What I’d Tell My 7-Year-Old Self

You are beautiful and worthy and perfect just as you are. Follow your heart and don’t lose your passion.
ALWAYS choose feeling over numbing, no matter how terrifying.

Don’t let your tears frighten you, Little One. They are a gift from God Himself.

These efforts will require more bravery than you can imagine or even comprehend right now.

SO LET’S MAKE A PACT:

YOU promise ME you’ll never give up, and I can promise YOU we’re going to be okay.

I’ve seen and lived our future: we survive, but it doesn’t turn out the way we planned.
I’m sorry about that.
I tried very hard, but I just wasn’t strong enough.
It’s called Failure.
Failure” happens when, as a Big Girl, you realize all of those happy, hopeful movies you made in your mind are never going to happen.
In that moment of Despair, when you notice your Dreams are slipping away,
LET THEM GO!!
Unfulfilled Dreams don’t hurt as much once you’ve learned to forget them.

Lastly, and this is what the dictionary calls a “cliché,”:

Life is SO short, Little One.

Every moment feels forever when you’re young.
Somewhere along the line, the pace picks up and Life starts playing in fast-forward.
Time attempts to escape our grasp, and we never have enough of it.
People often behave strangely when they recognize this truth.
I know us well enough by now that I can assure you we don’t deliberately treat others badly.
Instead, we’re more haunted by the risks and chances we DIDN’T take than by the poor choices we DID.

So please, I beg you:
STOP worrying about all the things you should, shouldn’t, could, couldn’t, can, can’t, will, won’t, or might do and…
JUST DO
❣️


PS. You’ll be DOing us both a huge existential favor
(try to remember to “Google” ‘existential” one day; I know you’ll find the topic interesting)

REPOST

A Freak in the Sheets and a Lady in the Streets

Oh, I may look like a Republican senator’s wife. I’ll grant you that.

But appearances can be deceiving, can’t they?

Yes, it’s true: I’m a tall, skinny white chick.

But I’m a FREAK. In the absolute Best Way Possible.

Most men are intimidated and terrified by a Sexually Adventurous Woman. Well, I’m the version of that woman who will send you running for your life, in a raining puddle of little boy tears, frantically searching for your mama.

I can even BE your mama if you want or need me to.

I can be your teacher. I can be your student. I can be the blonde cheerleader you never got to sleep with but used to jerk off thinking about. I can be the fucking blue-haired organist at your Southern Baptist church.

I’ll call you Daddy and let you call me by the name of your teenaged daughter’s best friend.

(Tammy, am I right?)

And we haven’t even started on my bucket list of fantasies yet.

I Don’t Think I Believe You

Journal, 11/07/21

You just couldn’t stick around, could you? You really expect me to believe that YOU hurt after WE left? After going on your own vacation and cheating on us? After I’d just been born?

Well I don’t. I don’t believe you.

I’m surprised you even bothered to take the picture in the first place since you didn’t keep a copy for yourself. Come to think of it, I don’t remember ever seeing a photo of me in your home or office.

What’s that? You say you never felt seen as child, either? You felt misunderstood, even though you were an ‘only child’? I don’t imagine you’d much like being lost in a shuffle.

So once again, I’m not sure I believe you.

But who am I to say?

Only your daughter. Your second child of four. The only one you never wanted in the first place [second place, third place, last place]; the “fix it baby” who didn’t fix a goddamned thing.

(I’m sorry I couldn’t make the font smaller… I know you don’t like it when I’m too “here.”)

A Matter of Intent

Journal, 11/07/21

People who say “The Road to Hell is Paved with Good Intentions” are flat wrong in my opinion.

The intention behind one’s actions matters.

It would never bring your loved one back, but wouldn’t you be more inclined to forgive someone who accidentally killed your loved one in a freak car crash that you yourself could have easily gotten into than someone who ruthlessly schemed and then executed his or her murder?

And though it would be equally horrific and tragic, would it be different to lose a population because nuclear bombs were accidentally dropped instead of being deliberately targeted and exterminated by evil in everyday clothes?

I don’t know the answer to the second question.

I only know good intentions are important.

At a minimum, they’re a starting point: a ship from which to launch concern instead of neglect; love instead of hate.

And without good intentions, isn’t the good we’re being given a tool of manipulation?

Just a thought.

What the Enneagram has Taught ME About ME

After binging on videos, audiobooks, and other digital media about All Things Enneagram, I’ve come to a few revelations about myself. And all I can say is: THANK GOD FOR MY TRAUMAS!!

