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

N, or No, but really though

Okay. I think I’ve discussed it enough with the two people in the world I trust (besides my moms, but she’s different, I don’t burden her with my life) and I THINK I figured some shit out as to why I was SO FUCKING UPSET today and yesterday.

Luckily, I have the world’s chilliest best friend (she rewards you for positive behavior with kindness/more attention than your whining ass was getting…it’s hilarious to watch when you know it’s coming) and the world’s warmest husband. IDK how I’d still function without the too-much-one-way approach they both take.

So. What happened that upset me so much? Ha. Okay. See if you can keep up.

N, guy from grad school, not to be confused with R, and I had been flirting hard for about a week over DM/text. You know the thing I alluded to being excited about? Well, blog, I know you knew it had to do with fucking, but yeah, it was the fun of talking with N on a really regular if not constant basis for about a week. Not long, I get it. We were talking enough so that I felt comfortable enough to ask him if he wanted to hang out this past weekend. He said he was into it. His words. He proposed plans and I agreed. I was super excited.

And, instead of getting into the details, because I don’t want to do that more than I already have mentally and in other blogs that are private, let me just tell you TWO exact quotes from N, spaced 5 hours apart, both of which were said on my couch:

5:30 pm (first arriving to my house) : “So we’re going to have sex….let’s just hang out first.”
That was all well and good. We’d already blantantly discussed fucking over DM. He did. He brought it up.
10pm: “I don’t think we should sleep together. I’m sorry. I feel like a prick. I didn’t mean to ruin your night.”

What the sweet fucking shit was I supposed to respond?

I was really embarrassed and confused. After he told me what was going on, I was still really embarrassed, but also fucking super pissed and just overwhelmed by how stupid I can fucking be.

I bothered to be myself around someone and to let my guard down and just be honest for once. And THIS happens.

The reasoning behind his massive/sudden change of heart stemmed from his having lied to me from the get-go about the exact situation in his relationship, which is intermittently open….and this was glossed over/straight lied about. He had a PERFECT out, when I asked him if he wanted to get together. He could have said right then that he wasn’t able to do such a thing at this time. OR he could’ve said he wanted to hang out but sex couldn’t be part of it, THEN waited until he was in another “open” period. But N didn’t do that. N just fucking lied to me and made it seem like we were definitely going to fuck (because he literally said the words…more than once….) then at the end of the night gave me a comic book and then was like oh by the way I’m completely not okay with this.

I mean. No one owes anyone sex, ever. And I’m not desperate….do you see me?….but JESUS FUCKING CHRIST. THIS was a weiiiiiiird amount of bullshit.

I do NOT do well when I put myself out there only to be rejected.

NO woman does well with sexual rejection. It’s literally like the one thing we don’t deal with, that and prostate cancer.

I let my guard down, and got fucking socked for it, AGAIN. You’d think I’d goddamn learn, but the day I learn is the day I stop feeling feelings…I think…

It’s a very disappointing thing to happen to anyone.

It’s not easy for me to connect with someone, or want to, AT ALL. Now it was all for nothing.

N could have SO EASILY just like…NOT fucking talked to me and started this whole process. Or he could have just NOT made hang out/fuck around plans with me, like he so definitely did.

That’s what bothers me.

And like…I had to stop myself last night when I was texting him because I didn’t want to be TOO mean because like…I forget only one other person in the world was raised by W, so only Justin (my brother) knows what it’s like to be eviscerated with verbal abuse and threats of physical/sexual abuse on a daily fucking basis. Our mom knows too, but she was a fucking adult then, wasn’t she? My husband tells me how good I am at cutting down, through all the layers, between the bone, with the craft of a surgeon. He doesn’t word it like that, but trust me that’s what he means. So I told N I was going to stop talking to him, but that it fucking destroyed me that this happened because I let my guard down. My fuck all my life has ever done is teach me not to do that. And all I’ve ever done is tell it to fuck off.

Now is no different, of course. I mean….I can’t help but think things along the lines of “Well, YOU’RE the one about to miss out, guy.” Perhaps my arrogance is some strange mental illness I developed to shield myself from the chaos that was my childhood.

But you know what. Adults get to make their own destinies. Even if its just fighting back against what you can’t help/couldn’t stop.  You’re responsible for all of your own shit, but that also means no one gets to take credit for things you do.

I tried teaching R that. But I don’t think he was listening. He was too far gone with alcoholism. Hot as he was. And you know what R NEVER fucking lied to me. It’s really not a good thing when you can’t reach the bar R fucking set.

I shouldn’t be so mean. He did mean a great deal to me at one time. I was always hyper attracted to him.

Like I said, I’m lucky to have my husband around for situations like this. He’s been so great about comforting me through this.

I know it’s fucking fucked that my spouse was consoling me for my “poly” hookup rejecting me hard, but it’s what fucking happened, all right?

I had to ask for an explanation.

When I said I’d stop talking to him, N said “Thank you.”

So. Yeah.

That went well.

The comic book still seriously confuses me. Like why. I have so many questions.

But it’s like N doesn’t get how hurt I was by what he did. I don’t think he gets it at least.

My husband tried helping me figure out what it was that fucking upset me so much. He was like, was it your self esteem? Did you just want to fuck? Were you super into this guy? Was it just wanting something to look forward to?

I’m not sure. But again, it was nice having him be there for me.

Still. One can’t help but wonder why you couldn’t have just been left alone if this was how it was going to go. Did rejecting me make N feel better about some shitty part of his life? Did he seriously just think he would be able to convince himself sleeping with me fell under the “okay” category when he “realized he wasn’t comfortable with it” hours into our meeting up? Then of course there were his many mentions that it freaked him out that we got along too well and talked too easily. But oh don’t worry he acknowledged that that’s a self-defeating loop that’s super unfair to me so I feel super not stung by that.

I wish I wasn’t so upset by this.

I wish I didn’t feel like this.

I wish I wasn’t so bothered. And hurt.

 

Also….I wish I could afford therapy……might be able to unpack why I only look forward to casual sex anymore….or why it means SO MUCH to me that someone would bother even paying attention/talking to me….

Yes….so…so….hard to figure out…..

But just because you know the cause of your feelings, that doesn’t mean you can fucking stop them, now does it?

 

 

~Cassie