Why don’tcha leave me alone? I feel so broke-up…

It’s interesting — I have to keep reminding myself that not everyone can see the traces of someone’s editing process in their writing like I can. And there’s some interesting things I notice…

For example, I got a reply to one of my Craigslist “housing wanted” ads yesterday. Someone who had actually read the ad — a rarity — and followed the instructions for contacting me. She mentioned that she had two rooms opening up (a bad sign for me, because it means moving in with one near-stranger and one complete stranger) and linked me to the ad she had up for the other, more expensive room. The room she was writing to me about was already at my maximum, and I’d be expected to additionally share the cost of utilities, which put it way out of my reach.

But the things that stood out to me were that even though she talked about herself first, it showed that she’d initially given her list of requirements first — in the “Me:” section were things like “I’m also a non-smoker, non-drinker, and vegan” for example, and other stuff that referenced the section down below about “You: must be (blah blah blah.)”

And in that section, she had things like “not a heavy drinker” and something about how “you recognize that housekeeping is a part of life” and how you’ll make sure the house “stays very tidy” and holy shit, the way she wrote it translated so clearly as “I’m an anal-retentive neat freak and likely a control freak as well” and then she ended that section by saying “bonus points” if you’re vegetarian or vegan.

She also mentioned in there that you “won’t have frequent overnight guests.” Okay, look — I really, really don’t understand the sex-hate and the slut-shaming around here. Whether in the (once-upon-a-time) Hippie Central of Berkeley or the supposed “Queer Capital” of San Francisco (though that’s becoming more Oakland these days) or anywhere in the “Gay Area” — the first thing I see is “no overnight guests.” Occasionally I’ll see something like this chick wrote, and it’s “no frequent overnight guests.” And it makes no fucking sense to me! Look, I get not wanting someone to “not quite move in” their significant other. I’ve lived with the Girl-Child and her Boy-Toy who “didn’t live there” — he just stayed over every single night, hung out there every single day, and made the water and gas bills triple in just the first month with all of the hour-long shower-sex sessions they were having. That sucks, and I wouldn’t expect anyone to be okay dealing with that. But having someone over two or three times a week? Someone who leaves in the morning, has minimal interaction with and minimal impact on anyone else living there? News flash: some people fuck. Some people aren’t ashamed of that. Some people don’t do monogamy. Some people don’t have a “steady partner” who has their own home and doesn’t care that “my place or yours” always has the same answer.

But remember, kids — sex is bad, mmkay? Even if it’s part of looking after and maintaining your health! Trying to explain that to people is often not worth the effort. Also — okay, you choose to eliminate a bunch of potential food sources from your dietary intake, as a matter of your overall health and well-being. I choose to give my body the foods that it needs for my overall health and well-being. But in the Bay Area there are more folks who selectively restrict their diets (and many more who have the financial luxury of being able to do so) than there are people like me — poor and not picky. But even if I were rich I wouldn’t try to harm myself that way. Finding housing with other omnivores is another headache on top of everything else.

So is finding housing without animals running around… I’m allergic to pets, and I don’t much like most of them anyway. I may play with your cat, as long as I can get away afterwards, and I’ll avoid your dog (yes, I’m sure she’s the sweetest little puppy in the whole wide world, and I don’t think she’s going to bite me. I’m not scared of her, just not fond of her. Really. Yes, I know that she licks my hands and face because she likes me. Should I lick your hands and face, too? Oh, yeah, that is kinda gross. Welcome to my world.)  The times that I do find animal-free housing, it’s the folks who make everything to do with animals a political rallying point. And I can’t deal with cigarette smoke, either — finding smoke-free places often means also finding people who think that alcohol is a horrible, disgusting thing, that anyone who drinks is a moral failure and a worthless, unmotivated loser who just needs to find a purpose so they won’t need to lean on those drugs anymore. And look, I don’t care if you use pot, smoked or vaped or edible or whatever. I might have even encountered it myself at some point, and I don’t think I could claim it’s a bad thing at all — seems like (hypothetically, of course) it would be rather pleasant. But I can’t live with it, not in the same space I’m supposed to call home. Sure, come home high as fuck sometimes, I couldn’t give any less of a shit. Come home drunk, whatever — I certainly will sometimes! But most folks seem to expect that if you’re cool with one drug, you’re cool with them all, and in any amount, and at all times. Moderation or being selective isn’t possible, somehow… if you’re cool with booze, you’re obviously cool with weed and tobacco and who knows, maybe someone does a few lines when they get home tonight, why would you care? Or you’re on the other end of things: no tobacco, no cannabis, no alcohol, and if you choose to take any of those into your body you’re a horrible person who deserves to suffer because clearly you don’t care about yourself!

