Martini Honest.

I worked a ridiculous week and haven’t eaten in 3 days. I lose my appetite when I’m frustrated and stressed out. Food feels foreign in my mouth and I’m tied into a lovely, sexually frustrated, square knot. Running isn’t helping and the tendonitis in my elbow is derailing my workouts, so I have too much idle time on my hands in the evening after my Dumpling is in bed.

I dug out my favorite olives and the Bombay gin I picked up on my way home. I had to find the step stool to dig the shaker out from the back of the top shelf and filled it with ice.

Ahhhh. If serving gave me anything, it’s a mean set of bartending skills. I make a perfect dirty martini. So perfect that I hate to order one because they’re never just right. I like it shaken to hell and gone, in a chilled glass. Unfortunately, I broke mine… so I went ahead and poured it in a water glass.

Yeah. Let me tell you how hard a double decker martini hits you on an exhausted AND empty stomach. Well… I would… if I had a very clear recollection. I only know one thing for certain.

I sent that one text that none of us want to see that we’ve sent. Gahhh.


No response either. Fuckkkkkk…… That’s just awesome.

Who am I fooling though… it isn’t the first time and I’d love to promise it won’t happen again but I love martinis too and I’m craving him so much I can’t eat or sleep. Feeling like a damn teenager with a debilitating crush on my biggest fantasy man has a way of inspiring inappropriate snapchats and outright invitations when you add a little gin to the mix.

Damn it.




One of the main tenets of conquering addiction is admitting that you are powerless over it. Submission offers the promise of relief from the suffering.

Except when it comes to Mr. McHotstuff.

I’m down with submitting but more along the lines of scratching this miserable itch than in hopes of getting him out of my system. Everywhere else I look, there’s a willing man smiling back at me…. all except the one I want so badly.

So I’ve given up. I’m not even trying to hate him anymore. It’s futile to try to ignore how beautiful he is. Something shifts when you don’t fight it anymore and I’m at least sleeping again. I’m searching for the silver lining but honestly I just want to sit down and cry.

I wish I could unknow this. I wish I could wash this need off. I catch myself wishing on flower petals and stars, sending my biggest wish up for help.

Because most of all, I wish he were mine.


I’ve distanced myself from my friends and haven’t talked to my family in a while. I’m trying to put myself back together again but it seems that I left a few pieces in his pockets.

I make a point to look on the bright side and this has taught me a lot about myself. I’m learning to be kinder to the parts of me I don’t like, and this incredible man has taught me to speak up a little and say the hard things out loud, right to his pretty face. Instead of crying about it and resenting him, I look him deadass in the eyes and say exactly what I want.

J- I love you, but stop being so pretty. You’re hurting me.

He blushes…. and I’m stuck in wet panties again. Good Lord.

I’m admitting that I’m powerless over this wretched situation and breathing through the frustration of it all, but my God… somebody help a girl out.

I’m ready to bribe his friends to help me, some of whom are reading this. You know who you are. Name your price. 🙂

I’ve sufficiently ghosted every last Tinderboy and hung up my heels. I’m not wasting anyone’s time until I’m coming from an available point of view, and I don’t know a time I was less available. I’m not about to spread my suffering around, so I’m getting the garden weeded and some booties knit, instead.

Dirt and yarn, y’all. There’s magic in both that can cure what ails you.

I hope.