Fix

My daughter and I befriended our 25-year-old neighbor back in December. It seemed to be wonderful timing, since he’s a strong man and we’re now just two little weak girls living all by our lonesome. (This is sarcasm.)

And I won’t lie, I found him attractive at first. I might be old enough to be his mother, but I can still appreciate a handsome man. My 40’s are supposed to be my sexual prime and I had a couple of friends tease me a bit about it, plus I also hammed it up just for shits and giggles.

Those thoughts quickly vanished when my daughter and I came to see that this kid is on a road to self-destruction. His daily ambition is to get high and drunk. I’m not much of a drinker, but I do smoke marijuana. It was nice to have someone to smoke a bowl or joint with for a change, since my best friend quit some time ago.

I was in a fucked up daze for all of the month of December and most of January, so I let it slide when he’d get so drunk that he passed out on my couch. I’d wait a bit, then gently shake him awake and send him to his own condo. (Which belongs to his father, who lived there before him.)

He’s asked me to help him out with a pinch or two of weed because he smoked all of his up.

“How do you still have so much? I run out and you seem to stockpile it.”

I’m a lightweight even after partaking off and on for 9 years. (Don’t think that I don’t have any vices, because I do.)

It’s starting to seem like the only reason he contacts me now is because he wants to get something from me. He’s even asked me for money. I’m as fucking poor as a church mouse and he knows it.

Fuck that noise.

My brain is wired to “fix” people, but thanks to many differing factors, I’m coming to the stark realization that I can’t.

You cannot fucking fix people.

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But, all is not lost.

I’m finally on the road to re-wiring and “fixing” myself.

And because I’m starting to look for my truth in my own dark alleyways, I need to kindly as possible step away from my neighbor before he brings me down with him.

No Cuddle Buddy For Me

“It’s not even the actual sex that I miss, it’s the foreplay and cuddling. I need a cuddle buddy.”

“You need to learn how to cuddle yourself first,” my therapist Joan replied to me with a stern, yet loving look.

She gets it, though. It’s been ages since I’ve engaged in anything sexual, unless you count an occasional quick hug, a kiss goodbye or goodnight and a few pathetic attempts at more intricate things.

Asshat was having a difficult time raising the roof. He led me to believe that it was just a combination of him being dead tired after working a whole 6 hours a day, not to mention that I was in pain ALL THE TIME (total turn off to him.)

I’d try to explain that I could handle the extra pain if it meant being intimate with him again. I’d take an extra pain pill or smoke an entire bowl of weed beforehand. I’d do whatever he wanted to make him feel more comfortable touching my fucking fragile body, but he would always find an excuse to get out of it.

It was a major red flag relationship problem that I naively thought was just circumstantial. I held onto the hope that if I kept trying to show him that I was “fine,” things would go back to normal again, maybe back to twice a week if we were lucky.

Little did I know the real reason why he had no interest in touching me anymore. It was because he’d been fucking around behind my back for years, but now he had himself a regular skank-ass hoe to whet his sexual appetite with.

And now he’s gone for good and I’m footloose and fancy free!

My sex drive had gone missing while I was going through a deep depression in 2015 (who wants to get funky when all you can think about is wanting to die?) and ironically, that’s about the time that the fucker started sharing his peen with someone other than myself, exclusively.

While I do agree with my therapist that I need to learn how to cuddle my own damn self, it still doesn’t erase the fact that I’m extremely horny.

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I could find someone to have sex with easily enough, but that isn’t how things work for me nowadays. It was easier back in my 20’s to just hook up with a guy, but now that I’m in my 40’s, I require an emotional connection before I could even consider letting a man see me naked.

My lustful and lascivious urges will either have to stay in my head or be written down in a saucy poem, like this one.

Will your touch set me free
From my myriads of insecurity?

The chance of just one night

Whisper my name in the heated hush
Making me shiver, first, then flush

Together, engaged in intense rotation
Making storms of our own formation
Stare into my eyes, as we become one
Our bodies warmed by a tantamount sun
If only for one night

The Fuck You Tongue

Have you ever had a scab that you know you shouldn’t pick at, but damn if the urge isn’t there to see the grossness underneath the healing?

It’ll leave scars, our elders told us, don’t do it, leave it alone or else, Miss Missy!

Well, my scab happens to be named Asshat and today, I couldn’t stop myself from ripping it clear off, revealing the worst of my nature.

I broke my no contact streak of almost 6 weeks or roundabouts.

As a matter of fact, I still am. (Nothing illegal, I still have a hold of my facilities, what’s left of them.)

I decided that I wasn’t able to just “let it go” like everyone keeps telling me. I want him to suffer, but I know that nothing I can do will get a response that will make any of this shit better. It’s as pointless as banging my head on the wall.

It’s just this intense rage has taken a hold of me and I can’t seem to repress it. I mean, I’ve never hated anyone like this before, ever. He hit me directly where it hurt and how can I just let him go, all zippy-dee-do-da after all that he’s done to try and destroy me? For all of the bullshit that he’s put my kid through over 15 years?

No. Not this time. This is too big of a betrayal.