Just… Ugh. No men, no pets, no smoking. Yes to meat, yes to sex, yes to booze. I’d ask why that’s such an incredibly difficult concept, but then I remember that it’s only incredibly difficult when you’re trying to spend over 90% of your above-the-table income on rent, and you’re not likely to find even the bottom-end options for under 150% of your income.  I’m too broke to ask for basic access needs, and if I do, I’m somehow a super-picky bitch.

I just wanna go home.

Somebody bring me some water!

I’ve been up a little less than 6 hours now. I slept for about 10 hours before that, after finally knocking myself out with NyQuil.

My head has been absolutely THUNDERING PAIN since I woke up, and at first I figured I was probably dehydrated, and possibly a little bit hungry too. I went to get something to drink just after I was awake, but I had so  little energy that I just drank a glass of milk because I didn’t feel like pouring any more than that. I got some leftovers out and heated them, and after 3 minutes of heating I didn’t care if it was warmed through or not. Hungry. Took that back upstairs and ate a little bit, but had no appetite and finally dragged the rest back to the fridge…

Then I figured since the headache was still around, I’d take a bath. I was already feeling irritable because when I was trying to microwave my food, I didn’t have anywhere to set things as I was wrangling with the haphazard house-of-cards mess that comprises the fridge contents, because The Rabbit had left her mess of stuff all over when she went to bed (she doesn’t tend to clean up behind herself, though, which is a continual frustration for me.) So I go in to the tub with a headache and a foul mood…

…and then I spend almost 15 minutes cleaning up after her so that I could take a bath! She had left her shampoo precariously balanced on the edge of the tub the other day when she took a bath this week (she seems to only bathe weekly or less,) and that must have been the crashing noise I heard when I was using the toilet a couple days ago. I didn’t think to check, because I’m pretty much fed up with constantly cleaning up after her, with that work never acknowledged or thanked or possibly even ever noticed. Well, that shampoo bottle wasn’t in the tub anymore, but the long trail of shampoo that had poured out across the entire length of the tub down to the drain was in the tub.

That stuff makes a hell of a lather, I’ll tell you that much.

Took my bath, nice and hot the way I like it (and the heat actually lasted through the entire time filling the tub, which is unusual.) Head is still POUNDING. All the coughing I’ve been doing hasn’t helped, either. The worst of this cold was fairly short, but this fucking cough has been killing me still, almost a week after the rest of the symptoms have gone.

So I sit down to write about it the headache, and as I’m looking at the numbers, I realize that from the time I ate dinner on Monday night until the time I pecked at a tiny bit of my leftovers was over 24 hours without food. And the worse part is shrugging my shoulders at the knowledge that it’s not unusual at all for me. I don’t have very much in the way of food I can eat here, and even when I do, it’s not much help since I’m usually trying to get the fuck out of here to attempt to maintain my sanity.

I still have no idea how I’m going to find a place to live. I can’t afford the luxury of a safe roof overhead, and I can’t afford the constant sensory assault, the complete lack of time alone, and the consistent stressful interactions with the people here, living on someone else’s schedule. I don’t have enough energy to throw myself into any significant work, and all of the things I need to accomplish require help or input from other people. Even something that should be simple, like cleaning this room I’m staying in I can’t do alone; it requires The Rabbit to get her stuff cleared out more (and she’s promised and promised that she’ll make some closet space free so I can at least put my clothes away.) That doesn’t happen without her actually putting in the time and effort. And when I’m not sleeping well, or enough… and I’m not eating well, or enough… and I’m not masturbating regularly even when I’m horny… and I’m barely scraping by in far too many ways… I don’t have the energy to do more than that.

My head still hurts, so I really ought to publish this, get some more liquid in me, take some ibuprofen, and maybe throw in some cough syrup to the mix because this stupid tickle in my throat is driving me crazy.

