Damned whoremones!

That’s right! I said WHOREmones. Just be thankful I didn’t say WHOREMOANS! Now that that’s settled, let’s get to the heart of the matter: whoremones. Whoremones: A newly discovered female hormone that serves a very specific function in the female brain; to make aforementioned female feel fat, ugly, useless, fat, stupid, fat, bloated, dumb and…

Dear Jeans letter.

Dear Jeans, I won’t beat around the bush; I am breaking up with you. Let’s face it, you and my ass have simply grown apart. And although I admit that my ass did most of aforementioned growing, I still think you could have at least tried to meet me halfway. Instead you just ooze off…

Taking my voice back, piece by piece.

PTSD is stealing my voice… And I am letting it. I’m not blaming myself; not exactly. Taking my voice back is a huge task. Doable. But enormous and daunting. When the flashbacks start, it’s hard enough to try to talk yourself into believing that you are safe and away from the traumatic event. But when…

Brain dump.

I now present: Shit that came out of my brain and found its way into my “writing brainstorming” document on Google Drive that I have suddenly decided to share with you because it’s my fucking blog and I’ll post what I damn well please, bitch! And here I am, holding myself hostage to the imagined…

I wanna pet you, not fuck you!

(trigger warning: child abuse) Have you ever fallen head over heels in “I have no idea what to call this intense love that has no sexual overtone” with someone? Ever wanted to hug them and squeeze them and hold them and call them George? Have you ever wanted to stroke someone’s cheek, look deeply into…

Don’t tell me how I feel.

You’re wrong. But you’re louder than me, so you win, but you’re still wrong. If I tell you that you hurt me, you don’t get to decide whether or not I am right. You don’t get to decide what hurts me and what doesn’t. And you don’t get to decide the level of hurt I…

Why do I keep doing this to myself?

I’m still letting other people’s opinions control how I communicate and what I say. How long is it going to take before I truly set myself free and just write for ME? How long is it going to take before I stop censoring myself and just speak my truth, in my own words and stop…

Blocked. Locked. Fucked.

I wanna write. And I know that it should be easy; Just. Fucking. Write. Fact is that it’s hard to concentrate on writing when the inner demons are shouting at you that you are annoying and that people are tired of hearing talk about your horrible past and your painful present. It’s hard to be…

Just looking into your eyes…

…I can tell you have the legs of a writer. I have a yeast infection. Yes. I said yeast infection. I started this blog entry with a funny line to lull you into a false sense of comfort so I could tell you there is fungi growing in my vagina. I’m tired and I feel…

It’s Monday. I don’t care if it’s Tuesday; it’s Monday.

Every single time we have a long weekend, I start it with good intentions of productivity, not going to bed too late, getting up early, getting things done! Every single time, I go to bed at 1:00 AM on the first night and every night after that. Every single time I get bad sleep and…

To write about it…

…or not to write about it. That is the question. Sex, family, friends… what is mine to tell and what is not? What convenient lies do I perpetuate? Which¬†secrets do I keep? I’m not asking you. I’m telling you that I’m asking myself. This question is always there, at the back of my mind, when…

You hate me!

(TRIGGER WARNING: Child abuse) You hate me! I know it! I’ve offended you, hurt your feelings, insulted your culture, stepped on your toes and/or microwaved your favourite squirrel. The jury’s still out, but I quite possibly caused World War II and ruined the ending of your favourite television series. You hate me. My anxiety said…