Status update

All pm messages are on hold. I really suck at chatting. I have so many ‘hey baby’ ‘nice tits’ ‘watch me cum’ bullshit that I give up. You can reach me through a blog comment or a page comment. If you want to speak in private all you have to do is send me a pm to check your message. That system works because I can hit the pm button under your avatar and not scroll through hundreds of demeaning nonsense to find your post.

If you send me a page comment to check your message and all you say is High I will curse you like a dog. My method works as long as the men who do send valid messages don’t get overrun by the ‘nice tits’ men. I tried today to engage a man who just said hello. All I said was hello back. He said hello again. I raged out and told him he should’ve read my profile. I told him if he was ready for an adult conversation he could introduce himself or ask me any question. He asked me what I wanted to know. I don’t care if you discuss your job, your house or your damn dog.

But as god is my witness I will delete every version of hello, hey sexy, hi, hru without giving them a chance to proceed in conversation. I have about a solid month to write like a maniac. Then I will be sedated and the words just disappear. I’m sorry if you feel ignored. This is my time. Some men have discovered ‘little sls.’ I had a blast writing chapter two and three. I entered a total fugue state and those two chapters wrote themselves.

Chapter four will probably get super kinky. I don’t know it could be chapter five. I don’t know what these characters have planned and I don’t feel in control of a story that is writing itself. I also went deep about my metaphor for cooking in a social media kitchen. I was sad. Men missed the correlation between my imaginary cooking and my writing. Men wanted to eat my food. I was embarrassed. I don’t cook. I barely eat.

When I discuss my kitchen I’m talking about my fucking blog. What does your kitchen look like? Who would you feed? I left facebook because everyone ate tv dinners out of a kitchen with closed plaid curtains. That’s not me. I write about sex, v******e, d**gs, poverty, social injustice and more. This is my new kitchen and I’m proud of it.

My best friend visited tonight. I pulled out a box of memories looking for that picture of my tits hanging out of a rhinestone safari dress. I couldn’t find it. But I found a lot of old pictures dear to my heart. We took a deep trip down memory lane. I told her things she never knew about me. I told her about the hard times. It hurt me deeply. I may have blogged about it already or I may have just written dave a letter about my ordeal. It does sound like bullshit mountain.

I will usually keep this blog a fun-filled pleasure land. Yet it will also be a place for me to find therapy. Writing helps me cope. Before I can sleep this morning I must attempt prose. I can always rhyme but poetry with no rhythm is not my strongest asset. But I want to try. I don’t owe my dad a damn thing. Yet I still yearn to write prose about the memories I blocked out. Your memory will play tricks on you when you nearly break. When you learn the truth it shatters you in ways that hurt far worse than a cast iron pan to the back of the head.