Archive for the ‘Vanilla Extract’ Category

Anxiety. It’s a motherfucker.

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Hey, guys!

Long-time no blog!

Bet you’re wondering what I’m doing up at … 6:00AM, aren’t you? Aren’t you? Huh? ( … Nosy bastards.) I’m up because I had another nocturnal anxiety attack after falling asleep in a relatively comfortable (except for a few things) new position after receiving a wonderful massage from Mister P. I have no idea what causes these things, as they occur alongside with some nightmare I seem to be having, but not quite remembering. (Useful, no?)

At which point, I find myself ridiculously wide awake, and in a mindset that’s ripe for worrying about everything in the fecking universe, along with manufacturing quite a bunch more, just in case I run out.

Yeah, I wish I were joking, too. I’m not.

The anxious headspace is one that’s purely irrational.

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The Most Insidious Thing

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Obviously, being a therapist, I know the extent of abuse. I deal with it on a nigh daily basis — both from my own past, and through helping others along their own journey. Rarely, I’m so forcefully confronted with the spectral fingers of my own — even though it does still claw at my brain upon occasion.

I’m hardly masochistic; in fact, I hate pain. Really. Not a fan. Emotionally, physically, a combination of both …. I’m not even that big into catharsis except with very special reason. And even then, it’s tightly controlled. I don’t run from pain, per se — I’m done with that phase of my life. I confront, I deal, I regroup, and I get back out there. If there’s something I’m supposed to feel in order to move through something into the next phase of my life, I do it.

That’s why I’m not quite sure how I’m feeling right now.

Allow me to explain.

This morning, going about my usual routine, responding to my Facebook messages, I saw that stupid little, ‘Hey! This guy’s friends with one of your friends! Maybe you should friend him, too!’ box in the corner. Normally, I don’t give a shit. But when it’s my abusive ex-I-hesitate-to-call-a-boyfriend — I do.

And … I did the wrong thing.

I clicked it.

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Pulling Back The Curtain …

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And this, ladies and gents, will be the end of my old-blog-reposting-binge.

This one is of particular significance to me, as it’s very much -about- me. As some know, (and perhaps, some don’t) I was diagnosed with Asperger’s as a child — around 8 or 9. It has made certain things of my life interesting. I can’t say it was ever truly severe, though, my mother worked with me extremely diligently to see that I was able to overcome most of its drawbacks and social shortcomings.

The one part of me that’s always baffled me is the portion which I’ve only been able to call, (most humourously) Vulcan. (And, maybe some Jedi for good measure — naturally, without the awesome accoutréments.)

So, without further explanation — a scene from a restaurant. Specifically, my last all-employee meeting in a restaurant at which I worked prior to my relocating to LA.

I was thinking in particular about the way I handle emotions today. Sometimes, I make rather strange work of it, even though I haven’t realised it at the time. My ex especially accused me of this — and of the many things which he accused me — that one I’ll give him. I do go about them a bit differently than most at times.

In part, I blame the Asperger’s. Sure, one part of you may be pure genius, but the other is kind of lost over the most basic interactions.

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An Open Letter To Ashley Madison

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Greetings, my dear readership, friends et al.

Well, this month has certainly proved an interesting one. I was sifting through some old articles and things on my G-Docs and came across something of which I was particularly proud. I had something of an activist streak throughout my years on this blue ball — waxing, and waning. It’s not gone completely, but when nothing ever really comes of the work … well, y’know. You lose heart.

I wish I could say something came of this, but, naturally, it didn’t. I was tempted to send it to the Stern show — from where I originally heard the adverts — but it seemed also a needless sort of venture. So, here it remains in my keep; and now, for your eyes, too. Written about two years past, with a lot of fire and hope that it might do something. (For those unaware, Ashley Madison is a service that is deliberately designated to find unhappy spouses extra-marital partners. You can hazard to guess that went over so well with me …  .)

Without further ado …

‘An Open Letter To Ashley Madison’,

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Sparkle and Shine

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Ahhhh …

I love my pre-matrimonial bling; almost as much as I do my fiance. (Okay, so not really, but they do both make me smile ridiculously when I look upon them.) See, it’s hardly a secret that we womenfolk love all manner of sparkly rocks — whether they’re on the side of the road, in a rare exhibition, or on our own fingers. And it’s part of the human condition to like things that shine. We’re just naturally attracted to them. (Yes, there is some scientific basis to: ‘ooh, shiny.’)

The best part of my temporary engagement ring? Oddly enough, it’s not the way it says, ‘he-llo’ from a distance as it catches and perfectly reflects the ambient light, sending back a veritable cavalcade of colour and vibrance to the viewer. Or how many people tell me they ‘love my bling’, ask me where I got it, marvel at the design, and seem almost envious. (Though, that is fun. C’mon … ) Nope, it’s when I get to dash their hopes and dreams, allowing them to feel rather silly when I explain that my perfectly marquis-cut, totally clear 1.5-ish carat-weight of  rock over which they’re drooling cost me (well, my fiance — I did insist he pay for my temporary engagement ring, of course) $15.

