Disrespectful Voyeurism Needs a Longer Look

I hate when people lose their lives, especially in senseless, awful ways. I will never devalue the importance of a human being, but the deaths of two news reporters this morning has left me thinking about the media’s pressing need to gravely examine our ethical standards of sharing and reporting what we define as news.
There’s already been a feeling of the need to “protect our own,” and a call for censorship of today’s murders in the name of “respect.” I can’t help but feel that makes us hypocrites in the purest form. Everyday media personnel defend themselves against accusations of indecency for doing their jobs. We often point out we are here to protect nobody; We are here to tell the truth… to share facts we all need to know to function in our world. How many times have we argued (aloud or internally) that images, facts or videos are often disturbing, but people NEED (or at least have a right) To see it? That it’s “not our job” to shield people from the disheartening business of the day? I have personally had to explain to callers that photos of fatal traffic accidents have been part of the news for decades, and that we understand it’s upsetting, but it’s our duty to tell people what goes on in the world.

The media has been one of if not the most active entities in creating a society of voyeurs. We pander to everyone’s insatiable thirst to know everything about what everyone is doing. We sensationalize every story about death in every way possible because why? Those are the stories our readers actually read, and share, and comment upon. We give the gluttonous child more chocolate and justify it by saying, “Hey, you asked for more!” Yet, here we are today shaming people for wanting to see a murder live on television because it’s now personal.
Shame on us for such imbalance.
This crime is awful, of course. It’s horrible that those individuals’ family, friends and followers could have unexpectedly watched this attack without even seeking the information. Imagine if Alison had a child who was tuning in before school that day. It’s dark and wretched and vile. I’m not downplaying that, but it happened.
Story after story, I see the videos have been edited. Social media accounts disappearing in record time. There’s an entire discussion unfolding about whether news outlets should be showing the video. I see people asking others to refrain from sharing out of respect… Respect we don’t bother extending to other victims unfortunate enough to have their deaths or injuries filmed. Was there a second of hesitation in posting the murder of Walter Scott’s death online? Why isn’t it “disrespectful” to watch that? Did we care if his loved ones would “mind?” Nobody was pegged as disgusting for wanting to see a man shot by a cop in the back multiple times.

Is it disrespectful to want to watch people die? Yep. But I also subscribe to the unpopular opinion that there is some strange value in seeing the hideous face of reality. When reporters first started going out overseas to report on the Vietnam conflict, Americans were exposed to some of the most raw, powerful and disturbing imagery they wouldn’t have received from radio or print only reports. What happened? They started to care enough to protest.

    I can read, “Someone died” in print and move on in about 30 seconds. I can see an image of the firing squad lining up and feel my heart tighten. When I see a video of someone killed, hear them beg for life, my entire being is involved. Tears flow down my face, and I feel. In which case do you think I would be most motivated to act to promote change?
Again, I find what happened this morning abhorrent no matter how it’s reported, and my condolences go out to everyone who loved Alison and Adam. They really were just doing the jobs we all love so much. I’m certainly not saying we should “suck it up” and revel in the fact that such a horrible event was filmed and broadcast in such detail. I just think if news agencies are concerned about decency in reporting the story – a story that would usually be considered a gold mine of video views and shares – because these are employees of sister stations, we should fully explore our feelings and consider how we report on future tragic deaths.

     It’s not fair to extend sensitivity on a case-by-case basis. It’s not fair to shame everyone for wanting to see death and pain when we pride ourselves on bringing it to them everyday to pay the bills. Maybe it’s time we stop exploiting pain for ratings all together.

Parents: Stop Taking Your Kids to the Park

I’m really getting tired of seeing kids at the park.

I promise I don’t hate children (all the time), so perhaps I should re-phrase.

I’m really getting tired of seeing kids ALONE at the park. Wait, wait… still not right. I pride myself on being one of the few mothers in this fear-infected society who refuses to believe kids can’t go to the park by themselves. One more time:

I’m really tired of seeing lonely children at the park.

I’m tired of being asked to push other people’s 4-year-olds on the swings. I’m tired of being asked for money from random youngsters when the ice-cream truck drives by. I’m tired of bringing extra toys on excursions so everyone can be included when they see us having fun. I’m tired of seeing the pain in my son’s eyes when he realizes that, yet again, he has to share his “mom-time” with a stranger.

