Doing a Solo in Life

Hi, My Name is April, and I’m Single…



I’m always there for me when I need m


I hate being single. All I ever get to do is whatever I want. Ugh. It’s seriously the worst.

Why do people keep asking me why I’m single? Like they’re expecting me to answer something like, “Because I’m a raging bitch and no man will have me,” or “I will only date filthy rich men,” or, “I haven’t found a man yet with a dick the sized of a donkey’s yet, and will not settle for less.”

I am single, everyone, because I fucking want to be. That’s it. Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy. I have had two failed marriages. I’m super familiar with that entrapment of almost inescapable hell. The battle for control of power, the guilt trips, the jealously, the pseudo-parent. Fuck that shit, hard pass. Then again, upon much reflection, I realize I probably didn’t choose the best husbands.

But I am not without blame. See the common denominator in my failed marriages is me. Just as it takes two to build a relationship, it takes at least that many to destroy it. But it never seems so, does it? For instance, go out and talk to anyone. I mean anyone. Our ex’s ruined our lives. We all have an evil psycho ex. That asshole this- and that bitch that-. We’ve said it, we empathize with our friends and family who go through it. You’ll never hear someone say, “Man, I really hurt him/her. I fucked up.” Ok, maybe you might, but it’s rare. For the most part, those we once loved above anyone, who we bound ourselves to, who we might’ve dedicated our lives to and planned out future with… well, the gamble didn’t pay off. And yeah, it’s a gamble all right. It didn’t work out. Our once lover is now our enemy and they’re armed with all our secrets. All our belongings, everything that makes us weak and vulnerable, like our children. So, why do we do it?


Amirite?

Dude, I don’t fucking know! I absolutely have no clue. I know why we fall in love. It’s our stupid brains. Chemicals ensuring that we breed. When we are around someone we find attractive our brain is flooded with all kinds of feel good shit. First it starts with dopamine, and God damned don’t we love dopamine!! It’s why we love drugs, alcohol, chocolate, sex, pretty much anything that we become addicted to is because of dopamine. Norepinephrine; that’s a good one, too. Gives us a euphoric feeling while making us fell giddy and energetic. And if you’re to the point that you have insomnia and a lack of appetite? Fuck, dude… you’re so fucking in love. Go hang yourself. Then there’s Oxytocin, a “happy” hormone that also causes bonding between two people. That’s what makes us say stupid shit like, “I just feel a strong connection between us…”


Told ya…

No you don’t, bitch. You feel hundreds of thousands of years of evolution in your brain tricking you into fucking him so the species continues. But, I know… I know, I fell for it, too. It’s damn convincing shit.



So, I’ve taken this chemical roller coaster ride so many times in my life, it’s exhausting. And yet, still thrilling, I’ll admit. I date. I have sex (obviously if you’ve read prior blogs) These reactions happen to me, especially if I feel a strong “connection” with someone. But here’s the thing. I’m middle aged. I’ve been there, done that, and some may call me cynical or bitter. Some may say I remain single from fear. Maybe they’re right, I don’t know.



What I do know is that my entire adult life I’ve been married twice for a total of twelve years all together. I’ve had children for the last twenty-three years. I’ve been a mother since I was a child and when I turned forty it is the very first time in my whole adult life that I wasn’t someone else’s something. I’m not someone’s mother, wife, girlfriend, employee, boss… I am nothing to anyone. Obsolete to any obligation. Well, that’s not entirely true, I do have a two month old chihuahua that depends on me. Hey, it’s hard to quit cold turkey being needed, ok?

But I had to find out who I am. I had no clue. None. What I think about things, what I like. What I want to do. What I want for dinner. When do I want to go to bed. What do I want to watch on TV. What do I want to spend money on. What dose April want? Maybe some of you are still wondering these things about yourself with or without a relationship, I don’t know. I have no comparison for it. But it’s a new freedom for me. I’m not likely to give it up anytime soon, if ever. I don’t want to compromise anymore. I don’t want to argue about where I’m going and when I’ll be back and whom I’m allowed to speak with and whose turn it is to do the dishes this time, motherfucker, I live alone, it’s always my turn.



If my yoga pants are too tight, fuck it, I’m leaving the house that way. Look at my ass, look at it! Idgaf! I’ll cut my hair the way I want to. I’ll sleep in. I don’t have to remember what kind of deodorant you like when I go to the grocery store and I don’t have to feel like shit when I get a speeding ticket or I spent too much at Macy’s. Fuck it. I answer only to me. It’s a peaceful life. Yeah, I’m a little reckless, but I’m the only one who pays the consequences of my actions.

Thing is, I have way more consequences to pay. I’m way more reckless. I forgot to care for myself at times when it comes to eating, getting decent sleep, controlling my spending, making doctor appointments, and basically I’ll go days without showering cause, well, I can. Gross, I fucking know it. But is it worth my freedom to have a babysitter to basically make sure I don’t set the house on fire? Debatable, I say.


Unless I starve to death in a fire πŸ”₯

“But… but… but, what about when you get old, don’t you want someone there to care for you? You don’t want to die alone, do you?”

Listen, Margaret, if I’m old, good chances he is, too and I’ll end up caring for him, no thanks. And death isn’t a team activity. We all die alone. I may regret these words, but I doubt it… but it wouldn’t be the first time I ear my words.

“But… but… but, don’t you ever get lonely?”

You bet I do. And I don’t have a problem finding company when I so desire it. I just don’t desire it permanently. Everyone chooses what’s right for them. I’m all for it. As long as they’re not hurting themselves or anyone else, let people live their best lives. Live everyday like all of this is going to end someday, because news flash, it is.



What I do miss is companionship, cuddles, inside jokes, always having someone to tell my day about to, someone who will be there if I get a flat tire, the one person who will randomly text just to see what I’m doing and if I need anything. I even miss arguing over if the movie was good or what’s for dinner and getting mad when I wake up cold because he stole all the covers… but then makes it up to me all the time because he’s the one who always has warm hands. And being called beautiful even when I know I’m not.

And most of all… being loved, when I can’t love myself.


πŸ’˜

So, what the fuck? Being single is awesome. And being single really does suck goat scrode. There really is no better path to choose, or having your cake and eating it, too. (which, btw, I hate that phrase because wtf is the point of having cake if you’re not going to fucking eat it?)

What I’m getting at is that having the best of both worlds would be the ideal for me. Or something, at least, pretty fucking close to it, if it even exists.


πŸ’”

Faithfully Yours

April Gray

Challenge Accepted!

I like a Good Challenge, So I Challenged Myself

As if there’s a better opponent… sha, right.

Can I Write 20 Topics in 20 Weeks?

I’m a procrastinator. Bad. The worst kind. This page has been set to private since I started this self-challenge on 12/24/2020. But, see, that only kept me from bein accountable if I failed. If no one knows then it never happened, right? And I I don’t fail, I post it and look like a champ. Well, kinda hard to find any bragging rights about any of that bullshit. So, I decided to publish it and if I end up going down in flames, well, it hardly matters. It’s not like this is my Tinder page, and I’m super popular.

SO!….