Wait. A diamond that costs fifteen bucks?

Okay, okay, okay. $17. Because of tax.

Now, take a second and really think about what you’ve just thought — assumed, really. What diamond would cost $15? The answer is no diamond. ‘Oh!’ You’re thinking now, probably somewhat surprised. A cubic zirconia. Nahh. I like my shit real — or close to real. It has to have at least a realistic origin. While CZ’s do fit the bill for sparkly, they don’t have the staying power that a traditionally from-the-earth stone would, unless its hardness is rated close to a diamond. Something a CZ does not share with its mined mimic.

So, what the fuck is it that’s got people ogling before they realise what it really is? Dudes, if you’re paying attention, close the window where you’re watching porn, drop your dick, and read this. (Trust me. When birthdays, Christmas, and Valentine’s comes around, you’ll thank me.)

She, like most brainwashed women (sorry, ladies — but you know it’s true) have been fed the lie that diamonds are all that and a bag of chips. (Yes, even after watching Blood Diamond a bajillion times. Old habits die very hard; especially when we’ve been given them along with our bedtime stories since we were kiddos. Knight in shining armour, white horse, big rock.) This is not only wrong, and unfortunate, but detrimental to your financial security, as I’m sure you know. Why would anyone in their right mind spend as much on a piece of jewellery as they would something with four wheels that goes very fast and is far more practical? Marketing, honestly. Satan-spawn like DeBeers latched onto talented ad execs and excreted such palatable bullshit as ‘a diamond is forever.’

(Incidentally, if you really want something to represent a forever love, go tungsten carbide. And, if you must have sparkly, go with a piece of what I’m about to reveal to you set nicely within it.)

So.

What will make her girlfriends think you’re the bomb and put her in the mood without breaking the bank? (Because, remember — we like sparkly. You + generosity + sparkly = getting laid. Well, most of the time.)

Timpani, please …

Ready?

Y’sure? It’s gonna change your life …

I’m not sure if you really want that …

Are you begging?

… Am I just being cunty now?

Okay, okay, okay.

It’s …

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I Think I Hate You

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There are things in this life that cause the sadist in me to come crashing through, and it’s not always what you’d most readily think. No. You might not suspect this. This one might escape your myopic eyes; your so-selective ears. Because you, Joe Average Kinkster, are looking for the wrong thing — and may or not be cheating on your wife in your dogged, blind pursuit of it.

You disgust me, sir. And I think I hate you.

I don’t want to, honestly, but a part of me does. But what do I know of you — your position? What’s led you to this — to overlooking good, soulful writing, honest pontification, philosophy and theory — with an eroticised twist — in pursuit of pure, unadulterated porn? If you are one half of a couple, what’s driven you to seeking this instead of your spouse. To crave fake tits and perfectly Photoshopped pussy, and the strange, harsh voice of a woman who doesn’t give a shit about you — and you know it.

What led you from what you thought would be your perfect life … to this.

What do I know? I’m not even sure how to get there, no less keep it.

I pity you. I fear for myself.

An Open Letter to the Economy

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Dear Economy,

What the fizzuck, yo? I’m going more broke than a joke. (And jokes, in case you were unaware, are seemingly penniless. … Don’t mention it. Here to help.) Apparently, you’re worse than De Sade. And that, my friend, is hardcore. Unfortunately for you, I’m not a submissive, so we’re having a difference of opinion over this whole you-torture-me-senseless thing. I’m sure a bunch of people are loving it — but I’m not.

I’m a Libertarian, which you may not know. The less market manipulation the better, because I know you’ll sort yourself out eventually, no matter what we do. But, damn! The waiting! You’ve already taken two of my most amazing clientele away from me until sunnier skies — on the same bloody day — and now I get to deal with further inflation, and an exhorbitant bill.

Sigh.

No wonder a lot of pro-dommes are leaving the biz. It’s just too difficult to make ends meet.

In your debt, (you asshole)

– MR

EDIT:

No, no, no, no, no. I couldn’t do THAT. I mean, I’m a hard-working woman. I EARN my living. I don’t sit around eating bon-bons and expect someone else to pave my way. And hey, when your health sucks and you can’t do much, (like mine has for the last 5 months) then you’re pretty screwed. I couldn’t possibly start asking for hand-outs from the financial dom guys …

No way …

Even if all they’d really, really have to do is, say, send a little here and there through my Donate button. And, depending upon who donated the mostwell, maybe they’d get a photo, or … a free 15-minute phone call, or … something to show my gratitude …

Maybe

P.S. You may have something there …

Hopeful,

-MR

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