Saturday, March 9, 2019

The crusty old man said, "I'll do what I can" and the rest of the rats played maracas

Here's a bunch of photos that nobody asked for!

I don't want to just keep my photos from Hawaii locked on my computer. Not that I think they're something the world desperately needs to see or anything.

So let's see.


Derek and I went to Ka'ena for the last time before he left, and he dashed his way down to the preserve, and I stayed along the coastline, chatting with Amber and taking my sweet ass time walking the length of the point. I Kept stopping at various points to take silly photos like this. Not for the explicit purpose of being pretty, but more for posterity. Those colors are so fucking unreal, and I didn't even edit them. That's just....it just looks that way in real life.


That same day, I was waiting for Derek to come back from the point (it's a rough 3 miles to the point, and the 3 miles is even more difficult after the sunsets and it's fucking dark) and I started watching the fisherman do their thing and I thought to myself, I wonder how neat this would look as a long exposure. It's not going to win any awards, but it's a really fucking cool little peek at what goes on at Ka'ena at night.


This little thing is a stapelia gigantea. A carrion flower. Derek and I were photographing these a few months ago, and some dude bro looking guy came up and was like, yo, do you dudes know what that is? And I was like, I'm sorry, I don't. And he was all, nah, B, nah, I DO know what it is, I want to tell you about it. It's a carrion flower. Smell it, it smells like rotting flesh, it's crazy. Bye! And then he disappeared. Derek and I were just kind of bewildered, so we did what any normal people would do: we fucking knelt down and smelled it. It didn't have the greatest odor, but it was very faint, and not really pungent, all things considered. We went home and looked it up, because we didn't actually believe the guy once we performed the sniff test, but sure enough, he was right. They're really fucking cool looking, right?



I clearly won't be showcasing these two pictures in a gallery, but I took them specifically to keep as reminders of how gorgeous Ka'ena is. This was a couple of months ago, it ended up being a super crazy fucking day there. It absolutely dumped rain on me and Derek, we lost each other, I got clacked at by an albatross (which is deeply unsettling, if you have never experienced it), and I almost fell in to the ocean in a way that surely would have split my dome in twain. I got some wonderful posterity photos, though. The color of that water is stunning. I didn't edit those photos, other than to crop them down. The top one is about twenty minutes before the storm opened up on us, and the bottom picture is about thirty minutes before. The weather changed with the quickness.


This is maybe.....oh, forty minutes after the first torrential downpour, right before we left for the day. It was the last photo I took that day, actually. We had to hoof it back to the car with the quickness, but the light was just so fucking COOL. I wanted at least one shot of it.


Derek and I took shelter during one of the onslaughts in that little WWII bunker cubby thing. Could have been super sexy sexy if there hadn't been a family hanging out, as well. After the rain stopped, Derek climbed on top of the cubby, and I thought a picture of him with the good light and the beach would be a fun one to keep. Plus I love his butt.


This was the second to last shot I took that day. I was so thrilled that I could see the entire rainbow. I wasn't sure if it would turn out well enough to print, and it definitely didn't, but it's pretty enough to keep as a reminder of what a great day that was.


I'm not sure why, but it took Derek and I a few months to go to Diamond Head for sunrise. It wasn't out of laziness, we were plenty happy to wake up balls early to go to Sandy for sunrise photos on all manner of occasions, it was just something we put off doing. We finally decided to go, and I was disappointed that it was a lackluster sunrise, but it was still an incredible thing to see. That isn't from the top, it's from one of the little lookout posts right before the top. I posted up here thinking the vantage would be cool. I was wrong, and I had to hoof it up the crater to get a better angle. I never got a better angle. There just...I don't think there is one. I think it's definitely the kind of thing where pictures just aren't going to do it justice, so just stay there and enjoy it. Which is exactly what I ended up doing.



I did take these paltry photos just to see if I could get the color of the water to translate, but I couldn't. This was one of eight places I shuffled back and forth from while trying to get a good photo angle for the sunrise. I know better now, so when I go again and take Allen and Gabriel, I won't be jumping from place to place, I'll know exactly where to go.


Looking into Honolulu proper from the side of the pillbox right after the sun had risen. The view from up top would have been WAY better, but I had farted around for too long, waffling over good vantage points, and the top was too fucking crowded for me to get to, so I kinda got shoved off into this section of the pillbox. I wasn't wholly mad at the view, it's just that the top would have been better.


Sun had fully risen by now, and I just really liked the valleys and the low clouds and the half rainbow. Nothing spectacular about this, I wasn't trying to be artistic, I just wanted to be able to remember the moment.


This is going to have to be it for now. I  have my final midterm to study for, I have to take it in the next 14 hours, and I don't really wanna. I'd rather take a nap. I'm fucking exhausted. I had a friend over last night, and there was an entire mouse ordeal that really fucking bummed me out hard, and I'm just wiped the fuck out. I got about five hours of sleep after she left at 2:30. I fully plan on studying, taking my test, and then taking a nap or eight.

Friday, March 8, 2019

Well. There's this bullshit.

I'm really bad about comparing things to other things and then trying to suss out what those comparisons mean.

The silliest thing is, I logically understand that most of my comparisons are silly, and while the things I'm comparing might seem like good parallels, they're actually total bullshit, and comparisons are toxic and dumb. 98% of the time, this is where I land within seconds of comparing something to another something. The other 2% of the time I know I'm comparing solidly, and then I fucking PANIC. It's fun in my brain always!

When Dan deployed, I was a fucking weeping mess for the first....oh, three weeks he was gone. I kept waiting for the shoe to drop, since Dan's original line on us "staying together" (my words, not his) while he was gone was, and I quote, "Euuughhhghghghuuughhhhh....." You can understand my assumption, then, that any day he was going to tell me to give up the ghost and this was exactly the timing and distance he'd been looking for to rip off the Band-Aid. But he didn't, and he did tell me he missed me, and he eventually started expressing excitement to see me when he got back. For as aloof and emotionally unavailable as Dan was, I never once felt like I was in danger of being forgotten, or replaced, or that time away from me would make Dan realize what a fucking lame loser I was and how he could do better (which was true in a lot of ways, and I really hope he HAS done better than me. I was absolutely awful for Dan in a great many respects. Like...90% of them), quite the contrary; I was holding out hope that he'd seize the time away from me to realize how great we were together (oh honey. Bad news from the future.) and that he'd take me more seriously. That... I mean, it KIND OF happened, kind of sort of, but in the worst of all possible ways, and I'm not even sure how real the after effects were from it. I don't want to write about it in here, because the truth is, the way everything unfolded in the months after Dan returned STILL fucking hurts. It was one of the biggest breaks my heart ever got, and I never really worked through it completely. Maybe I will one day, but today is not that day. I'm getting sidetracked.

The primary point here is, I actually felt fairly confident in where I stood with Dan while he was gone for nine months.

Derek is only going to be gone for three. He's been gone almost two weeks.

I already feel like I may as well resign myself to separation when Derek gets back, and it is the worst fucking feeling.

One of the worst things about how my Borderline manifests is how inappropriate my fears are regarding my relationships. Well, at least my relationship with Derek. He's done a fair amount of things that make me terrified of trusting him, and it's definitely DEFINITELY infuriating when he tries to pass those fears off as merely presentations of my BPD. Binch. No. You don't just get to scoot things under a borderline personality disorder rug and make it all my problem when you've crossed lines repeatedly. That's not how this works.

While yes, Derek and I are married, and him untangling himself from me would not only be complicated, but problematic for him due to army, I feel confident that he won't be coming home angling directly for a divorce or anything, but that doesn't mean I feel confident about how confident he'll be in me. When I'm separated from people for a long period of time, I start to think about all of the negative traits I have and how being away from them will make people understand that I'm just a waste of time, and there are better options out there.

