Deal

Dealing with grief

I thought I dealt, or didn't 'deal' but 'lived' with grief, and then I read how Björk is dealing with, suffering through, her grief. http://grapevine.is/mag/feature/2015/02/06/bjorks-folk-music At least she mourns, she rages, she's knocked down and stunned by grief. Me, I just ... bow down and bear it, suffering, wallowing, and I'm like ... I have a long way to go, don't I?

Which is to say, it's been ... tough. Fired/quit my job on Friday, and all weekend, just ... busy, a neighbor's 40th birthday party, so I had to be nice and fun and congratulatory for her and her family, and the whole time I'm just wondering: My life is such a mess! Will I ever make it to 40? Will I want to? She, Caroline (yes, CAROLINE!) is 40, and preggers (yes!) with baby number ... 6? and is working the family farm, slaughtering chickens and rabbits, and so flush with happiness, and here I am, and ... what have I done with my life? No life, jobless loser! Well, at least I updated this story, you know. I don't know why I'm writing this, maybe to beg your indulgence that maybe sometimes 'The Author(esse)' has troubles of her own and sometimes it's hard to update soon.

Which is just bullshit, because this whole weekend all I wanted to do was to write this chapter. You want me to update soon, but not as much as I want to get that update out there. What really hurts as a writer is not to be writing, but it just seems to me that all of my life is conspiring against me not to write. Like, this weekend? All I wanted was to be left alone, but I just wasn't.

But, then again, I did have fun at the party and was happy for Caroline and ... I don't know: what would have happened to me if I weren't bugged and I was left alone?

I suppose I'll go find another job and go back to pretending I'm a normal, well-adjusted person and that everything is 'fine.'

... I finished a story. For once in my life. Victoria Alone, and 'life' goes on for Victoria, but she, and Summer, got their happy ending, even as life goes on, and I'm happy for a character I wrote, that she got a happy ending, even though life goes on, and I wonder what that feels like, but I know how it feels, for special times in my life, that happy ending, that happy now when you're with somebody you love who loves you and life is going great enough that you're enjoying it, your life, your job, your dear, dear, dearest one and you're fine even with you.

I like that feeling when I've got that, that things are going fine and you're fine because you actually are.

If you have that now, don't hold onto it with a strangle-hold (because you won't, you'll just glide through that groove, anyway), and if you're not having that now, go out and get that, or dive in deep enough to wipe away those bitter tears, then dive up out of yourself, look around you, and then go get that, your happiness.

p.s. "Which is just bullshit, because this whole weekend all I wanted to do was to write this chapter." Not true. All I wanted to do this weekend, and now, is something else. But I'm a strong, capable, independent woman. I'm a big girl now, and big girls don't cry, do they?

They don't have time to cry, and if they're seen crying, it just reinforces everything, doesn't it? "Oh, it's okay, dearie, we understand!"

When they don't, they don't at all, but it's just confirmed in their minds the whole women-can't-play-in-the-big-leagues, so then none of us can break down or be weak, because then we betray all of us.

I guess I'm not such a big girl, after all. Am I.

I really don't want your pity, nor your understanding. I know you pity me, and you do understand. I know this, and thank you, really: some of you have pulled me through when I simply couldn't.

But.

I don't. I don't pity me. I hate me. And I don't understand. Not at all. Why would God put me on this Earth if all I am is just this fuck-up?

A strong, independent woman doesn't need validation from her job, or from what her friends think, or ... anything.

And that's just another slap to the face, that I'm weak, and I'm not supposed to be, not in this modern day-and-age, but if you look back through history, women had to be even stronger than now, just to survive, themselves, or even to keep their families alive. So what am I moaning about?

Another slap to the face: I have no reason to complain, so I may as well shut the fuck up.

Fuck my life.

Haha. Too late.

This is just the pitch blackness I have to work through, and no, it's not that time of the month, thanks for asking, ... it's just that point in my life where I have to look myself squarely in the eye, see me for what I am, and say to that little girl looking back at me in the mirror: "Buck up, kiddo."

And buck that kiddo up.

That's all. That's all there is to it.

The Invisible Girl

t's been a month since I've written the last chapter, and this chapter is only one-third of what I actually wanted to write, but SOMEbody, Far and Away, kept bugging me of, 'oh, where is the next chapter, and it'd better be good!' (she actually didn't say that) that I dropped my two other writing projects, and my iPhone games, and my ... *ahem* 'internet' ... um ... 'research' ...

(Yes, thank you: I'm a loser who's scared of her own shadow and has no life, thank you for o-so-politely pointing that out to me)

(ooh, red heads!)

(I have no idea where that one came from. No idea at all!)

(Little Annie, Victoria's au pair, is a blond, not a red head, by the way ... which will make sense to you after I finish "Auld Lang Syne" and start "Annie, au pair") ...

So I was hiding in the corner sulking, but I got bugged into writing this next chapter, because somebody very politely reminded me that it's not about me and how scared I am to write anything ('Oh, wah, boo-hoo! Writing is so hard!'), and how I'd rather just fill my mind with work and noise (or noise and noise, as the case may be), but it's about ...

Hm. Altruism-alert, but what the hell. It's not about me, but it's about my responsibility to you to write what I have to write. Mel Brooks was told "If you're going to step up to the bell, ring it." I had the guts to think about Alicia and Caroline, so I may as well ring that bell and let the whole town hear it, and judge me, the bell-ringer, for what I've done, good or bad, instead of not judge me, not even know me, nor care, for what I've not done.

I started this. I better G.D. not disappoint you by not finishing it, again, like I always do.

(Yes, I have a very high opinion of myself (that's sarcasm, or self-loathing. Whatever. Again))

I love you. I love my characters as they struggle through their lives, trying to make sense of their world, trying to keep their dignity intact as they try to make this work, whatever this is. I love you, my readers, for reading something into what I write, and finding something in there that means something to you, even if I don't know what it is, because I surely don't, 'cause I'm just struggling, trying to make this work and pretend I have a shred of dignity when my boss pulls me aside and tells me he has to help me when he sees how utterly I've failed leading a division that nobody else would touch, and ... I didn't do a bad job, but what's to be proud of that? That I didn't do a bad job, and now I'm just a little office worker again, trying not to be ashamed that I tried to manage something, a very, very small team, and I couldn't, and now I report to a new hire, a woman much older than me, much more experienced than me, much more competent than me, and she wants to make sure I'm happy doing my job now that she's taken over.

And. I. so. am. I'm so relieved that she's taken over management of the division, so I can do what I'm really good at, and she can take care of all the politics and go to all the meetings with management and take all the heat (well, most of the heat) and complain to me about how hard it is and how demanding upper management is, and don't they understand all the stuff we're doing? And I'm like, amen, sister, amen, and thank you for taking this on.

And that's me, a little girl who volunteered to jump into the little-big pond of leading a small team of one other person at work and utterly failing and now, here I am, happy to be just little, tiny me again, and not in charge of other people and 'the direction of the project' and all that entails.

And so, so sad that I was looked to be more than I could be, but I couldn't. I failed. Smart, little `phfina tried, and failed.

And now I have to ... press forward, and just ... meet every day, being little me, and be okay with that, or figure out how to ...

Oh, God.

How to, once again, face my coworkers and my relatives, and live with the terrible burden that I have so much potential.

And maybe that's all I'll ever have. Maybe that's my place, to be a little nobody, a little office girl who smiles up at you from her desk, and that's all you'll ever know of her, just the girl who went to work and smiled at you as you passed by, and that's it.

Maybe if I look away at the right time, you won't notice me, and I'll just disappear, and nobody will know I'm gone.

The Invisible Girl.

The Point

But the point is this, not that I'm a nobody. That's not news.

No, the point is this.

One reader didn't care about silly, little sorrowful, suffering moi (that is French). She wanted the next chapter, I was the writer of it, and she worried me down until she exacted my promise to write it.

Sometimes ... you have to be hard to get what you want. Sometimes ... the measure of a person's worth is how much somebody else demands not what you think what you can give, but what she knows that you can, and excuses be damned. So this (partial) chapter is for you, Far-away girl.

And my next chapter is being written, even now as we speak!

Or, more precisely: even now as we don't speak, as I'm the shy, quiet type; the one to smile tightly and then run away if you notice me too much.

But, still, for a' that, I'm also the one who's smile goes from her face and seeps into her bones, because she knows you demanded the next chapter from her and didn't allow her sad, little whining excuses to allow her to shirk her responsibilities as a writer.

