My Thoughts on F%#*ing Algebra, Reliving Trauma, and Strange Bedfellows

It’s that time of year again, kiddies! I’m retaking College Algebra and, in due fashion, my entire family has fled to the beach…without me.

They need a break, my mother says, from taking care of my grandparents and nieces; from working and having no time for themselves. I couldn’t possibly know anything about that. No: Poor A is just a caregiver supporting elderly clients in their homes for far less than a living wage, daily. In what world would I need a break?

Aside from the feelings of anger and abandonment, I think I’m doing quite well. After four days of hearing terms that make me want to cry/run/scream/all of the above I have yet to drop the class. There are more than enough chores at both my parents’ and sister’s houses to keep me occupied until they return next weekend.

The luck in having my therapist around the corner from that number dungeon isn’t lost on me.

By the grace of God or the Universe I managed to pass my IT 101 course. In fact, it ended up being fairly easy for me. There were three other students that I made fast friends with: Clint is a grocer, Jack wants to be a cop, and Emily is a lot like me. We are both geeks, we both take care of old people daily, and we are both overweight. This is, of course, not a put-down: why would insult someone who is basically my best friend now?

Since we left of last, Carter and Ella signed a lease without me. Keeping their promise to help me get out of my parent’s home (the situation keeping me sick) was just too much of a burden on their childish minds. Our plan to divide our time between working and taking care of Carter post-op was yet another one to fall by the way side. Just like helping me take down Stalker Kolin, the president of the Letter club after he pursued Matt and slandered his girlfriend, Hannah. One could walk on all of their broken promises to me.

Needless to say, my choice in besties is dismal. For nearly a week I have heard next to nothing from Emily. Granted, her now absentee mother took her back to Virginia for a visit with her brothers and step-dad. Most of my calls and texts (many mid-crisis) were ignored by her which I understand to an extent: she missed them while she’s been taking care of her grandmother. When she managed to get back to me, her replies were without punctuation and made me feel like a monster for daring to ask where she went. This is why you shouldn’t tell people you love them without knowing them for at least a few months, A; Jesus Christ!

In summary, I am stuck in the center of my blood red Bible belt state, looking after other’s responsibilities, sleeping in an empty house, and taking a class that re-traumatizes me daily.

Have a great trip, Mom! Hope you can sleep knowing you left me six years ago to the day in an identical situation. The only differences? Last time I hadn’t had an abortion, I wasn’t juggling school and work, and at least my sister and her family were in town. Oh, but you stayed in the continental US this time, so I guess your sacrifice should warm my heart while I am slave to the whims of my reptilian brain. You asked why I didn’t just invite that nice girl from the bar to stay with me.

Katrina? She’s still moving to Portland. This, however, won’t keep her from flirting with anything that moves. Poor sods: at least I now know that her affections are as fleeting as a summer breeze. The rest get to find out how I did; that, though she is brilliant, her newly thin body apparently gives her license to use friends and influence drunk people. No wonder I’m sober these days!

As of about two weeks ago I haven’t had a drop of the devil juice. Could it be because one of my only kept Tinder contacts is newly sober and a good influence? Or is it because the last time I drank I ended up being talked into doing party drugs and having a threesome plus one. Though I may have learned that my double-sider smells like a male catheter when wet, the greater lesson was not to get involved with anyone who is married in any capacity. No matter if they have an “arrangement” or make themselves seem otherwise bi-friendly, it’s always a bad idea. Take it from me, potential unicorns: you don’t want anything to do with the shitshow that is a failing straight marriage. You’ll give them hours of orgasms then be blamed for their eventual divorce if you so much as dare to ask for you shirt back. If there happens to be an extra unicorn there she will hit you up for money weeks later as if you owe her anything.

Funny how you can be “the best [someone] ever had” and still be treated like a lowly whore within days. At least call-girls and prostitutes get paid: all I got was a broken vibrator and one hell of a comedown.

Which reminds me: never do drugs, kids. Best case scenario is you feel invincible, but act like a fool; worst case scenario is you end up ruining your relationships and body, putting yourself in danger, and spending one plus night of your week in a church basement lamenting your poor decisions. Oh, or you die.

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My Thoughts On Being Stood Up

What is it about a potential date? The anticipation? The trepidation?

Or could it be the disappointment?

I thought after being stood up nearly six years ago that it would never happen again. As I realize I will be many more times in my life, I was wrong.

Further more, what is the point of saying you’ll be somewhere then not showing up? If you don’t want to see someone again, why bother arranging a meeting? Was it because he was working at the time? Maybe he discovered that we met once before.

It was October of last year and my relationship with J was on its deathbed. A local coffee house in the city was having its anniversary celebration and I made the mistake of joining an acquaintance there. Chloe was also a survivor of abuse and I naively assumed this made her trustworthy. We watched a cute acoustic musician play his set inside to a small crowd; his nineties covers had me feeling nostalgic and hopeful.

After a few songs he asked for requests and I shouted out a well-known Incubus song from the late nineties. He didn’t know the lyrics and cheekily asked me to sing it with him. With the encouragement of my false friend, I took the stage with the intriguing singer and tried to harmonize. Badly.

Understand now why I hope he doesn’t remember me now?

Anyway, tonight he played at his ale house/work place. The lyrics of his original songs had me convinced that we had survived the same relationship. Along with the warm reception of the staff, this left me feeling hopeful.

Upon arrival at the BFF bar felt nature’s call. The bathrooms smelled worse than I’d prepared myself for and I ended up leaving a trail if my dinner down the front of my dress. After cleaning the evidence off the floor, I was left with little choice but to lie to the women who I encountered outside of the stalls. Some drunk split his IPA on my dress, I told them, as I dried the sink-washed surface of my dress.

