I spent nine of my wife‘s hard-earned dollars on three Powerball tickets. We’ll find out in a few minutes if we won anything.
Normally I don’t play the lottery. For a lot of reasons. Mostly because I’m not interested (I know, I know!!! It’s “stupid”!!), and because I’m superstitious that if I hope for very very slim odds to be in my favor, I’m somehow begging to be struck by lightning or become the victim of some other rare and horrible disaster.
But today I feel part of a hopeful thread connecting tons of people all over the country. It’s beautiful knowing so many people are fantasizing about all of the wonderful things they want to be able to do to help other people if they won that money.
It was lovely when the gas station cashier who taught me how to fill in my ticket said, “I hope you win!” and it feels like she meant it. And knowing she says that to lots of people doesn’t mean it’s any less genuine for every single one of us. When you talk about it with strangers it feels like we’re all wishing each other good luck. That kind of well-wishing is palpably sweet.
I know the lottery (and gambling in general) is a tragic fucking thing in so many ways for a lot of people, even (especially) the winners. But it’s winter and dark and cold and miserable in so many other ways that are more real than the threat of a lottery curse or losing a handful of dollars in exchange for a few hours of hoping and imagining all of the best.
I like being part of wishes and fantasies and feeling like we’re all holding hands and excited for the results even though we know we’re probably not going to win anything life-changing. It’s the hoping and anticipation and acknowledgment that MAGIC IS POSSIBLE.
Note: I was in a bad mood when I started this post, but writing it adjusted my attitude to CRAZY INVINCIBILITY by the end!
My mid-life crisis anxiety has been so revved up over money challenges, fear of failure, our biological clocks ticking, overwhelming necessary work transitions/reinventions, social/interpersonal sadness, and feelings of incompetence that I got fixated on how I’m about to turn 42 . . . to the point where I started thinking I already *am* 42, and was telling people I’m 42, and about to turn 43.
But I’m still 41! For a couple more days.
The whole trying-to-get-pregnant thing (with doctors who are younger than I am looking at me like, “lady you better HURRY UP if you’re serious about this, because you are fucking OLD! Do you know how old you are? Have you looked in the mirror lately? You’re REALLY PUSHING IT, Grandma”) amped up my fear to the point where all I could think is that I’m too old . . . and just getting older. That it’s too late for alllllll of the good things I want, and all the good things I want to be. That tons of doors are shutting all around me. My time is up – I squandered it. Wasted my youth, my privilege, my health, my IDENTITY. Now I just have to figure out how to make do really fast and SAVE us from all of our debt.
This was supposed to be a happy-go-lucky positive-thinking post where I talked about OH WOW SEE ALL THAT NEGATIVE THINKING JUST MADE ME AGE MYSELF PREMATURELY AND I’M AS YOUNG AS I FEEL AND I CAN FEEL *GREAT* AS LONG AS I TURN THIS FROWN UPSIDE DOWN AND RECOGNIZE THAT I’M JUST AS FULL OF POTENTIAL AS I WAS TEN OR FIFTEEN OR TWENTY YEARS AGO IF NOT *MORE* AND YAY SO HAPPY AND EXCITED ABOUT EVERYTHING!!!
Guessing I need to not work myself up into having more attachments to big dreams, but to surrendering to just being happy with what IS, right now; I have white hairs sprouting up in my pubes, and I don’t actually just LIKE having text on my kindle enlarged to hugeness . . . I need bifocals or reading glasses to wear with my contacts because I’m becoming farsighted in addition to my already-deeply blurred life with this astigmatism and near-sightedness.
And my neck. My motherfucking NECK! How did I not see these ghastly loose flabby neck wrinkles coming?!? They’re in my genes and I made it worse by gaining and losing so much weight. Yes, forty extra pounds is MUCH WEIGHT. I’ll tell you more about that in more explicit pictures one of these days.
I hate it when people bitch about shit like this. I hate how much I’m doing and saying stuff that I hate.
I don’t want to be pretty. I never really did. What I wanted was to be immortal.
Apparently I don’t know how to make realistic goals.
But wait, THAT’S NOT TRUE!! I mean, it’s true many of my goals and dreams are unrealistic, but FUCK IT – our lives are awesome because we do shit most realistic people don’t have the balls to do.
I used to be 5’2″ until I made it a goal to be 5’3″ in my thirties. GUESS WHAT?? I’m an inch taller! I made myself taller. IT’S THE TRUTH!!
And speaking of even more fantastical transformations: this is my wife, Delia, now:
Delia showing off her tits in Vegas.
This was my wife twelve years ago:
There was so much more to her transition than gender presentation.
Fuck “reality”. What a stupid cage. I’m going for immortal.
