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

There’s only so much disappointment one can handle in a week.

I’m waiting out traffic before I go back to work and reclaim my possessions from work Halloween. DEAR GOD am I glad that that is over with. As much as I like getting done up for something, I was fucking dying to wash my make up off all day.

Which got me thinking.

This morning, as I spent roughly an hour and a half getting ready, as I had so recently, it really got me thinking.

There’s something I find naturally pleasing about wearing make up, especially a lot of it to the point it hides your exterior flaws and highlights the good features. There’s just something really pleasing and right to me about wearing a mask, especially one that sits right on your skin like that. Because that’s what make up is, in more than one way. At least to me. There’s the cosmetic benefits, but there’s also the secondary distance you build between yourself and others when you’re doing something to highlight your beauty. Or so I’ve always found. Again I don’t totally know what the experience of an unattractive person is. I feel like everyone gets treated like shit for no reason (on a varying scale of frequency) no matter what they look like.

And honestly, even though I’m freakishly vocal on that subject (IDK, it’s the one part of my life I’ve always been okay with…so fucking sue me) I also like….am NOOOOOT the kind of person who uses their looks to their advantage. I mean, if I want to bang someone I’m going to attempt to present myself pleasingly, but like…idk, there’s a lot of people, women especially who learn too early how easy it is for them to get things/be treated well compared to others for no reason other than their accidental looks, whatever grab bag their genetic lottery pulled together. At least when a person is stupid toned you’re like…ah well I see you hit the gym while I’m on my ass on a computer which is whenever I’m awake, pretty much.

I haven’t written in SO LONG. This past weekend was fucked. When I wasn’t super happy and excited, followed by extreme bafflement and disappointment, I was working on fucking Halloween crafts. So burned out on like…my emotions, and crafting. I feel like my characters miss me. As fucking lunatic crazy as that sounds.

But.

Okay since I couldn’t control myself from returning the subject.

I figured out why I was so devastated about the N thing.

Yeah, I was looking forward to the sex. I mean, I couldn’t possibly be the only one who likes finding out what someone is like in bed. Plus, N painted a pretty promiscuous picture of himself, and the more sexual experience a person has, the better. Or so I’ve found with my HUGE list of partners. (It’s 10 dudes), the more experience the better. I imagine women are the same.

So, yeah, the sex. But also. Out of those ten guys….the first time I had sex with them worked out well in….two of the instances.

My first boyfriend would “always jerk off twice” before having sex so he would “last longer.” So he did that, my first time having sex ever, and then because he was on his third hard-on, while we were having sex, he kept losing his erection, going into the bathroom, coming back, again and again, until he came back in and just got dressed and didn’t say anything. We lied there in my bed in my parents house (the three of them were at a Tigers game) in silence until we left to see X-3 (the X-men movie from 2006) because I’d already purchased the tickets. I had to ask him on the drive over there what happened. He was a weird, weird asshole about the whole experience. As if it were SOMEHOW my fault. Also, looking back, who is like SO worried about railing some poor girl whose idiotically chosen you as her first partner? So fucking dumb. It was something he “had a reputation for” at his high school (we went to different high schools), this ability to last a very long time sexually.

I was far too young and naive and fucking achingly desperate to have a boyfriend, to have an emotional connection with someone outside of my fucked, fucked, fucked family. Of course I picked like….a TERRIBLE fucking choice….but whatever.

It just made me realize, as I typed this, that I can’t really stand it when I have to drag something out of someone. Like just fucking tell me. I thought we did that.

You know what time I remember dragging something out of my husband? July 2017, when a doctor’s bill in the mail alerted me to something he’d done a month before. Something I guess he was never planning on telling me about because he lacked the fucking balls. I don’t know how I would have behaved in that situation, because I never met a perfect stranger from Craig’s List for sex like he did. Then, I still had to drag it out of him when I couldn’t figure out what this doctor’s bill was for. He said he knew he was caught, and didn’t know what to do, and was panicking, which was why he tried to evade me at first. But, like I’ve said before, I could tell something was very wrong by how pale he’d gotten when he looked at the bill.

Then, just this past Sunday I had to do it again.

I guess I shouldn’t hold it SO out of sort….given that it seems to be typical male behavior, in my life. Which is funny…because….why?

But anyway.

Back to why I know I’m truly bothered by N and how that panned out, besides the fact that I was lied to, and that he did the world’s worst 180 in the history of date psych-outs. Those are things I will get over in time. Like now they piss me off. But I know how I feel about things that once made me angry.

