Vomiting Without The Vino




I keep coming back here wanting to write my last post about Florida. I can’t get to it. I also have this sentence incessantly running through my head: “I’m with child.

No. I’ve not fucked a guy. Fool, please! *Rolls eyes*

I haven’t hit up my local sperm bank, either. I’m not literally preggers. More so mentally. Or even cyber preggers.

Many bloggers or any artist. Or anyone that has a hobby of sorts curl up to said hobby like a mother snuggles to their new born. We love that hobby and that hobby isn’t going to hurt us. That hobby is our safety net. Our place to be free. This special little home within a home.

I’ve never really been one for hobbies. I’ve collected shot glasses, though I’m not one for liquor anymore. When I did drink the hard stuff it was not in such a form! Blagh!

The hobby that has remained close to me throughout childhood, angsty teenage years, young adult to now? Has been this. What you’re reading now. I have journals full of scribbles. Mixed up poems, attempted novels and diary entries. Such as this space.

I know it seems like I blog a lot about my feelings for this blog. It is my baby. When I stray from here I feel like a mom might feel when their kid is at summer camp or a slumber party. Sure. The mom might enjoy the free time and quiet house. But, she waits for feet running down a hall. Or asking for a bed time story.

Yes. This is me. Getting sentimental about my? Diary?

Believe it or not I do have some level of a nurturer. It’s a side that is difficult to bring out of me. It is my ultimate vulnerable breaking point.

I have a cat which I don’t even feel the urge to nurture. She’s like me in so many ways. A bitch with this sweet side that will only come out when she’s ready. She’ll snuggle when she feels that you’ve got the right body heat to snuggle with or something. Not exactly sure what makes her pur or get close to me on some nights. And choosing to sleep on the ottoman in the living room on others. She’s a strange beast that one. But, she is mine. I see me in her. And I still do not nurture her the way some do about their furbabies.

I’ve managed to come on here and force out something to post. Like, a child with colic. If that makes sense. It’s not that I don’t want to share these things. That I’ve not wanted to keep this as the therapeutic tool it has been. And it has been.

The post about my pest problem was icky and I was so pissed. I was able to get that out. There was a strong force within me. Granted an angry force. But a force of some sort none the less.

I’m lacking force. I’m missing feelings. Emotions. Don’t get me wrong. I have/had been dating this butch for a bit.

Where the fuck is my fire?

Reading other bloggers it seems that we’ve all encountered some sort of block or funk in the writing realm. Is 2014 for all seriousness. Step aside creativity and expression!?

I miss it here. I miss getting a burst of energy to bust out on here. I miss retreating here and laughing here. Reading old blogs and placing myself in that state of mind again.

Whew. I’ve come a long fucking way. I’ve done a lot of really stupid shit.

Thing is. I’ve calmed down. Yes. I have my little rebel moments. I’ll have a beer or two with a friend. I don’t really smoke. My life has shifted in some organic, and real level. Eating habits have changed. Friendships have changed. Dating technique has morphed into an almost prudish sort.

I guess I’m trying to make it more clear to myself that I’m capable of handling my own shit. I knew this. However, I’m striving to make it obvious to those around me. Especially those who wish to date me. I’m also a little hesitant as to where to begin bringing this part of my life up in conversation.

Just an example: Nice to meet you V.V. You seem like a decent femme.

Oh. Uh. Thank you. Not so bad yerself, Handsome.

And what do you do for a living?

Really short version of these conversations. I work at such and such. Doing these things. Etc. Then they ask what do I do for fun?

Well. Uh. I write. I read. Find things to do outside. Of course they ask what do I write.

This is where it gets funky. I mean. What do I write? The last one I kept it short with a diary.

I didn’t really dig the response. “You’re such a girl.”

I mean. Yes. I have girl parts, I guess. Where some don’t identify with the female body. I don’t identify with a “girl’s” body or mentality. I absolutely cannot stand being called a girl. Silly girl, funny girl, crazy girl. Whatever. Girl. Ugh.

Through my own personal growth keeping a diary has matured me immensely. My failures and victories in the public eye has changed me somehow. Interacting with different people has enlightened me. People that I’m not sure I would have crossed paths with if not for this place. Yet, I treasure them all regardless of our levels intimacy. It’s been fun, learning, discovering, adventurous.

I’ve grown. I’ve built something within myself that is not a wall to hide. I know there is some sort of guard.

I think.


I’m not sure that I feel like it’s a guard. I think I’m just not in that mindset. I’m much into getting me stable. Healthy. I’m not ready to answer to anyone. Yes. That’s self fish. Wouldn’t one rather this honesty than my jumping into something I’m honestly not prepared for.

Honestly, I’m not prepared for what could follow my coming out about this.

Gawd! You’re handsome and oh so smart. I’m gonna tell the world about everything to do with all of this. With all of us.

Which would be a little fucked up. Not a lot of people like their shit out there. Even while I keep my dates a secret. While I try to keep myself somewhat of a secret. It would be wrong to keep this a secret from a date. It has been teetering around my nervous system when would be the best time to bring it up?

Like with most things. I’ll know when it is right to do so. I’ve not been wanting to do so soon in dating. I’ve certainly leaned against dating anyone who I’ve met through here. That gets frustrating. You’re reading everything. My guts, my insides.

Makes conversations a little difficult. “So, tell me about yourself, V.V.” Butch inquires.

“You’ve read it.” I retort. And that just fucking sucks.

I’m totally rambling about a whole bunch of things in one post.

Basically, I miss my home. V.V. I miss my energy to write. I’m craving something new. Something to bring whatever life back inside. That doesn’t require my getting out of my mind stupid. Maybe it’s the health transition my mind is getting used to still. Escaping and creating without the influence of wine or a cigarette? Mind getting settled with new habits. Where I would typically blog at my local coffee, abusing the wifi service and coffee tabs. Puffing on smokes like some pretentious hipster. Or sitting at home with a glass of wine and a cigarette in my mouth. That smoke, for some, reason seemed to set the tone for me for many years. And it’s gone. Maybe, I am a smoker for the habit. I was thinking chemical as the patches have been working so well! I don’t miss holding it and the hand to mouth motion everyone talks about.

In some cases, I guess?

Ha. Writing I’m with child, smoking and drinking all in one post. You sick bitch, V.V. Sick Bitch!

Rambling. Over. My apologies.


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