The bands were thrilling and original, but the thump of the bass did little to dull the sting of rejection,

Luckily for me, Thursday night my friends were planning to meet me at the ale house before a movie sponsored by our fan group. He’s working that night and will have no choice but to spill his reason for ditching me.

I apologize for the delay for those that actually follow my writings. You are the real heroes in this story. Way to follow the underdog that never actually defeats the usual winners.

My Thoughts On F%#*ing Algebra, Reliving Trauma, and Strange Bedfellows

It’s that time of year again, kiddies! I’m retaking College Algebra and, in due fashion, my entire family has fled to the beach…without me.

They need a break, my mother says, from taking care of my grandparents and nieces; from working and having no time for themselves. I couldn’t possibly know anything about that. No: Poor A is just a caregiver supporting elderly clients in their homes for far less than a living wage, daily. In what world would I need a break?

Aside from the feelings of anger and abandonment, I think I’m doing quite well. After four days of hearing terms that make me want to cry/run/scream/all of the above I have yet to drop the class. There are more than enough chores at both my parents’ and sister’s houses to keep me occupied until they return next weekend.

The luck in having my therapist around the corner from that number dungeon isn’t lost on me.

By the grace of God or the Universe I managed to pass my IT 101 course. In fact, it ended up being fairly easy for me. There were three other students that I made fast friends with: Clint is a grocer, Jack wants to be a cop, and Emily is a lot like me. We are both geeks, we both take care of old people daily, and we are both overweight. This is, of course, not a put-down: why would insult someone who is basically my best friend now?

Since we left of last, Carter and Ella signed a lease without me. Keeping their promise to help me get out of my parent’s home (the situation keeping me sick) was just too much of a burden on their childish minds. Our plan to divide our time between working and taking care of Carter post-op was yet another one to fall by the way side. Just like helping me take down Stalker Kolin, the president of the Letter club after he pursued Matt and slandered his girlfriend, Hannah. One could walk on all of their broken promises to me.

Needless to say, my choice in besties is dismal. For nearly a week I have heard next to nothing from Emily. Granted, her now absentee mother took her back to Virginia for a visit with her brothers and step-dad. Most of my calls and texts (many mid-crisis) were ignored by her which I understand to an extent: she missed them while she’s been taking care of her grandmother. When she managed to get back to me, her replies were without punctuation and made me feel like a monster for daring to ask where she went. This is why you shouldn’t tell people you love them without knowing them for at least a few months, A; Jesus Christ!

In summary, I am stuck in the center of my blood red Bible belt state, looking after other’s responsibilities, sleeping in an empty house, and taking a class that re-traumatizes me daily.

Have a great trip, Mom! Hope you can sleep knowing you left me six years ago to the day in an identical situation. The only differences? Last time I hadn’t had an abortion, I wasn’t juggling school and work, and at least my sister and her family were in town. Oh, but you stayed in the continental US this time, so I guess your sacrifice should warm my heart while I am slave to the whims of my reptilian brain. You asked why I didn’t just invite that nice girl from the bar to stay with me.

Katrina? She’s still moving to Portland. This, however, won’t keep her from flirting with anything that moves. Poor sods: at least I now know that her affections are as fleeting as a summer breeze. The rest get to find out how I did; that, though she is brilliant, her newly thin body apparently gives her license to use friends and influence drunk people. No wonder I’m sober these days!

As of about two weeks ago I haven’t had a drop of the devil juice. Could it be because one of my only kept Tinder contacts is newly sober and a good influence? Or is it because the last time I drank I ended up being talked into doing party drugs and having a threesome plus one. Though I may have learned that my double-sider smells like a male catheter when wet, the greater lesson was not to get involved with anyone who is married in any capacity. No matter if they have an “arrangement” or make themselves seem otherwise bi-friendly, it’s always a bad idea. Take it from me, potential unicorns: you don’t want anything to do with the shitshow that is a failing straight marriage. You’ll give them hours of orgasms then be blamed for their eventual divorce if you so much as dare to ask for you shirt back. If there happens to be an extra unicorn there she will hit you up for money weeks later as if you owe her anything.

Funny how you can be “the best [someone] ever had” and then treated like a lowly whore within days. At least call-girls and prostitutes get paid: all I got was a broken vibrator and one hell of a comedown.

Which reminds me: never do drugs, kids. Best case scenario is you feel invincible, but act like a fool; worst case scenario is you end up ruining your relationships and body, putting yourself in danger, and spending one plus night of your week in a church basement lamenting your poor decisions. Oh, or you die.

My Thoughts on Letting Go, Holding On, and Getting Off

Thursday, June Eighth

The mid-morning air is sweet outside my client’s house. I’m still tired. Dakota kept me awake defending his possessive language and behavior towards me. What a cop-out: blaming his BPD? Kristina advised I say goodnight and go to sleep.

The next three hours seem to stretch out in front of me. I just want to go home and sleep. I need a shower: it’s been days, but I’ve gotten away with it because my hair didn’t look greasy like it felt. This isn’t the case today. Noah offered to order me lunch. I’ll have to get back to him soon if I want to eat.

Did I mention I’m incredibly tired?

I haven’t heard from Mary in a while and some Mandi girl from POF ghosted me after she received the foot picture she requested of all things. I wonder if my client will notice if I fall asleep in this chair.

Later I’ll put up my clean clothes and see what I could sell to finance my potential move to Louisville. Or my more possible move to Lexington. I have a few pairs of jeans in good condition that I suspect I won’t me in one to wear them again. In a fit of anxiety I bit all of my nails off again. I suppose it’s alright: seeing them all of uneven lengths bothered me.

Inspiration seems to escape me today; I just cannot find anything interesting or worthwhile to write about. Maybe since I have so many things I need to do, I can’t clear my mind enough to be creative. Yesterday I did not have this problem.