I am a writer. Saga told me: 'Read what you just wrote me: you are a writer, min allra käraste Älskling. Never forget that.' (Saga was always such a bossy, little sweetie, with her big batting eyes, her teasing smile, and her 'erhm, who? me?' and her 'Thuesdays.' The little Valkyrie. God, I miss her so much it physically hurts.)

I will fade away into dust. My job and my disappointments will come and go. My words may touch you today, but someday, they, too, will be no more.

But This is Eternal.

I am a writer, and a writer writes.

Thank you for reading what I've written so far. I hope you like what I've yet to write, but will.

And you know why? Because somebody gave a fuck, and didn't care that I'm a nobody. No, she was somebody who had a voice and a demand, and I better step up to that bell and ring it, because I did not want to mess with this, because she's somebody.

You're somebody. You have a voice, and if you demand hard enough, you may actually find that your demand is being heard by somebody, somebody with just enough life left in her to honor that request, and to honor you, ... for being somebody.

ps: Okay. Holy fuck. I just saw Saga leave a Starbucks near where I live. She walked right past me, the shawty, in her little black mini, her candy-cane knee-high socks, her wavy, brunette hair and the self-possessed air of an Old-Worlder navigating calmly through the confused busy-ness of this New World. Siiiiigggggghhhh.

I guess I'll drown my nostalgic sorrows in a macchiato and a slice of pumpkin bread. I have a little extra on my sbux card.

The Color Purple

There was a little Jew-boy, and he touched millions of people around the world.

I'm not talking about Jesus ... He was one of Us, remember that my Jewish brothers and sisters? You don't have to, you just know. Everything Jesus did was Jewish. He was a Jew down to his bones and marrow, and He didn't come to overthrow the Law (the Torah), not one jot nor tiddle. He didn't.

Jesus was Jew, and you don't need to remember that. You know that. But who were raised not to be Jews, we have to remember that, every day. Jesus came from the Chosen People. You.

Hi, Eli. I miss you. How are you? (I think if she weren't in Israel right now, on the fucking front, she'd be raping my bones ... right in front of her mother, too, and that's saying something).

But, no, I'm talking about another Jew: Steven Spielberg.

Okay, it's wrong how that guy gets it so right all the time, from Jurassic Park to Schindler's List to The Color Purple. But he does.

So, there it is. Proof that God exists: the Color Purple. God invented the color purple to show us that there's something good, and pure and beautiful in the the world, and if we just stopped, just for one second, and looked, we'd see it. We'd see God and His creation, and we'd see God in His creation, and we'd see it as He sees it: good ... and beautiful.

But we don't, do we. We never, ever do anything ... except rush to get to the next thing, and while we're stuck in that next thing, we fidget until we get to that next, next thing.

But ... purple. So beautiful. You could fall in love with it, couldn't you? It is God's color, after all, so what's not to love.

Nothing. Go for it.

But, as for me, I disagree. Purple is nice and beautiful and elegant and pretty ...

... but I like ... beige, and tan, and pale, creamy white, and mocha, and dark chocolate ...

that is ... I like, flesh tones, uncovered from purple cloth.

Just me, and her, and no purple between us.

...

So, whacha think, huh? That was me, raggin' on purrpleluver19 and her, okay, her obsession with purple. So, snaps for me, amirite?

But this is what she wrote back:

Aww but wait she wears that purple for me only and guess whats under that first layer of purple is purple sexy purple underwear that she lets only me take off so sorry I guess all your girls should probbly hate purple or ill find them. LOL

Oh, man! `phfina went for the shot, thinking she was all that, and she got stuffed by purrpleluver19.

Um, so, I guess: go team purple! sigh

...

Oh, and this was purrpleluver19's blessing to quote her in this post:

That was AWESOME I LOVED it. Plus i didnt mind it at all it blew me away.
P.s. it always takes about hw long you can write out the alphabet with your tongue to get to the center......LOL

Uh, um ... `phfina reels and everything dims. THUD! (`phfina faints or has a heart attack, I don't know which)

'Wankers,' n. pl. pej.

A new definition from `phfina on her pensée du jour.

Wankers, n. pl. pej.: of or pertaining to the wankiness of the wankitude, usually uttered by Brits or Brit-like people.

Usual usage: "That dude is a total wanker!" (collq. meaning 1, see 'douche bag')

Unusual usuage: ... well, I don't have a straight-up definition for ya, but girls reading this usage will totally get what I'm saying, esp. girls taking the pressure off, 'blow'ing off steam, or other euphemistic ways of saying this unusual meaning:

"Whoa! I wanked my wanker until I wanking wanked so hard I saw stars and I couldn't feel my arms anymore and I had to wanking lay there for a while until I got my breath back."

n.b.: extremely unusual meaning, most people won't get this meaning without provided context ... and lots of wanking used as ... *ahem* ... 'explanation.'

May or may not have medicinal usage, either in causing blindness or preventing ... 'hysteria.'

... oh, and you know how 'they' say a picture is worth a thousand words? So in lieu of the usage definition of the second, unusual meaning, I should have just shown this:

hm-hm-hm ... ;)

Shame

Dear Diary (for which the whole world can read),

A friend of mine asked me what I would wear to church today, and I didn't answer, because, as is the common ailment of our sex, I didn't have a thing to wear, in a closet stuffed to overflowing.

I have pretty dresses, and like I fancy the Irish do, I favor the green, and I have solid colors and prints ... and a little yellow summer dress number from the Banana Republic that I love.

But what did I wear to Mass today? I didn't know at the time of the question, so I didn't answer, instead, scurrying, as I do, to the closet to stare at it and grab something off the rack, ready-to-wear.

In the old days, the commoners wore 'off the rack' and 'ready-to-wear.' Rosalie wore neither: her dresses were made for her, and they fit her perfectly, as her hats did, as her gloves did.

Now, we girls try to fit ourselves into 'one-shape-fits-all' dresses, and either suffer the embarrassment of bursting out of them, or the embarrassment of them falling off our nothing-to-cling-to figures.

I don't wear off-the-shoulder numbers, if you didn't guess by now. Partially because of modesty ... what if a guy stared at my collar bone and had licentious thoughts?!?! ... and mostly because of practicality ... I don't have 'milk jugs,' or put another way: my 'happy fun bags' aren't bags, and all they have is happiness and fun, because they've got nothing else to grab or to hold onto ... just ask my dresses.

But the dress I wore today was Shame.

There we were at Mass, bb and I and my nieces up in the choir loft, singing sweetly, like birds, but it wasn't a sweet moment.

bb was getting angrier and angrier. I could see it in his stance. I could see it in the set of his jaw. And I was like: what did I do? I mean, what did I do more?

I am an utter and complete disappointment to my family.

But I didn't see anything I was doing wrongly, so I almost turned on him and smacked him, right there at the beginning of Mass.

And then he ... left.

I was like, what the FUCK!

He left the pew, walked right over to the priest, and handed the priest the laminated placard of the revised responses that the Church just did for the English translation.

And I was like, lightbulb! bb had seen that the priest hadn't had that, and I guess he got angry that everybody else didn't help the priest, so bb goes right up to him, right in the middle of Mass and hands him the sheet.

He came back. He sat next to me. He didn't say one word. He didn't look at me reprovingly.

But I knew what he was thinking. 'Why didn't you notice the priest looking lost up there? Why didn't you help him? You were on the aisle seat. Why did I have to get up, go around you, make a scene when you could have opened your eyes and helped.'

But as if I could. I mean: really! Me, go up in front of all those people, and me, a girl, hand the priest something to continue the Mass?

I mean: I'm getting sick just thinking of it.

But that's just it. It's all me, me, me, and how I think I look, and that paralyzes me into inaction.

Or paralyzes me to wrong action. Stupid action.

And so I do nothing, or I do everything wrong, and bb has to pick up the pieces, and, in Mass, in front of all those people, he goes right up there, fearlessly, I mean, he doesn't even care! and helps the Mass continue, whereas everybody else is just stuck in their pews, not even noticing, like me, or not brave enough, to do something about it.

And that's what he was thinking about me: self-absorbed. Useless. A waste.

And knowing he thought that of me.

You want to know the color of the dress I wore to church today? It was red. Bright red. The color of my cheeks as I burned in embarrassment at what a ...

What a burden I am ... what a burden I am to my family. How useless I am.

Because you don't know the second half of the story. The part of the story of how I moved down to Washington D.C. from nowhere Connecticut.

Because I didn't move.

bb came and picked me up.

From the hospital.

There's the whole precursor of how I ended up there, with my mom screaming and dialing 911 at the same time, and me just looking up at her stupidly from the kitchen floor, but I couldn't say it would be all right, because my mouth was full of cotton and how I couldn't seem to move my arms because they were so heavy, but everything felt ... funny, you know? heavy, and it felt ... I felt tired, but something felt very, very wrong.

