My New Year’s Resolution

I know we’re almost done with February, so a New Year’s resolution isn’t timely. The ads for diets and gyms that plastered the airwaves have faded, the gyms aren’t overcrowded, and we don’t see Ray Liotta for Chantix quite as much.

Although there are some who used to tell me what they thought I should (or should not) do to improve my life, they have no hand in this resolution, except perhaps being the architects of its necessity.

This year, 2019, I’ve resolved to like myself.

Or at least work at it.

It’s a hard thing.

I had heard for years, from people whom I trusted, that I was lazy, fat, self-indulgent, my own worst, enemy, a thief, a liar, irresponsible, slimy, bad sister/bad daughter/bad granddaughter, burden,user. I exercised too little and read too much.

Every time something goes wrong, my first thought is that this is what I deserve. If you’re raised in the Christian (not Evangelical, but basic Christian) mode, you are raised to believe that good people are rewarded and bad people punished, even if there isn’t a direct correlation apparent at the time.

We are told that we must love ourselves as we are. A lot of times, this is followed by “then you can make the changes you need.” Until I set fingers to keyboard to type this, I had not considered the absurdity of that concept.

I am a student of the Law of Attraction/Manifestation movement and that has taught me (though I don’t remember the specific source) that the two most powerful words are “I am” for what follows is what you believe about yourself.

So, it’s time to change the internal dialogue (and I do talk to myself in my head. You do, too. Don’t deny). It’s not easy. We’re talking 50 + years of habituated thinking to overcome. It’s not going to so much be positive, ego stroking as not condemning myself constantly.

Part of the change of thought needs to be the self-acknowledgement that, although my past choices may be biting me in the ass right now, I can’t go back in time and change them. I can only deal with the current situation and (even if it hurts) make the right, best decisions now without beating myself up for how I got there.

There are so many situations and issues that require my attention and effort right now that I want to curl up into a ball and hibernate (I know things are bad and stressful when I can sleep at the drop of a hat). However, I have only me to depend on, so no matter how tempting to ignore things, I must take action. No matter how much I want to wail about the unfairness of life because there are people (women) out there who would get help, goods, services thrown at them for a hangnail, but I have to take on bullies by myself. The internal dialogue has convinced me that I have gone to the well too many times, my causes (whatever they may be at the time) are not just, and “you made your bed; lie in it.”

I’ve not been in a 12 Step program, but I am familiar with the broad strokes, especially the “making amends” steps (I owe a lot of my knowledge to “Mom” and Mom). When I take these steps (usually financial) to deal with the consequences of previous decisions, I do not permit myself a “pat on the back” for having done so. The habituated thinking is “Had you not _____ in the first place, you wouldn’t be in this position!” I allow myself to think in terms of “that’s done.”

Like I said, most of my transgressions have been financial. Growing up, my family, although we weren’t given lessons in running a checkbook or responsibly using finances and credit, had an undeclared fixation with money. It was used as a means of control, family members would figure out ways of getting it out of each other. You were “good” if you didn’t ask for it, if you saved it, if you didn’t object that it wasn’t repaid in kind. One memorable explosion by my father was when I withdrew $5.00 from my own savings account. “Susan, you CHEAT!” He never elaborated on why or who I was cheating. Like I said, money equaled control. A lack of it reflected a moral failing. (On a grander scale, this is how we seem to regard poverty and weight. Not being on the “right” end of it is a clear indication of bad character).

I am still cleaning up after years of financial folly. Part of the “tape” in my head is my mother calling me a “thief” for running up  credit card debt and not repaying it. These comments always came after some debt collector had contacted her looking for me. (By the way, I have learned a ton about debt collectors and what they can/cannot do. One of their favorite weapons to get a promise to pay is shame. They should have hired Mom). Anyway, I hear her voice every day telling me that my circumstances are my own doing, I need to deal with it, and if I’m only getting paid $11.50, I should be grateful because clearly that’s all I’m worth. I hear my older sister telling me what a fool I am because I’ve earned a bunch of licenses and degrees and I’m not using any of them. Sure. Had I tried a little harder, I could have gotten a job as a lawyer. Had I been smarter, I would have maintained my relationship with Fidelity Investments to keep my Series 7 valid. If I applied myself harder, I could be coding websites now. It’s all my fault for expecting things to just happen for me.

