TastyTrixie.com

Archive for the ‘therapy’ Category

Here’s a super-belated birthday post I wrote last year but never posted until now. As of March 17th, 2011 I’m back to an even number age:

*****

I turned thirty-seven years old last week and am SO glad to be back on an odd number.

Some people have “issues” with numbers, often with a serious preference for even or odd numbers (and a lot of these people are OCD and/or autistic or Aspies). I’ve always preferred odd numbers which is unusual since most people with this obsession prefer evens, but I’m adamant that odd numbers are more “perfect” with more symmetry.

I know, I know, most people think an even number is more beautiful because when you split it in half, it’s balanced with equal amounts on both sides. These people will do anything to avoid odd numbers, but I myself am uncomfortable with EVEN numbers and feel like something’s missing. Aside from just finding odd  numbers more aesthetically pleasing (the way they look, the way they sound, the way they are in all of my important dates and numbers) I figured it out that for me I always need one left over in the middle to be the anchor. Think of an old-fashioned scale: there has to be a lever in between the two pans. There always has to be that one left over in the middle for me to see/feel everything in balance.

I’m not totally OCD about it . . . I have forced myself to accept even-numbered things and results and times and dollar amounts and can tolerate them without pain (and am often not even aware of whether a number is odd or even), but I always feel a bigger relief and sense of rightness when things come out odd.

*****

Another OCD symptom I was wrapped up in as a pre-teen was weird sympathy for inanimate objects. The biggest daily issue concerned the dishes and how I placed them in the dish-drainer after washing them; I avoided letting any of one type of dishware be “lonely” or forced into a group/family of dishes it didn’t belong to.

We had a lot of tupperware cups. Some had flared rims and cool colors, some were newer/smoother and made in warm colors. I tried very hard to group the new warm ones together and the older, more-sensitive cups with each other. I would feel sad and guilty if one of the old ones had to be lumped up against a gang of stiff new ones all by itself. In that situation it would be better to find the old cup a place apart where it would be safe even if lonely.

From one of my fave funny blogs, UnhappyHipsters.com

This wasn’t a game I played with myself to make doing the dishes more interesting, it was just an uncomfortable given. As I got older I tried to reason with myself, and there have been times in my life where I don’t pay attention to the dishes’ feelings and identities at all, but sometimes I do still find myself wanting to put them in the “right” places and giving myself permission to arrange them in a way that feels good to me. I remind myself that these problems are all in my head, but I will still rearrange the dishes sometimes if things aren’t right. It’s not always about the dishes feelings, but just about building the perfect pile.

*****

One of the presents I gave to myself was time to play with my Magic: The Gathering cards. Not to play the game or really “play” in any sense that most other people have of playing, but to organize and sort parts of my collection. Like arranging rocks and colors on my altar. That is often how I find peace/bliss/relaxation. I sat on the floor surrounded by my cards and enjoyed putting them into stacks by expansion, by colors, by rarity; who would want a birthday party when she could be alone sorting uniformly-sized small cards with artwork and a bunch of special designations indicated by symbols and special text on said cards? Not I!!

*****

There’s a three and there’s a seven.

January thru March 16th of 2011 will be (oddly) even better!

*****

It wasn’t, but I know you can’t win at life through lucky numbers and proper sorting alone . . .

9/3/2010 Cabin Day #1: 0 (zero) words

Loading stuff up in the van to take to the cabin I worried that the neighbors would think I was moving out and leaving Delia. Maybe that worry was just a projection of my own discomfort over making time alone/away a priority. Because there aren’t good models affirming pursuing time alone away from home unless it’s to do regular work that regular people do in the midst of whole bunches of other regular people. People who desire as much time alone as I do are widely regarded as unhealthy freaks or suspected of having other motives besides a simple need for solitude. Whatever the reason, I wanted to keep running back inside to hug Delia and get reassurance that whatever I‘m doing it‘s not what it might look like to the neighbors.

*****

At the cabin the wind blew and I wondered how come the skinny tall trees here don’t fall down. I amazed myself by not being annoyed that there’s a daycare with kid sounds a block away. I felt the sun on the back of my neck. I gazed at the crescent moon with breakfast around noon. I scratched up my arm and the back of my thigh on blackberry bush thorns. I figured out where I can stand and lie in the cabin with the blinds open without being seen by the girl in the big house or the people next door. I made a note to buy a couple of curtains to further hide myself when desired in those couple of places where I can be seen. I caught up on all of the pooping I didn’t get done while we were away from home for three nights.

