Sick of dreaming dreams that never come true.

I keep fooling myself, pretending that I’ll find a place to live with people that don’t make me want to scream or rip out their throats, or even that I’ll manage the miracle of my own place — but it won’t happen. It can’t happen.

Is it so terribly much to ask, to have a home with no men, no smokers, quiet when I want (or need) it, and reasonably simple access to the particular kinds of healthcare I need? I’m sick of moving, moving, moving, every time filled with wonderful dreams — “This is the place! It’s perfect! I love it here!”  When will I wake up and realize that as soon as the novelty wears thin, I’ll be as miserable as I ever was, that I’ll be struggling not to yell at the people I live with, fighting the same fucking battles all over again?

Yes, my general trend has been towards better and better places — but all of them have had their perks and their pitfalls —

  • Darling little Filipina who gave me a $100 case of makeup because “she wouldn’t be there for my birthday” when I’d just told her I was moving out after a week and a half… because the place was disgusting and the creepy old man renting the other room kept trying to tell me what Jesus wanted me to do with my life.
  • The gay guys who showed me what it was to party, had a hot tub and swimming pool, but smoked 4 packs a day in the house and treated me like shit half the time. Oh, and the infestation of fleas… still makes me shudder.
  • Beautiful home, big room, beautiful yard with a garden and a lying manipulative old bitch who moved her asshole boyfriend in rent-free.
  • Two fucking gorgeous Ukrainian girls, quiet neighborhood with a 10-minute walk to Ocean Beach, but both girls straight and taken and sleepless nights of sex in stereo every weekend… plus dosing my chewing gum with Ketamine and making sure I wasn’t on the 2010 Census.
  • Wonderful little apartment in Daly City, cool roommates (mostly) and convenient access to shopping, but a 2-month time limit with nowhere else to go.
  • And how can I forget East Oakland — my “welcome to the ‘hood, motherfucker” was being there two weeks and a 9-mil in my face, everything gone…an old foul-mouthed alcoholic who threw a shit-fit if someone called him “sir” because it was supposed to be obvious that the big fat hairy dude was a woman, endless yelling and fights between the men living there (regardless of how they self-identified, they acted like pigs), and of course the bitch who slowly earned my trust and intimacy so she could have me get her pregnant — and then almost broke my jaw.  There wasn’t really much good in that place…

And now here I am in Berkeley — the town fits me so wonderfully, sometimes I can’t believe it’s really my home.  I’ve just met almost all my neighbors up and down the street, I’ve been making connections and acquaintances and contacts — no real fiends so far, and I’ve stopped expecting to ever have those. But I’m living in a place where I’m constantly surrounded by men, where the endless chorus of deep, booming voices tightens my fingers into fists, where the unpredictably-timed but reliably-occurring coughs from lungs destroyed by smoking is as mentally devastating as water-drip torture, where I’m ignored and invisible to the extended group of friends who all have a fantastic time doing things together unless I stand up and yell and scream and flap my arms around…

I’m still single, still alone, still horny all the damn time with no outlet, no relief, no release, and no one to hold me.  The girl who responded to my personal ad, the reason I found this place to live at all, casually dismissed me with “you’re not my type” and claims that she lost interest because there was such undeniable chemistry between me and the other person who lives here — so much for “undeniable” when a month and a half had gone by before I had any clue that someone was interested in me, and I don’t have much interest to give back.

The few small possibilities I’ve had for intimacy, romance, even just one-time one-night fucks, have all amounted to nothing. Lots of idiots who say they’re looking for someone like me, but they really want a hideous creature like they just saw in the latest “she-male” porno DVD.  A couple of intelligent, really cool-sounding women who actually seemed interested in me… and then flaked or stopped writing back or just wanted sexy instant messages about how awesome it would be to watch me with a dude.

I’m a lesbian.  I like women, I love pussy, I’m crazy about tits.  Once in a while I might want some cock, but it’s tough having to deal with the huge dick attached to the end of the phallus — and usually not worth the effort.  It’s frustrating trying to find a woman who’s also interested in women but isn’t hung up on how I’m hung.  It’s frustrating trying to find a girl who hasn’t been burned by the crazy psycho-bitch trans girls who rant about “Hollywood perpetuating broken stereotypes” and then provide a great example to reinforce the stereotype they’re screaming about.  Frustrating to look for a girl who’s as interested in getting me into her bed as she is in getting to know me because I’m “so cool to hang out with.”

I have so much that I need to write, to express, to get this shit out of me and onto the pages here — it’s been too long since I’ve had this outlet, and I hope to use it more.  For now, I’ve got to stop myself, or I’ll be too drained to do much of anything else.

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One Response to “Sick of dreaming dreams that never come true.”

  1. Wish me luck, here goes nothing. | Σαφικος Σοφια Says:

    […] mixed metaphors here, to only notice the awesome stuff and to minimize the bad things. I’ve ended up in more than a couple situations that really turned out shitty because of that — and I […]


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