The Internet is for Porn. Crazy, Crazy Porn.

I'm back. For those who have been sitting around waiting for a new post (hi, sis), thank you. For those who have not, I totally understand. Face it, my life is not that exciting.

Anyway, as you may or may not know (or care) I make a living by writing. And when I say, "Make a living," I mean "have no problem staying under the income guidelines for food stamps." I get gigs from a site that pays a penny a word. I create "gigs" and post them, and people order them.

I've got one for blog content, one for ghost writing, one for screen writing, and one for erotica (call it porn). Guess what? The porn is where the money is at. People love kink, people.

I'm not surprised by much, let's put that out there. And nothing sexual really freaks me out (except that whole "Two Girls One Cup" shit - so to speak - which still keeps me from eating soft serve ice cream). I expected the deluge of requests for lesbian bondage kink, gay orgies, horrotica (my specialty), and lots of other fun stuff that gets people off. But I don't understand one thing: Tentacle sex.

I'm not even kidding, you guys. People love to read about other people being violated by giant alien tentacles. I had no choice but to Google that shit when I got the first order because, believe it or not, I had no idea what the dude was asking for. Apparently, there's a whole community of hentai and manga and plain old porn readers who enjoy - extremely - the notion of a person having slug-like crawlies violate their privates. Who knew?

I'm also kind of surprised at the number of people who ask for pregnancy-related stuff. One person actually asked me to write a continuing series where the guy was held captive by beautiful female aliens and forced to procreate with them. 

I don't judge. As long as everybody is of age and no one is getting hurt, I have no issue with providing entertainment for people. It just kind of surprised me that I could be, well - surprised by anything anymore. Maybe I'm not as old as I feel.

On the other hand, I still can't figure out how to get the pictures off my camera, but I'm sure my 12 year old nephew could do it with one hand tied behind his back. So yeah. Maybe I AM as old as I feel.

Oh and by the way - I have a date tonight. He seems normal so he's probably a total freak or another mama's boy. But I'll keep you posted.

Because I know you're just sitting there waiting for my posts.

Thanks for sticking around and reading. I'll try to be more diligent in my posting future.

When Enough is Enough

Two weeks ago, I moved into a community residence for mentally ill clients. I'm waiting for a space in the apartment program, which is 3 women sharing a house, doing their own thing, with a case manager visiting once a week to check up on things like meds and finances. Meanwhile, though, I'm cohabiting with 9 other people, who function independently to a greater or lesser degree. Not to toot my own horn, but I'm on the higher functioning end of the scale. I don't need help with my Activities of Daily Living (ADL's), like showering daily, brushing your teeth, managing your money, things like that. There are other people that need help with ALL that. And that's okay - we can't all be in the same place at the same time.

I do have a problem, though, and I don't really know how to solve it. One of the women here, who happens to be one of my roommates, is someone who has lived on the streets for most of her adult life. I'd seen her regularly at the soup kitchens and shelters where I volunteered - she generally opted to sleep outside than in the shelter because she wanted her "stuff" (her shopping cart) with her. When I saw her here, I was so glad, so happy that she'd gotten treatment and moved off the street. She was still a little rough around the edges, and now she's on oxygen for emphysema (but she still smokes 2 packs a day) but, you know, I figured it takes time to settle down in a new environment.

Then I found out she's been here a year.

The woman doesn't shower unless there's a big blow up, bi-weekly, with the staff. She doesn't do her laundry. She sleeps in her clothes then gets up and wears them all day. I have yet to see her change her bed linens. She smokes at night in the upstairs bathroom (which is 2 doors from my bedroom where the oxygen tank is and I do not want my face blown off thank you). She has two cartons of cigarettes but will pick stubs out of the ash trays. She is basically a hot mess and if she's getting better, I cannot imagine why she was allowed here a year ago, because I cannot imagine what she was living like then.

It's not my place to say anything to her about this, but the smell coming from her side of the room is killing me. I spend more money on air freshener than I do on mascara. I know she goes through my stuff when I'm not home, which is a lot of the time. And I've gone to staff, and they've told me they're working on it.

I'm writing this, not to make fun, but to seriously ask for suggestions on how to fix this problem. I like it here. I feel safe, it's not disgusting like sober houses are, and I have the opportunity to really start my life over. And I know I will always have to be around people that I don't mesh with. And she's really nice, but she's so manipulative. She doesn't do her chore. She never cooks (which is good, considering her hygiene, but I end up picking up her nights and I get home late and want to chill).