I promise I don’t hate children. I’m starting to hate parents who just take their kids to the park simply to be ignored.

Parenting is hard. There are no easy answers, lots of tears, fears, frustrations, regrets, and worst of all, judgement. I certainly wouldn’t want anyone to judge my struggle through this gauntlet of motherhood, so I fervently try to avoid my Librian instincts in this area.

You can be sure, however, that when I’m at the park playing with your child while you text and scroll on your phone… in your car… 20 feet away… for an hour… I’m fucking judging you.

For the past three years, my son and I have taken countless trips to the park. Toddlers have this thing for being insane when they don’t play. I have literally watched him climb on a stool and jump from it about 35 times in a row. There was no “game” or objective. He just wanted to climb and jump. Nonstop. Period.

I feel a little bit guilty sometimes that he doesn’t get to have all my attention, not because I want him growing up a pompous, spoiled brat, but because that is all he wants. He doesn’t really care about brand name clothes (yet) or new toys (eehhh to some degree) or seeing the newest movie in theaters.

He wants me. I am his world, and he wants to be in it all the time. He wants me to race, and jump and climb and play with him. Nonstop. Period.

So do all the other children I find milling about on park playgrounds as their mothers and fathers disappear into screen land. Most of the time, all they want is attention from the adults in their lives. From the looks of it, they aren’t getting any.

I took Cullen to the park this weekend around 9 a.m., ya know, before the fires of Hell completely erupted onto the Oklahoma prairie. There was one car in the parking lot and one child seated at the base of a slide, literally staring blankly and dangling his legs over the already-warmed landscape. He had mentally cast his line out onto the wood chips and was just watching the bobber. Waiting for a catch.

This young man, probably around seven, became our best friend from the moment we disrupted his ennui. We tossed a ball up and down slides, pretended to “have lunch” at the playground’s cafe (one of Cullen’s favorites), wiggled through tunnels, drove a pirate ship and made ourselves dizzy in the tire swing. He told me about his upcoming trip to his dad’s house and his school.

All as his mother watched from her SUV, occasionally shouting time warnings from a cracked window.

Even though the exuberance of these two boys was breezy and invigorating, I was hot. Sure it was 90 degrees out, but I my blood was boiling. Didn’t this woman know my son and I had a special morning planned for just the two of us? Was she okay with her son playing with a complete stranger? Wasn’t she ashamed that this stranger was being a much better park entertainer than she? Why did she even bring him here if she wasn’t even going to get out of the fucking car?

This wasn’t the first time this had happened, either. I’ve found myself caring for kids of all ages at different times with similar circumstances.

My self-righteous fire subsided when this young man offered to share his water with me and my son. I saw the absolute pleasure in his face as he ran back to his mother’s SUV to regale her with stories about the rapid-fire adventures we’d had on an uneventful Saturday morning. I realized this young man had set aside his “big boy” attitude many have toward toddlers (no big kids want to be bothered by babies) in order to feel like he was part of the fun. What a great example for my son to follow in the future.

I also thought about the example I’d set for my own child and realized the lesson he’d learned was far more important than him having every turn on the swings: Sometimes we have to put others above ourselves because it’s the right thing to do for everyone, not just the self.

There’s a lot of truth to the saying, “It takes a village to raise a child,” and I understand more and more that every adult can play a positive role in every child’s life– parent or not. If we understood that, as a whole, we are improved by taking on our fair share of the work, perhaps we wouldn’t be so fragmented and individualistic.

It just gets hard to pick up the slack for those who don’t seem to make an effort at all… who have absolutely no interest in raising the standard for us all through small acts of giving. A little piece of the light dies each time a giver feels taken advantage of, and that fire of self-righteousness grows. I know it’s best to take one for the team. I know it’s really “for the keeeeeds,” because it’s not their fault their parents would rather play fantasy football or watch Netflix than take a stab at the monkey bars (and later wonder why their child doesn’t respect them enough).

I admit it: I judged that woman on her cell phone, and I will probably judge the next one.