Before Allen and I lived together, when we went months without seeing each other, I was always terrified he'd figure me out for the fraud I was and he'd ultimately decide I was below him. I don't know how Dan got away with being the one person I felt confident in maintaining affection for me while he was gone for so long. It may be an indication about how very very very in the dark I was about what it was that was actually going on with us. By all measures, I should feel the most confident that Derek will come back in three months way more enamored with me than he was before, because logic tells me that you idealize someone when they're gone and you remember them as better than they actually are and it makes you miss them more. This is why break ups can be so traumatic. It's easier to lie to yourself about someone when they're not in front of you to show you the truth, so you romanticize the best parts about them and pitch the rest. My brain isn't working that way about Derek being gone, though.

I am wildly insecure. This much doesn't need to be said. I wasn't always this way. Much to my detriment, in fact. I was so convinced of my superiority to my daughter's dad that I never in a million years thought he'd cheat, because I was such a fucking gem, why would he jeopardize losing me on some throw away poon? I was way off.  Stratifying yourself and the person you're with in a relationship is a fucking mistake, not only because it's mean, but because it can really lull  you into a false sense of security/make you think you're not worth their time and any bad behavior they act out is fine, because you're lucky to have them. I know this, but I still do it. I'm so guilty of it, and I rarely come out on top of my relationship caste system.

With my daughter's dad, I really did think I was better than him in every fucking regard. I am better looking (that's just objective science, you guys. Still true), I am smarter, I am cleverer, I am more interesting, I am more well read. It put me in a position to completely give up any sense that I deserved to be on equal footing with Chris, and when he pulled the rug out from under me, I didn't know what to do, so I just let him have all of the power and I took myself far less seriously. When Bekky came into the picture, I compared myself to her, and while I was smarter than her, I was not prettier than her, I was not as openly sexual as she was (then. I wonder if she's why I took the fast train to Tartesville and I just never realized it. If she is, thanks, Bekky!!! I fucking LOVE Tartesville the most!), I was not as old as she was, and I did not take the time with Chris like she did. I loathed  her wildly, and partially for good reason, but some of it wasn't her fault. I've tried to track her down to give her a really real apology (and also to kind of see if she's doing shit that's mockable, because old habits die hard). I'm an adult now, and back when I was making it my life's goal to tear her down, I was an 18 year old child in the middle of an emotionally abusive relationship with a manipulative man, and I thought that I had to pit myself against Bekky. And all women in general. I delighted when she made mistakes like calling radicchio "rad-itch-EYE-oh", because what better way to feel confident in your intelligence superiority than using the pronunciation of somewhat obscure and highly pretentious chicories as a measuring stick? When I found her writing, I was ecstatic to see she was a mumbling fucking idiot. I took that shit and ran with it, I trolled her, I shared her stupid prose with my best friend, I went on to share it with my writing friends for years to come. In truth, all of her writing is STILL funny. In my last quest to find Bekky and make good on my failings regarding my treatment of her, I succumbed to my baser instincts and found something she wrote and had a field day re-reading it. It's all just as ridiculous. The point here is, while Bekky shouldn't have been fucking my boyfriend, I shouldn't have wasted so much time in a relationship that was imbalanced, and never in my favor. I could have saved myself a lot of heartache if I had either given myself in to my stratification and ditched Chris because I WAS above him, or if I had seen myself as equal and not tolerated how he treated me for as long as I did. Tolerating it is a weird thing to say. I enabled it. I  hated how he treated me. I cried a lot, I was miserable, I felt awful about myself, I felt ugly and low once reality really kicked in for me, and by that time I was already knocked up and he had talked me out of an abortion, and somewhere, I still deeply regret Chris for choosing my life for me, and I deeply regret myself for meekly allowing him the authority to do it.

Whether I was aware of stratification being a bad thing then, I can't say with any certainty, but I don't think I was. However, with Allen, I really saw us as equals, with Allen edging me out in a few places. Allen was smarter than me, and he is a more gifted writer than I am, and he was a lot more thoughtful in his approach to things. The first time Allen and I got into a big argument, I called him an asshole and I will never forget him slowing everything down and saying, "hey, I know we're mad at each other, but I'm not calling you names, please don't call me names". I hadn't ever been around someone who thought name-calling was inappropriate in times of anger, and it really struck a chord with me. Not so much in the long run, because I am more than happy to rattle off nasty names when Derek and I are angry at each other. Do I get points for that interaction staying with me after all this time? No? Well. Ok. Anyway, I always saw Allen and I on equal footing. I never felt powerless with him, and I never felt intimidated by the things he was better at than me. I knew he made me better, and I kept up friendly competition with him that was never about ACTUALLY being better than him, rather being better than I was before we were together. I credit Allen a lot for where I am now as a person, because he really did make me want things I never saw for myself when I was with Chris. I gave up a lot of my identity for my daughter's dad, and I never thought twice about it because I thought I was supposed to. Allen really cleared that shit up for me, and when I realized that Allen wasn't going to go along on my self-actualization journey with me, I was pretty beaten up about it. I broke up with Allen because he wanted to be stagnant and I didn't, and we got back together for a little while because I truly and absolutely loved Allen as much as I was capable of. I just loved me more, and I wasn't going to be my best self with Allen if I stayed with him in a romantic capacity. But being my best self not working with Allen was never because I saw myself as better than, or saw myself as less than and wanting to change it. It wasn't anything like that. I always always always saw Allen and I as equals, and while I see myself as a better person NOW (though not better THAN. An important distinction), and I recognize how different I am and how far I've come, I have never and will never see Allen and I as anything but equals when we were together. I've said it before, but my relationship with him was the best relationship I've ever had.