I started to stop thinking about how to get down the ladder from the loft  (how do I mount it under the slant of roof? Do I turn around and climb it back down or just walk straight forward like I’m going down stairs?). I lit a candle. Then I blew it out when we left to get gas, but only $15 worth because we’re almost out of money until Tuesday so we didn’t reset the mileage on the odometer because our fuel gauge is broken/stuck on full.

*****

Things didn’t go exactly as planned, meaning I didn’t have time to plan to make things perfectly prepared.

Want to read more about Day One at The Cabin? I’m hiding the minute details after a break so as not to bore or overwhelm folks who don’t want to read about my zero word count day:

Read the rest of this entry »

Have you noticed us getting up earlier and going to sleep sooner on our cams? That’s (partly) because starting September 3rd I’m going to get up early to head over to the cabin we’re (good news!) officially renting to do off-cam no-internet work sans distractions. Normally I quickly grow disgusted with a morning-person routine, but now it seems totally different knowing there’s a purpose to it.

It rained heavily on Thursday. If I hadn’t gotten up at seven in the morning, excited about the possibilities of such early rising once the cabin time begins, I’d have never known there was any blue sky to be had that day. I’d have missed seeing this moon:

Blessing Bestowed from the West

There’s a place – a real live place – where women artists can apply for residencies. Actually, there are lots of places like that, where those kinds of people can get free lodging in inspiring locations to focus on their work, but the one I’m thinking of is SUPER DREAMY . . . fucking storybook-land perfection in terms of its tiny private artfully-crafted houses (each resident has one all to herself) and woodland setting.

Most shockingly dreamy of all is the way the women are catered to; the small handful of residents (women, all of them!) have a chef who prepares crazily wonderful dinners for them every night. There are pictures proving how thoroughly stocked the kitchen is with racks of zillions of containers of spices and rows of carefully labeled provisions and specialized pots and pans used to make what appears to be an ABUNDANCE of food every night just for these six or seven women. Meats and comforts and fresh green things and berries and sauces and fanciness and desserts and lots of colors and textures on big plates and side dishes.

On top of all that, the chef ALSO prepares individual baskets for each resident full of her favorite foods to help sustain her throughout the day while she works in her perfect little house. And there’s a garden full of plants someone else tends that each resident gets to pluck and cut flowers and leafy things from. FOR INSPIRATION AND SHIT!

I know that being there wouldn’t be actual utopia, but it does provide a model to ooh and aah over. I think it’s awesome that a very teeny-tiny percentage (wish it were more) of talented women in the world get to experience opportunities like that, to be told that their own self-directed art is so valuable as to warrant a few days . . . maybe even a whole month(!) . . . of concentrating on nothing BUT the work she most wants to do and that she will be sheltered and reliably fed to delicious excess if she likes so she can take care of her work while someone else takes care of her basic needs with sensual generosity.

Same time as picture above, but looking 80 degrees to the south.

What an exquisite fantasy! But it seems so decadent, like I know that I personally could never warrant such treatment. It’s a nice daydream but it actually makes me nervous to think about having such a giant privilege bestowed upon me. I’m nervous enough about the idea of renting this cabin, feeling like I need to prove that I “deserve” it. That I’m worth blowing more money on when I already have so much.

And then I remember that my grandma made my grandpa dinner every night to his specifications. Dished it up and brought it out to him. It wasn’t fancy, but she SERVED him. And every day she fixed him a box lunch even on the days when he was only working in his garage out back, a one minute shuffle away from the back door. I know times have changed, but when I was growing up I never fucking once saw a man prepare and serve a grown woman food. NEVER ONCE outside of restaurants (which I rarely saw) and pancake breakfasts at the Masonic Lodge where it was a wonderful novelty to see the men with aprons on, coming out to the long tables to pour coffee and bring us our hotcakes.

It wasn’t just my family that was like that. Most people my age and older grew up seeing men (and children) waited on at home and women NOT.  I suppose gender-blind egalitarianism is the ideal I should desire (and I do in some ways) but part of me needs to experience the balance of intimate privilege tipped dramatically towards women to undo what I learned by watching. I wasn’t brought up to BE that kind of woman who waits on men — not at all; I wasn’t taught with words to do it  — but that’s what all the women in my family DID to one extent or another and the men DID NOT. You have to be crazy to think that kind of learning is something you can just erase with your intellect when you grow up or even along the way with words of “you-go-girl” encouragement.