The shutters of the press cameras at the Comey hearing flutter, capturing his stone-set face. My client has fallen asleep in his chair again and I’d love to do the same in mine.

I have had some success on dating sites of late. Disclosing that I was getting off to a new match was probably a bad idea since I’m not sure if I’ll pursue anything with him. Less than two hours of these five to go.

Before I awoke, my dream placed me in the gym of St. Mark’s school. There was a funeral wake taking place and I was charged with driving my Aunt Betsy somewhere. We fumbled over a seat belt in the backseat.

My facial skin is clearing up, to my great surprise and pleasure. Two shows I watch had new episodes yesterday, which I watched during my television binge yesterday afternoon. Those seem to be the things I overindulge in these days: TV and sleep.

I’m not happy about the timing or way Comey handled the Clinton email case, but do believe his treatment by the idiot in chief is disgustingly inappropriate and disrespectful.

I was wrong about the time before: I leave in one hour thirty six minutes until I can leave, though I may need to leave late. Due to a crazy bitch trying to run me off the interstate, I came in a few minutes than I should have. It would not surprise me if I ended up not putting this in my blog. (*A/N: we just won’t tell past!Anna this, will we?) I think I’ll get back on my phone out of sheer boredom after I make bed. Now it’s an hour and twenty five to go, plus eight to make up for the lateness.

Mom suggested a book for me about care-giving. The Lexington shift client’s condition is getting to me on a deep level. You’re perhaps read my rant on prolonging life passed its time: I really feel that keeping her like this is torture. It’s cruel to sustain her in my work when I she’s either in pain, not here, or both.

I received a raise from the Operations Manager of the company as a means to keep me. As of yesterday I am making $10 an hour. Not to sound greedy, but I know I worth more than this and I will continue my pursuit of a better paying job with benefits.

One hour, seven minutes to go. How is someone as stupid as Donald J. Trump still president? Ugh. Poor Comey has been on the stand for two hours now. I hope he doesn’t need to pee. Seventeen minutes. It is so corrupt that Trump fired him over the Russia investigation. That screams guilt.

Thirteen minutes: why? So tired. Writing back and forth with a guy from Tinder today, Clark. I quoted the Hulk from The Avengers movie, but I’m not sure if he placed the reference. A Clark without superhero knowledge; what’s sadder than that? He said something about hitting him up whenever I have a lady-boner. I replied. “That’s my secret, Clark: I always have a lady-boner.” Incredibly smooth line? I think so!

Friday, June Ninth

Ugh. Why does Tom Cruise think he gets to remake the Mummy? The “niece” with the dated hairdon’t is here to pick up the client’s husband. She’s here a lot lately. And now she’s headed to the bathroom. Awesome. I was really looking forward to breathing in her waste for the next two hours. Cricket opened the door on her. Guess that smelly dog is alright after all.

Attempting to take pills with very little water hurts. Gags waiting to happen. My bottom right molars are still highly sensitive. It’s barely been an hour and I’m so bored. I’m very tired and my dreams were very strange. (I slept from yesterday afternoon until evening, watched How I Met Your Mother, then slept until this morning.) I was in a huge white mansion that was almost school-like. My companions were vampires and at one point not included in the dream they turned me. In the backyard of an unfortunate victim I was forced to abandon a vile with a purple sparky substance because having it would expose our condition. When we were back in the mansion they had me on my hands and knees in a plush, purple velvet room. The girl fingered me from behind as the guy sucked on my nipples and teased my clit. I may have conjured these images the next morning.

Had to cut Clark loose due to his insistence that I come meet him (for the first time ever) at his place. I said I’d rather meet in public, that I have a system to keep myself safe. The mere existence or my safe system seemed to infuriate him and I reported his behavior after he made a few red flag statements, also making fun of my SJW ways. What a useless tool. Told Sam from CIT and sent her the screenshots: she was right with me, he was a grade A creep.

Peyton is redeeming himself after implying my major was created on Tumblr.

I’VE FUCKING HAD IT! My client’s husband keeps blaming me for not being able to move her. If she’s stiff, she is immobile I CANNOT MOVE HER.

How could I forget to mention that I stopped contact with Dakota completely last night? The night before he referred to me as “his Anna” and in combination with his overall clingy and possessive as fuck behavior I had to let him go.

Meeting Peyton here. Wish me luck!

My Thoughts On Cancelled Classes and Being Stood Up

Lured by the prospect of a free drink (thanks, Bobby) and a friend’s second birthday party of the week (also Bobby) I ventured out to Third street. Dad woke me up an hour and a half before rudely insisting I drop him off downtown. Though I was in no way obligated, I would rather have not dealt with his pissy attitude. He continued to insult me as I drove (“Your brakes will need replacing soon if you keep riding them and not letting up on the gas pedal.” “Your signal is going out AND your dials don’t work?”). I seriously contemplated pulling onto the shoulder and not moving until he stepped out of Camille. I could see myself telling my progeny twenty years down the road, Ted Mosby style, “Kids, just because someone is your blood relation, you are not required to go out of your way for them, especially if they are treating you like trash.”

I did not do the thing. Instead I drove along as he berated me about my supposed shortcomings, as he actively ignored my progress as of late. Apparently being someone’s parent doesn’t require you encourage your adult children, even if they deserve it.

Once I was back, I got ready; donning my orange cut out shirt and teal sweater, I headed back downtown. The first person I saw, sitting on a picnic table with her dark curly hair in braids, was Amber. Her DUI was dismissed since the stupid pig did not acquire her consent before administering it, so she was charge and fancy free. Matty sat on my right as we discussed post apocalyptic plans with Mandy until a guy inquiring about getting his dreads updated came to sit by me.