I didn't always maintain that Dan didn't see me as his equal. When Dan and I first met, I totally admit I thought I was out of his league in a lot of regards. I wasn't socially awkward (emphasis on wasn't. I am now!), I wasn't stodgy, I was charismatic and fun and a free fucking spirit. I make jokes about Dan all the time, and I cannot stress enough that it's  just years of bitterness leaking out. I was definitely attracted to Dan, so if I make jokes about his appearance, that's on me, not on him. That being said, I did think I was a little bit better looking than he was, but not so much that I was going to just write him off. Spoiler alert: obviously. Dan very much outshone me academically. He was pretty accomplished, he had a bachelors already, and I hadn't bothered trying to do anything academic with my life since I lost my scholarship to Duke due to pregnancy other than read studies in my spare time, and read textbooks for fun because why wouldn't I? He had a solid job with army, and I was just kind of flying by the seat of my pants, taking shit jobs when I could get them and always failing at them because I hated them. He really had his shit together, and at 26, I definitely did not. I can see why Dan may have thought I was below him. In the ways that matter when it comes to winning at life, I was. I was directionless and I didn't give a shit. I wanted to do the bare minimum so I could do shit like get high on the weekends and have boozy panty dance parties in my apartment with my friends. I wanted to experience life as fully as I could, and that meant exploding my way through it like a bad fuckin' star. Life should be fun and full of purposes that delight you, and I don't think Dan agreed with me there. In retrospect, I definitely think Dan saw me as someone hopelessly below him, and after a few months of never being introduced to his friends, never being spoken about to his parents, never being invited to partake in his life at all (and him never wanting to engage in mine despite my many invitations), I understood that Dan didn't see me as a serious equal, and I stopped seeing myself as vaguely out of his league, and started seeing myself as beneath him. I evaluated his treatment of me and told myself it was justified, because in his estimation, I was found wanting. I tried to be more serious after he came back from Afghanistan, because I really fucking wanted Dan to love me. I wish he could have loved me for me, but I was never really honest with Dan about who I was after I figured out why our relationship sucked. I tried being someone more his speed, and I think I really failed myself there. This was kind of why I thought his deployment would change things for the better, though. I thought he'd be away from my zaniness and my devil-may-care approach to the things he took so seriously and he'd be like, "huh. This crazy girl really balances me out. She's got her head in the clouds, I've got my feet on the ground, it's PERFECT! Together, we're a giant that can take on anything!" That wasn't the case. I really wish I knew why Dan stayed with me for so long, because it doesn't make any sense to me. I don't think his assessment that I was beneath him was a subconscious one, I think he was acutely aware of our respective statuses and how he was better than me in the ways society puts emphasis on. I really do not know why he stuck it out as long as he did. We had a small break up of sorts before he went to Michigan. He had this whole month long period where he was way fucking distant and I didn't understand, and my friend Ian tried to say that's typical of someone coming home from a deployment, but I think that's giving Dan too much emotional credit. I've secretly believed he used that month to try and force me into breaking up with him because he didn't have the stones to do it himself. He said something to me in the car before he left for Ann Arbor to visit his school that still haunts me, and I'll get to why any of this matters in a bit. He said, "It's been hard for me to stay faithful to you". He said it in the parking lot of Balanced Rock, and as a means of exorcising one of the most hurtful things anybody has ever vocalized to me about me from my brain, I fucked three rando dudes in that very same parking lot. Not all at once, just to clarify. Anyway, while yes, I hadn't been faithful to Dan by any stretch of the word while we were together, I know that Dan didn't struggle with fidelity because I made him feel insecure in the relationship, or because I never validated his existence to anybody that mattered, or because I never referred to him as my boyfriend (in fact, when I brought up the whole "girlfriend/boyfriend" thing to Dan, I got a mini lecture about labels and how they weren't for him.  Which was awfully rich coming from the dude who would later go on to make sure I promised that if I took up stripping again, I'd only come home to him. Bad news from the future!). Dan struggled with fidelity for one of two reasons:
a) I wasn't enough
2) he felt trapped
There's always the possibility that it was a combination of both, and that's what I lean toward, except with quadruple the emphasis on the first. I don't think Dan was saying that he was trying to like, start new relationships with women, so the first thing may not make much sense from that standpoint. I definitely think it was mostly because of me, and that's how Dan reasoned it away. I'm not sure at all that Dan thought the flatline of our farce of a relationship was ever his fault, or that he ever did any reflection on how he treated me. When Dan called me to say he had read all of my blogs highlighting how sad and empty and alone I felt in our relationship, his response wasn't to apologize or make it better, it was to extricate himself from the situation entirely. And what an easy way to cut ties with someone that you never thought was worth your time to begin with. While I definitely regret cutting ties with Dan a few years ago in a fit of rage (pent up rage that I never got to properly vent), mostly because it was childish of me to do so but also because I was so angry when Dan did that to me rather than to say he'd work on his behavior, I wish we still talked. With as much credit as I give Allen in helping me realize I wanted to be a better person, I give equal credit to Dan for me being who I am today, and where I am today. I really, really, really wish I could thank him in detail, and apologize for how awful I was, and make amends for the havoc I wrought and explain the chaos and just...get all of that shit off of my chest in a way that was meaningful for me. Because of course talking to Dan wouldn't be for Dan. If Dan thought I was worth his time, or if Dan missed talking with me at all, he'd talk to me. I think this is the crux of why I still think about Dan. Thinking about Dan is such a fucking mirror for how I saw and see myself. I knew Dan saw me as beneath him and unworthy of his energy, and never getting responses to any of the small attempts at an apology I sent him, or the well wishing emails trying to bridge the gap, pretty well cements that in my head. The possibility that maybe talking to me is painful for Dan emotionally because he actually DID love me has crossed my mind, but the idea has zero staying power. I think I just gave Dan an easy out to snip me right out of his life because I was a tacky hood ornament that never belonged there in the first place.

And all of this leads to Derek. The entire reason I'm writing this blog (before I move to a picture blog! Yay!). Dan saying, "I've had trouble staying faithful to you" plays itself in my head constantly. The truth is, I still measure myself against people, and I hate that I do it. I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't. I can't help it, though. And Derek has made that all the harder.

When Derek and I first started talking, I was fucking MESMERIZED by him. I could talk to him for hours and not be bored, he engaged me, he was interested, he showed concern and care for me. I had been completely missing that emotional directness from Dan, and it was intoxicating. It was even different from Allen, because that had been a slow build up over time. This was a huge POP directly from jump. I was deeply reluctant to add fuel to the fire, though, because I was still super fucked up and reeling from Dan. It had only been a few months since the last time I saw him, and I was still hopeful enough that something would come out of Dan and I that I lied to Dan about seeing Derek. I lied to Dan about seeing everybody, which was a stupid fucking thing to do, but that's not the point. Far more than once, I expressed to my friends that I was being the Dan to Derek's Ondrea, and it wasn't fair to Derek at all. I didn't lie to Derek about Dan, though. There were a great many things about Derek that were intimidating to me....he was divorced, he had a kid (nevermind that I had two. Nobody is talking about me right now), he was well traveled, he was shockingly smart, he was VERY social, and he was just...I mean...he was a fucking stone cold fox. A total god damn smokeshow. Great body, great face, great hair, sexy as fuck voice that sounds like deep, warm caramel, fearless laugh. Above all of that, he wasn't into the typical masculine dating runaround. He told me where he was, asked me where I was, and wasn't shy about it, and that was so fucking refreshing. As intimidating as all of that was, though, I didn't think Derek was out of my league, I didn't think I was out of his league, my only concern was that maybe he was too available for me and I'd get bored, or that I was too UNavailable for him and he'd cheat. I saw us as equal in my shitty relationship strata, even though I recognized that I was less together than Derek in many of the same ways I was less together than Dan. I never worried about being enough for Derek. He plainly let me know I was more than enough. That I was everything he'd wanted, I was perfect, all of the things you hear in sappy romances. I felt pretty confident in that, so imagine how crushing it was every single time I found Derek acting against that belief.

Every new time, I found myself worrying about me, and how this was surely my fault. I compared myself to all of these women, and every time, I figured it was because I wasn't as hot as Brittany, or I couldn't beat the FOMO he had with Cylie (I think I'm misspelling her name. It isn't on purpose), or I didn't have the facial beauty of the girl from snapchat whose name escapes me, or I didn't have the appeal of Amber, my best fucking friend who I have ALWAYS physically compared myself to because so many of my friends vocalized how short I fell in comparison to her looks (that one hit especially hard because it reaffirmed everything I had always feared, anyway), and I didn't have the mystery and beauty of Anna (who....girl played it so fucking right. When Derek hit on her, her response was "how are you and your wife doing?" though...thinking about that now, that could have been some sort of testing of the wwaters to see if maybe shit was rocky and she had an in to Dickville. I feel pretty sure it was the former, though, and thank you, Anna, you are a god damn goddess), and I didn't have the emotional pull and safe space feel of Stephanie, a girl that Derek had wanted to date but never got the chance. While I was clearly and rightfully angry at Derek for being this way behind my back, especially when I had given him so many outs of monogamy after we closed our open relationship, I was angrier at myself.

The real issue here is, I haven't felt like I was ever enough for anybody, with Allen as the exception to the rule. And even then, at the end of our relationship, Allen kind of shit that bed, but he gets a pass because we were both checked out, we just hadn't admitted it yet. I shit that bed, too. Dan telling me it had been hard to stay faithful rocked my world, because it was the first time someone had ever confirmed what I had always been terrified of. It has stayed with me and haunted me, and I don't blame Dan for that. It isn't his fault. I don't even think he's an asshole for saying it. He was being honest, he absolutely SHOULD have been honest. I commend him for that, because being vulnerable and open is so fucking hard. It isn't Dan's fault specifically. He just takes the lion's share of the credit because he stopped it from being a nagging suspicion and threw the thing into the real world and contextualized it. Derek doing the utter most to make sure he told me every chance he could that I was so totally more than enough, I was eighty notches higher and better than enough, was a welcome tonal shift, but it never stopped being a fear that he was just lying because that's what people do to get what they want. I always had a sneaking idea that Derek was totally full of shit, and it wasn't so much ME that was special and amazing as much as it was Derek just not wanting to be single anymore, and I was just next at bat. Every single time some new girl made her way into the frame, I would sink back a little more into feeling confident I wasn't special and I wasn't enough and I never, ever would be.