Because:

1. I’m so charming and relatable and [was once so incredibly] accomplished

2. That I could easily become narcissistic, shallow and depraved, especially since I also

3. Look to others to provide me with my sense of self-worth, while still feeling like

4. A misunderstood and highly-individualized person, who can get tired of suppressing who I am for millions of years, to the extent that

5. If I become too unhealthy, I could turn into one of the most ruthless, depraved, and sadistic mass murderers the world has ever known.

Yeah, lite read.

So let’s all break out the bubbly that I’ve been so severely traumatized, my flesh and blood flayed and then bathed in acid, leaving only a skeletal husk to commemorate my existence.

“When Solitaire’s The Only Game in Town“ 🎼:

My Summer as a Big Girl in Austin, TX., circa summer of 2021

———————————————————————————

Okay, you folks didn’t ask, but I can’t not tell. So here’s what Cooper and I really got up to in Austin in July….

I’ll try to tell it in “categories”, which makes perfect sense to me:

A. WHAT I TOOK WITH ME:

Enough Said

B. THE DRIVE UP THERE:

Was horrific, as All Time Served on Highway 35 is horrific. Particularly about halfway between San Antonio and Austin in this little town called New Braunfels. Why? Because The Powers That Be decided that 6:00pm on the Thursday before July 4th weekend would be a good time to take I-35’s 8 lanes down to 1 for construction. So technically, Cooper and I spent our first night parked on 35 in New Braunfels. Which made us so happy to arrive at our new home❣️

It was looooong.

C. WHERE I STAYED:

A 500 square foot “college apartment” as I like to call it. One I wouldn’t have even considered living in for a month in my 30s but positively adored in my [very] early 50s (why does it always hurt to say that, even after all these years?).

Anyway, aside from being on the second floor, which neither Cooper nor I liked much, everything else was fabulous❣️ Okay, and the parking did kind of suck, but why are we quibbling when I had such a good time??!!

Anyway, there was a bathroom with a bathtub (thank you!), a galley kitchen (all I needed with Amazon Fresh and Uber Eats), a TV (with free Netflix- score again!), and most importantly to me, a bed (any bed). Because that’s where I intended to spend most of my time.

I told you where I spent most of my time!

D. ALL THE NEW PEOPLE I MET:

I met plenty of boys, but I’ll just tell you about the one named Lucas. Lucas was 7-years-old back then (3 months ago), and I’m pretty sure he still is. Despite his young age, Lucas became my friend. He was the older son of my Airbnb hostess, and she was a single-by-choice mom of two kids. At my age, people! I think that’s pretty badass. She was really open about the fact that she got this wonderful guy to donate his sperm to her and about another couple hundred women for the purposes of making intelligent, charming, and beautiful babies no matter who’s X was attached to his Y. And Lucas was – is – all of those things: intelligent, charming, and beautiful.

Anyway, the 3 of us (me, Lucas, and Lucas’s mom) struck up a little deal. Since they lived a few houses away from my apartment, since my apartment was on the second floor, and since it was hot outside (more about that last irritant below), Lucas came over every couple of days to take Cooper for a quick walk. Then, he “literally” (good way to use it for a change) had to stay and talk with me while we waited for his mom to pick him up. The only wisdom I shared with him all that time was about the correct use of the word “literally.” Then I quizzed him about 5 different ways to make sure his understanding was comprehensive, and I was gratified to hear it was. I got a dog-walker, a friend, and a captive (I mean “student”) to listen to my interesting lectures for the bargain price of $2 a visit❣️ Best money I’ve spent in a long time!

Cooper, thriving in the fresh air of dog urine. It was good for me to get out in the sunshine, too, because we literally both got to talk to at least 5 dogs on each walk.

E. THE RESTAURANTS I ATTENDED:

My Apartment, Truluck’s, and this typically-pretentiously-Austin restaurant called “Hestia.” Details are below, and hey, I’m doing them a solid with the viral exposure I’m giving them for free, so don’t worry about them! Plus, at the prices they charge, they’re laughing all the way to those crypto-currency sites.

Anyway, I think this was the vibe they were going for: something along the lines of “Quick Dirt-to-Table Time” or somesuch nonsense like that. The guy in the tight mauve velvet suit who spoke with an unplaceable accent (and people: I’ve seen the world!) got really excited when he started explaining this concept, but I fell asleep about 3 hours in. Fortunately (and there are several “fortunatelies” to this tale), I came to as the cocktails arrived. Good thing at $20 a pop. And then there were something like 48 miniature courses, all of them explaining that concept I told you about that I was fortunately (there’s another one!) able to snooze through. But I woke up when those expensive drinks hit the table! And can I say that the courses just kept on coming? I mean, like loooong after I’d taken the Uber back home, brushed my teeth, and fallen back asleep. Fortunately (!), my friend Julie watched my dog Cooper so his separation anxiety wouldn’t get separated when I left for this meal from The Early Roman Orgy Period. You know: the ones that lasted Forever And A Day?