In addition to paying back the IRS (I have a payment plan), I now have the US Dept of Education garnishing my wages, and frankly, with the shitty pay I get, I can’t afford to keep myself going, let alone Betsy Fucking DeVos. I THOUGHT the loans had been discharged through a bankruptcy court error in 2004, and I have managed to hold off collection efforts until now by sending a copy of the discharge to the collectors. Apparently no, and BFdV wants over $125 grand from me. (Oh, and that BK, which was really intended as a negotiating tactic for some creditors to work out a payment plan? My mother called me “slimy” for it) So I have THAT shit to shovel now, too.

As you can see, I don’t do things the easy way.

You hear a lot about “self-care” these days, and it’s a term applied to a universe of actions and thoughts. I don’t care for it, seeing as it’s a fashionable term and the concept is wide open to abuse, I think, as a rationalization for narcissistic behavior. I don’t believe I’ll indulge.

The negative self-talk is reinforce the self-loathing, which is beginning to morph into, “you know, you’re over 50, alone, and struggling. You’re not getting a decent job anytime soon. Why not exit stage right? Yeah, you saw the video today of the guy who jumped from the Golden Gate and survived, but that’s not you. You’re a giant damned failure and not going to redeem yourself.”

You see why I need to stop it. At least, for now, I still have to will to stop.

So, I will “cancel cancel” on the negative thoughts and work to reprogram. I will keep on keeping on. Detest my current job, but still do my very best at it while looking for something else (Pro tip: Sutherland Global Services is a crappy place if you’re not going in as part of management, and good luck with that because Command and Control is overseas).

It’s a step. We’ll get to the more positive thoughts later.

 

 

 

 

In a Word, It Isn’t

Image result for Isn't It Romantic

There are actors and actresses who can “sell me a ticket,” as I put it. You know; they are the reason you go to a particular movie.

Rebel Wilson is not one of them.

I have nothing against her. What I had seen of her work didn’t really make me a fan. Or hate her on sight. (I saw one or two episodes of her ABC sitcom, whatever it was called. Haven’t seen the “Pitch Perfect” movies)

Same with Adam Devine.

And Liam Hemsworth, although I enjoy living on a planet with multiple Hemsworths. The idea of standing in the middle of them is an entertaining one.

Image result for hemsworth brothers

Nothing against any of them, but none of them have ever motivated me to buy a movie ticket.

And yet, I went to “Isn’t It Romantic?”.

Part of my motivation was that I wanted something undemanding and stupid. My expectations were exceeded. What could have been a light-hearted and witty handling of skewering a genre turned out to be leaden, heavy-handed, and a waste of talent.

The plot: our heroine, Natalie, watched a shit ton of romantic comedies as a child and eventually turned on them. We have the near-standard “hit your head and end up in a parallel universe” (I think we blame “The Wizard of Oz” for that one) where the entire world is romantic comedy clichés. Of course, she fights against all of it, comes up with a big message, and wakes up back in her world, the end.

I seldom want to walk out on a movie, but this one, I wanted to run. However, since I saw it as part of my AMC A-List, I couldn’t get a refund, so I stuck it out. What can I say? Sometimes I’m a masochist.

If you don’t know me already, let me tell you something about myself: I’m fat. This will be important in a sec. I have a friend who prefers the term “juicy girl,” which (for the moment. That’s another post) is not as laden with negative baggage as the word “fat.” Going forward, we will talk about Rebel Wilson in juicy girl terms.

Here’s what REALLY bugged me about this movie: facial inequality or inter-facial dating, as I’ve seen it called.

Natalie (Rebel Wilson) has a professional job, architect. Not assistant or support staff or office manager. She is one of the ones to be assisted. She is smart, she’s gainfully employed (I wouldn’t judge it by her “In Real Life” (IRL) apartment because rents in New York City are ridiculous. She may be living in a closet, but she’s not sharing it with 3 other people). She is making it on her own. In actual real life, she’d be considered a good match (Honey, romance and falling in love at first sight is great for storytelling, but stability keeps things fresher longer). In the movie, she spies Blake (Liam Hemsworth) and falls in lust with him (Mama Hemsworth has some very handsome sons), while being friends with Josh (Adam Devine) whom she thinks is lusting after the woman in an ad. She is ignored by Blake while she ignores Josh. I would ignore Josh. Adam Devine is a skilled comic actor, but he’s not a Hemsworth by any stretch.

