Yup, still listening to my own playlist. I’m checking the flow, but honestly, it just kind of fades into the background on me. It’s really useful in silencing those voices that plague me. So is shouting at them, but that literally disturbs other people constantly and makes them upset. It’s because they don’t know what to do… I know that.
[You join in on shouting with me, that’s what you do. “SCREW YOU, NICK!”]
I have to override them, sadly. I miss the days of sitting in silence. But if I do that now, I end up talking to thin air. And, either I speak to The Deli Man in a nice conversational way or I end up pissed off at Nick. Or, lately, Ben. Lucien… he just pretends nothing happened and tries to hold my hand. (Do you know how awkward it is to hold your own hand?)
Yeah, it’s awkward all right. So is smacking myself in the chest in rage while balling up one hand into a fist. That shit hurts and I don’t allow it anymore. Now? Now we are gentle about it. I don’t know why, but all the muscles around my pectorals are sore like all the time. I do know God and I have been stretching nonstop day in and day out since that third Kundalini attunement, working to fix my poor crushed hip. I wake up in pain every day, thanks to that.
It takes about three hours of yoga to get out of pain every morning (or evening, depending when I wake up.)
“Did she come in so late to avoid me?!” No, asshole. I overslept.
Sorry, it’s a reflex to call everyone in my head an asshole. I hope you’re not an asshole, Deli Man, but I cannot know for sure until after you say something awful. Verbally. Out loud.
See, that’s the thing with these voices. Nick ruined his chances with me trying to show me off to his family and friends. He even made me figure out an entire wedding’s worth of choices in like three days plus the playlist. He rushed me to decide on my dress, then threw a shit fit over it not being white, of all things. Then, later, God told me he took my wedding preparations, changed purple to red, and married some bitch with my same exact ideas. If I was her, I’d dump his ass on the edge of a highway and take his car to drive off into the sunset.
Candy Cane, you are better than this mutt. He humps legs, dear.
Oh, the other thing he didn’t like? I prefer silver over gold. Go fuck yourself, bro. You made me plan the whole thing by myself and then you bitch about two little details as if I would never compromise?
P.S. telling a woman she should wear white on her wedding day (to a wedding she doesn’t even want) to appease MOMMY isn’t a sign of great character.
I like red as much as I like purple, but damn I was cute with the dress I picked out and magenta hair, let me tell you.
You can click the link to see it in color.
The rest of the wedding? Well, I picked sparkly ballet flats, arm warmers because I’m always cold and he wanted to be wed in the snow, a cloak (for the same reason) that had a faux fur trim, and a tiara. No veil, tyvm. Chinese paper lanterns for color at the reception as well as actual lanterns with magenta or purple glass with candles, some flowers, and of course color thematic napkins. I’m sorry, is Candy Cane reading this right now?
Girl, I’m telling you, he’s a fucking CAD. Get out of there. He is still thinking about me all the time. Would you kick him in the balls for me, too? He’s raping me in his brain, especially when he’s having sex with you. (By the way, please don’t take my nickname for you as a sign of looking down at you — I think it’s sweet. Pun intended!) You deserve a man who thinks about only you. You’re beautiful and magnificent and deserve the best. ❤
What? Am I supposed to hate her because he chose her? I can’t do that. I root for love, honestly, and I don’t know her, and also… he’s been fucking some other woman thinking about me for a decade already. I’m not at all surprised he’s still doing it. Oh, you didn’t know? I’ve known him since 2008. He might’ve called me… SPIKE.
Most people think I’m a dude. I get it. I don’t pretend to be ultra-feminine and I’m never going to. I’m just me and I pride myself on my androgynous personality, because… well… FUCK GENDER NORMS. And, secondarily, fuck all you neurotypical people who watched me struggle in silence. I was suicidal and the only reason I’m not dead is because Edmond. The ghost. You’re supposed to read them in order, bro.
At age thirteen (or was it fourteen?) I tried to murder myself. I was crying. Ugly crying. In the bathroom. Trying to break open a safety razor so I could hurt myself. And then suddenly, I stopped crying. I put it down. I felt like a light of some kind turned on inside of me and it would be terrible to put it out like that. Thanks, Edmond. I seriously wouldn’t be here without you.
Maybe that’s how I came to develop a “type.”
What type? The deli man type!
Hmm… well, physically, Edmond has long hair and is a brunette. He has grey eyes. He’s about my height, maybe a little taller. He wears a top hat (black) with his slate grey cloak and he’s got riding boots on because, as I already told you, he died in an accident caused by his brother spooking his horse. (KEEP UP ALREADY.) But, most of all, he’s kind and courteous. And he taught me a little something about courtship, too.
He’s dead, so we aren’t going to work out, but it’s nice to know I’m loved.