The final fortunately of this particular evening, and it’s the biggest one of all folks, is that I was not required to pay a dime towards all this “Beautiful People in Velvet Suits” luxury.

And am I ever grateful for that! Because I saw the prices and was awake for at least 5 of those courses, so I’m absolutely certain the bill was somewhere in the middle 300s. Damn! Was I ever glad to escape that one!

Here are Hestia’s details because the food really was very good.

Plus, the Uber driver on the way up there was very friendly and talkative and when I told him the exact year I had been born in Austin (19XX, and that’s all I’m saying publicly; he’d become a friend by then). Anyway, what he said – as he looked at me through the rear-view mirror – was “Well, don’t worry; you don’t look anywhere near that old.” Which in Austin qualifies as a “fortunately”: trust me, it was a compliment! And I take them whenever and wherever I can. I’m particularly fond of forcing them out of captives, though the Uber driver swore up and down he was being truthful about it. And that it had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with his tip. I’m inclined to believe him, aren’t you?

I totally forgot where I was going with this post again! Menopause is really hitting me hard, Friends❣️ I think I’m getting wiser all the time, but I’ve got all this teenage angst and vanity hitting me up at the time, and I’ve got to say: it’s really magnified in a youth-centric town like Austin.

(I’m doing it again! I keep forgetting Austin is no longer a town!).

I know, it was the last “category” on my list: What I Did. So here you go:

F. WHAT I DID (while there, a little ironic this chapter comes with a grade of “F”, since I think I finally mastered it):

Absolutely nothing!! And it was so wonderful! No one there to collect my trash 25/8, no real worries (other than my standard ones), and my freedom. YES‼️ My FREEDOM‼️ 🎉🇺🇸🇹🇴🇬🇧 (I tried to choose flags from known supposedly-free countries to reflect my point).

Anyway, all I really wanted to do was Whatever I Wanted To Do Whenever I Wanted To Do It. Is that really so much to ask? I mean, is it?? Was it excessive? Because aside from the Amazon Fresh deliveries, I thought I kept this whole adventure pretty frugal and peace-loving: sort of like a summer in an old VW bus.

The ultimate luxury? Keeping the thermostat on 65 degrees! With only 500 feet of living place, it cooled down in a real jiffy! And let’s face it: this was South Central Texas in July. I’ve repeatedly confessed to some rather vexing hormone imbalances that often show up in unbearably hot ways.

But again I digress! I must be a Digressor. I’m also a Preparor. I had my hair coiffed, nails painted, and waxing waxed beforehand. Because you know those people are hard to find in a new town! And I fully intended to look gorgeous every single day! I actually refused not to. So even though I was referred to as “middle-aged” in that police report I told you guys about earlier, I knew I was killing it.

At least my little brush with the law had nothing to do with my marijuana consumption (which I always think of as “recent,” but if I’m painfully honest with myself, “recent” is about the last 3 years). Please don’t tell the cops about that, okay? I did say “What happened in Austin stays in Austin”: I just need to amend that to include “especially if the Austin Police Department are involved.”

No need to get specific here.
I can’t explain the Def Leppard, either. But the audiobook pretty much took up the entire month, so I don’t get why everyone’s saying I was so lazy up there.

So between Lucas helping me out with my Cooper walks and my Determination To Do Nothing, I pretty much accomplished my goals! Not to mention, I really sharpened up my Solitaire game while I was up there. Do you see how well I did in that screenshot below? Do you have any idea how many games it takes to land on one you could potentially totally dominate? Let’s just say y’all would’ve been mpressed by my determination (there’s that inner determination showing up again!)

Anyway. I won’t say anymore about my score (we all know how impressive it is), but I will say that I am a member of the Fewest Moves school of thought. And I’m a very deep thinker. I know some people just want to get it all over with as quickly as possible, but I actually prefer Perfection to Speed. Honestly, it’s a mystery to me why Everyone’s always in such a rush!

And I’m not even addressing the “Quality vs. Quantity” debate here, let me make that perfectly clear. I’m just fine with Quantity – in fact I’m quite the fan. But never, and I repeat never, at the expense of Quality. I didn’t go all the way to Austin just to eat McDonald’s, now did I?

Or to play so much Solitaire, for that matter. Because let’s be honest, we all know that’s why I went up there in the first place! I will never [purposely] mislead you here. Because I’m very transparent and honest and value those qualities in others. Unless they’re opposing me on Solitaire or have apparently become so offended by my parking that they felt the need to call the Austin Fucking Police Department about it! Let’s just stay away from this whole topic, okay? I’m starting to get a little uncomfortable.

