This is where I come to waste time – a study in my chosen free time environments

That shouldn’t be plural. We all know it’s only my house. I only leave home when I have to, like for work and the few errands not yet eliminated by the internet.

I’m going to start a blog about how I need to find more time to write my novel. OH WAIT.

I have umpteen faults and all, but being unsatisfied with a mid-level, some would say boring, life is not one of them. I long for lower middle class stability, and a lifetime of running mundane errands with a spouse I love. I guess when you have nothing (emotionally that is, financially we were the people who make themselves poorer and poorer every year living beyond their means, my fathers inability to maintain steady gainful employment also played a role) even just the amount most people cast aside as inadequate because it’s not “spectacular” or whatever…I don’t know. I mean I guess I just think if anything about someone is going to be spectacular, it should be what you create, not your house or your hot, shallow sex life or your car or your soulless unfulfilling job, you know? I mean there’s some brain surgeon who finds deep meaning in their work who would tell me to fuck off if they somehow ever read this.

It’s like in When Their Eyes were Watching God when the granddaughter of a former slave marries an older rich man mostly/only to please her aging grandmother. She explains to her friend that her grandmother grew up a slave, and saw the pinnacle of womanly achievement as being the white woman sitting up on the big house’s porch, not doing a thing. She never would have considered that her granddaughter (Janie, I think her name was? Jeannie? I should Google it but I can’t leave a blog once I start it, you’ve seen what happens when I do) might want something MORE for herself than sitting up on that porch. I’m kind of the grandmother when it comes to like emotional stability and capability for growth. I know that’s probably pretty sad to admit, but it’s also the fucking truth. ALSO – I’m not equating my life experience thus far to slavery. NOT doing that by any means. There are some things that should just be clarified right away.

Like, to clarify, I know that ALL of the fucking time I spend writing these posts I could be writing my other work. And I am painfully aware that now that I’m in the age pocket of “done with college” but haven’t hit “has children” yet, I will NEVER have more free time for this shit than I do now.

I wasn’t kidding when I said I need to do this. Especially now, because I noticed something.
I get these excruciating tension headaches. They’re to the point where if one hits at work, early on enough in the day, I’ll go home at noon. They wake me up if I’m fortunate enough to fall asleep while enduring one. If you don’t know what it’s like, it’s every single muscle in your neck tensing up to the point where it all feels like it’s made of steel that wound too tight. Then that pain radiates up your spine and into your head and makes one or both sides just throb. You can take Excedrin, because that can help if you catch it early on and you can be awake for the next ten hours…but therein end your options.
These headaches almost always coincide the week of my period, IF I haven’t cried recently.

Remember when I wrote about how I know if I need to masturbate because I’ll start doing it in my sleep? It’s like some odd clockwork when my brain’s like “Hey, been awhile without that special rush of chemicals i like…do this now dumb bitch.” I feel like my id must hate me, because I’m repressed in ALL these disturbing ways. Even still. I think about my emotions constantly but I’m still really not able to convey them and sometimes I feel like everyone in my life is in some conspiracy to make me a lunatic.

Well, I think I’m starting to do the same thing with crying. Like….some part of me I can’t reach knows when I need to, and i hate this term for a reason I haven’t told you about yet but I’m sure will at some point, but when I need to release, I will subconsciously make it happen no matter what.

The way to truly test it is to make myself cry a lot the few days before and during my period week.

There were also two tensions headaches within as many weeks. But my mom is having knee replacement surgery tomorrow and we have the world’s most complicated situation – complicated until W is dead, am I right? – and that upsets me.

Also, did you wonder how I’ll make myself cry? Oh, there’s no worries there. I can give myself goosebumps or make tears well in my eyes when I want to. I’m not saying I use this to my advantage, I wouldn’t betray my dark emotions like that, but I know it’s true. I guess there’s a lot of sad shit in my life. And, I don’t want to waste my time writing about it. But I don’t know what else to do.