What bothers me, what like literally hurts, as much as I hate that phrasing, is that I was able to be totally be 100% max Cassie around him…and it was totally fine…it was fun….it was SO fun he changed his mind about being able to sleep with me because it’d get too complicated because of an emotional connection. I’m paraphrasing his explanation that I had to fucking request. And like…because I could be myself…I mean that also involves letting your guard down, no? So it was the strange level of vulnerability on multiple levels…and like….at SOME fucking point, in the course of less than five hours….yeah…..just…..what….omg

So. IDK I guess I sound like I’m still pretty obsessed with this. It’s better than it was. I was still REALLY upset on Monday. Well duh there’s a huge ass blog about it.

But yeah. I realize, that that’s what truly saddens me. It such a rare, rare, rare, rare, rare, rare thing to find someone who can handle/be around/reciprocate max Cassie, as I like to call it. That that person is also a relatively smart guy I know from grad school who I could totally see myself fucking…I mean….am I NOT supposed to be into that? I mean really. I would love to take a goddamn poll. Ha that’s one of those verbal double entendre. But yeah don’t worry I still have plenty of sex. My husband has like a teenage libido. I think it’s all the testosterone from working out. IDK I’m not doctor. I don’t talk about my husband with my doctor best friend because she doesn’t really like him, from knowing about the shit he’s done. And she doesn’t even know about Craig’s List.

Well, that’s it. That’s why I’m still so obsessive and bothered by the N thing.

Zero idea how long it’ll take before I don’t feel bothered about it. Like I never do about anything.

All right, I’ve wasted enough time.

Peace

~Cassie

Skin

She had a strange relationship with her skin. Of course, as a teenager, she’d reviled it but not due to blemishes. Of those there were a few, but not a great many, and she was artful enough with concealer to keep that at bay. But there was nothing she could buy in a grocery store make up section that would help with her stretch marks. She learned from a magazine that they were like split ends, once they were there, they were there, and stretch marks couldn’t be cut. She would’ve tried it.

She’ll be honest, at thirty there’s two sets of them. Her adolescent body grew too much too quickly, it would seem her hips and breasts and both inner and outer thighs were the worst offenders. These were the stretch marks of youth. They came about probably the seventh or eighth grade, coinciding pretty well with the onset of menstruation. She remembered the friends – just like the friends most teenage girls have, they were the kind who were dying to point out her flaws to her – pointing to the ones on her hips when she dared to wear a shorter shirt. Then, this skin-crawling affair:

She was wearing a short enough tank top to expose her hips. She was in the kitchen in her family home. It was freshman year in high school, when life was miserable anyway. Her horrid father – who she refers to as W because he doesn’t deserve the emotionally-infused pronouns of dad or father or anything like it – W jabs a finger against her hip, against a stretch mark. Always needing to make some sort of physical contact.

“What’s that?” He asked. Had he caught a Benny Hinn special on warning signs of teen cutting?

“A stretch mark,” She was at the sink doing dishes, W had stepped into the kitchen to get more chewing tobacco between commercial breaks. He didn’t always watch televangelists, but he did always watch something cringe-worthy. She hasn’t seen him in four years now, but she’s sure he still watches Fox News every morning.

“A scratch mark?” W was notoriously hard of hearing…unless he was eavesdropping. She couldn’t figure that one out.

“A stretch mark!” She turned to look at him.

He takes a moment to regard her, disgustedly, “Aren’t those from when you get pregnant and get big?” Was he was trying to imply she, at fourteen, was hiding a pregnancy, or just that she was getting fat like her mother? W was always reminding her mother of this fact, out of love, and telling her and her brother to do likewise.

“Lots of people have them.” It was true, a decent number of friends her age had them. The other fat girls. Only she wasn’t fat, especially, she just wasn’t tiny. In high school she was a size eight or ten, at 5’9”.

W didn’t respond, as he wanted to get back to watching television, which is one of the two things he does with his days, these days. But he was probably pleased to have inflicted a minor emotional wound as he was in a foul mood for having to get up. His reaction to having to answer the phone because she was in the basement doing the family’s laundry – at fourteen – was to glare at her from the top of the stairs like she was the scum of the earth, holding the phone out at arm’s length, as if he might drop it. Breaking things to drive home a lesson was among one of his favorite tactics. One time as a young girl, she dropped the phone while talking on it, and the plastic back and the battery popped out, just due to the way it hit the floor. She was young enough to be afraid she broke it. She tearfully took it to him, because she was too afraid to lie or hide it. Because he had to put the battery back in, he told her she was never allowed to use the phone to talk to friends again. This was when she was still young enough to believe W’s threats. As she aged, when her brother pointed it out to her, she realized he was far too lazy and narcissistic to see a punishment through. That takes caring dedication, if you think about it. As much as he loved lecturing and sermonizing and pontificating to every member of the household, that was usually only when he was high. He was a mean goddamn drunk. Then he was a very dramatic recovery patient. Or whatever he calls his on again off again sobriety. W told her on separate occasions when she was in the second grade that he was divorcing her mom, and then that he was dying. He didn’t mean either, probably, deep down, but W loves drama, and he has to make it where he can. And who better than his somehow to blame family?

