Mrs Angry!

When I was younger, I used to be the queen of the angry consumer letter. I sent off a lot of letters to companies (electricity or gas companies, for example) which had overcharged me or had just been incompetent one way or the other. (There really is nothing I hate more than incompetence!) My friends would laugh at me, and say that I was wasting my time, but I have always believed very vehemently that it’s important for the individual consumer, or concerned citizen, to make his or her voice heard. True, one person probably can’t affect any, or much, change all by themselves, but all these individual voices added together will sometimes have a lot of power. Even if they don’t, it’s still important to speak out about something unjust or unfair.

In recent years, unfortunately, I have tended to let things go, and many of these things were issues which really needed to be addressed. Take, for example, the question of the bad reference letter I got from my Master’s thesis advisor who had promised me a good reference but then sent off a bad one instead! This duplicitous, sneaky, self-righteous bitch really deserves to get a piece of my mind but I’ve never got around to telling her exactly what I think of her. I also need to file a complaint against the woman in my teacher’s certification program who emotionally bullied me for months.

Will complaining about either of these women change anything or make them reflect on how prejudiced and hypocritical they are? No, probably not because if either of these women were caring human beings, willing to reflect on their behaviour and how it can affect and hurt other people, they would never have behaved the way they did in the first place. However, somebody, somewhere has to say something and maybe, one day, if they receive enough individual complaints, they will be forced to change.

I don’t know why I’ve stopped complaining. The main reason, I think, was because when I moved to the US, I got so depressed that it was hard enough to find the energy to survive let alone complain about anything. Recently, thankfully, I’ve been feeling more like my old self, and I’m glad because the world needs people who will stand up for their own rights and the rights of others.

My newfound sense of energy and passion has come at a good time because, today, I was treated in the most cavalier , patronizing and sexist manner by a cop…just because I happen to be a woman. When I was out running, I was nearly run over by a total dickhead who, although the light was green for pedestrians, looked furious that I dared to be on the road and decided not to stop for me. If I hadn’t jumped out of the way, there is no doubt in my mind that I would have been hurt or killed. As a runner and a cyclist, I have encountered many careless drivers who have not been paying attention and who have nearly run me over, but this guy was different. He probably didn’t see me at first but when he did, there was no attempt to stop for me. In fact, he drove straight at me! I, and a female pedestrian on the other side of the street, were left flabbergasted by his actions.

I ran off down the street after him, but obviously couldn’t keep up. However, I hung about in the area because I suspected the driver was looking for parking given that he had turned off a busy road into an area where there were many parking lots. Sure enough, he drove past me a few moments later, and I called the cops. I don’t know why I bothered because the state trooper who showed up wouldn’t listen to my side of the story and, first of all, took the driver aside and let him talk, uninterrupted for several minutes. I, apparently wasn’t “calm” enough to give testimony! Too right I wasn’t! I had nearly been killed by an angry, aggressive driver. I actually had to fight to get my version of events across. In fact, it was obvious that the officer had already made his mind up about the incident before he even spoke to me because the driver put on a very nice little show of being all trite and apologetic. Funny how he didn’t seem quite so well-mannered when he was putting his foot on the accelerator!

When the cop finally did speak to me, he was far more interested in reprimanding me for having called the driver an “asshole” than being concerned that he had nearly killed me. I should add that, at no point, was I rude or disrespectful to the officer. All that I did “wrong” was be upset and give the driver a piece of my mind. I could be mistaken, but I don’t even think I called the driver an asshole in the officer’s presence! I expressed how I felt to the driver before the cop arrived, so he must have made a point of telling the cop I had insulted him. He made it seem that he had just accidentally driven straight at me, and that I was an unreasonable person for not having accepted his apology.

It was clear to me that this officer had no interest in anything I had to say because I was an “angry woman”. I wasn’t taken seriously and I was patronized at every point. I was also lied to because the officer told me there was nothing he could do to this man because he had not hit me. The security guard who helped me call the cops (and who was a retired police officer who had been in the force for thirty years) later told me this wasn’t true, and that the cop could have issued a citation if he’d wanted to.This security guard was actually lovely, and listened to me, and showed sympathy, far more than the cop did. If only more cops were like him but, sadly, too many have the social skills of turds, and are filled with weird, little fucked-up prejudices.

