Let's tear the roof off the sucka!

Dearest St. Rita,

I’m not sure what’s going on, however, it appears to me you’ve conspired with someone to put me through some kind of serious changes as of late that may rival those of dear Job. I’m not complaining mind you, as you know, I’m all about the peeling back the layers and undergoing personal transformation even if it includes breaking out in hives or boils. I just wasn’t counting on feeling and looking like I’m five once again—quite literally.

It seems somehow, unbeknownst to me, I have managed to let myself get run down enough to get a case of shingles. This is rather odd, as I’m neither in any way stressed out nor have I been ill. So the answer to the cause is a bit of a mystery. However, I have a spot on my abdomen almost exactly between the pubic mound and my navel and a spot on inner portion of my left forearm.

When I called my friend M. the other night to let her know that I’d finished up the greeting cards I was making her we found our way to the subject and I told her about the situation. She expressed that her feeling was there’s an underlying energetic cause for them, I told her I was inclined to agree given I’d been having other issues as well for the past couple of weeks—one of them being my gallbladder.

After I got off the phone with M., I pulled out my copy of Heal Your Body by Louise Hay and looked up both gallbladder (gallstones) and shingles (and associated symptoms) and here is what she has to say about the energetic associations of each.

Gallstones
Cause: Bitterness, Hard thoughts. Condemning. Pride
Affirmation: There is joyous release of the past. Life is sweet, and so am I

Shingles
Cause: Waiting for the other shoe to drop. Fear and Tension. Too sensitive
Affirmation: I am relaxed and peaceful because I trust the process of life. All is well in my world.

Aches (symptom of Shingles)
Cause: Longing for love. Longing to be held.
Affirmation: I love and approve of myself. I am loving and lovable.

Itching (symptom of Shingles)
Cause: Desires that go against the grain. Unsatisfied. Remorse. Itching to get out or get away.
Affirmation: I am at peace just were I am. I accept my good. Knowing all my needs and desires will be fulfilled.

Issues with the Abdomen
Represents: Fear. Stopping the Process
Affirmation: I trust the process of life. I am safe.

Issues with the Arms
Represents: The capacity and ability to hold the experiences of life.
Affirmation: I lovingly hold and embrace my experiences with ease and with joy.

Issues on the Left Side of the Body.
Represents: Receptivity, taking in, feminine energy, women, the mother [creativity]
Affirmation: My feminine energy is beautifully balanced.

Oh wow, I thought as I set the book down on my desk after reading through each of the entries and then thought, what the f*ck is going on?

As I sat and considered the situation further, the one thing that popped out at me was the issue in regard to the gallbladder (“bitterness, hard thoughts. condemning. pride”). If there is one (or several) thing(s) that resonate(s) with me presently, it’s all of the things Louise L. Hay attributes to gallbladder dysfunction. As I find myself in a place where I continue to think hard thoughts and that’s in regard to MMRFRO. Oh how I wish I could sit here and type that I’ve come to a fundamental place of forgiveness as to what happened between the two of us. However, if I examine my feelings with rigorous honesty, I’m no where close to forgiving D. for what happened. Which I’m sure in no part leads to the manifestation of the shingles, particularly the associated aches. It doesn’t take Freud to analyze that one.

As I was talking with M. again last night, we once again began to discuss my current condition of itchiness and aches. While we were talking about it M. pulled out her copy of Heal Your Body and we began to process the situation in tandem.

I mentioned that the “waiting for the other shoe to drop” and “fear and tension” aspects kind of make sense as I have a great deal going on which would lead to such feelings. However, I told M. the strangest thing is that I don’t feel the typical physical manifestations of stress such as raised blood pressure, body tension and sweaty palms, etc.

“But that doesn’t mean you’re not feeling the effects on an energetic level.” M. countered. “And hello, you’re no doubt sitting in your apartment anticipating the arrival of spring and all of the noise from the air conditioning units above you that haven’t been fixed.”

“Uh yeah.” I chuckled, “I totally forgot about that.”

“Hello! Just because you’re not consciously thinking about it doesn’t me your body is not reacting to it.” M. laughed as well.

“I just thought of something else.” I offered M.

“And what is that?” she asked.

“Well I have had this idea for a novel gestating for about a year now and I recently decided that I want to sit down and begin to write it. So I’m working with a couple of books to get myself motivated and in gear to write it.” I said.

“Sounds exciting!” M. replied.

“It is.” I continued, “But here’s the funny part. The first night I discovered the shingles was last Sunday evening right after I got done completing the first writing exercises in the one book that I’m using.”

“Okay. That’s classic!” laughed M. “Have you ever really wanted to do something but when you were just close enough to taste it there is an event or circumstance that throws you off course?”

I laughed and said, “Uh no. That’s NEVER happened to me!”

“Good.” M. chuckled, “Nice to know it’s only me.”