In the parallel head bonk universe, Blake Handsome falls in love with her, Josh Friend falls for the woman in the ad, Blake turns out to have jerk tendencies, and at the last minute, she realizes it’s been Josh all along blah blah blah.

We’re living in a world where the importance of representation is finally dawning on Hollywood, but it’s missing from this piece.

What we’re seeing here is reinforcement that fat people are not supposed to be with “pretty” people. Fat has been successfully demonized for decades as a moral failing, a physical manifestation of weakness and shame, and proof of a person’s bad character. If you want to see a fat person depicted as human, capable of being loved and admired, go see “Stan & Ollie” (which is EXCELLENT). And even then, they put John C. Reilly in a fat suit.

Fat women get short shrift in romance. It’s only in the fantasy realm that Natalie is considered a suitable partner for handsome, successful Blake. In her “real world,” she’s only good enough for Josh. As I said, Adam Devine is a very skilled comic actor, but he’s not a leading man.

Let’s let that sink in: the leading lady in a romantic comedy does not get the leading man type. Rebel Wilson is capable of leading a romantic comedy, but they’re not letting her get the handsome guy as, perhaps, Anna Kendrick or Jennifer Lawrence would have.

Yes, Blake is a jerk and Josh is a better person. However, I think other filmmakers would have engineered things a bit differently for another actress with another attractive (not necessarily Hemsworth) man in the Josh role, but with glasses and schlumpy clothing until the big reveal.

Why can’t fat people be seen as attractive? Would it upset the diet industry too much? Would it put Marie Osmond out of a job shilling for Nutrisystem? Too many billions of dollars at stake to let Rebel Wilson be anything more than a joke or second banana. (This thing needs to fail and when it does, they’ll blame her, not the crappy writing and execution)

Melissa McCarthy is revered. And she led a successful sitcom for years on “Mike & Molly.” Once again, though (and I enjoy the show in reruns. Great comic cast), she was paired with someone who was not a leading man (again, Billy Gardell is a deft standup and comic actor, but he’s not a Hemsworth).

Image result for mike & molly

In “Isn’t It Romantic?”, the pretty people are depicted as ultimately vain and shallow (another stereotype) and not worthy of love. But, I think the was to reinforce Josh as a more suitable choice for Natalie.

(Here’s where I honk my own horn)

I wrote “These Foolish Things” which depicts two people in their forties falling in love for the first time. Ty is Hemsworth (or Clooney) handsome and successful, Liz is overweight (not necessarily fat), has a professional career, lives on her own, and is a good, stable match. She’s insecure because, well, fat is a moral failing, dontcha know?

I wrote this as a response to all the romantic stories depicting the leads as twenty-somethings with perfect looks. I get escapism, but c’mon. How many kidnappings by motorcycle gangs, vampires, shape shifters, nobles in disguise, vampire motorcycle gangs, and undiscovered fashion models are too many?

Why not have a story where one could easily see herself as the heroine? “Hey! She’s like me!”

Are we trying to convince people who don’t fit the current model of beauty that they are not attractive? Of course, we’ve got a President* – who was just officially declared obese – who calls women who oppose him “fat pigs.” When I’ve been attacked on social media, the first thing they go for (usually men) is my weight or my looks (with makeup and hair done, I look okay. Without, meh). Men are usually running the studios and deciding which films get made under what conditions. What came out with the #MeToo movement was stories of male film execs making casting decisions on whether or not they thought a particular actress was “fuckable.” Not seeing much change going on.

What we have is a celluloid world (well, technically it’s digital these days) that refuses to depict juicy girls as genuine romantic leads. (I’ve seen pictures of these guys. They’re not Hemsworths)

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So much for representation.

Even if you are a huge Rebel Wilson/Adam Devine/Liam Hemsworth fan, save your money on this one. “Isn’t It Romantic?” isn’t.

 

“Aquaman” Review (Yes, there are spoilers)

“You are not the intended demographic for a comic book movie. Why the hell did you go?”

This.

Any questions? By the way, the audience was at least 50% women my age. What can I tell you? Some of us like to window shop.

Seriously, I wouldn’t have gone but Jason Momoa in “Justice League” was the most fun thing in it (and I went because I love Henry Cavill. And whoever fired him as Superman screwed up). He’s not my movie hunk type; this is:

However, Jason Momoa is not only easy on the eyes, he seems to be a pretty decent human being. Fer chrissakes, he grew up in Iowa. Repnasty Steve King aside, Iowans are decent, grounded folk. Well, for the time being:



Anyway, in interviews, when he’s being Jason Momoa, he comes across as a mensch with intelligence and some humor. What can I say? I like a man with a brain. Things that can get caught in zippers aren’t good for decision-making.

