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.

Appeals to logic don’t do anything for an anxiety attack until it’s subsiding (for whatever reason — some satisfactory conclusion has been reached, or the person psychs themselves out of being anxious — which can happen with some long-time sufferers who’ve just had -enough- already) at which point, it can be invaluable. You’ll know you’ve crossed the logic threshold with an attack when you start realising what you feared to be completely possible 2 minutes ago now seems not only implausible, but rather silly.

There are ways, actually, to try and jump-start the logic process:

1) Take all knowledge you know. Does your anxiety fit with anything you know? While seeing the world through panic-goggles, something may. Take a deep breath and re-evaluate, using the same criteria as before, but perhaps, some other methods of achieving results.

2) Again, taking all knowledge available to you, has new information been presented that indicates your fear is anxiety and not fitting into any of what you use to evaluate a real threat? You’d be surprised that typically by this point is where most episodes can conclude. But … some require a bit more intensive work.

3) Imagine bringing your concerns to people. How do they each react? If, (like me) you suddenly get the sense that everybody tells you that everything’s fine, and to drive their point home, look at you strangely, then you’re probably viewing the world through those panic-goggles. Go through the first couple of exercises in an effort to take them off, and -then- re-evaluate a (hopefully) final time.

4) Does your fear no longer fit the worst case scenario you initially thought it did? I’m going to bet money it doesn’t. It may still match up with a much lesser, doable concern. This is where it’s important to understand how the fear of one (the irrational) linked up with the other (the rational). For a split second, we’re all thinking rationally before going balls-out into a panic frenzy. We have that fleeting moment of, ‘I bet it’s this,’ or ‘I think this is happening,’ or, ‘I think he / she meant this,’ etc. before we launch into thinking we’re dying, or someone hates us, our partner is cheating, we’re going to be fired — the list goes on.

I used to go to great lengths to not be up in the middle of the night. The brain’s actually on a different wavelength then, and for me, it used to mean enhanced creativity. In recent years, however, it means it’s ripe and ready to freak the fuck out about everything it can. Those of us who suffer it all have peak times for anxiety. Find yours, and try to be as unavailable to it as you can. Go to bed. See friends. Make love with your partner or spouse. Read a book. Watch a movie. Jam to your favourite album. Whatever it is that relaxes you (hey, yoga!) is the activity in which you should engage then. Bonus points if it ups the serotonin.

So, how do we so quickly jump the crazy train? A lot of it has to do with present mental state. I shoulda known when I awakened speaking loudly and as if I hadn’t really slept at all, and hadn’t even grabbed my glasses before walking out into the living room (for … some … reason?) that I was still riding the weird vibe from my dream (or nightmare). Something in the environment, or directly happening within us at that moment will cause us to latch onto the absurd rather than accepting our first, more logical and rational explanation for whatever it is we’re currently fretting over.

Being in that mindset, it doesn’t seem absurd any more — it seems frighteningly, horrifyingly real; the embodiment of our worst fears. The beginning of the end. Our heart races. Our breath seems harder to catch. We’re a little dizzy. Everything we do must be done quickly to get to that next moment, because the moment in which we’re existing now seems like everything is crashing down around and upon us.

But it isn’t.

Our brain has simply made the irrational jump and we’re in the proper mental state to go bat-shit. Lovely. That’s why it’s best to un-bat-shit as quickly as possible. Because who -really- wants to sit around and panic? Not fuckin’ me!

So, go through the multi-step process — repeating steps as needed — until you get to the 4th and (hopefully) final step, which allows you to break free of the fear and re-evaluate your circumstances outside of the crazy, panicked mindset, using logic and rationale. If there’s anything wrong or slightly off at all, it’s probably what you first assessed, and your brain will naturally return to that. For example, the perfume you smelled on hubby resulted from his co-worker he sometimes goes drinking with. Rather than assuming the duplicitous bastard’s porking her for dessert, you -first- figure that she’s not handling her alcohol like he is, and quite possibly -has- made advances. Instead of citing grounds for divorce (or throwing the contents of the living room in his direction once he returns from his just-gotten-home bathroom break) why not -ask- why he smells like (what you assume) is her perfume? Hell of a lot more likely, (providing you have a good marriage — one of those pieces of knowledge you know to be true, and he’s a faithful spouse) than his being -uncharacteristic- and cheating.