We talked and joked until after dark when he decided it was a good plan to touch my leg without permission. When I jerked back he played it off as if he was petting one of the dogs roaming around…the dogs at least ten feet from us at the time. I joked about being not quite as hairy and headed inside to take my turn at an imaginary pool game. Staring at my phone in the back, I decided to go home: Johnny was obviously not coming and I didn’t want to share airspace with a personal space invading stranger.

Then I felt someone tap on my shoulder. Kristina stood in a light brown and pink dress that she was so proud to fit into again. We sat with Tab and some asshole guy who’s name isn’t worth remembering. He went on and on about his “real job”. This did nothing except inspire my Facebook post (yes, I’m back in that rat race, sometimes rat king) about how pretentious people sound when they refer to only certain lines of work providing “real” jobs. What a douche canoe. Tabitha is so Fiona Apple adorable in a butchy, earthier way. She’s playing at the Richmond Beer House next Thursday; I’ll probably hang on the stage’s edge and get my groupie on while I’m still young.

We played teams in pool, Kristina on mine, and unsolicited contact guy Brian lingered in the doorway, trying to strike up a conversation. I shot Kristina severe, wide-eyed looks to convey my lack of calm and approval with the situation. We won the game by default when douche real-job-having guy scratched on the eight and we sat back into our earlier booth. For a terrifying moment I thought someone had stolen my wallet and keys. Kristina found them by the pool table. I left disappointed: being stood up isn’t heartbreaking, but it sure did make me feel unwanted: isn’t that worse?

My Thoughts On Apartment Hunting, Far Away Friends, and Sustaining Life Past Its Time

Friday, June Second

The woman from AC never called. I’ll have to inquire once the client’s husband leaves around 2:30.

CGC is making visits to the cats a pain every time I try to set up a meet. He reminds me he works nights then sets out a different set of hours with each conversation. It’s been over a month at this point. The last time my cats saw me I was still pregnant. I really miss them. Why is he making this so difficult for me?

Cooper is finding no apartments for us, just trouble at every turn in his pursuit. Finding a two bedroom in Richmond by July will be next to impossible at this point, with only three weeks to go. We have to be settled in his place before his top surgery, in mid- July. Northridge could work if we paid for a third room we didn’t need and pretended to have fewer pets than we do. Same with Saddlebrook it seems, though Betta and Christina have at least three pets living with them there.

It’s really disappointing that Sam and Anna’s neighbors took pictures of Cooper bringing their pets into their apartment. He just told me he slept through an appointment for a place in Lexington. They were going to look in Richmond today but they work at 4 and 5, respectively, in Winchester. Now we’re looking into Lexington. Maybe I’ll live there sooner than expected. I found one at Pegasus Place advertised at $650-675 for two bedrooms. Not bad. Bella plans to call them when she’s finished with “breakfast”.

Dakota texted me back a minute ago: the one I missed from him last night said that I just had to admit to myself what I have so I can start dealing with it. He agreed that now would be a bad time for us to start something together and we should just be “friends who fuck lol”. Despite this he said he still feels my presence and hears my voice when missing me gets difficult to bear. That’s some powerful stuff. I must be thinking about him more than I realize. My sleepathon made him believe I was ghosting him. The only way I’m ghosting him is if I’m somehow thinking about him so hard my astral self makes itself known to him.

Considering spamming his Instagram inbox while I’m sitting here so bored. Just a million and one selfies or so. Then he’ll know I’m thinking of him too. He just texted me that the World Cafe radio is playing a song or two of his on the station. There may even be a phone interview. I told him how impressive I think this is.

My client is being difficult again and the frustration is turning into anger fast. I need to find somewhere healthy to direct it. I know she she doesn’t mean to make my job this difficult, but it really sucks when you can’t blame someone for their shitty behavior.

So apparently Snapchat can calm me down in these instances. That interview that I got? They’re postponing it for a bit according to Deborah at AC. Deborah: what a tease!

I’m making a playlist that brings about feelings of driving around a big city at night. He sent me his idea of that feeling and it seems we have very different concepts of the same idea. Good God, that dog needs a fucking bath: she’s stinking up the air worse than the niece last week. Yuck.

He heard my answer, but the client’s husband still pretended not to so I could repeat myself like an idiot parrot. Fuck these power trips. Can I not just be treated with respect, like a person?

The story in the music video of “Tear You Apart” by She Wants Revenge is so good! Very B-movie. “Written in Blood”‘s video story is interesting as well: both end with a female character revealed to be a monster. “True Romance” is eerie in a cautionary “be careful what you wish for” way. “These Things” has Shirley Manson in it which makes it an instant classic. I love that woman!

Why the fuck is the client’s niece back? Here to stink the house up again so soon?

We’re all just kidding ourselves: bedridden, spaced out dementia/Alzheimer’s patients don’t know we’re here, uselessly calling out to them. To keep someone “alive” like this is some sick form of torture. I know it’s hard to let go, but at some point you must, for everyone concerned: they’re not with us, they sure as hell don’t want to be with us, not like this. Pretending that what they’re doing, lying there stationary, no will to move or speak, is living: that’s the most moronic thing of all. Your loved one lived: they had hobbies, sang along to the radio, bought things, went places. They didn’t stay here to be sustained by mushy food and nutritional supplement shakes. Keeping someone as a “living” doll is grotesque and I’m sickened that this is my livelihood. I clean and feed them, telling their families the work I’ve done, thought we both know progress will not be made. They’re not going to ever be who they were: they won’t hop out of their hospital grade beds and thank everyone for stretching out their pointless suffering.

Saturday, June Third

I’m growing more annoyed by the day: the client’s husband like to believe (and make it appear as if) I’m not trying to move his wife when I need to re-position her on my own. He doesn’t consider that she knows and trusts him: she does not feel that way in regard to me and this makes turning her over by myself nearly impossible. Every night after working this shift I walk away drained: you cannot move someone that does not want to moved, or at least, I can’t.