Then she has a second set of stretch marks. These ones are on her calves, near the varicose veins she’s had since high school, and the back of her arms, and her stomach. At twenty-eight she officially had them everywhere a person can get them – without any offspring to show for it, she sometimes reminded herself. But, she was nothing if not able to see the workability of any situation. High-waisted everything became a lasting trend, so that worked for her. And, despite the unbelievable, unfair tendency for stretch marks, her skin was quite lovely otherwise. She was just glad the ones on her breasts faded, for those were an excellent attribute otherwise. She was eternally grateful that her perfect nipples were the same deep pink as her lips. Yes, both sets. She’d been asked what lipstick she wore when she wasn’t wearing any before. Which was nice because she would never be asked if her eyelashes were falsies, like some of her friends from her college days – not that they were in college – her eyelashes were short and the same light brown as her hair. She made up for it by having black, winged eyeliner tattooed on herself for her twenty-ninth birthday, because hey lets make that one memorable for some reason, right? She’d heard from many people throughout her life that they were surprised by how soft her skin and hair was. A few even told her skin “just looked soft” which she tried to take as a compliment and not…well, what everyone thinks of.

She came about this second barrage of even worse stretch marks because of a weight gain that came about due to two big reasons. One was the transition to an office job, from working at a place where sitting only occurred during her breaks and she was constantly walking around and lifting and carrying. She might have known she couldn’t maintain the same physique when she started sitting for ten hours. And, also playing its part, was her intense drinking. Because when she was twenty-seven she came by this office job, and finished her Masters – she was tireless, like she was trying to prove who she wasn’t, one might think – and started sleeping with an attractive, alcoholic human train wreck (she likes to refer to him as R) she knew from graduate school.

It wasn’t even an affair, her husband knew the whole time. She still tolerated W so she could see her mother a few times a year at that age, but her situation with R coincided almost perfectly when her severing of that tie once and for all. She was walking into a restaurant with her husband to celebrate the first day of her office job, she saw it was W calling. When he called, one, you will answer, and two, you will have a conversation for as long as he was thinking the conversation should last. When W was high, that was a long time, no matter what the person the other line said they were doing. Short of cutting him off and hanging up before he could say another word, there was no real way to end a conversation with him.

She didn’t answer his call then, because she wanted to enjoy going out to dinner with her husband, not listen to W ask her questions about her job that were awkward to ask. He would likely use the details to angrily shame her brother for being such a loser, as he was wont to do.

W left a pissed voicemail that started with, “Oh, I see you’re not speaking to me.”

In an email the next day, as she primarily communicated with her mother via this medium, as her email is at her job and therefore W can in no way monitor it, as he would with anything he might find in his perusals of her things, her mother would write “Well, he is out of pills right now, so that probably had something to do with it.” And we wonder why she registers only bitter disgust when people “make excuses” to her, as she calls it.

She would grow up to realize that other fathers didn’t go through their mother’s cell phones without her knowledge, only to point out and question the numbers he didn’t recognize. Her mother was as likely to have an affair as the sky is to be on fire. Her over-romantic teenage mind, so in-love with the idea of lovers who adored and couldn’t be with each other for a myriad of reasons, wished the woman had had that sort of bent to her, because a father other than W would have been a blessing. But no, she wasn’t in denial there. She had his exact boring-colored eyes, if little else. They even had the same expressions, at times. She did not like being reminded of that. Her husband learned. When he’d wanted to hurt her most – when they were drinking so much all they did was fight – he told her she was his father’s daughter. The last time he’d said that was on their wedding night, when he was shit-faced and so angry and just blackout gone, out of it, and she was alone with him and it made her chest hurt trying to think about what to do. Really, all she’d wanted to do in that moment was beat the shit out of him. If she didn’t already know he could get violent with her when he was this drunk, she might have tried to. But her idiot ass, who’d just married this drunk fool, who had legions of her own demons that, at the time, she liked dragging about on short leashes, every ready for war, she just put up with it. She’d put up with so much for so long and tolerated such absurdity that filled her with humiliation at the mere thought of speaking of it to anyone “outside the family”. He really tried to teach his children that anyone outside the four of them in that house was an untrustworthy enemy….yet he delighted only in causing misery to one or all of them. It was hard to say which one he hates more, her mother or her brother. It might have changed in the past four years, as she now refuses to have anything to do with him.