He’s a sick twist, a perverted sociopath who once proclaimed that he “had my back” and that I was his soulmate, someone with whom he could not ever live without.


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Everyone! Hailey Mills and the Fuck You Tongue!

Holy fuckballs and I believed him. If by chance someone says that to me again before my ashes are scattered at a favorite childhood park, how will I ever believe them?

I’m really a nice person, sweet, generous, kindhearted, just ask my friends and family…but yes, even meek and mild Mer can become a rabid dog ready to bite hard (and not in a good way) on his johnson.

I ain’t no twinkling, pure snowflake anymore, you piece of fuck.

Ah ha, this is the anger part of the grieving process and it feels like Icy Hot in my veins. If I wasn’t buttering his muffins, why not just tell me the damn truth?

Geez ass.

I was supposed to write here at Spooky blog today about the untimely return of my sex-drive, but that will have to wait until next time.

Here’s a question for you, Paul: How do I stop myself from trying to garner any kind of human reaction from Asshat?

And do you have some bail money?

Filthy Acts of Betrayal

Hi there! I’d like to apologize for my extended absence. It’s a really decent excuse too.

My partner and husband of 15 years is a lying, cheating sociopath and I had no other choice but to kick him out. After it came to my attention that he was having an ongoing affair, I went 100% no contact with him on December 4th.

He’s been such a bad boy, I had to put this as my “intro” on Facebook:

If you’re here to rat out my husband, don’t bother. I already know that he’s a sleazy bastard.

Yep. The current tally is now 5. Every damn time that I log in, I’m afraid that another one of his extracurricular activities (or an honest friend of one) has left me a message informing me of his filthy acts of betrayal.

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This would have been me 60 years ago.

At this point, I don’t give a shit how many times he’s been screwing around. The damage has been done and I’d love to plead total blissful ignorance from now on. I mean, five is bad enough, why add insult to injury.

I like my salt on my fries, not rubbed into my wounds.

I’ve been struggling to write on my own blog, so sadly my gig over here on Spooky blog has been on a hiatus. But, I am starting to write again and am semi-participating in blogging once more.

I’ve done a lot of swearing, crying, sleeping, zoning out…repeat cycle.

Don’t get me wrong, though. My husband has always been a bit of an abusive asshole in other ways, so my almost 21-year-old kidlet and myself have been enjoying many freedoms that we had almost forgotten about.

That word, though. Freedom. It’s a beauty, ain’t it?

I am planning on posting here at Paul’s bit of the internet at least once a week, like I had originally planned before I had the rug pulled ungraciously out from under me.

There are certain topics that I’m unable to dish about on my own blog, plus how in the fuck could I turn down such an awesome invite from our very own curmudgeon?

Exactly. I could not (would not in a boat.)

No. Not even with a goat.

Friday Funhouse: Brian and Stewie

Hello there. I hope that you’re feeling funky on this fantastic Friday.

Paul asked me if I’d cover the Friday Funhouse while he’s off doing his Paul thing. I happily accepted the challenge and so, without further ado, here we go!

My favorite show is Family Guy. If you’re not familiar with Family Guy, I’ll give you a quick tutorial.

There’s Peter Griffin and his wife Lois. They have three kids, Meg, Chris and Stewie (a baby who can talk with a British accent) and Brian, a talking dog who fancies himself a writer.

Stewie and Brian are best friends and they often go on adventures together. Hilarity ensues. Here’s a montage of some of their best moments.

It’ll only take 4 minutes out of your day, so what are you waiting for?

My Two Cents on #MeToo

I rarely write about anything that is trending in this great world of ours (is that sarcasm?) because I like to stay out of things as a general rule of thumb.

I don’t enjoy being controversial or putting in my two cents on subjects that other people seem to be total experts on. My creative writing teacher in high school told us kids that we should always write what we know. I’ve taken her advice ever since.

Unfortunately, I know a whole fucking bunch about sexual harassment and sexual assault.

You’ve probably heard about that slime ball Harvey Weinstein and his decades long enjoyment of taking sexual advantage of Hollywood actresses. They are coming out of the woodwork, especially Rose McGowan, who claims that Weinstein raped her.

I believe her. Why would she lie about something like that? What can she possibly gain by telling people via Twitter about such an atrocity? (The jab at Twitter has nothing to do with Rose, I just loathe Twitter with the passion of a thousand suns.)

I can relate to her story because I was date raped at the drive-in when I was 19.

I had gone out with the guy only once before, so I questioned myself afterward about it. If I told anyone about what had happened to me, would they wrinkle up their noses and say, “well, what did you expect? Alone in a car with some dude you barely know!”

I was asking for it, wasn’t I? Even the guy who raped me said that the entire time, over and over again.

I only told a couple of my close girlfriends at the time about it. I wanted to tell my mom, but I was afraid of her reaction. I was so ashamed. I thought that she would also be ashamed.

When I did tell her a couple of years later, she said that she was sorry I had experienced something so despicable and that was that. I got a hug. I know that she was uncomfortable, because her generation, for the most part, didn’t discuss such matters.

How did I cope with it? Well, I set myself on the path of completely blocking the emotions behind the rape. To this day, I can talk about it quite indifferently, so numbly that even my therapist is blown away at my detachment.