Anyway, deep breath taken and we’re back to the topic of Why I Love Solitaire So Much. One: it’s both consistent AND reliable. Two: I don’t have to put on that insufferable magnetic eyeliner just to play with it. Three (and these aren’t in any order of importance): as long as my iPhone has juice, so does my Solitaire.

Which was always very comforting to me when I’d go [back to] bed, iPhone next to me charging all night.

Along with all of my other electronic devices.

Things to Always Remember

Journal from July, 2021

• I’m gifted and can’t lose my gifts.

• I’m physically beautiful, period.

• I’m worthy because I’m human – full stop.

• When I’m being hard on myself, I need to cease and desist and start describing myself as a friend. I must be NICE to her!

• Leaves on a Stream for 5-10 minutes.

• Breathe in colors and textures and life and breathe out rapacious, enveloping darkness.

• Engage by: how my body feels, what I hear around me, what I see around me. Focusing on the here and now and what’s in front of me.

• Practice mindfully doing things: I must do things I don’t like in a mindful way, do things I DO like in a mindful way (focus without “psychological smog” hijacking my mind and leeching my life of color), and practice doing everyday tasks mindfully.

Please don’t think I’m vain, you guys! I’d hate to think anyone thought that. This is my therapy I give to myself. I thought perhaps my notes from – and individual additions to – a few tricks I learned from Audible’s “Confidence Gap” book might make you feel better, too❣️

The MBTI, DISC, Enneagram, OPT, and All Other Star Signs

My Text to Best Friend from Aged 12-High School, Uber-Qualified Therapist of 30+ Years, Fellow ENFP:

“I’m so thankful you recommended the Enneagram to me! I wrote this post on my blog 5 days ago:

Then I listened to the Enneagram-based Sleeping at Last songs on Spotify, and my reaction to the different “types” or “wings” was:

Atlas ONE: YES!!
Atlas TWO: sweet
Atlas THREE: yes
Atlas FOUR: sure
Atlas FIVE: all right already
Atlas SIX: umm hmmm
Atlas SEVEN: again
Atlas EIGHT: WHO’S BEEN READING MY ANONYMOUS BLOG POSTS AND STEALING MY MATERIAL!!?? I KNEW I SHOULD HAVE COPYRIGHTED IT!!Atlas NINE: who cares? I’m still feeling betrayed about #8!!

I’m also aware this is a relatively new position for me over the last year or so (after 53 years of unremitting Self-Flagellation). However, I can’t remember when I didn’t feel like I never got to have a childhood because I had to be such a Little Adult all the time!

I think it’s why I’m STILL so maddeningly self-critical about seeming puerile and immature NOW… at aged 54!!

Anyway, I damn well hope this didn’t wake you! I just wanted to get it down before I forgot it. You can shrink my head the next time we chat! Oh, and I also just heard that the 8s were the most “mentally unhealthy” of all Enneagram types! This on top of being a bleeding heart ENFP❣️

Oh well, FUCK THEM!! I adapt; I survive; rules change; I adapt again; I keep on surviving – like a cockroach!!
I Love you❣️”

—————————————————

P.S. Turns out I got this whole Enneagram thingy wrong despite my unwavering conviction that I got it right.

Anyway, turns out I’m a 4-3, with a little bit of all 9 numbers. Except for numbers 1 and 8. So much for knowing myself so-much-better after processing all these long-buried feelings on my blog! It appears I am as clueless as always about the goings-on in Jennifurrville (they never tell me a blooming thing!).

P.P.S. I really hate being such a deep, mysterious, complicated, alluring, complex, multi-layered woman with a gorgeous body Engraved by Life who always keeps you on your toes.

It’s a dirty job, filthy actually; but somebody has to do it❣️

A Woman of a Certain Age

In July, up in Austin, I was highly offended when the police record over a minor parking dispute referred to me [the perpetrator in this isolated incident] as a “middle-aged woman.”

By the last week of October, for reasons as yet unknown to me, I’d started referring to myself as a “middle-aged woman.

At which point the person to whom I’d provided the reference said to me:

“What, do you expect to live to 102?”

At first, I was so relieved that he didn’t say “108” that it took me a week to ask myself the following question:

How did I go from outrage to gratitude in 3 months?

Or is it 4?

Tattoos and Proof of My Financial Responsibility (typos and all)

Example Number One:

Yes, I know I’m not supposed to use enumeration when there’s only one example, but why are you quibbling over something so silly?

