Friday, July 30, 2010

In an odd turn of events, my sister's ex-boyfriend got into my parents' house on Wednesday night and attacked her.

PD is now telling me that he suspects the women in our family have a superpower of making men go insane over long-term vaginal exposure.

I can't really argue with that.

As a side note, lost two public followers in the last two days. Wondering if that's just due to unrelated lifestyle/reading purges or if it's due to this blog suddenly not being about me mooning over GV8, apparently betraying him, losing loyalty, being a woman of easily swayed emotions to so easily leave him and start to love another.

It's not something I find thrilling.

I'm not given to love easily, not romantic love. Nor do I flit from one man to the next. Serial monogamist, yes, but I tend to have months and months between relationships. I've never had so quick a turn around, have not ever left a man for someone else, have not cheated on a partner since I was 17.

Trying not to look too down on myself for meeting PD and swooning over him so easily. It's hard, it's weird, it's not very me.

But, on the other hand, it is the way it is. I met him when I was recovering from GV8 leaving me yet again, met him before GV8 decided to come back and claim me, was already blushing and giggly over him.

I want to be happy. I want to pursue what feels *right* to me and not worry so much of how things look to others.

I know, I know very well that I am not like most other people. So why do I keep holding myself to their storylines?

And, in another side note, one of my favorite people in the blogosphere, Sistasage posted a link to an article I really, really enjoyed. So I thought I'd share.

Thursday, July 29, 2010

I've been combatting a good deal of anxiety lately.

It's hard for me. I've always had anxiety issues, a mix between a chemical imbalance and growing up in a household that was erratically unstable. Never knowing when your father was going to go into a manic episode (though we did not know that was what was wrong at the time) was incredibly difficult to deal with, not just as a child, but as a teenager as well.

People talk a lot of Daddy issues, making the snide comments that Daddy didn't love the person in dicussion enough or loved them too much. They don't really talk about when Daddy loves them to death... but happens to go batshit insane a couple times a year.

It creates a lot of instability and, in my case, a constant fear that the people around me will be stimulated by some previously unknown (to me) trigger that will cause them to act out in extreme, irrational ways.

Which, as one might guess, causes me a good deal of anxiety in social interactions.

It has impacted my life in a lot of ways, a balance of good and bad, though, if you had to evaluate the loss of who and what I could be if I could get over this lifelong fear... it would be an overall bad impact.

Anxiety... it has kept me fairly isolated. I spent most of my youth writing, reading, playing computer games. I didn't socialize much, if I could help it, didn't really want to. And because I never learned how to interact with people in my own age demographic, I fell behind. Not homeschooling behind (most of you know what I'm talking about), but behind enough that I feel I did myself a disservice.

And it's hard to catch up.

I don't do well in new places with large crowds of people.

I hate when people get in my "personal space bubble" which tends to have a radius of about two and a half feet.

I've cultivated a social image at clubs I frequent of being cool, aloof, detached, and, I'm told, more than a bit intimidating simply because I do not feel, most nights, up to socializing. My posture, my walk, my facial expressions, body language, everything has been adjusted. And, since I'm one of the better female dancers in the club circuit I frequent, that ability on the dance floor just adds to the image.

I still spend a lot of time alone. I'm not reliant on my social circles. Movies, restaurants, social events, clubs, I go alone as often as I go with others.

As much as I distance myself from other people, I still manage to have a good deal of friends and a wide social network. Going out to new places, I nearly invariably run into someone I know. The friends I do make, I make good ones, close ones.

And since I've spent so much time alone, I've had time to write, time to think and analyze (navel gaze, some say) myself into the ground. And make changes. Fix things, fix damage that I've done to myself, damage others have done.

I'm used to being alone. I like being alone.

But, of late, my anxiety has gotten fairly intense. Not as intense as when my father had his breakdown last December, not as intense as when Darkeyes was terrorizing me the year before that. But enough to be impactful. Enough to leave me jittery for hours.

PD's been pretty good about it.

See, I'm great with casual sex, casual lovers. When it comes to someone I would actually *date*, someone I start dating with intent for something long term, the first two or three months is a batshittery of anxiety. Probably abandonment issues combined with the whole extreme reaction to odd trigger fear that my father instilled in me.

So I cling. I'm needy. The littlest thing will send me off into the deep end.

And I'll sit there and apologize to them, tell them that it'll go away, just to give me a couple months and I'll go back the the girl they asked out however long ago.