Getting your stomach pumped ... it's not something you forget easily.

Mom has to work, she can't watch me 24/7, so what's she going to do? Hand me over to the State?

So bb drove all the way to Connecticut and picked me up from the hospital.

So you think I have my own apartment, with that ... history? histories?

What are multiple suicide attempts called? I mean, besides stupid?

Those steps I fell down, those were the steps from the kitchen to my bedroom they built for me, downstairs.

You think I participate in family activities because they like me so much? Or so they can make sure I don't confuse my diet coke with the kitchen cleaner?

You really have to wonder, considering me, why people try to keep people alive who are so determined to die. I mean, it'd be better for everyone if they just let people like me just ... go away. No fuss, no blame, and no ...

And no more waste of space and effort watching me like a hawk to make sure I don't off myself so that what? so that what? I can face another useless day in my useless job, ... 'and would you like mocha sprinkles on your latte, sir?' ... or my new useless job where, instead of staring at the suits come and go to work, serving them coffee, now I'm one of them, or one of their doormats, staring at a spreadsheet all day, filling in numbers, and getting shouted at when I get something wrong, and getting shouted at when I get something right (yes, you read that correctly), when I do the payroll in half a day where it took a staff of three to do it over a weekend, and yes, they worked over the weekend to get the payroll in Monday morning's mail, and yes, I do what they did in half a day with my spreadsheet, but because it's Excel, everybody thinks they can put their fingers all over it, screwing up the formulæ, and then blaming me when they screw it up saying nobody can understand it and I have to make it simpler.

So here I am, all grown up, with all the other grown ups riding that metro train to their daily grind with their iPhones and droids out to make sure it all gets blotted out so they can make it to 'happy' hour so they can blot it out some more so they can do that again tomorrow, for ... what?

Or I could be a kid again. I could sneak ... no, I don't even need to do that: I could just walk right onto Annadale High School grounds or Edgar Allen Poe, but not TJ, Thomas Jefferson because you need to be somebody with a proven track record for them to look, scornfully, at your grades and deign to allow you to enter, I could have Mrs. A_ drag me in there by the arm and register me in 10th grade, and start that shit all over again and live through, okay, hell, okay? Hell! with me becoming this thing pushed around by everybody else's opinion until I end up on the floor again, either in the classroom, screaming, or on the kitchen, more than half dead, because somebody said, 'Are you really in 10th grade, because it looks like you skipped some grades,' and then look down at my chest, and smirk, and leave me in the girls' bathroom, looking in the mirror reflecting the tears that will, or that I will not allow to fall from my eyes.

The irony of it ... don't you just get the irony of it? Instead of being ratted out for being too old for my grade, I'd be the subject of an exquisite vivisection on posing as 10th grader instead of going back my 6th-grade classes. Now imagine Rosalie going to Forks High School and fitting right in in 10th grade, and now wonder, truly wonder, how she stopped herself, every day, and in every class, from ripping off those vain, self-righteous idiots' heads, and then showing the teachers their own livers for their arrogant presumptive attitudes.

You see, I'm not a woman. A woman is a person who can hold her baby in her arms. My baby didn't come that far to where I could hold her before she died.

Yes, I've had lots of casual sex. Lots of randy college boys on campus, too, if you didn't know that fact.

I'm not a girl anymore, either. I'm trapped in a girl's body, but I've lived too much death to be a girl anymore, and to continue to play the game of being a girl.

I'm neither a girl nor a woman, I'm a girl-not-woman. I'm a child who's seen too much, but instead of allowing me to close my eyes, they keep pumping my stomach. And those hospital bills are another burden I can never repay, another reminder of what a failure I am.

...Writing.

Writing is good therapy. I mean, take this post, for example. Probably very therapeutic for Saga to read and to revel in the fact that she got away from this no-life jailbait loser.

And I can always review this post, and say, "Wow! Look at how far I've come!" and marvel at my amazing ability to claw my way through life, because I'm so gifted and talented at survival.

"Hey, baby," is called out to me, "how's it going?" And instead of answering with the truthful answer of, "You are more right that you know," I answer with the expected answer: "Fine."

I'm doing just 'fine.'

I'm a good student. And I learn from the best. Whenever anybody ever asks Mom how she's doing, she answers, 'Fine,' and says no more, nothing about her just scraping by after her husband left her, her cancer, or her drinking, or smoking, or the one and only failure in her life, a daughter of a college professor who couldn't even succeed in dropping out of life.

Mom and I are on good terms. She came to visit me once, to see how I was doing, because whenever she called and asked how I was doing, I said I was doing 'fine.' Just like Dad, dear old Dad; he came with Mom and wasn't that just a lovely, awkward, family reunion.

But I can tell people I majored in Ancient Greek lit. I have that going for me.

Funny how nobody ever asked to see my degree. They just say, 'Oh, ... impressive!' and give me a job that has a skill level of pouring coffee in a cup, one cup at a time, or putting numbers in columns and making sure they add up ... you know: third-grade math. It's all about style. And I have plenty of that: style and attitude will get you anywhere, baby.

Heh: 'baby.'

So now what? I suppose I could go back to work Monday morning. I got paid this last weekend. I got paid a lot of money. A lot more money than if I were in High school, even selling drugs, which I don't do by the way. ... Sell drugs, that is.

In the supply-and-demand economy, I'm on the demand side ... you know, a 'user,' or as Ayn Rand like to call me, a 'moocher.'

'Guns or dollars!' That was Ayn Rand's lens, that is: how she saw the world. She missed out on high school and college today. Although drugs are all about guns AND dollars, so maybe her lens isn't all that distorted...

But back to the here and now, ... I mean, I have a job and everything!

Just little `phfina, a good little Catholic girl, sharing her opinions with her dear diary. Just a few words on paper, meaning and signifying nothing.

I think I'll have that diet coke now.

Who's that girl?

So we all went out to the 'Taste of Reston' ...

... fun, in the sun, for `phfina equals ... sunburnt.

*sigh*

Is there like a Congressman or Senator I can write? Because I spent the whole time, hopping from shadow to shadow, I swear! But did that provide me any protection at all?

It was like the Sun's condom had a hole in it, if you get what I'm saying!

Insta-babies! Or Insta-sunburn!

Full, full day!

Started with bb taking us all to sbux near where I used to work, and I ordered a green tea frap, and the hot azn chick looked at me, appraisingly, and said, 'Hm, sounds familiar ... do you want a shot of peppermint, too?'

She remembered!

Well, if I didn't want to drag her to the little girls' room and do naughty Rosalie things to her before, well ...

Well, let's just say she got off from an amazing three-hour-marathon sport's fuck, because my nieces were at present in the little girls' room, and let's just say, with their budding curiosity, it would require from me a rather lengthy and embarrassing explanation as to what I was doing to little azn chick with the super hot square glasses (nerdy girls ... So. FUCKING. hot!) on the bathroom sink.

*sigh*

THEN we went to the thing in Reston, and a bunch of stuff happened, including little Iz going on the Ferris wheel with her papa, and me, staying on safe ground with EM, ...

AND WHILE that was happening ...

You ever get the feel someone's checking you out, you know?

Well, yeah. And EM said, 'That man was looking at you.'

About a guy, older than me, who walked by, and I was like, 'Yeah ...'

And she was like, 'Why was he looking at you?'

And I was like *shrug* and 'I don't know.'

EM thought for a while and said, 'Maybe because you're beautiful?' and looked away, embarrassed at her own words.



Maybe.

I wasn't exactly wearing that color: it was more of a lime green with big white flowers printed on my summer dress, and I wasn't too sunburnt by then, but I looked in my reflection in a shop window, and yeah, so I get looks, my skin so pale, and my icy blue eyes with my dark hair, like I just fell out of the boat from Ireland or Russia.

So yeah, I get looks. Yeah, okay: I'm beautiful.

But what does that buy me?

I mean, okay, two girls left me to go marry and have kids, and boys don't stick around, and maybe that's because I'm picking the wrong kind, you know, the ones I wrap in my arms so they cum inside me and as soon as they're done doing that ... doing me, ... they're done with me.

And the girls that don't leave me, ... I leave them.

You know, so I don't get hurt, when they do leave me.

Everybody leaves me ... I can't even keep my baby ... my baby I had for a little more than a month in the womb, and all I had left was some excessive bleeding and the emotional trauma of being a failure of the one essential thing that being a woman is.

And I graduated high school? College?

How?