Anyway, as I was saying,

Example Number One (which I feel is more than adequate, but whatever):

All these young kids spend a fortune these days in time, dollars, and pain to get tattoos which tell their stories on their bodies.

Well, I haven’t spent a dime on such frivolities (don’t you dare take away my magnetic eyelashes, though!)

Why? If you’d ever seen my body, you wouldn’t ask!

Wasn’t it that Vile John Mayer who ditched Poor Jennifer Anniston (anyone with that first name must be an angel!) that crooned “Your Body is a Wonderland?”

Well, my body looks like Hiroshima or Nagasaki circa early post-WW2. For starters, it starts (is that redundant?) with my boobs. Obviously! You can’t get a biopsy, lumpectomy, re-excision surgery, port placement surgery, port removal surgery, 12 infusions of the ball buster known as Taxol, 1 infusion of the other ball buster that goes by Adriamycin, aka “The Red Devil,” 33 radiation whatevers (which they didn’t tell me at the time totally shreds your skin), 3 reconstruction surgeries, a double mastectomy where they took out the old implants and put new ones under my pectoral muscles which later had to be “expanded” to stretch the skin on numerous unpleasant occasions because I was too skinny, and they also had to pull that muscle from back there by my shoulder blade around to the front so I’d have enough skin as well as put in “cadaver shelves” (honestly, I didn’t ask for the details), and then the final surgery 4 months later plus the nipple procedure that didn’t take and then the nipple tattoos…

I’ll be damned! I do so have tattoos!!

Anyway, I kind of forgot where I was going with this one. Write it off to the premature menopause I went through 14 years ago. That can really screw with your brain and bones, so no wonder my short-term memory is so bad, right?

Anyway, I was trying to say that my body is totally destroyed. I’m fully in agreement.

But it’s also totally badass! You could spend hours just counting my scars and hearing the stories behind them. They go all the way back to my age 3.

And I wouldn’t trade them for anything. They’re so fucking gorgeous I can hardly stand it❣️

The Upcoming Anniversary of My Father’s Death

Journal 10/26/2021

The first anniversary of my father’s death is in 6 days, on 10/31/21.

It feels like all of the anger, shock, outrage, and righteous indignation have run their course. And now I just want to cry for a month straight.

About what we both missed as children. No one ever “mirrored” his emotions during his stoic West Texas childhood: how would he ever know to mirror mine?

How could he know that by silencing me, I never told anyone what I was truly feeling or what was truly happening?

It doesn’t change the fact that he left me alone to process a suite of emotions too complex for a small child to process on her own.

As a result, the arbiter of my worth was transferred from Me (worth self-motivated) to Whomever I Was With (worth tied to external approval).

My chaotic childhood turned me into a chameleon I often feared was dead and bone dry on the inside. I would now call that kind of person a “cypher.” Unfortunately, my emptiness isn’t easily filled. Some have tried, but none have succeeded (or stayed, for that matter). They never stay. I wish my emptiness was filled by a plain old human being, but it feels endless sometimes.

I already feel like I’ve cried enough. Isn’t 500+ months of crying enough?

Well, isn’t it?

For once, I honestly don’t know how I feel inside.

Torn? Conflicted? No.

Spent.

But still begging to be set free. Promising I’ll never tell. Pleading for my life.

Little Girl: You have nothing to say. Quit crying or I’ll give you something to cry about. And while we’re at it: you’re the most hopelessly unathletic AND the most self-centered person I’ve ever known. Look how you start every sentence with the word ‘I’” [insert ubiquitous eye roll of contempt].

You know what? I changed my mind.

YOU GO AHEAD AND STAY DEAD, Sweet Daddy.

Please just STAY IN HELL!

I beg you to leave me alone for a year – just a year!!

Please, could I have one last year?

It’s ALL I want left in this life: One Last Year of Freedom from Your Voice Before I Die.

I don’t give a DAMN about your money! All I want is for you to…

SHUT THE FUCK UP!!

More Questions for My Latest Suitor, to be revised on an ongoing basis

1. Why did you go and make us flawed, pathetic humans if you were going to punish us for being flawed, pathetic humans? You say you gave us freedom of choice so we could willingly choose to obey you.

I’m sorry, but what were you thinking? Do you not think that over the course of millennia, one of us ‘Yay-hoos’ down here would think: “Let me try this anyway?” Were you lying in wait for ONE of us to break a rule so you could punish ALL of us? That’s ONE part I’ve never understood.

2. And how can you guarantee it won’t happen again after Armageddon goes down and Heaven’s Favorites are where they’re supposed to be? Will they be the temptation-less automatons who so bugged you during the design phase, but who are now somehow perfect?