Unluckily for this state trooper and the idiot driver, I’m in a very, very big complaining mood. I’ve already filled out a complaint against the cop, and I will be filing a criminal complaint against the driver at the county attorney’s office, too. I will also be writing a letter to two local newspapers about what happened to me, in the hope that they will get published. Finally, I am going to start a petition and get local runners to sign it, which I hope will strengthen my complaint againt the cop.

Ain’t nobody gonna try run over this angry woman without there being a whole lotta fuss afterwards! I’m sure nothing will happen to either of these men, but I’m sure as hell going to make myself as big a pain in the arse as possible! Huh!

Am I the first sex worker Nostradamus?

I was a bit perturbed today to learn that there had been a tsunami in Samoa and American Samoa because I had a dream about being caught in a tsunami yesterday. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence , but it is a bit weird because I’ve never dreamed about a tsunami before. Then again, maybe I am the 21st century version of Nostradamus. You just never know. I suppose you’ll just have to keep reading this blog every day to find out if the end of the world is nigh.

In the dream I was in a big, elegant building with lots of other people, and we were all trying to take refuge on the upper levels from the imminent tsunami. I was anxious because my animals were with me, and I wanted to make sure they were all safe. Just when I got to safety, I realized that one of my cats (the new kitten?) was still down below, and I had to go back to rescue him. The building had really long windows, going from the floor to the ceiling, so I could see out really clearly. Just as I picked up the kitten and was heading up, I could see the tsunami waves come crashing down about to hit the windows.

Don’t know what happened after that. Then the dream switched to me being in a taxi in Glasgow, driving through the city at night. I liked the taxi driver at first, and I was so glad to be home, but the cunt stole an expensive camera I was carrying in a plastic bag, and tried to give me a cheapo one instead. Fucking Glasgow taxi drivers. Even in your dreams, they’re wide bastards.

Oh, well. That’s all for tonight, folks. I’m off to ma bed to get some kip. Let’s see what predictions tonight’s dreams bring.

The art of letter writing.

The bad thing about eloping secretly, as Midwestern Man and I did earlier this year is that people don’t seem to take your marriage seriously. To date I have received only one (ONE!) fucking congratulations card from my friends overseas (nevermind any presents!). As much as this annoys me – I bet my friends will be expecting a big present if they get married! Huh! – there is a part of me that’s glad our wedding was somewhat “under the radar”. Since we got married so quickly because of my visa situation, I guess I’m still waiting to see if things will work out. That sounds terrible I know but, well, it’s the truth. If we’d had a big wedding, and people had spent loads of money, and fussed over me, I’d feel terrible if we split up six months later!

Nonetheless, I do still think my wedding could have received a little bit more attention. To that end, I am sending out cool postcards to my friends featuring the courthouse where we got married and the hotel where we stayed. I’m hoping that my postcards will guilt trip them into sending me a card. The other reason why I’m sending postcards is simply because I just love sending proper handwritten “snail mail”.

I derive a great deal of pleasure from writing letters and postcards, so much so that I sometimes wonder if I’m normal. Letter writing for me isn’t a haphazard, random affair – there are certain requirements which must be fulfilled for me to feel happy about the letter. First of all, there’s the pen. I refuse to write with anything other than the “Precise V5 Extra Fine Rolling Ball” in black ink. It absolutely has to be black ink. My worst nightmare would be having to write a letter with a biro (or “ball point” as it is known to you Yanks). That would be vulgar and…just heartbreaking. With the “Precise V5”, I just love the way the ink looks on the paper. If I didn’t write in such a weird way, I would use an old-fashioned quill, but I would smear the ink as I wrote. Sigh.

Due to time constraints, I usually send more postcards or birthday cards than letters these days, so the type of paper isn’t an issue. When I do send letters, though, I spend ages in the stationery shop examining the colour, texture and pattern of each sheet of paper. I probably get more pleasure from looking at, touching, sniffing and imagining my pen stroke on paper than I do when I imagine caressing the body of a man.