Next time, though, I’ll just remind myself that by showing a little more love to everyone and sharing a little more attention with those that aren’t “mine,” I’m investing in a brighter future for us all. It doesn’t really matter who does the work, as long as the task is accomplished. There’s no point in punishing the innocent.

Does It Mean a Thang If You Ain’t Got That Ring?

After years of riding that roller coaster of love, I’ve arrived at a new place: The future.
Sure, the last go around included a discussion of moving in together, possibly having a child together, but it was all contingent upon the completion of a year apart. All those things were far away in some distant plan I couldn’t yet visualize, and I really only had a matter of weeks to mull them over before the ideas were eviscerated. (See previous posts)
I didn’t think I would ever love someone in a meaningful way ever again, so I really hadn’t revisited my own feelings about marriage, children or “family.” I pretty much had the love of the only male who would ever matter to me forever, so what was there to think about?

slob

Single life can be so fulfilling

Now I’m stuck in the present– a deep well of emotional uncertainty. Sure it’s cool, comfortable, and giving me life, but it’s a limited view of the world around me. I don’t know how deep this goes, if these feelings will ever run out, what the “light” outside the tunnel is to me.
Worst of all, I’m a bit afraid to think about any of that for fear I’ll be disappointed.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve chosen to spend my time focused on the great things I possess rather than mull over the things I don’t. Sure, I thought I’d have a better job and be more financially stable by now. I expected to remain married until death, and a child, which I now have and adore, had never really been “in the picture” because of prior struggles in my life.
However, I am healthier than I’ve ever been. My son is brilliant, and makes me proud every day. I have tons of artistic, loving, intelligent and impressive friends whom I enjoy. I feel as though I spend my time with the people I love doing the things I love.

ladies

Cupcake Church 4 LIFE!

And then, of course, there’s my love.
Yes, I can choke the word out now. After weeks of struggling to accept the vulnerability that it drags along with it, I revel in knowing the love I have for this man I have the pleasure of calling “mine” is requited.
I feel it’s warmth radiate from his heavenly body when he pulls me into him. I see it fold into tiny stars that line his eyes as he smiles. Most importantly, I feel it when he goes above his own comfort level to make me happy. People tell you all the time, “I just want YOU to be happy,” but he doesn’t just say it. He makes it happen.
He knows I like to take photographs, so he suggests we go to some of the most beautiful places around to capture them. Together. He knows I like the charm of a street fair with local vendors, so he plans a trip to the farmer’s market. Together. He knows my son is the most important being on this planet to me, so he suggests kid-friendly activities for us to do… together.
When I wake up with irrational nightmares of his absence; fears of him leaving us behind like everyone else, the sound of his heartbeat as he holds me to his chest is my deafening mantra of comfort.
I know for a fact, I’m happy. I love him, and I want nothing more than to be with him. He’s genuine, kind, benevolent. While I’ll always want him, I’m finding I need him more each day.

happy

Luckiest woman evah.