You get back to me with the answers to 1 and 2, and I’ll meet You for a conversation.

Oh, and I don’t intend on quitting sinning, either. Nope, while I’m still here, I’ll get my dopamine and serotonin where I can (thank you very much). Metaphorically: Apples are good for the digestion.

Disclaimer: if you weren’t carved into a “Believer” from birth, you might not understand this weird-ass conversation we’re having. You probably were required to memorize scripture from old and new testaments alike as both young child and adult to recognize the “code.”

My Newest Suitor, cont.

Oh the conversation continued alright. Not because of miracles (wait, except for that big one last week I completely forgot about until write now)…I was going to say “not because of miracles but because the guy refuses to quit stalking me…in my HEAD!”

Do you know the way an iPhone 12 will start to play from your APPLE MUSIC collection when you aren’t listening to Google for a nanosecond (or some other weird Apple shit like that)? Well, as soon as I publish that last post and go back to what I’m doing, Apple Music starts playing from the old limited playlists in my Pre-Spotify Period and he sandwiches “Better is One Day in Your Courts” next to Brothers Osborne’s “Let Me Love the Lonely Out of You.”

I say: that’s not very subtle, dude. And you KNOW that younger one is gay. You know how you ABHOR all that shit! I think it’s very hypocritical of you to choose it. Not that I’m gay of course, but I did just confess to empathizing with Lucifer, so I can imagine I’m not looking radiantly beautiful right now. Plus, how would you like to be hated just because of your internal feelings?

So I figure out how to STOP APPLE MUSIC and switch back to Spotify. It immediately goes to this song I love called “She Fucking Hates Me” from 2002. But I can’t listen to it for some crazy reason. I know it’s sappy, but I actually switch to my Love Songs playlist. So I entered willingly. But there ARE some extreme songs in there! Why does the first one have to be “I Have Loved You For a Thousand Years”?

Yesterday I was thinking that I needed a caveman in my romantic life: one whose signals I can’t misinterpret. Is he trying to prove his omniscience here? Because let’s get one thing straight: I have NEVER DOUBTED YOUR OMNISCIENCE. What I have DOUBTED is your love and concern for me at all, despite all the crying and weeping other people report feeling when overcome by your “great big majestic love” or something similar. Let’s face it, you have dealt me some serious blows, man. I mean: let’s not bullshit each other, ok? Can we just go for the jugular here? Better yet: read my FUCKING BLOG‼️

You have a lot to explain to me before I will EVER trust you again.

P.S. Please stop the downloads of compassion for my father. I don’t think I can handle another one. It breaks me into a million tiny pieces and you’ll be stuck knowing it was all your fault.

P.P.S. I’m starting to realize why you ripped every baby out of my womb, sparing me no bloodshed. It’s because you knew the day I realized I’d done the same things to THEM that the father you gave me did to ME, I wouldn’t be able to handle it. Am I supposed to be grateful?

My Newest Suitor

I started up a conversation with God again yesterday. We’ve re-established a loose connection, but it’s by NO MEANS been anything regular. Yesterday, I feel like The Man had the GALL to suggest the lover I was looking for was Him. I laughed and gave him a ridiculous way to prove it, which himself opted not to do (no surprise there: it seems I always ask too much). Then he tells me maybe I should go to church today and I said: ‘Do you even SEE ME HERE? I am having an emotional breakdown in case you haven’t noticed (but I know you notice every fucking detail, so that’s not it). You’ll have to get me there yourself. Which you have not as of 9:29am, and I cried off my eyelashes yesterday and haven’t taken a shower in three days. So like: it’s not happening TODAY!” So like: foiled again. But I keep lowering the bar.

Then he says to me: all those things you wrote about in that sappy disgusting blog post you’re too embarrassed to post is how I feel about you.

I’m like: I call bullshit on that one! I’m waaay too “liberal” these days, and it’s not like I’m becoming REFINED BY FIRE here! No, your fucking fire is BURNING ME ALIVE!🔥😭🔥😶🔥

He somehow drops to His knees (kind of like a Disney prince, if I had to explain it) and he says: I’d wash your feet if you hadn’t gotten that pedicure on Thursday. But I can tell you how many hairs are on your head. [eye roll from me] 21,953. I said: how many DOWN THERE? He said: 10,291!! I shit you not!! The man actually said that! I personally thought the second number was a bit high, but who am I to argue?

So I said: I’ll be damned, I’d forgotten about your wicked sense of humor! He had the balls to say (after everything about everything): I adore every single thing about you.

To which I had to reply: if you want me to hear your voice by going to church, you have to get me there. I’m not going to make it. I knew you weren’t going to do it.

