My daughter, Pony, and I decorated our little mini Christmas tree today. It was strange. It is our first time doing this, alone, and for such a small sad little tree. But not really. It’s okay. No big whup. Whatever.
Sad and scared. Sad and scared. Sad and scared.
Om shakti om
Focus on the heartbeat
Can I kiss you?
Highland Park and his wife invited me to their Christmas party. I am planning on stopping by after a wedding I am going to downtown earlier that evening.
I have so many expectations and fantasies about going to their party that I am sure to be sorely disappointed.
I love you, Money. I love you, Story Tribe. I love you, me.
But the real question is, do I love Portland???
I opened the book Mirror of Intimacy and the page was titled- Loneliness.
“The worst loneliness is not to be comfortable with yourself” -Mark Twain
Don’t I fucking know it.
“When loneliness is a constant state of being, it harkens back to a childhood wherein neglect and abandonment were the landscape of life.”
Did I already read this? Write about this? A little too close to home. I know I rely on others to feed this dark pit in my soul, that is why I took fucking ayahuasca, because I wanted to be healed of this interminable loneliness.
Let’s move on- shall we?
I stopped waxing months ago. I have not had sex with anyone since Highland Park and that was the at end of July- right around my daughter’s fourth birthday. I will never forget what I was doing in the early mornings of that. Never again. Unless, of course, it happens again. It was so hot. With Highland Park.
Am I letting myself go?? I have trimmed. Barely. Shaved, not at all. I still pluck, but that is more of an OCD thing than anything else. I find it soothing to dig out ingrown hairs until I am a bloody mess. It’s gross, I know. But there is nothing I can do about it.
Believe me, I have tried.
I spent thousands of dollars I did not have on credit cards I had no business getting when my ex and I split up- all in the vain attempt to look more “attractive” to the opposite sex.
Now, I don’t give a shit. I still want to look cute and I like being thin, but the obsession to be perfect has left me. Thankfully. It is an ominous cross to bear. Perfection. It keeps me from being me. From being real. I think it is a good sign if I am starting to not give a fuck. Waxing is super expensive and fucking painful anyways. If someone is going to love me, they are going to have to love a hairy bush.
Saying that, I will most likely get waxed before their Christmas party.
I’ll just charge it.