If I had to pick two words to describe my childhood it would be invasive and lonely. It’s odd having a parent who’s checked out and lazy but still somehow controlling? Then another who just…the picture of passivity, to say the least.

If I had to pick two words to describe what worries me about my adult life, it’s pointless and infuriating. I mean, the idea that I’m almost 30 and I haven’t even begun to think of having kids and the only thing I have to show for my life is a FUCK ton of student loan debt and my marriage has had….just some DISTURBING lows and honestly not enough highs to balance it out and we just talked about how my tolerance is fucking low for that sort of thing. I haven’t written anything of note. I’m too busy being worried I’ll never have time to write. See when I was in school all those years I could tell myself that it was because of the school taking all my time. So, if I do give in to convention and have kids, I’ll just say it’s them. Then I’ll have all these unsorted issues that I’ll take out on my kids. I mean really the only thing I ever actually worry about in life is being a thing like W, bearing even a slight resemblance. I mean physically you can’t help it, I certainly didn’t get my mother’s eyes, but I mean behaviorally. I’ve already told you about the few times, whilst plastered and in that MEAN drunk mode, my husband has told me I’m acting like my father’s daughter. Truly few things make me hate him more. I’m not saying I actually hate my husband, but that THAT is what he’s like when he’s fucked the fuck up…it’s just so not encouraging.
As for the infuriating, well I think it should be clear how angry I am.
I don’t want to be. Really, deep down, I actually am this laid back person who wants to be happy and not around a lot of people all at once. But see this bad shit happens. Because when I was a child, I was taught a few things about my feelings, from my mom and dad, my brother, my Grandma, my teachers, the other kids at school, any boys I would life pre-husband, it’s like they all had a goddamn meeting and were like yes let’s definitely drive these points home to that deserving little cunt:
Your feelings, Cassie, they:
1) DO NOT MATTER
2) Are always going to be so put off and neglected and ignored you won’t feel like last place you’ll feel like you weren’t even told there was a race to begin with
3) Are of the LEAST concern
4) DO NOT MATTER
5) NO ONE CARES HOW YOU FEEL
6) You have to be worth something for your feelings to matter
7) COUNT FOR NOTHING
Why? Why did they make me feel like this? Well, Lutheran school teachers are garbage. God knows how many of them are sexual predators but I bet it beats the national average for public school. But I mean, a lot of kids have an awful time at school, for a full bevy of reasons. But home? Like that was an escape? As a kid I couldn’t keep money in my piggy bank, because if my dad needed some he would take it and leave and IOU that, weeks later and after much aggravated nagging on my part, my mom would have to pay back. If we took a two hour long nap on a Sunday as teenagers he was rifling through our rooms for the drugs we must be on. Despite that he naps 4-5 hours a day EVERY day. Something to break up the television watching and toilet-sitting/vodka drinking that he does with the rest of his time. Lucky for me he was either too stupid or too lazy to go through the Word files on my computer. Boy he would’ve had a problem with most of that content.
That my novel – being as….well idk I have a ton of gay characters, they just ended up gay, like some people do and its a genetically tiny sample of people to begin with so it makes sense that some traits like homosexuality could get ‘trapped’ say on an island no one is allowed to leave? Does that make sense? Am I deliberately writing something that says being gay is genetic? I mean I guess that’s what happened. But I mean, before I start seeming like some appropriating fuckwad we must also appreciate that my work would have to be categorized as fantasy. Which is honestly a genre I fucking hate besides the Sookie Stackhouse novels….. it would enrage my dad. My mom is open-minded, when it comes to that at least, but she is one of those white people who doesn’t realize they’re racist (example, why do you have to comment on how ‘clean’ the black boyfriend of your coworker’s daughter is? why would that be a thing you mention?). But of course my novel isn’t about him, it just would have all these excellent fringe benefits, like enraging my piece of shit dad with its rhetoric. It’s AGENDA, which is what they’d call it.