There’s no choice but to continue doing my best. He needs to stop blaming this on me. I go above and beyond with all of my clients and I will not be made to feel as if I’m not good enough at my job.

Monday, June Fifth

Last night I finally broke down to Mom about wanting out: out of their house, Out of Richmond, and especially out of this backward, redneck, Bible belt state. She informed me, bringing on a new bout of tears, I can’t afford out of state tuition. This was devastating.

Dreams of Jim Carrey teaching English and practical jokes with my cousin and a frat ended with my teary eyed confidence in a dream woman that I felt I was on the verge of running away. Again. In my dreams I have run away many times, but the reality is I only left without a word twice. As an adult and to be with a man child that neglected my basic needs, stole from, and ultimately struck me.

Luck has been on my side on POF. On my first night I found the lovely Mary of Knoxville. She has such beautiful breasts and an adorable face and figure. Our conversations are fun and sexy; she’s excited to come see me when my parents go out of town. I hope I can save enough money to wine and dine her, with some left with which to move. Man, she’s so pretty she already has me planning how to spend my money on her. Mary has assured me, however, that I needn’t worry about her asking for money.

Tonight I came in my client’s home to find the water running in the kitchen sink onto dirty dishes, soiled counters, clothes in the dryer, and the groceries nowhere to be found. This is the second fucking time I have had to take time out of my shift downtime to do someone else’s job. How difficult is it to read the goddamn care-log or listen to the log in line to know what is expected of you? And for the love of God Almighty, why would you even start a task if you have no intention of finishing it.

Such little respect for fellow caregivers, but most of all for the client. Poor guy had to go without part of his meal due to the laziness of some incompetent airhead. What: she couldn’t be bothered to read? I truly hope it was some clueless new girl. Surely to God a seasoned caregiver would not leave this kind of mess in their wake for another to deal with.

Computer class went well today: I wrote my jury deferment notice and managed an 82% on my test. Score! Colin helped and I got his and Sam’s numbers. She sits with another girl behind us who was absent today. There were a few people missing today: namely Jake the IT Brain who happens to be super cute.

We spent the period making an excel spreadsheet of  the first six months’ expenses of a sandwich shop. This taught us nothing new and only served to make the three of us hopelessly hangry.

I visited the cats for about twenty minutes before my growling stomach and CGC’s lack of social graces drove me away. Ordering more than a coffee at Common Grounds afterwards was, though tasty, a bad idea. I ended up spending over fourteen dollars on a mere quesadilla and cup of coffee I mistakenly did not specify as iced. It was well made, but next time I’ll just bring Rally’s or the like with me.

Now that I’m caught up to Friday in my writing I can sit and just enjoy not needing to play my own music. They even played a song I listened to just before class on my way to into town.

I took Kristina to Third for the third time Saturday night. Once again there was flirting and pool. She managed to do me quite the favor: she told Johnny we both like him, but since she’s moving I’m the logical option. He brought his almost as attractive brother that night and would return after taking him home. She asked, “for me?” “Does your name start with an A,” he replied as he departed. I’m so excited I could squeal.

The plan is to return tonight and scout the pool table until he shows up. Shit. I should have probably shaved my legs, between them too. Trying not to get my hopes up that anything will happen.

My Thoughts on Wish Fulfillment and Mind-blowing Sex

 

05/27/2017

Last night was, in two words, a whirlwind. Once I was off of work I bent the speed limit, thoughts of what was to come were all that crossed my mind. I took the old bridge as the sun set on the river: the brown water more tranquil than days past.

I jumped in the shower first thing, much to my mother’s annoyance. I gashed open my knee and had to dry off carefully. By the time my make up was on and I’d changed clothes twice I texted Dakota. He didn’t even realize we were meeting. Face, meet palm. He was still hanging out with the friend, he’d get back to me. I was already going downtown to deposit my paycheck and had to invite Kristina out to Third. Time with her is always good; I hope she thinks the same of me.

She finished her corn on the cob as I scarfed down a burger meal. Feeling sufficiently full, I turned back towards downtown once more. Kristina arrived about twenty minutes after me; she joined Ashley and I outside. I was talking to Dave as she showed her ID to the bouncer: he kept loudly saying date to the point I had to call him on it. She and I moved to the bar before watching Ashley nearly defeat Jesus at pool: this is no easy task.

The creep in the red cap kept staring at us; though it was unnerving, this gave us a shared bonding experience. This is the only that a leery guy could bring about sex, just not for him. Though sex did not take place, I suspect that after entertaining her my chance are rather looking good.

When Dakota finally got back to me he asked a favor: bring Una from the bar to Taylor’s. Once I found her, deep in conversation with Trovillo, it was difficult to tear her away. Luckily Aaron was waiting outside to take her instead.

My body buzzed in anticipation on the drive to Dakota: finally we would have the sex it felt like we’d waited years to share. We visited with his company on the porch, seated in the same chairs we had before the show the evening before. Una and Aaron departed first; all but the two of us, the residents, and two guys from the sausage party remained.

They went upstairs; Dakota followed to say goodnight. When he came back down he found me more than ready to go. We disrobed enough to make our initial contact easier as things quickly heated up. Our lips met in a frenzy,  more feverish than nights past, Soon he was unbuttoning and unzipping my pants with his thick, deft fingers; my underwear quickly joined them in a pile on the floor. My shirt and bra were pulled off as he kissed and nipped at my flushed chest.

Our bodies finally joined, my weight holding his length inside me; we let out contented sighs. He let me set the pace, moving his hips with mine. We shifted into another position with him kneeling against my legs, bent slightly against his chest. The position felt better for us both. He used our shared weight to push deeper inside me. I ceased to care how loud I moaned. I orgasmed twice when he took me from behind; we lie there in the afterglow between each bout.

