This one time, I was in love.

But he drank until his mind turned into a vapor and his thoughts stained everything, vicious and putrid, until he was wondering one thing after the next out loud and inside and all I had to talk to were the memories of his feelings soaked into the walls.


But he smiled so big his face hardly held his lips, his teeth, his laugh. He sang songs to me, sometimes with those very vapors and sometimes drenched in THC and secrets and all the world constantly watching him, to him. He lived in his head and every now and then he placated me with a word or a sound or a caricature of affection that was so diluted I had to wonder if he learned it from a show.


But he kept wandering in his mind and with his feet and with his attitude and with his intentions and nothing was ever the same as it was the day before. And I always felt like I was standing on the edge of a cliff that would smash me into thin ice if I fell. And I always felt like some type of backup or a default just in case he never found anyone else to deal with all that vapor, just in case he was as odd as he thought.


This one time, I was in love and it felt like slipping constantly behind mirror after mirror after mirror and hearing him talk and laugh and scream to himself but losing sight of him more and more. By the end I was the only one left and I was the only one I could see and I still can’t really see around myself. Not really.


But I don’t leak vapor and I don’t find myself sinking into the floor and sometimes I’m okay with being the only one I can love as much as I love my sons. Sometimes I look down and I’m okay with my feet being bolted to the ground, with my heart staying intact in one place and not knowing how to dislodge it, how to give it, how to share it.


This one time, I was in love and I decided it was okay to let that die and let me live.

Atlanta pt. 0

So. We’re moving back to Atlanta.


I gave it some deep thought. I want the people who make my life miserable, consistently, to stay out of my life. But I can do that with less isolation.


It’s too early. My farmhouse in the woods on top of a mountain will be waiting for me someday. For now, I’ll exist. And I’ll find new people to talk to that don’t make my stomach churn. I’ll reconnect with friends I adored and permanently get rid of anyone else.


I’ve learned to keep people I once blocked on my block list. To not give boring men an audience. I may have lost some of my greater social skills but I’ve gained the motivation to write again, the ability to see where my problems are, and clarity. I gained a bit of peace here.


Alabama has done well for me. And now we make the plans to go back to the hell that is Atlanta. But maybe this time it won’t be a hell.


Maybe this time I will pay more attention to being well than I do to fitting into some puzzle I can’t figure out.




I have a very small audience. Super small. Miniscule, even.

Part of me wants to grow this audience to benefit my future writing career. A bigger part of me, though, wants to just write what I feel and ignore the growth potential. This is a huge part of my life that seems to cover every area.

Wanting to just keep everything to myself.

I have a very small group of friends/people that I talk to, and that group gets smaller every day.

Part of me wants to grow it, to branch out, to talk to people. But a bigger part of me wants to stick to myself and these two Booger Butts and call it a day. I’ve been dealing with my want for social broadening lately and decided, eh, let’s try it? What a mistake.

… … …

This will jump around a bit but I’m only ever talking to myself, so who cares?

I had a daydream that I saved Urijah from someone trying to kill him and ended up in jail. In solitary confinement. Stuck to myself all day and night and only ever having communication when it comes to getting my food, if even then. And for some reason this was such a great daydream. I felt a calm about it. Sitting in some dirty room with nothing and no one until I just petered out of existence. With nothing but my brain and maybe, if I was lucky at all, paper and pen. Even if I wasn’t that lucky, the thought of being alone forever seemed grand.

The fact that this excites me is a problem, I think, but I wonder if I’m fighting the wrong way. Maybe I should just embrace that. Not let myself get pulled back in by artificial nice guys and lesbians who are already in love with someone else. Maybe I should keep moving forward and stop looking back, and maybe forward leads me and the young sir somewhere lonesome. Somewhere that is just us, except when it’s just us and The Boy Chin Wonder.

… … …

I won’t delete my social accounts again, even though I wanted to. I came close today. But I’ll try my best to stay off of them and in my own world. I’ll fight for my family, for us. I’m so sick of everyone – liberals and conservatives and everyone else. Adults and teens and anti-this and religion and just everything that exists outside of my home. I am sick of arguing and hearing arguments.

To be perfectly honest, I’d rather get a shotgun and a secluded house and argue with gunshots at this point. I’m tired of no one getting ANYTHING. And I think I’ll live in the philosophy that you don’t have to get anything. I can definitely GIVE you these hands/these bullets/this pain, though.

We can share.

Before I die I will figure out how to distance myself and still survive. I can’t imagine keeping in touch with people anymore. I’m done with it.


Let us depart.



I haven’t blogged for public consumption in quite some time.

And, even when I did, I didn’t put much effort into promotion. I didn’t really expect strangers to read what I wrote and engage with me. I’ve never felt like much of a public persona, a personality, or even just someone with a valuable opinion. I’m somewhat nihilistic, highly depressive, outrageously reserved and in a sort of solitude that I created for myself.

Want some cheese with that whine type of deal, all the time.

Lately, though, I’ve been wondering if I should build on these things. Watching the world go by is okay. I wonder if it would want to watch me. Us. Dude Ranch and The Boy Chin Wonder and Mashu.