Did any of this help or make me feel better? Well yeah. See, remember how I was saying that I was taught constantly and by everyone in my life that my feelings didn’t matter? Even my poor mother, she did her best but she was causing so much damage when she used me as her sounding board for her life’s many, many woes. And, I didn’t get to have feelings, or if I did they were secondary. I was to be cheerful, and upbeat, and happy, and high-achieving and cheerful, I was there to make everyone else happy, to make THEIR lives matter. My life and ME, we certainly didn’t matter. So if I don’t count at all, why the fuck would my feelings even register as existent?

And why is that shit so damaging? Because it teaches you to hold everything in. Think of it like a sarcophagus. It’s made of stone and sealed shut forever with an embalmed corpse inside, and boy what a perfect metaphor for my psyche back then. I guess you could call my eventual ability to self-soothe my very own necromancy. God, can I even follow that metaphor….

So, sure, keeping your feelings hidden because you aren’t EVER allowed to acknowledge them, much less work through any, seems nice, but it’s not. Because that sarcophagus…it leaks a little. Not enough to let YOU out, but people can smell something rotten about you. You’re mean. You wait for EVERY opportunity to undermine or hurt someone else because that’s how you fucking get treated. You maintain no long-lasting or fulfilling relationships of any kind. Your inability to express yourself in any kind of healthy way follows you through high school, making dating COMPLETELY impossible. When you’re out of high school it makes you date fucking scum that’s so fucking beneath you. I mean they could’ve been worse but honestly on a mental level I’m appalled at how low I sunk. They were all attractive enough but my life taught me that that alone isn’t enough to get you by. At least not on my level. I’m sure there are those way above me who are completely terrible assholes in every way and also aren’t good at anything. We all know that sort.

So these awful fringes of your true feelings are visible, but that’s it. And that just makes you seem like an uptight hostile bitch, or something. When all you wish you could do was have friends and date like everyone else. Then that resentment compounds on itself and you get all “Well, why should I care then?” about it. I CANNOT imagine going through this being unattractive. How bitter must those people be?

Great it’s almost 7. So basically, repressing feelings is bad and will actually cause lifelong damage if done too much as a child but sometimes self preservation is necessary, so eh. I am almost 30 and am nowhere near even a remote solution. But also, eh. A lot of people never “get better” I’m just grateful I’m healthy and I’m at least with someone whom i would like to be with, given we don’t….ugh…head down the shrubbery maze…so to speak. Because even for me that shit was WAY too dark.

Anyway, need to cook dinner.

~Cass

As most sagas do, the shit continues

Okay I’m gonna start with a quote:

“I wanted to write this also, since W doesn’t know that we email, he won’t know that you know about the surgery.  He has asked me twice lately, if something should happen to you during the surgery, do you want me to call Cassie and tell her?  Well if I’m not here on earth anymore I guess he would have to decide that himself.  The things that go thru people’s minds….” [Side note – W is what we call my dad, because calling him “dad” just fucking sickens me and I told her that long ago]

This is from an email from my mom from today. I was sincerely bothered that she had just ignored my suggestion that I could come visit her while she’s recovering from her knee replacement surgery, so I just asked her if she meant to ignore that question. So today she was like oh no I’d love if you’d come and see me, I forgot to respond to that. She WAS having a really rough day yesterday,  the subject of her email was “Trying Tuesday.” So it’s all fine, which is good because you never know when I’m going to stumble across something that triggers her into her dissociative state. You’d think I was joking or kidding or exaggerating…but….alas….

SO anyway, then at the end of that same email from today, she puts this note about my POS father. OF COURSE. OF OF OF OF COURSE that’s what he’s asking her!!!! OMFG. Sometimes I wonder that if they ever find out what rage is truly made of, they might just extract it from my blood. Because it has to be a tangible thing inside me at this point, it so deeply moves my soul.
Let me break things down for you. That question, the “If something should happen to you during surgery, do you want me to call Cassie and tell her?” WHATWHATWHATWHAT kind of a question is that?!