With that intimacy comes questions, though. (What I surprise, Malinda has to question everything)
Mr. Pahhh rasss has made it abundantly clear, he doesn’t want to get married. He doesn’t want to have children.
Ever.
He literally just wants to keep floating through this life, enjoying it as it comes at him. I can’t blame him. It’s a beautiful thing, life is, and we never really control it, so what’s the point in trying.
But what does that mean for “us?”
He’s made a very important promise to me… that he won’t leave until I tell him to go. That he will never stray to another, and I’m starting to believe that with our histories of unfaithful spouses, hurtful divorces and heartbreak, he’s telling the truth.
That goes for the no marriage and kids thing, too, though. I believe he knows what he doesn’t want, and I would never try to change his mind.
I just don’t really know if I mind.
Marriage is great. I’m a huge fan of it. What’s better than a celebration of and dedication to love? (Money, sex, chocolate, whiskey… okay, there are a few things) As much as I love the idea of marriage and I try to share in the excitement surrounding matrimony, I could be happy with someone for the rest of my life even if they didn’t want to sign that contract.
I understand that after divorcing once, some people aren’t exactly eager to get back into that tux and slap a ring on someone’s finger. Divorces are tough on the heart and soul, and sometimes the pocketbook. I grappled with the idea of being 25 and divorced for some time. I felt like a quitter; I felt like I had betrayed my own supreme ideals.
Now, I’m just like, “Meh.”
Getting divorced was the best decision I ever made. I’m no so scared of it I would never agree to marry again, but I’m not exactly dying for a diamond. Having a companion is the best part of marriage, and as long as I could have a companion I love to be with, I’m good.
Babies, on the other hand… sigh.
Again, I never really thought I’d have another child, multiple times in my life. After Cullen, I did vow never to have a baby unless I had a solid foundation with the other potential parent, but that was about it.
My second life love had expressed a desire to procreate, rather unexpectedly, and, rather unexpectedly, I was quite responsive to the idea. He was a great father to his daughter and really treated my son well.
I wanted Cullen to have a sibling so he could avoid being a spoiled, self-centered only child. Plus, there’s few things better in the world than the bond between sisters and brothers. He’s so imaginative and active it would be good for him (and me) to have another child to run and gun with.
Also, I feel like I was robbed, somewhat, of the traditional experience of bringing a child in to the world. You know, the images of a man and woman lying in bed with all four of their hands touching her mountain of a belly erupting from the sheets. Days spent painting walls and assembling beds and nights filled with singing songs to that same mountain. The two peering into each others eyes as the purple oatmeal-covered being is finally placed into their arms.
Yeah, I didn’t have that.
I should’ve just fastened a pair of boxing gloves to my hands for nine months since I spent the entire time bobbing and weaving through 40 rounds of knock-down drag-out fights. It would’ve been nice to have that “picture-perfect” pregnancy experience… but I didn’t.
I’ve been reading a lot of articles lately about couples choosing not to have kids, and one thing they always nail is the concept that this “family fantasy” is really nothing more than a societal norm. It’s what we’ve all been programmed to believe is the path to the end goal of “happiness.” That doesn’t make it right, and it certainly doesn’t make it right for everyone.
So is it right for me?
Some part of me desperately wants to have another baby. It’s exciting, and emotional and, honestly, indescribable. On the other hand, I find myself wondering if I should’ve had a baby at all.
I think about how free I would be to pursue all the adventures I love so much. I get a bit resentful of the fact that more and more people have “child-free” policies at barbecues and parties, not because I find their choices offensive, but because it makes it fucking difficult for me to find babysitters. (Honestly, it would be better for this “us v. them” battle between the childless and child-having to just relax a bit. Let’s just accept each other and move on). I get frustrated asking, “Is this movie appropriate to show a child?” “Will he be still and quiet to enough for that place?” “Is it wrong to go to this activity and leave a child behind?”

cartman

… except anything that an irresponsible adult would do.

Now that I’ve made so many changes in my life, my realm of desire has just exploded, too. I live a substance-free existence. I work out. I want to go back to school and get a new job. But I barely have enough time to manage all that with a 3-year-old as it is. He’s just now old enough that he can stay with grandma and grandpa much easier for longer periods of time without many problems.
Honestly, I’m enjoying the marginal freedom I have. Do I really want to start over again with a demanding, fragile newborn?
Let me sigh even harder… SIIIIIGHHHHHHHHHH.
I’m not 21 anymore. The time I have left to make mistakes and dick around is ticking away, and I still have no fucking idea what it is I want from what little I have left. On one hand, I’m a little scared and upset that I’ve been denied an option for the future against my will… That if I stay with this man I adore I will be forced to remove several other possibilities — whether they are or aren’t societal norms — from the agenda. I really don’t like being told what I can’t do. But the more I think about it, the more I understand why we get along so well: We both seem to really enjoy living in a chaotic good world.
I have no idea what I want, because I don’t spend much time thinking about it. I really spend much, if not all my time, focusing on what’s happening right now or in the immediate future (by that I mean, “What’s going on this weekend?”)
How is it possible to be such a control freak and spend your life just going with the flow? Is it possible for me to just take this love as it’s given with no consideration for where it’s going? “Planning for the future” is one of those things society tells us we “have” to do, too, but why? Why does it have to go anywhere? Because I’m almost 30? Because planning something somehow will protect me from being hurt?
My father always says, “If you fail to plan, you can plan to fail.” I really don’t think love and companionship can be set to an agenda or verified with an image of what it’s “supposed” to look like. But I also don’t want to wake up five years from now feeling like I’ve failed my heart, again. The only thing I know for sure is that I love this man. I’m honored he’s chosen me to be his partner, and I believe he wants to keep it that way because I make him happy. Shouldn’t that be enough?