God, I am a piece of work. I can't even go to a fairground, and get looked at by a guy, and where do I go? right there! I can't even order a drink at sbux without imaging me dragging off the poor lass, having my way with her until after she's done crying out for more, and then saying, 'oh, yeah, what's your name, by the way?'

But if she indicates any interest in me? It's like, I do run to the bathroom, so I can puke my guts out and then make an escape out the back window and break the world record for the one-minute mile, and that's not because I'm driving, baby.

The rest of the day was nice. I got to see a family, a normal family, in bb and his wife and kids going to church, reading the bulletin, going out to sushi and spending way more than what would feed me in groceries for a ... week? ... month? but just basking in the luxury of it all, and watching little Iz drift off during supper so it was time to drop me back off at home, and here I am, back at home, by myself again, ready to drop because it's been a very full Saturday, a good day, out among people, soaking up experience (and sun *sigh* in the shade ... *sigh*), and being with family.

That girl. Me. Who is she?

Just another pretty face, right?

Good night.

Casual Friday

How to get me NOT to cum

Actually, I don't know how to answer that question.

So I'll answer a different question.

How to get me to cum.

Shortest blogpost evah!

The end.

Well, okay, here we go (and cum, and go, and ... *sigh*).

Okay, one way to get me to cum, is ... to tell me not to cum.

I'm dead serious.

I would call myself a slut, but that's totally inaccurate, because, I would imagine, a slut is a girl who constantly engages in sexual. erhm: activities, and after a while, the senses dull, and the experience becomes dull for her. Just like the job for most people: they do it from 9-to-5 because no other option ever enters their heads.

No, I'm the opposite of a slut: I'm wanton. I mean: just look at me, and I'm like: ready! and begging for it, and you can't get me undressed fast enough, or in fast enough, and when it's in, you can't pound into me hard enough.

And I can't come fast enough, or any faster than I'm cumming. Or hard enough, because I can't cum any harder than I'm cumming.

I have the same effect on my lovers. I mean, I've been with girls who have guaranteed me they will not cum. Gold-plated, and you can bet your farm on it, and there's no way, and no amount of time, nor anything I can do that will make them cum.

Guaranteed.

I really ought to open up a casino to start taking these sucker bets.

Because I always win.

Always.

Miss Frigid over there, who was willing for me to bet my farm or hers or both.

She just lost the farm when she lost her marbles when I blew her mind.

The Big-O, ladies (and any gentlemen who care to read) ... for women, that is?

It's a lot mental.

I mean, physically, it's rather monotonous: rub there.

That's it: rub there. Boring!

But the images to get from plain-old boring 'rub there' to 'omyfuckinggodimcuvuvuvuvuvmmmi1i1i1ngg!11!1!1!' ...

Well, that's auto-stimulation, but for her, in my arms, to cum?

It's trust.

We women? You know why we don't cum?

Yes, you do, if you think about it, and boy, do you think about a lot of things, don't you, and that blocks it all up, doesn't it?

No, actually, thinking about 'stuff' is not the real blocker.

The real blocker is trust.

Girls don't cum because girls don't trust.

And what's to trust? They've been let down in so many relationships, starting when they were four and their daddy scolded them for being a girl and not a boy, like he wanted, and continuing on to lovers who wam-bam-thank-you-ma'amed them, taking their pleasure from her and leaving her with the leavings and the emotional turmoil of, well, he stuck his dick in me, so that must means he loves me, but why is he now with his friends, pointing at me and laughing, and they're laughing, too, and all their girlfriends, my old, now ex-friends, calling me a slut?

And so she tries a lesbian relationship in college because she'd like to think she's bi-curious, and girls won't treat her like that, right?

But then the girl who fucked her Friday night when she was stoned out of her mind and so drunk? Why do I see her with that other girl today, and they are hanging on each other like they've just been each other's boy-shorts, or why are they holding hands and looking sweetly at each other, giving each other gag-gag eyes like they, no... it couldn't be they're in love, because she told me she'd ...

And you try not to cry, and you build those walls, so you won't get hurt again. Those walls of distrust, and you become desensitized ... 'frigid' to the guy who calls you the ice queen because you're not coming when he is as soon as he's done with foreplay taking off his pants and sticking his dick right in you after having grabbed your boobs.

And that's what I have to deal with: not you, but the walls of mistrust and distrust you put up, because I'm just like all those other people who hurt you before, during and after lovemaking, so you're so sure you're not going to cum in my arms, because you simply 'can't'.

And then, in my arms, after your mind's been blown, you pretend you have no idea what just happened and why.

Well, I'll tell you the secret that you know, but won't tell yourself:

I won't hurt you.

That's a pretty big one, but here's the corker.

I love you.

You see 'I love you' is said in so many ways for so many reasons, none of them being 'I love you,' that you hearing those words, are like, 'yeah, right whatever, lemme give you a blowjob so you can fall asleep and I can have some quiet time with my regrets.'

But when you're in my arms, I don't even say, 'I love you,' because then we have to deal with all that baggage, all that hurt those words cause.

No, I don't say 'I love you' ... well, I do, sometimes, ... I be 'I love you.'

When you are in my arms, and I am looking at you, you are the reason for my existence, right now.

When you see that, you get that, at a level deeper than what any shit has ever hit you before, and then the lights go out because all you see are stars and fireworks. You ever be with a person who truly looks at you, who hears what your soul says and doesn't let your shit slide, but who cuts right through it, rapier-sharp, and pierces your heart of hearts?

That's me, bitches. Watch the fuck out, because when you're in my arms, you lose your very self.

Because why? Because you do trust me to hold onto you and trust as in: I'm not going to hurt you.

Girls don't have that trust. Period. That's why I'm not a girl. Really. Seriously. Because I do have that trust. I have that trust with me, and I have that trust in you.

Yes, I've been hurt. A lot. GOD! A whole fucking lot.

And I still have that trust, that lets me hold you and lets me be held by you, and lets me give myself, completely to you, and you can hurt me, because I trust you, I've entrusted myself fully, and completely, to your care.

Please, please take care of me. Please, please don't hurt me when I give myself to you.

I beg that now, because I'm myself now, but when I give myself to you, I'm not me anymore, I am nothing to me and everything for you, and I give myself fully and completely, and I will fuck you so long, and so hard, and so sweetly and gently, that I will break through every wall of mistrust, distrust, and hurt, even the very last one, and you will cum sweetheart, you will cum so hard it will scare you how hard you're cumming and you'll be afraid you might actually lose yourself in it.

Not knowing, or knowing, actually, that you are lost in it, completely, in my arms.

I give myself to you completely. Even if 'you' is 'me.'

Today was 'Casual Friday,' so I got to wear jeans.

How to make me cum?

Tell me not to cum.

"`phfina, I want you to go to the bathroom and dip in and check if you're wet, but don't cum in there."

So, this morning, I went to the bathroom, not to cum, but to check.

I was in trouble.

Pulling down my (very practical) white cotton panties?

There were spots of ... dew, already. Just fucking going to the bathroom to check.

And, hm: I can neither confirm nor deny that I did this, but I have this ... 'friend' ... hypothetically speaking, who went into the bathroom at work today and took the handicap stall, because she may or may not have needed some ... room, you know to ... you know.

And, well, going to the bathroom after freshly squeezed orange juice and an oatmeal breakfast ... well, ... oatmeal keeps you 'regular.' ...

So I pooped.

I pooped, and I'll spare you the details, because you know what bran does to a girl, but so, I cleaned up and flushed, got dressed, exited the stall, washed up, took some lotion in my hands ...

... and went right back into that stall.

She did, that is, my 'friend.'

And trou came down, and but this time, kitty and I (or 'she') had some private time together, and I got friendly with her, patting her and rubbing her gently.

Do you know that causes mind-blowing orgasms?

It's not the physical contact. It can't be.

It's the anticipation.

I was ... 'she' was ... so sensitive there, puffy, and what really gets me going is the gentle, light exploration outside the lips.

Soft, light, gentle strokes with one V-ed hand while the other hand is very gently ... caressing kitty's ... 'head.'

Girls, about this time, I was losing my mind. In a very public restroom doing something very, very private.

And that's when I heard heels, and a door open, and then the stall, and two stalls down, somebody else went number two, for a short while, ...

And the whole time, I was ... stroking kitty, her 'belly' very gently, sweetly. Mentally cooing to her as she purred contentedly at the attention.

Sometime later I was alone again with kitty and sometime later somebody else came in and I heard the psssst of somebody peeing, again two stalls away, and soon enough again I was alone.

And then I kicked it into high gear. And I imaged me forcefully taking her, that girl, ... you, not strapping on, but scissoring our hips together so that my kitty was kissing and stroking and then mashed up against and thrusting against your pussy.