So, any thoughts would be appreciated. You can leave comments at the bottom of this post. Thanks, you guys.

Me? Naive?

I got called naive last night. Can  you believe it? ME? NAIVE?

Here's what happened (because I know you give a shit or you wouldn't be reading this): I said, "Call me naive but I believe in true love, no matter what, that I don't think true love ever dies and that it can overcome anything." So the other person said, "Okay, I will." (Call me naive, that is).

Maybe it is naive to have that idea at my age. I don't know. What I do know is, in 2006 I met someone with whom I felt an immediate connection, and almost irresistible pull. No, we did not fall into bed and live happily ever after. We were friends for a while, then we dated, then we moved in together. And then I got really sick and he moved to another apartment and I moved into psych units and sober houses until finally, after over a year, I found this house and moved here and I'm getting my shit together. But in that over a year and a half, I have never stopped loving this man. Not even a little bit. I get waves of anger, sometimes, at my having had to go alone through what I've been through the last 16 months, and I feel sad and I worry that we'll never get back to where we were, but I've never stopped loving. And I've never REALLY stopped believing that we won't be okay in the end, it's just going to take a little while for us to get back there. And the place we get to may probably even be better, because there will be more trust, more openness, more communication.

I believe love conquers all.

I believe that with all my heart.

And I believe that the person who called me naive for believing that is trying desperately to appear as cynical as possible in his efforts to avoid getting hurt. That makes me sad, because I'm the one who put him in that place. But I also think I can get him back out of that place. And keep him out. 

I refuse to stop believing that.

Games People Play

I am not a passive-aggressive person, not by any means. Aggressive, yes, sometimes, although I prefer to be assertive since it's much more effective in getting my point across. Passive? Occasionally, when I feel that a situation is beneath me and I don't want to become involved in it, or a person for that matter.

And so it is that I have little patience for the types of women who play games, especially on social media. You know what, wait. I shouldn't say "women," I should say "people." Because face it, folks, some men are just as fucking stupid as we are when it comes to snarking from behind a keyboard.

I like dealing with people on a face-to-face  (or message-to-message) basis. So if I send someone a personal message, especially a NICE one, it chaps my ass (I can't believe I said "chaps my ass") when they not only do not respond directly to me, they make truly stupid posts on the walls of friends they know I will visit, knowing I will see them. 

This seems especially true of the female friends of certain men. I have it going on right now. Whatever my problems with this man, we have an extensive history and if you are his friend and he wants to talk to you then by all means, be friends. I would never deny him a friend. MOST of his friends are women (you're by no means special). Most of those women happen to be beautiful. And they're also friends with me, a lot of them. These women, however, don't play shit behind my back, or make references to super-secret conversations and post snarky little pictures and say "remember what we said about HER?" and stupid shit like that. 

So here's the thing, you sad, lonely broad. You're not ruining anyone's day but your own when you wallow in that kind of misery. Because I don't think about you all day. The only time I think about you is when one of your stupid posts is in my face. And frankly, if the person you're playing the game with doesn't have enough sense to realize that I KNOW the posts are about me and say something about it, I'm probably not going to be reading his wall anymore. I'm not going to stop talking to him, though, so put that mean little thought right out of your mean little head. I'm just not going to pay attention to YOU anymore, and since all you do is post on his wall (which is sad and I know I should feel sorry for you that you have no other friends to pester) that means I won't be visiting his page very often.

So, sunshine, you enjoy your misery. I'm gonna go talk to the amazing friends I have who don't judge but listen when I talk to them about something that's hurting me, or who laugh with me at the ridiculous things we find in every day life. You can go look up pictures to post with "secret messages." Don't worry. I got your secret. You're a bitch. And it's not a secret.

Sometimes, Crazy People do Crazy Shit

Before we get started, a couple of things:

1. I can say "crazy" because I AM crazy; and,
2. I would never, ever want to hurt someone else's feelings, so anyone I talk about in this blog will never read this blog. I know this for a fact. I also won't be using names. I'll make names up.

So don't get all bunged up about the title or all that other shit. I'm not hurting anyone. You all should know by now I'd never do that.