I’m going to make a bullet point list of topics that I’d like to write about. One topic, once a week. Let’s see how this shit show of a circus goes, shall we? I’m wanting to write about the following:

  • What single life is like (Started on 12/29/2020 Doing a Solo in Life) (Completed 01/01/2021) Success!!
  • A letter to each of my children
  • The people who most greatly influenced my life (good or bad)
  • The most difficult decision I ever had to make
  • Twenty interesting, random, unique things about me
  • My Zodiac sign, if I buy into it and if it fits my personality (Started 01/02/2021 Hold the Fuck Up!) (Completed 01/02/2021) Success!! FUCKING NAILING THIS!
  • A moment in my life I felt most satisfied
  • The first time I fell in love, or at least thought I did (still do)
  • I’ll play my favorites on Spotify on random and write about the first five songs that play (Started on 01/04/2021 Five Favs Picked On Shuffle) (Completed on 01/11/2021) Barely a success, but still was!
  • My main core belief’s and morals
  • Why I’ve become friends with my demons
  • Living with mental heath issues
  • A person who fascinates me and why
  • A person who I miss (My Dad (Started 01/02/2021 My Shot at Taking Snaps) (Finished 01/02//2021) Success!!
  • The best advice I ever received
  • Ten things that make me instantly fall in love with life again (Started 01/11/2021) I lied, I meant to start that day, but a serious battle with the depressive part of “manic-depressive” happened. I’ll try to start sometime today, not that it matters. Nobody reads this shit. (Actual start date 01/17/2021)
  • Bullet-pointing my whole day (this one should be really easy!)
  • What do I actually do for a living?
  • Why I make a better Villain than a Hero
  • What is the secret to happiness (according to me, anyway)

Wish me luck, fuckers. I’m gonna need so much of it…. so, so much, nah… fuck off. I got this.



HELP!!!!

You know, it’s like my mama used to always say to me, “April, what the fuck is wrong with you?!”


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A Son’s Simple Request Close to My Heart

Chapter One

“Tell me a story, Mom… a Story about…”

My all time favorite photo of my children in Aptos, California 2014

“Children are not only innocent and curious, but also optimistic and joyful, and essentially happy. They are, in short, everything adults wish they could be.”

~Carolyn Haywood

About some time in June of this year my oldest son sent me a text with a very specific request. Not that receiving at text from him was unusual, nor was getting a request from him. But this one was different.

Many times I’ve heard his voice repeat this phrase as he was young, “Tell me a story, Mom. A story about…” and it would be whatever it was about. His Grandmother actually was far superior at the impromptu bedtime story on the go. Myself, I loved to share literature with my children. Turns out, both are memorable ways to share stories, spend quality time together and to say goodnight.

See, this request wasn’t really any material item. My son asked, as he had numerous times before, for a story as a young boy. As a grown man, well, this was a first. He asked for this to be told to him so that he may someday share it with his own children. It was his 23rd birthday, and this was what he wanted.

“Mom, tell me a story about you. Like, I know a lot about you, obviously. You know, the highlights of your life. But I realized that you were a whole other person before I was even born and I don’t know a lot about that. So, I want you to tell me your life’s story. Something that’ll take time to read through so I can kinda get to know who my mom was and how she became who she is now.”


“You are my Son my moon and my stars.”

Deep. Amirite?

Obviously, I turned into that blubbering middle aged woman who is, not only happy to oblige, but also extremely humbled. I am often reminded as my children have grown, that even though I really did get the shit end of the stick with the family I was born into, I never would’ve imagined that the majority of the rest of my life would be so abundantly joyful and wonderful because I have not only the pleasure of knowing the three most amazing humans ever, but I had the privilege of being their mother. We parents saying that we raised our children; sure. I did the motherly duties, all that hoop-lah required to keep small humans safe, healthy and loved. But honestly, I was a kid when I had kids. I grew up along with them. They raised me as in that all that I ever found beauty, genuine love and sacrifice, deep meaning and substance to my life was because of what they taught me. Really before them, had little of any future at all. Typing this now, I still choke back the emotion of just having pure gratitude and obvious fortune that they are in my life.

Obviously, Mom,” he continues, “I don’t need you to be 100% accurate, (he means don’t ramble on or tell stupid jokes) with dates or anything, I’m not your teacher.”

Oh, but weren’t you?


“A Mother’s job is to teach her children not to need her anymore. The hardest part of that job is accepting success.”

~Author Unknown

Just record as much as you can remember in as much detail as you feel like expressing. I’m actually really looking forward to it. :)” Yes, he put that smile emoji there. So cute, right?

“And Mom? You got a long time!” I did. It was June. His birthday is in December, “so don’t procrastinate like you always do.”

My son’s birthday was on the 3rd of December. Today is the 11th. Fashionably late, I say. He nailed it when he knew that six months would fly by and even though I had started the day of his request, I’ve since rewrote and procrastinated a lot. But a promise is a promise. A story. For you, my son. Late, as predicted.

“You can write it however you like, handwritten would be cute,” he says. Right, kiddo. It’s 2020. Not many of us can remember the last time penmanship was an art. I’m old. I type fast and talk a lot. Change the font if you like.

“This is important to me, ya know? Cause you’re my mom, man. My parent, and for the most part, that’s how I’ve known you in my life,” he says. I liked the part where he calls me a mom and then a man. Had to add it in. And Boy, I know you’re better at math than that. I’ve been your parent you’re whole life, not just most of it.

“You’re MOM, not April. I want to know April, too. As a kid, a teen, an adult… I would like to know how you became the person you are and all the places you went, and the people you met and decisions you made because I love you and, I guess in turn, that might show me all the reasons your raised me in the ways you chose to. I’d like to pass that onto my children and grandchildren, ect.”

Too many emotions happening at once when he sent that text. I don’t think any human has ever wanted to know that much about me. A feeling of humility and pride at once.

Those are the texts from my son that day. Almost verbatim. I did take the liberty of correcting much of his grammar because I hate it when people type ‘u’ for “you.” You have a full keyboard. Type it out. Keep language alive. I’m just giving him shit. I don’t really give a fuck. And yes, I’m aware that someday my great-grandchildren will know that this old bitty says a lot of bad words. That sounds like a problem for my son, though. I’ll probably be dead.


Granny says fuck a lot

Chapter 2, Let’s Give Him Some Answer’s


“Encourage and support your kids because children are apt to live up to what you believe of them.”

~Lady Bird Thompson

So, my dear sweet first born child, I hate to say it, but I’m pretty how I’ve always been. Who was April before she was a loving mother? Well, I was a sixteen year old girl. Do you remember being sixteen, son? Friends, dating, having fun, having energy, thinking you had all the answers in the world? Yeah, I was just like that. It was 1995. Right before the digital revolution. I wouldn’t even learn of the inter-webs for another four years.



So, this is me on my 16th birthday. I had more hair.


The Doors, Nirvana, Stone Temple Pilots, Metallica, Pearl Jam and a bunch of other new grudge rock was my favorite at the time, mostly. I lived in Bend, Oregon and attended Bend Sr. High School. Well, ‘attending’ isn’t exactly much of what I actually did. I actually arrived at school, left to go to Juniper Park and smoke weed all day with my friends and my boyfriend. My actual first love, or puppy love, whatever it’s call… Robert. Truth be told, I still talk to Robert almost daily on Facebook. He lives in Montana, is married, has two grown daughters. I’m happy for him. No I’m not. Yes, I really am…. not. Lol.

Anyways, moving forward, I only lasted in High School there for a few months. Dropped out my Sophomore year and took my GED test a week later with the birthday money my grandma had sent me to pay for it. Passed with flying colors and gtfo of school. School “isn’t a place for smart people.” ~Rick Sanchez. You don’t know who that is because you don’t watch Rick and Morty. Son, you really need to ask yourself what you’re doing with your life.