She warned her husband that he was to never speak those words to her again. And he hadn’t. Not yet. It’d been four years since they married, and after her horrid affair with R messily ended, they began their best years together. They were still ongoing, at thirty as she told this story. They’d had about…three major fights since then. Which for them was a decrease, but there were still times when she couldn’t understand why he took everything she said and did as a direct, personal attack, but he did.

But she was not so happy at twenty-six, married and miserable and feeling really stupid for marrying him – she told her best friend exactly that when she went to visit her alone the summer after her wedding. Of course, R happened. She didn’t like blaming her actions on other people, because she will freely admit that she made these choices, that this was all her decisions and she knew what she was fucking doing. It’s the same self-destructive impulse that makes one want to jump off a high ledge, or touch a poison-dart frog – it made her keep doing it. Because R was unemployed and lived for free in his single father’s nice, if not enormous, lake house, he was always available. She would spent many nights in that house. Her misadventures and mishandlings with R are their own story. But, about a year after it began, in the May right after her twenty-eighth birthday, she ghosted R as hard as she had her parents. Just believe her when she tells you he had it coming.

Well, she was always in communication with her mother, via email. But she no longer saw her, because she wouldn’t speak to W and that obviously meant she couldn’t step foot in their house or call or text her mother. But, they speak every day that her mother works, so she maintains that they’re closer than a lot of mother-daughters even though they don’t get to see each other. Of course it breaks a little piece of her heart each time she thinks about how, when her mom is gone, all these years they didn’t get to spend any time together are going to eat away at her, along with so much else. People who run for their lives leaving others behind, despite their actions, they really do feel guilt. They just wanted to live bad enough, they’re willing to live under that.

For a year she spent up to three nights a week at R’s father’s house. She felt guilty, every time, but not enough to stop her, so does that count? But, an incident would come about the summer when she was twenty-nine long after it was over that made her tell her husband – among many very hurtful things she felt he deserved to hear right then – that she was glad she’d done that to him. That was their most recent low point to date, well that and a few days following when he finally had his reaction to what she’d said, and to dealing with the guilt of what he’d done and that she found out through means he’d attempted to control from reaching her. A doctor’s bill in the mail for an appointment she hadn’t known he’d had. He turned so pale when she asked him about it, she knew something bad was about to happen. She didn’t like that feeling. It was one of W’s favorites. She did not react well. She broke many things.

Her second set of stretch marks will always make her think of R, because they coincided with him, which coincided with removing her parents entirely from her life. She didn’t want to blame her baggage, her demons, her ruined wedding night – after her family behaved themselves through the whole day, W even gave a moving speech and prayer, because the man likes attention and showmanship like any good narcissist, her family keeps it together…and then her new husband is the one to let her down….she misplaced her suspicions for what would go wrong that day – for what she was doing, but there’s something that numbs the brain, that makes it capable of the same level of terrible that happened to it. At least that’s how she always felt. And lets face it, she got off on having this like secret second life no one who knew her in regular adult life would ever guess at. Doesn’t every little kid want to be the super hero? The interesting literary character with a big secret setting off every “third act reveal” alarm there is?

Now, when she thinks about R, all she does is hate herself for tolerating him and wasting so much time with him. She wasn’t writing at all then, even though she finally had her M.A. She started a blog a few weeks after she ended things with R when she and her husband tried swinging a few times. It wasn’t that fun. What she remembered most were the hangovers. She thought it would be a fun thing to blog about, and she was right. Then she just kept blogging. Then she finally possessed enough self awareness to write her first non-fiction piece about herself.

She knew, from the hint of the experience she had from her now enormous blog – in content, not followers – that she wanted to tell people about everything one day. She was being brutally honest, because she felt that was the only way honesty could possibly work. Because isn’t the truth always horrible?

She knew she needed to write about her skin. What a perfect metaphor for her spirit her biggest organ was. It was lovely, and was as soft as it looked, surprisingly, but the few who bothered, or dared, to get close to her, the ones to see the parts experience taught her to keep hidden, were going to find a scarred, scarred individual. There was so much more, but her skin was the start. And how fitting, to have just finished Silence of the Lambs, and to think to write this passage, for once telling the total truth about her life. With her decades-long sundry endeavors in fiction, she hadn’t thought to try for non-fiction until just then, as she endeavored through the second draft of what she fervently believed to be her first novel. She was transcribing it from scratch to catch typos and monitor pacing, whatever that means. But she was deep in her process one day, and smoked so much weed she was finally able to explain to herself why her skin was the odd mix of good and bad that is was. So like her, so like her life.