Looks promising upwards and eastwards

Even though I never grew up wanting to be a woman who takes care of a man, once I outgrew the entitlement of childhood I came to FEEL that having someone take care of me wasn’t something I deserved or could expect the way a man in my grandparents’ and parents’ generations could and that the only way to live my life just-so, to my specifications, was to live alone. I didn’t think this on a conscious level, but I think the past ten years (and then some) of webwhoring have involved more conscious efforts to recognize and reconcile this conflict; I want to work — to do MY work and do it MY WAY — and have someone else take care of the housekeeping and cooking. For my work to be the most important thing I do and everything else to be relegated to the distraction pile which I should be able to demand someone else pick up and put away. To believe that my work is so important that I should be angry and frustrated when I do not have the tools or environment to do it properly. BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT MEN OLDER THAN I AM GREW UP EXPECTING AND DOING. And so what if their work wasn’t important or they would bankrupt the family with their business schemes? You didn’t fucking criticize the work, jobs or dreams of men. You just didn’t unless you wanted to be the evil villainous bitch in the story.

I shouldn’t feel guilty about wanting to have as many places to do my work alone as my grandpa did: a garage, a basement, a toolshed, a closet where he kept his Black Velvet and other private treasures, and a windowless office he hardly went into that nobody else was allowed into that was always at least 15 degrees cooler than the rest of the house. My grandma didn’t have any place in her house that was her own like that, just like my mom didn’t have a special place in our tiny house for herself like my stepdad had a whole room for his model train. And if Grandma fucked up some shit in the kitchen Grandpa would go ballistic on her ass. So I guess maybe I SHOULD feel guilty about wanting all that man-privilege since being an abusive asshole came with the territory. I don’t know. But on Friday morning I’m going to work alone in the cabin AND I CAN HARDLY WAIT!!

Also? I’ve drafted a new personal ad for a slavey-houseboy type. Not putting it up for awhile though as that’s a whole time-consuming process in itself. I also keep wanting to blog more about how going to college totally distorted my idea of money and assessing the worth of an investment in myself, perhaps making me approach financial risk-taking in a more “manly” way than I would have otherwise.

More morning moon pics to come?

*****

So. I don’t anticipate members and fans seeing a noticeable change in focus on our sites because of this and will probably see more exciting stuff on cam rather than less since we have to cam more to pay for everything. One of the good things (in terms of “earning” my cabin keep) is it’s already making me more disciplined and focused in how I prioritize things, clarifying what needs to come first (which is really REALLY challenging when you have boatloads of everything to do and have an easily-overwhelmed mind like mine). Right now at the top of the list is simply getting ahead on shooting and getting updates lined up, so that’s what I’m going to get back to work on right now.

I just used some of my webcam money to subscribe to one of my favorite radio programs ever, Hearts of Space. Nevermind the ill-advised acronym (so typical of nerds to make a hilarious mistake like that, god love ‘em).

Since our porn business operates on a subscription basis, it’s interesting to research other subscription-based internet products, their price points, and comparing the offerings. I loved reading the HOS: WHY PAY? page. Like porn, music is something you can get free online in a million places. Even when people don’t ask you to justify charging for it, many of us feel we MUST explain it (I’ve been criticized by adult webmasters for the times when I’ve disclosed similar information and confronted those questions when maybe I should leave them alone). It’s inspiring to read the way Hearts of Space explains some of their business approach (and costs outsiders don’t comprehend without being taught) because it’s so firmly rooted in a clear vision, one that I know DELIVERS an experience I’ve never gotten from any other radio programming. There is a certain personality, there are seductive, hypnotic voices I’m attached to, and there is a well-planned journey offered by HOS.

HEARTS of SPACE PRODUCER STEPHEN HILL’s CAREER seemed to take a sharp detour in the early 70’s when he abandoned his architectural career and opened a recording studio. . . . In retrospect, Hill realizes he never really left architecture. He simply became a sound architect who learned to build his castles on the air. “Architects create environments with physical materials.
I do it with sound.” - Stephen Hill

It’s also interesting to observe my own thought process in deciding what kind of subscription to get: I chose the $13 a month all-access plan because I don’t feel like I can shell out the money for a year even though I know it would save me money in the long run. Also, The internet radio channel only (no archives or playlists) probably would’ve been good enough for me, but if it wasn’t, I didn’t want to try to figure out how to upgrade mid-month. Out of laziness/a desire to be efficient with my time and not necessarily need or probable usage, I chose the more comprehensive membership. I know people go through similar though processes when deciding which membership plan to get for our sites.