I had just met your sperm donor. I make a point to call him that just incase my blog ever becomes famous and he reads it. Make sure he knows how little he mattered and contributed to to awesomeness that is you. You, son, did most of it on your own. Just born that way cause your mom was born that way. He was merely a pawn in our life story.

But, prior to being sixteen and meeting the dick that donated, (was that too crude? Maybe scratch that out for the toddler grandbabies) I have even existed fifteen additional years prior to that. As you stated, Buddy, you’re aware of the highlights. And, sorry readers, but the first version of this story my son has read. It was a little dark, a lot more angry, and kind of a downer. I was honest, and early childhood wasn’t exactly great for me. Son, you now know some things that you didn’t before, and I don’t feel the need to repeat it here for the world and my family to read. No decent lessons for your children to gain from a life of poverty, homelessness, chaos, fear, confusion and well, basically the part where my family put the ‘fun’ in dysfunction.



It’s evident now, but we didn’t know much back then, about mental health and the effects that it has on the family unit, especially living in poverty, weren’t highly educated and had a blended family and raised by parents who were idealistic but not very realistic.

My Dad, Gerald Lee Graves, had moved out from Chicago, Illinois to Santa Cruz, California in 1975. He was leaving his wife and he brought my oldest sister, Adrionna with him. She was only 11 years old at the time. Our sister Yolanda was left with her mom. My Mom, Judith Ann Rougge was living in Santa Cruz at that time and she was married with two children of her own. My third sister, Alisa and my older brother, Anthony. Her husband was a mechanic and owned a shop. my dad was also a mechanic and got hired by my Mom’s husband. And that’s the romantic story of how my parents met.



Within the next three years my mother had left her husband, moved in with my father and my sister, became pregnant with me and I was born in Santa Cruz, California on April 1st, 1979. Nearly five years later fifth and last sibling, Justin was born in Carson City Nevada.


The Struggle is real, kids.

Chapter 3 April In the Hooooouussse! Well, I’m Born


“If life cannot save us from death; let love, at least, save us from life.”

~Pablo Neruda


So, here I am, born and just hanging out here on planet earth and shit, right? Don’t recall much of the first few years, it was probably pretty boring. I know we moved around a lot. California, Colorado, Nevada, California again, Idaho, Oregon, California again, Oregon again, California again, Oregon again, Idaho again… shit, I’m losing track. Plus many cities within these states. Son, this you know much of. So what don’t you know?


Mom, Dad, Baby April Santa Cruz, CA

My favorite picture of my Dad and me. Age 2 in Colorado

Baby April and Parental Units in Colorado

I lived mostly in Northern California as a young child. We lived in a century old house, it was 1984. The house on a two acre lot on the corner of Main Street and Kristy Lane, a block from the elementary school I went to, and also directly across the street from where Paula and her family lived. We moved to Janesville (that’s correct, it’s not Jamesville as in James but Janesville as in Jane[actually was just 9 part methamphetamines’ to one part human there, but I was a kid, I didn’t know wtf]) California in 1986. It’s the longest consecutive time I stayed in one school. I was there from second grade to seventh grade. At the very back end of that lot we had a huge wooden barn with a fenced in gated area in the front of the barn. The first few years my parents had goats in the fenced in area. I loved the goats, especially the male and female that had the baby goat. Baby goats are the damn cutest thing. We had two white turkeys named Tom and Jerry. And we had kept a dozed or so chickens in the coupe on the west side of the barn for many years. Once we had a rabbit, but it belonged to my brother. We had King, our dog, as you know of, and we had many cats throughout the years. I can still remember mine and Paula’s phone number’s to this day. Not joking. Mine was (916) 253-3687 and hers was (916) 253-2250. I called her house every single day for over five years to see if she could come over and play.


The front of our barn. Me, Just and our dog, King.

And I didn’t know it then, but there are some serious advantages to growing up super poor. We were incredibly creative with coming up with games, rules, imaginary worlds with character played by us that followed a sometimes very detailed storyline. I am not joking when I tell you that things of nature such as dirt (tiny race car roads and mud pies) rocks (hop scotch, pathways, tossing games like bean bags) and pine needles (forts) where actually some of the toys we played with. Paula and I loved Barbie, Justin liked Hot Wheels and He-Man. What I’m tryna get at is that it made us creative, ayite? Looking on the brighter side of things in life lesson going on right here, Son. Don’t need no lip. Don’t you judge me until you’ve eaten a mud pie made of actual mud and enjoyed it.

We watched stupid shows like Alf, Full House and Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, but had the honor to see the birth of The Simpsons and they were as much my family as my real one was.

Back in the 80’s and 90’s the schools didn’t lock up the school yards when there wasn’t any school and us kids could go down there and use the play sets, which was awesome because we’d never have one of our own. One time this kid named Charlie wanted to beat up Justin and I actually don’t remember why, but he came at him with a brass chain. See, I was brutal to my little brother. He suffered much throughout his childhood because of me. I feel kinda bad for it now, sure. But I was a kid, too. What my parents took out on me, I suppose I took out on him. Doesn’t make it right, it’s not an excuse. It’s just what happened. Plus, it’s not my fault my brother was born such a little bitch, lol. Anyway, I digress. So this Chuck-fuck comes after my brother, right? Well, I’m not having it. I don’t know why, I didn’t even think about it but I just stuck my arm out right in front of that chain looping around in the air right before it was about to hit my brother, it twirled around my arm instead and I yanked my arm back toward my body and Charlie yanked to me with it. I can’t recall exactly I said to him because I was just so mad. You ever been so anger that that’s literally the only thing you can feel is raw anger and heat and you see red. Nothing in registering to you because all you know is if one muscle moves there’s a very strong possibility you will eat the nose off their stupid, face, annoying, loud fucking face? NO? Just me, then, huh? Well, at least one of us is honest then. Digress, again, damnit. So, I’m sure I threatened his boy parts in the form of some colorful swear words or something because that did never did fuck with my brother ever again. If anyone is going the beat the shit out of my brother or talk shit to him, you you best recognize it’ll be me. Not really sure why that story is one that stands out to me, but it does.


You don’t know me!

On one of the rare Christmases that my family actually got a tree, I was pretty happy, but I didn’t actually get too excited, or I guess I should say I didn’t want to feel hopeful that Santa might come, but I just figured he wouldn’t (that seemed to be his pattern), and I was still pretty young, probably only eight years old, but there was a present under the tree when I woke up! I was so happy! It was rectangular and heavy! I called Paula so excited to tell her because she always felt sad for me that I didn’t get presents. I should’ve opened it first. Well it was a Webster’s Dictionary. I may have told you this story. And no, that’s not the worst present, but it was my only present. And I had called Paula. Paula had gotten a new BMX. She rode it to our house to see what I got. I didn’t want to show her. God I was embarrassed… fml.



Keep in mind we had no electronics, video games, cell phones and we were poor, underprivileged children and plus Nintendo wouldn’t come to our attention until about 1986. Now, I didn’t have it as badly as Paula’s family did. We had clean water from our well. And even though Justin and I had to share a bedroom and we only had one bathroom in the house with a bath only, we didn’t really feel like we were going without anything. Before we had lived there, we lived in a tiny apartment, and before that a hotel. Plus, 90% of the time we were outside. Our parents had to threaten us to come inside.

