Mibear- Because I Have To Get It Out!

I’m about to go to Miabear’s house. I’m like a kid on Christmas Eve, I’m so excited that I can’t sleep. I’m not normally the type to gush but I feel that I just have to- especially before I get up there. She knows I write on a blog but has no idea where and she just isn’t the type of girl to look it up. So, I know I can safely talk here without her laughing at me.

That sounds rude, but that’s just how we are. We tease each other and it’s never cruel or in a way that could harm either’s feelings. We can be a bit like an old married couple in that way.

I realized, after my last post, that I had to write this. She’s just…wow. I can talk to Miabear like I can talk to Kitty and Flutterby, maybe even about more. It seems, to me, that she always knows what to say. I’m depressed about my father since the day before yesterday- because I forgot his birthday. I feel badly for that, like I’m a bad person. She’s helping me cope without going too far. Dad can be a touchy subject.

She’s amazing. I can talk to her about anything, anything at all and that’s important to me. She lets me ramble on and on, sometimes to the point that I get on my own nerves and shut up. She’s never been standoffish about anything that’s bothering me and seems to understand my anxiety issues on a level that I’m pretty sure is not normal. It’s awesome.

There is just something about her that is inherently amazing. She’s one of those people, the type that everybody loves. I’ve not met anyone who doesn’t like her. Kitty doesn’t like anyone, she’s one of those people. She is constantly standoffish and cold and sometimes mean. She’s also highly opinionated and sometimes very critical. SHE loves Miabear. That, in itself, is a serious feat.

Everyone knows that person, the one that makes friends where she/he goes. That person is my girlfriend. She plays with my kids and has developed some sort of…bro type bond with my son that I’m incapable of understanding. She is amazing.

Don’t get me wrong, Miabear can be an ass. It’s sobering to think about, she can take “being a total dick” to a whole new level. She’s been to the point that my mouth closes, my jaw tightens and I level her with the mom-glare-of-pain. It seems to have no effect, if you’re wondering. Yet, some part of me loves that about her too.

She calls me on my bullshit.

She is always there for me, even when she’s not here, when I need her.

I feel safe with her- and not just on the physical level. Yeah, I’ve been in an abusive relationship that racked my mind and still gives me a twitch to think about. So, sometimes, I don’t feel completely safe. She solves that but I also feel safe to tell her anything and to wear whatever, to just be me.

It’s odd, for me, to be able to show myself to someone one hundred percent, and that someone be engaged in a romantic relationship with me. Only Kitty and Flutterby know all of me and that can really be debated.

She even likes the things about me that annoy me to hell.

This weekend is going to be amazing. I have yet to meet any of her friends. I’ve met her family, of course, that couldn’t be avoided. But she holds these friends closer, I believe. This particular friend has only ever met one of the girls she’s dated and that couldn’t be helped, the way I understand it. This part of her just seems very…private. Yet, I get to go. It’s not a fluke where it had to be worked out that way, she planned it this way.

And she’s trying to brush it off, like it’s not important, when I know it is.

In turn, I’m trying not to make it out to be a big deal. Still, it really touches me that I’m that special to her even if it sounds silly to you. Everyone has strange things about themselves like that, keep that in mind.

Either way, she’s mind blowingly amazing and I can’t seem to get enough. It’s in that cocky laugh (that’s her normal laugh, all of the time, at everything), and her ability to call me on my bullshit- see me for who I am and past anything that I try to put up on the contrary. It’s in the looks she gives me, like her wink, that shut me up and make my brain malfunction. It’s in how she understands me and I can talk to her about anything- even if she disagrees or doesn’t like it- I never feel like I can’t. It’s awesome.

This whole relationship, no matter how long it lasts, is going to be awesome. It’s going to be one I never forget. That excites the shit out of me 😀


Weird Things

Okay, I’ve decided to write out a list of weird things about me for Miabear. We don’t get to spend nearly enough time together and miss each other terribly. She thinks my quirks are a sparkly thing, not weird, and wanted to know more. So, I made this list and figured I’d share it here.