Hearts of Space is an inspiring model of how to create and sustain and love a “product” that’s not personalized for each individual listener but still manages to feel intimate even though it’s mass-delivered and not even live (except maybe one hour a week, I think).  It speaks of a void and manages to fill it –inside of me and outside of me — at the same time. I’m fascinated by people and groups who design and deliver stimuli producing what appears to be a relatively mundane experience (compared to, say, a roller coaster ride in a theme park or a provocative theatre piece, etc.) that manages to infiltrate people’s lives by being constantly accessible in private, demanding little of them but providing addictive stimulation. A little like a favorite diner or coffee shop. Something offering sustenance you could get elsewhere, but elsewhere just wouldn’t be QUITE right. I believe there’s something about the earnestness of the proprietors to deliver an actual EXPERIENCE they’ve envisioned in rich detail and feel in their own bones that makes Hearts of Space , some bookstores, a couple of Indian and Thai restaurants in Tacoma, and some porn sites exceptional.

I love music and I love feeling distant connections to people, but it’s impossible for me to listen to voices or most music and WORK at the same time. “Space music” offers me the kind of escape and transcendence I long for. It’s a spiritual salve for me that allows me to imagine journeying into a meaningful peaceful nothingness of wind and colors and stars and the smell of ozone. It gives me a lot of the feeling I get from imagining my ideal forms of church or prayer or sanctuary or space travel. It’s like having a lucid flying dream. That’s totally worth $13 a month to me. “Greetings, space fans . . . “

There’s a vibe on Hearts of Space that I’d like to infuse my own site with – that I’ve always wanted to be there and have maybe succeeded in transmitting some of the time (not the SAME vibe, but a quality or peculiarity of vibe). I think it will be helpful to listen to HOS on a daily basis to remind myself of the possibilities and how personality and vision and voices (even in very limited doses, more often without words) can combine in powerful, seductive, and soothing ways. How to make transportation out of your aesthetics and values to take people to a place they recognize as one where their belief systems make perfect sense. Or freewheeling careless nonsense. Where you look around and feel yourself and even though nothing has changed, you’re like, “THIS is it, what I was trying to remember that was bothering the tip of my tongue.”

Like, fucking psychic alignment, man!

Click here for an older post about new age music, porn and more.

*****

I know, you’re all like . . . post some porn, woman!! Are you losing your mind?

I can only answer in a predictably crazy way by insisting that no, I’m totally on the verge of genuine SANITY, motherfuckers!! Seriously, like, all is about to be REVEALED!!

I’ll try to post something porny and down-to-earth for you soon, mkay? I’ll TRY.

I am always trying. I don’t know if that’s apparent or not, but it’s true.

I haven’t seen a cloud in the sky for days, but there’s been plenty of fog around the edges of day and vision. Nothing but blue sky above me this afternoon, but the fog never lifted nearest the water so I could hear foghorns from the ships while I read on a blanket. Foghorns and super-chatty birds. Some even sounded like tiny monkeys.

In a WA Town that's also a Port, Thursday, July 29th, 18:25

I took these pictures right after it left the shore and infiltrated as cold wet smoke. I didn’t get a good photo of what it looks like in motion.

Droopy daisies against a summer fog in July

Miraculously, I didn’t hear a single car alarm, human voice, lawnmower, barking dog, or power tool the entire time. Our neighbor’s fat Siamese tomcat did come stalking through the crunchy grass, though. I think he was pretending not to see me while he played King of the Jungle.

I wonder whose motherfucking dog keeps leaving big-ass turds next to the deer pellets that smell good in the long dead trampled-down grass except for those damned big dog shits keeping them company. Your dog should not be shitting in our yard! It’s probably the dogs of our two neighbors who disturb the peace the most with their noisy construction and yard work. Keep your damned barking labrador shit in your own sacred fucking yard! They probably don’t want to shit in your yards because they can’t even tell its nature there with the grass shorn so short. GIVE IT A REST!!

Tired daisies in the wind. End of July.

But whatever. I shouldn’t take time to notice. I should be inside working instead of outside counting and smelling animal droppings.

Ever since I started doing pay-to-play camming again and my mom came over for a carb-filled visit I’ve been having a hard time accomplishing much. Switching gears is not my forte.

Tomorrow (Friday) and Saturday I’ll be camming again, though, so at least I have a partial agenda and won’t have to rack my brain so hard to figure out the best most wise most efficient use of my time.

