s that detail. That’s so not the sort of thing I’d ever talk about in my regular life. I mean I have discussions of that nature with my husband, but no one else.

Speaking of things that…I don’t know I couldn’t possibly tell anyone in my actual life, I have been SO into the idea of fantasizing about my one coworker. Like, I’m a little shocked by the level of time I put into it. And I can’t even place where it’s really coming from. So who knows where that’s headed. It’s nice to have an actual person to fantasize about, though. Thinking about characters while you’re actually masturbating is annoying, because I already fucking think about them enough could I catch a break?

 

Anyway, gotta go. As I’m sure you’ve surmised by now I’m as unstable yet very stable as ever.

 

~Cassie