I stayed up all night working, loving being able to swear and scream in frustration at three in the morning with nobody in the house / my workplace to disturb or distress.
I need that. ALL NIGHT. Loooooooong uninterrupted invisible stretches to finally see progress and the way things are falling into place. Normal-people schedules don’t work for me; as soon as I finally start to really get into gear, then it’s time to stop. I’m done with that bullshit. How many years do I have to say that before I hear myself and believe it?
For a hot and fast dinner at six-ish in the morning I got a sausage McGriddle and decaf and a plain sausage biscuit that I brought home to eat in bed.
And then I couldn’t go to sleep without masturbating. Morning, mid-day, before sleep.
I’m excited to see what I’ll accomplish alone in the next few days before Delia and I spend Christmas together.
Hi. My name is Trixie!
You might perceive this as my condescending face . . .
. . . but really it is my “I have chocolate on my shirt” exasperated-with-myself face.
I have thick glasses . . . and big natural boobs!
Some people like my boobs and even think I am a nice lady.
They give my boobs one thumb up . . .
. . . sometimes two thumbs up, but most individuals only have one (cough) “thumb”.
You might think this face is reserved for corny heard-it-all-before penis euphemisms . . .
. . . but I don’t mind that so much. This is actually how I feel when people give me compliments. I have to try not to look that way, instead being gracious and self-confident rather than off-putting and strange.
It’s important to be a nice lady when you’re sort of just a regular average-to-comical-looking person making money with your boobs and stuff on the internet. Make people feel happy and good. That means smiling in a genuine fashion and being relaxed and not hurrying from one expression to another. It also means making pictures brighter and saturated with fleshy warm colors. But I don’t always have time for that (like today), or for being a nice relaxed simple booby lady with no complaints or complications. Or ghastly wrinkles on her neck (chocolate on shirt helps draw eye away from crepey turkey wattles . . . but not as much as boobs / not wearing a shirt at all).
I don’t really believe I’m that much of a lady. It’s all a bullshit charade (and boobs).
Okay, it’s not ALL a bullshit charade. But a lot of it is an illusion.
posture head-tilts self-censoring shiny blonde (fake) hair BOOBS eagerness-to-please responsive facials & head nods raised eyebrows tiny smirks omg this is exhausting pretty little dresses fortunately I don’t have to work at loving cock
My teeth are crooked! I think crooked teeth are cute: charming, disarming and natural.
When we show our crooked teeth that makes you feel like you can trust us and we could never ever hurt you. We’re goofy! Shy! Quick to roll over and show our bellies! But if you really look at any still version of a smile it’s just a scary grimace of bared teeth.
Today on the train I looked down at a really pretty lady driving in her car and she looked up at me and our eyes locked and I immediately uncontrollably blushed and smiled/grimaced. And she smiled back (with straight teeth and lipstick) and it made me so happy that I don’t care if any of it is fake or scared monkey business.
I don’t know how she kept driving straight without crashing, it felt like she looked at me that long; it was like an old movie (or Pulp Fiction) where the people don’t have to look at the road and they’re just very beautiful and the cars drive themselves while they engage with their passengers. I guess I was like the poor girl on the train in the movie who the pretty lady decides is the one she can seduce into killing her husband for insurance money, promising me we’ll make off for Mexico and live happily ever after in the sun eating tortillas with butter made from goat milk. Except I failed to fact check whether goat milk butter is any good or a suitable product for home-making and for the rest of my life in prison I have nightmare visions of rancid goat butter escalating into a severed goat head on a platter with those gross cooked goat eyeballs gleaming death at me.
The pretty lady was like a cross between Sofia Vergara and Tousled Elegance. And she didn’t seem at all like a film noir femme fatale . . . her smile was so pretty I felt like I didn’t even deserve to have her spend that much time looking at me. Which is exactly why if she’d been wearing a trench coat waiting for me at the train station I would have gone with her and done ANYTHING SHE WANTED. The muscles in her face and neck were so naturally relaxed, she couldn’t possibly do me or anybody any harm.
Gloomy bright grey morning light
The sun came out screaming grey white & blue behind the pecker poles.
Fall flavors of cocoa, peppermint, banana . . . KINDLE!
I’ve been feeling a little regretful about renewing the lease on our Seattle apartment, thinking we could have our separate work spaces closer together here in town for a lower price. Spending this much time alone isn’t turning out to be as magical and productive for me as I imagined it could be.
Then again, I’m dealing with a number of issues. Like today I may have a hangover from a buzzy manic spell & adrenaline rush yesterday. The good news is I finally have a real appointment with a mental health professional for next week, which is a huge step in the right direction.
When asked if I have a preference for a male or female doctor, it was really hard to not say “male”. But I bit my tongue and just said, “no” (but that I’d prefer somebody who is sex positive and progressive). I’m pretty apprehensive about talking to women because I think they’re more judgmental of people like me. And feeling (mis)judged could seriously exacerbate my problems right now.
So I’m scheduled to see a woman next week. I think she was probably just the doc with the earliest available appointment.
It’s okay, though. I have no real reason to be prejudiced against her and am just going to expect the best. And if it isn’t the best, I’ll be one step closer to finding someone better, and may still get some of the help/relief I need regardless. She’s from Michigan (so’s my wife, and I actually tend to love people from those parts of the country) and looks really nice in her picture, which of course is a fucked-up way to judge somebody but is making it easier for me to write pleasant stories in my head about how well we’ll get along and how understanding and kind and helpful and patient and smart and tolerant she’ll be.
She has a ministerial Lutheran look, which, in my book, is a good thing that puts me at ease.