I’ve been having a hard time in some respects, but having sex, cuddling, stretching and masturbating keep the edge off.

It’s weird that I haven’t posted more blog entries this month since I’m always blogging in my head. I’d like to have more of a space cushion (distance wise and time wise) in between my head and what I post, though. Actually that’s probably a lot of what’s going on with me lately; having had some days with family members and more interaction on cam, I’ve needed more space to make up for those days/hours of the gap being closed.

The question is whether or not my space cushion is sustainable. I like people and interacting and stuff, but I need a big giant lot of quiet time alone in my head; it takes me ridiculous amounts of time withdrawn from everyone except Delia to recover after social time. I don’t know if I’m ever going to operate at peak unless I retool my job description(s) to take that into consideration.

An affirming read (one of many lately) on recognizing that trying to do it all is TOO MUCH, and making a goal of doing less:

. . . they have decided to not work at the limit of their ability. they are not interested in finding the line that is their maximum output except to be sure that they are much below it. they have decided not to do everything that they could.

“and so” she said “we’re going to see what comes out of the space we’re allowing for”.

this has sat well with me. it is a breath before i eat. it is the light splayed across my wood walls in the morning. it is not trying to do everything i can. even though i’m excited by all the permutations, it’s about looking inside myself to decide the next movement rather than thinking about every possible way i could do everything all the time.

i think i have probably let people down. i still struggle with guilt. i freak out and bolt for maximization at least once a day.

but i’m trying to give my life wiggle room. just barely.

Last night we stayed up until four watched the last four available episodes of Mad Men and today I am reading for pleasure and having my period and thinking inspired thoughts about videos I could make but probably won’t. My hands smell like sweet and salty foods and stiff girly hair products and thick royal jelly eye cream. This feels a lot better than a week ago when I was wound up (again) thinking I had to do everything and all of it had to be perfect.

Every so often (but not today) I get a whiff of a cosmetic scent that reminds me of some little-girl-science-meets-makeup product where you “mixed” your own lip gloss, creme blush, etc. with tiny white spatulas. It reminds me of how exciting it was to go to World of Toys in Bellevue (where rich people lived!) in the seventies and how much crap Daddy compulsively bought us.

I simultaneously long for my childhood sense of entitlement when it came to pressuring him to buy us stuff and am HORRIFIED by the memory of it. It was pretty cool to actually believe that I could have anything I wanted as long as I could convince him to buy it for me and that everything else could be checked out at the library. I’ll bet if I could put my finger on the smell of that toy-makeup stuff or just remember the name of it I might be one step closer to dominating the world, or at least feeling like all of my time belongs entirely to my own pleasure.

Sooner or later I am going to have to detach from the things I want to do a lot, but less than the things I want to do most and am made to be better at than the rest of it. Sooner or later I’m going to have to recognize the futility of guilt. But today I am still just pretending I don’t feel like a failure because I’m enjoying myself.

Tomorrow I should go on a walk by myself and take pictures of apple blossoms on old trees planted by the wives of dead soldiers.

How long can I feel this super groovy? I hope a looooong time! The memory/deja vu/hopeful-excited-magic feelings I mentioned last week are still here and I feel GREAT. So great that I’m almost worried that I’m losing my marbles and trying to figure out what to attribute these good feelings to.

Is it the B vitamins? The D’s? The pressure being lifted from IRS after being forced to resign myself to accepting and even embracing whatever bad things might happen? Our deliciously mild winter (that could fuck up the winter olympics in Vancouver if the Pacific Northwest doesn’t get more snow)? Getting rid of DirecTV and reading more and enjoying each other more? Our new sound therapy machine with the delta wave inducing sounds (I usually dream so much that I don’t get deep dreamless sleep: a symptom of low serotonin levels/depression)? Is it that I’ve lost some weight? Is it going to twelve-step meetings? Is it just that I’m reading more and I FUCKING LOVE TO READ?!?

I don’t know, but IT IS GOOD! So I’m going to try to enjoy it and not worry that there’s something wrong with me. Goes to show how unhealthy I’ve been for so long that when I feel terrific for more than three hours I think maybe the sky is falling.

*****

I picked up my new weighted hula hoop today for more high jinks on the spycams! I also have a bollycardio dvd that we rented which I’ve only gone through once and am looking forward to doing more of. It’s jolly/silly camwatching goodness.