All of them have. They've sat there and held my hand, adjusted their behavior, and waited for me to get through my initial freak out stage.

And I do.

Unfortunately, this time around has been a little more hardcore than most because of leftovers from GV8.

As I've mentioned, GV8 would watch and evaluate my behavior, then judge it as suitable or not, never discussing if things were bothering him or he found behaviors unhealthy. When he reached his epic conclusion, he'd just spring it on me out of nowhere and ditch me or adjust our relationship down a level because I wasn't "x" enough to date.

So whenever PD doesn't text me, or doesn't say something I expect him to say, or has a slight frown cross his features because of something I said or did, I immediately assume it has gone into a tally against me and he's going to call me the next day or email me the next day and end it without discussion, without warning, so I'm going to go from super happy to devasted within seconds.

Makes me jumpy as hell.

Which makes me want to cling more.

Which is completely counterproductive.

So I sat down with him on Tuesday night and explained a whoooole bunch of things I had been considering lately, things like I'm afraid he's going to "surprise" me like GV8 did. That I'm getting too emotional over him too fast and it'll chase him off. That maybe he'll realize he needs time to recover from his ex. That I'm being so self-centered about all of this and he's got his own issues going on and I'm not taking them into consideration because I'm too busy freaking out. That I'm afraid he's going to realize what a wreck I am right now and he's going to ditch me.

It was a good talk.

It helped a lot.

Anxiety isn't nearly so bad now. It's still there, a hum in the back of my brain. But it is getting manageable.

I just hope that I'll be able to sort through all of this, compartmentalize all the baggage from GV8 and others and tackle it with faith in PD and faith in myself.

PD and I are taking our first mini-vacation together this weekend. Going up to Santa Barbara to be tourists and, of course, see my favorite band play. He's never seen them before, though he loves their CDs.

I'm pretty excited, all around. I'm getting happy again.

Monday, July 26, 2010

I'm unexpectedly and quite rapidly falling in love.

Odd to say, odd to think.

And so fast.

It took me near a year and some change to fall in love with Darkeyes, and even then, it was never full, never complete. Some sort of half-hearted love, carnival-food style love.

GV8, while I adored him, trusted him, respected him, he did not have my love for near six months.

This, this thing with PD which should be a rebound but never was, something that is nowhere near as intense as what I had with GV8...

And each day I look at him, I look at the creases around his eyes as he grins at me and my stomach crinkles up inside me, an unexpected, oddly pleasurable sensation. A sense of things rearranging themselves, of bonding.

Saturday, July 24, 2010

Hey there.

Well, I'm functional again. Both limbs are woking, I'm no longer forced to sit at work, typing with my left hand. What a nightmare that was, though I'm a bit more ambidextrous now, at least with typing. Fingers are more flexible, stretching across the keyboard.

Still not as fast as I am with two, of course.

It's been a bit. PD has been posting for me when I've asked him to, as you've seen. He's... upstairs...? Maybe third or fourth floor, not sure where they're shooting. It's for a feature, not for his company, but another that's fairly well known. They did some scenes with about twenty extras out in the streets around the warehouse earlier today, sat on the sidewalk with one of the art guys and quietly chatted while they filmed.

Not being able to post has been a bit weird, anxiety building a little bit as things I would normally discuss in here, issues just beneath the surface that I need a few hundred words to access, aren't addressed and fester, taking themselves out on my stomach.

I don't like not being able to write.

Anyway, things fell out basically the way PD described. I was accidentally pushed into a planter, which wouldn't have been an issue, save that the roots of the tree that the planter contained had pushed up the sidewalk around it, so I caught my foot on an edge and dropped like a rock.

Again, wouldn't have been an issue if I hadn't been wearing glasses, as I would have rolled my body into it, but since I fell face-forward, I had to catch myself on my hands in order to stop my glasses from potentially shattering into my eyes, which I barely did. The frames are black stainless steel, I heard the *dink* when the upper right corner touched down, but I managed to keep from breaking them.

Cut open my knee and the side of my right hand, dripping blood down the sidewalk from the latter as I walked to a spot where PD could grab me and take me to the hospital, as I was unable to move my arm out of a right angle.