• I have to favorite quotes. 1. “Wise men say forgiveness is divine, but never pay full price for late pizza.” Michelangelo, the Ninja Turtle. 2. “We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking up at the stars.” Oscar Wilde.
• I eat pizza in a very systematic way. So much so that I don’t eat it in public and I have often heard this phrase “w…w…what is it….exactly, that you’re doing?” and Kitty and Flutterby have pre-prepared arguments for this conversation. I don’t know why I do it, I just do.
• I have absolutely no problem going to bed in my blue jeans. In fact, because I used to drop wherever from exhaustion, it became a habit that carries on to this day and drives Kitty up the walls in aggravation. It in no way bothers me or affects my sleep.
• I slept with a teddy bear until I was 21 and still would if someone hadn’t stolen him (his name was Q. Reese Duncan) to break me of the habit. Woe is him or her if I ever discover who it was.
• I once had a collection of bouncy balls I bought one at a time from a machine in WalMart. I got a new one every time I went for a year and some months. I kept them in a fish bowl.
• I know every line from every Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle movie (aside from the new one, haven’t gotten to see it yet) including the songs.
• Raphael was my favorite.
• I have a weird thing about numbers, certain ones I avoid and others I go to/choose/whatever the situation may be.
• I have a lot of strange superstitions. No one else in my family is superstitious.
• There is a song that, should I hear it, worries me. Every time I have ever heard it, something bad has followed. Every single time, without fail.
• I like Seal. Screw you, Let Me Roll is good shit.
• One Christmas, while my mom was trying to curb my “lesbian tendencies” she bought me an Ani DiFranco CD. I know it’s a terrible stereotype but I find it hilarious.
• 32 Flavors is my favorite song of hers.
• I would bet money I can recognize Don Henley’s voice with noise cancelling ear muffs on.
• I buy marbles. To play with them. Yes, I know the actual games and I’m not bad at it.
• I have never bowled. As a small child I watched the game, said “I know I’m going to suck at this” and walked away. I have no regrets.
• I hate the taste of beer, I will not drink it. I would, however, like to make it. Just to see if I can.
• There is almost, nearly always, another plot for another story in my head at any given time.
• I don’t have a style. If I could have my old wardrobe back it would seem like a costume closet. I just feel like dressing that way that day.
• I feel that most girls have a type of clothing or accessory that they horde for themselves. Most people believe it to be shoes, you know the stereotype. I collect underwear, preferably matching sets. I used to have three drawers full in all styles. I have no idea why.
• I enjoy being pale, I do it on purpose. I may glow in the dark but I look younger than I am, don’t I?
• I get told, when my hair is long, that I look like Wednesday Addams. I get that *a lot*. In fact, this conversation happened at work one day, with me and two guys.
Guy 1: You know who you look like?
Me: Christina Ricci?
Guy 1: No, Wednesday Addams.
Guy 2: That’s stupid, she does not. She looks like that girl from Casper.
Yeah, that happened. It’s the wide forehead and dark hair as best as I can tell.
• I can not dance, it is one of nature’s laws. However, if you get me drunk, you’ve got your loophole. No one can figure it out.
• *whispers* I once had a serious boy band phase for only one reason. Everyone else was doing it.
• I fangirl. Oh, yes, I do. If pushed, I can rabid fangirl. I may or may not have squealed like a banshee when Anne Rice announced the release of Prince Lestat. You can’t prove it, I was alone when I found out. Armand is my favorite, if you’re wondering and I would have been a Black in Slytherin. I know way more about both than I should.
• The Cha Cha Slide. I have to do it. I care not where I am.
• If people are staring too much in a public place, I will do something to make them look away. I’ve blown kisses, shrieked, and barked among other things. It’s rude to stare, I don’t like it.
• I can not make a pie crust. Luckily, Pillsbury has my back. I roll with the Pillsbury dough boy.
• Dean Winchester is my hero.
• I play solitaire with real cards in hand because I’m passing time. I play solitaire on the computer because I want to win and stop the cards at a certain spot.

That’s all for now, please, if you can relate- let me know in the comments.

Conditioning Myself

When I came out (again) I didn’t do it all at once. I told those closest to me at the time and moved on. I also have a lot of friends that I can go months and years without talking to. We always pick right back up, because we’re close like that, and there’s never any issue. Still, I find myself retelling the story over and over- coming out again and again. It’s lessening now that’s it’s almost become a script. I know that, due to my personality, I’ll still have to “come out” for- probably- the rest of my life. I’m okay with that. I don’t go into detail with those people- they never matter that much to me.

Most of my friends have had positive reactions, some not. Even those who didn’t, I wouldn’t call terrible. Those are ones who have made stinging remarks that are not okay and I will discuss in a later post.

I don’t make true friends easily, I never have. My family moved around a great deal as a child and as soon as I made friends I lost them. It has just become who I am. I have loads of acquaintences but few friends. I’m okay with that. That being said, I believe every one has been covered at this point.

I recovered a friend recently. I say recovered because I thought them lost due to drama from, as I suspect, a crazy ex. They thought the same of me and, ironically, neither of us ever spoke about it. Until the other day. So, we spent nearly an entire day chatting away and getting caught up. Of course, I had to come out again. Every thing went smoothly…

Until I was telling Miabear about it. I was rather excited to have my friend back as we have quite a bit in common. This time, she had questions. Of course we’ve talked about it before but, I suppose, she had only just thought to ask these questions.

So, I told her the story of the first girl I came in contact with after coming “back out”. I hate that term, by the way. I’m going to tell you the story here. At least, the part that matters….

I remember being nervous. I went over what I was going to wear with Flutterby making fun the entire time and being completely useless to me. I remember pausing in the hall as Flutterby made herself scarce just to collect myself. Then, as I entered the living room, I had to pause again. My hands were shaky, my stomach flip flopping, my brain malfunctioning. For a moment, I truly was incapable of intelligent thought- of any kind.

I thought, in that moment, that I was ill.

I did a mental “body check” to make sure I wasn’t ill.

As I told Miabear that, the weight of the entire situation came crashing down on me. I remember, very clearly, questioning anything I’d eaten that day- had I been around anyone who was sick? I had to stop talking to her for a moment and gather my thoughts. I had laughed it off then when I realized this was a normal reaction to this situation. I’d been immediately distracted by the girl in question at the time.

I suppose that- in the time that’s passed since then- that I’ve been more focused on telling the story. It’s a script to me now, the same old thing. I’ve been focused on what comes next, not what I was saying.