Sexual harassment has dotted my life, like so many other woman that I know.

If we go way back, I was teased by the boys because I was the first girl in the 3rd grade that needed to wear a bra. They called me Dolly Parton and would pretend that they were jiggling breasts on themselves, while they laughed and pointed at something that I had no control of.

I was asked by a 14-year-old altar boy friend if I wanted to have sex with him. I was 13 and terrified. After that day, I avoided him.

I was harrassed on an almost daily basis by an older, disgusting man who worked at the gas station only 2 houses down from the house that I grew up in. He’d sit inside his little cashier box, watching me while I’d walk over to the pop machine to get a Mountain Dew.

“Hey there, sexy legs! Why don’t you come over and say hi?”

I was 17, maybe 18.

He gave me the creeps. If I needed a pack of smokes or a candy bar, he’d wink at me through the glass, saying inappropriate things the entire time. I’d just roll my eyes and force an annoyed smile, trying to hurry him up so that I could get back to my house.

My ex forced me to do sexual things with him that I did not want to do. That is something that I can’t really talk about.

I’ve had one of my friends husbands sexually proposition me, the last time on my wedding day. I’ve thankfully never had to see him again, on purpose.

On Monday, I saw that Alyssa Milano had started the Twitter hashtag #MeToo. Then I noticed many of my female Facebook friends putting it as their own statuses.

I didn’t even hesitate.

Me too.
If all the women who have been sexually harassed or assaulted wrote “Me too” as a status, we might give people a sense of the magnitude of the problem.

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This problem is lurking in every corner, every bar, every blog post (yep) and on every tree-lined suburban street. I’ve seen young girls walking along innocently, then witnessing a man honking their car horn at them.

I’ve seen it my entire life. I am a walking, talking, pissed the fuck off survivor. I’m tired of it and I will no longer “roll my eyes” or brush it off. Just because I may lightly flirt with men sometimes doesn’t mean that I want to have a sexual relationship with them.

I am not asking for it, nor do I know that I really want it.

I have a handful of guy friends, mostly online, who I feel 100% comfortable with, so this isn’t a “man hater” post. Please don’t bother to come at me in the comments with that happy horseshit, because it ain’t gonna fly.

And ladies…I invite you to type “Me Too” down below in the comments if you’ve ever been the victim of uninvited sexual advances. This blog is a safe place.

You don’t even need to use the hashtag if you don’t want to.

Girl Gets Chased by a Gorilla, Lives to Tell the Tale

I used to love to go to haunted houses. I had a boyfriend who also enjoyed getting the shit scared out of him, so we went to at least a dozen within a two month span.

I would hide behind him, pressing my face into the back of his jacket, screaming in terror while giggling at the same time. The ghosts and ghouls had a great time with me, because I was good for business. My petrified screeching carried far and wide, proving that these paid actors and actresses were doing a damn fine job.

One night, it was absolutely freezing outside. The line for this particular house of horrors was long and by the time that we got inside, my legs were numb from the bitter wind. (October in Cleveland is a crapshoot.) I always wore jeans back then and they didn’t have enough insulation to keep me very warm.

But, I was young and full of adrenaline. Frozen leg-pops were not going to keep me from seeing the Oogie Boogie man, no sir.

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It was a really freaky haunted house and there was a tunnel. We had to get on our hands and knees in order to crawl through. No problem, I was a spry 20-year-old. My only concern was that my boyfriend might accidentally fart on me.

I had someone behind me as well, so I made sure to keep my sphincter muscles tight.

Once out of the tunnel, there were a plethora of bloody maniacs and devils around every corner. I shrieked, I yelped, I hung onto my boyfriend’s coat for dear life. I was so gleefully scared, in fact, that I forgot to notice how fucking cold I still was. My legs hadn’t thawed out one iota.

This is an important detail, so remember it. Mer’s legs were still numb from the cold.

When we finally made it to the end, the last room had one of those strobe lights going. I was instantly disoriented as my peripheral vision caught sight of a gorilla in a cage.

He made a lunge for me but I didn’t react. Perhaps the extreme cold had finally entered my brain and turned it as numb as the rest of my body.

So, instead of screaming like I usually did, I laughed at him (human in a gorilla suit.)

This would prove to be a mistake.

When we exited the haunted house, all seemed well. I was thinking about finding me some hot cocoa and a place to sit down when all of a sudden I heard someone call out from behind me.

“Watch out, he’s right behind you!!”

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Don’t you laugh at me, bitch.  I be scary! Wah!

 

I started running from him when my legs finally gave out on me. I fell hard, smack dab on my ass.

When I looked up, I could see his eyes through the mask. They were full of triumph.

The people around us were laughing, because free entertainment, but my boyfriend was really pissed off.

After making sure that I was basically unharmed, the gorilla dude turned around and went back to his cage, while my boyfriend helped me up from the hard concrete. He was ready to sue the place, but I calmed him down.

I think whoever was in that gorilla costume took his job way too seriously. But, it didn’t stop me from going to more haunted houses.

However, it sure made me not like monkeys all that fucking much.