So my dad went to the community college in the nearby town there called Susanville. He attended for two years and earned an associates in Gunsmithing. Yeah, even in the late 80’s that was a thing. That was a thing, I know, who knew, right? Directly behind our house were two small dwellings. One was a really cute red shed like building. it had a covered red porch and a pitched roof. When you stepped inside it was only a single room, but it was perfect for my dad’s shop. The other dwelling was just a tiny dark wooden shed. It was our well house. My mom planted dragon snaps out along the side of it and every spring they would bloom and I loved seeing them every year.


Red and pink Snapdragons

So, my dad started a gunsmith shop and specialized in basically the stock part; he did the wood work, basically. He took a block of wood and turned it into something the barrel of the gun would house in, and he did it beautifully. I was told that he entered some sort of county contest, I would guess probably something like a county fair, and he won first place. He was very skilled and passionate about his work. All us kids really wished that we had something of his after he had passed. There’s nothing left, though. It’s sad. If you wanted my opinion on why my father wasn’t as successful as he so easily could’ve been (and I’m just gonna go ahead and give you my opinion. My story. My blog. I do want I want.) is because my father didn’t exactly have what you would call people skills. In fact, some may even go as far as to say he was an asshole. Opinionated, stubborn and didn’t like to be told shit about fuck. But hell, I just described everyone I’m related to.



My mom stayed home with us kids when we were young. She got us up in the morning for school, made us breakfast, packed up our backpacks, walked us to school. While at school she’d clean our room, make our beds, washed our clothes, folded them and put them away for us. By the time we got home from school, just about every day, we could find mom on the couch taking her nap and covered by an afghan my great-grandmother had crocheted for her and a Stephen King novel resting on her stomach or nearby.

Justin and I would get a snack, I’d call Paula, see if she could come over till we had dinner. Mom would get up and make us dinner. She wasn’t the best cook, trust me. But it was edible. And often my mom would ask Paula if she wanted to stay for dinner. Paula was the youngest of four kids, all older brothers. She always wanted more food. Often Paula would have to come to our house to take a bath, too, because their well would run dry or it would pour this murky brown/black water out of the faucets. In the winter our pipes would freeze and mom would just go out and put snow in a big gallon pot and melt it on top of an old enclosed wood fire place to melt it so we’d have water.

No, Son, no. No, I don’t want to hear any shit about how easy I had it, how I didn’t have chores or responsibilities. No, you’re right, I didn’t take out the garbage or feed the dogs or ever have to clean up after dinner. I didn’t have a cell phone, my own TV, my own room, an Xbox or the Internet either. Check this though, I didn’t even clean a bathroom for the first time until I worked for your Grandma on your dad’s side at her housekeeping business. I shit you not. My mom did everything for us kids. Was it nice? Duh. Of course it was. I got to watch way more Nickelodeon and didn’t have to do my homework until right before I went to bed and you know what? My mom helped me with that, too!

But my mom also never, ever, ever… ever let me put a foot off my property without her or my dad unless I was in school. I didn’t have my first sleep over until I was in sixth grade. Every time I was invited to a birthday party or a school activity or a friends house my mother made me ask Justin permission to go because he was always sad and missed me when I was gone, she said, and it wasn’t fair for me to be out having fun and Justin be at home miserable. I wasn’t allowed to take a bath/shower, wash my hair more often than ONCE a week, and I couldn’t shave my legs and armpits, or wear make up until I was in high school. My Freshman year of high school is about the time I remember, what I like to call the “Little Bitch,” phase started.

“Where were you, you little bitch?!”

“You listen to me, you little bitch!!”


And now I’m proud to be that bitch

Once she told me to apologize to my brother for eating the last brownie. I had zero brownies. He got home form school way before me, like an hour. He was pissed because he was on his way out to the kitchen to grab the kitchen to grab that little chocolate morsel of goodness only to find the sister he loathed so badly swallowing the last bite of the last brownie. Dream. Crashed. Mission. Failed.

“MOOOOOOOOM!!!!!” Mom runs to Princess Justin.

“She ate all the brownies!” as a dramatic alligator tear rolls down his cheek right on que. Mom says, “What is wrong with you? You’re making the brownies next time and you apologize to your brother right now. Don’t you ever think of anyone but yourself you selfish little bitch?!?!?!” Oh, yeah, selfish was another thing she liked to call me.

At fifteen years of different scenarios of this exact narrative, I just ’bout had it. I could explain what actually happened, but it never changed anything before, so that wasn’t really worth the effort. I could’ve apologized even though I hadn’t done anything wrong, as I had done many times before, and again, she’d still dislike me just the same. Nope. That’s the day the straw arrived. That famous one that the camel hates, but probably because it broke the camel’s back.

I said, “Fuck you.” I know only too well that sudden whoosh sound that arrives in the room right before my mother’s hand is going to connect itself to my face, later on in my childhood I think I preferred it when I didn’t know what was coming my way *SSSSLLLAPP* A stinging, burning, sensation, it started to enclose in darkness but some floating, sinking stars showed up, slowly falling like snow from above and the darkness faded. I have never repeated those words to my mother ever again. Not to this day. But we’re still very much in the “Little Bitch” Phase.

I don’t like getting too dark here. And I am stopping. But I’m also going to say this; compared to some of the other things she’s done, I didn’t tattle. She didn’t get much more physically abusive than this, but her words and her actions cut my soul to the point that I was sure it had bled to death and died off sometime in my adolescence. Turns out she didn’t do that to me. It would take another decade yet for me to discover that I still had something left to cut that deep and bleed that much.

It takes pain, severe emotional and mental pain to know the depth of your character, sometimes. I thought that depth of humanity of me was gone, killed off long ago… Then, when your sister died that night, when I was twenty-two years old, and I realized I had depth and capacity enough… my love and dedication still went deeper still, farther than I ever thought I could love someone…

That moment is the same moment you realize the cut will be just as deep. Thousands of times larger that it was before and thus you will bleed that much and you will die that much more. Thing is once I realized my soul wasn’t dead it had actually just dies. Metaphorically speaking, obviously. You were only a small boy when we lost your sister, four years old. In front of you for a long, long time your mother was the walking dead. I’m am so sorry for that. You and your sister and your brother deserved more, and I know you definitely needed more. Know that when I say I gave you everything I had, it’s true, it was just so very little.


“All my life my hear has sought after a thing I cannot name.”

~Andre Breton

Well, not only did that go way off topic and entirely off the rails, I have done fucked up my time line even worse. Meh, fuck it.

Back to the task at hand, here are some things you may or may not have known about your mother;

I never learned how to swim.

I’ve always loved unicorns and the color purple. My obsession with butterflies didn’t come about until after your sister died and Joker didn’t become my idol until my late teens.

From the time I was seven years old till about the time I was probably 10 years old I literally believed that I was a vampire.


Maybe I actually was a Vampire, did you ever think of that?

When I was 11 years old a tree in my back yard got struck by lightening and it scared the shit out me. I had PTSD for years.

I held a boys hand for the first time in fifth grade at a school and I was so embarrassed I broke up with him. Turns out, it was Paula’s cousin.

When I was fourteen Batman II with Michael Keaton and Michelle Phifer came out on VHS and when I saw it I so wanted to be Cat Woman with all my heart when I grew up.

I used to shoplift expensive clothes when I was in high school with Paula because both of our families were so dirt poor and we were tired of being made fun of. She was caught once. I never was caught. I got mad skillzzzzzz, bruh. Don’t steal, though, I don’t condone taking what’s not yours, there’s something fundamentally wrong about that.