There’s something about Miabear that effects me differently. Something about her that is utterly amazing, in my opinion. I believe that, because it was her I was speaking to, I realized what I said.

I had- in the years back inside my closet- conditioned myself to not expect that response. I should feel nervous and happy and giddy. I should expect butterflies (if she doesn’t do it, she’s not worth it). I knew on some level- consciously or subconsciously- that no man would ever make me feel that way. It just wasn’t possible. So I stopped expecting it to the point that when it happened, I thought I was physically ill.

That breaks my heart. It shatters it in fact, into a million little pieces.

I have yet to tell you all the things that happened that caused me to go back into the closet. There were a lot of bigoted, homophobic responses toward me (the only out homosexual at the time) and my friends (who weren’t even out). These responses were violent and at one point became seriously damaging. It was a scary time and I was terrified for my life.

Still, all of these years since, when I was honest with myself about it- I always counted myself lucky. Why? Because the most violent response I witnessed, I was not a part of. I merely came in during the aftermath, I got to see the blood. No one remembers that quite like I do, other than the LGBT people involved. They don’t want to.

I hadn’t realized that they’d gotten me too. In one way or another, I became a victim as well. To the point that my brain conditioned itself not to expect normal and happy physical responses.

I still can’t wrap my mind around this.

I’m not even angry. I’m heart breakingly sad. This has been driving me mad since that realization. I’m just not sure how to cope but I’m able and I’m glad it’s over, I still feel like I’m breathing again.

But still…

Go Away, Santa, I’m Not Ready.

Thanksgiving isn’t even here yet, never mind that everywhere was pushing my Halloween stuff out of the way before it was even here. Noooo, never mind any of that. But, can we just talk about this for a second? I love Christmas, I do. I’m that day after Thanksgiving girl that immediately begins decorating the next morning. I enjoy getting my loppers out and tromping out to the cedar trees (no pine around here) and cutting lots and lots of fresh boughs. The tree goes out, my nutcracker (look, do not *touch*, it’s a serious offense in my house) collection, among other things go out. I like the vintage style, I spend at least three full days doing everything and I don’t mind taking it down. I decorate for every holiday but none so much as Halloween, Christmas and Easter, in that order. I have more decorations than your average old lady. But there is a time and a place for it.

As I’m ranting about this the other day it occurs to me…Christmas is coming. It’s not that far off. My heart begins to pound, I pale, my eyes go wide and the panic begins. I have little to no money this year. I can get the kids enough, I always do. I am not worried about them, they always have enough. So, it begins. I have Miabear, Kitty, and Flutterby to worry about. What about my real family? What about my two brothers? What about Kitty and Flutterby’s four children?! WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?!

Last year, I made Kitty a stuffed Oblina doll, from Ahhhh! Real Monsters. It was much loved, and is still haunting a hanging light in her living room, staring at people. I feel bad for people who don’t know who Oblina is. That’s a sad fact in itself really but having her watching you wrapped around a chain? I can only imagine.

So, I’ve got needles, thread, glitter, glue, other various craft supplies and one hell of an imagination. I have been crafting to a ridiculous level. It makes it so much worse when I’m making people things. Some strange part of me gifts pretty heavily to those I really care about. I have no idea why I do it but I do, I always have. So far, Miabear is getting a book safe. Let me just say that is not as easy as it looks, people. I even went so far as to have the page number start on a special number. Yeah, I’m that attentive to detail. She is also getting a handmade journal. I was going to hand make the paper, but that didn’t work so I used copy paper. On this, use a thimble, you’re gonna need it. I glued nick knacks all over the cover as well. She is also one of those people that gets oddly cold all of the time so hand warmers are happening. She is terribly close to her niece and nephew so I’ve been gathering pictures of them to use as well. Because I’m a cool girlfriend, that’s why. I’m awesome and I know it.

Kitty is getting an Ickus to go with her Oblina. I have the fabric for that, haven’t done it yet either. I have, however, made her purse. It’s denim, with four pockets besides the huge one and has mushrooms on it. I used exaggerated stitches and spent at least an hour trying to turn the strap inside out. Kitty will also get a mushroom pillow. I bet you can’t figure out what Kitty collects? Yeah, she’s a hippie. A hillbilly hippie. Just…let that sink in.

As far as Flutterby…I’m at a loss. I was going to do butterflies or pigs but I don’t know. I have no idea what to do for her this year. Of course, I’ll make her a peanut butter pie, it’s a tradition. I’m also going to write down my recipes for her and organize them in some cool way but unsure on that. Other than that? I’m clueless.

Someone else is getting a glass bong. Yeah, I *made* it. From scratch. Well, I mean, I had a bottle but whatever. It’s for tobacco, of course. Hmmm….

I will post pics later of these things and the COMPLETELY KICK ASS PURSE I MADE FOR ME, later. I’m also making myself a really cute apron and one for all three of my kids.

Is anyone else going the handmade route for their Christmas? What are you making? Is anyone freaking out about gifts like I am? I need help. Maybe a therapist.

A Letter To Fear Spreading Idiots. Shut Up.