Think. Just because something looks a certain way never means it is. And, while our brains want to rage against this, it’s the -only- way to deal with anxiety — and win.

I wish you guys the best of luck. I’m going back to sleep now.

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.

Oh, fuck, no, I’m not requesting the asshole’s ‘friendship’ in any form. I was just … curious. It said there were several photos that had been added in the last few years or so; whenever the hell it was I was last faced with his terrorist-looking-mug. (Really. He looks either like a terrorist or a serial killer in his older profile photo. It’s disturbing. Dunno why he picked that one. Though, it may be the most truthful representation of what’s inside — which, I feel, is pure narcissist.) An-yw-a-a-ay ….

I poked through, and saw … a look which was at one point familiar to me. An expression that was loving and tendre, gazing to the side of … some chick. And … I underwent some (very briefly expended) detective work. (I think there’s a 10 minute cap before you can consider yourself ‘cyber-stalking’ — though, considering he fucking actually cyber-stalked me, to the point where I had to get a damned restraining order — yeah. I’m good.) It revealed that she is, in fact, his girlfriend. They both — in fact — appear quite happy, and he is, in fact, becoming an employed professional.

And all of the sudden, I find myself doing something I never do.

I want to fucking cry.

A single word beats against my brain: Why.

Why, why, why, why?

Why, when I fucking gave all I had to give — which wasn’t much, and I still gave it — when I was at the absolute lowest point of my life, when I had been so successfully beaten down, broken, and embittred to the point of just not giving a shit, allowing myself to become another cog in the machine — a retail drone — foregoing ever realising any of my dreams, and resigning myself to — not failure, but mediocrity — when I was the only one putting any fucking bread on the table, going out and busting my ass to ensure that the Goddamned lights stayed on — the main point of contact when anything went wrong –

WHY … was it that all he could do was fucking hate me?

WHY?

A person can drive themselves mad with this question in no time. So, naturally, I quit asking it. Years ago. Occam and I sat down, cut through the bullshit, and decided upon the most likely cause:

He’s just an asshole. He’ll probably be alone for the rest of his life (poor guy) and I was the one speck of happiness in that dismal, failure of an existence — which is why he hated me even more so once I finally fucking left, (four and a half years too late) that he completely shot to hell.

I felt … pity. And, I moved on.

I decided that, while it takes two to tango, there really wasn’t much I could have done in that situation that I hadn’t already. I gave what I had to give. I stuck with him. I kept plodding on, plowing through. Day after fucking day, fight after Goddamned fight, I remained faithful, strong, and capable. I carried him to the point where I thought I would break — and for what?

Because nobody ever had.

Mister P and I have a sickness. We like to help heal the wounded birds — help the poor lost souls out there find their way — if at all possible — because we know what it’s like to be lost. We remember how it feels to hit rock bottom, and wonder how the fuck we’re ever going to get back up.

And, yet, we have. And we keep doing so. We’re survivors. It’s what we do.

So, when I met this charismatic fellow with a brilliant smile, I thought — wow. There’s a lot of pain in those eyes, even though he tries to hide it with an almost blinding smile. And, foolish me, the fixer in me just had to get to work. And, work it was. And work, I did.

I can’t give up — it’s a problem I have. One of my failings as a submissive. I’m going to scream at and curse you before I’ll cry — no matter how much it fucking hurts. I won’t let you win.

Yeah. That‘s not love. It’s not a relationship. It’s not anything — except an endurance test. Quizzically, I ended up with some of my absolute best writing during those four, almost five, lonely years. My mid-twenties. I existed working and writing. I’d go to work, do my time wherever it was from which I was currently drawing a steady paycheck, punch out, go home and write. I’d write like a fiend. I’d type until my fingertips were calloused, and I was approaching early-stage carpal tunnel, and my doctor told me it was either publishing or get out of clerical quickly. I ditched clerical and became a host for a restaurant. And I’m still the best fucking host they’ve — possibly ever — had. Because when I do something, I do it one-fucking-hundred-and-ten-per-cent. Or … I don’t do it at all. Another failing of mine. There’s a lot I’ve done. Sadly, I know it could be more.