Anyway, on to the crazy shit. There's a no-smoking-in-the-house policy here at my house. As there is at most houses, both group-living and private. Most people don't want their clothes and their hair smelling like ass. Myself included, and I smoke so yeah. But THIS house has a very SPECIAL reason for the no-smoking policy, and here it is: one of our residents is on oxygen. Which we all know is highly explosive. So we all obey the no smoking in the house rule because let's face it, even if we're nuts, we don't want to get roasted like chestnuts on an open fire.

However, there is one person in the house who seems to have a really difficult time following the rules pertaining to the "Let's Not Blow Up The House" theme. Who, you might ask, would do that? Why, it's none other than the person to whom the oxygen is hooked up. WHAT?????? That is correct. She has an oxygen tank next to her bed, complete with breathing machine, and she goes two doors down to the bathroom with a can of air freshener and smokes in the middle of the night.

The best part of all this is that this is one of my roommates. She sleeps in the bed RIGHT NEXT TO MINE. And that oxygen machine is on the floor between our beds. This makes me rather angry and more than a little nervous. (She also has difficulties with personal hygiene but whatever, that won't kill me - although the smell of rotten feet in a room occupied by a sensitive person - me - can be trying.) 

This person got caught dead ass the other night. The next morning she got asked about it and flat out lied. "No," she said. "Not me," she said. Then comes out to the back yard table and tells me she got caught but she's going to keep denying because it's the staff member's word against hers and "she's not licensed and she's a nigger anyway so no one will believe her." That's right, she said the "N Word" and I repeated it. This is to show you what I'm dealing with here. 

I'm no snitch but I got pissed off enough about this bitch putting my life at risk and being a bigoted asshole that I went to MY counselor and related the conversation. She said she'd take care of it. I doubt that.

I don't know what my point was in writing this blog, other than to show that all those warm and fuzzy TV shows about group living for the mentally ill are not always accurate, and that some of us are mean, vindictive, and have stinky feet and dirty sheets.

Have a nice day. I'll be back tomorrow unless I get blown up.

Better Living Through Psych Meds

I'm Back, You Guys!

So I thought I'd go try another blogging site which I won't name here. Well, it sucked, so I'm back to Blogger with my head between my legs (not my tail, my head - I'm a little dizzy from that last cigarette). I wrote two entries on that page but I doubt I'll migrate them, so here's an update on where I've been for the last what? 20 years since I last posted?

I've been in mental hospitals and sober houses. The mental hospitals were nicer than the sober houses (mostly cause if I'm gonna have a pet I don't want it to be a bed bug or a roach trying to make a nest in my ear). After like a year of running the streets, destroying my relationship, doing really dangerous things and generally being an asshole, I finally checked in to Eastern Long Island Hospital in Greenport. That's at the very tip of Long Island's North Fork (there's only one more town - Orient - and then next stop is France) so I figured the end of the world was a good place for the end of the crazy.

My doctor there spent an hour talking to me. ONE FULL HOUR. Unheard of. Then he said he was going to focus on treating my diagnosis - bipolar 1 with hypomanic upswings, PTSD, and Generalized Anxiety Disorder with Panic Feature - instead of my drug and alcohol problem, which I seem to have pretty much under control with AA/NA (I have 9 plus months today, you guys, after a shitty stupid relapse). Between that doctor and a fabulous social worker, I stayed in the hospital for 3 weeks and then was released to supportive housing. I'm currently living in a community residence, waiting for an apartment in the apartment program to open up. I'm taking it slow, taking my time. And enjoying my meds, which are really working since they're the right meds.

So that's the update. If you read the shitty other blog posts you already know this and you're saying, "Really, Mo? Did they remove the creative part of your brain at the hospital, too?" No, snotty pants, they did not, it's just six in the morning and I have nothing new to say but I wanted to come back to my old blog cause I missed it so relax. There will be new stuff, probably later today because you can only clean so much and I'm off.

ChipIn Link

I Wake Up To The Sound Of Music, Mother Mary Comes To Me

Many of you know that I'm a recovering alcoholic and addict, and lots of my blog posts are about that, in some way or another (when I'm not plotting to steal ER items for craft projects). This one is about the spiritual awakening part of that recovery. But don't be scared. It won't be all religious and shit.