WARNING: Please, be able to think for yourself before reading this. Brace yourself, ladies and gents. It’s about to get really, really, real in here. Hell, you might want to wrap aluminum foil around your head first, I’m trying to help you.
Okay, so, the other day I was just minding my own business and scrolling through my news feed on facebook. I saw a new baby’s pictures and commented, liked a few mundane statuses, that normal sort of mind numbing rot. Then, I came across this.
Charles Manson is getting released from prison.
I’m sorry? What? Come again?
It’s as though you’ve told me they’re going to stop making Peeps! The internet causes cancer! I call bullshit. Bullllllllllshiiiiiit. Bullshit. Still, I clicked the article along with the post.
Oh yes, according to this, they are freeing Charles Manson.
Wanna know *why* they’re freeing him? Guess, go on, I’ll wait.
They are freeing CHARLES FREAKING MANSON because the prisons are OVER CROWDED! Nevermind Joe Schmoe over there who’s doing time for stealing some CD players. Never mind John Doe who’s in for back owed child support. Nooooo, we’re gonna pick Charles freaking Manson. That makes a fuck ton of sense. It makes so much sense I immediately ran a virus scan to make sure I hadn’t clicked something that may or may not have had ill intent toward my Dell.
I didn’t even read the rest of the article.
Not once did I see this insane bullshit but I saw it three times. I took several deep breaths and composed myself before, very politely, informing these people that it was a hoax.
I shouldn’t have to have done that. I shouldn’t have to tell you that they are NOT FREEING CHARLES MANSON DUE TO OVER CROWDING. I should not have to provide proof that this is a hoax. There shouldn’t even need to be proof that this is a hoax. It. Is. Common. Sense.
Ignorance is bliss. While I agree that applies in some emotional situations, in logical ones like this- it does not. You’re not blissful, you’re stupid. You are not ignorant, you are stupid. I try to be a nice person, I do, but this kind of shit hacks me off. If you read the article, you deserve to be slapped. If you didn’t and still spread that kind of nonsense, you’re just…ooh. Really?!
This is not the first time this has happened.
Once upon a time, I worked at a call center. I sometimes wonder if I have PTSD from it. However, one day, I hear this rather large and abrasive hick talking rather loudly about President Obama. Now, whether I like President Obama or not is not at issue here. If you do, or don’t, that’s your business. Politics are a dangerous thing to talk about so I usually don’t.
However, he was spouting nonsense. Absolute lies and was a known racist. There are about thirty people here, some ignoring him, some pretending to, and some not only avidly listening but agreeing! I have decided I have had enough and call him out.
“Oh that’s bullshit, John. You don’t like Obama because he’s not white. Don’t lie about it, man. Don’t sit around making up lies about why you don’t like him. Come out and say how you really feel!”
“You got a problem?” he asks, making my headache begin. Clearly, I do have a problem. He’s not listening.
“I have a problem with liars.” I reply, “if you want to be a racist, be one. That’s on you, freedom of speech and belief and all that rot. Doesn’t mean we have to be friends but it’s your right, big guy. I’m just saying, if you don’t like him because he’s not white, say so. Don’t lie about it, it just makes you look like an idiot.”
Silence. He hurries inside. You’ll notice he didn’t argue the racist point either. No one did. I roll my eyes and go back to whatever it was I was doing.
“I don’t like Obama.” I look up. A girl from my side of the call floor has decided to attempt an argument with me over politics.
“That’s your right.” I nod, “I don’t care whether you do or don’t, it is not my business nor is it my problem. I just feel that you should be honest about why instead of spreading lies.”
“It’s nothing to do with race.”
“Okay,” I nod again, “never said it did. I said that was his problem.”
“Well, here’s why I don’t like him.” I cast an amused glance at my friend and we turn our attention to this girl. “See, my problem is college loans.” I know, I thought it started out well, could make sense, right? Wait for it. “I heard that Obama has camps he sends people to if they have college loans they owe a lot of money to.” Wait…what? No, it gets better. “They force you to go and you’re not allowed to contact your friends or family. You’re not allowed to have a bible either and if you talk about Jesus, they kill you. I’m sorry, but I owe college loans and I love my friends and family and Jesus Christ.”
Please, reader, take a moment to compose yourself. Too much strain here could harm your mind. Take deep breaths, go get something to drink- maybe a snack. I’ll still be here when you get back.
I was so…floored, by this statement that I became useless to the world. I just sat there, staring at her. All of the pretty little cogs in my head had stopped working all together, just halted. I don’t even think I was breathing. “Well,” she says, nodding as though I’ve actually grasped what she just said (how many times did you read that trying to make it make sense?), “that’s why I don’t like Obama.” She then stood and walked away.
I continued to stare. So did my friend, only I had control of my jaw. I have no idea how long she was gone before my brain reminded me I needed to move or breathe or live in some way.
“Where did she get that?” I ask my friend quietly. She just blinks at me and repeats,
“where did she get that?”
We still don’t know. I’ve chalked it up to a mystery as big as Big Foot since then.
Why, please, WHY is this happening? Do you realize she said “I heard…”? Let that sink in, people. How many mouths did this go through before it reached her? How many people did she tell that spread it further? Yeah, and everyone else is worried about Ebola. Not me, I’m worried about this kind of thing.
It’s not just this, it’s so many things. I’m not a lesbian because I like masculine of center women, because I’m feminine. Pot heads are ignorant fools, stupid and slow or non violent. Pit bulls are born with blood lust. IS ANYONE EVEN TRYING TO THINK ANY MORE?
This has got to stop, it just does. It’s becoming UNSAFE.
I read the other day, I swear I did, maybe you saw it too- a comment on a post about Anonymous and the KKK. This girl is bent on convincing us that African Americans are joining the KKK. She goes on to say that the KKK doesn’t have race issues, they hate criminals. Criminals who just happen to all be BLACK. Is she…are you…what the actual fuck? You know what I know jack shit about? Being an apple.
I have no idea how to make illegitimate money, SO I DON’T HOLD CLASSES ON IT!
Why is this a thing? WHY?
Is it contagious? Do we have studies on that and can you prove it’s not? This is what I should be wearing the sterile white mask for. Would it help? Maybe I should go full gas mask. Do they make those in child sizes?
Please, if any of you people are reading this, stop. Just stop. Read up on something before you talk, use your brain cells- that’s what they’re there for. Wikipedia and Yahoo Answers do NOT- under any circumstances- count as legitimate sources of information.
Rant over, thanks for reading!

