Confectionary Candor

I discovered that for me, polyamory was an avenue I took so that I wouldn’t have to let anyone get inside, get to know me. Poly lacks the depth of a monogamous relationship wherein you know everything about the other in such detail that you hope to god they don’t decide to write a book about it. That’s what I love about monogamy. Knowing that the other has the knowledge to totally embarrass the hell out of you, but won’t.

I was writing the love of my life a letter this morning and came up with a nifty metaphor. It’s been around for a while, but I’m putting my own spin on it.

Monogamy is having your cake and eating it too.

Polyamory is buying a half dozen (give or take) cupcakes—smaller versions of cake.

Great…if you like someone else doing all the cooking for you. A monogamous relationship is being able to combine all the ingredients yourself to make your own cake…only then do you deserve to take a bite of it. Until then…no touchy.

Now, baking a cake from scratch is a pain in the ass, especially if you don’t know what you’re doing. No worries, you’ll have plenty of practice in your life, unless you’re one of those lucky bastards born with the inherent ability to bake.  I digress.

At first, you’ll have no idea what you’re doing. You know, about having to combine the dry ingredients first and so on. You’ll get it down. The first cake you bake will probably taste like ass. But, you don’t give up, you keep trying. If you can’t seem to get it to taste right, you add different ingredients, vary the measurements and such.

Once you learn all the ingredients and effort it takes to make that cake, then you’re ready. There’s the recipe to your relationship. Each one will be different and may need tweaking in certain areas, but you’ll get it. And when you do…YUM! Only then can you have your cake and eat it too. You shouldn’t even be able to smell that goddamn confection let alone eat it until you know how to make the fucking thing. Anything different is just like stealing from the cookie jar (if I may be so bold as to use another food metaphor) and it’s bound to get you a slap on the hand. If you’re a fan of such things, then by all means, steal away. But sooner or later you’ll either get tired of being smacked, or become numb to it—neither of which sounds particularly pleasing to me.

I chose to learn how to bake a long time ago so that I could awaken each day and have a delicious bite of cake in the morning to go with my hot cup of coffee. That and the accompanying, “I love you”, is what makes me happy.

Here’s my problem. It seems someone has switched the sugar with the salt and so when I bake this decadent confectionary, it tastes pretty nasty. I can’t even stomach it and so I don’t feel like baking anymore. Now, who would go and do such an atrocious thing?

I would.

I’d switch the ingredients around—can you imagine paprika in lieu of cinnamon??—and hide the bag of sugar so I wouldn’t be able to find it.

I'm pretty sure that I got tired of baking and worn out from searching for the proper ingredients and so I went for the next best thing:

Good ‘ol polyamory.

Wherein I didn’t have to account for much, because that’s how I fashioned it.  And in deciding to do so, I took a stroll down to the local bakery and ordered a handful of cupcakes…mini versions of cake that I didn’t even have to go through the effort of baking. How easy!!

And I savored them. Taking a nibble here and there.

These little cupcakes tasted good in small, occasional bites, but I wouldn’t want to have some every day. Hell, I wouldn’t want to have some for more than one day a week. And so in this, I discovered something: smaller, shallower relationships—er… I mean cupcakes—don’t make up for the satisfaction of creating one yourself. Yeah they’re cute and they’re fun, but don’t hold the depth of a monogamous…cake—one you’ve had to work at.

Now, where the hell did I put that bag of sugar?

Opinions Are Like Assholes

I feel the need for a little bit of ranting. I haven't done so in a while and feel that this is due.

I'm so fucking sick and tired of all the bashing going on that center on writers. Everyone has an opinion...I get that. And they're entitled to those opinions, but like they say, opinions are like assholes and they all stink. So many people feel the need to bash Stephanie Meyers on her writing career and success...yes...I said SUCCESS, of the Twilight books and it's gotten to a point where I feel the need to express my own opinion on the matter. You people suck! You suck because you're not taking into account how difficult it is to write a  novel. It takes, first of all, commitment. Commitment to sit down and compose something that you know will be hated by others and loved by some. Now, this previous statement supports the right to bash whomever one wants, but I still feel entitled to express my displeasure at how it's done. Let's go back to Stephanie Meyer...not the latest author to receive a bunch of shit from people on her mythology and style (the most recent would go to the author of the Fifty Shades of whatever books. I don't know too much about them, so we'll continue on with Mrs. Meyers.). She has worked hard to support her family by putting her dream of writing out there for other people to get enjoyment out of and she did it. She was successful, folks. And because she took the time to sit down and construct a world out of her head and put it to paper.

Do you know how hard it is to do that?

To sit down and create a world from nothing or, rather, a new concept of something that's already been done (Philip Pullman says it quite nicely here:  http://www.philip-pullman.com/pages/content/index.asp?PageID=107 )  and in addition, to create the characters that will guide the reader on some fantastical journey? Some of you can, I know, but one cannot simply just make up names for these characters, one has to also create a personality for each of these people. That's really hard fucking work. It's difficult to craft characters that stand alone from each other and that a reader can follow and feel a connection to.

Now, I am not squeaky clean here as I've had my share of opinions on certain writers (*ahem* Salinger...what?). But as I've read all the criticism, it's really made me look at my own behavior and change the way I think about things. Yes, I've poked fun at some of the twilight stuff, like this:

...it's funny.