But, I digress.

You’ll hear Mister P go on about the ‘Pizza Delivery Guy’, or, use pizzas as a form of measurement. ‘ … all I’m saying,’ he begins, ‘Is that’s gotta be a LOT of pizzas.’ (Regarding whatever winnings he’s brought home, or so forth.) And yeah, that’s why. Because when I knew him — almost solidly — he was a fucking pizza delivery driver. We he capable of more? Fuck, yes. Would he do it? Even Goddamned try? … No.

Until I left.

His whole fucking world seemed to open up for him when I left. Kana and the fucking crows. (That confuses you? Google it, slacker. And then watch the series. It’s breathtakingly beautiful.) I left, and he actually started fucking living. Went back to school, graduated, and apparently, found another very capable, strong … short … auburn, (though, chunkier, to be frank — not that it matters, though he’s — fuck. A good wind could knock him down) … young woman, and … make her his girlfriend.

And … love her.

You can tell that he loves her.

So, that leaves me with another resounding question I cannot answer, and I probably shouldn’t even try.

… why couldn’t he love me?

What was so … wrong with showing me love? Why did he have to hate, tear down, manipulate, ruin and destroy me?

And, yeah. If I think about it too much, it makes me want to fucking cry.

Sigh. So, I don’t. I go back to writing … and, living. Because I’m happy now — despite the past. I am loved, and I love in return. Again. And regardless of why he couldn’t love me doesn’t matter, because it doesn’t affect me anymore. As Mister P says, ‘Who gives a shit?’ Of course, to an abuse survivor, when we find that our abuser truly loves, is treating properly, and altogether being a good person to someone else, we’re left wondering. Did they learn? What taught them?

We try not to resort to the obvious darker question.

‘What was wrong with me?’

I don’t think anything’s wrong with me besides what I know, have accepted, and am working through. That’s all I can do. I have my goals, and I’m slowly achieving them. We’re all a bit cracked for sure, but if we were perfect — we wouldn’t be here. We’d all be pretty boring, too.

I’m glad he’s found love. I’m glad he can love someone. But it really gets under my skin when I remember the note he left me, with the one single red rose I’d ever received in the entirety of our relationship. (I’d gone with my best friend to move out of what had been our apartment — that I’d chosen, up-kept, etc., ad nauseum, infinitum.

‘I hope you find someone whom you’re willing to love.’

… Willing to love? Had he been there, I would’ve shown him how willing I was to shove it up his fucking ass. Willing to love.

Yeah. Who was unwilling? Who didn’t try?

Useless now. Wasted energy.

… and I refuse to waste anymore of it. On this.

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.

–

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’,

To Whom It May Concern,

I had to say something. I wasn’t sure in which subject it would best be categorised, if any at all.

Your site enrages me. Enrages. Not because of who you are, or what you’re doing, but because it is the most honest representation of the state of world and human relationships today.

As a non-practising psychologist, I find this both appalling and fascinating. Those dear to me have suffered loveless unions; I myself was once so trapped. I believe your agency takes the same stance that the Netherlands have done regarding their citizens’ use of illicit drugs and propositioned sexplay. They don’t deny the problem; instead, they provide for them, providing safeguards and taking precautionary measures. It is therefore true that there are far less deaths from drug-overdose, as well as sexual assaults, there than in the US.

Radical — of course, your site is radical. Radical is not necessarily good, nor damaging. And, yes, those who wish to stray will do so regardless of who is lending them a hand and providing ease of access — which, you clearly do. The death of decision-making does lie in a settled point-of-view. I agree. And the fact that such a business, profiting off of, dare we say, ‘home-wrecking’ exists — and thrives — just seems to further my mystified stance on the theory of personal happiness today.