Fortunately, he had finished shooting just before I called, so he hopped in his car and picked me up. The ER was oddly fast, the nurse on duty fairly efficient, though the x-ray tech left a good deal to be desired. They couldn't tell by the x-ray if the bone was broken or not, as I was unable to straighten my arm, even with the Vicoden in my system my muscles would not release enough.

So PD bundled me into his car, we stopped by the warehouse, grabbed a change of clothes, and headed down to my doctor's, which was a good forty-five minutes away.

Mind you, this was 3AM on Friday morning of 4th of July weekend and my doctor does not usually accept walk ins, so we had to get there when they opened the office at 830AM, be first in line. 4th of July traffic on a Friday morning was a no-go, even on the highway at 3AM it was fairly heavy, so we got a hotel room near his office.

Amusingly, the only place with a room available was at a hotel I've wanted to stay at since I was little. A little pricey, but PD was insistent that we stay there and not crash at my parents' down the way.

He got me undressed, slowly pulling my good arm out of the shirt, head through the neckhole, gently sliding the last sleeve over my bent arm, me hissing through my teeth, muscle relaxants and Vicoden still not doing enough. He undid my belt, unbuttoned my pants, moved them over my hips, underwear following suit, bra unclasped removed, tied my hair back for me, then made a pillow-mound in the bed, something that would allow me to keep my arm on level with my shoulder, my elbow on level with my wrist. Gasping as we situated it, trying not to cry out.

I fell around 8 or 9PM, I believe. Got in bed at 4AM. I had not cried.

I don't cry, whatever pain I'm in, until the situation is handled. Crying does nothing but release stress, tension, and adrenaline. The more you cry, the more it hurts, the more your body is drained, and if you are draining your body, it has to struggle more to keep moving, and your brain shuts off.

So I cry when everything is over. When it's safe for me to release.

I curled around the mound of pillows and sobbed. Exhausted, drugged, in pain, I sobbed as PD stood over me.

And then I slept.

Monday, July 12, 2010


More guest blather from DOG (Disgruntled Old Guy), The Artist Formerly Known as PD. Yes, eventually, this space will return to the conservatorship of your regularly scheduled blogger. For now, you’re stuck with me. Deal and shaddup.

Since I enjoy telling stories backwards, let me drop a few details about the weekend first.

I had a generically bad week which turned into a really shitty week on Friday. Since this isn’t my blog, I’ll spare you the details. The point in mentioning it is to underline how glad I was to see Poetry when she arrived at my loft on Saturday night, looking great and equally happy to see me.

I was even happier when she proudly slid my hand down her ass to find the butt plug she’d been wearing for the last several hours. She takes her homework very seriously, this girl.
You can infer the rest from there.

On Sunday, we slept in, completely failed to get out of bed about three times by my count, and then finally hauled our asses up to start the day. Poetry made herself extremely cute, and I did my best with jeans that no longer fit (I’ve lost a lot of weight this year) and a shirt I know she likes.

We made our way down to Venice beach to wander and people-watch. Personally, unless I’m in Jamaica or the Dominican Republic or somewhere equally resort-ish, I’m not a really “beachy” guy. As an abstract concept I love the beach, but in L.A., the beaches are cold, dirty, bum-infested and crowded. As a result, I haven’t been to Venice in, oh, five years?

We had a great time. We looked at clothes, books, art both good and bad. I copy-edited shop signs (including the hand-carved wooden sign which advertises clothing imported from “Katmandu,” wherever that is. I know Kathmandu…). We ate, snarked each other and argued about precisely how crazy Poetry is (I’m gonna vote for somewhere between “Special Olympics” and “Batshit Crazy,” but well shy of “Nurse Ratched Will See You Now.”)

We stood for a long while at the drum circle, both trying to “get it,” but failing on some mutual lack of chemical alteration and/or spiritual depth. We watched a rumored former Solid Gold dancer do some amazing moves on roller skates, which only made me more disdainful of the small flotilla of self-important punks on skateboards whom Poetry was quite enamored with.

Ah, youth. Sadly, none of them seriously injured himself while we watched. (Hey you kids! Off of my lawn! GET OFF OF MY LAWN!)

We ended the day with Poetry buying us dinner at a terrific Lebanese place where only one of the women truly looked like Jamie Farr. Over dinner, we continued a discussion about my personal brand of applied psychology and social anthropology, and the way I “read” people from a distance. Poetry is fascinated by this, and we’d been discussing how she presents herself in different situations.