This was not a good movie.

It hit the superhero cliches: the backstory is either one of not having/knowing one has powers (Harry Potter/Luke Skywalker) or manboys avoiding their destiny (Ironman. Yes, there’s a whole other argument in there). In the present case, we have Arthur Curry as a big lug, not the sharpest knife in the drawer, rejecting his heritage. Cliche Number 1, check.

(Momoa is the sexiest Arthur you’ll ever see. And, later in the movie, we get a fairly “duh” parallel to another Arthur. There is foreshadowing.  So much foreshadowing. Dear God, the only one who does heavier handed foreshadowing is Dan Brown, who all but stands there with a bullhorn in “DaVinci Code” and his other books saying, “Hey! You’re going to see this again later on! Pay attention!” Dan: You write good stories, but..)

It’s not a super hero movie without villains.

Black Manta, who looks like he came from a 1950s B movie (Yes, Fanboys, I know this get-up is from the comic book. Don’t get your tighty whiteys in a bunch). He gets the back story. And it involves Aquaman hitting his pirate dad in the face with a torpedo.

In the face. With a torpedo.

Because getting a fist in the face from a guy who just lifted a submarine out of the water isn’t hard enough, gotta use torpedoes (and not according to the manufacturer’s instructions. Neither Raytheon nor General Dynamics recommend using their products for hand-to-hand combat).

It’s inappropriate for Black Manta to get a sympathetic (“You killed my dad!”) story because WE ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO SYMPATHIZE WITH HIM! Hellloooo! This is the bad guy! Of a superhero movie, not Tolstoy. Minimal motiviation works best. “I am evil. I want to steal stuff. Your brother is paying me to help him.” ‘Nuff said. Tarantino made the same mistake in “KIll Bill Vol. ” with Lucy Liu’s character. Don’t divide loyalties (unless you’re planning to spin off the bad guy into a franchise. They’re bad, they’re about to get defeated by our hero, we don’t want to feel sorry for them for the ass-kicking we’ve paid to see).

And, once he looks like this, about 5 minutes of screen time before he’s out of the movie altogether. It’s a shame because in the inappropriate-for-the-bad-guy “getting ready” montage (complete with a comedic “oops, I don’t know my own strength” flourish), he put a shit ton of work into looking like something Raid makes a spray or motel for.

Here’s the REAL bad guy:

 

Aquaman’s half-brother, Orm.

“Aquaman” should come with a subtitle: “Mom Always Liked You Best!”

Mom was played by Nicole Kidman. Before getting dragged back to Atlantis to be married to Orm’s daddy and stay with him, she fell in love with Aquaman’s dad on the land. And loved him, not Orm’s father, for which there was much resentment. Of course, this gives rise to “You’re not really one of us” and cries of “bastard.” (Which is more appropriate for Orm. He’s a big, soggy dick). This is not a feminist movie.

If you saw “The Incredibles,” you’ll remember Frozone and Mr. Incredible reminiscing about their superhero days and Frozone talking about Baron von Ruthless monologuing. BvR has nothing on these two. We are  talking speech patterns bordering on Victorian for Orm. Loong speeches. He could have been throat-punched repeatedly, or given an atomic wedgie (since Arthur was still in big frat boy mode at that point). Perhaps fatally. I was hoping.

I was also so uninterested in what he was saying, I was more focused on figuring out what perfume the woman sitting next to me was wearing (No. It wasn’t obnoxious, and neither was she. However, I got a few whiffs and spent time trying to match a name to the scent. Much more engaging than the movie at that point). (Somewhere around Orm’s third speech, I realized it was “Elizabeth Taylor’s White Diamonds.” It’s a lovely scent, but only certain people can wear it successfully. Before you buy it for yourself or someone else, take it on a test run)

I digress.

I like Patrick Wilson as an actor, despite my introduction to him being “The Watchmen.” (I have no idea what I was thinking going to that movie) As you can see, he was made up to look like the lost Malfoy. And when he was talking about kicking Momoa’s half-human ass, I was thinking, “Oh, Honey. It looks like he’s got at least 9 inches on you and about 50 lbs more of pure muscle. And he’s playing the title character. Give up.”