All of this is to specify that that's how I feel when I'm around Derek. When specific reminders about the few things I DO have on people (I really am fucking smart. It's like, the one positive thing I know about myself. I'm also so god damn wildly in love with the world, and I really think that is appealing to people, because of the fresh lens you get to see things with when you're with people like me) are front and center constantly, I still feel like I am not enough, and Derek already knows it. He's shown as much by his interest in other women, which he STILL passes off as not actual interest. It's not like he has to confirm it vocally to me, he already confirmed it with his behavior and the subtext of the things he's said to all of those women. I am constantly terrified that I am not enough, and I don't know how to be enough.

With Derek gone for three months, I have this sinking feeling that in two weeks or so, the initial missing the familiarity of me is going to wear off, and he's going to rediscover how liberating life is without me. That not having me around is infinitely better than having me around. This is something that Dan definitely knows, and I don't even think it took him three months to figure that out. It was hard for Dan to stay faithful to me, and it has been hard for Derek to not flirt with straying, too. I definitely had fears that being away for nine months was going to be the death certificate on whatever it was that Dan and I were doing, and I wasn't necessarily wrong, it just took longer than I banked on. I had every reason to blame myself and who I was and how I looked and where I was in life for the impending separation with Dan. I had concrete shit to look at and be like...oh, yeah. Yeah, I get it, that's the thing that's going to do it. For the most part, I didn't, and I think I deserve a gold medal for those mental gymnastics.

With Derek, it's just...just a looming fear. I can't quite shake it. I know for a fact that I am not very pretty. I don't have a great figure. I will never be a bikini model, I won't ever be mysterious and exotic. I'm always going to be a plain woman that dyes her hair stupid colors to make up for how average she feels all the time, and how visually indistinguishable she is from the pack. I don't look anything like the women he's crossed boundaries for, and I know that that's their appeal, but it's not something I can fucking fix. I look the way I look. I am the person I am, and while I am evolving a lot of things, I'm working toward my masters, I'm bettering myself, I'm learning all the time, I am deeply involved in figuring my shit out so I don't repeat things that fuck my world up, I am still fucking floundering against the current of feeling confident that I will never be enough for anybody.

If people can struggle with honesty and fidelity with me around, how much harder will it be to tell yourself no when I'm out of sight, out of mind? It sucks to not be able to talk to Derek about this with any seriousness. He always blows it off, says this is just my BPD, or says that I'm wrong about his intentions with all of those women (bruh. Lie better), or he gets angry about my fears and says I'm ridiculous instead of hearing me and trying to understand.

Relationships are hard. Relationships with any kind of distance are hard. Relationships with any kind of distance when one of the people in it is me and I'm constantly suffering from an acute fear of inferiority to...like...the entire fucking female world at large, plus my husband? That shit is next to impossible. If I see Derek using his phone and holding it in that weird way he does so I can't see what he's doing if I glance in his direction, I have a panic attack over what he's saying, and who he's saying it to. Every time I meet some new woman Derek is around, I assess her and then I measure myself next to her and I ALWAYS come up short physically. Sometimes I come up short personality wise, too. As I've gotten older, I'm less inclined to be social. Either that, or I'm just so fucking sad inside that I don't really have the energy to be the social butterfly I used to be.

I don't know what my deal is, but I wish it wasn't my deal. I wish I had an inflated sense of self still. I really wish that the things I value most in myself mattered on a large social scale, because I really just ONCE want to feel like the biggest fucking prize in town. And while the commodification of people in relationships that leads anybody to view them as a prize is repugnant to me, the shoe still fits. It irks me that I have to carry around insecurity while my husband gets to flounce around, worry free about what it is his wife is doing. I've mentioned this before. This isn't new. I just...I guess I just felt like musing on some of the reasons it's so shitty.

I wish I felt equal to again. Feeling small and inferior and ugly and pitiful is seriously the fucking worst. Allen told me once that I was a brilliant ball of light, like the fucking sun. He said it better than that, though, I just don't remember what it was he said. Amber described me once like lightning. My mom said I'm a thunderstorm. People used to tell me I was a free spirit. I feel like a dead bird now. A dull, dead bird at the bottom of a cage that, while dead, is still managing to feel desperately sorry for itself. I'm not a terribly huge fan of this feeling. I have wondered if maybe the solution is a divorce. I will always worry about Derek wanting other people now. If his bullshit had been a one-off, I'd be a lot more secure, but it hasn't been. It's been repeated, and it's had long term repercussions. I love my husband so much, and I don't like when I'm in the place where I'm thinking that maybe a divorce literally would be the best thing for me, because I'm just not built for always thinking I'm less.

Except the problem wouldn't die with Derek. I am the problem. I am the bad star. I don't mind being alone, but I don't want to be alone forever, and I have a well documented track record of not seeing myself in the best light as compared to the person I'm with, for whatever reason. I don't know how to fix this. I've given therapy several gos, and I eventually stopped trying to work through my Chris/Allen/Dan/Derek issues because I legitimately worried that my therapists would think I was obsessive. I really want to figure myself out so I can rise above all of these problems, and be enough for me so I can feel fulfilled and confident in my standings in any relationship I'm in. I even feel disconnected from my friends now. I message them a lot, and I don't get responses for days, and I'll get annoyed because they're supposed to be my friends, but then I worry about maybe they don't want to talk to me because I'm boring, or a bad friend, or there are other friends they have that are more worth their time. Poor Allen is the most willing to talk to me, and I don't even think he actually wants to, my guess is he knows I'm just lame, sad, and lonely. Even then, though, our conversations are generally fairly short (sometimes he'll talk to me for awhile) and relatively superficial.

I wish I didn't have to deal with this shit. I think it's definitely important to, but it gets so heavy.

Tuesday, March 5, 2019

We must keep our eyes on Jesus (because he can't be trusted)

Check out this shit I did do my brain dome:



I was going to go for Blue Smoke from Lime Crime, but once I bleached my hairs, I realized I was a little too brassy for blues, and I needed pink. Mostly because the red I had in my hair never faded.

Check out phase one:



Yeah, I know. I fucking look like Garth's sister. Like legit, dead ass ringer for Dana Carvey as Garth. We don't have to talk about it. We can talk about my awesome dinosaur shirt, though. Because it's pretty fucking wicked.

Anyway, I returned the Blue Smoke and got Chocolate Cherry, and it was absolutely the right call. While I've done pink a few times, I really fucking love this one.



I've decided to just lean in to my identity crisis.

Monday, March 4, 2019

Roland Orzabal's face mouth needs to chill the fuck out

One of the more annoying things about Mr. Floopies is how god damn persistent he is for my attention in the very early morning. Starting at around 6am (which means I've only been sleeping for about three to four hours), he paces back and forth across my body, gets right into my face, meows at me a lot, tries to get under the covers, gets under the covers, wants out from under the covers, bites my hand so I'll pet him, bites me some more when I stop petting him because I've drifted off again, and all of this repeats until I finally fucking wake up and pet him until he's bored of my attention. Usually he just wants five minutes of pets and then he's off to harangue Lili, who has been sleeping peacefully in her drawer like a good fattums.

I woke up around 3 am this morning because I got my period a week early and I was bleeding all over my sheets, and Floopies was perched directly above my head on the headboard, but I thought nothing of it. I just looked at him and said, "I'm fucking bleeding, do you care?" and that was that. My husband is not here. Of course I'm talking to my cats.