Even when he was breathing passionate words into my ear and gathered my hair in his grasp he managed to keep me feeling in control. His touch was tender and rough and I couldn’t get enough of him. Afterward he massaged my back with his magic hands, making me want his assistance getting me off again. We took turns picking music until we were as drained as my iPhone. 

I dreamed I was hiding Sean in my dorm, somehow located near our workshop. We were desperate to keep him on the move to avoid his removal from the campus. He didn’t want me, even in my own dreams. The landscape bled into a doctor’s office where I was being told that I had to delay my abortion. At this point I was at least ten weeks in; the thought of dilation terrified me. I awoke shaking and backed into Dakota’s comforting embrace. He took me into his arms; I found that he was asleep during this and drifted back to join him. Even in his sleep, he soothed my mind and body.

When awoke again he was sitting at the edge of the bed, packing. By the time my alarm went off at 9:15 we were deep in conversation about his coming flight on Frontier airlines, We joked about their terrible online reviews. 

I gave him a final kiss before we walked into the living room… to discover the two friends asleep on the sectional. We probably had an audience to our coupling; I was only slightly embarrassed, but I’m sure Dakota was pleased his buddies had heard him get a girl off four plus times through the wall. Pretty sure I screamed his name each time which he loved; there was no mistaking who was in there.

Betty informed me as I penned this that the guys are heavy sleepers and we disturbed no one. I may or may not be kind of disappointed now. 

Dakota hugged me once more as we parted on the porch. I asked him a few hours ago, flirtingly, if he missed me yet. Maybe was his reply. I’ll take a maybe. 

I’m still deciding whether I should meet Dennis to wrap up my evening. He already failed one test by turning down my invitation to Rocky Horror, because it’s “not his thing”. He’s incredibly eager to get in my pants, making me wonder if this me when Dakota told me to chill. The guy is already asking after my “spots”. He wants to park. Wow. Are we teenagers in a cheesy slasher flick, here?

He’s into adventurous outdoor/public sex. Intriguing. I may actually get laid tonight. Lucky guy. As we’ve texted I’ve decided he might be worth my time.

Less than twenty minutes until I can leave: every second is dragging. Adam just started messaging me again. He said he deactivated his profile a few weeks ago, but didn’t want to leave me hanging after confiding in him so much. Is this the true reason he resumed contact with me?

My Thoughts On Being Doxed

It’s a sad reality that, in our world today, those that stand up for the rights of others are often attacked.

The attached image was posted in the Facebook group Funny Memes, of which I was a member. Until late last night, when it was no longer safe.

I confronted the poster and those laughing at or supporting the post. In response I received over thirty unsolicited messages in my Messenger inbox threatening, harassing, and insulting me. Unsurprisingly, the vast majority of these meninist keyboard warriors were men; the part I found particularly disturbing is that a few of those messages were from women. Women defending men who believe they are inferior, objects for the enjoyment and servitude of men.

This experience has been a telling example of how ignorant people support those who are against their interests.

I’ve had a two men offer to help me only to end up hitting on me and trying to dictate what I do with my life. You’re not an ally, you’re a fuckboy and your fake concern is just as bad as telling me to get back in the kitchen. You obviously also think I’m something to be possessed, not someone to be respected.

I have deactivated my Facebook account until things die down. though I am unsure how long the attention span of a sexist creep is, they hopefully have other cretinous things to do.

 

 

My Thoughts on Missed Connections Fulfilled, Past Lovers/Their Significant Others, And Mad Coincidences

 

05/26/2017

I realized on the interstate that Tinder Dennis was probably hanging with the same out of town friend as I am tonight. Oh boy. I’m going to have to flirt with either, both, or neither of them. Yeah, I know the last option won’t be: I’m too generous with my affections to keep them to myself, even on a night such as this.

Last night was similarly, thrillingly awkward. Betty returned from a rainy week in South Carolina. We met (officially) as I helped her and Taylor carry groceries inside. She flipped her long blonde hair our of her face, tired from her trip. I went to put things away before realizing I didn’t know where they went. This was her domain. She then told me I was “so sweet” for helping, but she could take it from there.

Dakota motioned for me to go with him; I told her we’d see them at the cafe and left. Earlier he had practiced his songs on the porch, not so subtly serenading me. It was a welcome respite from arguing with my mother. His fingers strummed the string; I remembered how they felt sliding through and gripping my hair the previous night. He licked his lips, eyes closed in soulful concentration and I could almost feel him licking mine as I cried out. No, there was no doubt I had enjoyed his visit, vague as our futures may be.

The only interruption to this private porch session was a hobo-like neighbor who kept chatting him up. Dude was persistent.

On our drive to drive to the cafe I couldn’t tell if Dakota was nervous or psyched. This was far from his first show, but it was the first since he’d been back in town. He told me he was leaving Taylor’s guitar (tuned to E) in the car just in case it was a read only event.

We walked into Babylon and on to the room next door. It was crowded, but I found two together and walked toward them. It wasn’t long before I noticed the lack of Dakota’s presence at my back. I turned once I was seated to see him leaning against the door frame. He waved off my motions to come sit by me, my back to the wall. I shrugged and turned to take in words of a local poet.

Claiming most of my personal space to the front and left of me, a tattooed man of around thirty sat at least a foot and a half behind his table. The man I assumed was his friend sitting to his right had the decency to at least sit with his legs under the table. An acquaintance from my Jessica days at EKU didn’t recognize me when I waved at him. I sat, awkwardly blinking in attempt to refocus on the reader. Dakota came to sit by me a few acts in and the man in front of me leaned toward the wall granting space, but only for another man.

After a woman read her poetry based on 19th and 20th century asylums, the hostess announced a five minute intermission. He went to ask her, as she made her way to the doorway he had claimed earlier, if musicians were allowed tonight. She emphatically chirped in agreement.