“Yes. Ironic isn’t it…” I followed up with M., “I’m beginning to undertake a creative process that’s very personal and requires a great deal of proverbial nerve and what happens? My fears and insecurities manifest themselves in a nerve-related ailment.”

“Bingo!” M. chuckled, “As I said, classic!”

I got the most curious hit to the biddy biddy blog the other day. It was from near Grand Isle, Vermont and what are two towns on the island? North and South Hero. I had to laugh as one of the books that I’m using in my efforts to write my first novel—The Writer’s Journey. Which is about what? The hero’s journey.

I think the Universe it trying to tell me something.

Please give a hug to Mr. Wilde for me!

Let Er Be

Dear Mr. Thompson,

I hope this finds you well. Back in the fall, I caught the screen adaptation of your novel The Rum Dairy and as a result I have become quite fascinated with you and your work. I’ve not had a chance to pick up TRD and read it, but it’s on the list. And let me say, you were quite a hottie in your younger day—but I digress.

While I was having brunch New Year’s day with my friend R., as always seems to happen, we drifted to the subject of relationships and romance. She often shares with me her experiences with her significant other and the various challenges associated with being in a long-term relationship. And I, on the other hand, share about all of my crazy dating adventures as a single gay male which often include my exploits on Craigslist.

However, with our latest conversation, it wasn’t so much my questionable travels through the land of Craigslist hookups that we discussed, but more, the frustrations I’ve experienced with dating through the past several years. I shared with R., as I’ve written about in letters in this blog, something interesting I’ve recently discovered about the men who’ve I gotten to know who are currently (or have been) married. The fact that most, if not all, of these men don’t seem to be filled with the profound self-loathing that many gay men carry and subject themselves (and each other) to.

I went on to further explain that through my experience I’ve discovered there’s an additional circumstance which often develops with gay guys I’ve met who are filled with the typical self-loathing. The situation is that such guys tend to be filled with internalized homophobia as well and will often project their internalized homophobia onto others.

MMRFRO is a perfect example of just such a guy.

He was (and no doubt) still is filled to the brim with self-loathing. Some of it, I’m sure associated with his sexuality, but much of it related to his family of origin and the various circumstances related to his upbringing. And I can say with near certainty that D. is also riddled with internalized homophobia which colors all of his relationships—not only those of a romantic nature. It’s sad really.

But in stark contrast to MMRFRO, I have met several guys over the past couple of years in whom there is a refreshing absence of self-loathing and homophobia.  In fact, from what I can tell they live their lives in a manner that is quite the opposite. Instead of thinking themselves victims of circumstances and situations, they grab life by the proverbial balls and live it to the fullest never considering themselves to be less than or undeserving of such.

It’s truly an inspiration.

As I explained this to R she said, “That’s kind of curious isn’t it? Since most of these guys considered themselves heterosexual for most of their lives, that’s how they formed an identity as an adult.”

“Exactly!” I exclaimed, “And I tell you, not one of these guys, from what I can tell are nearly as screwed up and the number of openly gay men with whom I’ve tried to form a long-term connection.”

“I wonder why this is?” speculated R.

“The only thing I can figure…” I began to offer, “Is that gay men hear such negative messages from nearly the moment of birth with regard to being gay. I can only assume it takes its toll on us in so many ways. It’s taken me years to come to terms with being gay and I continue to have moments of feeling a lack of self-worth due to my sexuality.”

“Wow, that kinda sucks!” R chuckled.

“You’re telling me!” I laughed in return.

Recently I had a minor revelation around an ancillary topic to this and it came from none-other than the biddy biddy blog itself. I was checking the stats the other day and I got a hit from a server name “Prime Directive”. Which lead me to considering ye olde Star Trek universe and the prime directive of such which is “that there can be no interference with the internal development of alien civilizations.”

Now if one takes that concept and adapts it to interpersonal relationships, the prime directive in that context would state there is to be no interference with the internal development of another sentient being. Or in other words, the personal growth of any person cannot be coerced in any way by another. Like the fear and self-loathing I find in many of my gay brethren, this is a difficult subject for me as well.

Because dear Hunter, one of the prime motivators for me due to my personality type is not only to know myself as well as I might and grow as a result. But also I wish to assist others in knowing themselves and to assist them in whatever way possible toward their own personal growth. However, there is a catch in regard to this desire, as there always seems to be one.

And the catch is this; any individual can only grow at his or her own rate. No one, and I mean no one, including me can facilitate a faster rate of growth. This for me at times can be extremely frustrating as I’ve had moments of accelerated growth and very profound healing and would like to assist others in achieving something similar. However, I have to constantly remind myself that even though individuals will often claim they want to change/heal they really have little or no desire to do so.

Instead they would rather stay mired in dysfunction and continue to view themselves as victims.