At 6am, Mr. Floopies starts in with his bullshit ritual, except he was REALLY being fucking wild. Much more aggravating that usual, so much so that instead of nipping my hand, he sat down on my chest and bit my nose. Not very hard, but enough to get my attention. I petted him, because I'm an enabler, and grabbed my phone to see what time it was. It was 6:15, I saw I had a message from Allen, so I responded to it (super excited: he had written a story and wanted to know if I was interested in reading it, which...duh. Allen is a really great writer), and I was going to go back to sleep, except Floopies was still pacing the bed and meowing, so I sat up. He went and laid down on the floor, stretching his belly out (he's a VERY long cat. Long and skinny. Like one of those ridiculous pencils you can buy at joke shops) and luxuriating all over the floor. I figure he just wanted my attention, and I was right...he wanted my attention because he had killed another mouse mouse. It was dead on the floor right near my bed, which leads me to believe that the following had transpired:

1. Floopies killed a mouse mouse (nobody is going to argue that part)
B. He brought it upstairs once it was fully deadified, a look I will describe momentarily
iii. He put it on me to gift it to me/show it off to me and as I slept, I moved enough that it fell off the bed

Floopies has caught several meece in the last couple of weeks. The other day, I heard this really strange sound as I was reading, and I couldn't for the life of me figure out what it was. I wrote it off as being someone working with lawn equipment a bit down the block, but it turned out to be Floopies, growling at Lili for having the audacity to look at the dead mouse mouse he had locked in his jaws for probably about fifteen minutes, no exaggeration. Derek found a mouse hole behind the oven and sealed it up before he left. He also looked behind the fridge, and we found no holes. We figured the heece meece only had the one entrance point, and no other nests, but it looks like we were damn fools. I've suspected they have a nest in the oven (I turned on the oven once and heard what sounded like a chorus of mice squealing in agony, but Derek wrote that off as my imagination because he had yet to see his first house mouse, and because we never smelled rotting mouse flesh, or found any charred corpses, I forgot about my stove theory until Derek chastised himself for not checking the stove when he sealed up the mouse hole). I thought the first mouse Floopies killed was a straggler, someone who got left behind when the house door was closed for good. I expected a mouse or two after the fact, honestly. But this is three now, and it would appear that there is another meece nest somewhere in my kitchen, but I do not fucking know where. Derek checked all the holes, and I am afraid to check them again. I really love mice, they are so fucking adorable, but my brain makes me scream at tiny little furry things (you hear that, balls?) even if I don't actually feel threatened by them.

Floopies is a huge fan of biting out the eyes of these mice, and their bodies always look the same, and I described it to Allen in the following way:

their eyes are always bitten out, and their tiny little mouse jaws are always open, like in a scream, and their front mouse arms are always in the up position, so they kind of look like blind animals on a roller coaster, screaming as the go down a big drop.

This is very true, and while it's kind of funny, it bums me out hard.

I scooped up the dead mouse, threw it away, took out the garbage, and then checked the traps in the kitchen, and I noticed something was weird about one of them. The Cheetoh I had put in it on top of the peanut butter was free floating. That's not right at all, it should have been stuck to the peanut butter (I had opened a bag of Cheetohs from Derek's lunch stash specifically to bait these traps, because I thought giving them options of peanut butter and something crunchy would be nice), so I pick up the trap. The peanut butter was gone. Which is DEFINITELY not right. The trap is still closed, but half of the bait has disappeared. So I check the other five traps....they're all vacant, but they all have traces of mouse parties. Droppings, and tiny little paw claw marks on the sides of the traps where the peanut butter was stuck.

These crafty little fucking bastards.

They've figured out how to get in and out of the god damn humane mouse traps. So I've essentially been helping the god damn horde. No wonder they're not scared of me and Derek and feel bold enough to wander out while we're cooking. We fucking feed them. They like us. We are their benevolent god creatures.

I don't know what to do. I hate that my cat kills them, because I have to deal with the roller coaster loving carcasses, and as Allen mentioned, while Floopies is a prolific hunter, he's not going to be killing them fast enough to lighten the mouse load. I don't want to kill them. I cannot bear the thought of killing them. I will  not do it.

So I'm going to buy a different kind of trap. Mice are very smart, and I've made mention of this to Derek a LOT, so I shouldn't be surprised that they've figured out how to get in and out of the traps that are now serving as their larders. I need a trap they can't get out of, so I'll have to order some on Amazon.

Poor little mice. :(

Friday, March 1, 2019

It's not clear if I'm hallucinating, or actually magic

It's been a whirlwind of a week.

Derek left for his island hopping TDY a few days ago, and it didn't even take a full 24 hours of his absence for my trouble magnet to activate.

As I was walking back into the house from grabbing my laundry out of the garage, always a dicey situation for me because the garage is where the cockroaches (cockaroach) live, and they're the size of dinosaurs and I hate them and I am so afraid they're going to do a mean version of Joe's Apartment on me, so I do my best to not be in the garage. I've been relying on throwing my laundry in with my husband's so he goes and does all of the garage entering, but he's not here to do his laundry which means I have to do my own laundry and brave the cockroaches. Cockaroaches. Anyway, I'm walking back inside with my laundry, and the basket must have bumped the pile of lumber Derek put up against the wall (cat tree lumber. He's very crafty), because it all came crashing down, tumbly bumbly, pell mell, onto my poor little foot. My right foot. My big toe, specifically. The big toe I've broken two times prior to this.

I don't know if I'm meant to even have this as a functioning toe. It would appear not.

It. Fucking. HURT. I definitely cried for a solid ten minutes. Ugly crying, too. Like...I was sitting on the floor of my kitchen, howling like a beaten dog that got the wind knocked out of her for cheating at foot grapes.

I messaged Allen to tell him what I did, because he was there when I broke my toe the first time. I tell people I broke it on a run, but the truth is, I broke it just....walking across the apartment. Allen was sitting in the living room, I was walking out of my room, and I have no idea what even the fuck happened, but suddenly the air was filled with a CRACK sound, Allen asked me what the fuck the noise was, and I crumpled over and told him I was pretty fucking sure I had just broken my fucking toe. The second time was months later, and I actually WAS on a run, and I don't even know how I did it, but I was running and suddenly my toe snapped again and I had to limp home. 

Derek was in air to Guam when I broke my toe, I think, and once he saw my messages, he insisted I go to the hospital. I said I didn't need to, I had iced my foot, the swelling had gone down, I had broken it dozens of times before (citation needed), and the doctors wouldn't do anything but x-ray me and tell me to not be such a clumsy binch (citation needed). I told him that I'd go if the swelling didn't go down, knowing full well that it already had and my foot was fine, just tender, as per usual. 

When I woke up the next day, the ugly bruising had started, but the numbness from my toe had traveled up my calf, and it freaked me out a little. When I got ready for class, I noticed my entire foot was numb but still oddly tender at the same time, and I had pain all across my foot instead of localized in my big toe. During class, I started to get a really weird sensation in my foot and up my calf, so I decided to go to the hospital, and this is why I wanted to write this blog post. 

My visit to the hospital was fucking WILD. 

Super Crazy Fucked Up Hospital: A Story in Three Parts

Story one: Steve McQueen's The Great Escape (but not really at all)

The Hawaiian islands are small. Oahu isn't so tiny that you can like, see the other side from the north shore or anything, but it certainly isn't large. Since Oahu is the most populated island in the archipelago, space here is limited. You have no idea how much you take things like large parking lots for granted until you don't fucking have them. When I got to Tripler, there wasn't a single parking space open. I drove around for a solid fifteen minutes, hoping to score one, but I kept getting cutting off by my own kindness: I would let people into the parking lot from the road, and they'd gratefully drive on in, but instead of doing the polite thing and leaving the next open space for the person behind them who let them in (me), they would jack the space and I would scream in my car. The audacity of this bitch, I would scream in my head. After fifteen minutes, I gave up (I also stopped letting people in after this happened twice. Fuck them, the cutthroat world of finding a parking space has no time for good intentions) and drove over to the valet station. It's a flat rate of 7 bucks, no skin off my nose, and I was never going to find a parking space on my own. There were three cars in front of me, but we're going to talk about the blue car directly ahead of mine. 

When it was her turn, the lady explains to the valet attendant that she couldn't find a parking spot, was there another area of the hospital she could go to for parking? The attendant said no, she could either valet her car for seven dollars, or she could keep driving around the lot and wait for one to open up. She let him know she had already been driving around for twenty minutes and she really had to get to her appointment. He asked her if she wanted to valet her car, and she said she'd rather not be forced to pay for something because of a lack of space that isn't her fault. Which, I'll be honest, resonates with me. I was slightly irritated that I had to pay for valet, but time is money, and I reconciled with that pretty quickly. He said he understood, and he waved her forward. She wasn't going forward, though. 