Once the letter or postcard is finished, there’s the question of the envelope (I always put my postcards in envelopes because I don’t want the postman reading what I’ve written and, besides, you can write more if you don’t have to leave room for an address). The wedding postcards are an unusual shape and, at first, I sent them out in horrible, brown business envelopes because I couldn’t find an envelope that would fit them perfectly! But then I did!

When the envelope is sealed, I will then write the address on the front of the envelope; stick an address label on the top left-hand corner, and an airmail sticker – if the letter is going abroad – on the bottom-left corner, and then I will add the stamps. It all must happen in this order otherwise I will worry that my letter will somehow be jinxed and will go missing. I have considered measuring the distance between the edge of the envelope and the address label/stamps/airmail sticker to make sure that they are always positioned at the exact same distance each time, but I have resisted doing this because even I can see that’s totally obsessive. I will admit, though, to feeling a pang of sadness if I take the envelope to the post office, and the clerk sticks the stamps on willy-nilly. Worst of all are those awful, ugly stamp labels they use nowadays instead of proper stamps. These are disgusting! I must have stamps! Preferably the most pretty stamps they have. I was particularly gratified to discover that there is currently a forty-four cent stamp with wedding rings on it, which is particularly appropriate for my wedding letters:

If I add two of these stamps, plus a ten cent one, then my letter will find its way back to Europe in no time at all!

I don’t know why writing letters, and their presentation is so important to me. I think perhaps it is because I am actually quite artistic, yet don’t do any art, so the choice of paper, envelope and stamps is like a little art project for me. Also, it makes me happy to think of my wee letter winding its way through the world’s different postal systems, and eventually finding its way to its destination. I wonder about all the different people who touched it, and I wish I knew who they were, and could find out about their lives, their loves, their passions. Then I think about my friends and what they were doing immediately before receiving my letter. Were they having a good day? Are they happy? What do they think about my letter? Do they care that I spent so much time choosing the paper and the stamps?

I’m sure they don’t care, but it just makes me happy that my friends have received something so entirely, well, me, which has been touched by so many people before it reached them. God knows why, but I find all of this unbearably romantic. How could an email ever convey so much humanity?!

Not only depressed…now depressed and scabby, too!

I’m not feeling very good tonight. I’m tired, and I’m depressed. My rent is due on the 1st and, as per usual, I have made nowhere near enough money. I should have worked this weekend, and fully intended to, but I only saw one client, and just couldn’t be bothered seeing anybody today. This would all be fine if I had actually purposefully chosen to take a day off, and had filled it with fun, relaxing activities, but instead Midwestern Man and I just wasted time, lying about in bed, walking with the dogs to get tacos and sangría, and then walking somewhere else later to get fries. This sounds like a nice, relaxing day, doesn’t it?, but this is all our relationship entails…walking pointlessly and randomly to get something to eat somewhere….and, oh, yeah, watching “Deadwood” on the sofa and drinking wine. The only reason I go along with such slacker-like aimlessness is because I never allow myself to have any “official” time off so my poor body and brain just malfunction and grab any rest they can at inappropriate times. It would be much better to take designated days off and schedule interesting, meaningful activities, but somehow I never manage to do that.

I’m also feeling pretty angry at Midwestern Man right now. Why the fuck can’t he ever organize something fun and interesting for us to do? He could say “Well, we always end up wasting time on Sundays, even though we say we’ve got stuff to do, so why don’t we take a nice day trip somewhere?” Anything! Anything! Anything just to break the fucking monotony of our relationship. I know I could try to organize something, too, but it would just be nice for him to surprise me occasionally.

My husband’s idea of fun is having sex on Sundays, talking, lolling about in bed for hours, and then having sex again. In the meantime, I’ll be starving because we won’t have had anything to eat all day and I’ll be dying of fucking boredom because I stay in my house every SINGLE fucking day, and the last thing I want to do on my days off is lie in bed.

I’ve had yet another pointless, aimless Sunday and my house is a fucking mess because I didn’t clean it, as I should have done. It’s the same thing every fucking Sunday. My house is never ready for the new week…dishes in the sink; the made unmade after sex; the washing not done; the pet bowls not cleaned etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc. The chaos of my house just mirrors the chaos of my brain.