Really, it is. But it's not bashing Mrs. Meyers's writing or even her mythology. It's poking fun at a concept she came up with. Parody and satire will happen, folks. That's a given. My problem isn't with this, it's the blatant bashing of someone's hard work; the blood (paper cuts happen), sweat (90* heat in front of a laptop that emits fifty shades of...heat...), and tears (a writer will cry over many a killed-off character) that go into creating a novel.

I applaud anyone that has the balls to put their shit out there so that douchebags can criticize their efforts.


Writing is fucking HARD work; whether you're writing fantasy, sci-fi, horror, blogs, memoirs...whatever. So all you ass hats that feel the need to judge someone because you don't like a particular piece of literature and endlessly bash someone for their style. You're akin to those fat jackasses that sit on the couch consuming their beer and yelling at the professional athletes on TV because the didn't catch the ball.

All I can say is, let's see you do it. And when you do, don't forget how difficult it was in the beginning.

If There Isn't Any Fine Print ...

So, I’ve spent a great deal of time doing for others and making sure that other people are happy. I realized this week that that includes trying to take advice. And of course with advice, comes opinion and we all know what opinion are like ...  I’ve been fooled by the love goggles many a time. This is how I wound up spending the last 4.5 years in a semi-dazed, alternating, happy/unhappy existence of not knowing who I was. I don’t want to end up there again. I almost did a few weeks ago. I nearly started a relationship wherein it started out with me feeling self-conscious of who I was.

Here’s how that dreadful feeling began. We were at coffee, and I was telling potential suitor #1 that we needed to take some steps back because feelings were developing and it wasn’t going to go anywhere. It was followed by a feeling of sadness and loss, but it felt right. We went on to talk about our fears of this “potential” relationship wherein he expressed a fear that he’d be settling anyway.

Excuse me?

Insert double take here, right? Nope, instead, I played the sympathetic card. The convo continued and this was stated: “I usually prefer more feminine women.”

Excuse me, again?

Did he just say that? It felt like déjà vu and my brain went to the memory of my ex-fiancé who had stated a similar sentiment. Surely you would think that this would motivate me to stick to my guns, but alas, no. I began to wonder if this was a flaw of mine and would I ever find the man of my dreams being the tomboy I was. This is the point where I started to feel uncomfortable for being me. I ignored it, still afraid of being myself.

We ended the night with me giving it a week to be sure and seeing if a date with Suitor #2 would help me decide. He told me some things that every girl wants to hear: “I choose you. I want you.” Ahhh ... the sweet sentiment. He left and I went inside. He called me an hour later, or maybe I called him. We spoke and suddenly, idiotically, I put a gag over the mouth of Reason and decided, fuck it. I’ll take him. The part that was thinking of Suitor #2 went to the corner and sulked.

Things felt glorious for the next 18 hours or so until I went on my daily walk. It was night; the house lights and stars were reflecting on the lake. It was absolutely beautiful. I immediately wished I could share it with Suitor #2.

Wait ...

Didn’t you choose Suitor #1?

Why are you thinking about the other guy and wishing he was with you to share it? Damn.

I woke the next morning panicked. I couldn’t do it. I kept thinking about the expressed sentiment of settling, the femininity statement, and just a gut feeling that it wasn’t right. I told him I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that Intuition said it was all wrong.

So we come to Suitor #2. The one that I couldn’t stop thinking about. He was confused by my sudden decision so we met for coffee. We went for a wonderful, ball-freezing walk ... our energy playing with each other’s ... just enjoying the company of our selves and one another.

The night ended beautifully.

He told me that I was worth waiting for. Not that I wasn’t quite his type. Nope. 

I was worth waiting for.

So, here’s the tough, or not-so-tough, part. There’s something there that borders on magickal, is sincere, honest, and amazing. I can think of no reason to not move forward, save Fear. And Fear is an asshole. He’s like a bully that threatens that any action taken will end in an “unspoken result”. 
It’s come to this:

Fuck Fear. He can kiss my ass. 

When I can’t think of a single reason to say ‘no’ and every reason to say ‘yes’, then I know my answer.

Train Station

Love can hurt, blind, and steal.

The theft of sight, replaced with zeal.

You can run,

Or embrace.

Either way, it’s in your face.

Taunting you like a child,

‘Til you relent and just go wild.

Plans are made.

Promises broke.

In hindsight, it’s all a joke.

And so you pack your bags and go,

And wait in pain for the next to show.

My Door

There is a door. It’s my door.


On the other side is my complete happiness. I can hear it calling to me.

It’s a beautiful door; one I’ve hand-carved. It took me a long time to get it to look this ornate.


I’ve spent many years just looking at the door and tracing and retracing the patterns itched into it.


The problem is, a long time ago, someone put a lock on it-could have been me.


I’ve been trying to open it, but haven’t been able to.


I have the wrong set of keys. None of them could quite turn the lock. I tried jiggling the handle and putting the keys in backwards. There were even times when I tried filing the edges of some of those keys to get them to fit, but I only managed to mess up the keys instead.


So I’m left standing in front of a door that has an enormous lock on it and a ring full of keys that won’t open it.


I think I’m going to drop those keys and take a step toward the door and I’m not entirely sure, but mostly sure, that when I try the knob, it won’t be locked anymore.