That is TRADEMARK W, because if there’s two things that he fucking adores in this world, it’s getting to be negative and getting to emotionally/mentally abuse or distress a member of my family. Of course he would be asking my mom about what he should do if she dies, of course he needs to plant the seed of thought in her mind that she could die next Thursday. I mean we all could, but the likelihood while be operated on is pretty elevated. Want another great example of him being an absolute bastard to my mom while she’s all vulnerable and scared for an operation? The first time my mom had back surgery (the time my brother showed up looking like a heroin skeleton AND later on showed up high as fuck just to top off my very deep suspicions. My parents thought it was “pills”) it was taking a LONG time to get her IV going. Like the one right before she gets wheeled to the back to be put under, her arm veins weren’t working, and they’d been trying unsuccessfully to get it going in her hand for awhile, I KNEW it hurt really bad because I mean…my mom was grimacing from it, and then OF COURSE, what did W have to say? “Two great big arms and little veins.” by way of explaining to the nurse and doctor why it was taking so long. At one point, when they left to find someone reputed to be really good at starting IVs, W was like “Well, are we going then?” He was trying to imply it was so impossible they weren’t going to be able to do the surgery. My brother would tell me years later that my dad was being SO awful to our mom the ENTIRE drive there (about 40 minutes) that when they were in the parking lot of the hospital about to walk in, my mom just hysterically broke down in tears. He was being SO rude and so disparaging and awful and mean and nasty, like FUCKING ALWAYS. So he was keeping the general spirit of THAT feeling going for her in the prep room. My god I have such awful memories punctuated by my mom’s surgeries…great….

I guess if you think about it…my whole life was always SO punctuated by their fucking lunacy. It’s really like I was trapped in some evil cult run by a narcissistic piece of shit named Willis. Yeah, I said his real name. I don’t fucking care. What, someone might do me a favor and tell him there’s a blog about how much I fucking hate his guts? I’m literally going to piss myself laughing if you think that would bother or upset me. I’M not the one who needs to hide or be embarrassed.
I’m not harboring some dream that the power of my writing could wrought some change in that man. 1) I know there isn’t the chance that he can/could/will ever change. 2) Even if magic lightning struck and he DID change, I still wouldn’t want anything to do with him. And THAT is how you know you hate someone. Sometimes I wonder if and when I’ll ever NOT be this angry.
Like…you’re saying there could somehow come a day when I don’t fantasize about killing him? Is it still legal to admit to fantasy? I’m sure it’s not anymore. I don’t get where anger that’s bred and raised in you is supposed to go. BUT, I can tell you this, many of my line have done what I am currently doing, so I’m either repeating a genetic habit (which is kind of neat, and a lot more interesting than most people’s lives) or I’m on the right path. Maybe all the other ones on my dad’s side, a family who consistently and repeatedly broke the family up with a resultant variation on the last name and relocation for a portion of the lot, now estranged from the others. AND it still happens to this day. My dad did it his sisters, he went so far as to change our phone number when I was a kid so they couldn’t call him anymore. At one point one of his sister’s husband’s went so far as to find out where he worked then calling him at work in an attempt to mend the fences between brother and sister. My dad just took it as an opportunity to relish in being an asshole to her one last time, chortling to himself as he told me the story “I told him I’m a Stevens, not a [that guy’s last name]” in other words, it’s a part of my family history to get into permanent fights with your family members and never speak to them again, so I’m going to bring it up all cute like to be a huge dick because that’s my FAVORITE. But fucking joke’s on him, right?? See now that right there is my kind of humor. When you get to like darkly deliver a great big fuck you to someone who really did a great job of enraging you. Ignoring R did that too. I’m freely admitting that my shit with R was probably, definitely, SO wrapped up in my weird shit with my dad somehow…like….ugh just so much gnarled complicated mess. I can’t even begin to want to deal with it.

and I need to be off. Meeting the in laws for dinner. hoping to all fuck the restaurant has beer I like

late

~Cassie

When you don’t want to do what you know you should. Also, Spaghettios and glitter – you’ll see why.