Should one suffer in a loveless, sexless marriage? No. No one should suffer, and no certificate, nor a band of gold should sanction that. Women are raped more times than we can blink within a thirty second period around the globe, a staggering number of those being wives. Is then, your service a type of shelter from the storm? They have long-since given up the belief they could ever leave their controlling husband — is this their saving grace? The possibility that love may still exist at the end of the tunnel? Their reward for enduring so much pain for so long? One is left wondering.

But what of the clueless, stunned, and bewildred spouses, learning one day that their supposed beloved, their life-mate, has years-long been loving another? They, and their soon-jaded, adult-dysfunctional children, should there, all-forbid be any, could, sadly, be thought the lucky ones. How many live in a state of insidiously blissful ignorance? Believing, each morning that the one to whom they gave their heart, holds theirs still, the reality being that they have since been replaced in their beloved’s affections, and perhaps, only they are unaware?

I explored the concept of open-marriage to potentially settle this ostensibly endless debate. Just maybe, if all were made aware, there would be less pain, less suffering, seeing that the deception component has been removed. My own research, and that of many others conducted over years, indicates that there’s absolutely no difference at all. The depression is as great, the agony as profound.

Where, then, does a service such as yours really come into play? You claim not to encourage infidelity, and furthermore, facilitate it. These are disclaiming words, only in the realm of your legal department. Things that must be said to ensure blamelessness and liability solely on behalf of the poor individual seeking such services to begin with. How, at such an impasse, then, could one ever hope to maintain or achieve a balance?

I have an idea.

Your base of operations is in Canada, though you offer your services to the US as well. You are doing well; you have a strong membership, and seem to be withstanding some of the first disastrous swings in the economic downturn. So, let’s return to the other-side of the coin for a moment.

There are scores more couples; brides that once graced aisles in visions of satin and lace, roses perfuming the air, believing this day to be the beginning of their own private faerie-tale; grooms that sought the companionship of a woman he longed to make his wife, to share his burdens and celebrate his victories. Two people that joined forces to tackle the world at large as a unit rather than separate parts. Two people that still believed in whatever form of ‘love’ that may or may not truly exist, marketing ploys and bed-time stories notwithstanding.

You know, just as I do, that there are countless numbers of them who cannot afford counseling, more or less your services. You may or may not know, however, that there are struggling, but surviving, organisations dedicated to providing them with the counseling they need to maintain their family unit, rekindle the flame, and recapture the magic they once saw spark in each other’s eyes, the future they once cherished with boundless hope.

These organisations are not as financially strong as your own, but they are doing these people a tremendous service you are not: helping them put in that last, necessary final fight. If they then decide to part regardless, one can only hope, amicably, they will always know they gave it their last shot. Then, your service, and its safeguards, might allow them a means of searching once more for whom they may still hope is indeed their ‘soul mate’, whatever they fashion him or her to be.

Why not support these charitable organisations? Offering to them what they do not have? Assisting them in the fight to keep love alive rather than accept its defeat, and further cloud the issue with deception and imminent misery?

Someone always suffers, even if it isn’t your membership base. Do think of them, too.

You mean well. It’s difficult in a world such as this, full of its paradoxes and misgivings, not to accidentally pave that hellish road with the best of intentions. But please, understand, without truly helping your would-be members fight the last of the good fight, all you really are offering them is not the promise of a new beginning, but a prayer for the dying.

Thank you for your consideration and time. Despite your views and mine, I wish you well.

[name removed],
Author; B.A., Psy

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 …

AUSTRIAN CRYSTAL!