I knew I wouldn’t feel you today. I think I understand how the devil ended up down here. He started out good and got proud and betrayed you. I’m pretty sure I probably would have been the devil, too. It’s true. I would have probably been Lucifer himself if not one of the other angels who betrayed you and were also thrown out. Look at how much you loved him, and now you hate them all.

To which I didn’t expect a reply, to be perfectly honest. Because he’s already made his position known on the matter. And he’s pretty much always stuck to his story. But no, he pops back with: I still love the devil.

To which I said: I must call bullshit again, fine sir! What about those things that seem ridiculous over in Proverbs that say: “these things the Lord HATES”… something about a woman?

You say: I never stopped loving Lucifer. It’s possible to love and hate someone at the same time.

I didn’t have a comeback, but neither did he. We both know my down-here father died a year ago today. He didn’t need to elaborate.

I’m not sure how or if the conversation will progress.

Desperately Seeking Sensitive Nigerians; Love Letter to a Scammer

I don’t want to sound paranoid or racist, and I most certainly don’t want to insult sensitive Nigerians in ANY way. But can someone out there explain the recent explosion in my Nigerian “audience?” I can assure you I am seeking illumination only. I’m actually BEGGING YOU to school me on my ignorance of how my admittedly-externally-privileged upbringing between two Southern United States between the late 1960s and mid 1980s, experience with chemotherapy and similar exhilarating adventures, and feeling abandoned by my husbands after choosing personal relationships over my career actually RESONATES WITH YOU??

I’M. ON. MY. KNEES. LITERALLY. BEGGING. YOU.

To tell me how my experiences with those experiences resonate with YOUR experiences of your experiences over in Nigeria.

Because I want us to collaborate on a book. Apparently we are kindred spirits, true soul mates, in spite of the fact we have absolutely nothing in common. I mean, you could pretend to be someone you’re not, but why would you want to do that? No, if my words RESONATE WITH YOU, YOU MUST BE TRUSTWORTHY.

So don’t be afraid to step forward, Sensitive Nigerians❣️ I want to provide a safe place to “connect“: a virtual community for those processing traumas from childhood, breast cancer, and divorce. And other VULNERABLE, Middle-Aged Women. Divorcees and the like.

All of us sharing freely and openly. Right here. Just waiting.

With knives.

The “Me” in Meme

I’m going to try to do this like my younger friends on YouTube (is it called a meme?)…

PERSON: “helpful advice

ME: (inside head) DO YOU THINK I DON’T ALREADY KNOW THAT…AS WELL AS EACH AND EVERY ONE OF MY PERSONAL FLAWS?

ME: (outside head) manifested “sensitivity to criticism”

Saturday Night, for Real

You order a terrible combination of ingredients on a pizza in a moment of fleeting spontaneity.  The results are unsurprisingly disastrous.  Do you:
1. Eat the problem like adult: You bought it, they made it, just eat it.
2. Project your unfulfilled needs onto unsuspecting innocents:
like yelling at the poor people who made the pizza in the first place, or:
3. Never EVER, under either direct or implied duress, admit to being home alone on a Saturday night. And ordering a pizza, no less! Such a rookie mistake!

Journal, 10/13/21

I can’t tell anybody this, but…

I’m simultaneously the most insecure AND the most intelligent person I know.

No wonder I’m no good at Marriage.

But what are the alternatives for a woman, aged 54, who still desires connection and love? When I’m being serious, people think I’m interviewing for a husband. When I write “I’m not interviewing for a husband; I have no set agenda” on my online dating profile, I get NO responses (or if I do, I’m asked what I’m wearing).

I don’t mind admitting I’m very confused by the dating scene in 2021 for middle-aged people (God, am I going to have to call myself a “senior” next year?). I seem to be very attractive to WOMEN and COUPLES these days, which kind of freaks me out. I think these women want to be my friend, but they don’t: they want to be my friend. I don’t even know if they want me for themselves, their husbands, or both.

This really weirds me out because I’ve relied on my gut instinct my whole life, but it seems to be failing me these days.
I admit that, as a heterosexual who came of age when gender was a binary concept, I’ve become a clumsy reader of the signals and vibes I get “out there.” I’ve also been accused of being things I’ve never considered myself to be, like:
•a tease
•overly flirtatious
•too uptight
•too liberal, and [in the absence of closure, I’d have to go with]
•too damaged.

How does a person who religiously goes to therapy every week fix being “too damaged?”

I honestly don’t think I’m the problem. I’d love to go out with a male version of me. I think maybe the ones who think I’m too damaged are too damaged themselves to see my [inner] beauty?