It’s often enough, right? One thing that bothers me is the realization that if I don’t ever just get around to dealing with my past, well my childhood, I’ll probably never get over it. It’s not that I’m dying for a reason to blame all of my problems on shitty parents. It’s tempting to do that, don’t get me wrong – and it’s also not to be ignored that one’s life is shaped by their ability to interact positively with others, and I did NOT learn that ability from my parents – but it’s also tired and self-fulfilling and childish.

Your life is as shitty as your decisions make it. That’s all there is to that. Which sounds harsh I guess, because there are things I like to call Acts of God that involve something really bad happening to someone who doesn’t deserve that kind of stress. BUT, it also means that you get to definitely take credit for all of your accomplishments as well. They say people are more likely to take credit for their successes but blame their failures on others. That sounds about right.

Does anyone else ever find themselves wishing that they didn’t have negative memories/connotations from childhood attached to like…literally half of everything in existence.

The more I think about how things were, and how others acted, I realize more and more that I was literally surrounded by lunatics for my childhood. It’s no wonder I took the fuck off when I was 18 and vowed I’d never go back (to myself) and I kept that promise to myself. I’m not great at keeping promises to myself. I’ll tell you, I spent most of my childhood and adolescence assuming I wouldn’t have sex until I was married. Given what readers might know about me, that probably seems REALLY funny. It’s funny as fuck to me  at least.
So, how was I supposed to grow up and know how to garner genuine or positive social relationships with others? A few things shielded me, but most left me vulnerable to attack on all fronts. Sometimes my husband talks about how he got treated like shit by other kids when he was a kid, and he was taken advantage of/made the butt of jokes/etc. And yes, all of that is traumatizing I would know, but I was going through that same stuff only maybe worse and I didn’t have a happy, stable, functional home life, not to mention opulent especially in comparison with my own, to balance it out. The only time I was ever actually happy as a kid was when I was alone, so the afternoons between getting home from school and my mom getting home from work.
I was just talking with my husband this morning about how often I think about how I was treated when I was a kid. And more often than not I realize that I must have been behaving in such a way to foster the ill treatment I received. Because that being the cause of it all makes so much more sense than the idea that I was just surrounded by evil, malicious people my entire life. I mean my family is one thing but every other adult I interacted with? Almost every kid too? Really? Every single one of them was fucking rotten at their core? It must have been me. It makes soooo much more sense if it were me.
And I guess it’s not so hard for me to say -type that because does a kid know any better? I can tell you there were many times I was corporeally punished on more than one occasion without my even understanding why it was happening. Somehow my mom thought telling me afterwards that she didn’t agree with it happening somehow absolved her of any guilt/association. Which in turn made me REALLY disrespectful of her. I mean, think about it. When you’re in that environment, dealing with those sorts of people, even the best of use couldn’t always be cheerful and joyful and upbeat, there to chirp around like some ornamental canary to make everyone else feel better, fucking disgusting and SO what was expected of me. But, there were certainly many days when I rebelled against their fucking expectations. In part for the rebellion in itself but in much larger part because I had to take my negative emotions out the way I’d been taught. They have no one to blame but themselves for how I treat them now. So that combined with the fact that I saw nothing but other people mistreating my mother – my dad mocked her to her face in front of the kids, he discussed her weight with his kids ad nauseam, he was as rude/cruel/unkind/unloving as he possibly