Don’t groan and go, ‘Oh, that cheap piece of shit?’ because you’d be wrong. Cheap, yes, but that’s because there’s a fucktonne of it on planet earth. But it’s lovely, commonly found in most department stores, and the most expensive I’ve seen a rare, designer piece is about $120 — and that’s due to the 24-karat gold used. (Talk about shiny.) My own, which has been shocking observers for a good three months now is imported from Spain, the most beautiful piece I’ve personally ever seen, with a centre marquise-cut stone and 5 smaller stones trailing off down the band, decreasing in size, 10 total. It beams and sparkles like a motherfucker, and all I have to do is use some dish detergent, a toothbrush, and canned air to keep it looking unfuckingbelievable. Even diamonds lose their lustre with too much dust, dirt, grime, lotion, and soapy film. Same with crystal, which is technically — you geology buffs got it — quartz crystal. So. If I need a pick-me-up, I polish my ring. ‘Cause, honestly, it’s fun to watch it sparkle like it cost a small fortune. (Or a larger one.)

Now, you don’t get off scott-free, unfortunately. To find a truly beautiful piece that’s design is deceptive, (Europe is good for that, since they prize them more than we do here in the gullible U.S. — so you’re likely to find more styles akin to that in which you’d typically find diamonds and other higher-priced stones) you’re going to have to stumble onto it (like I did) or scope out the nicer department stores. There you can find a surprisingly wide collection of fancy cuts and styles so reminiscent, you’d at first yourself think they must be diamonds. But they aren’t.

I still marvel at the sheen, brilliance, and sheer beauty of mine — and the marquise cut isn’t even the most brilliant. To really knock her panties off, you’ll want to stick to a round-brilliant, or even cushion cut. Again, the truly beautiful ones can be the most difficult find — especially online — but the hunt will pay off. And, again, sometimes you just get lucky. (That’s a round-brilliant that’s also hand-made.) The really good ones tend to be very unique.

Now, the wiser of you are probably wondering why I’ve made it my temporary. Here’s the sad fact, and one reason why diamond is so fucking popular. It is hard as hell, and won’t chip after decades of wear. The most you can really hope to get out of a really nice, good quality Austrian crystal piece that’s seen daily wear is 6 months — tops. While conscientious care will keep it scintillating for its lifetime, the likelihood of it chipping is greatest. My ring’s taken a few good hard knocks out-and-about, and even at home, (thanks to the rambunctiousness of a dear 8-year-old girl) but it could be one more banging that takes it out. Which is why it makes a wonderful regular ring — not a permanent daily one, such as an engagement or wedding band.

If you’re really dedicated, you can find an import like mine, since they tend to be solid sterling silver, or even gold-plated (enough) to withstand a good 6 months’ wear. Rhodium, however, which is what mine is, can either peel, chip, or dull after even a few weeks, unless it’s combined with chrome. That’s surprisingly durable; and depending upon the depth of plating, could last indefinitely. Alas, it’s the crystal that’s more likely to chip — or break — in the long-term. But for the short-run, it’s amazing.

That being said, would I recommend an Austrian crystal engagement ring for the gentleman who wants to be on bended-knee, but has no clue what his hopefully-betrothed would want? Hell, fucking yes! It’s rather pathetic, but a big part of the modern engagement song-and-dance is showing off the ring. As petty, silly, and somewhat embarrassing that is to those members of my sex more like myself — it’s just a fact. We like the sparkly rock that says we’re going aisle-marching with the love of our life — and we love the compliments we get on it, too, from relatives, to-be-relatives, and close friends to complete strangers in the checkout line. (That’s when you know you’ve done well. Especially when it’s a gay man in West Hollywood. There may be no higher compliment, actually. Okay … French Riviera, but that’s about it.)

So, if you’re planning on popping The Question soon, get crackin’! Hit the local mall — especially the little kiosks — and even call up Swarovski and tell them you’re looking for distributors so that you can get your lady love a ring she’ll never forget. (They’ll probably already know it’s a temporary thing, but may remind you they’re not that durable — if they’re not a soulless sales-junkie; in either case, no need to say it’s a temp.) They’ll be tickled regardless that you went crystal in a diamond-saturated world of sheep.

So, have fun, and good luck. Oh, and as for a more permanent solution — you can do what I’m doing and go moissanite. It’s amazing. And if you happen to find it set in tungsten carbide in anything but a clunky, large, rather masculine design — let me know. I’m definitely looking.

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.

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

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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 most — well, 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