Nano news, nano blues

It’d all over but the final frantic sibilance as scribblers everywhere rush to finish.

I am done.

Oh yes, and early. I told my sweetheart, and now he wants to read it. But there are things in there that might make him feel bad. Like hard dicks. In fact, there are quite a few. Including one beloning to a character quite like him, in form and feature. So I am in a quandary.

I am learning how to express myself without restriction–

And yet I am restricted by my dueling impulses to have my work read, to obtain my  sweeties approval, and to not hurt my his feelings, or provide evidence of some paranoid conviction that I am unsatisfied with him.

I am,

but not because of his dick. It’s more the way he is because of his dick. Or maybe his dick is like that because of the way he is. But it’s that part, that part, that shamed, self-hating, toxic, corrosive part that is the problem.

And it’s really like, who am I to complain? That’s his cross to bear, and he has to deal with it.

But I have this other set of dueling impulses, one of which is my desire to be around him and the other, which is to get away from the toxicity.

Sucks. But anyway, I tried to figure out how the hot guy could have ED. Or maybe the hot guy (who so resembles my lover), could pop a quick Viagra before the love scene.

Or I could let him read it the way it is. But I have no wish to hurt him. Maybe I should say, he’s a grown up, and he can handle it.

Decisions, decisions…

Does he have money?

“Does he have money?” That’s what everyone asked me when we started dating. I mean, everyone, from my friends to my cousins to my uncle. “No,” I said, puzzled. “He’s an actor.”  Of course he didn’t have any money. I’d never dated anyone with money. I’d never had any money myself. I couldn’t even understand why they were asking me this question.

Now I do.

My girlfriend and I were commiserating on how it sucks to find yourself supporting your man. “You know those little things you like to do for yourself,” she said. “Those manicures and massages and stuff? Well, you can kiss them goodbye.” Amen to that. You can kiss a lot of things goodbye.

So I think I am getting done with broke-ass men. I want an equal. And I think I’m getting done with being broke myself. Show me the money! I’d like to live a pleasant life. I want to be able to buy things I like from the artists and artisans I appreciate. I want to be paid well for what I do. Yeah! And be appreciated. I’m smart, funny, reliable, trustworthy, and I have an impeccable aesthetic. I enjoy travel, meeting people, and having meaningful, fun conversations about dance and art and things like that. I like cafes. I want a job that pays me well to do all these things with other fascinating, smart, funny, cool creative people.

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My boyfriend can’t get it up

My boyfriend can’t get it up. You might wonder why he’s still my boyfriend, and sometimes so do I, but not because of that. The truth is, he’s a sex god. How narrow minded you are, to think only a hard dick can be a sex god. No, he is so hot, one look and my body melts. More orgasms than you can count. He’s that good.

Unfortunately he does not understand this. He, too, is convinced that a hard dick (preferably huge) is all that counts. He’s also balding, overweight (I don’t care), and convinced that his dick is too small, even when hard (it’s not), which probably has a lot to do with why it doesn’t get hard. Size matters, but not as much as other things, like, oh,  skill, for example. Trust me, I’ve dated younger, slimmer, hairier guys who were hung like a horse, and they were completely useless in bed.

It all started out so nicely, so hot, so rich, so good. And then… He was too tired. I was masturbating before he got home because I was so horny, but he was too tired. He hurt his shoulder. I was understanding, and restrained myself. Mistake. The second year I had a drug reaction and gained 10-15 pounds. he had a lousy summer and became seriously depressed.

Not fun, living in one tiny room with a seriously depressed guy who (you are pretty certain) thinks you look repulsive. When drunk, he said we should let the whole thing go. Sober, he did not remember saying this and denied wanting to end it. I stayed. Mistake.

He tries Viagra; sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. When I’m not around is when it tends to work. Oh. No, I don’t feel completely shitty about this. So now I am dating a totally hot sex magic god who so doesn’t want to fuck me, he can’t get hard on Viagra (I’m beautiful, by the way).  I hate the Viagra because it becomes all about the dick and not about me. Getting laid with Viagra is worse than without, b/c he just gets his rocks off, and where are all my orgasms?

He comes to stay with me, has no job; I employ him. He has another lousy summer, stays at my place depressed out of his mind. I am understanding. I give him money. Mistake. I am now buying his smokes and basically supporting him and he is depressed. I am not getting laid. there isn’t even any Viagra around. I tell my therapist; she says, “So he has a mood disorder. But when you talk about him you look younger and it’s the only time you smile.”

He has the most beautiful voice and he makes me laugh and his hands are magic, but he won’t touch me. He’s not interested in my breasts and he doesn’t like to kiss. I love to kiss. He feels so bad about his body (or maybe mine), he turns the light off when we make love.

But he didn’t used to. And I am not getting laid.

I tell him I will not give him any more money. He understands (he really is not a mooch. How the fuck did I get here?) I go back where I live (we lives thousands of miles apart). Sometimes we talk on the phone. He is broke. He has let all his credit cards collapse and phone get turned off. He has only a 10 cents a minute cell phone. When I call him he has no minutes or his phone is on silent. Sometimes he doesn’t call me for days. Like 10 of them.  I am not getting laid AND I am worried. I say I need him to email me every day, write to me for at least 10 minutes. He starts, then skips three days. I tell him he will email me EVERY DAY or I am done.