Hard.

And that brought me to a level.

But then, it changed, the fantasy, and suddenly you did something, from beneath me, that I don't allow, you sat up and twisted us around so that I was forced down onto the bed on my back, and you began to take me.

And I whined, and I strained, and I struggled for control, but you had me in your embrace, your hips locked to mine, your legs entangling me and holding me so firmly I had no way to twist nor turn, but only more into you and your firm, powerful, demanding thrusts.

Then you leaned into the fuck, the fuck of fucking me, and your long hair brushed against my titties as our thrusting swayed your body.

And the way you looked into my eyes with your smoldering passion, and the way your hair tickled and brushed into the pores of my breasts and nipples, and the way your cunt was slick and rough, pressing and sliding against my little slit...

I came. I came hard, and, being in a (very) public bathroom, that, thank God, was unoccupied, but at any second could have any of the three coworkers I passed on my way into this very place and point come in while I was cumming, I came silently. Not even a hitched breath, but, girls (and boyz), I came. I gave myself complete to this moment of you fucking me, taking me so forcefully in this sterile, industrial bathroom, that I came and came and came.

... Or ... my 'friend' did. But there's no proof of any of the above ever happening because there're no witnesses (except from the films recorded from the hidden cams installed by pervy architects) and no evidence because she made sure to flush it all down and check the water afterward, and wash her hands and the sink so that they were squeaky clean.

And then, she didn't wobble back to her desk, even though she couldn't feel her arms and her legs were two well-cooked spaghetti noodles (well lotioned inner thighs: the canvas from blue jeans can be rather ... chafing), and she didn't put her head down on her desk right next to her computer and start snoring, because, well, she had to pass by coworkers and had to get in payroll reports by noon, see?

How not to make me cum?

That, right there, is a very tough question.

You see, I'm weird: I'm a trusting soul. A child, just innocence. You can hurt me and I still walk around with big trusting eyes, filled with wonder at, oh, is that a flower blossoming on that tree, right there?

You know what those kinds of people are? I'll be so blinded by the beauty, when I walk into the lion's den, I won't even know I'm being mauled and eaten, because those golden eyes and that soft, thick fur?


Lions are so beautiful, aren't they?

---

So, why is a slut a slut? I mean, I'm hard on sluts this post, but I've already answered that question in another post. So if you don't remember, you can read it. Capsule summary: a slut is a slut because she wants love any way she can get it.

We all, — we all — need love any way we can get it, and this world is so hard, and so cruel, and businesslike, and sterile, and cold, that it sucks the life, sucks the love out of ... well, sadly, everybody, and so we, some of us, are turned into sluts, because that's the only way, we think, that we can get him, or her, to wrap their arms around us, so we won't fall asleep alone, again, crying into the pillow after tasting the bitterness of our post-coital regrets, not bliss, of our lonely masturbation.

We all so need love, and the world (the 'world' meaning 'we all') is so cold and cruel.

Homework: see somebody, today, suffering (meaning: anybody), and love them. Love them so totally, so completely, so sweetly, that they have this one moment in time, with you, and know that the weren't alone. Love them so that to their dying day, they remember that moment in time, and treasure it, and that moment carries them through this rough patch, and even gives them reason, no, not reason: hope to live.

You. You are the only hope in the world, today, to a person who is despairing. And you can look down your nose at her, calling her a slut, or turn your back on her, and tell yourself, 'well, it's not my problem she spilled her tea on her blouse, she should grow up, the cry-baby,' or you can listen to her inane bullshit (trans: cry from a well of loneliness for help) with your 'I'm not here' bored eyes that glance, every three seconds, at your watch or the wall clock.

Or, you can reach out, from the well of yourself, to the well that is her, or, hey, him, and pull her up out of it, and save her.

You might just save yourself, too, but don't worry about that, because that's something you worry about much too much. Save her. She may or may not save you. You may or may not save you. But save her.

You save one soul, even if it isn't yours, ... and you do an absolute good.

Diamonds, rubies, gold, frankincense, myrrh. None of these will you remember 10 years later.

That one person, those several people ... maybe, you're Gandhi or Mother Teresa, idk ... and you save that nation of people.

That's what you'll remember. That's what that person will remember you for.

Forever.

On Beauty: Sita Sings the Blues

What is beauty.

That's not a question. That's a statement.

Because, okay, check this:



Isn't she alluring? Don't you, like me, just want to savage her, because you can't control the lust that she calls forth from you? From what? Her 'allure' to be sure, but that's because she's beautiful, isn't she?

I mean, anyone would be a fool to turn down such offered promises of bliss, right? Who could resist that? Only an idiot or a cad, right?

Obviously.



Like I said: obviously.

But, okay, the guy was ... hm, how do I say this politely, without appearing chauvinistic?

Hm, words fail me.

So, okay, the guy was being a guy. But what did the girl, she of the alluring black lace thong take away from this?



What is she saying to herself right now?

What do you say to yourself right now?

What do I say to myself right now?

'God, I'm so ugly/fat/stupid/dumb/useless ...' ... and on, and on, and on.

And why? Why do we say this to ourselves? Because some guy or girl in class gave us a condescending look?

No.

No. That's not it. That's not it at all.

Look at the first picture again. Isn't she the most beautiful thing in the world? Bar nothing? Doesn't she maybe even know it? Damn, she is hot! And she might be saying that to herself at that moment, too. She is fine! and sexy and sweet and smart and beautiful and with it and together and ...

... and everything.

But that's a very, very fragile layer.

We. Us. Me. We are very, very fragile creatures, because underlying that moment of exultation is this.

The voice. That little voice, that is telling us, all the time: you're trash. You're a faker, and you know it. You're nothing. You're shit. You're ugly. You're — oh, God — a disappointment to your parents. They don't love you. You don't deserve love.

It's not other people telling us this: is us. It's me, doing it to myself.

And all I need is this. I just, in my crowing and preening, one person with one glance to confirm what I'm telling myself as I try to use my bravado to bluster my way through this report, or presentation, or triste, or introduction.

I just need that one thing to make my foot moving forward to miss its step for me to fall onto my face. And then I'm that girl who fell down some steps or who flubbed her presentation or who turned in a shit paper or who farted when he was hooking his fingers into my panties or who threw up in the back of your car or tried to look sexy and oh, so failed.

It wasn't you telling me this.

It was me telling me this, and I just happened to use you to prove to me what I know that I actually am.

But, wait a sec. Really.

Look at the girl in the third picture, and look at the girl in the first picture. What is the difference in the two pictures?

No, duh, `phfina, like, huge!

Yes, like: huge!

But is she in the same body? The same skin? The same black lace thong?

Yes. Yes. and Yes. (as I scream out during certain occasions).

So what is the difference?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Except.

Except what she tells herself. She's the exact same beautiful woman, alluring, sweet, smart, sexy, all of that, except for the one crucial difference in what she tells herself she is.

You see where I'm going with this, of course. It's obvious to us, the dispassionate observers.

That guy, that jerk, has nothing to say who she is, and she could just as easily gotten up from the bed, smiled and go out for a drive with the top down and take a dive into the ocean for a cleansing refreshing swim, and then come tell that John that he's taking up space and is no longer welcome.

She could so easily do that.

And it's so easy for us to tell her that: "You rock, gf! You don't need no man to tell you who you are!"

But, that's not the real test.

It's easy — too easy — to see the faults in others and help them with free advice. 'Free' as in it cost you nothing to give it because you have no buy in that other person's well being after you dispense your wisdom and stick your nose in other people's businesses, 'helping' them by pointing out all their failings to them.

No, the real test is where the rubber meets the road.

It's what you tell yourself when you flub that word or trip or puke or laugh at the wrong time (oh, God, the worst! and everybody's looking at you like you know the idiot you are).

That's the hardest.

And the other hardest is this.

'Psst. Psst. Psst!'

Or: "Who does she think she is, wearing that dress like a slut?" "Did you see her make eyes at the VP? Is she going for a promotion ... on her back?"

Or, when somebody says: "I'm going to start my own business in cupcake making!" or: "I got called for a talent call, should I go?"

Do you say: "Oh, you know you're not suited for that Jane, you're just a secretary. Don't reach too high!" or: "Be careful, because my cousin lost his shirt in that" or any and every cautionary way to keep her down, to your level, because if she succeeds, what does that say about you, who are too scared to even think about trying?

Can you be strong enough to encourage somebody else to do something you won't even dare, even though it's risky?

And the other-other hardest is this:

"I'm scum. I'm ugly. I'm panicking. I can't do this!"

