My brain keeps yelling at me to relax

A few days ago, my partner and I celebrated the fact that we have been living together now for a month. in eight short days, we celebrate half a year together. A few hours ago, we celebrated the sabbat, Mabon, together.

My head is full of Big Don’t Fuck It Up energy.

My days off have been so full of happiness, to the point that I keep trying to remember if I’ve missed somethng, or fucked something up and just don’t realize it yet, or worse, that I’m going to wake up and find out that this entire arrangement is all in my head and I’m back where I started.

He says I need to relax. And he ain’t wrong.

…it occurs to me I had a topic but it turned into a high ramble

Thunder has begun to crawl across the skies after a near unbroken string of heat wave. Normally, this would worry me, but

  1. I’m baked out of my gourd to deal with several days of “cannot eat” stomach, and
  2. I’m baked out of my gourd. 

I’m looking for ways out of my current job before it disables me completely. Working instead of resting my shoulder has most likely caused damage, and the sheer heat of the factory floor is wreaking HAVOC on my muscles.

As another peal of thunder sounds I find myself thinking about the friends I’ve made, of the little thrill each time I speak to them.

It took forever to get to the point where I feel this. Like, until I was in my 20s I didn’t have a frame for reference. 

Like seriously people. Treasure that.

Beep Boop, got your Updot

Boy, I’m bad at this routine thing.

I keep saying that I’m going to put up a schedule for myself to follow, and I frick it up every time. And I know what the problem is, too: executive dysfunction. I need to REALLY buckle dow and do it if I plan on ever getting anything done.

There is good news, though: I have a definitive out date.

That’s right…this little experiment is almost over.

And I am fully vaccinated. (I am also currently Ill Smith, but that’s tomorrow.)

That’s enough to keep me going.

Home Setbacks, Hearth Setbacks…And a lot of Acespec discourse…

The good news is that I’ve managed to get a raise. The bad news is that my way out of here has hit a snag. As it turned out, the place that I was thinking about putting in an application for is backed up to hell and back, and I’m just one more paper in the stack.

So I’m going to have to dust off my passwords for things like Indeed, CareerBuilder, etc.

I’m definitely not going back to housekeeping. Damn near twelve years of that was enough. Between the burnout and the literal sciatica, there’s just no way I’m going to be able to do that again.

Meanwhile, I’m trying to figure out a lot of things. For one, I know two things for certain:

1) I am definitely not aro, and

2) I am definitely more ace than I thought.

I am perplexed by the people who don’t get acespec identities. For one, it’s like, what are you afraid of, that we won’t do something? And the infighting about labels. They get called unnecessary, but those of us who have them worked hard to be seen. (Let me get one thing clear: I do not support foisting labels on people who didn’t ask for them; this is all about one’s own labels.)

It seems to be an old guard vs. new guard thing, this aversion to more labels even just existing. As (an old) millennial, I am all for the new phraseology. The words to explain how I feel didn’t exist in my teens, or even my late twenties. I am positively enamored with the fact that a way to explain me exists now, when it didn’t before. 

And I don’t want that taken away. Which is what all this arguing feels like: “your labels are ridiculous, our old ones are good enough.”

It gets dismissed as “the tumblrification of identity,” but the fact is, things like Tumblr aren’t exactly completely new. Before, ideas like this were disseminated in person (something that you can’t really do right now in the era of COVID), or on message boards and such. I don’t understand what would make that superior to what is going on now. Yeah, we stumble and fumble around a bit, but so did the old guard. In a lot of ways, we are more similar than we are different; it’s another case of vs., in this case Old Tired versus Young Tired. I mean fuck, we should be at least bonding over that much!

The worst part of it is that I feel like I can’t really speak up. I didn’t really fall solidly into where I am until a couple of years ago, after a lot of living in denial about it. (That…that happens to a lot of us in the LGBTQ++ community, I’ve noticed.) When I finally felt like I could say something on it, there was all this…well I wouldn’t call it vitriol, but it was a whole lot of Not Nice. You know, shit like “that doesn’t exist” “you’re just normal” “How is that different from the rest of people out there?”

Invalidation. That’s what all this resistance boils down to. Invalidation. And we can’t do much about it beyond attempting to advocate for ourselves in the face of it. It feels like a great big plate of nothing, when one’s got no allies to back them up on it.

It’s a good thing that the rest of the New Guard has a lot of fight in it. We shouldn’t have to do this alone.

There’s a reason I don’t talk to this woman anymore…

Story time! CW cannabis use and some seriously fucked up shit.

At one point, while I was waiting for my apartment to be ready, I lived with my dad and my stepmother. We…didn’t get along well for the longest time, me and her. The reason I first left that place was the day I woke up and, for my birthday, received several lashes with an extension cord for not confessing to the theft of some of…MY earmarked groceries.

Yeah, it doesn’t make sense. Don’t think about it too hard.

After a few years, we reconnected. And we got along really well for a whlie. …then it got weird.

One day, when we–that is, me, my dad, and her–were having a serious little smoke sesh, Dad gets up to get something from the downstairs, probably a beer, can’t really remember. That left us two in the room prepping the next blunt.

Then she turns to me and goes “I know what you’re up to.”

Right then I wasn’t up to anything but getting that next blunt started, I wanted to be FLYING, ok? So all I could do was look at her blankly holding the blunt wrapper, confused as fuck.

“I know what you’re up to. You can’t have him. HE IS MINE.”

I blink once, hard. Did she just imply…

“I give him what you can’t, even if you’re trying.”


Fun fact, we–that is, me and her–haven’t spoken since. Because, you know, the SERIOUSLY GROSS acccusations of me having and acting on an Electra complex