Betty lead Taylor to sit where the tattooed man and his friend had blessedly vacated. As we walked to my car Dakota recounted their conversation. Both of us were relieved that it wasn’t a medium exclusive event. He grabbed the guitar and we headed back, talking about an embarrassing encounter with a mutual friend. I leaned into him as I laughed and his body mirrored mine. Suddenly all I wanted in the world was to here him sing and sing to me.

His demeanor changed as we crossed the threshold. He sat nervously (tapping his fingers, bouncing his ankle) as act after act was called…but not him. Betty sat in front of me, her and Taylor’s forms framed my view of the performers. Their body language spoke of what the latter had last October: he was not as into her as she was to him. Her legs were crossed toward him, the curve of her back bowed to him as well. She lifted her fingers into his on his knee, touching hers, her always initiating contact. His back was straight, almost tense, his barely relaxed form faced dead ahead. It was clear that she loved him like no other, like no one else existed to her. I wondered if she knew he’s seen others, times overlapping with theirs. If she did then she probably would not have wanted me in her home: me being one of those others. 

People do things without intending so when they’re hurting. I’m speaking, of course, of my actions post-breakup. We were both in pain and was too willing to seem truly conflicted about potentially breaking her heart. It dawned on me in that moment: as I watched them sit, I knew that I have lead to a near-friend’s imminent emotional pain. Let’s face it: hurtful things are said when we want to unload some of our pain onto those we perceive as harming us. One evening, they’ll fight. She worked too much or he spent too much money on green; these things are never left at that. Somehow the subject of his trysts will come out. Will I have an enemy? Two?

After hearing about high fives and trashcans it was, at last, Dakota’s turn to take the mic. The host erroneously announced him as “Douglas” Peacock. (I’ll have to tease him about that as we say our goodbyes.) He corrected the poor man and adjusted the mic down to the guitar’s hole. The verses of “Stop Sign Lover” had me blinking back tears. His last girlfriend must have really taken a toll on his big heart. I concentrated once more on his hands to keep clenching my own. Why would anyone hurt him like that?

Betty and Taylor moved slightly with the music; the rest of the audience swayed, impressed. I wanted to kiss him as he walked back to our praise, but it seemed too intimate for the semi-public venue. A pat on the back is it. Kill me.

We stood outside after and Betty spoke to an old English professor; the professor didn’t recognize her. She left and the guys lit their post-show cigarettes. I went to follow as they left. Dakota turned and told me, with a hug, that he’d let me know when they’d be back. I was disappointed, but didn’t let it show on my face; he wasn’t in town to entertain and give me orgasms. I leaned into the hug then smiled and walked away.

As I separated, Taylor called to me.

“Thanks for taking care of my brother!”

I replied either “you’re welcome,” or “any time,” over my shoulder.

With nothing planned for my night I steered toward Third Street Tavern. The place was half dead, a few other regulars were there. Tyler from Halloween through NYE stood next to a food truck spouting some lie to impress the girlfriend he lied to me about. I walked past Mandy as she drew a phallus in chalk on the ground. Nikki made me a Joly Virgin and I rejoined Mandy and Chad. When I came back from getting another drink, Ashley was there.

She had bared her soul to me, a trustworthy stranger, at her neighborhood watering hole. We sat at the bar and she bought a drink for her friend George. When Kristina appeared in all her petite adorableness, we went to the barrel booth against the wall behind us.

She went to hug her friend with the braid. They tell me he normally picks up and swings her tiny form outside. Unfortunately for Kristina’s head they were under the doorway inside when her feet left the ground. I heard the fallout and watched as he helped her back to the table. He was obviously very sorry and hadn’t meant for her to be hurt. The only one giving him a hard time was himself.

Kristina iced her forehead as he continued to apologize. We were all mid-conversation when a musician type butch walked up behind her. She squealed in excitement. I didn’t know that this was a “finally seeing my old bff” squeal, not a “this is the only woman for me, take me away” squeal. I stupidly assumed the latter and considered going to stand between the bar stools they had found and try to win back her attention.

I clued Ashley in when George went to smoke and her advice was to go for it. Ultimately, I stayed in my seat. If she wanted me she would come back: isn’t that how the saying goes? Kristina came back after a while and then fluttered off to socialize outside with the smokers. I finally caught her along when we walked to her car. We only hugged however I can tell we are growing closer. Closer to what, I do not know. That’s why she left to talk to other people; she knew I wouldn’t leave. Not sure if this last part means she trusts me  or if this makes me a mere doormat.

She explained on Messenger when we were both safely at home that she hadn’t seen her old BFF Tabitha in a long time and she was sorry if I felt ignored. Either she’s incredibly intuitive or I suspect Ashley may have have said something to her about running off. Regardless, she apologized to me: I must hold some value in her eyes. Typing all of this is going to be quite the chore. (It is: thanks ever so much, Past Anna, you inconsiderate word whore.)

When I wasn’t chatting with her I was texting Den from Tinder. I told Dakota the situation (re: above interstate realization); he agreed that it was only fair to clue Dennis in that I have boarded the girl train. Though I will not mention that I smuggled Dakota on board for a few rides. Yes: tonight should be interesting, indeed. It always is with him, never a dull moment.

I sorely missed his embrace as I slept in my own half-empty bed last night. His touch releases a side of me that I thought long dead. A certain innocent trusting of a lover that let me do what I wanted to and with them, but no more. The lack of pressure was refreshing, and this is how I know I’ll miss him more than I can afford when he leaves tomorrow. I recall the song “Save Tonight” by Eagle Eye Cherry. I sang it with the first girl I ever hit on: my childhood babysitter, Amy Stencil from Elm Street. 