What do you do?

"Not my problem. L8R, bitch."

Or: "You're right, you can't, let me hold you and comfort you in the safety of my arms where nothing gets essayed or done."

Or ... what?

Or do you stay with them, all night long, suicide watch, even though you have to drag your sad, tired ass up to work tomorrow morning and explain to the boss why you didn't get that report handed in on time.

Really: on balance, what's more important? Somebody's life and self-worth, or your continued employment and comfort and safety at work?

Really. I'm serious. Which one?

For most of us, it's a sad statement that we'd trade a life for our jobs.

Starting with our own. We sacrifice everything so we can continue to live under the thumb, in fear of, what somebody might think at work when we come into work with circles under our eyes. So we say, "Mom, I'm sorry, I can't take this call now, I'm preparing for a meeting."

And how long to we have our moms? How long do we have another person? Once they're gone, they are gone. But your job? Didn't you get that last summer? Or ten years ago, or whatever? Can't you get a new one? Or, fuck it, jobs are a new thing, folks. People used to just make their way into the wilderness and carve out their existence. Did you ever read Little House on the Prairie? The built their house, they traded for food from wood they cut and furs they collected, they did everything from scratch, and didn't have the bossman fucking them up the ass and paying them a subsistence salary.

There is NO difference from what they did then and what you can do now, today, except you have a lot more going for you. You can bring a gas-operated saw and a water purification system, and you know a lot more about insulation than they did. And if you don't you have google and wikipedia.

The only reason why you are going to school or are going to a job is because, NOT everybody else is doing it and your parents are telling you to, no: it's because you're telling yourself that's what you have to do.

You're telling yourself, all the time, who and what you are.

Right now, you are telling yourself what you are.

And, generally, what you are telling yourself is too sad for me to write or to contemplate, because I'm right there with you.

Now, there are Angels. There are. Really. And they are fighting for you. And they tell you you are a child of God, and you are limitless, and beautiful and they love you.

You have, oh, maybe one or two Angels in your life, ... if you're lucky.

Don't bet on luck. The odds suck.

You have to become an Angel. Perfect yourself. How? By fucking being you.

I don't hate people because they are being themselves. I hate people when they are being less than who they are.

Yes, I hate everybody. With a passion.

I hate you. You talk yourself down, and into a corner, and trap yourself into being ... nothing. You listen to the other angels, the ones that ask you who do you think you are? And you have no answer for that because you listen to yourself all to well when you talk to yourself, when right there, right in front of you, all you have to do is step out, in faith, and there are hosts people, heavenly hosts, supporting you, and loving you, and encouraging you, and all you have to do is shut the fuck up and take that very first, small baby step...

... and the world opens up to you.

And you do try that baby step.

Well, guess what happens when a toddler takes her first step.

She falls, flat on her face. And then she cries.

But the difference between her and you? She gets up, and tries again, because mommy and daddy are right there, and are so excited that she's going to try her first step, again (some of you will get that, later), and when she does, and she wobbles, they are screaming with joy and on the phone and taking pictures and picking her up and twirling her around because she took one little step.

Sweetheart.

It's the same with you. You are a baby. A child of God. And you can either sit there and do nothing and God will love you, and what can God do with that?

EVERYTHING.

Example: Helen Keller.

But what do you do with that is the more pertinent question. Because you go right there and dig yourself deeper into your cesspool.

But when you take that first little step, and Jacob's ladder comes down and the Heavenly Hosts sing hosannas and you realize it's because of you, what can God do with that?

Everything, again.

But what do you do with that?

You take that next step, because that first one wasn't all that bad. And you take that next step, and, hey, I'm getting the hang of this.

And you take that next one.

It's all you, Sweetheart. That's the good news and the bad news. It's all you who determine who and what you are. The past is the past, and, yes, there were terrible things that happened in it for you ... and for others who picked themselves up.

You can pick yourself up. And dare to face the world.

And dare to face, face-to-face, vis-à-vis, to Love. Love is always coming your way. You can dare, now, to accept it, and look at yourself through Love's eyes, and see you as you are.

Beautiful.

I love you.

-----

The images are from the movie Sita Sings the Blues. the best movie of the year. Which year? Doesn't matter.

Or put another way. Twilight is this:



(thanks shiniez, and I may or may not have permission to post that, but I hope the number of hits to his site skyrocket (from the astronomical number of times I've view his site))

And Sita Sings the Blues is what Twilight could've been if it had the guts to dare to face the real world with a real relationship.

Oh, okay: `phfina's plot synopsis: Love, Loss, Redemption, Now, and Forever. Do yourself a favor: watch it.

Oh, I do all my Shopping at Targét

It's all marketing, girls.

So, I went shopping today, because I had to get some more intimates, because I seem to be going through ... well: panties at a rather fair clip at work, and I have spares there, yes, but when you run out of spares for the day, what do you do? Well, you have several options, right girls, one of them, eventually is to go au naturelle ... but then, sitting down, you get this little wet mark on the bottom of your c.v.n.t.-high skirt and how do you explain that, you don't, right, because by then you're bent over the boss' desk and ...

... well, you know how the rest of that story goes.

But you can't say, around here, that you buy your panties from 'Target' ... 'tar-get' because that's way too plebeian ... you might as well admit to shopping at K-mart with Ray-man, Rain Man, and even he knows that K-Mart sucks. 'Tar-get' is just a step up from K-mart, and sounds too much like it, too. And when people say, 'well, Tysons I or Tysons II?' and of course you have to say 'Tysons Galleria' or else you might as go back to baristaing. (that's a word) (which you need a Ph.D. for, and I'm not joking)

So 'Tar-get' is out, but if you raise your nose, and say, 'Well, only the best, of course, Targé!' then people are all like, 'Ooh, the new French boutique? What did you get?'

And then you show them what you just bought over the weekend:



... There is a downside to all this.

(STOP SLOBBERING, you PERVS!)

And it's this. Bossman knocks his red pen off the side of the desk and tells you to pick it up, which you do, 'cause that's what we do, get the coffee, pick up red pens and ... well ...



(uh, huh: I went there)

But this time, bossman sees your black lace thong and he just loses his mind, and next thing you know, he's got his nose buried in your ass crack and he's sniffing away while pawing through your purse and he comes across monty in all his long purple glory (and no, no pics for you, as if I'm not banned already!).

So what does he do, but whine, clamber up on his desk and drop trou and beg dommy you to eff him up his big hairy ass with that big purple thing strapped on, so what are you stuck doing the rest of the day but going through your whole tube of lube with monty strapped on and your only view is this guys broad back and blue moon.

Turn off city, right, and what's worse is that he explodes like all-get-out over the payroll report you slaved over all day.

All because you bought something that you knew was going to get spoilt in the first 15 minutes of work, being so worked up by all the fantasies you have with you in that black lace thong, then you so not in that black lace thong, with your whole harem ... 'ministering' to your 'needs,' as it were. So you buy the 6-pack which you get you through the first hour of the Mondays, but here you are pumping away for so long now that your legs are cramping up and you're dry as the Sahara, but what can you do, 'Just Say No,' and find your ass out the door because Mr. Bossman finds his submissive streak and gets so turned on with you saying, 'My big purple cock is pumping your ass now, bitch! Who's your daddy?' And you find out you're his 'daddy' when he screams out your name, yet again, the third time this hour and doesn't this guy ever get tired out and how come he lasts only 30 seconds when he's doing you?

Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am, now I'm off to a power lunch with a client, why don't you shower, Vera and tidy up my office while I'm away? And all you are is left with his spunk from his junk in you and a very, very frustrated kitty, but when he wants it up the ass, you have to put out for a whole friggen hour, wearing your panties so he can sniff your ass afterwards as he paws at your titties, man-handling them as if they were steaks on the grill, and that's supposed to be 'sexy'?

And girls like guys for what reason again?

I don't get it.

So, wear these things to work? Like for 10 minutes and then have to change out of them and (eventually) go au naturelle and don't tell me nobody notices that particular scent ... and the puddle under your chair might be a clue, too. Or otherwise have Mr. Bossman with his big hairy butt whining away as you check your fingernails and the clock confirms what your poor tired legs are telling you that, yup, you've been at this for an hour and you still have work to do ... because your performance review doesn't have an oval for 'sexual prowess.'

Yeah. No. Not likely.

Now, one can wear them elsewhere, in more intimate settings, and for more private occasions...

Yes, ... one can do that ...

Hm-hm-hm. Excuse me. Gotta take care of ... 'something.'

Devil with the Red Dress

... I'm discovering my femmy-feminine side.