Speaking of camwatching goodness, we enjoyed some fucking yesterday and I hope our voyeurs did, too.

*****

On Friday and Saturday we had a great visit with my sister, brother-in-law and nephews which contributed to my heightened sense of awareness and positivity. Hanging around a three year old and an easily-delighted baby with a huge grin and dimples is like bathing in a clarifying happiness. Music sounds better, everything looks newer and more interesting and mysterious, and I have an excuse to read books aloud that were read to ME when I was little.

And hey, on top of that there is all of this boundless LOVE. On top of just loving those little guys to pieces, the amount of unconditional love I get from them is totally amazing. I’m forced to love myself more just being around them, in part because they do not see flaws but also because I want to always model un-self-conscious confidence to them; they make me love  myself more.

Maybe that’s what’s going on with me lately . . . better brain chemistry. Getting better sleep. Getting rid of the television — maybe having more oxytocin like from being around my nephews and my sister, but also from cuddling Delia and really being TOGETHER in bed instead of just staring at the tube all of the time. Maybe I’m just being flooded with a lot of girl juice: the loving, bonding chemicals, not necessarily the sexy ones.

Cuddling never used to help me fall asleep — it was more something I liked to do for a few minutes BEFORE unsticking bodies and going to sleep on my own side of the bed. Bizarrely enough, I’m actually finally starting to understand how great if feels to fall asleep nestled up to Delia. If I get in her armpit with her arm around me and my nose on her upper tit, I now get an instant jolt of SOMETHING I’ve never had with anybody else. Seriously, it’s some kind of a drug injection that I do think has something to do with oxytocin. Whatever it is, it’s BLISS. Tranquilizing and emotionally/sensually stimulating all at the same time.

It’s still sort of weird and foreign to me so I mostly continue my years-entrenched habit of nestling into my own don’t-touch-me space to sleep, but I think I’m going to try to get more of that business more often. I might need to work on my initiation technique though which consists of awkwardly trying to lift her arm up and demanding she “let me in”.

Christmas Cactus & Others

I want to get lots of things done before 2010 arrives but will probably only be able to manage a couple of them, the most important one being to get ahead on shooting pictures for  our sites. I’d hoped we’d be where we need to be BEFORE this month, but still . . . we’re doing a good job all things considered. Mainly considering that we are only two people and it’s kind of unrealistically bizarre we’ve been doing as much as we have with only two people for seven years. When I hear the number of people other porn companies have working for them I GET REALLY FUCKING JEALOUS. And I also have to just accept that of all the things I want to do, should do, and even NEED to do, I am only ABLE to do a relatively small percentage of them, particularly if I want to maintain any semblance of sanity.

I’d also love to start the year off in better shape: maybe five pounds lighter, a little tighter, and with fewer inches around my middle. I was doing pretty good, but after days of consistent exercise followed by shooting, my muscles are rigid and unhappily torqued with my neck squeezing yuck up to my brain threatening headaches. I should have a standing massage appointment at least once a week to keep my body functioning but unfortunately I can’t afford it so it’s been over a month and I don’t feel so great; my body is annoyed with what I make it do without any assistance or pleasure.

Speaking of pleasure, I started writing an extremely dirty story yesterday, the kind I’m not sure I’ll be able to share, and it made me so insanely excited that I demanded a quickie. I think it’s awesome that I’m able to get worked up, barge in on Delia and tell her, “I’m brushing my teeth — meet me in the bedroom — we need to do it.” AND SHE COMPLIES.

Back in 2001 there were more teasey story-porn pictorials around; I loved them for the buildup and wish we had time to make all (or a lot) of our porn like that.

Here are a couple of 2009 examples from a couple of my favorite web chicks:

Sequoia Redd with Brandi Belle in the Penis Pump Challenge

Poor Cinderella

*****

I’d *love* to do a brain dump here of all the blog-drafts in my head, but I’m starving and trying hard to stop feeling guilty and worried about mistake(s) I/we made. I feel like we don’t have enough time or money to do anything RIGHT, but the truth is we do a lot of things right and fucking up every so often and doing some things half-assed a lot shouldn’t erase all of that. Plus I need to stop kidding myself that perfection is attainable with time and money. It’s not. It never will be. We could have all the time and hired help and money in the world and we’d STILL make mistakes. In fact, we’d probably have the resources to make even more of them with more embarrassing consequences.

Reminding myself: progress, not perfection. Promptly admit when I am wrong. Make amends. Use my own mistakes as a reminder not to judge other people so harshly.