Out of Commission.

I have royally fucked up my back. I don't know how, but I have been almost completely bedridden since Sunday night. It started twinging and waking me up in the middle of the night about a month ago, but last week I seemed to have done something that has triggered a complete and total spinal meltdown.

On top of this, I have a chest cold or bronchitis or something like that. Yesterday, to add to the fabulous back pain that had me up at 4 a.m. and at the doctor's office at 9 a.m begging for some sort of relief, I also awakened to a 102F temperature and a sore throat, with a persistent cough that feels like it's breaking my tail bone in half every time it makes an appearance.

Needless to say, it has not been a fun week. I am so doped up on pain meds that I can't stay awake for more than like, 3 hours at a time, and since I can't sit at all without pain, the computer and therefore photo editing has been a no-go.

Suckity suck suck. Colin has been off two weeks and there has not been one day of it where all three of us have been well enough to do anything.

Anyway. Just wanted to let y'all know what's up and why I've been scarce. Please send any good thoughts you can spare my way - I truly need it right now. :/

I don't get it.

There is a woman in one of my LJ parenting communities talking about what a rough time she's having because she has a 2 year old, an 8 month old, and she's 11 weeks pregnant.

....

Now, fair enough, she says the last was one wasn't planned, but WHUT. I just...I mean, I don't know what you would expect with kids and pregnancies spaced like that. Maybe it's just because I can't even fathom being in her shoes, but damn. I feel bad for her, but at the same time, I'm just kind of like, DUH.

Fangirl Post

So.effing.hawt.

Dreams

#1 - Friend X has created a wonderful work by combining many previous images in a new way. He has a complicated explanation for the reworking - something to do with "amorphous amber blobs" - but it has created a really amazing end result. The photos all blend into one another, kind of like a montage in a film. They start off really abstract but become progressively more clear. Towards the end, there are two or three collaborations between the two of us, in a kind of awkward embrace. The last five or six images are Friend X and his wife - she starts off in a saintly pose then becomes more aware of the camera, at the end becoming quite violent and in your face. The last frame is her face morphing from calm and serene to distorted with anger.

I somehow end up on Friend X's bed, where the last photos had taken place. There are no words, we just begin to make out furiously - it seems to last forever, the thrashing and rolling all over the bed - we remain fully clothed, but it's strangely intense. When it's over, we sit up - my mouth is bruised from such forceful kissing - and suddenly, X's wife appears at the opposite end of the bed, in a rage. I jump up, smooth out my clothes and say, "Well, that was...interesting." As I walk to the bathroom, I can hear her screaming obscenities at both myself and Friend X. Once inside, I lock the door. After a few minutes of yelling, X comes and knocks on the door, when I open it, he steps inside and re-locks it. There is some brief conversation where I reveal that even though I can "take care of myself" I worry that X's wife might "beat my ass" if she gets to where I am. He decides to sneak me out to his truck. X's wife is still screaming at him and telling him to get back inside, but he manages to get us both into the truck and onto the road. There's more conversation at this point centering around how things weren't supposed to happen this way. Fade out...

#2 - I'm working in some sort of hotel/restaurant. There is a big party happening, though I can't figure out if I'm working or attending. Everyone seems to be getting off with everyone else - L from current job meets some guy and takes him into a storage room where the three of us outside it can clearly here every very loud exclamation from within. I call her a dirty motherfucker because I know she's dating R, who is also at the party. Some time later, I'm relaying this story to a small group of people and R overhears me. He starts crying, and I apologize over and over for being so crass. I keep hugging him even though he faintly disgusts me (not a fan of L or R in real life.)

Skip forward and Nikki from Heroes is at the party, asking my advice about something. I know she also has had a brief affair with someone on this night, and for some reason, he left his pants hanging under her coat in the cloakroom. These are apricot colored trackies. o.O Anyhow, I have a luggage cart, and I put the coat and pants on it. I stroll past the table Nikki is sitting at and brightly ask if anyone is up for "pants pie." She looks really surprised, then hurt. A few minutes later, she corners me at the elevator and asks me why I did that. I feel really bad and tell her I was just trying to be funny with the whole pants pie thing, and I'm sorry if I hurt her feelings. She tells me she was really trusting me to be a friend to her and I let her down. I feel terrible and keep apologizing.