And thanking Delia (who NEVER complains about getting older, or any of the myriad challenges much bigger than mine that she meets with sweetness and serenity) for it. And remembering that there are a lot of people who can’t just *think* themselves into being healthier and happier. I want to get rid of our debts so we can do more to help other people.
My birthday is on St. Patrick’s Day / Tuesday the 17th … there’s a 42% chance I’ll be on cam if you want to say happy birthday (and look at my big boobs)! I may even do a very affordable gold show, so keep an eye on my twitter feed to see if/when I might log in.
One of the reasons why I need no-device / no internet days is because I CAN’T STAND IT WHEN PEOPLE SAY SHITTY THINGS TO/ABOUT MADONNA on Instagram. I fucking can’t hack it. It epitomizes everything that’s wrong with the internet, the way everything has been turned upside down and power has been given to the people for evil instead of good errrr fighting REAL evil or using your voice for something useful. Whatever. Nobody should ever get to vandalize MADONNA with insults in such a live pile-it-on manner. It wounds me. It really does.
I also realize . . . I should probably just unfollow Madonna because I don’t really need to see that much Madonna in my timeline anyway. And legit criticisms would be one thing, but just stupid ugly bullshit . . . what? I just do not believe in unmoderated comments.
- severely blue winter sky
- long phone call with the IRS
- being a shitty GWC (“guy” with camera) who hasn’t gotten images and videos back to guys she shot
- a self-pitying fear-riddled phone call (mostly about money) to my wife
- ordered bluetooth keyboard so maybe I can text people more efficiently when I’m trying to fucking work, so they will think I’m a nice person and I can be part of the modern human race without sacrificing THE SPEEDY AND COHERENT FURY OF MY TYPING SKILLS
- did some planning for weekend visit from nephews, trying to figure out how to make them recognize and love Moog synthesizers (to the point where they will not only endure, but ENJOY this thing I want to go to on Saturday, which could totally backfire on me if they end up being the ones who want to stay and hear something that makes them feel like they are “inside a purring cat” while I might want to run outside screaming)
- mulling over things in my unpublished audio and blog archives which made me burst into laughter at my ridiculousness and vocal fry
- tits swelling up and sore from what is probably just PMS
- wrote email to support over three problems in goal-tracking app that I desperately need (haha) to turn over new well-disciplined leaves of health and prosperity
- my pussy feels weerd
I also posted on Goodreads, like this about the book I finished yesterday:
The End of Everything by Megan Abbott
My rating: 4 of 5 stars
Four stars because of the taboo stuff and other intensely sticky stuff, but I kind of got tired of everything being bone-deep and blood-thick. I’m not super duper in love with some elements of style in this and Dare Me, but I would read them a billion times anyway and anything Megan Abbott writes. To the point where now that I’m done with this book, NOTHING ELSE BUT MORE MEGAN ABBOTT WILL DO. Maybe I take her more seriously than I should. Which is a problem all of her characters have. With everything. Which I love.
View all my reviews
I’m trying to figure out what to read next that I will actually finish. I want to read the latest Sarah Waters, but after The Little Stranger I’m very fucking reluctant to dip my toes into ANOTHER one where reviewers urge you to have patience and it will get better. I don’t know if I have it in me. If I pick up a book for pleasure, I want it to be fucking pleasurable. Not a test of my patience.
Oh my god that’s probably what everybody feels like when they try to “cum” to my site. Sorry folks!
Pleasure industries: I think about which ones are stigmatized, which ones are “guilty”, which ones are considered patriotic obligations or badges of pride, which ones are considered entertainment vs which ones are considered obscene.
Emotional labor. Physical labor. Where health, well-being, longevity and sex intersect with money and work.
I think about how much time, money and resources people are proud to put into their automobiles, yards, powder rooms, wardrobes, second living rooms and personal “hygiene”. And how little individuality. And what all of that does to the air we all breathe. If we are paying attention to breathing at all. To our skin.
How many people throughout history and RIGHT NOW IN THE WORLD have access to so many resources?
Would it make me a better person to decline out of guilt to experience it these ways?
Would it make me a better person to have a prim yard, shiny new car, cookie-cutter house and anti-bacterial armpits than to spend a fraction of that to pay people to touch me cup me rub me whisper to me bend me flex me stretch me pray over me TEACH me sing to me soothe me GUIDE me through breathing and how to use this one and only machine I need to live?
I got my B-12 and Magnesium shots today after I was barely able to keep my eyes open for yesterday. Sometimes I chastise myself for being so weak that I rely on these things. Someday I might not have access to these special extra vitamins!! Most people in the world can’t afford such luxuries!! Most people live just fine without these things!! Do they? Or are most people’s lives total shit?
Would it make me a better person to not need to have space and hear the small sounds and see the dimples my fingertips make on the surface of water?
What the fuck are we here for, anyway?