I mean, so, you know: what? So a girl gets complimented for wearing a green ensemble (the skirt is not 'knee-high', it's ... c.v.n.t.-high), and yes, so it goes straight to her head and so she buys a little red number, that she may or may not have in her budget, but hey, you only live once, right?

And getting a compliment?

It's like ... getting a good review of a chapter you just wrote, right, my fellow author(esse)s? You're like: nnn, well I won't tell you what you're like, because there's no describing it, you just have to experience by actually going out there, writing a chapter, and getting a good review (and then you're hooked, which is a very, very bad thing: 'reviews, my anti-drug, what's yours?')

So I won't tell you what that's like, but I will hint and say my washing machine has been receiving a lot of LUV!

(Is 'luv' an euphemism for 'soaked panties'? Just wonderin')

But I have ...

Okay, seriously now,

... I mean `phfina-seriously, of course.

But I have a question:



(quit staring at my butt, you pervs!)

Why do they put that notch back there?

'They' meaning the fashion designer.

Ever notice how fashion designers, that is, of girls' clothes, are all, predominantly ('pre' 'dominant') ... male?

Oh, you're pat answer: so a girl can walk, because she can't in a dress like that that is oh-so-tight in all the oh-so-right places.

Uh, huh, that's a pat answer.

Ready for the real answer?

I'll tell you why they put the notch, — or, dare I say: slit — back there.

Who designs these fashions, the oh-so-tight dresses with the 'supporting' corset to really make sure guys don't miss a thing?

Uh, huh: horny pervy guy architects ... I meant: fashion designers. Jeez! (but still horny and pervy).

And WHY do they design them with that slit back there?

It's not to help you so you can walk, sweetheart.

It's for the easy access.

I mean, seriously: Is this a house dress? NO! It's not a house dress. Is it a ballroom gown so a guy can press his you-know against you during the slow numbers ('numbers' meaning dance-sets, you pervs!). No. What is it?

It's a little Mad Men secretary pool dress for you to wear, so that Big Bad Mean Mr. Bossman can call you into his office as you deliver him his morning coffee, and oopsie, I just dropped my pen, Vera, would you pick that up for me?

Yessir, Mr. BigusDickus Bossman.

And then what happens?

You KNOW what happens next! But I'll spell it out for you anyway (and why I'm spelling it out I'll get to later in this post).

WHAMMO! he slams your head into his desk, and since that little slit, I mean notch, is there, all he has to do is unzip and bust through your nylons for is early morning quicky anal sex with his secretary fvckslvt because that's what you, that is: me, is for.

So you just go to work now not even wearing the nylons anymore (getting to be an expense to replace them twice a day) nor even panties.

Like I said: easy access.

Okay, so why does he bend you over the desk and anal smex you? (Warning: boring `phfina analysis ahead)

Firstly, with you bent over the desk, your fingers and toes, that is, your claws are unable to gouge out his eyes and rupture his little you-know. You're in the perfect submissive position, which only further enflames, and fans the flames, of his unleashed passions.

Slit in the back designed by guys, for guys.

Secondly, it's anal so he can avoid the paternity lawsuits or the responsibility (that is, the consequences) of having to divorce his wife and marry you and his new little jr he just put in your belly.

Child support, either way, see? Anal smex avoids all that mess. Facilitated by what?

The slit, in the back of your dress. Designed by men, for men.

Okay, so you and I (now) know the real reason that slit is back there.

So why does it stay there, then?

(And now it's 'later in the post' as I promised)

Because we want it there.

Yup. I went there.

If submissive little us, that is 'women in society' didn't accept our submissive little roles, and say, excusez-moi? when Big Bossman came at our derrières with his freed willy, but instead maced and then bobbited him (no, I'm not endorsing sexual violence nor assault from either party), then a whole lot more guys would be a whole lot more respectful of a whole lot more girls in the secretary pool.

But, the times being the times, and women being what we are told we are: that is, the fairer, weaker, submissive sex ...

We just take it.

... and look forward to it.

This was the part where I get tarred and feathered by a whole angry crowd of womyn from almost all sectors.

But yes, we tolerate in, and we even fantasize about a strong, dominate (in this male pre-dominated society) Bossman (or, whew, Bosswoman, yes, please) (I didn't just write that) (yes, I did), forcefully taking us and making us theirs.

Why?

Because when we are taken oh-so-forcefully, doesn't it mean we are desirable? Pretty?

And when we are made their bitch ... ('You're my bitch now!' he screams as willy rams and rams and rams and then releases into your anal cavity) ... doesn't being possessed like that, every day, mean we are loved?

So we buy that green number, and that demure (hot) little red number, because ... we want to be pretty, desired, and loved.

To be held by somebody else. In somebody else's arms, and have the weight of somebody else pressing down on us.

To be one, in union, with another, just for that instant, every day at work at the morning coffee and the just-before-lunch-to-work-up-the-appetite fvck.

... not that I'm talking from personal experience at all, mind you, it's just stuff I've heard, and things I've observed ...

REALLY! Honest! And I'm not protesting too much!

But to be one, so we aren't alone.

Just for that one second, not to be alone: to have somebody else fully being with you, the proof is that they are in you, and remain in you, even after they pull out, you still have the proof of that love in you, and you keep it in, clench it in your guts, so that you know you are alive, just for that one moment, and are loved, or, very sadly, were loved, for a moment in time.

That slit.

Yes, I like my new red dress very much, even though it makes me sad to think what it, that is 'me', is for.

Everything makes me sad, so that's okay.

To all the girls I've loved before ...

"... It is women's day today...

Just know that you are celebrated and cherished."

This doesn't apply to all the girls I've loved before only. It applies to them, to all of them, to each and every one of them.

And if I haven't loved you yet, my dear sweet girl, reading this post, wondering if she's lovable, wondering if she's loved...

Wonder no more.

I love you.

Oh, and my confession: I had to be told it's women's day today, just as when I worked at sbux and wondered why everybody was wearing green on that bitterly cold day in March last year, and, no duh, it was St. Patrick's day...

Yeah, I'm Irish, like I know when St. Patrick's day. I wore green that day, even, because I wore the green apron, just as I wore it every day of the week back then.

Yeah, I'm a woman, and I have to be told today is women's day.

You know what?

Every day is women's day. If you're a girl, or a woman, you should be proud to be you, and know that the world just. won't. work. without you in it. Every day is Irish day, because every day 'Kiss me, I'm Irish,' applies, and it doesn't matter if your Irish or Israeli or Iswedish, you deserve to know that you can love and that you are loved.

And today is women's Irish's day, so I deserved to be loved.

... and get smooches, too, but I don't want to give a little freckled red-haired cutie with sea-green eyes my sniffles.

Cuddles. Cuddles work just fine and dandy for me today, or any day of the week. They go well with scintillating intellectual conversations about epistemology.

Or the blessed, blessed silence of post-coital bliss.

.. um ... WHAT'S BEHIND YOU!

(`phfina scampers off)

A panther from a pvssy's view

Hm, how do I write a post that I didn't write?

So, you want to know how to get into a girl's pant(ie)s?

Besides ask her? (And if she says, 'no' that means: no. It doesn't mean: slip a date-r4pe drug into her drink).

For me: I'm easy (and I'll write that post, too, my dears), all you have to do is to listen, to tell me what I've said, and then to say you understand.

That's how I write this post.

So, I got this PM. And I got permission to post it here. Here it is:

-.-.-.-

"Hey, it is I pussyninja.
I was skimming through a long list of pms after a few months of disappearing, wallowing in my own fucking darkness, and I noticed you pm'd me back. Thats a treat. So as I said, im skimming through these pm's and it just amazes how so many people on here "pretend" like they know you, like they care but turn around and say,"hey, sorry to hear about so and so, when are you going to update?"
Shakes head. The masses, these sick, selfish individuals who refer to themselves as human beings have no regard towards others whatsoever. Its a slap in the face when you think your getting encouraging pms, words, but instead you get threats, pleas, and utter bs.
I think the funniest thing ive read so far is,"Hey, so sorry to hear that you broke up with your girl, but if your still alive, can you update?"
If you're still alive can you update. In other words, if I havent blown my fucking head off, can you please humor me with an update.
No, I cant. Why? Because im not alive, im dead.
Its not their fault though, that their selfish and ignorant towards the things around them. Like the world, like my fucking time and schedule is suppose to coincide with theirs. I'll update when I fucking feel like it. I'll update when im happy. When my every waking thought is not of her, the selfish fucking bitch that made me fall in love. Made me think she cared and then ripped my heart out. Made me this, a waste of fucking space.
But its not her fault though. No, its human nature. Its human nature to be selfish, self-absorbed. Its human nature, more so for us, for women, to lure naive little lambs in to their world, make me, I mean them, think you care, cause really, why would they think otherwise after a year of I loves you, I miss yous and a bunch of other bullshit? Why would they think otherwise when after you decide you're done playing games, after you change your "in a relationship" status to "single"? Why the fuck would they think otherwise when that same status goes from "Single" to "in a relationship" not even a month later? No, no, why on earth would I think otherwise?
Fucking bitch.
Ive come to the conclusion that our gender, females, are so much more selfish then men. We take what we want with a touch, a whisper, a lie, with whatever need be, and when we're done, when we've got what we wanted we leave. We abandon without remorse. I dont know, maybe im wrong? Maybe im just mad cause im hurting? Who cares? I dont, and im pretty sure you dont either. I dont even know why im venting to you, you probably have more important things to do. I dont. Nope, I have all the time in the world to just sit in my lonely fucking corner, breathe in the darkness until I can practically taste the hollow shell/brains on in my mouth. My hand is practically reaching for the invisible gun right now, but ya know? I couldnt pull the trigger. Why? Because im pussy, because I care too much. I care too much about who and what id leave behind.
You know what my mom said to me the other day? She said "what happen to the happy girl I knew? The one you used to be.."
That girl is dead. Thats whats happens when you a years worth of love, happiness, 10 page fucking love letters and countless expensive gifts to someone, only to have it spit back in your face. You wanna know whats much worse than wiping lies off your face? The memories.
"Whats happiness to you?" She asked, and like an idiot I said her. I said what was in my heart, cause I was love stricken fool.. so in love with a idea of love. I suppose its always like that you first time around though, but I wished now that I had said," Happiness to me would be erasing you from my mind. Its be going back in time, not stumbling upon your shitty story and not pming you every fucking day."
Thats happiness to me. A world of happiness.
Its probably for the best anyway, or least that what she said. That she couldnt be honest with her parents and neither could I. And maybe so, but why start another relationship with another girl if thats the fact. Why "pretend" with that girl, when you know you're just gonna do the same thing?

Sigh.

I used to like to pretend. Pretend that i was happy behind a big smile. Pretend that everything was okay, by laughing, by telling jokes and writing mediocre stories for "fun." Pretend that I was normal, that I didnt notice how fair the female species was, but like so many other things in life, theres comes a time when you have to stop pretending, when you gotta wake up.
Am I ready to wake up? I dont know. All I know is suffering, pain, misery, sorrow. And im tired. You ever been depressed for no apparent reason? I suffer from that sometimes, way before any of this, and more so now. But I'll endure it like I always do. Smile and laugh through it all.
But enough of my dreary ass life. How are you doing? How are things with the one chick? I forgot her name, but the one that stole you from me lol, that hurt. The laughing out loud I mean. I do hope you're doing way better than me. I hope you're alive, well, and happy. I could use some happiness. Maybe you could reflect some of your on to me? Well despite this awkward, somewhat therapeutic rant, I must say I feel a little better lol. So sorry to take up your time. Guess I'll go tend to the greedy masses and update."

-.-.-.-

What do you think?

You know what? I don't care what you think.

What I think is this: I wish I was half a pussyninja. I wish I had half her insight, half her heart, half her burning passion, half her bold (and bald) (and ribald) honesty. I wish.

And I'm grateful I have the eyes to see these admirable traits in her. I'm grateful I'm alive now, so I could read this. I'm grateful I have the courage to respond to her (in a very `phfinaescque way), and get her analysis of me, which follows:

-.-.-.-

You are beyond naughty phfina, lol. Smh, I totally smack myself reading this a did a bit of laughing, though it hurt, myself. In a good way of course.
Was it good for me? Lmao, I wasnt aware that we were acting upon our undisclosed desires. But from what I gather, you made it good enough for the both of us. Lol, smh.
Glad I could make someone erm...happy for the time being. Especially after actually reading your profile.
You are, well, a very deep individual. Is what I will say since there arent really words that can describe you, your thoughts and personality. And I like you like that, the way you are. Your honest. You speak from the heart and dontgive a shit what people think.
Thats hot, lol.
[edited]
And okay, dont take this the wrong way, but I kinda laugh when I read the part about the stairs. I know, I know, im an ass. Its true, asks my friends. I laugh at shit like that. I feel so bad too. So after I got all my giggles out,
I wonder to myself, "Is she okay?"
Smh, im an ass. But you are okay right? Nothing broken? I stubbed my toe a few days ago and it hurt like a bitch, so I can only imagine what something like that feels like.
Smh, still, im an ass for laughing.
Do forgive me.
so, one random thought. A couple just came into my job a a little whiles ago. Ya know, the typical young and in love, gotta hold hands and cheese like theres no tomorrow?
Yeah, that bad. It was like a slap to the face. I wanted to throw up, regurgitate and throw up again.
Pathetic, I know.
Then I thought to myself,"Why am I raining on their happiness? Its not their fault that their idiot. That they have no clue as to what they got themselves into."
And then I sighed. And prayed that it wouldnt be like this forever, that I wouldnt be all anti and "I hate love".
Anywho, can you post my little rant?
Sure, phfina. You can have anything you want from me. And take that however you want sweetness, EXCEPT, for in a sarcastic or mean way. I would never be mean to you;)
Did I mention that im tired? Cause I am, im tired as shit and insomnia, smh, insomnia is a bitch
-.-.-.-

Did you get that she wrote her first PM to me before she read my posts where we both said the exact same things, me saying them in my way, she, in hers?

Reading her words, I'm filled with ... hope.

Hope.

I mean, okay, I'm hot? (Damn straight! (Or 'gaie' as the case may be))

And I 'don't give a fuck what people think'? Actually, I do give a fuck. I care, very deeply, about you and about what you think.

I also take fucks.

Happily, in fact, as it's been, oh ... um, well, never mind.

But not that ... (I'm hot?)

But that, what, she is living in her stew, yes? Yes. But what does she do? Rain on some happy couple's parade?

No. She looks beyond herself, by looking into herself and seeing who she's being, and then she chooses to let other people have their happiness.

Oh, ... my God!

Do you know how to get into a girl's pant(ie)s?

You know: your world is all you, and your suffering and your pleasures. I know it too: I hear it all day, every day from everybody I meet. How very interesting, your concerns about you and your mistreatment. Must be, the way you go on about them to yourself and to every poor schmuck forced into hearing range of you.

But rise above, and see other people. Really see them, and then reach out, reach out of yourself, and ...

And, suddenly, your world isn't only more than twice as big as it was, with whole new vistas to explore, and the sun has finally come out and you feel its heat and its warmth by the glow suffusing your face, ...

Yes, all that happens, too.

But.

But you've just, by dropping that woe-is-me cold and cloudy demeanor, and replacing it with actual joy, self-discovery, ... actually living, right here, right now, ... you've just illuminated at least one other person's life, and maybe you've changed the course of history, because what can that one other, or several other, or many other, person(s) do?

Oh, and she wrestled in school, so she's got a hard body, so she has that going for her, too.

'LOL' smh and :p

p.s. smh, gerund: look it up in urban dictionary.
p.p.s. I like the 'svck my hair' definition, not the one everybody else 'like'd. I'm a very visual person, so I ... visualized what that would be ... you know ... like.
p.p.p.s. oh, and if she thinks she can wrestle the `phfina down, then I'll just have to aikido her ass into submission; I've dealt with plenty of bigger, stronger girls who thought they could easily have a turn on top of weak, frail, little, toppy `phfina. School was in session for them, and prof. `phfina learned them real good. I tell you what. After all, I fvcked nearly the entire girls' rugby team in school (not at the same time, mind you, but ...), and they were ... you know, mean, tough girls on the field, and total putty in my (very naughty) hands. I can just as easily rename this post as '`phfina verses pvss-in-boots ninja' but that would be a one-liner: '"I win; no surprise. Questions? No questions, just see the 'I win' part."

That's just an FYI for ya, Ms. thinks-she's-all-that-Ninja.

Oh, and she did correct the 'regurgitate' comment, which was very sweet and shy of her.

I LIKE sweet and shy girls.

Mm-hm.

Um, where was I? Oh, yeah, but I was like, 'honey, you can spit (regurgitate) but with you, 'smh' 'cause my hands wrapped around your head are pushing it right. in. there, ... all you are gonna do is swallow, babes.'

I think maybe that's when her bulging eyes popped out of her head.

Any questions? No questions: see the 'I'm hot' part of this post.

Steamy, in fact. TsSsSsSsSsSs!

p.p.p.p.s. :p