I surely don’t want to have to fish for compliments and ‘status reports” all the time in my next relationship. In fact, let’s say it out loud together:

WE ARE DONE WITH THAT❣️

WE WANT AND DESERVE ONE GREAT BIG MESSY, DESPERATE PASSIONATE LOVE AFFAIR BEFORE WE RELOCATE PLANETS❣️

WE ARE FASCINATING – just think of all the boring first date conversations we’ve carried and made interesting. Not everyone can do that!

LET’S JUST TRY TO LOVE OURSELVES FOR A WHILE, because:

WE ATTRACT WHAT WE PUT OUT, and what WE put out is highly unique. It probably takes decades for huge Humpback whales to find their mates-for-life. I don’t imagine they have mixers and matchmakers. And they must be practically extinct or there wouldn’t be “Save the Whales” bumper stickers everywhere (maybe not everywhere NOW, but everywhere ONCE).

I think I’m comparing myself to a Humpback Whale now, which reminds me that I use metaphorical language a lot. I’m just not a typical, normal person.

And you know what? I’m so frigging glad❣️ The worst type of lonely is being anxiously attached and disconnected from the person lying next to you in bed. In a dry and dead marriage with someone you never should’ve married in the first place.

Been there, done that, paid my dues.

We’ll just hang out here with the Whales for a while, Thank You. 🐳

My Introduction on a Discord group about being an ENFP

My name is Jennifer, and I’ve been taking the Myers-Briggs for over 25 years trying to get the correct results- but I kept coming out as an ENFP. I think we are chameleons and that’s why I didn’t believe my results. I’ve dealt with a lot of trauma and chaos in my life, and my enneagram (new to me) says I’m a 4 with a 3 wing. I’m not really sure what that means, but I like Joyce’s YouTube content and that’s why I’m here. I wasn’t able to have children, so I’ve not had that grounding influence in my life that grows up many ENFPs, but I feel like my traumas have more than qualified me as a deep person. I hate to hear ENFPs are shallow because we’re anything but! In fact. I feel like I’m condemned to life in the Deep End, so I only enter the Shallow to catch my breath.

By the way, the attached photo is of bald (thank you, Taxol) 39-year-old Jennifer in one of her “chemo wigs.” She’s trying to laugh and be a good sport about it all, but she’s really hurting inside (and it’s not the port under the skin in her vena cava that hurts).

Sadly, she’s so busy fighting, she’s really out of touch with her feelings. How I wish I could warn her she needs to process these strong emotions, but it wouldn’t do any good. I honestly think she didn’t know the best words to use, so she suffered in silence, even though she was technically married to Jeff at the time. He divorced her soon after, despite a brief reconciliation after her first breast reconstruction surgery, so I think we can go ahead and say his heart wasn’t “in it” at this time. She knew the truth of this all the way down to her bone marrow.

Jeff was always traveling for work and was never around, so Jennifer drove herself to her chemo and radiation appointments. She also drove back home again, alone, arriving at an empty house after each session.

How can you blame her for her failures? Who could survive so much heartache and betrayal – because you know this was just the start – and emerge unscathed? WHO, I want an ANSWER, damnit! WHO???!

I’m so sorry, Jennifer. I know you think you shouldn’t Be Here Today because others you knew and loved are Gone. But that’s NOT your fault! Why won’t you let it go? Why do you keep punishing yourself like this!!?? You MUST stop or you will get sick again. You know how that happens with you. You are alive and THIS is your time❣️ Step in and embrace the joy already!! Relax. Have fun. GET OFF THAT FUCKING CROSS NOW!!

I’m coming to peel you down, pull out those nails, and trust me: it won’t be pretty! I honestly don’t know why you do such stupid things and think such stupid thoughts! You’re like the priest in The Scarlet Letter (you read it in the tenth grade) who self-flagellates. Only crazy, GUILTY people sit around feeling sorry for themselves all day! What in God’s name is WRONG WITH YOU!!??

Welcome to 5 minutes in my Head. I try to be nice to myself, but I literally can’t. Myself punishes Myself too much to be happy, but loves Myself too much to subject Myself to physical pain. So I’m Here Whether It’s Pleasant Or Not. Physical pain is avoided because we’ve already dealt with that, had our share of that. and are done with that. So STAY AWAY, PHYSICAL PAIN!! We’ve got enough of YOU HERE!!

Psychic pain is Jennifer’s ancestor-approved, ancestor-generated specialty, however, so she’s quite adroit at inflicting it upon herself. She’s quite the Unyielding Bitch if we’re not mincing words: Life would be so much better if she LEFT US ALONE!

Unfortunately, that’s not currently possible, so we have to mute her. It’s all we can do if we want to have any fun.

Does anyone have any duct tape?