The last week has been horrific, to say the least, and today is Saturday, my day to clean and write and work on one of my independent contractor projects. Since Awesomechef switched jobs, my Saturday starts at 5 a.m. but he gets home earlier now, like by 4 pm when it's still light out. But I have been lax in my blogging so I need to post this.

We spent yesterday just being with each other. No Facebooking (well, not much, but I have to play my games, I need my Sims bonuses yo - don't judge me). It was beautiful out so we walked to the store. We bought some stuff. We got groceries and had a completely indulgent lunch that made us so full we couldn't cook the steaks for dinner. We watched movies. He napped while I sat through "Exorcist The Beginning" and then I put on "Bound" and woke him up cause, you know, all that sex...

Anyway, we went to bed early because of his early rise. And while I was lying curled up in his arms, the Hail Mary started going through my head. And I didn't consciously make it stop. And it made me feel calm. And happy.

Lots of you also know that I have not aligned myself with conventional religious practices. I don't discuss my spirituality much because I consider it a private matter. I was raised Roman Catholic. I took Latin and I'm not that old. And I've always loved the rituals of the Church  but I could not abide the rules and the restrictions and the sexism, so I left. But I have never discounted the existence of a Higher Power. I have so much proof in my life that there is someone watching out for me, Goddess, Horned God, whoever. I have been lifted from deadly situations and cradled in the palm of someone greater. So taking that step about making a decision to turn my will and my life over to the care of God as we understand him. Or her. Whatever.

Anyway. After the prayer stopped in my head, I started thinking about going to Mass maybe. I don't know why, and I probably won't do it because I've been so far removed from that, I wouldn't feel welcome or comfortable. Maybe it's just because it's Palm Sunday. Maybe it's because I played Mary Magdalene in Superstar and I feel compelled to visit at Easter tide. I have no idea. But today, I feel so much like there is a presence around me. It's palpable. I feel like all those I loved and lost are here, too, watching out for me, trying to comfort me.  I don't feel scared or panicky today. I feel at peace.

I know I sound like a kook, you guys. And maybe it's the sleep deprivation or the meds. I have no idea. But I also have no desire to fight it. I feel like crying with the joy I feel. Because no matter how hard things get, I am blessed with a wonderful man who gave me a home in his arms. I am blessed with a family. And so, I am going to mend some things today, or at least put that in motion.

My sister and I have not spoken in years. She has my kids part time due to a custody agreement. She is angry at me over what I did when I was using and drinking. She has every right to be. She loves my girls like they are her own, and she and her husband raised them when I could not. But our relationship is fractured and she wants to keep the kids from me. Because of her anger. And I miss my sister. She's my SISTER. So, one of us has to make a move out of love and not anger. And since I do love her, I will make that move. Because aside from the kid situation, I want my sister in my life, in whatever way I can have her. And my brother. Whom I shall call later, when it's a decent hour for a Saturday. And my mom. I have been so disconnected from my family. And that's bad. My mom is older. She is not well. And I have left her all alone in a nursing home. Because I get busy. But she needs to know how much I love her. 

So I am feeling like today, I can do better. I can BE better. And I will be.

Namaste.

When Shit Gets Real

I have this awful habit of making everything about ME. It's a character defect that I can't seem to get rid of no matter how hard I try. So when something shitty happens to someone I care about, I freak out and make myself nuts trying to fix it.

When something shitty happens to someone I love more than life itself, it makes me partially insane. And that happened last night. Fortunately, I've been sober for a few 24's, so I had the tools to settle down enough to talk to a couple of people and they got me focused. And it worked out okay. But now, I feel like a bad luck charm in the life of the person I would literally (I hate that word as much as you guys, but sorry, it's appropriate) take a bullet for. 

When I met Awesomechef, his life was chaos-free. And ever since I dragged my midget-sized tornado of a life into his, it seems that bad shit is always happening to him. I had it brought to my attention this morning. Damn my head for being constantly "on." I drank coffee and thought about it. And although there is so much love, there's also so much shit. And it's because of me, or at least it feels like it is. I have Stewie in my head:

I want to fix everything. I want him to laugh when I talk. He seems to not want to talk to me at all. And I can't talk anyway, really, because there's a boulder in my throat.

I'm consumed with fear. I'm trying to laugh it off. I really didn't do anything to cause what happened yesterday (the details are not important). But then again, I feel like I did. Because I was the one that needed him to be in a certain place at a certain time, and if it wasn't for me and my fucked up medical issues, he would just have come home after work and that would have been the end of it. So yeah. Kind of my fault.