I think this is part of the same dream, though it's kind of out of place. We're in a big hall somewhere and there's a massive American sculpture about to be revealed. It's covered with a tarp, and there are lots of people gathering. I'm at the front of the crowd, on the sidelines with a friend, watching all these people coming together at the base of the statue. They're all American and there to promote this work of art by marching and singing patriotic songs as it's revealed. I see Felix there in a blue baseball cap and point him out to my friend, telling her that's my ex-husband. She seems amused. After the reveal, the march, and the singing, we're in a sort of conference room in a hotel. All of the sudden, a huge group of friends from high school break out of the crowd and head my way. I shout, "Fellow Americans!" and run to greet them. Ben (11th grade boyfriend) is there, big as ever, and I shout "Bingo!" (high school nickname) and jump up on him to give him a hug. He swings me around and we're genuinely thrilled to see each other. I chat to the others for a while, then go sit with my boyfriend, the awesomely awesome SIMON PEGG. We're all trying to think of something to do when I say, "I know! We'll watch Shaun Of The Dead!" Everyone cheers, and I yell, "Shaun Of The Dead, for the win!" (This makes me laugh. Damn Livejournal speak. In my head, I actually saw it as, "Shaun Of The Dead, FTW!" Hah.)

Simon and I go the closet of what is now apparently our house. It's chock full of movies and books and we have some trouble locating the Shaun DVD. We have this conversation.

Me: Simon. How many times have we cleaned this closet out over the last year?

Simon: Hm. A few?

Me: Maybe we should think of organizing it a little bit better?

Simon: Maybe we should pick another DVD?

Me: No! They want Shaun Of The Dead. We shall give them Shaun Of The Dead. Ah! Here it is.

Then we just stand there in the closet and make out for like, five minutes, and it's so nice and warm and cuddly, and his little beard is all scratchy in the most delicious way.

--

Then I woke up and was pleased I dreamed about Simon since I love him so, and that made up for the rest of the night's madness.

ETA I had to put this in. Shaun love!

Two ancient crows on the weathered wall,
a December rose between them,
feather to petal to feather to stone,
the wind weaves winter ribbons through my hair.

I see your face in the muddy puddles and
I step inside your mouth as the
first raindrops fall, light as a lick, they taste of
tears and dusty boots, they smell like a lie.

Trailing pieces of soul through the old bones
There's a hole in my pocket and
all the what-could've-beens keep falling through,
breadcrumbs of breathless dreams beneath my heels.

The smoke lingers here where shells can't catch fire
Under the tree, I breathe you in
Suck flames from my fingertips and savour
your beautiful ashes, then I blow you out.

Why?

Why, why, why, why.

I don't understand why I do the things I do and end up in the situations I end up in. Or maybe I do understand but can't figure out how to stop myself. Or maybe I know how to stop myself and don't want to. Or maybe I do want to and am just hopeless.

My heart is breaking a little right now and it's pretty much entirely my fault. Again.

I wish I could be somebody else for today and wake up tomorrow and not feel this.

Sex, Love, and Stuff.

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about sexuality and love.

There was a time when I viewed most males through the lens of my sexuality – more specifically, in terms of how to use my own sexuality to connect with them. Most men fell into one of three categories: those I could innocently flirt with who would flirt back, those who I wouldn’t flirt with for whatever reason, and those who I would inevitably end up fucking. Any male who fell outside all three categories was generally under the age of consent.

There is a huge power trip associated with asserting your sexuality, for me, anyway. As long as I was wanted, I was happy. I thrived on the attention of men. When I was in my late teens and early twenties, really basking in the twilight of my adolescent beauty, I felt confident that I could have any man I wanted. I tested the theory a few times – once with a man I worked with who was 20 years older than me with five kids, another time with a guy I felt was unapproachable in high school, one summer with a perfect stranger I met in a bar – and my offer was accepted each time. This is obviously duh territory because, well, duh – it’s not as if I was propositioning Adonis, you know? But I remained convinced of my prowess. I was young, gainfully employed, attractive, and it seemed the world of men lay at my feet.