I have always hated country music. And mark my works, I always fucking will.

Once, when I was sixteen, Paula and I were walking on the sidewalk in Bend in front of the South McDonald’s as a car was trying to pull out onto third street. I didn’t want to wait for it to go by so I hurried in front of it. Being the asshole that I can be, I decided to look back and smirk at the dude resulting in me tripping on the sidewalk and slide-skipping about three times across the pavement on my elbow and knees three times peeling off all skin. Dude honked and waved as he drove away. Paula was laughing so hard she was crying. Karma can be instant.


Best check yo’self

After I left high school my sophomore year in 1995, my mom was recovering from breast cancer and my parents had just divorced. My brother was only eleven and still in school. My mom was working as a waitress at Pilot Butte Burgers and we needed more money. That’s when I started working at the North McDonald’s on Third Street in Bend. It was my first job. I made $5.00 an hour. I worked the drive thru window and I was damn good at it. Then again, that’s no surprise as I’m damn good at most anything that I do. When I left McDonald’s almost a year later I was making a whole $0.15 more. Impressive, amirite?


and you know this, man!

I had met your dad during this time. I was hanging out with a girlfriend I had gone to school with, Gina Thompson. She dropped out of school, too. Her older brother, Jeremy was having a party. Tom and his friend who you also know, Joel, were there. We had planned to do what kids in the 90’s always did. We were gonna get our drink on. Strawberry Boone’s Farm, Son. That’s right, we got tore up. Listened to some tight grudge band like Sugar Ray, then probably some Green Day, most likely Metallica cause Gina really liked them, we danced, we laid out in the sun because it was summer. Then sometime that evening I did what most drunk teenage girls do; yup, I puked up a bunch of pink, pink wine cooler. Then I sat on the kitchen floor and cried because I was just so worthless and nobody loved me. Gotta love you teenage girl drama.


Omg… I can’t even!!

“Drunk in love. Nope. Drunk. Just drunk.”

~Me

So, as I’m balling my eyes out in my world of self pity, in swoops your dad to save the day. He tells me there’s no need to cry. He thinks I’m just the bee’s knee’s and gives me his number on a piece of paper (it was 1995, we didn’t have cell phones yet, we were still behaving as Luddites) and says I should call him sometime. I actually didn’t call him for a while. The real reason I was upset was because Robert had just moved away and I hadn’t heard from him at all. I missed him horribly and I was trying to get over him moving away still even though it had been about six months ago by that time. But without going to school, working all the time, and having not much of a social life I eventually called your dad and we started to hang out. It’s awful because I’m really sad to say I can’t even remember what we did on our first date, or when it was. I know that at the time, however, it did mean something to me, though.

Why do I remember these are his favorite brand of cigarettes, though?

Chapter 4 The Ending of My Childhood; the Beginning of Your Life


“Motherhood: All love begins and ends there.”

~Robert Browning

Where the fuck where ya on that one, Stuffy?! Huh?!

I’m going to fast forward through this here really quickly, because a lot of hurt and bullshit went on, here. My fault, your dads fault, my family’s fault; it doesn’t matter who did what to whom when the hurt has been caused it can’t be undone. All I know is that in the end when ‘everything came out in the wash’ there was you and there was me, but during this time in my life everyone acted as if it were their lives that were changing or starting… or ending. Things were confusing and I was just a kid, really, looking back. Although, no one could’ve ever told me I didn’t know what the fuck I wanted or what I was doing. Actually, they still can’t. Lol.

After my dad left my mom, your dad moved in to help out. Although, he didn’t really. He was more of a mooch. And through the years, he hasn’t really changed much either. At your age you’ve already worked for more, cared for more and stood up for more than that man ever did. He will never know the meaning of having to stand up to the plate and take care of you and yours. But way back twenty-five years ago, as a kid, I didn’t help the matter. He could do no wrong in my eyes. He did work at times, but not often. He mostly lived off my mom and I working. Smoked weed and picked on my brother. Eventually he got jealous of the guys who I had worked with at McDonald’s, so I quit my job.


No brain, either.

My mom had had enough. Looking back I don’t blame her. But seriously, why the fuck would she let a 23 year old, unemployed man move in with her 16 year old daughter to begin with? Anyway, She ended up trying to rectify the situation by moving my brother and I to Sonora, California and starting over.


Honestly, I still love saying this…

So we did. And being the teenage girl that I was, I was just hear broken. We moved on my birthday. I turned seventeen that day. I had two beta fish. A red one and a purple one. I named them Bevis and Butthead. I had them for a long time. During the drive down to California my mom made me leave them in the moving van, I was upset because I knew that they’re tropical fish and they can’t get too cold. We were staying the night in Weed, California and it was pouring rain. The next morning my fish were dead. She did feel badly though. I never did get another beta fish, however.


RIP Bob… say Sup to B&B… thanks

Sonora was really beautiful. It’s actually really close to Modesto. But in my child’s mind I was the character in a book who’s evil mother had taken her from her one true love, the only person who had ever truly loved her. Being a teenage girl is a lot like experiencing insanity. Not even joking. I was obsessed with getting back to Oregon. Obsessed. I wrote your dad daily. About six months later your dad bought me a plane ticket and I flew back to Oregon to live with him in Sisters.


“If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark.” ~Shakespeare

Chapter 5 ~ Oregon to Pregnancy to Idaho


In three words I can sum up everything that I’ve learned about life:

It goes on.”

~Robert Frost

So, Sisters is a pretty place to live. When we first moved there we were renting a room from from an older lady in a little gathering of places called The Pines. Your dad had a job as a laborer for construction and I bused tables at a restaurant and worked for his mom cleaning vacation homes out at Black Butte.

He drank a lot. I didn’t. He got violent when he drank. I didn’t. I ended up breaking up with him and moving to Burns with Paula and her mom. Lived there through the winter and worked out at the McDonald’s. I had my own place too. A tiny one bedroom house, only $200 a month. I partied every weekend, made absolutely zero plans for my future and just had fun with my friends.

But your dad… he had a way. He got to me. We got back together. Paula was so mad at me when I left Burns to move back to Sisters with him. Him and I got a tiny apartment above an ice-cream shop. Things were better at first. He bought me a ring. He was working but I had a hard time finding a job. Not long afterwards I got pregnant. I was so excited. So, so excited. I just recently read the letter that I wrote my dad way back when I found out that I was going to have you and I had just gotten out of the hospital because I almost lost you. First, I was shocked that my dad saved that letter. It was in the things he gave me before he died. Secondly, I just couldn’t believe how naΓ―ve I had been. Not with the excitement of the pregnancy, but with how blind I was as to how hard all of this was going to be and how much your dad didn’t really love me.



Yup... Jokes on me.


Your dad continued to drink. He continued to be violent. This wasn’t a home for a child. Interesting how I didn’t think that way about myself. That before the pregnancy, it wasn’t a home for me. A child. But then, it was because of you children that I have ever found value in myself. So, I made the correct choice for the both of us. You and I moved to Fruitland, Idaho with my parents who had gotten back together. I didn’t think I’d ever go back to them, but honestly, this is the only thing they did right by me and I’m eternally grateful for their help.

It was a nice enough older house close to downtown. I craved milk all the time and I hate milk. The first time, and the only time, that my brother who was 14 years old at the time, felt you move with his hand on my stomach it scared the living shit out of him. He jumped way declaring that it was the most disgusting thing he ever felt in his life. Some alien shit, he said. Lol.