could be to her at all times, unless HE was feeling otherwise, then BEWARE to those who dared not mirror his exact fucking mood exactly when he expects it. Just like, when I was in my early and mid twenties, OH was there hell to pay if I didn’t always answer the phone when he called. It was always in the evening, when I knew he was hopped up on something post dinner and he was watching the TV on mute while he opiate-rambled about something I couldn’t give two fucks about, never once caring or even noticing the only responses I or anyone gave were “Mmhmm,” on 1-3 minute intervals. You know, the universal sign that someone is not interested or really listening to you drone on. It’s like that fuels him. It REALLY does feel like he’s trying to mentally smother you with his talking, until the only thing you remember is stupid fucked up shit he’s said and done and then you’re as a result as stupid and fucked up as he is.
THAT, what I just described, that’s what happened to my brother.
It like, semi-happened to me, but as you can see I’m remarkably capable compared with them. So much so it became apparent to me years ago that I would have to sever ties with them eventually. I still speak to my mother, if it were at all possible I would be more than happy to see her in person. But there’s really no escaping for her. They share a car, and my worthless father is always home, as he is ever so unemployed. So how can she get away for a day?
Remember how I said I tried disengaging myself from them once, but it only lasted like 9 months? Yeah, during that time of silence between my father and myself, my mom and brother met me in the town I lived in at the time, we ate together at a Subway, then they went back to the town they lived in and grocery shopped. Somehow, he fucking figured it out. He wore my brother down, because he’s by far the least resilient. That’s what worried me, is that he could still get people to say/admit exactly what he wanted, all those years later. Then he made an INCREDIBLY huge deal out of it, obviously, and he referred to it as “The Dinner” for a VERY long time to come, like he’d cracked some big murder investigation. That’s the thing, all of those awful personality traits/qualities that draw someone to that profession, well he had every single one of them in spades.  A friend of mine once told me hearing descriptions of my father reminded them of the sexual-assault-y cop from the beginning of Crash. I was like…yeah I would be 100% unsurprised if he pulled shit like that because he knew he’d get away with it. See, the “bad” cops, (the “few bad apples” everyone SO insists on calling them) they’re just that rotten, hollow sort of person who just so needs, so loves, so relishes having power over someone else. We all know people like that. Or at least I do. Those who manipulate and abuse to feel in control and therefore powerful. I don’t know what’s worse, being the victim of one them or being them. I suspect it’s them but I can’t say I’ve experienced that.
So, I probably had such a hard time connecting or maintaining positive relationships with others. Or, honestly, it seemed like I always had to be the bigger person, I always just had to be as nice and helpful and friendly as can be with everyone, I had to deal with some kids constantly pestering me for answers on homework but then the first chance those same assholes got they were trying to get me in trouble or making fun of me or mocking something that I did. It was fucking weird as shit. It tapered off a great deal in high school but there were still a few immature pieces of shit who did it. Mostly guys, but always those few so lovely girls. I guess I’m contentious or something, because boy did I ever bring out the BITCH in other women, particularly girls my age. I don’t know why. I don’t pretend to imagine it’s because I’m THAT much prettier than them. I mean I was, and still am, but not to SUCH a degree that it’d foster so much ill will.
So, it must have been me.
And I guess I really didn’t have a chance in life, not when it came to that. But definitely when it came to other things. Which is I guess why I feel the need to blog about the things I couldn’t do anything about. When there’s so many, if you don’t sort them out, well that’s the sort of mess that doesn’t ever sort itself.

 