I primped and powdered and tanned daily, highlighted and manicured monthly. My toenails were never unpainted and if there was even a chance of someone attractive ending up in the same place as me, there was a full body shave in the shower beforehand.

I had perfume for my body, perfume for my hair, I scoured women’s and men’s mags for hints and tips on how to give the best blowjob ever and I am fairly sure I have achieved just that on numerous occasions, at least for the recipient in question. I lived for the thrill of the first brush of his hand on mine, the first slip of tongue, the first unzipping of jeans or hiking up of skirt, for the near palpable excitement surrounding the first fuck.

Even after I was married the first time, I never really stopped. This time I had what I viewed as a real reason to not take things any further and in a way, that made it all the sweeter. I flirted my ass off at work, with my ex’s friends, their girlfriends. I was intoxicated with being grown up and living in NYC – I was broke as hell, living on cereal and peanut butter some weeks, but I still knew how to work it. Two friends fell in love with me, though I never meant for that to happen, but I will admit it both thrilled and scared the shit out of me.

And then.

I met Colin.

The need to subtly dominate every penis I came across disappeared virtually overnight. My every thought was of him, how to make him happy, how to work this long-distance thing out, how to get here or get him there, how to make another marriage work when I’d failed so miserably at the last, how to make this last a lifetime. I was too busy scheming and saving and planning and being madly in love to give too much though to who thought my ass looked hot in the dress I was wearing. I went weeks without shaving. I started smoking weed. I masturbated furiously.

It was a weird time.

The years have passed and I’m not even sure what’s left of that fiery and all consuming need to entice I once possessed. There is something about the security in a long-term relationship, about sleeping every night in the same bed as the man who has fathered my child, that lulls me into a kind of passive sexuality. I can barely remember the thrill of the chase any more, that need to push and push at someone’s boundaries until they give in, the primal triumph at the moment I know it’s in the bag. I look back on it with a mixture of slight disgust and misty remembrance – much like the way I recall my first love.

Which brings me to the love part.

I have this friend. We have a ton in common, we get along really well, we talk often. I respect this person a great deal, and really value their friendship. I have deep affection for them and am happy to have someone so inspiring in my life.

I have a few other friends like this. When we talk or email, we almost always sign off with “Love you!” I am a naturally affectionate person, and so are they. I like that we’re able to be so open with each other. It actually means the world to me that I have friends who love me enough to tell me so, plainly and without embarrassment.

My friend up above? He is of the male persuasion, as you may have guessed. And I’m stumped. There really should be no reason why I’m not able to be as open with him as I am with my girlfriends, other than the obvious fact that he has different equipment. I have a huge heart. I love an awful lot of people to varying degrees. It’s not that I don’t take love seriously; it’s just that I believe love branches out in so many directions with so many different levels and meanings. It annoys me that I have been conditioned to think that I can’t love a friend with a penis in more or less the same way as my friend with a vagina. There have been a couple of times where I’ve very nearly written, “Love you!” at the end of an email or thrown it in at the end of a conversation, but I always stop myself, simply because of the dick factor. I don’t know, it just seems silly to me. To think loving a male friend means I want to have his babies is ridiculous. Love is love is love. If I can love my girlfriends for the joy they bring to my life, I can love this friend for the same thing, and it’s no betrayal of anything. It is what it is.

And that’s about all I’ve got to say about that.

ETA: I'm not trying to wax poetic about how messed up I used to be. I fully realize that seeking approval in every man I met was not healthy, and I would never want to be that person again. While I felt supremely alive every time I scored, I also almost always ended up desperate and depressed once the initial excitement passed. I'm in a much better place now, able to see the worth I inherently possess, worth that has nothing whatsoever to do with my ability to please a man.