I'm afraid of what the outcome is going to be. I just wanted to make him happy. That's all I want now. And it feels like I'm not doing my job. 

I'll go to a meeting tonight and drag one of my girls out the parking lot and unload this. I just feel like crying right now. I hate this. I hate fear. I don't do it well.

Sorry this wasn't funny. I'll be funny later. Stay tuned.

Namaste.

This Is About The Choices We Make And Why Crack and Other Drugs Might Kill You Or Ruin Your Life. And It's a Little About Whitney Houston. But Not Really.

I'm sorry that Whitney Houston died. I'm sorry when any person dies for a stupid reason. And regardless of what the publicist and coroner are going to put out there in the official statements, we all know that crack, cocaine, other drugs, and domestic violence were a big factor. Because you don't generally drop dead at 48 for no reason.

But I'm really here to at 7 on a Sunday morning to talk about the rest of that shit. I have experience with the rest of that shit. I have experience with a partner that succumbed to crack addiction and became violent and paranoid even when he wasn't smoking. I smoked with him but my drug of choice was heroin. It doesn't matter, though. I stayed. I had a baby girl and I still stayed. I got clean and had another baby girl and it continued and I still stayed. Why? Because I was sincerely afraid that he was going to kill me if I left, and because I thought love and loyalty required me to stay, and because honestly? I thought he was right. That I was ugly, and irritating, and that no one else would ever love me.

I know what y'all are thinking:"Wow, Mo. You're an asshole." And you're right. I was a total asshole. I let that fucker into my head. He infiltrated my friendships, my psyche, and my family relationships. My own sister believed what he said and called me a liar. I was working my ass off to maintain the illusion of suburban happiness. In a house I came to hate, and with the cars and the trips and the trappings. Which of course all eventually made their way out the door as they got sold for drugs. I won't say he was entirely to blame for that. Because after a while, I was spending just as much as him on my shit, just to dull the pain of reality and busted bones.

When I finally said, "Fuck you, you are not going to make it okay to my girls for a man to beat up a woman. They are not going to be okay with me getting my head bashed into a wall or my clavicle broken or thrown down the stairs. They are not going to accept as normal a really big guy kicking a tiny pregnant woman in the stomach with his boot," I walked away from everything I knew. I called my sister and said, "I need to get help. I need to get to a detox. There are guns and drugs all over my house. Please come and get the girls." They were 2 and 7 at the time. Watching them cry and plead for me to take them back was the hardest punch my heart ever took. Me and my girls were tight, see. I took them everywhere with me. I enjoy my kids, still. They are funny little bitchez. And they didn't want to go. But they had to. And so did I.

I walked away from the house and the job and the credit cards and the overdrawn checking account and the view of the harbor and I went to detox, then to rehab, then to a sober house. I had nothing. They told me I had to go to group every day, that I couldn't work, that I had to apply for Public Assistance, Medicaid and Food Stamps. I had to get humble. I thought I already was. My face was bashed in, I was facing months of dental surgery, I wasn't pretty anymore. But I wasn't humble. I was angry, and humiliated, and sad. But also arrogant. I thought that, now that I had left his manky ass, I should just be able to slide right back into my AA lifestyle. No. I had to crawl first. So I did.


Our family is not perfect. My sister and I have joint custody of my girls. And we aren't as close as we used to be, which is probably healthier. But they know all about the dangers of drugs and alcohol. They know that, as the children of addicts/alcoholics, they are at special risk and that if they choose to experiment, they may have far more dire consequences than their friends. They also know they can tell me anything and I will help them without judgment. ANYTHING. I don't ever judge my girls' choices. I may not like them, but my only wish for my children is that they love and be loved and be happy. 


Once you know something, you cannot unknow it. And that is why the Whitney Houston thing pisses me off. If I can walk away from a $600,000 house in one of the best neighborhoods on Long Island, leave my shit and my view and start over alone, I get pissed off when someone with all those resources publicly says it's all good. She knew. She said it several times. You cannot UNKNOW. And it's sad that she died. But I'm glad it wasn't me.

Have a wonderful Sunday, everyone. Be grateful for the sunshine, even in winter, and the gifts of love and life. Never to be taken for granted, the gift of another human being.