We talked about how I differ from the ex, how there would have been less hand-holding, arm-in-arm walking, groping and kissing in general had this day out been with GV8. PDA, if you didn’t know, is one of Poetry’s favorite pastimes.

Which segues nicely to the point; the blog I was asked to write.

On Wednesday, with her right arms still more-or-less completely KIA, I picked Poetry up from work and took her to see her orthap├Ždist. This doctor’s office is in a very conservative part of the very conservative Orange County.

Sitting in the waiting room were a thin, young, gay Asian sales rep for a software firm, a 40-something blonde real estate agent trying too hard to hit that “vaguely sexy but completely bland” look right in the center of the bullseye, and a burly, red-faced mid-40s contractor waiting for his wife, a guy you just know was climbing into a white F-250 with a crew cab and a bedliner when they left.

The main receptionist was a surly, sour-faced, Christian, Republican, 43-year-old single mother of four who was every inch the female version of the contractor in the waiting room. She stood about 5’ 11’ and had to be three bills. If you picture the feminized John Lithgow in World According to Garp you’re right on target.

Just seeing a man her age (and aren’t all fucking men just the fucking same!) with a girl Poetry’s age turned her bitter blood to cold vitriol, and if looks were daggers I would have left in a basket. Naturally, Poetry took this as the signal that she should climb all over me in the waiting room. At one point, she even decided to sit in my lap. If it wouldn’t have led to police involvement and defeating the purpose of the trip (by getting kicked out), I’m sure she would have tried to blow me.

The realtor was scandalized. The contractor tried not to be envious. The salesman was oblivious.

Ms. Lithgow seethed hatred from behind the counter.

In a quiet attempt to keep Poetry from alienating her doctor (I was imaging some first-generation Indian immigrant who can’t look a white woman in a bikini in the eye), I stayed in the waiting room while she went inside. At one point I caught the realtor’s eye, and I realized she wasn’t seeing me; she was seeing her husband, who coaches the girls’ volleyball team, and her imagination was running rampant.

When Poetry returned from the bowels of the building, I joined her at the counter for checkout. She spent a few moments harassing the desk flunkies about details, doctor’s notes and appointments, and then asked the nurse, standing next to Ms. Lithgow, to clarify what she could and couldn’t do.

“No typing, no writing, no repetitive arm movements.”

“Oh, good,” said Poetry. “So I can still use my mouth.”

They’ll be scrubbing Ms. Lithgow’s brains off that wall for a week.

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Greetings from Jaded Junction

Nope, still not Poetry. PD again, guest-posting at Poetry's request. I offered to serve as amanuensis, but it seems she prefers I post about "whatever I like."

I think I'd like to start by requisitioning a new acronym. When Poetry told me I was "PD," which simply signifies "Porn Director" (I don't read this blog myself to give her the freedom to write whatever she damned well pleases without worrying about offending me, despite that being effectively impossible) I practically choked.

Surely, there must be something less pedestrian I can be eponymized by... Hell, I'd take Smut Peddler or Creepy Old Pervert over Porn Director.

Enough bitching. I suppose an update on Poetry's condition is in order. Her arm is likely not fractured. She definitely suffered some windshear damage to her aileron, but nothing worth ejecting over.

In other words, her arm is jacked, but she'll be fine. She's already regained a lot of mobility (not enough to type comfortably yet), and tomorrow she's taking her X-rays to an orthopaedist to get the next opinion.

I drove her to work this morning, and when I picked her up, she took me through her old hood in El Segundo on the way to a great little bar/restaurant near the beach that I gather was a regular spot for her and one of the exes.

We came back to my place, had some great sex, and I tucked Poetry into bed so I could go back to my never-ending workload. Last night, after I came to bed, she bolted upright, sat on the edge of the bed and shouted. Finally, barely conscious, she hissed, "Jesus, I thought the aliens we're attacking!"

I don't want to spoil the ending, but suffice to say aliens did not attack. I can't wait to see who's invading tonight...

Friday, July 2, 2010

Public Service Announcement

This is PD, temporarily hijacking Poetry's blog to announce that she may/will be taking a temporary leave-of-absence from posting.

I didn't do it.

She was chasing some dude with a hole in his jeans around downtown L.A. today, slipped in a planter which maliciously grabbed her ankle, plowed headlong into some unforgiving concrete and might have broken/fractured/jacked her elbow and right hand.

Which I believe is the business end of her masturbating abilities as well, so frustration of all sorts will shortly ensue.