I am here to feel GOOD, and to not make other people feel bad.
Without pleasure and reverence for peace and all kinds of beauty, humanity is just a fucking plague.
Remember these after-shoot teaser shots?
Welllll . . . after all these months, Delia just posted the video for our members!
I’m glad she sat on it for awhile . . . it’s fun and rewarding to see how she edited what we shot after forgetting so much of it. I really love that it’s a whole role playing scene with a beginning, middle and end with a bunch of shots.
I hate it when Daddy sits with his nose in a book and ignores me! I mean I should get his undivided attention ALL the time! I tried to remind him how bad I need petting and cuddling but it just seemed to make him mad. Finally he got fed up and made me get in my cage while he went out. He made me read this fascinating book while he was out but I got too sleepy and had to take a nap. He seemed a little upset when I didn’t know what the book was about. I got my ass spanked hard for that! Daddy sure was mad but he let me make it up to him with a nice wet blowjob! He plowed my ass good and hard and shot a big load of hot white gooey stuff all over my face. It was so yummy! I hope you enjoy watching. 😉 -Delia
I’m proud of us shooting it totally on the fly without any idea beforehand of what they might do. I was dirty-old-eccentric-man-boss-director and made them do a lot of things that were time-consuming and annoying . . . and I’m proud of how it turned out with very little time, tiny budget (we bought Delia’s bodystocking & dinner out with us for James), and the help of friends (Ms. Savannah‘s amazing space, and James Maverick’s beautiful willing talent on top of my wife’s). It’s not perfect, but it’s fun and pretty fucking awesome considering our relatively limited resources.
*total access to her site, MINE, and all of her pre-transition content
*two other scenes Delia shot with James last year: her first boy-girl hardcore was with him, and a hot Daddy & pee scene with her
*to help us make more sweet homemade porn!
We’re trying to budget for a trip to Vegas to have Damien shoot Delia & I together, and would LOVE LOVE LOVE to be able to hire James for real to shoot more with us. We had a barter thing with him but he’s always working so hard when we see him that he can’t actually afford time to claim his reward. WE SHOULD BE PAYING OUR CO-STARS TO MAKE PORN WITH US . . . the porn we make (and that Delia’s been having other people shoot) is special and unique . . . I’d love for it to get even awesomer (and to be able to fairly compensate people who work with us, and have enough time with them to make even better stuff) with the support of more paying fans.
I never ever thought living in Seattle would mean needing AC in April. It’s a nice surprise … sometimes.
A clean-faced homeless dude saw me in my bright green long johns under my worn old dress with my backpack & dirty suitcase and gently let me know in an island (not Pacific) accent that here under the overpass is where people like us can sleep. Even when I told him thank you I am sleeping indoors (it seemed rude/like it would be rubbing it in to say DUH I have not one BUT TWO roofed homes PLUS family who not only rent but OWN), he let me know where the closest shelters are, including detailed instructions to a women’s shelter.
I think maybe he is new to this weird-ass place and is doing something like practicing a foreign language on people by hospitably passing on recently-acquired Seattle-edition low-income-guidebook-to-street-level-amenities info. And since nobody in Seattle knows how to wear a fucking COLOR (let alone a color with a fucking PRINT) I probably look insanely poor and/or like I come from a warm and friendly place where people speak comfortably to passing strangers as a matter of course. Or I guess just super ready to find and go to bed, which makes sense since I’m clearly not fooling anybody by putting a dress on over my pajama pants. His buddy tried to ignore me like OH NO WE GOT HERE EARLY AND I AM NOT TRYING TO SHARE ANY UNDER-THE-OVERPASS SPACE WITH THIS BITCH IN THE CRAZY-PANTS.
I proceeded to our car where I cried. It makes me mad that there are all these rich people and they can’t even laugh at a joke someone makes in an elevator or spend any of their stupid money on colorful joyful clothes. Instead: expensive greys and blacks and navies (that I never thought I would have a problem with because I love wearing them too BUT COME ON WHAT THE FUCK A WHOLE DOWNTOWN OF AN ALREADY-OVERLY-GREY CITY WITHOUT ANY DECADENT OUTRAGEOUS COLORS?!?). Of course that’s not really exactly why I cried, but I’d rather sound nonsensically ridiculous than offensively, uselessly guilty and maudlin.
I am not cut out to live in a city.
I’m not sure if I even knew what lacrosse was as a teenager.
Seriously though, I had lunch in a trendy restaurant SO PACKED that they run out of gnocchi in an hour of lunch rush and I was one of only TWO people wearing a fucking color. EVERYONE ELSE WAS A SHADE OF CHARCOAL AND ALCOHOL. I and the other were only SHINY LAVENDER which hardly counts as loud, but we might as well have worn bottles of ketchup on our faces, our fashion risk was so bold.