Story Time! The First Stalker.

Okay, because I have a fascination with the macabre, it is always Halloween- at least inside of my head. I’ve been absent from WordPress for the past few days for this reason and the reason that Christmas is coming and I have shit to craft for gifts. Let me just say that Kitty isn’t worth this amount of detail and trouble, *sigh*.
Now, I grew up with three uncles- Mom’s brothers- and my Dad. Living with Dad was one of those things that would either make or break you. He was mischievous on an unheard of level and enjoyed frightening people. I once watched him climb down a cliff, chasing a rat snake just so he could climb back up with it and chase my great Aunt across the yard, screaming her head off.
His sisters tell the best stories.
As such, I have been considered…a little sick. I’ve been called worse, usually while laying on my side with a blue face gasping for air and clutching my sides. You may or may not have just nearly pissed yourself. It’s genetic, or so I tell everyone. Genetic…sadistic…do we have to mince words? I didn’t think so.
I am hard to scare. You know when you go through all that trouble to hide in the fridge and scare someone? I’m the someone that laughs in your face and tells you to bring your A-Game. Eat your wheaties, put on your big girl panties and spend weeks plotting it out. My brother, on the other hand, had to live with both of us. He is certifiably un-scareable at this point. It’s why we don’t hang out. He’s too much work.
I can be scared. But, most of the time, when I am it is very, very real shit. I have experienced some strange, paranormal shit in my life. One of my story times will be about the dead girl in my house. It still terrifies me, or the voice outside the door, the shadow man, all that good stuff. All of it happened.
You know that person in the group that hears the sound in the house and grabs the bat to see what it is? Yeah, that’s me- depending. I know when to gtfo and when to hold my ground. If Miabear is there, however, it’s her job to charge in. I follow. So help you if you hurt her- that’s me.
So, let’s rewind to years and years ago. I was hanging out god knows where and on facebook or myspace. I get this random friend request from this guy named Jamie. That’s his real name, fuck his privacy. We have a lot of friends in common, went to the same school, I recognize his name. I accept.
Big Fucking Mistake.
This guy starts talking to me like we are best friends- or were. I immediately feel terrible. I was the token lesbian in high school. I didn’t necessarily know everyone but they all knew me. I felt bad for not remembering him other than a name- not even his face. He just seemed so…sad, and lonely. I’m a sucker for that shit, so I chatted with him.
As time progressed, he began to reveal more and more things that he knew about me. I remembered all of these things (I’m one of those people) but never him being there. I call my ex who laughs and tells me he was never there, I’m not crazy. I can’t figure out how he knows all of this and take it as second hand tellings of events from a mutual close friend.
Then, the details go deeper. He begins revealing things that *only* I and the other person involved should know. I call Rainbow back, demand to know wtf she thinks she’s doing, revealing this shit. She swears she didn’t. Then, he tells me things only Proxy would know (closest friend at the time) and she would have never told anyone. Ever. To this day.
I’m getting concerned by now, fully aware something is wrong. Then, he confesses his love for me.
Nevermind that I’m a lesbian, we’re clearly meant to be. O.0
It got real in those next few days. He used to live across the street, he says. He used to watch my brother and I play outside from his window. We only lived there for six months. I never knew he lived there, never saw him, nothing. Neither did my brother.
Then, I remember. My journal. I wrote everything in those days. I remembered leaving it outside on the porch and going inside for a sandwich. When I came back it was gone. I convinced myself I’d misplaced it. It was never seen again. He had to have taken it.
Scarier part? That was in middle school. He’s five years older than me. I was in seventh grade, he was a Junior in High School. That’s where he got most of it. But, I didn’t come out or date Rainbow or anything else he knew until high school. I still don’t know how he knew. I’m 21 at the time and he’s been following me since seventh grade.
Let that sink in.
Jamie has since gone. Longer story short, I tried calling him out first. Didn’t work. I tried threatening him. Laugh all you want, I can be scary. Didn’t work. Finally, I convinced him that he was going to get me hurt if he didn’t go away one drunken night after a rant on psychology. I haven’t heard from him since but- knowing what I know now- I still keep an eye out for him.
*Jamie* scares the shit out of me.
PS: If I don’t know your ass, you’re not getting on my facebook. Bet.