The worst thing is my bed. MM sweated all over it during sex today, and now there are three animals lying on it asleep. “Bed” is not the word for it. It’s a collection of filth and dirt! But I don’t have the energy to get up and change the sheets. What’s the point in having clean sheets, anyway, if I haven’t hoovered the carpet, cleaned the litterbox, picked all the stuff off the floor and filed away all the papers strewn all over my desk?

If all this wasn’t bad enough, I have also picked so much at a spot on my face that there’s now a scab there. Luckily, the scab is directly across from my left eye, right next to my hair line, so my hair covers it. This is the first time I have ever picked so relentlessly at something which is technically on my face. Usually, I pick at places on my scalp. I know there’s a condition called “dermatillomania”, which is basically just the constant picking of scabs, and it would appear that I have a mild form of this. It has never got out of control, and you’d never be able to tell that I pick at stuff by just looking at me, as I usually just confine myself to my scalp. I’m lucky that I’ve never got a bad infection, as I will sometimes stick pins in the wound to get a particularly difficult piece of the scab off. Yes, I know, I’m gross.

It’s good that I don’t have a severe form of this condition but sometimes I think my main problem in life is that I have a wee bit of everything in a mild form. Right now, I have an irrational, intense hatred and disgust for MM, and I swing all the time between this and loving him. On my old blog, I wrote about how I think I have a mild version of Borderline Personality Disorder, and I’m pretty sure my mother does, too. There are so many aspects of my personality and behaviour, which could be explained by a Borderline Personality Diagnosis, but the symptoms in my case are relatively mild, so there’s not much incentive to seek help.

I don’t think that I’m an alcoholic, but I suspect that my terrible, despairing mood tonight is because I had a lot (for me) to drink this week: a couple of bottles of cider; a bottle of wine; a margarita and a sangría. If I drink for two nights in a row, I’ll feel the way I do now. Tomorrow morning, though, I’ll probably be back to normal mood-wise, so I’ll forget about how depressed alcohol makes me. Once again, there just isn’t the incentive to stop drinking completely or limit myself to a couple of drinks on a Saturday night.

It’s hard for me to change my behaviour because I don’t have one big thing fucking up my life in a huge, disastrous way. I know it’s crazy to say this, but I almost wish I was an out-and-out alcoholic, for example, and could hit rock bottom, so I would finally be able to say “OK, there is really something wrong with me. and I need help, or I can’t continue”.

Rabenmutter

When I was studying German, one of the words I learned that stuck out the most for me was “Rabenmutter”. The literal translation of this would be “raven mother”, but what it really means is “bad mother”. I wonder what it says about German culture that it has a specific term for a woman’s supposed lack of parenting skills. Hmmm.

I’ve been thinking a lot about motherhood and mothers recently. It’s hard not to when you’re a thirty-something, childless woman on Facebook. None of my close friends have babies yet (or are even married) but I have plenty of acquaintances on Facebook who are diligently popping out sprog after sprog, and posting pictures of their offspring online. I should be happy for them, I suppose, but the whole thing just depresses me. I don’t like to be reminded that I am getting older, and that my childbearing years are limited.

My second youngest cat got spayed yesterday (not the latest addition to the family…the cat with the ulcerated eyes…he’s a boy) and is currently recovering on the sofa. The operation went well but the people at the free spay/neuter program I took her to managed to fuck up her vaccinations! Whereas they gave her the correct feline leukaemia one, they also gave her a dog vaccination for distemper instead of the cat one. I fucking hate incompetence in the workplace! Luckily my cat does not seem to have suffered any adverse effects because of this.

I never cease to be amazed by animals’ resilience. My cat has just had major abdominal surgery (“ovariohysterectomy” is the correct term, I believe) and yet she was frolicking about the house last night, playing with her brother, the new kitten, like nothing had happened. When I just went to check on her, she was lying on the floor beside a dismembered cockroach, for the demise of which I can only assume she is responsible. After the same operation, a human female would still be lying in hospital in agony, complaining and feeling sorry for herself. My mother is a midwife, and she used to always scoff (somewhat unfairly, I suppose) at the woman who couldn’t deal with the pain of childbirth. Apparently the more wealthy, middle-class women would always want a natural childbirth, but would be screaming for an epidural at the first contraction.