Undulation  is the word for this movie. Hair. Seaweed. Capes. Many, many capes. Edna Mode would have killed herself.

(“Seriously? Why did you go?”)

 

This.

There was a underwater rumble. Several of them, in fact, but the first one had guys on seahorses facing off against guys on sharks. My thought: this is not exactly West Side Story. You know, Jets v Sharks? Huh? Huh? “When you’re a Seahorse, you’re a Seahorse all the way…” Nah.  The sharks DID have laser beams, so if Dr. Evil from “Austin Powers” was in the audience, he probably wept.

Heroes go on quests. To find themselves, mentors, or stuff. In this case, stuff, so in addition to two bad guys out to get him, we have a Heroic Scavenger Hunt!

Goody! Go to Point A to find Clue 1, nearly get killed, then go to Point B, which is where Clue 1 sent you, nearly get killed again, until Clue 2 sends you to the object’s resting place (Threes. Pay attention, Kids: attempts, clues, etc. come in threes. If it’s only the second attempt or the second strike, our hero will not succeed).

On the way, we meet weirdo sea creatures. There was a trailer for “Godzilla: King of the Monsters” before the movie and I wondered if we had a crossover going. There were also extinct ones and I checked my ticket to make sure I wasn’t in “Jurassic World.”

At this point, the Heroic Scavenger Hunt is successful and we see Arthur Curry finally in the yellow and green Aquaman outfit. He looked like a cross between a metallic evening clutch and a 57  Cadillac (Costume tailfins. So many tailfins)

 

See what I mean?

Jason Momoa was in “Game of Thrones” as Khol Drogo. We got to see his butt. It’s an asset. (See what I did there?)

In “Aquaman,” we get one shot of covered butt. Speaking for the rest of the audience that matched my demographic (and we were numerous), there should have been more.

DC, maybe have me write a movie for you. Rehire Cavill, let me put him in a buddy movie with Momoa, maybe scamming an intergalactic villain played by Josh Brolin by faking horse races and …no. That’s “The Sting.” Newman and Redford. It doesn’t get much better.  Damn good movie, by the way.

However, we did get wet Jason Momoa. And that’s a good thing. Lots of wet Jason Momoa. He undulated at times. Everyone did cuz, you know, they were underwater, and the movie makers wanted us to be sure we knew they were underwater. And when he wasn’t underwater, he was mostly wet. Hmm. Wet Jason Momoa…

Maybe DC was writing for middle-aged women after all.

I’m Still Here

How many times have I said that? (I know, I know)

I’m not a Stephen  Sondheim fan (I recognize his genius, but his music doesn’t resonate with me).

It’s been 364 days since my last blog post. That was about how I felt since the death of my friend 15 years ago. I have sisters (more on them in a bit) but that was the loss of a soul sister. Given the number of blunders I’ve made in that time, I think I relied too heavily on her superior common sense and smarts for guidance and didn’t really work to develop my own.

2003 was a suck-ass year.

Followed by 2005.

So was 2008.

And 2015.

2018, too.

I self-diagnose as having situation depression. It manifests as a form of emotional paralysis: I don’t want to do anything. Everything is overwhelming. I just want to hibernate until things are better. I don’t want to be medicated because that won’t resolve the issues (and that goes for drugs and alcohol. They don’t solve the problem, so why bother?).  I can’t afford to go to a psychiatric hospital because I don’t have insurance or the means to pay for it (or a regular prescription. That shit’s expensive). And I don’t want to be on meds anyway. (Sort of a middle finger to Big Pharma)

I looked for an image for this post of a woman wrapped in chains to illustrate the point. However, the ones I found (including strait-jacket photos) were all a bit too BDSM to use. Yeah, no.

Lost a good-paying job in March. Managed to scramble, financially through most of the year, but found another job in September that pays 63% less. No, that was not a typo. Call center. White collar work, but not a living wage. I have never been so over-managed in the 34 years I’ve been a working adult. At any given time, at least 4 people can be monitoring a phone call located in Florida, New York, or Mumbai. The task does not play to my strengths: problem-solving. And my co-workers tell me it’s obvious to them that the manager does not like me. At all. However, I did win a 43″ Sharp smart TV at the Christmas party, so there’s that.