There and Back Again: The Vanilla Ice Experience

When I heard Vanilla Ice had booked a show in Shawnee, Okla. my heart jumped like a candle.

Apparently Everyone else’s did too, as the booking started gracing headlines on Oklahoma news sites and my Facebook feed within hours. Leave it to Oklahoma to give the funky white boy the welcome he deserved.
Like seriously why was Oklahoma the first stop on the tour? Whatever the reason, I was thrilled, but I really didn’t think id be going.

Two weeks later, my bearded companion sends a text, “Hey you want to go see Vanilla Ice in March?”
“Is that a real question?”

I thought surely he knew me better than THAT.

But he couldn’t possibly know my love for that patriotic parachute pants wearing punk was much deeper than ninja turtle macaroni n cheese commercials.

image

I was pretty much willing to pay an inappropriate amount of money to see the Justin Bieber of the ’90s, so I nearly had a roni when I found out floor tickets were only $25.
“Order it now,” I said.

After the initial excitement, I started wondering, “What the hell is this show lineup going to look like?”
Honestly, I’d probably be okay with just Hearing “Ice, Ice Baby” on a loop with a few “Ninja Rap” intermissions… What else is there?

I went to the iTunes Store to download the 1990 masterpiece, To the Extreme, and another pleasant surprise– It was only $5.99.

From the moment I heard, “Yo Vanilla, kick it one time booooyeee!” I was transported back to elementary school days when I’d play the CD on the boom box in my room. The only thing more embarrassing than how many lyrics I remembered (lyrics, in retrospect, no child should be listening to) was how I inadvertently started examining the chiseled jawline and shaved brows in photos on the album cover just I had as a little girl. I even used to seek out the VHS copy of “Cool as Ice” during family trips to the video store just so I could see my man (and some irrelevant chick) on the box. Ya know, the dude was cute.

Pretty sure those little square images are what inspired me to line my son’s hair when I buzz it down to a Mohawk.

The nostalgia hit my brain like a poisonous mushroom. I was hooked.
I had a tiny heart attack when my man went to jail for burglary (he’s innocent BTW), not because of the scandal. I’d already bought a ticket and needed to see this show. I tweeted Mr. Ice and asked if he’d still be playing in light I his recent woes. He favorited the tweet, and the show was still on.

Now the day is here, and I’m ready for the chumps on the wall. I have no idea what to expect (please just none of the dumb, metal rap from the dreadful dread lock days) but anything less than the best will be a damn felony… Just not burglary. Like I said, he’s innocent.

An Hour as a Warrior

A tandem massage by definition is far from naughty, even though its linguistic similarity to “tantric massage” has a tendency to raise eyebrows, but my experience this past month was absolutely transcendent.
Like, almost but not quite better than sex.
I was getting a massage a few weeks ago (be jealous) at Emerald Lane Massage Studio, aka “Heaven on earth,” and the therapists mentioned they were doing a special on tandem massages the following Saturday.
The couples massage team took a few minutes showcasing their delightful skills on myself and my partner in crime, explaining that a tandem massage is essentially two masseuses working one client at the same time.
Before I could get the words out of my mouth, my fellow massagee said, “Can you have three at the same time?”
This is one of many reasons why we get along so well. Within 60 minutes, we had signed up for triple tandem massages that weekend for an absurdly low price.
I showed up at the spa, located at 1817 W. Gore, just after lunch ready for any piece of action Nate and Holly were ready to throw my way. If it was anything like the couples massage I’d experienced that week, I would wind up trying to adopt two grown adults by the end of the day.
They told me I was going to be their first ever triple tandem massage, or “TT” as I lovingly called it, and I honestly felt a bit prideful. I was their first. And boy they did leave me quivering.
As soon as the lights dimmed and the soothing music started, I reverted back to an ancient state of relaxation, six hands gliding and gripping every sore strand in my back and legs.
I seriously felt like a celebrated gladiator being pampered by wenches — or an angel, devil and a transformer. Same thing. Bottom line is this: Hands. Everywhere. Relaxation.
At one point, I seriously floated over my own body hovering on the massage table listening to the blood flow through the vessels. I had died and entered Valhalla. AKA the “TT.”
When we were finished, I could barely get my clothes back on (wouldn’t it be nice of every first time was this good?). I felt like a manta ray gliding down the hallway back to the lobby, where I collapsed into a flesh puddle.

mack

Just like Alex Mack, girl.