Justin tried to teach me how to play the guitar. I practiced for days and hours on the song Blister in the Sun by The Violent Femmes and I just couldn’t get it. I have zero natural ability or talent and even when trying to learn I lack the ability to even to that. Justin gave up. He told me I should to. So I did. Lol.



So, you eventually were born. Thirty-six hours of labor. Long, and painful. Back then they gave strong powerful painkillers for women in labor. I puked and as I puked I peed on the floor. I only felt a little bad. Grandma was my birthing coach and she was wonderful. And she fell in love with you instantly. You were 8 pounds, 8 ounces and 19 inches long. You are the first person who awarded me the title of mother and I knew then how special and meaningful that was, but looking back now, it’s been an honor and a blessing. The most rewarding and joyous thing I’ve ever done with my life.


Saint Alphonsus Hospital in Ontario, Oregon where you were born

I could write a novel about the firsts I had learning becoming a mom, and another novel, again, for each of your siblings. I could write more about how lost I feel being an empty nester. How I actually don’t know who I am. I like to say that I’m still living, therefore I’m still becoming who I am. And you’ll find in your life that as time goes by and as you age, you change. Not the core of who you are, or your personality, but your wisdom, your values, and where you find your happiness. I am not a human being, I am a human becoming. Maybe hit me up in another 20 years so we can find out exactly what it is I become. A felon, I bet. Lol.



“Love is like a butterfly; it goes where it pleases and it pleases wherever it goes.”

~author unknown


See, you wanted to know who I was before you. These stories, experiences and exciting people I met before you that were supposedly what influenced me into the person who was your mother and had whatever morals and standards and convictions… or didn’t have, that I chose to instill into you children. That’s not what happened, Son. I was a sixteen year old kid. Remember when you were sixteen? What worldly wisdom and knowledge did you acquire at that time that you would have to give to enrich the life of a child? Probably some life experiences. Maybe a heartbreak. Some hurtful home life stories. You’d recall the good books you read and your favorite characters, how their actions inspired you and touched your heart. You’d recall all the things that you may have needed but never had received from your original family and you would vow to do every Goddamned thing in your power to give that child everything you didn’t have, everything you did have and then a hundred times more even if it took all the air from your lungs and the last drop of blood from your body.

What inspired me to raise you children the best way that I could and to the best of the capabilities that I had was the only thing of real beauty, and raw innocence that I had loved with a true confidence that this love was not a trick or a lie and that this love would never go away until the day my body expired. My inspiration was you. My inspiration was your sister. My inspiration was your brother. And it still is.

There wasn’t much of my life, son without you in it. I was only a kid. You guys made me the person that I am. You guys raised me.


To all of my children; GG, TW & MW, I love you with my whole soul



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“To feel the love of people whom we love is a fire that feeds our life.”

~Pablo Neruda


Story For My Son

Sex isn’t an Addiction, it’s Just a Fucking Problem

But we can fuck without any problems…



If you didn’t pick up on my play on words and heavily layered sarcasm in the title of my blog, kindly leave us xxx adults alone and ask yourself what you’re doing with your life.


It ain’t all strippers and hot dogs, my friend


So, let’s talk about sex. This one is for the ladies. But don’t worry, fellas, you’re gonna like it so stay tuned. To my fellow females: like, what in the fucking fuck is going on with you all? I’m so ashamed of being a woman with the likes of you out there ruining these angles of men in the world! Wow.



Now, say “Yes, Mistress. We’re sorry, Mistress.” Then go polish my cum-fuck-me boots with only your tongue.




I’ve heard so many stories and complaints and bitching (and granted, men do bitch a lot already, I know) about us and our sexual prowess, our libido and our desire. Ladies, I am not part of the problem here, (and I know many other women who aren’t the main problem, so stop making us look bad!) and sure hate me, or doubt me, (I already know that you won’t fuck with me. Ya’all ain’t even fucking your men!) for making that statement, but I’m sure you’ll understand what I mean as I express myself in point. The word on the street isn’t what you assume it is, or at least, mostly it’s not. But our reputation is that we’re lazy, inconvenienced, not passionate and don’t share pleasure with our partners as they do with us. Yes, I know, men lie. A lot sometimes. But you ladies are also known for being evil back-stabbing cunts, so I’m giving the guys the benefit of the doubt.

Be fucking nice. Sharing means caring, bitches!

For instance, women rarely initiate sex. If the tables were turned, think about how it would feel to always have to make your desire for your partner constantly shown first. Granted, you can’t just pull out your engorged sex member out to show proof, but you can still think of something. You assume, well, maybe he doesn’t really like sex with me or I’m doing something wrong but he’s still fucking me so he doesn’t hurt my feelings, etc. Those are only hypothetical examples. I have no idea what your personal insecurities would tell you, I can only say that you would have these insecure feelings after a while. Insecurity, doubt, assumptions and suspicion will kill any sex life as certain as the dusk turns to dawn each day. You enjoy him making the move, (except when I just want to sleep for the sake of everything holy in this world!) especially the very first move. More guys have told me that they play out again and again in their heads if they will be able to kiss you at the end of the first date. They have anxiety over it most of the time building up to the event. They’re looking for signs, any sign. She grabbed my hand! She called me, cute! She touched my back! Anything, really. And they don’t do all of that for merely a simple kiss, they do want to kiss you. They pay such close attention to your signs because when they go to make that move and they are rejected it hurts and they are embarrassed. Rejection is painful. As women, we rarely get very much rejection and the reason for that is because we rarely take the risk. We are lifted away from that burden. And right?? I know, more anxiety about a kiss than much else that first date.

Surprise him. Kiss him first and slip the tongue πŸ‘…

“But, but, but… men always want to do sick shit. All he wants is to stick it in my pooper or he wants me to watch porn with him or give him blow jobs.” – Karen’s of the world.


Won’t you please join me?


Yes, they do. Yes, they’re fucking perverts. But unless it’s involving hurting someone, or it’s without consent, rape, or anything to do with children… I say what’s wrong with that? I’m pretty fucking perverted myself. And if that man is going to eat my pussy like he’s starved for days and he’s eating it like he’ll immediately die if he doesn’t eat enough pussy, I’m going to really want to be the pussy who saves his life. I want him to want to eat it like his desire to do so is because he fucking loves to do it. His passion and hunger just to make me feel extreme pleasure, well… the thought of it just now is making me become aroused. I love feeling desired. That he hungers for something that he needs to have from me, and in order to watch his actions give me the most mind blowing, intense and insane pleasure again and again and again…. Mmm..