The way out…

In the time in between jobs, I SUCCESSFULLY COMPLETED a course in Web Design and Program Development. Me. I learned HTML, CSS, Bootstrap, JavaScript, JQuery, some graphics work, PHP, and MySQL. The JavaScript and the PHP  haven’t stuck too well, but the coding community is extremely supportive, in terms of fora (plural of forum), chat rooms, and websites to learn/practice coding.  I made what I think is a kick-ass website for my final project (no, I’m not providing the link right now. It’s supposed to be uploaded to here somewhere, but we’ll see if I was successful). Starting wages for web development are still about half of what I was making in mortgage due diligence, but more than what I’m making now.  And I can create tools for folks to complete better, more accurate mortgage reviews.

I am standing in my own way in terms of lacking self-confidence. Potential employers will give you puzzles to code and I am too chickenshit to complete them. Practicing code on a website in order to refresh memory and boost confidence.

And, once again, I need to find a home. (And save my stuff in storage. Seriously. If anyone reading this has a spare $150,000, that’ll pay off all my debts and purchase a nice little condo for me with enough to move CA storage stuff to FL, furnish home, acquire two kitties).

I’ve been ready to throw in the towel for eternity for months. I’m serious.

This week, an old wound that I’ve been trying to heal by ignoring it has reopened. This is where my sisters come in. One of them posted an old photo of the two of them wearing hats from my grandmother. I remember when the picture was taken. In the posted photo, I was cropped out. I’m being erased from my family. And that broke my heart.

I imagine they would say this is all my fault due to issues I had with my mother, but 20 some years ago, I could see that the unity and bonding that my dad wanted so much for us wasn’t going to outlast him. I thought I had worked towards healing old wounds and rebuilding relationships, but I was wrong. Back in 2000, at my sister’s wedding, her co-workers challenged me when I said I was her sister. They pointed at my other sister and said, “No, that’s her sister over there!”

How nice. Of course, she has family pictures all over her houses, but I never saw myself in any of them. Granted, we had a bad relationship as kids. After I moved out, I discovered that she had broken some of my collection of horse statues (including Breyer collectibles which appreciate in value. Dumb fucking move). I don’t think it was accidental. Nor was cutting up my prom dress to make an 8th grade graduation dress without asking me (Thanks, Mom. You knew better). Her boyfriend/husband was not very friendly and the first time I saw her kids beyond being little babies, they thought it was great fun to hit me with duck decoys while their parents stood by and laughed. I should have known.

Of course, the usual comment that follows is “Well, you hold a grudge.” Actions speak louder than words. My words, your actions.

The cropped picture brought it all home. If you bitches wanted to hurt me, you fucking did it. Congratulations. I hope you’re happy with yourselves. You tried to trap me into moving home and being a caretaker for someone who disliked me only slightly less than you did.

Why was it decided that my life and happiness mattered less than yours?

Whatever. You can block me on Facebook, refuse to acknowledge my existence, not communicate with me unless you want something (which has been the case since we were teens. I only exist if I’m useful to you. The sad smile and tears with “We really should be closer” only comes out when the wine flows. I’m willing to be closer, just not on your terms). However, like science, whether you like it or not, I’m still your sister. Those were my parents. I don’t even know what you did with the bodies. NONE of you had the maturity, courage, or grace to reach to tell me my mother was dying, was dead, the date/time of the memorial, or even offer me the pictures of myself from the hall. I didn’t want money (this was a discussion I’d had with Mom several times. And Dad. Because he and I were both ATTORNEYS who had studied wealth transmission, we knew the best estate planning was to spend it all (including transfers) during your lifetime). All I wanted were the cross-stitch pictures I’d made for them, the photos of me as a baby and little girl, me with Ralph, my graduation pictures, the Fidelity publicity photo of me wearing a headset. That’s it. My stuff. Given the treatment years prior of my collectibles, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were tossed the first day of cleaning out the Rutland house. And I’m pretty sure I was lied to about them.

Anger is like  drinking poison and hoping it kills the other person. I have to forgive you for myself. I can also forgive you because you have to live with yourselves. I don’t.

I have been working on some short stories. I will finish those sumbitches if it kills me. Which is ironic because they’re supposed to be funny erotica, not Swedish death metal (shout-out to a friend). And not under my name. Someone I respect told me I need to focus and commit to something, then success will follow. Also commented that the comerotica (comedy + erotica. Portmanteau word. May catch on. May not) would be successful. I can do that.

And that’s the state of me right now.

Still here. The Iron Rose will bloom again.