Creepy

You know what’s creepy? Give up?

I’ll tell you then. Just how much of our culture, TV, movies, streaming, is given over to murder, homicude, rape, kidnapping. This is our entertainment.

And we wonder why we’re effed-up.

The Budding Author #2

Tags

I wrote again tonight. I resisted, but I sat down and wrote. Long Hand. Cursive, they call it. I guess because you curse when your hand cramps and your fingers get ink-stained. And writing long hand gives me a chance to think and consider a term or a phrase or a word.

But I wrote. It is powerful, like there are these people in my head who do exactly what I tell them to do. And they can be whatever I want them to be. Almost like fucking, because I have brought these sods to life.

It is amazing what standing back and letting go can do.

Truth. Not That!

So I took my disconsolate and melancholic self to an AA meeting and shared how I felt; 1) that my attitude sucked, 2) that I didn’t care whether I lived or died, and 3) sobriety isn’t about the elimination of difficulties.

It resonated. People shared about the tough parts of their lives in sobriety, like the deaths of their children. At the end, one of my friends gave me a cross he had crafted from an exotic wood, spalted hackberry. I was more than a little touched.

I’ve been over indulging on the guava bars, so they went to the meeting with me and were consumed by my fellow pastry fiends at the meeting,

J and I went to lunch at Cracker Barrel. Today is the sixth anniversary of her Dad’s passing. I felt good just remembering such a virtuous man. He liked Cracker Barrel and I can hear him ordering iced tea as I write this, (emphasis on the“iced” part.)

Spalted Hackberry Wood Cross

I’m just plain tired. I realize. J is beating herself up for her shortcomings as a wife. I told her to cut it out. “Wife” is not a job, in my opinion.

So I need to rest. Minimize the stimuli and rest. Then re-start the other parts of self-care. I felt profound empathy for every one who has ever felt marginalized today.

“Come unto me all ye who travail and are heavy laden and I will refresh you.” St. Matthew 11:28-30.

When Jesus said that, he didn’t put qualifiers on when he would start refreshing. He just said come, with your burdens. That was an epiphany for me in this season of The Epiphany.

Empty And Haunted

Tags

I woke up a little before Two. The bedroom is too hot. That happens because of where the air handler and strip heat are positioned in the heat pump configuration.

But I was having sexual thoughts. Hence the feelings of emptiness and of being haunted by the past. Memories of the passion the dead ex-wife and I shared early on unsettled me. It grew to be a horrendous relationship. And I blame myself.

I will be 69 years old in twelve days. Time to move on to other things. But no. Sex, tied up as it is with human loving, doesn’t work that way. This tension of being loved, but not in the way my soul and emotions need grinds me down.

Maybe I can fall back asleep in a little bit.

The Budding Author

Well, I started my Christmas story last night. I have my characters, my plot, my various embellishments to the story, a theme. Simple enough. Now all I have to do is write it. This is where it gets hard, as I try not to overthink, overembellish, and fill the story with unnecessary details.

Guava Bars

Publix has this confection called Guave Bars, a very sweet cake with a guava paste filling. Caution: This product is highly addictive.

How addictive? Better than sex addictive.

How addictive? If you are diabetic, you would risk amputation for one of these. (Not quite, but almost.)

How addictive? Find out for yourself.

Cross Section

Post Office

Tags

NSFW. Fantasy. 18+

For my muse in Savannah

It was a nice thick mailing envelope, perfect for this purpose. She waited patiently on line, behind the elderly woman with a parcel for Bettendorf, or so the label said. She fancied the woman was sending something to her grandchildren or even great-grandchildren. Certainly possible these days.

The woman put the parcel on the counter, answered the clerk’s questions, paid the clerk with a card of some sort.

Now it was her turn.

“Are you sending any flammable liquids?”

No.

“Firearms or ammunition?”

No.

“Drugs?”

No,

He quoted the price. “Insurance?”

No.

Was the clerk looking too intently at her? Did he notice her nipples hard and pointed beneath her tee shirt, whose graphic was that lewd Rolling Stones tongue. Pokies, the English called them, randy sods that they can be.

She paid. In cash. He took the mailer envelope.

She walked back to her car. As she walked, she felt the rub of the seam in her jeans against her, well you know, cunt.

But she did it. Obeyed Him. Mailed her panties to Him. She made sure they were nice. Date Night Panties. Smooth silk with lace on the edges, a seam down the back, defining the globes of her ass, that ass she thought was too big, but the ass He loved. She could even feel the memory of a swat He would give it, just because He could.

And she drove home. Went straight to the bedroom, took off the jeans, and that tee shirt, lay down on the bed. And masturbated.