Make kitty purr or off with your head! πŸ˜†

….I got a little distracted there. I had to take a break. Only five minutes because it only takes me four to get myself off. I apologize for the short interruption. But Iguess it’snot appropriate to just say, “Excuse me, but I’m going to have to be right back. I gotta go flick the bean,” even though I know you ladies spend so much time solo-fucking. For example, of all the sex toys that are designed, created and sold why is it that over 90% of these toys are designed to please women? There’s no way you girls are perverts. We are! But you girls don’t want be to think that. Why? More than likely, if you tell your man, after reading this insightful, life changing blog and you’re thinking that I’ve got a good point. Tell your man that you want him to fuck you tonight with thr 8″ hot pink dildo equipped with variable speed controls, the clit wand, a remote control and when you use the other end a tiny rubber device attached is going to suck that clit into nine levels of heaven. How do you think he’d respond? Tell you that your a sick, perverted little fuck? No! His clothes will fly off the second you say the first three words… “I want you to fuck me…”

So stop being a timid little lamb. Girls, we don’t have to play dumb or pure in order to have a man desire us. We have almost equal rights and we make almost as much money as they do, now. It’s the 21st century. No more damsel in distress! And fucking stop believing that by being open about your true desires or secret fantasies are going to make Jesus cry and then decide to live with all the shame that Jesus taught you from childhood about being sluts, whores, dirty, unclassy women who no man will ever marry. Fuck, I’ve been married twice, stalked 7 times and my online dating profiles with men who are flooding my inbox with offers of castles, cars, true love and probably quite a few dick pics. And you’re thinking it’s because guys think I’m easy. I love sex, fucking, all of the positions, possibilities and acts. I’m writing a blog openly about my high sex drive. I’ll tell you, very few men have ever rejected me because of my nonexistent shame and purity and I was only rejected once for not being a Jesus fan, but it was by a guy who asked me to stick my big toe in his asshole. Actually, two: a catholic priest. Hahaha! What? Too soon to make a joke? Lol


“Too far with the priest joke, but I still laugh when I grab them by the pussy. ” Don’t attack me, Trump worshippers, I know it’s fake news. He didn’t ever say that because I just made up the first six words of the quote

And for the record, I’m not a whore, I’m not easy to get into bed and I don’t just walk around ripping mens penises out of their pants and immediately sucking them off.


Or do I?


The reason why I think that men desire me is because of these four factors: (and also, I’m hot)

  • I didn’t grow up influenced by organized religion. I don’t have any ideas of being sinful or disappointing to my parents or peers and especially not to Jesus. (the selfless superior being who sacrificed himself so that my soul was redeemed) From my experiences in life, nothing is free, and if it’s offered as such than you’re currency. The product in trade. Ladies, fuck off with your Jesus guilt! I promise, Him and your Grandma aren’t watching you suck chocolate pudding from a strippers asshole and then spitting it in your man’s mouth. If they were watching you, what the fuck is up with their sick minds?
  • Desire. I desire to be touched. I love and want my partner to suck my soul from my cunt and after I cum, I want him to keep going until I cum again and again and again. Men love to make us feel sexual excitement. It’s kinda about their ego and how much of a man they are to make you have a seizure and lose mobility in your legs for an hour afterwards because he gave you the most earth-shattering orgasm that you can’t walk. You have been fucked into disability. In all honesty, they love pleasuring us, more especially if they love us.. They love that shit! Know who else does? Me, because OH. MY. GOD that was fucking hot.
  • I’m open, direct, not shy and I initiate. I don’t get embarrassed talking openly about sex to anyone. Like anyone! I feel no shame from having sex. I’m a biological organism with chemicals and hormones that program me into wanting to get fucked bent over the coffee table in his grandma’s house. Sure, it’s a different balance of programming for each of us, but it’s there. Most women will deny that part of them mentally, even saying that they don’t like it, or they’re unable to have an orgasm. If it’s not because of a physical issue, it’s a mental block. Breeding is a strong survival instinct. Hard to say no to.
  • Sex is fun. It’s so much fun. See, I’m open minded, I listen to and obey my biological urges, and I fucking enjoy fucking so much. So, when you don’t have any outside trauma or bad experiences, or feel ashamed for hurting Jesus’s feelings, then why can’t you desire his cock deep into your cervix as your body gives waves and waves of pure pleasure over your entire body, again and again and again. Your brain is flooded with dopamine, adrenaline, serotonin and oxytocin. (All of the happy-good feeling hormones and chemicals in your brain that cause you to be happier, relaxed, and more bonded with your partner). Plus, ten minutes of vigorous sex burns roughly 370 calories. I know of no treadmill that does that and it’s not boring as fuck.


I spoke to a young man who said that he doesn’t even really enjoy blow jobs. Like-whoa, mutha fuckah! What??? Then I asked him if he had a dick, did it work, and is he sure? Turns out that he had all of that and was very sure. I had to ask why, then? Men have started wars, ruined families, committed murders and more just to please that pecker pole, so we all know that it’s pretty hard to swallow (you catching on to my word play and innuendos yet?) that this young man just said no. Not really interested in one. It was a little sad. But he did explain why, and not like he was bitching or trashing women (and reassured me that he was not gay), he simply said that he thinks that women don’t like his dick. Which was absurd! I’ve seen it (Dick pick PM) (I’m lying) up close and personal. It was a very nice dick indeed. I told him that’s obviously not the reason. But see, he was concerned because even though he did receive blow jobs, the woman didn’t do it like in porn or his buddies wife whom he heard of. No excitement, he said. No enjoyment, no motivation, acted like it was a chore and barely even knew how. And catch this: they never swallowed!!! They didn’t even spit, these princess prissy-ass ametures. They just stopped and he’d cum on myself. He said it wasn’t much fun and never understood the hype. Ladies, I got this shit figured out from Cosmopolitan in my teen years. I don’t like looking stupid like I didn’t know how to do something and sex interests me, so I learned a lot. I’ll share a few tips for you preschoolers at the end of the blog. But my point is this: if he kissed you like that, or chomped on your box like he was counting down the seconds he could stop… wouldn’t you feel undesirable? Hurt?


Ladies, these are the levels, don’t play if you aren’t immortal.

And ok, this question is primarily directed at a certain type of woman and you know her, you’ll see her in your mind as soon as I describe her. Those upper middle class, short bobbed, two-tone died hair in Starbucks ordering a pumpkin spice latte wearing pastel pink yoga pants, a visor, a down jacket with a turtle neck, no socks, slip on shiny silver Sketchers and far, far too many heavy diamonds on all of her 50 pieces of the set. Pretty much a Karen. Yeah, those cunts, I need to know: why in world do you all just lay there like a dead plant (I know the term is dead fish, but even dead fish move more than this savage bitch) and don’t move, always on the bottom position, and expect him to do all the work, please you and then walk off feeling good about it all? If you were wondering why, Karen, your man can’t find your clit, it’s because you’re not spreading your legs apart and sitting on his happy grinning face. That, or he probably lost his desire to locate it because he’s on his way to Samantha’s (the families hired maid) after coffee and going on a run. Samantha turns upside down and she’s not satisfied until his dick is so far in her throat that her eyes water tears and she gagged so hard a couple of times she puked a little. Go Samantha! You are our new team mascot!


Ooooo…. burn, Samantha. Burn. πŸ”₯

So, ladies, I don’t want you to think I’m asking you to do anything at all that would make you uncomfortable or put yourself in a situation where you’d get hurt. Despite my colorful and creative rambling I was trying to share a very simple message. I promised you some tips. You take off with it as far as you like, or fuck off and continue your miserable life. Or maybe go initiate sex and swallow for once?