She was angry. 

She went from 0 to 10 REAL fuckin' fast, and started yelling about how this is inconveniencing her and it isn't fair that she's forced to feed money into something when there should be a better option available (umwut. We're on an island, lady, they can't just, like, make space), and the valet attendant is just standing there, taking it (he must get this a lot) and apologizing, and then she opens her car door, and my head seriously took this as a sign she was going to physically fight this man. She did not....she made a run for it. 

Here's the thing, though:

She was fucking LARGELY pregnant. No shit kinda pregnant. No mistaking her for bloated, or overweight, she was like, full on watermelon-in-her-tummy-space knocked the fuck up. 

I don't know if anybody has ever tried to run when they're that visibly fucking laden down with oven buns, but it's next to impossible. And yet, here she was, trying to run away from a 7 dollar charge. Her run was more like a dying duck waddle, though. Have you ever seen a dying duck? I haven't but I imagine it is the saddest waddle you've ever seen, and that's exactly what she was doing. Like a cartoon cowboy with the exaggerated bowed legs, she just kind of Godzilla-shifted each foot in front of the other at a pace that I bet felt fast to her, but to me, it was very much not. And I laughed out loud. I couldn't got damn help it. It was the most ridiculous thing I had seen in ages, and because my window was down, the valet attendant, who had thus far just been incredulously watching her go, not moving a muscle, heard me, looked over, and just shrugged. That was the only acceptable reaction, honestly. He called over the security guard posted up by the entrance of the hospital, and I have to assume the woman got cited for something, I just don't know what that citation would be. Another attendant came over and moved the car out of the way, and I couldn't find out what happened afterward, because it was my turn to pay the attendant and go inside. I wanted to laugh with him about the entire thing, but he didn't seem very chatty, so I just paid the fee and limped over to emergency. 

Story two: The Zombie Uprising Starts in three, two.....

Emergency sent me down to radiology, offered me a wheelchair (which I didn't take, because I'm a fucking saint that understands people with REAL breaks in their bones....and pregnant women who are exhausted from "running" away from their financial obligations...need them more than I do) but not someone to push me in it, and I was on my way. When I got checked in to radiology, they sat me next to a lady who was with someone that I assume was her mother. The mother appeared to be quite old....her skin was very thin looking, she had sparse white hair, and a cornucopia of liver spots. She also looked beaten the fuck up. My guess was she had been in a car accident. Her arm was heavily bandaged, and she was clutching it to her chest; her face was swollen and bruised and cradled in her good hand; her eyes were locked in the wincing position; she had a hugely swollen bump on her neck; and she had some wounds smattered across her body. Car accident seemed like a good guess. I didn't want to gawk, even though I was very curious about her condition, so I just read my book on Micronesia and minded my own business. 

It's important to mention part of the ambiance here: I don't ACTUALLY know what the sound is, but the noise is very specific to the radiology department. At random intervals, this very loud grumble reverberates through the entire ward. It sounds to me like a subway rushing overhead. The first time I heard it, I very literally thought the hospital was collapsing. it's very loud, very scary, and I have yet to get used to it. 

So, I'm sitting in my chair, doing my best to look like I'm minding my own business when in reality I'm trying to figure out what happened to the old lady by listening in on the younger lady's conversation with her, when three things happened all at the same fucking time and my brain was like RUN BITCH IT'S THE FUCKING END OF THE GODDAMN WORLD AND YOU ARE IN THE WRONG FUCKING PLACE HERE COME THE GOD DAMN ZOMBIES!!!!

Thing the first: the loud subway noise crashed its way into my ears;
Thing the second: the old woman started slowly, but with increasing volume every second, moaning;
Thing the third: the lights started flashing while the slowest ever instrumental version of Rock A Bye Baby  started playing over the loudspeaker. 

It was thing the third that really fucking kicked my brain into gear, because what even the fucking fuck is that shit? It was such a slow version, and the loudspeakers weren't great quality, so the music was broken up and crackling, to boot. It really was like a god damn horror movie, and I wasn't alone in thinking this. As my hands were gripping the chair arms, getting ready to hoist me up with the quickness so I could make a mad dash for the exit, the younger lady's hands were ALSO gripping the chair arms. We looked at each other, and she looked as terrified as I felt. Which was immensely comforting. She vocalized what I myself had been thinking, just without as many expletives peppering the sentence, with a hushed whisper of "what the hell is going on??" I decided that I'd just shrug my shoulders so I didn't look like I was some sort of horror movie alarmist, and I cracked a joke about being trapped in a nightmare or something. It eased the tension enough for her, because she laughed, but my sympathetic nervous system was like YOU LAUGH NOW BITCH BUT NOBODY WILL BE LAUGHING WHEN WE'RE ALL FUCKING DEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAD! RUNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!
I overheard a lady down the hallway trying to ease the fear of her child, who was allowed to cry over the whole affair because she's a child, but that's unfair, and I wanted to be able to terror weep in the radiology department hallway, and she explained it by saying, "they do that to tell everyone in the hospital that a mommy just had her baby! It's the hospital's way of telling everyone something wonderful just happened."

I fucking call bullshit, you gigantic fucking liar, that is the sound of the impending uprising of the recently clinically dead but now somehow completely alive again, we all need to run. I didn't SAY that, I was only like that, but since the little girl wasn't worldly enough to be scared anymore, I figured that explanation could work for me and the lady next to me. So I shared the information I just heard, made another joke about it being like the world's least fun horror movie because we were in it, and got back to my reading. My heart was fucking pounding still, but I played it cool. 

Story three: Is that your given name, or a really bad life choice?

After getting my x-rays and surviving the zombie horde scenario I elaborately conjured in my brain, I was sent back down to emergency to wait for my results. I walked over to the window to sit down and read, but I still felt a little antsy from my World War(d) Z moment (see what I did there? Suck it Brooks family, you're not the only geniuses in the world), so I opted to stagger around the waiting room on my dumb foot. A nurse came out and called a name. I heard what he said, but I figured I had misheard the name, and I stopped, looking around for the person he was calling, waiting for them to correct what had to be a mispronunciation. Nobody was paying attention at all, and I shot a look over at the nurse. The nurse looked very obviously aggravated, and I watched him take in a deep breath and sigh as he yelled out, much louder now, "XMEN?"

Pardon. The fuck. Out of. Me. 

This time, a young gentleman in the corner of the waiting room perked up, raised his hand, and hobbled over to the nurse. No name correction hollered across the room. I seriously thought this was a fucking joke. It had to be a joke. The nurse had the same inclination, I could tell. He looked at the young man and said his name again for confirmation, "Xmen?" The young man nodded agreement. This was no trick. His fucking name was Xmen, and I was fucking DELIGHTED. I messaged Allen really quickly to tell him the magic that just happened, and his response was the only appropriate one: "The fuck". 

Exactly. 

I told him this was the best hospital ever, and I meant it. 

I got called in a few minutes later, me and my stupid boring dumb dumb of a name that isn't Xmen at all, and walked do my room, being again asked if I needed a wheelchair. I again refused, and hobbled my way to my hospital bed. To my absolute joy, I was placed in the room next to Xmen the man. I was going to wait until I left the hospital to tell Allen that I had been put in the room next to Xmen the man, the real life man, but I overheard the discussion he and the nurse were having, and my sympathetic nervous system, the nosy, overreacting little fuckbox of a thing it is, kicked itself on again. Here is the conversation I had at Allen:

Me: Update. Xmen is in the room next to me. 
Me: His symptoms sound like LITERAL Xman symptoms, like he's about to go full Cyclops in this piece. 
Me: He says his eyes have been burning and the drops they gave him aren't working, his eyes are getting worse. 
Me: HE SAID HE CAN SEE THINGS IN HIS EYES.
Me: And the nurse is like...oh my god, I can see. Your eyes are so red I can barely see your irises. 
Allen: Reminds me of that girl who didn't change her contacts for months. 
Me: A nurse just rushed over to Xmen's room and was like, ok, well, because this has been more than a week, and we don't know what's going on with you, we're going to move you over there. 
Me: And he protested a little bit and she interrupted and was like, we can talk about it over there. We need to get you over there NOW. 
Me: WHAT THE FUCK EVEN IS THIS HOSPITAL????
Allen: Goddamn seriously
Me: I'm wearing my Sell Your Soul shirt today, too. I'm fucking ripe for an ironic plague scenario.