Story Time! How I Met My Miabear.

As I write this it is 1:35 am. The day before everything. Go on, ask me what I’ve done. Nothing. I have procrastinated and I know it. The sad, sad, thing is…I’m still doing it.
I like to talk a lot, I’m sure you can tell. Miabear says I never shut up. Lucky for me, she likes it. Well, if we’re realistic, I know she’s tuning me out sometimes. She has that ability. However, she catches the majority and never lets on that she’s not really listening. She even goes as far as to tell me she loves it and all the random things that I know. My theory is that my head is so full of random knowledge that I talk to dispel it, because the younger I was the less I talked. I swear, as a small child, you couldn’t make me talk. I, of course, know that she’s doing it but she doesn’t know that I know.
I’m going to tell you how we met! Yay!
Alright, so, because I live in a-small-town-called-hell, most of the out LGBT community doesn’t come out until they’re gone *or* comes out and then quickly leaves. My options for dating are all exes. You know that wary look you give a mouse trap as you’re setting it? That’s the look I had when I decided to come back out onto the dating scene. So, I looked elsewhere. I’m just not the self punishment type.
First came my ex, who turned out to be…I don’t even know…in a town next to us. That…didn’t work out. I am attracted emotionally and sexually to…this energy, that some girls put out. Some girls don’t. A lot don’t, in my opinion and those that do are always females that identify as masculine and/or dominant. Hell if I know what it is, I’ll save that for a later post, k? Either way, she wasn’t it.
So, dating pool to 0. Again.
I was whining to a guy-friend of mine, one I’ve known since forever. You guys know that one guy who’s really laid back? Usually, they have long hair and play drums or guitar, and everyone in every place loves that guy? That’s him. He suggested that I get on POF (plenty of fish) at which point I remembered OkCupid as well. Online dating is scary to me. It makes me nervous. But, I tried it.
I was talking to several girls when Miabear messaged me. She’s got this look in her profile picture…you know the I-can-be-a-really-mean-person bitch face? She’s got *that* going on. I almost wrote her off, just because the look on her face. If you’ve never seen it, you’re not looking hard enough. However, she sent me her phone number and we began to text. She lived two and a half hours from me.
Texting turned into calling rather quickly as she wanted to tell me longer stories and I her but who wants to type all of that on an itty bitty keyboard? No one, sir; I say, no one. So, we talked. When I say we talked, I mean…I called her this day and other than to sleep or use the bathroom, did not get off of the phone with her for three straight weeks.
Now, I can deal with studs (all masculine of center women are being classified under that because I’m feeling lazy. You know who you are.) all day every day. If we’re on the phone, texting, internet, whatever. Face to face? Pfffft, HA! No. I swear, the majority of the time (majority being when I don’t have my face in a book) I am an outgoing and friendly person. I am like this with the general population and people I am uninterested in dating. However, if she is a “stud” and attractive in a way that I would consider a relationship- so much no. I just turn into…I’m shy, okay?!
She suggested we meet.
Shit got real.
I called Kitty immediately because my mind had malfunctioned. I had agreed to come to her, two and a half hours away, knowing good and damned well I’d seem like it was all a front and that’s not who I was. I was freaking out, man. Kitty agreed to go with me and elbow/push/hand signal/blow a semi-poisonous dart at me/whatever it took, to keep me normal and myself. I put on my big girl panties and warned Miabear. I had to. Kitty needs a warning label and I’m it. She wanted an explanation and I explained that I didn’t want to shut down. She wanted to know if there was something she could do to keep me from turning into a shy girly girl. I told her to hug me.
I immediately wondered why the hell I said that, being as shy as I am.
Three and a half hours (never, I repeat NEVER, trust Google Maps, they lie) and one…interesting road trip later, we had arrived. Kitty and I spilled out of the car as though we were just glad to be anywhere and immediately straightened up. As I approached Miabear who, surprisingly enough, looks better than her profile pictures, it started. My heart was pounding, I wasn’t sure what to say, and I became generally anxious. Most people get over that type of reaction in school. Not a lot of people can cause me to act that way.
Yes, I have an anxiety disorder. Normally, it’s very under control. It took years to be able to do this but never around anyone I’m attracted to. I just can’t control that.
Then, she hugged me. Like…no hellos, no real greetings of any kind. I came around the picnic table where she was sitting and she just stood up and hugged me. As she was hugging me, she greeted Kitty and chatted amicably with her, as if I wasn’t there, her arms casually around me and talking over my head. Not in a rude way, it was very accommodating.
She smelled amazingly, of course and it was just perfect. We just clicked. Throughout the day there (we spent ten times longer there than we meant to), every time that anxiety would kick up, she found a way to stop it. I haven’t felt it since then.
I even managed not to giggle like an idiot or say something terribly stupid when she touched me.
Now, the kids paternal families have been very accommodating since then as well. Nearly every weekend, I am either with her or she is with me. Sometimes, that weekend turns into a week, given what arrangements can be made.
Then, my kids birthday parties rolled around. My eldest two are a year and eight days apart. They’re at those ages where it’s still okay to share a party. Miabear was there and as soon as we came in, I lost her. She just…vanished. Most people do around my strange family. Then, chasing my nephew about, I realized I had also lost my children. Where did I find them? Hanging out with miabear in the living room floor, playing with their brand new toys. It occurred to me at that moment that I loved her. It also occurred to me that I had taken on another, older child, but that’s okay 😀
Now, I’m looking into the idea of moving. I won’t be moving in with her, I’m not a Uhaul lesbian, but I will be in the same town. I want to say it’s because of her, and I know a part of it is.
There’s just something about her that I haven’t felt in a long time. A really long time. In the post “A Letter to Studs” she does all of that. We’re not just dating, or just lovers, we’re really good friends. She said “it’s like you’re my girl *and* my *girl*, does that make sense?” recently. It makes perfect sense to me. She is just awesome, on so many levels, for so many reasons.
But mostly, it’s getting out of here. It’s a fresh start in a place where no one knows me. I love that. I want to take Kitty and Flutterby with me- Kitty is supposed to go too. But….I just have my doubts. I feel like they’re beginning to get Stockholm’s. I’m afraid all we’ll ever do, if I wait for them, will be sitting around and talking about leaving. I can’t live my life that way. Either way, I’m going. I can already feel my soul dying from being here and I can’t live like this. To save myself, I have to go and, who knows? Maybe, I’ll convince them to come along too. Either way…it’s really depressing.