I immediately knew I wanted to blog about it.
Seriously, if you haven’t ever had a massage, or a tandem massage, I recommend calling Emerald Lane Spa right now. Hell, if you HAVE, call them (699-8777) and do it again. Your body will love you for it, and you might even feel like a gladiator. These people offer an experience like no other, and they do so at seriously discounted rates for military, police, firefighters, EMTs and teachers, ya know, all those important folks. Check them out now. https://www.facebook.com/emeraldlanemassagestudio

Breaking All the Non-Rules

Four years later, I’ve learned a great many things. Some dismal realizations about the fragmented, terrified nature of my generation. Some reminders that the world is still as sweet as we once dreamed it would be.
After my divorce, I believed I would never find a love like that again. To some degree, I believe this is still true, but I find comfort in the fact I don’t want to be loved by someone who doesn’t challenge me to be a better version of myself.
I even felt guilty after I fell in love a second time; I felt as though I’d betrayed the most sacred vow, as death had not done us part, but it was invigorating to know the elusive emotion was still alive. Hidden, but alive.
I suppose that was the “Jesus” relationship. After it’s bloody crucifixion, that horrid crash and burn, the motherfucker rose again, and again. Just when I believed the return of Christ was just another brilliantly crafted myth, the bearded savior revealed himself as a true contender for my heart.
My neurosis hasn’t calmed completely. I’ve spent far too many hours letting my thoughts about this man splinter and race like blurred taillights down the highways to hell. “Does he want to BE with me? or is this just another comfortable convenience?” “What are we doing here?” “Who is this long-distance woman who continues captivating his attention?” “Is it my business?” “Am I just an option?” “Is he serious?”
Maybe most importantly: “Am I serious?”
The more I dissect, the more I feel I haven’t learned a damn thing from the years spent in the modern world of Millenial non-dating (trust me, you aren’t allowed to use that word). I was still attracted to the same type of non-committal guys, the ones who want to drop panties and then drop phone numbers with any and every set of marginally-nice titays. The ones who still acknowledge other woman in your presence, keeping their options open at all times. Keeping you hidden and secret to ensure you don’t mess that all up, then acting like you’re the crazy one.
These are the guys we find attractive, and then we wonder, “Where are all the good ones at?”
A few months ago, I was asking myself about all these infuriating topics again, I realized I was still playing the incredibly frustrating and, for lack of a better term, fucking ridiculous game we all consider the “new normal.”
The dating game goes a little like this:
1. Decide whether you actually like this person through about 20-35 days of trying to read impossible signals and deciphering Facebook/text messages.
2. Continue reading stupid Elite Daily, Cosmopolitan and other nonsensical Internet “list” literature about flirtation, attraction, etc. and drive yourself crazy wondering if there is, in fact, attraction happening. Because, hey, you couldn’t possibly just trust what you fucking feel, right? Verify with a source!
3. Maybe go on a date, but don’t you fucking dare call it a date. Millennials don’t “date.” There is time together with shared food and beverages and maybe even some sex, but even the word “date” implies a level of commitment. #ewwww
4. Don’t talk about the fact you might actually like each other until at least six weeks of not dating has occurred. It doesn’t matter if you’ve already got a designated toothbrush at their apartment, you have to remain cool, calm and collected, unattached as much as possible. Sure you think about the dude all the time… wait nope. You DON’T. Don’t even admit it to yourself.
All these steps will ensure the transition into step five:
5. Remain in a state of uncomfortable, almost unbearable ambiguity for eeeeh, for ambiguity’s sake, like maybe five, six or so weeks. Are they still going to be seeing other people (likely, and don’t you dare ask about who any other chick is, be COOL) Does that mean I should still talk to other people just so I don’t seem like I’m putting all my eggs in one basket (yes)?
But I don’t want to date (fuck, I said it) anyone else… Irrelevant. This new world is all about leaving as many doors open as you can get away with, always ensuring you have an escape from the room you currently share, even if that room has everything you could ever want right there.