While I'm sure it wound up being something benign (I mean, not for Xmen, but for the rest of the world), my brain was cooking up fucked up ideas, like telling itself that Xmen was going to wind up like that woman whose body was super toxic and smelled and everybody that came into contact with her got sick with some mysterious illness and she died and it was fucking fucked up and crazy (Gloria Ramirez, also dubbed as "The Toxic Lady", got a pretty unfair shake, honestly. There are two fairly sound explanations for what happened at that hospital, and neither of them involve movie-esque plot devices. Did knowing that stop my brain from being fucking bonkers? I think we all know the answer to that). I was kind of panicking, and telling myself THIS is why I don't go to the hospital. 

.....Really, brain? THAT'S why you don't go to the hospital? To avoid people named Xmen who have some sort of eye infection gone rogue that you interpret as actually being a plague of biblical proportions even though you don't believe in the fucking bible? That's why you don't go to the  hospital?

In reality, I don't go to the hospital because I'm terrified of catching a stomach bug. Thankfully, I only lightly fractured my foot in seven places, I didn't even need pain meds. The doctor told me that the weird sensations and numbness and pain in places I should have pain was probably because the lumber fell across my nerve and shocked it, so not to be surprised by strange feelings for the next few weeks. 

That's a relief, but unless something wild happens, I think it's best to keep me and my imagination out of the fucking emergency room for as long as I can manage. 

Tuesday, February 19, 2019

The Radish Cure

Regarding photography:

I was browsing instagram, like ya do, when I saw that NatGeo was holding a very short contest to celebrate hitting 100 million followers on the platform. Submit your most NatGeo photo, tag it with the right hashtag, vote on the top ten images in their story on Friday, and then some lucky photographer gets to go to Tanzania, all expenses paid.

Naturally, I jumped at the chance, and then immediately regretted it and doubted myself because of fucking COURSE I did.

I've submitted a shitload of photos to NatGeo photo essay contests before. While it seems a bit silly to say I've never won, or even gotten and honorable mention, and that means my photos aren't worthy of their contest, I admit that's how I feel about myself. I started using my own hashtag, #pickmenatgeo , on instagram. I just checked, and it's still my hashtag alone...almost. One other person has the hashtag in one of their photos, and I'm not really sure why, but it doesn't matter much. I've always wanted to be a NatGeo photographer. NatGeo's instagram page liking a photo of mine would probably give me a heart attack, and that's just a social platform embodiment of a concept. I'm not really sure what it would mean to me, or do to me, to get even a small mention, or a huge win, for a photo contest they held.

I picked a photo that I took that I think best embodies Nat Geo quality, entered it into the contest (read: I used the correct hashtag under my photo), and then looked through all of the already submitted images and realized I don't have a fucking snowball's chance in the senate. There are literally thousands and thousands of amazing images, and I got disheartened and had to shut instagram down after only getting eight likes. I read the contest rules, and the top photos are chosen out of the pool of photos that have the biggest likes. That won't be mine. It's a stupid fucking photo of albatross checking out a double rainbow. Check it:


Don't get it twisted, I fucking love this photo. I really earned it, too. I had to go running through a torrential downpour and cleverly maneuver my camera bag so I could wipe the gallons of water off of my lens so it would be clear enough to take this shot of a bunch of paired off albatross enjoying the early evening glow of the setting sun, and a glorious double rainbow. I was fucking soaked, cold, being clacked at by a VERY fucking large male albatross who did not like the cut of my jib (me either, mother fucker, joke's on you), I had no idea where I was in relation to where I was supposed to be, I didn't know where Derek had run off to, and I didn't know where I was supposed to be going to find him. It was a stressful few minutes that culminated in one of my favorite pictures I've ever taken. But is it NatGeo material? I mean....probably not.

If you're on instagram, check out their #natgeo100contest hashtag submissions. So many of those images are just insanely, ridiculously gorgeous. I hate feeling like I don't deserve to think my photos are worthy of gracing the same space as these photographers, but at the same time, there are thousands and thousands of amazing photographers out there with more experience, more patience, and more creativity than I have, so it's a warranted feeling.

Moving on to my own photos.

I was contacted by a model a little bit ago, and she wanted to do a shoot with me. I've had some ideas floating around my head for some shoots (one exceptionally huge one that I want to talk about so badly but cannot until every last aspect of it is completed. The suspense is KILLING ME!), so I was like, fuck yeah, let's do a collab! Turns out, she was WAY fucking game to spend three entire days with me, shooting whatever I suggested, culminating in one of my favorite shoots EVER. Here we go:



I have a confession to make: I've just bought a mermaid tail. A good one (from FinFolk Productions. Am I angling to buy more? YES). I've been wanting to do a mermaid shoot here since the first time I saw the site, and I am SO FUCKING EXCITED at the idea of doing the mermaid shoot I want to do (I even have three ladies that will happily model the tail and do the shoot for me, it's just a matter of schedule logistics now) with it. But before I took the plunge and spent the skrill on the tail, I had to try and conceptualize the idea with a human, and Kate did a fucking FANTASTIC job. Those are both real backgrounds, nothing is faked, this is what this place looks like (someone asked if it was a backdrop, and I was thrilled), and with a little bit of help from her dad holding up the bounce board because Derek was unavailable due to CQ duty, everything worked out, and the resulting photos are straight out of the mermaid fantasy shoot I've been building in my head.


We've had a large cache of prop lingerie for awhile, but most people get excited at the idea of buying their own saucy undergarments and being photographed in something they chose. And I get that one thousand percent. Kate traveled here, though, and din't bring much of her own stuff. The stuff she DID bring was adorbs for real, but because I shot with her more than once, we ran through it all. So fucking VICTORY for my boudoir closet!!! That fringed number is one I've been desperate to photograph on someone. It's so fucking playful and sexy and I really love it. We hiked all the way out to Kaena Point dragging a HUGE wagon of lighting equipment and props and clothes and shoes with us, and I think it was worth it. The shoes are my favorite Gianni Bini's, and I was stoked they fit Kate, too. I designed the entire shoot, from the make up (I'm really getting pretty alright at that!), the hair, the clothes, the shoes, the site, the lighting, the time, all of it. Everything except the poses, which Kate CRUSHED. I have a few of her  up on the ladder, she really was a sport, but this was my favorite one of the set.


This fucking photo.

No bullshit, I think this is the best photo of a person I've ever taken.

For those of you playing the home game, the faux fur is mine. I wore it during my boudoir shoot, and I think is is so fabulously luxe and gorgeous and I've really been angling to shoot it on EVERYBODY. I bought it with the explicit intention of recycling the look as often as I could, and I just haven't been able to do it often enough. The shoes? Oh yeah, those were my shoes from the same boudoir shoot, as well. I call this look my "trash monster" look, which is how I refer to myself a lot of the time. Unfortunately, I'm not a model, so I can't go waltzing about the world, wearing this get up like I own the place, so I have to settle for dressing other people in it and making the shots look cool. And I truly think this one accomplishes that quite well.

I have a lot of other shots of Kate. Three days of shooting was very productive, and I'm STILL editing things while trying to get my website together and balancing that with school and relationships and trying to not stress myself to death. It isn't an easy balance.

That's about all I have to say on photography right now. I have to go press tofu for dinner. 

Monday, February 18, 2019

"Sigh No More, Ladies, Sigh No More" is Shakespeare's way of saying "men aint shit", and I'm here for it.

Another long blog, because I want to address two different things:
1) a personal issue I've had for a long time now;
b) photography and posterity. 