How do you feel? (I’m lonely…)

there’s a feeling I get
searching my mind
for the song to express it
and coming up with empty measures

there’s a feeling I get
grasping at words
for analogy to convey it
but it’s almost like… I got nothin’

there’s a feeling I get
not quite “longing”
not quite “almost”
not quite “what if”
not quite “what was”

a feeling of “not quite”

where the need to express
is overabundant
and the means to express
is sorely lacking

and this feeling
is made up of the rift
between the two

I still somehow believe
that one day
I will find the song
the lyric reference
and the melody
the music that means this thing

this movement in my heart
this feeling I get


Rhythmic motion, raw emotion, infiltrating through

For a girl who needs sex every night, and only has some kind of encounter every couple of months or so, each moment without feels like an eternity to me.  And when some very specific needs have gone unfulfilled for a very long time, that feeling of “forever” can be overwhelming.

That said, tonight I’m less concerned with the specific number of sunrises and sunsets between the end of January 2011 and now — because for the first time since then, I’ve been properly bent over and fucked in half!

Yeah, knowing myself I’ll probably be complaining in a week or two that it’s been so long since… but as I said, the moments without feel endless.  I’ll just try to keep in mind the way my ass feels right now, and remain patient (as I so often remind myself to do) knowing that I’ll have that beautiful feeling again someday.

Thanks to a very good friend for a very good evening!  You know who you are… but for the sake of reference here, she’ll be known as “The Rec.”

Can I come and visit? I’ll be at your house tonight!

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I’m horny.  “The Rabbit” (as I’ll call her here) just loaned me a couple of books of photography to look through — one by Sam Haskins, the other by a guy I didn’t know… but the photographer wasn’t the point, the “lesbian” sex was, and it was so perfectly what I’ve wanted (the porn) for so long.  Extensive use of soft lighting, almost to the point of vignette.  Warm colors.  Lots of lace and stockings and outfits-as-props.  Trimmed — but not bald — pubic hair.  I would guess late ’80s, maybe early ’90s.  Just deliciously perfect, and I gave her my thanks and told her so — and why.

And I’m horny, as I mentioned.  Normally I’d masturbate and be done with it; I don’t want to reach my hand down because I’m not horny that way. I know that my hand won’t find what it’s reaching for either, because my pussy isn’t there yet… and I know that, but I want to reach down and finger myself.  I’m really pissed off.  No, that doesn’t express it… I want to rage.  I want to smash and break and scream.  I’m really fucking angry, and I don’t have anywhere to direct that anger out, not even into a productive channel.  I’m way too tired to try to do any cleaning or organizing my stuff out on the back porch, I don’t have any sort of physical work I can do, and I really ought to be going to sleep, even if I don’t really want to.

I guess for now I’m just writing, because there’s nothing else to do.  I may as well tell a bit about The Rabbit — she’s been my good friend/girlfriend for a little while now, helped me get most of the work done with packing up and moving my things out of that old hellhole, driving me around to and from the storage unit I’ve rented for the moment. She’s my place to crash for now, as I mentioned in my last post here that I’ve got a temporary situation — in her guest bedroom. I don’t relish the though of jumping right back into house-hunting again, but I’ve been working as much as I can on that in my down time, while I’m still trying to get the rest of my belongings into storage as quickly as possible.

It would be really nice if I could more easily arrange another meet-up/hook-up with my new friend (yes, the “with benefits” kind) “Smash.”  I’d forgotten how much sex I need, and how much I need sex; going without or with so little for so fucking long must have left me in a bit of a libidinous coma.  Now, just like when I get a great meal after going hungry for ages, my body remembers that appetite and clamors to be filled.  Since Smash can’t host, and I’m not entirely certain of my ability to do so here, I’m really hoping it doesn’t end up being a long time before we have the chance to fuck again. I’m really hoping to take a strap-on for the first time, almost as much as I am to just in general getting pounded hard.  It’s been a long time, and then almost entirely with the psycho ex (and her cock was her own flesh.)  One hook-up and fuck so far with Smash, plus a coffee and lunch date, still leaves my balance in the red… with all the lights the same color: STOP HERE.  I need to go, go, go… and there’s nowhere I can get to!

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