I’m forever disappointed in myself when I’m silenced by someone’s judgements. It’s kinda-sorta my achilles heel, even more so than the man I adore. I’m a nice person, and try as I might, I do still feel bad when people have unkind things to say or feel about me.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but I’ll dodge hateful words far more intently.

We’ve had a bit of a month around this household, and there have been some epic highs and lows in the space of a few weeks. Communication has been at an all time high, which makes even the worst circumstances, tolerable. I treasure the little family I’ve made, and love that our home is a peaceful escape from the harsh reality of adulthood.

Out in the big bad world, things aren’t always so rosy, people aren’t always nice and communication seems to be a dying art. Talking shit has taken the place of directly confronting a painful situation and loyalty is more a tattoo than character trait anymore.

I’m very content being single, as a result. I tried dating. I really did. I have absolutely no desire to do it again. I can’t deal with the technology aspect of it nowadays. They all ask for selfies. They all send dick pics. Yes, ALL. The “Good morning, beautiful” text messages don’t totally suck, but it’s all just so pathetically generic. I can’t. It’s not even remotely tempting.

I share it here because it’s too damn funny not to and this is my journal. If you’re coming here out of malice to read up on all my bad times, you’d better buckle up and hang on. I’m sure there will be more. Oh and… I honestly strive to not give a fuck about anyone’s opinion anymore. That’s the real beauty of growing into myself. I make mistakes regularly and honestly feel bad about them, or I don’t. The only difference between you and I, is that I write about personal shit where strangers like to read about it. I can’t say I understand it either, but coming here to read is most definitely a personal choice.


I’m not friends with any of my exes on social media. Once we’re done, I’m done. I don’t want to see what he’s eating for dinner, who his new lady is, etc. I’m not one to collect mistakes. Once he’s irrelevant, I limit him to good old fashioned texts or phone calls. No pictures of his face, thanks. I’m all set.

Yet a handful of them still read my blog. I find it ironic and simultaneously hilarious. I have an excellent program that lets me track their visits here, and I shake my head and laugh every time a familiar name pops up.

But every now and then, it silences me… and I retreat back into myself after feeling judged.


For a minute.

Because I’ve worked too goddamn hard to get where I am today, and I am SO proud of the woman I’ve become. I single-handedly run my own household as a single mother, and help run a business doing what I love: creating. I have achieved a certain amount of freedom as a result of my own hard work and raw determination. I’m working harder to be stronger, physically and mentally. I take time to read and heyyyy there reader…. I do a little writing to clear the cobwebs from my head and heart. The stuff I can’t work out in my garden by playing in the dirt- I share here. I am unapologetically vulnerable and if you’d like to pass judgement or criticize me for it, well… that says a whole lot more about you than it does about me.



He grinned and asked me for the millionth time:

A- So what’s a vanity appointment?

I hadn’t planned on him clinging to this term so tenaciously and was fresh out of responses or quick evasion. There are times I just want to lay my head down and cry these annoying feelings, away.

Or level him with the truth to the point that he stops making it so much harder for me.

J- Oh just another appointment designed to make me feel better, because I’m stupid in love with you and think I might die from the frustration.

Ok, maybe honesty is not the best policy.


I’ve waxed, painted, shaved, sweated and augmented this body of mine to the point of no return. My beautiful Songbird is going to bleach him out of my hair later today. I have some ridiculous spider-leg-like eyelash extensions that have given me an incredible break from the daily grind of eyeliner and I’ve made peace with my body aching from the exercise that soothes the misery the absence of his body, creates.

A- So what do you do for a vanity appointment?

J- Shhh….. don’t worry about it. It’s not important.

A- Gynecologist?

J- Umm, that’s not vanity, that’s necessity.

A- Massage? Hair?

J- That’s next week.

I’m not kidding. My self care movement is more self-soothing than pampering. I’m not spoiling myself, I’m looking for any and everything that might help ease this overwhelming burden.

Insanity is the act of doing the same thing twice and expecting different results. I surpassed insanity a few months ago. I’m a glutton for punishment and I absolutely should not see him. But I do.

I tried yoga last week, and just felt fat and inflexible. Not soothed and with far too much quiet time to obsess over the sexual highlight reel of him and I. Not good. No more yoga, thankyouverymuch.

I tried going to bed early to quiet the urge to text him, only to wake up at 2 in the morning, with a head full of words and paralyzed hands. Constantly tempted to write him into my sheets, with my mother in my head:

M- Manifest what you want. You need to remember who you are. You’re a powerful woman and you need to focus on that and it’ll get easier.

In light of all the starving children, abused animals and current political dumpster fire, it seems awfully shallow to beg the universe for a man.

But….I’ve had some mortifyingly honest moments with him. I have begged and I’m not at all ashamed to admit it, nor do I believe for a second that it won’t happen again.

I sat across from him and his freshly shaved neck, my mouth dry and my panties…. not. Doing my best to not make eye contact while asking about his week. Making small talk and avoiding the crackling awareness between the two of us. Not trusting myself to speak while making a concentrated effort to breathe through my mouth because he smells so good I want to die a little. My train of thought has derailed. I laugh nervously. I don’t know who this lady is, but she’s beyond reach. I don’t trust her to speak.

Looking at him is like staring at the sun because he’s so pretty it hurts. Spending time with him makes me sympathetic to drug addicts. I get it. As bad as the fallout hurts, I keep going back for another fix. He knows it. It’s written all over my face and it’s silently acknowledged. I’m ignoring the fact that he told me he’s talking to someone else because ignorance is so much more blissful than the painful truth.

Just call me Captain Obvious of I-Don’t-Want-To-Think-About-That Island. I’ll be over here sipping my delusional cocktail, ignoring the quickly approaching Tsunami.

Oh and painting myself better… one vanity appointment at a time.