I love you so much, Noah, because you want to see inside my mind. Because you want to know what I’m thinking about. Even though what I’m thinking about is… mostly kind of fucked up.
I had a train of thought. Then I went to get my arm braces. See how this goes?
Today at the park was fine. I guess. Life plugs along. I’ll tell you about it in person.
Therapy was good. We did a lot of somatic work. What the body holds matters. I have a lot of fight left in me. I have good reasons for the fight in my body. How do I deal with it?
This week Calli accidentally dropped an iPad on my face. That doesn’t quite do it justice. I was lying on my back with a rolled up towel beneath my neck trying to relax, as my chiropractor directed, when my daughter came up to me and said, “Mom I can’t make it…”
I said, being a wise and experienced parent, “Don’t put it over my face.”
She said, “Mom I can’t make it” and dropped it on my nose.
I kind of exploded up into a sitting position while swinging my arms wildly and shouting “Get away from me”.
I cried for a while. She went to her room. When I went in to talk to her she had fallen asleep. (It took me awhile to stop crying. It really fucking hurt. I still have a mark a week later.) She sat up and immediately started apologizing.
Oh darling. If you are that sorry then I don’t want you to be sorry. It was an accident. But next time I tell you to not put something over my face, listen to me. I forgive you.
Accidents are part of life. We can only grow if we fuck up.
I started off wanting to talk about monetization. That is where I started. Then that damn heater made me feel really hot and I got distracted. Noah brought in a heater to persuade me to remove my clothing. He is a thoughtful fellow. To be fair, I told him to. So no persuasion. Hell I advertised on Twitter.
Anyway. I think a lot about monetization and writing. Probably because I don’t have to be paid. It changes the perspective. If you must produce money, what you write is necessarily constrained. Because if you need money you need the good will of the people around you.
I don’t have to care if I piss people off. I can be crass as fuck and not care.
It is a privilege I pay for with my pussy thank you, very much.
The funny thing is: I think the reason why I am a good enough fuck to merit talking about myself that way is because I demand that I be gotten off. I talk about what I want and how I want to be touched. I exist in the room. I demand to be seen. I’m watching the movie, Nymphomaniac Vol 1. It is hilarious, which may not be what the director intended.
Seriously, Uma Thurman does a fabulous job as the jilted wife. Monetizations. Sex. Sorry, got distracted by masturbating. Delirium Tremens. Sorry watching a movie.
Why am I writing? Because it is keeping me company. Why don’t I keep company with the folks I live with? Because I’m having fun.
I have fun alone. Sometimes that seems weird to me. Like I’m breaking a rule.
I will never stop feeling pain because I will never stop abusing my neck like this. *Exactly* like this.
But I will take many months off! I will go travel. I will write in journals. I won’t sit at home and watch porn and masturbate. Clearly my time will be better spent.
I’ll masturbate anyway. I always do.
I want space and I want connection. I create this by talking about masturbation and figuring out who sidles away looking nervous.
Really that is the perfect metaphor for my life. Do I make you uncomfortable? That’s not weird, right?
BUT WHEN SHE LEANS OVER CHRISTIAN SLATER PLAYING HER FATHER IN THE MOVIE YOU KNOW HE ISN’T REALLY OLDER THAN HER AND YOU KIND OF WANT HER TO FUCK HIM.
I walked away from the screen for 24 hours. I’m just hitting post.