I admire the way animals just get on with childbirth, and parenting. Last summer, I visited Midwestern Man‘s family for the first time, just after some girl his brother had knocked up had given birth. OK, so I’m a mean, cold-hearted bitch, but I was irritated by the way she paraded about so proudly with the baby. Yeah, I know childbirth is a miracle blah blah blah, and I daresay I’d be pretty happy and amazed, too, if I had just had a child, but, God, why must we mythologize motherhood so much? It’s just a natural thing. Why can’t people just shut the fuck up about it and get on with the job of raising the kid?

I also hate that I’m supposed to be wildly enthusiastic about other women’s babies just because I’m a woman. I do like children at around todder age, when they start to have personalities, but, God, babies are so boring! I looked at Midwestern’s Man’s niece, and made all the socially acceptable cooing noises, but I found it hard to muster up any enthusiasm at all for a little bundle of pink, who only woke up to scream, shit and eat.

Another target of my wrath is “mommy bloggers”. On more occasions than I care to remember, I’ve clicked innocently on a link to a blog somewhere only to find myself staring at a picture of some ugly baby’s food-smeared face, and its mother’s inane commentary beneath. I can’t decide whether such women are worthy of my contempt or my pity. I despise them because it just seems like sheer arrogance on their part to assume that the moronic antics of their progeny are of interest to the world. You could argue and say “Well, don’t you think that your self-indulgent ramblings on this blog are of interest to the world, too?! You must do because you post them on your blog every day!”. To that, I would answer, “No, I do not”. I blog because it’s therapeutic to do so, but every time I do, I worry about how self-absorbed and pathetic it is to write about the things I do. “Mommy Bloggers”, on the other hand, just seem so fucking smug about the “achievement” of having pushed something the size of a bag of sugar out of their vagina.

I also find it quite depressing that feminists in bygone ages made so many sacrifices just so certain women could be at stay-at-home mothers. Now, I know that motherhood is a very difficult job, which requires a great number of skills to do well…but, quite frankly, I don’t think it’s cool at all to devote your life entirely to your children. I don’t understand why anyone would want to be a stay-at-home mother unless they could also work from home at the same time. In many ways, my ideal life would be to stay at home with the kids and to write professionally as well.

But to “just” be a stay-at-home mother?! To sacrifice my dreams and my ambitions 100% for my children? To depend on my husband financially forever? No way! I’m sorry if this comment offends anyone, but this just seems like an awfully empty existence. This is why I sometimes wonder whether I should pity these “mommy bloggers”. Maybe what I take as arrogance and smugness on their part is actually a desperate attempt to validate their existence, give some meaning to their life?

If this rant makes it sound like I don’t wants kids of my own, well, that’s not true. I would, someday, like to have children but not yet. There is definitely a part of me which is terrified of having children, and perhaps this is why I have such an intense (and irrational, too, I suppose) reaction to women who write exclusively about their kids. Last night when I was in bed, I was pondering why I feel such anger towards these women, and I had the second biggest insight of my life. The first one was around six years ago when I realized that I despise and am disgusted by weak men because my own father was weak and never stood up to my mother’s emotional abuse (of both me and him). Ever since then, I have a totally irrational urge to destroy weak men psychologially and emotionally. Last night, I realized that I’m probably afraid of having kids (and emotional commitment) because I’m petrified of being engulfed. The main form of “love” I knew growing up was my mother’s, and it wasn’t love at all – it was a form of emotional engulfment, which threatend to swallowed me alive.

I have read a lot about people who are afraid of this engulfment in various self-help books, but I never thought that I was one of them. I thought I was the victim of such people actually, as I was always the one chasing men in the past, inwardly screaming “Love me! Love me!”. While I knew this was just a form of commitment phobia (but in reverse), I didn’t quite realize until now just how afraid of emotional closeness I am. When I think of having children, I think of them swallowing up everything about me, destroying my identity.

God, I really wonder what the benefit is of all this self-knowledge? Knowing myself better doesn’t seem to help me change; it just gives me one more thing to worry about. Great. Now I’m even more worried I’ll fuck my children up, if I ever have any.