I am still not getting laid.

Why don’t I…

What is it with resistance? What is it with talent wasted? Why, if I am good at something, value that thing, and want to expand it, am I so helpless in the face of my own — inertia is not the right word, or maybe it is. Inertia is the tendency of a body at rest to remain at rest, and one in motion to remain in motion. I remain at rest. Terminally. Maybe it’s ADD. When I suggested to my therapist that maybe I had, like, shadow ADD, she laughed at me (seriously – she laughed). Shadow? she chortled. Honey, you have full-blown ADD. You are the poster child for ADD!

Well, fuck. She thought I should get tested and get medicated. She insists there are very high-level medications now that target specific areas of the brain. She says some areas do not grow up, do not develop at the same rate as others. Children have a lot of success with the new meds; once they “get it” about how it feels to be in sync, the adjust, and they re-integrate, and the are OK (or at least that’s what I think she said).

So why are all the ADD kids I know drug addicts? Maybe she has a special line to the hot and new in the medical world. She treats kids more, but she’s an art therapist, so I like her. (As soon as I have insurance again, I will go back.) My homeopath laughed at getting tested. What do you need a diagnosis for? he said. So they can give you Ritalin? Clearly, he is on the same newsfeed as I am. Maybe I do want Ritalin (I know I don’t; just sayin’), maybe I do. I remember speed, back inthe drug days of the 70’s. I loved speed. Unfortunately, Speed Kills is not just a bumper sticker; it is a harsh and vicious reality. No, speed is deadly. But something about that experience feels perfect.On the other hand, i cannot do any kind of sedatives. I hate them. I feel like I am underwater.

Most of the time I am so tired I can’t do anything, so I just watch as the crap piles up and falls over and think, wow, that’s falling over. Maybe I will sort of stack up the pile a little better. But that’s about it.

So, dancing? Ha. Writing? Well, arguably, yes, I am writing now, and I am doing nanowrimo, so I am better off than I have been, but still: Ha. This blog is my free space, where I can say whatever the fuck I want because it is not connected to me. My name is not on here, so fuck you, you don’t know me and if you don’t like it, don’t read it.

There. I wish I had the courage to put my name on here, and sooner or later i will, because face it, I am a big showoff, but for now, I can experiment in peace. And I like it being on this blog, where other people can read it and find it it they need to, so it is public, but private, because no one knows me, or my family, or my friends. I don’t have to worry that so and so will take offense at something I say. They will never read it, and if they do, they can’t prove I said it, so HA!

Even in my fiction i worry. I can’t talk about what i really want, what’s on my mind, because those people who are on my mind might be hurt by things I say.

So anyway, back to my problems, because hey, this is all about ME now, isn’t it. Or maybe it’s about you, maybe you have this problem too; in that case it’s about us.

So maybe all my problems would be solved by medication. I like that idea; it’s easy. No work on my part. The homeopath and acupuncturists have actually improved my situation with medication, but there is a crucial difference. I Dislike the the thought of taking something every day, a symptomatic remedy as opposed to a cure. My acupuncturists and homeopath, they are making me truly more well through transformative medicine. I am all for this. And I used to be worse. This is better (I am writing, am I not?). But there is still so far to go.

And dance, what I really want to improve, is moldering. Time is not on my side. Time is a sword in my side. Dance has a short shelf life. Indecision cripples me, inaction cripples me (literally). Illness cripples me and I can’t seem to shake it. It’s getting harder. The voices say, just give it up. You never practice. You suck. But I don’t suck, and I know that. I don’t practice either. I know that, too. What a vicious circle. Would ADD medication help this? If so, give me some. If not, give me something.

Message in a Bottle

Message in a Bottle

Tossed into the warm blue ocean,

Washing up – where?

In your eyes.

When things crush me from the inside

When things crush me from the inside, bursting to get out,

It is as though I am the cocoon, that something else lives within. It

Struggles, twists and kicks its way free,

Free of me, of all the rules I have set down for my own existence, all the things I must not think or say or do.  This

New Thing comes through my mouth and cunt and nostrils, slips my fingers on

Like gloves, and taps out words on my keyboard.

I am afraid, because I am so comfortable in my discomfort, my squalid surroundings, my

Dark, dingy, cramped existence, the

Artist’s garret of my mind, where I tell myself how hard it is to get ahead and

Forgive myself for failure, failure

That is comfortable and easy and doesn’t ask me to work too hard, or feel too much, or take too

Many risks.

Well, I tried. I tried.

But I did not try. I did not try. I gave a half-

Hearted little effort, a token gesture that

Fell short.

So short.

But I could say I tried. I just wasn’t good enough, smart enough, beautiful enough, talented, disciplined, prepared enough to

Succeed. To dazzle.

But I am. Only I don’t.

Because no one else has shown me the way to succeed, to be happy, to accomplish great things. so

I must hack this path out of the underbrush all by



Instead I wrap myself in this cloak of failure, comfort myself with my inadequacies, and rock myself to


Inside me blooms something new


Inside me blooms something new–

Or was it always there,

A small, small, hard-coated seed?

Softening, it called me across the empty desert.

Root, leaf, and stem, it brought me

To this radiant oasis.


I become

My true self–

Fragrant, brilliant, beautiful.