Story Time! The Sisters!

Up until the day I had my oldest child, I lived every day by just winging it. I could leave to go to the store for a gallon of milk and somehow end up four states away and gone for a month. I made no plans and the let the wind blow me where it would. This went on from the time I was fifteen until 2008 when she was born. Instantly, I straightened out and grew roots, gathered dust.
I don’t regret that in any way. Yet, I have so many interesting stories to tell because of the way I used to live my life. This is one of those stories. This is how I met the two girls that I think of as sisters. Keep in mind that none of us are biologically related but you couldn’t tell. We’ve been together for so long that people even say we look alike. As I’m sure Flutterby and Kitty will be mentioned quite a bit, I thought it might be fun to tell their stories.
Oh, and if I wanted to, I could sit down and spin a tale making us all legally related at one point or another- albeit distantly- by unrelated and strange twists of fate.
Now, on with the story!
I had just turned eighteen, still in high school. It was starting to get cold outside and Proxy and I (the girl I was living with at the time) had just had a huge fight. As we argued, driving, we passed a friend of mine, standing on the side of the road.
In a fit of child like rage, I got out of the car at the next stop sign, slammed the door and walked off. My friend was all too happy to see me though he seemed perturbed by my backpack. I lived out of said backpack and he knew it.
Him: What…are you doing?
Me: I’m getting so sick of her shit, man. I’m going to find someplace else to stay.
Him: Where?
Me: Hell if I know, I’ll camp if I have to. (Yes, I did things like this.)
Him: Nah, too cold for that, you can live with me.
Now, he and I, like Proxy, had grown up together- since we were the tiniest of street urchins. I knew him to be just as homeless as I was so I was highly confused by this “live with him” business. He had no place to live, after all. It was just the way things were.
Still, I followed him. Now, we’re standing in the middle of town, so it wasn’t as long as a walk as it could have been. He led me to a mobile home I’d never happened to notice before, tucked in behind a house that- I swear to this day- reminds me of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre house from the movies. In we went. Inside was a boy I vaguely remembered suddenly vanishing after being hit by a truck. I had honestly thought he was dead. In the kitchen, a girl I’d never met before. This was Flutterby.
“Hey, Flutterby,” he says, “this is Val. She’s going to be staying here.”
My mouth dropped. How rude was that? I don’t know this girl, she doesn’t know me! He doesn’t actually live here, as far as I know and here he is- just waltzing in there- and being *rude*. She looks up at me from whatever it was she was doing (I can’t remember) and shrugs. Then she says,
“you get the couch.”
The next year or so was spent in that two bedroom trailer, within walking distance of school and between four and fifteen people living there with us at any given time. There was whiskey…there were a lot of things and…let’s say that we had plenty of adventures and my more shy side began to die out. Flutterby and I became inseparable. It’s been that way ever since. All of the others, every single one, dropped out in the years after, disappearing, dying, and just drifting away but Flutterby and I remain close. In fact, my first tattoo was a matching one with her to commemorate those years.

Now Kitty…she’s…well, she’s…let’s just say, she’s one of a kind. She is so…one of a kind…that I often warn any girlfriends or new friends of her existence and…let’s say “abstract behavior”, before meeting her. Because, the way I see it, you can’t say I didn’t warn you. It’s almost become a test over the years, survive Kitty without fear or a nervous twitch and you’re in.
I was fully aware at the time that I met Kitty that I was a lesbian. I was a brand new freshman in high school and very, very deep in the closet. Because it was safe there. I was the first person to come out of the closet while still in that devil school, as a homosexual. Why? Because…fuck. That’s why. It was a scary, scary town where I assure you, I was not welcome.
So, one day, shy and quiet and never talking me (so not me now) was sitting in class, minding my own damned business. I believe I was ignoring the teacher in favor of drawing Invader Zim characters on my paper. In fact, I guarantee that’s what I was doing. Said teacher was a strange one. Do you remember watching Men In Black when Will Smith finds out his teacher was an alien? You know how one of your old teachers popped into your mind as a reference? She’s that, for me. This time, she had decided that we should all get to know each other.
That’s ignorant.
This town’s population is slim to none, okay? The majority of us are related. We had five hundred students (fact! I’m not making that up!) in the entire school, four years, five hundred students. No one moves there, no one escapes, that’s how it is. Still, she insisted we play a game.
So, each of us wrote our names, one article of clothing that we were wearing, and something about us no one knew. She then read out everything but our names and had everyone try to guess who was who.
I wasn’t playing. Zim is far more important. I stand by that, to this day. Then I hear,
“I have on tiny cowboy boots, and my mom is….” And the teacher blushed. She had my attention, as it was clearly awkward. I didn’t think she was going to say it. After some prodding from the louder students,