Margaritas!

Out on the town with my husband! Drinking margaritas. Mmmm. That’s one thing I will miss about this town. Sorry for the crappiness of my recent posts. I’ve been having terrible asthmatic symptoms this week, which have dried up my creative juices. And seeing as my lungs are already damaged, I might as well ruin my liver while I’m at it. Cheers! À demain!

Deliciously tipsy

When I woke up this morning to let my dogs out to pee in the yard, I saw the same bloody wee dog from last night running past my gate again. As I could clearly see its little doggy balls swinging from side to side as it ran, it would appear that it’s not neutered. This would explain the dog’s sense of mission. It’s on the hunt for puppy pussy! I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before. Then again, maybe I’m just so bored having to deal with the male libido that I filter it out when I’m “off the job”.

If human sexuality were as simple as dog sexuality, I’d probably be out of a job. Today was another good day in terms of clients, though. The first one was a guy I’d seen before, maybe at the end of June. He was another simple-minded one, but I don’t look down on him for this. While it’s true I’d never want to hang out with him because he seems incapable of having any kind of intellectual conversation, he comes across as very genuine and reliable. It’s so rare to find people like this, so I appreciate them when I do. It’s such a shame that we value all the wrong things in our societies. Why do we aspire to be fucking rich and famous when we should be concentrating on being good people?

My second client was a bouncy, upbeat wee Chinese guy who also made me wish that I could be a nicer person. He was so friendly, chatty and inquisitive, and he made me realize that I’m far too filled with judgement and anger. As he was speaking to me, I realized he was just listening and not forming any opinions of me in his mind. It’s sooooo nice to be able to relax with someone without worrying about what they think of you. This was probably one of the main reasons I fell in love with Midwestern Man actually. Unlike the majority of men I’d been with, he never judged me or made me feel bad. For the first time in my life I felt nurtured. Recently, I haven’t been feeling that way quite so much, as we’ve been having problems, but I’m sure I will again.

I beat myself up a lot about my judgemental nature, but I wonder sometimes if that’s just the way I am. The first time I ever talked to Midwestern Man properly he told me about “face reading”, which he had studied in some depth. He “read my face” and I was a bit skeptical at first because it just seemed like an imaginative way to charm me and get into my knickers. However, I was literally blown away by how accurate he was. In fact, he was so accurate that I had a sudden urge to get away from him, as I felt that he knew too much about me.

He said that my nose and chin suggested that I was very critical (something to do with them ending in a point….I don’t look like a witch or anything but, even though my features are delicate, they are angular); my fairly large forehead meant that I was bossy and liked to take control (um…..true); and that my full lips suggested that I needed to give and receive a lot of love. The final weird thing was to do with my earlobes, and he said that meant I got sick easily and couldn’t abuse my body for long. True again!

If your facial features suggest that you have a certain kind of personality and behaviour, then perhaps it’s just in my nature to be judgemental and critical? Can I change? Should I change? Do I really need to accept everything about everybody I meet?!

Midwestern Man, as much as I admire his ability to accept people for who they are, does have an annoying tendency to hang out with people who are, well, nice and sweet people but just not very challenging. One of his colleagues is a nice guy, but he’s such a stoner slacker type, and I see no point in hanging around with people like that. They sap you of your own energy and drive. Sometimes I think that Midwestern Man would do well to develop a more critical nature. I, on the other hand, perhaps could learn to be more tolerant. Every time I see this friend of his, I know that I probably radiate judgement about his stoner, lazy ways. Why bother doing that? I could just learn to accept that’s how he is, and then get away from him as fast as possible!

God, this post kinda went off on a totally weird tangent. That’s what happens when you start drinking a bottle of “Samuel Smith’s Organic Cider” before you write anything. Mmmm. Yum! I’m so deliciously tipsy!