There’s something to give in every situation. I might put myself back in the world again, slowly and surely, and with more thought than before. I might see how this thing goes.


Love is nothing without tragedy.

It’s a boring lump of bookends. The beginning and the end. It’s a bit of highlights.

Without tragedy, love doesn’t translate. It’s nothing.


It’s absolutely nothing.


I’m out here sleeping and working on stories and nothing else.

Which isn’t really too bad. I’ve needed to get back into my own stories for quite some time, right? But I have to work or I don’t get paid and we die in here. WE DIE.

So I’m still trying to find a balance. But I like working on my stories – it’s what I was made to do. What I trained myself to do as a young scrappy dark baby thing WHATEVER.

And I really needed the sleep – it just seems like it all piles up at once and I end up sleeping for weeks instead of just sleeping at night. After that I’m just up. Really up.

But Astrid is living healthy. And Chaunce. And Kelsey. And Paloma. And Noah. And all o’dem, gyal. So that’s a start.


Getting somewhere slow, slow, slow.



This little break, this move in general, is definitely serving a purpose. I felt like bags of rocks were sinking me the past few days. No work, no games, no nothing. Just Astrid and various people existing in my head. And I thought this was something bad.

But now I have a plan and a better understanding of what I want. What I need to do. Where I left off.

I’m not on the good side of young anymore. Not for long, at least. I’m somewhere hanging on the edge, a bit toward that part where you have to fight a little harder for people to notice and acknowledge you. But being 28 is not a bad thing. Being a hermit isn’t either. But working this business I hate and enjoying everyone else’s existence but my own is not exactly great.

So I’m moving forward.

When I sit and think about it, I want to do creative things more often than not. I will probably end up either back in Atlanta or in Seattle or in Cali somewhere. I’ve been thinking about these things. I want to brand myself with my own personality for once, and to actually keep it up.

Lose weight. Gain skills. Buy things I like. Find a place to BE for me and Urijah. Stop daydreaming about real people and leave it to characters.



I don’t like people.

It’s a thing that grows more and more every day. Even when I have a good, natural time with someone, I understand that it won’t happen again. In the back of my head, laughter squinching my eyes, I understand that I’d rather be at home and I will be at home. This doesn’t go away. It’s hovering in every interaction – shit, even in online interactions.

Some part of me understands that I am very typical, but in a way that’s abnormal. Don’t ask me to explain that. And, no, it’s not in a ‘I’m a bit better than people’ type of way. I’m just a normal bitch that’s fucking odd. An odd woman in a sea of normality. Standing outside of the glass all the time, trying slightly to figure out where the door is.

I don’t dress well. I’m not conventionally pretty but I find myself to be gorgeous. I’m a huge talker but I get very bored listening these days. I am bi-sexual, I am agnostic, I am a lot of in-betweens.

Ambiguous, as a worthless ex put it.

There are ways to define me and my relationships with others but I don’t know how to fix my mouth to say them. It’s borderline Autism, but I expect I only think that because I have an autistic son. It’s amazing how someone else’s condition can paint your experiences. Everything looks like autism now.

I was told by a lovely group of women who provided me an escape I haven’t had in over ten years that I need friends. I need a tribe. I need to know other women who have autistic children. Who write. Who read. Who compliment me and my dry sarcasm. That’s such a specific subset that the very thought is depressing.

Part of me wishes I could turn all my long ass day dreams into reality. That I could make my own West World and disappear into it and never invite anyone else in. Fuck, could you IMAGINE the chaos that world would be? The vicious detail and all that fucking hair?

I don’t know about friends. I don’t know about relationships. I don’t know about casual interaction or even keeping up with old friends and making new ones.

I know I like it here, inside my house. I know I love it when it’s me and Urijah here, laughing and running around. I know I love lazing about in bed thinking up stories, taking Astrid on this adventure or that one.


I know it’s kinda better being alone.


What do I look like?

Seriously. I haven’t taken a real photo in years. Camera phones make it hard to really commit to going out and buy an expensive camera and fix the aperture and shutter speeds to my liking and just click and clack away. I miss it in an odd way, but I haven’t really put any thought into putting the money aside.

I know my weight (a whopping but unreliable 240 – it’s all belly, dude). I know my skin and my growing hair and my slim waist. I know my gut, my big feet, my pretty teeth that are slowly becoming not so pretty (oh, the horrors). But I don’t really know what I look like from any position other than where my bad eyes can see.

Oh man, my bad ass eyes.

So I finally got them checked and I have¬†Anisometropia:¬†one eye near-sighted, one eye far-sighted. It makes a lot of sense. I haven’t been able to make real eye contact in a long time, not without feeling my vision blur. I have to blur my own eyes a lot to keep them from hurting. I try to do that one thing Mrs. Llenin (my fourth grade teacher) taught me – look at a tiny point in the distance and focus. She claimed it helped eye health. Sounds like bullshit now.


Here I am, terrible eyes, unbothered reflection. When am I going to see ME again? When will I start taking photos of the world as I see it again, walking around and stealing glances and taking those things with me forever. When?

Soon, I’m sure.