  • Show him that you desire him. If you actually don’t desire him, then you should move on and stop wasting your time and his. Initiate sex. Touch his body, be affectionate. If you’re interested in other, more fun and exciting ways just contact me. I’m full of exciting material
  • Talk about sex. Often as you can or want to. Be honest. Express yourself and your needs. Flirt, send a nude, bite his neck. Whatever. But the most beneficial thing is to communicate. Secondly, do not judge or ridicule your partner. You don’t have to like the idea that he wants to put his thumb in your ass during doggy. You absolutely don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, but don’t judge him. Accept it and move forward.
  • And ladies, seriously. I’m so disappointed in you. Look, if you’re going to suck cock, you fucking suck that cock! Don’t stop, complain, whine, or half ass it. You get that cock oiled up with your drool and you suck on it like it’s the only source of oxygen you have. And to the Spitter-Bimbos: you are so dumb. It’s way more messy and it stays in your mouth longer when you spit. Trick is to put his tip to the back towards your throat right as he starts to cum. The cum slides down your throat, there’s hardly a taste, no messy sticky stuff to clean up and the smile on his face will tell you that he thinks you are a magical beautiful sex Goddess who has just granted him the one thing he’s always wanted for Christmas, every year for 23 years. And you cold, sociopathic, heartless, black soul little hoes who just stop? I have no advice other than to say stop trying to play house and tickle his wee-wee. Trust me, your man will be very grateful that you did.
  • Lastly, I write only from experience and for my own amusement. I’m not a doctor nor do I play one on TV. The libido can disappear for many reasons, some being physical. Visit your doctor if you feel that might be an issue. Health comes first.
  • Women, do not ever, EVER, do things you don’t want. Don’t jeopardize your self respect, your personal morals or do something just because he might leave you. If he wants to leave, an awesome blow job or anal or a threescore… it will delay the inevitable. Don’t lose yourself in the process and then blame yourself when he leaves anyway.
  • Love yourself. Know yourself. What are you good at, do you spend time caring for yourself? Do you take pride in your accomplishments and can you sit alone in a room for hours and say that you enjoy the company you keep? Confidence is sexy as fuckall. You can’t fake it either. But you can be it.

So, men really aren’t sexual heathens (well, with a lot of exceptions, lol) and it’s not really a problem for a couple who feel comfortable with each other, communicate and enjoying the moment together. Like I always say, “Find yourself a man who fucking loves you, and loves fucking you.”


Your’s Truly, April Gray

Ineffable

If you’ve ever listened close to silence,

I’m sure that you have heard,

The gentle constant ringing,

In the small space between two words.

When you really pay attention,

You’ll find it’s not just in your head,

But instead it whispers of the words,

The one that was left unsaid.

It’s the, “I love you,” left unspoken

And a mother’s last goodbye,

That she never had the chance to say,

Before her daughter died.

It’s the forgiveness never given,

And an apology left too late,

That would have saved a best friend’s life,

If they had known that it could not wait.

It’s a phrase that could help them,

And it’s scars that could heal,

It’s the words from those too scared to say,

The truth of how they feel.

But you do have an advantage,

For you’re still alive to speak the words that could help save a life,

Or give strength to someone weak,

So may you never leave unspoken,

Words the world ought to hear…

Before they just become more ringing in another person’s ear.

Misanthrope


I peek through blinds that are tightly drawn,
Shocked by the glow of the breaking dawn.
I shun the brilliance of another day.
Enslaved and entombed, I stay hidden away.

The night was long as I lay awake,
Anxiety choking like a poisonous snake.
My self-hatred grows like some malady
That I pray will soon be the death of me.

Being hated and scorned is painful indeed,
And that love can be torture, we all must concede,
But to be ignored and forgotten can vanquish one’s heart
Until it’s in pieces, just shattered apart.

To feel nonexistent is so hard to abide,
When you know that your heart is still beating inside.
And how do you save your sinking soul,
When you feel yourself plummeting into that hole?

My dreams don’t provide any rest or relief;
They only replay my regrets and my grief.
I honestly don’t know how I came to this place,
But it’s clear to me now that there is no escape.

You may call me weak and lowly at best.
I’m trapped in self-pity, I must confess.
I long for some quiet, just a moment of peace,
But my negative voice refuses to cease.

My greatest enemy resides within,
But how can I battle myself and win?
I find this a callous, duplicitous life,
Not worth any effort to fight the good fight.

Surviving, instead of living each day,
Sheltered inside sturdy walls I create.
Fleeting moments when hope will linger so nigh,
But those feelings of wretchedness still once again rise.

Getting through every moment and each empty day,
Feeling lost and panicked in this chaotic maze.
Still not giving up and not giving in,
With my greatest fear being that it won’t ever end.

April Gray

The End of a Rope


They say that happiness will find you, But I think sadness finds you too,
It sneaks up on you in darkness,
Just when you think you’ve made it through,
It opens holes in what was solid ground, The kind you never know are there,
Until you go to take another step,
And find you’re standing over air,
The world around you passes by,
In blurs of colour and sound,
Nothing around you making sense,
As you continue your plummet down,
You can’t remember how it started,
And you don’t know when it will end,
But you know that you’d give anything,
To stand up on your feet again,
Sadness is that feeling,
When the falling doesn’t stop,
And it saps your life of meaning,
And all the good things that you’ve got,
So when you finally hit rock bottom,
And you look back up at the sky,
What you once had seems so far away,
The only thing left to do is cry,
People all say out “save yourself”,
Calling things about “happiness” and “hope”,
But they’re too busy with their lives to realize,
It’d be a lot quicker if they just let me down a rope.


Truly yours, April Gray πŸ–€

Sharing Means Caring

The History of One Tough Motherfucker, by Charles Bukowski

Henry Charles Bukowski (born Heinrich Karl Bukowski; August 16, 1920 – March 9, 1994) was a German-American poet, novelist, and short story writer.
Charles Bukowski



he came to the door one night wet thin beaten and
terrorized
a white cross-eyed tailless cat
I took him in and fed him and he stayed
grew to trust me until a friend drove up the driveway
and ran him over
I took what was left to a vet who said,”not much
chance…give him these pills…his backbone
is crushed, but is was crushed before and somehow
mended, if he lives he’ll never walk, look at
these x-rays, he’s been shot, look here, the pellets
are still there…also, he once had a tail, somebody
cut it off…”
I took the cat back, it was a hot summer, one of the
hottest in decades, I put him on the bathroom
floor, gave him water and pills, he wouldn’t eat, he
wouldn’t touch the water, I dipped my finger into it
and wet his mouth and I talked to him, I didn’t go any-
where, I put in a lot of bathroom time and talked to
him and gently touched him and he looked back at
me with those pale blue crossed eyes and as the days went
by he made his first move
dragging himself forward by his front legs
(the rear ones wouldn’t work)
he made it to the litter box
crawled over and in,
it was like the trumpet of possible victory
blowing in that bathroom and into the city, I
related to that cat-I’d had it bad, not that
bad but bad enough
one morning he got up, stood up, fell back down and
just looked at me.
“you can make it,” I said to him.
he kept trying, getting up falling down, finally
he walked a few steps, he was like a drunk, the
rear legs just didn’t want to do it and he fell again, rested,
then got up.
you know the rest: now he’s better than ever, cross-eyed
almost toothless, but the grace is back, and that look in
his eyes never left…
and now sometimes I’m interviewed, they want to hear about
life and literature and I get drunk and hold up my cross-eyed,
shot, runover de-tailed cat and I say,”look, look
at this!”
but they don’t understand, they say something like,”you
say you’ve been influenced by Celine?”
“no,” I hold the cat up,”by what happens, by
things like this, by this, by this!”
I shake the cat, hold him up in
the smoky and drunken light, he’s relaxed he knows…
it’s then that the interviews end
although I am proud sometimes when I see the pictures
later and there I am and there is the cat and we are photo-
graphed together.
he too knows it’s bullshit but that somehow it all helps.

“I knew I was strong, and maybe like they said, ‘Crazy But I had this fee.ing insid. of me, that something real was there.”

Charles Bukowski

Thanks for letting me share one of my favorite poets.

Forever your’s,

April Gray

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