Little dog with a limp

I’ve just come back from a run, and as I came in the gate of my house, a little dog with a limp ran past on the street. This is the third time I’ve seen this dog in the last ten days or so, which, given that it’s running about by itself at all hours without a collar, or an owner, would make you think that it’s a stray. I don’t think it is, though. It’s pretty fat and looks well-cared-for but, most importantly, it’s a dog with a fucking mission. You never see him idling away his time with sad, puppy-dog eyes, hoping some kind-hearted stranger will take him in. Oh no! He’s always running down the street, looking like he’s got somewhere very important to go. I’ve tried talking to him to see if he needs any help, but he always turns around, without even breaking stride, and gives me a “Whatever!” look. Hmmm.

My run was brilliant, especially because it’s been raining, and it’s so lovely and cool outside. When the weather is this mild, it’s like I’m floating through the air when I’m running. I used to go running late at night all the time, but this year I just got out of the habit. It’s probably a good thing, too, as it’s not good to get your body all psyched up at night when you should be trying to get ready for bed. If I could make myself go to bed earlier, I’d go running first thing in the morning, but I’m rarely able to do that. Whenever I have done it, I feel great, though! There is no better way to start the day than with a run. I always feel energized and invincible!

I have run three marathons, but I’m pretty bored of road running these days, and I have barely run at all this summer. I’ve decided to try something different, and so I’ve signed up for a trail running course that starts on Saturday. The goal is to train for a trail race early next year. There are three distance options (25K, 50K and 100K) and, since I’m a masochist and incredibly competitive, I want to do the longest one. I know I can do it. I love trail running. It’s so beautiful being out in nature instead of on some fucking boring suburban road. Trail runners are also more fun than marathon runners; for some reason, marathon runners are all white, over-privileged, Type A, obsessive, neurotic, control freaks with such empty lives that running becomes their everything; some trail runners can be like that, too, but for the most part they’re a bit grittier and don’t take themselves so seriously.

Today was much better than yesterday. It started off very badly with my noon session cancelling on me at the last minute. I cried onto my keyboard at this point because I just couldn’t have handled another day of sitting at home and making no money. Things did pick up later, however, and I saw two clients. They were even nice, which was such a relief, as I was depressed and couldn’t have faced dealing with any bullshit. The first one was a single dad with full-time custody of his kid. Apparently the mother is now a speed addict. Some people think guys who see sex workers are scum (and, well, some of them definitely have issues), but who can really blame a guy like this for his choices? Working full-time and then looking after his little girl, he probably barely has time to masturbate nevermind find some woman to date and have socially acceptable sex with! The second one was a pleasant but very dim-witted twenty-six-year-old who had apparently just dumped his fiancée in July even though they were supposed to be getting married at the start of September. He seemed very insouciant about this. He said his ex was a lazy bitch but couldn’t he have figured this out sooner instead of waiting until the last minute?! This guy was probably a complete arse, but he was so young and dumb that passing some moral judgement on his behaviour would be akin to passing moral judgement on a chimpanzee.

Ah, yes…feeling in a much better mood tonight. Why on earth did I stop running so much this summer?! I know it’s vital for my mental health.

About to turn into a pumpkin…

It’s only ten minutes until midnight, and I still haven’t posted.

There was no time to do so today, as I was either sleeping (I’m wiped out from allergies) or desperately trying to drum up some business (it didn’t happen…and now I’m more broke than ever).

I tried to post secretly to WordPress via email while sitting on the sofa next to Midwestern Man, but it didn’t work! Hurrrumph!

Now I’m dashing off this post while looking over my shoulder, hoping that he won’t come into the bedroom.

This is a crap post, so I apologize, but even if I’d spent hours on it, I don’t know if it would have been very interesting. My life really has become so dull recently. Whoever said “the best things in life are free” was clearly talking out of their arse. It’s grinding me down having such a hand-to-mouth existence.

Maybe tomorrow will be better…

My Secret Affair – Part 2

I’m sitting on one side of the sofa; Midwestern Man’s on the other. There has been no time to write in my blog today…I was either knocked out by allergies and terrible asthma symptoms, or I was checking my email desperately to see if I could get a client (I didn’t…I’m so broke).

Apparently you can post to WordPress by email, so that’s what I’m doing now, and I really hope this works.

Ooh, this is kinda fun. It really is like I’m having a secret affair. Gotta go. Midwestern Man is starting to get suspicious.

Composed on my iPhone, so please excuse any typos!