Wanna know what the two trigger words I alluded to at the beginning of this were?
One is Spaghettios. Whenever I see a can of them, I think of a winter when I was a child when my father was unemployed (shockingly, right?). My brother and I were to scrap the car windshield before we departed for school. My brother did something weird to the windshield wiper in his attempt to scrap snow and ice off the windshield. It was a Friday. My dad, always SO happy to jump into FULLY ENRAGED MODE at the drop of a dime, began berating my brother for breaking the wiper. I remember so distinctly my dad saying, “I thought we could go to [local eatery] for dinner tonight, but now we’ll stay at home and open a fucking can of a Spaghettios!” Like. Without fucking fail I think that whenever I look at Spaghettios, which all right it’s shameful but I eat them from time to time. They’re good. Stop judging me. You try pretty much always having the munchies. It makes me feel bad for my brother when I remember stuff like this because he definitely got it pretty bad like all of the time from my dad. Yet still, as a younger child he was your typical my-dad’s-the-best-I-want-to-be-just-like-him-and-win-his-approval sort of son. But THAT mentality TOTALLY discombobulates with the shitty narcissistic garbage person we had as a father.
But then my other weird trigger word I came across lately makes me feel less bad for my brother. Because you know who he CONSTANTLY took his shit out on? If you guessed my mother and my Grandma and myself, you are fucking correct. I think my mom got it the worst from him, mostly because she let him treat her like dirt, and it was our template for behavior, like  I said earlier. It didn’t matter HOW upset anyone was about it, my brother was going to have his way. And most of the time my mom and her mom were more than happy to play into his bull shit. He developed this BIZARRE habit of needing to be convinced to do something you KNEW he wanted to do. He’s like that to this day (I think, he’s part and parcel with our dad as far as I’m concerned). Because the second trigger word is Glitter. I was writing it down to grab some the next time I find myself in a Dollar Tree. For crafting. Which, is one of my more dorky hobbies. It will ALWAYS make me think of a time when I was in the 6th grade when going to Bath and Body Works was a more anticipated ritual than church. The popular thing, or at least the thing I was doing, was wearing roll-on glitter ALL over my face. Well, one morning my brother thought it was undeserving of bathroom mirror time (of course the house I grew up in only has one bathroom) and he picked up our dad’s I’m-going-to-over-enunciate-this-word-on-purpose-to-exaggerate-just-how-disgusted-I-am-with-you-as-a-human-being habit really early on, so he said to me in the nastiest tone possible, “Well maybe we wouldn’t be running late if you didn’t have to rub glitter  all over your face.” And that’s what I think of WHENEVER I see the word glitter. And it’s just a prime example of how, because he was the prime victim of our father’s narcissism, he also of course emulated that behavior most. During his short-lived live-in relationship with a girlfriend when was like…21-23 I want to say? Maybe a little bit less than that, but I think they were together at least two years, he demonstrated on multiple occasions that he was going to act exactly like our dad. He got mad at his girlfriend once, while he was eating dinner, and threw his dinner in the sink. This was a favorite thing of my father’s to do. He loved depriving himself of a meal then rubbing it in everyone’s face that they were eating and he wasn’t and it sure looked good. I am not joking or exaggerating or embellishing at all.

So, I have like all this godawful shit that I need to like cleanse myself of. But truly, I’ve developed a single way to do that. Anonymously. On the internet. BUT, people read this shit. There are people in existence other than my co-sufferers who know about our suffering. That’s HUGE for people like me. And of course, there’s so many ways to clear the gunk out, as it were, but this is certainly mine.

Things are going really well. My husband and I celebrated our three year wedding anniversary last week, and we actually cherish and treasure each other now more than we ever have. We’re both admittedly happier now with each other than we’ve ever been. I still wouldn’t recommend the SO ROCKY path we used to reach here to others…but I’m willing to admit when things are good too, you know. I don’t want to come off ass some sort of complainer. I just need to talk about certain things. Or else it’s like this emotional pain a person carries around but never works through, it ends up strangling off their only means of ridding themselves of it. It literally leaves people physical wreaks as well as emotionally and mentally. Look at my mom.

But anyway, I didn’t want to spend the ENTIRE Sunday on a blog, and this is long as fuck as it is. But I wanted to check in. Things are good. I got an emerald ring for an anniversary gift. Out of all the classic effeminate gifts, I do so love fine jewelry most of all.

So, things are good, like I said. And I’m doing my damnedest to write every day, because all the writing advice tells you you have to make a habit of writing, and then and only then will craft come down to join you. So that means blog-neglect. Especially my cooking blog. I guess I’m a pretty wanton cook because I rarely do the same recipe three times, and that’s my standard for claiming I know a dish well enough to advise others how to make it.

So, au revoir

~Cassie