I’m thinking of making a playlist for Dakota before he goes. (I then proceeded to make him a somewhat cheesy playlist, which I will attempt to transcribe.)

Less than forty minutes until I leave and the end of this shift cannot come early enough. The client’s niece fouled up the entire air supply of the house, I’m sure if I’d mentioned the smell she would have blamed my poor bedridden client. Ugh. It took over an hour for the stench to clear out.

My client was especially difficult to feed today: barely opening her mouth. She ate all of the food, but it was a true struggle.

Did I mention that I’m meeting Dakota for sex in less than two hours? It will feel amazing, I’m sure of it; I can’t wait to feel him squeeze and suck my nipples, to leave hickeys until I bring us both to release. Before this he’ll lick, suck, and drag his teeth over my clit: I’m getting chills just thinking about what’s to come. And who’s to come. He wants to do reverse cowgirl first which I am very down for despite how long it’s been since I’ve done it. I feel like he’s paying me back for making him wait and having to do most of the work this week. 

He’s hanging out with a friend now and has not gotten back to me about when he’ll be free. I don’t know when he wants me to head over to Taylor’s; as if I’m not frustrated enough right now.

I’ve been listening to The Killers’ radio on Spotify off and on all day. I wish the client’s husband would go back in the other room so I could transpose this playlist for Dakota onto the site. Then I can contemplate whether to send it to him or even tell him about it.

In anticipation of tonight I wrote song lyrics. Here it goes: (lines are separated by commas, stanzas by semi colons, chorus is labeled)

I’ve had enough of this waiting, Yeah I know it’s my fault, Mine was the hold up the hang up, That kept us from falling apart (in each other’s arms); So how do you want me, We could take it good and slow, You could take me on my hands and knees, Go fast until we bow…and break; Chorus: You know we both need this that loving touch, That one they could not give us, For now I think we’ve found, Something we thought was long lost; How can we start something, We both know how this ends, As much as we want it, As long as we’ve waited, Will tonight me want we dreamed.

 

 

 

My Thoughts On My Recent Assault

05/10/2017

I want to be very clear that this particular post is riddled with triggers. Though I do not write about his subject lightly, I do believe that these experiences need a broader voice and exposure. This happens too often to consider this, our country of collegiate “hunting grounds” and side street predators, a free and safe one.

In light of this, I disclose the following:

**TW: Stealthing, sexual assault, and display of sexual predatory behaviors.

I knew he was bad news when I picked him up. Twenty extra minutes navigating had my sense off kilter and I took my gut’s screaming as an effect of butterflies. I feel I should known it was my body’s alarm. Instincts gone amuck.

He told me he lived in Lexington when we started chatting on the app. He told me about his band and pregnant band-mate. He told me a lot of things those few days. A lot of lies.

Cue foreshadowing of doom and my would-be downfall.

Jason, 29, Lexington was a baldie in denial about more than the toilet bowl barely growing from his oily scalp. He thought he could trick random girls into paying for rooms; they would drive from miles around to hear his reality erasing, Freddie Mercury dissing, general mansplaining, pretentious cisgender straight, white boy bullshit. He thought right in my case.

He claimed to be able to “chip in” half a room. This turned into just $20. By the time we made it to the Capital in Frankfort, the only open room in the tri-county area (thanks Bluegrass Stakes) he was suddenly flat broke. But he was “so grateful” I was “willing to cover room, just this once.” He “promised to pay me back asap,” of course! And I was too horny, too frustrated to refuse him.

Then I was too tired, when we made it to the room, to make the trek to my trunk where the spare condoms live. It was cool though because he had one on him. 

I insisted, in my insecurity, to do it in the dark. The ambiance made me feel more at ease. His phone barely left his hands.

Pay attention here; I sure wish I had.

He was already naked when when he turned toward my nude form. He (pretended to) fiddle with a condom then slip it over his erection: his far from impressive erection that I’d caught a glimpse of as he undressed. His hand didn’t raise far above his pelvis as he (feigned) put on the condom (that non-existent condom) and entered me.

I was so ready and it honestly felt good to be (barely) filled again. Too good, but I didn’t notice it then. I didn’t notice a lot those maybe two minutes, but I know I’ll never not notice again; I swear it to my future self.

After partaking in MY weed, occupying MY hotel room for maybe half an hour; after calling and texting his ex/roommate/”business partner” about “a deal” she apparently couldn’t negotiate without his expertise with the “client” for much of that time, he insisted I drive him another half hour back to their home. I was exhausted, but I agreed. 

He received the full cold shoulder, not even thawed by bong hits or self induced orgasms. The ride to his house was quite save his amateurish guitar strumming and my asking him to (once again) removed his nasty ass BARE FEET from off of NEWLY DETAILED dashboard. Douche. I barely spoke to contain my rage out of utter shame and disappointment. This was not the first time I was used and it would not be the last.

Then started, stupidly chattering about this business deal. Apparently his “business deal” was drugs. Not just any drugs: heroine. The same substance that killed a friend’s sister and countless others in my state. FUCK. HIM. His kids lived in that house: he was bringing junkies in to move (and no doubt get strung out on) some lack tar. No wonder soles were black. I imagine his soul is as well.

I ignored my every nerve ending screaming to drop his ass on the side the road. Why didn’t I abandon his dope-dealing ass out of my car? Jesus, Past Anna, get a fucking grip!  He was not worth the air breathed or the space he wasted with his occupancy, much less my time.

When he was out of my car I pulled into a drive way across the street and promptly scraped Camille’s front end. Again. My put car puts up with so much from me. Bumps; exes slamming her doors, bashing her dash, throwing her windows off kilter; feet. Compass Bird Drive is short and despite the name’s implication only ran two directions; I took the one taking me the fuck out of there, the way I came.

I’m growing upset from reliving this. I’ll be sure to continue this entry later.