“I have on tiny cowboy boots and my mom is a lesbian.”
“Lesbian” was said like some scandalous secret not to be spoken in good company. My friends gathered around me, snickered. They knew who it was. I had no idea. No one was guessing because, *gasp*, lesbians! No one says “lesbian” in public, my god!
Then she stood up, right beside me. I hadn’t even noticed her. She’s a strange looking girl with a broad nose and huge lips and stands about five foot three. Her hair is blonde, her eyes kind of yellow (I swear) and her skin is always really tan. She sure enough had on what can only be described as “tiny cowboy boots”. She then raised her hand as everyone turned to stare at her, gawking, and in the most something-anonymous voice you ever heard, said, “hello, my name is Kitty and my mom is a lesbian.”
I imagine that, to this day, I’ve never met anyone else with such an accurate gaydar. She immediately looked me dead in the eyes and grinned.
Best friends, ever since.
Whereas Flutterby tends to me the Romey to my Michelle, Kitty is the Shawn to my Corey. Cheers.


Alright, as I’ve told you before, I used to be addicted to drugs.
I am an addict. I’m a firm believer that once you are an addict, you always are. You may not be using, but you’re an addict and I think that only addicts can fully comprehend that.
What I was addicted to doesn’t matter. At least not in my opinion, it’s just not important here. I can tell you that what it was is considered highly dangerous and those withdrawing are often put on suicide watch in one form or another.
If you’re addicted to something, you probably know. In fact, I know you know. You may strut or march around all day claiming at the top of your lungs that you’re not addicted at all. But both of us know, in the back of your mind that you are. It’s like a secret, you don’t want to admit- even to yourself.
I have been clean and away from it for seven years now, just a little over as the anniversary of my quitting has just passed. I’m pleased to say that a lot of the damage I did to myself- not all- is finally healed.
I think about it sometimes, more often than I’d like to admit. It’s a problem here, though not as badly as it was when I was hooked. I can see it, when I go to the store, on the faces of those doing it. I know they see it on my face too. I’ve thought about this quite a bit.
I have no scars, no haunted look, no physical embodiment of my addiction. Yet, there’s still something there. I’ve talked to others who were addicted to the same thing, and they agree. We’ll call it a she.
It’s like once she touches you, she leaves something behind. She’s always there, looking out at people. She also gives you the ability to see those who romanced her as well. It’s so hard to explain, but it’s just there, just beneath the service and easily spotted.
I know strangers see her on my face. We see each other out in public, eating or at Wal-Mart. We make eye contact and one of two things happens. We always acknowledge one another for who, or what, we are; in one way or another. It could be a slight nod of the head, a slight turn of the lip in an acknowledging smile. Or, one of us will quickly look away. That in itself is both an acknowledgement that we see each other and an acknowledgement that not only is she on that other person but in them as well. It’s sad.
Those closest to me, those that know about my long term love affair with her, have tried to see it. These people have never met her and never will, if I can help it. I ask them if they can see her, on my face, if there’s some difference that I don’t or can’t notice. The answer is always negative. Of course, they saw her clearly while we were together, but not now- not this long afterward. Mostly, I’m told I look just the same. Yet those that loved her with me, they rejoice that someone else has noticed the same thing- that same look.
It’s something to contemplate, that look. How do we know each other? What, exactly, has changed about our faces and why can’t we pin point exactly what it is? This is just what I’m thinking about today.
As for those of you who are addicted, if you can’t admit that you are to yourself, you’re not ready to quit. I think a lot of you know you want to. Again, it’s in the back of your mind and you don’t like the control she- that bitch- has. I’ve never been a part of any anonymous group but the first step really is admitting it.
Self introspection is really difficult, I know. It sucks. A lot of the time, you’re not going to like the answers you find and, subconsciously, you know that. You know it sucks, and you know it’s not gonna be what you want. So you don’t look. But really, what are you accomplishing by not knowing yourself?
If we’re both thinking about the same thing, dear reader, I’m going to leave you with a warning. Get out. “She” does not love you. If you can’t admit this to yourself, if you can’t ditch her, death is the only way out. It won’t take as long as you think. In a very small crew of people, more than I care to sit and count are already dead, because they stayed behind.
If you wanna talk about it, I’m can listen as much as I can talk. That’s a lot. Just let me know.
Have a great day, it gets better. Believe me, it can *always* get worse. So, cheer up, buttercup!