I'll save the photography for the end to lighten the mood. 

Issue one: Ondrea Tucci and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad, body image

Derek leaves for three months in eight days.

While I'm going to miss him very much, three months away isn't all that much, and I'll have school going on, so the time will not go dully by. Derek mentioned that he'd write me letters while he's gone (which I am fucking THRILLED about. Dan was deployed for...uh...nine months, I think...and I wrote him quite a bit and it always gutted me that he couldn't be bothered to write me a single letter back. Despite my references to written letters being something I wanted), and I'm pretty good at dealing with (read: compartmentalizing) separation, so I'm not worried or sad about the coming weeks. 

What I AM concerned about is my god damn awful body. 

I still have about twenty five to thirty pounds left to go before I'm at a number my brain is happy with, but I don't know how the image of myself will play at that number. I will be at a lower weight than I was when Derek and I met, and I will be at a lower weight than I was before I got knocked up with my son (though I never want to be the weight I was before my daughter ever again. I hit that weight when I was homeless and struggling in Vegas, and I looked like a fuckin' mummified corpse. Yuck). I remember hating my body even at that weight, but I didn't hate it so much that I wouldn't take hawt newdz. 

Something most people know about me but is a truly forgettable fact (and I like it that way) is that I used to work in the sex industry. I was a stripper, I was a cam girl, and I was on the appointment setting side of an escort service (or a phone pimp, as I loved referring to myself as, even though that's exceptionally far from the truth) with a boss that was very not subtle about moving me to the other side of the service (i.e. ho'ing it up in a major way for major money). There is even an amateur porn of me floating around somewhere, and my deepest horror is that it's presented to me one day, because I remember doing it, and ew. I don't regret it, but I am not happy about the memory. I made a great deal of money doing the former two jobs, and even more money with the latter, though that had absolutely zero to do with my skill. The truth is, while yes, talented cam girls and talented strippers tend to make more money, the market in the early aughts wasn't terribly saturated, so if you were doing those jobs, you were raking in cash whether you were talented or not. 

Being completely honest, I land in the "not" camp. I have lied through my god damn teeth about being good at both jobs, but the truth is that I am awkward, uncoordinated, and uncomfortable in my body because I god damn hate it. 

I've written before about how I have a love/hate relationship with being invisible to men anymore (sorry to not include ladies! But I have ALWAYS been oblivious if ladies were interested, because I was never hoping for their sexual attention. I don't mean to be disregarding!), and for the most part, I quite enjoy not being subjected to the catcalling and unsolicited dick pics and everything else I used to get when I was younger and thinner and hotter (and running in single circles where that kind of thing wasn't necessarily surprising, but who's counting?), but a part of me is depressed that I don't have an outlet for validation outside of my inner circle that's eager to let me know how hot I am. I have always taken a very "you tell me I'm sexy and you  have sex with me because you HAVE to" approach to the compliments I get from my partners, because that's honestly what I think. The validation that comes from a one night stand is equally as tricky, because while it could be looked at as being so hot that someone just HAS to fuck you ASAP, it could also be that people are just desperate to get laid. Which....no surprise...is the option I choose. 

What the fuck does this have to do with my husband leaving, you are probably not asking. Well, I will tell you.

Before my boudoir shoot, I was obsessed with looking at lingerie so I could find the perfect pieces that would make me look sexy and slender and the absolute hottest I could look. I have always thought lingerie was absolutely impractical, and as I am a pretty fervent practitioner of no muss no fuss sex, the putting on and then removal of lingerie, plus the delicate care it takes to keep it clean, is just too much god damn effort. 

As previously discussed in an earlier blog, it's been a solid two years of mirror avoidance for me. I have been hating my figure for a very long time now, and I can look at myself without hoping I'm struck by a solitary meteorite that would put me out of my misery forever. I've gained enough confidence that I've been wondering about what kind of photos I can take for my husband while he's gone. Photos of the hawt newdz variety. 

Now. 

If I'm being frank, the vast majority of me doesn't want to do this at all. Only partially because I still absolutely loathe my body, and I struggle to see how anybody would want to put their penis anywhere around me. Most of me doesn't want to do this because...like...who takes a three month vacation away from their spouse and uses that time to fantasize...about their spouse?? This is totally the time where all of the porn that you don't want to look at when you're home because you don't want your fat spouse to find it and fly downward into a horribly hideous self hate spiral can be looked at without fear of being "caught". I don't have a problem with porn, while we're on the subject...I have a problem with my self image, and the horribly unrealistic standards of sexuality and beauty that pornography projects. But masturbation fodder is a thousand percent understandable. Probably seems like a conflicting ideology, but here we are. Because Derek has low T, and our sex life has taken an absolute fucking nose dive for the last few years, the presence of porn has an additional level to it for me: if there's sex drive and a boner, and the immediate thought is "I'm going to chill with some porn and my bare dick" rather than "dear sweet lord, I need to fuck my wife because she's awesome at the sex stuff", I take it personally. I feel less than, because sex drive is already so rare for my husband (according to him, anyway) that not utilizing it to bone me seems deeply intentional. I'm getting off track. The next three months for Derek is seriously the perfect time to indulge in porn because what fat wife is there to stop him? Not this one, that's for sure! So why would I ruin that by sending pictures of my tuber-like naked body when there are curvier, thinner, hotter, younger women with breasts that do not, in any way, resemble fried eggs nailed to a wall? I shouldn't. 

I've thought about it, though, and then I get into a couple of hours where I look  up lingerie because forcing yourself to dress in a way that is supposed to be sexy is natural and not at all weird. 

And I'll look at lingerie and think about how cute it is and think about how cute I could look in it and then I delete everything from my cart and remind myself of what I actually look like, and why would anybody want to see that kind of thing when they're on a three month trip away from the tangible reality of it? 

I miss hating myself in such a way where I still allowed for the idea that people wanted to see my naked body in all of its honesty. I hate myself in a way now where I am thoroughly convinced of how NOT sexy I am, and just being kind of resigned to the fact that I'm always going to be a woman that men settle for because their preferred reality is unattainable (which should tell them something about society, but that's for another day). High Fidelity did a pretty good job of explaining that even the hottest of fantasy partners eventually becomes reality to the person they're with, and the sex gets old and the hotness gets stale and the unsexy underwear is discovered and there are nights without fucking and no matter how fucking gorgeous and sexy someone is, there will always always ALWAYS be a "grass is greener" moment or moments in those relationships. 

Understanding that doesn't help put me in a head space where I think it's logical to either send my husband off with, or plan on sending him, personal nudes. 

Issue two: I'll regret this when I have Alzheimer's. 

It occurred to me yesterday that I will eventually forget days like yesterday, where Derek and I drove around the entirety of the island looking for photos to take on a rainy day that was grey and dull and not the greatest, photo-wise. 

So I told myself I would take more photos for posterity and upload them in here so I could reflect back when I'm older and either remember the photos and have a nice little flashback, or still completely forget the day, but have photos of it to shove my horrible memory in my face. 

So, here are the photos I took yesterday during our three hour drive around the island:


The Makapu'u lookout. I have a shitload of water droplets on my lens, and they're refracting light and being distracting, but the view is still pretty. I had never stopped at this lookout before. Makapu'u Lighthouse is next.

The initial plan had been to find surfers that were defying good sense and surfing during the crazy swells we've got going on right now. Instead, these guys just stood at the edge of Makapu'u being reasonable.


Driving on the H3, and the pali were just fucking lousy with mist. I knew I wasn't going to get a "good" photo of this driving 60 mph down the highway, but I wanted to at least try and get SOMETHING. This is my favorite way to see these ridges. I'm not sure they're ever more gorgeous and dramatic. They're beautiful in sunlight on a clear day, as well, but there's definitely something to the mist-laden aesthetic. 

So there we go. I'm going to do my best to get better about throwing in just regular photos that are regular to detail my life here a bit better. 

Which reminds me, I DEFINITELY have some photographer photos that I want to put in here, as well, but that's for another day.