When did we get so terrified of each other? When did we collectively become such pussies when it comes to falling in love, or like, or marginal attraction? Jesus Christ, we will jump out of planes, base jump from a cliff, eat raw fish, in fact we now pride ourselves on doing/seeing/being something nobody has ever dreamed up before, but we absolutely refuse to allow ourselves to put our hearts out there like we’re teenagers again.
I’ve been feeling especially adolescent lately…or for the last several months. I’ve got the stomach flip. The butterflies. The daylong daydreams of touching his hair and his lips. Elation at my favorite feature… his voice– alive with laughter and clear as a bell. It literally sounds like the wavelength of joy and destroys any darkness that lingers from a bad day.
I’ve tossed my better judgement to the wind just for a few hours of his presence. I’ve fibbed to my loved ones about where I’m going just to buy more time with him. I’ve filled my life with inconveniences, wasted resources, ignored my duties as an employee, a friend and sometimes even a parent because he is so intoxicating… so comfortable… on my wavelength in so many ways it’s uncanny.
Sleeping with someone’s face on your face is supposed to eventually get old, right? Eventually you want their tree trunk legs off your fucking torso so you can breathe when you sleep, right? Nope. I can’t get enough of everything he has to offer, and his offering is exactly what I want– genuine, humorous, adventurous, kind and generous. That’s it. I want nothing else but his time and affection.
No matter how this pans out, I’ll forever be thankful for this man for restoring my faith in the human heart. I never thought I would be here again, considering the potential for a real connection with another man; I thought I was only left with memories of what Carrie Bradshaw called “The Zsa Zsa Zsu,” but here I am… reminded it can be waiting literally just one flight of stairs and a hallway away.
So here’s the real bottom line: Do the rules (or lack thereof) really matter? I read an article online that compared this tendency to over-analyze and evaluate every aspect of your affections to putting up a barbed-wire fence around a tree. Sure you can protect the tree, but you can’t fucking enjoy the tree! You can’t climb it. You can’t get near it, so what’s the point of protecting it?
I think I’m finished living in this maelstrom of nonsense and I’m ready to just enjoy what’s in front of me. I have the pleasure of sitting across the table from a man I truly enjoy all the time. I get to go to sleep with him and wake up (in a panic) next to him every night. I get to hear that joyful noise of his voice every morning, every time he quietly says, “I like you” during pillow talk, every time he tells me a joke to cheer me up every time he reminds me that he’ll be alright as long as I’m there. Plus we goin’ on a god damn cruise, bitches.
Sure it seems like the environment is working against us all the time, but I just want this tree to grow and be strong in a natural state. Is that too much to ask?

Terror of the Alpha: Part 3

You can say “fuck him” all you want in your own head, but secretly you know you are your own worst enemy.
Since you’re already a slave to the sins of the past why not start there to develop your strategy for self destruction?

Go ahead and assume every shitty thing that anyone’s ever done before is about to happen again, so you can be sure to keep your blocking arm out. Keep joy at a healthy distance. Smother out any happiness that may be right in front of you because you’re too fucking scared.
Lord knows you can’t risk another human ripping out what’s left of your heart and devouring it right before he leaves. You can’t risk being hurt…again.
So yeah, convince yourself it’s better to feel nothing.
Hold in everything until the words fall from your eyes in salty droplets as he peacefully sleeps next to you…oblivious to his crushing power.
Always remember the Karmic kicker, though; You’ll never be able to give yourself to another if you’re mentally keeping him at Heisman length.
You’ll never revel in the glory of companionship. You’ll never have the unadulterated feeling of attraction or affection. You’ll always ensure everything falls apart before it can ever really begin.

You will choose the Omega to this Alpha.

I know you want to be safe, but stop cock-blocking yourself. Let the past be the past and unwrap this present of the present.