This is my story. I'm sticking with it.

Thursday, July 1, 2010

10AM, July 1st, 2010.

This would have been my wedding day.

In about an hour, I would have been exchanging my vows with GV8 in the park my parents were married in, on their anniversary.

Right now, I'd be putting the finishing touches on my make-up, my sister hovering over me. I'd be wearing my wedding dress, something my mother insisted she should buy for me, which would have been hanging in the upstairs closet of my old bedroom until today. My father would be sitting on the edge of their bed, buttoning up the cuffs on his shirt, my mother in their bathroom, finishing her hair, checking her lipstick, then going into her closet for a pair of shoes.

I would have spent the previous night playing cards with my mom, staying up late, just talking, talking about the future, our plans, my feelings. We would have eventually moved to the couch, the light on the endtable to the left of us the only one on and I would ask her to regale me with stories of her wedding day and the days leading up to it.

My bags would have already been packed for the mini-honeymoon to Lake Tahoe, sitting by the front door, and when I went to bed, I would have been lying awake, daydreaming of a future, of the ceremony, until I was finally calm enough to sink into sleep.

I would have ridden in the passenger seat while my father drove, my mother and sister in the back.

We would have arrived to the park, found GV8 and his family, then located the spot where my parents had stood to pledge their vows, and we would have done the same.

Lunch would have followed at some nearby restaurant, and then we would have said our goodbyes and taken the drive up to Arrowhead, holding hands over the center console.

In some alternate future, this is going on right now. In my head, there are the paths we take and the paths we don't, major ones shoved by emotional energy arching off to peter out to nonexistence when we forget them.

In some world, in forty minutes, my lips will be parting to speak the words to link myself to GV8.

And everything that has happened from today to the night I left him has been put on rewind, backtracking the movements that led us to the now we know.

The now, where I am sitting on a futon in the Nerd Control Station, a cat sleeping next to me, a porn being set up to film downstairs, two tiny blondes and a wide-face eastern European girl, a new model. Listening to my boyfriend organize, offer suggestions, guide, and make the occasional snide comment.

I don't regret my decision.

I do regret what happened. How things changed.

I feel like I could have handled it better, if I had been able to emotionally disconnect from the situation. But how well can one handle breaking up with one's fiancee? How can that end well, how can it end on friendly terms?

GV8, he was supposed to always be in my life. When we broke up in December, he said he would always be there for me, said that when I got married, he'd be helping me write the invitations, helping me plan, always someone I could call and talk to.

But people say many things after a break up, few of which remain true once emotions begin the fade, taking promises with them.

I loved him. I trusted him. I respected him.

I thought he was The One.

I knew he was The One.

But I can't always be right.

There are things I remember that will always stay with me, or at least follow me for years.

Sitting on the couch in the coffee shop, him shoving at me to get my life together after my dad had fallen apart, after I had fallen apart.

Walking around C's neighborhood, phone pressed to my ear as he looked online for apartments for me to check out, as I gave him addresses or websites on rental signs so he could check the details.

Rolling around on the center set of beds at the swing club, laughing and fucking.

Standing outside of the winery in the hills, holding each other.

Walking into his store and place of residence in the valley, seeing the graffiti over the bed, and the night that followed, the first time we had sex. The hours of sex, the soft brown sheets, the leopard print stilettos, the Sybian.

Massaging him for hours, listening to The American Dollar's A Memory Stream.

Him building that bed for me, getting that apartment for me, going out and buying that TV and hooking it up so we could just settle in bed and watch a movie because I was so burnt out.

So many touches to his back and neck, him rolling his skull into my hands, a light groan, always knowing where to touch him.

Closing my eyes so tight, breathing in, telling him I loved him.

Him bending down to tie my shoe for me, outside of his apartment, after he proposed for the umpteenth time.

Laying around on the second floor of the loft, planning our bedroom, our future.

He was... wonderful. Not all the time, the ups and downs, the changing of decisions, the quick judgements and lack of communication. But he was wonderful, and loving.

I forget the things that have happened since then. I forget the things he has said. Even with all of that, in my mind, he's still there, he's still someone I loved, someone I hold dear.

Someone who won't be in my life again, because things fell apart past the point of redemption.

I will miss him.

Twenty minutes to go. Twenty minutes and some dream of me will be a wife.

And some dream of him will be a husband.