In that vein, R. shared an amusing story with me in regard to a circumstance between she and her significant other. She tried to point out to him a few things she observed he was doing that might have been less than optimal for him to achieve a certain financial goals he’s set for himself. She mentioned that he got very defensive and the conversation escalated into a heated disagreement. They managed to work through the situation and at the end of the conversation he said, “I know it must be extremely difficult for you to see something that’s perfectly obvious to you and I’m not getting it. But I have to get it in my own time and my own way.”

After R. shared that with me I said, “I totally understand that. However, for me it’s extremely difficult for me to watch someone I care about continually undermine or hurt themselves.”

“I know.” replied R. “At times it’s so difficult to just let it be. Isn’t it?”

Okay Mr. Thompson, it’s time for me to get on with the rest of the day and let things be.

I don't even know who I am anymore...

Dearest Mr. Dickens,

As promised by my dear friend Weatherbug, it indeed was a far more beautiful day today than yester proved to be. Not that I got a chance to get out into it. You see, I’ve been working all day on the New Year’s card I send to all friends, family and select new acquaintances to arrive the day after li’l baby New Year pops his load—so to speak. But I’m not complaining mind you, I truly love getting into the creative head space and can sit in front of the computer for hours manipulating bits and bytes into something meaningful and pleasing to the eye.

However, I decided to take a break from twiddling in Photoshop to rip off the promised letter to you to wrap up the cosmically (and comically) twisted tale of Xmas present of one Ero Ghoti.

On Boxing Day as I was preparing to write my initial letter to you, I decided to review the events of the past several days and pieced together the disparate clues to see if there might be any quantum connections. As I once again opened the email string between G. and I from two days prior, I was struck by context clues missed in both photos that immediately elicited a serious case of chicken skin upon my person.

As I looked at the photograph of the erect member he sent, I noticed something curious; the filename of the photo was “Up”. Up? I thought, that’s a queer name for a photo of an erect penis. As I looked closer at the other photo G. had sent me (the exterior of a house with the file name “new roof”) I noticed something rather curious about that photo as well. The photo revealed a stack of shingles placed beside a garage with two vehicles in view—a Saab coupe (silver) and a Toyota Tundra pickup (black). The Tundra was the identical twin of a truck that was purchased by my brother-in-law and picked up in Old Towne by one and the same the very day G. sent me the email with Xmas wishes. It was a surprise to all when he and my sis pulled up in it on Xmas day.

Okay, that’s f*ckin’ weird I thought while scrutinizing the photo a little closer. Who the f*ck is this guy and what’s the deeper connection here? I thought as I probed the image further for clues. As I looked at the stack of shingles, a chill arrived up my spine to accompany my chicken skin on this particular adventure through the looking glass. A name repeated like a quilt pattern on the stack of shingles, “Landmark”. Why did this particular name cause my subcon to put the pedal to the metal and work ever harder to unravel the quantum threads of this apparent cosmic Gordian knot?

Landmark is an area of Alexandria, VA where I grew up as a wee thing. This is a fact that I shared with the gentleman who I spent the evening with last Sunday. The very same gentleman I mentioned in a letter to Alan Turing recently that I wrote concerning the unusual hits to the biddy-biddy-blog and their quantum connections to a letter I recently sent MMRFRO. Ummm, okay it looks like we’re getting warmer I thought as I made this connection. But there’s got to be more to this. What’s the connection between the exterior of the house and the photo with the file name “Up” I considered at greater length. Suddenly a thought bubbled up from my subcon, there is a movie entitled “Up!” and you wrote a letter to D. about it in this blog. As I pulled up the letter and began to re-read my own binary-based ramblings, the Red Queen suddenly appeared next to me at my computer table, bent ever so close to my ear and purred softly like a kitten, “Penny for your thoughts…”

As I read through the aforementioned letter, what I found at the end make me jump with a start rivaling that of the appearance of the Red Queen at my side. I wrote the letter to D. shortly after I had seen the movie and relayed to him my impressions of the film. I shared thoughts of the technical aspects as well as the story and the various themes that resonated with me as I watched it. But it was in the last paragraph (which follows) that a ghost of summer past met headlong with a ghost of Xmas present and my head began to spin.

Then why do I cling? How I wish I could answer that question with something other than I fell in love with you. And as you said once about how your attempts to keep up with my non-stop madness should count for something. Shouldn’t the fact that I fell in love with you count for something?

In the letter I recently drafted and sent to MMRFRO, one of the things I mentioned to him is that although I failed to mention it to him during the time he was speaking with me, he did indeed get extra points for attempting to keep up. I also let him know that he did better than most—for a while anyway. And while I didn’t say it as directly as I did in the cyber-letter I wrote him in 2009, I also told him that I grew to love him. But as I’ve thought of the letter in retrospect one of the things that I wished I’d have said is doesn’t the fact that I fell in love with you count for something? Anything?

Apparently not.

Okay now, if all of that’s not woo-woo-worthy enough I got a rather odd hit to the b-b-blog on Monday when I was writing you the initial letter you received. As I was composing the letter which included the story of a hooking up experience I had in Maine shortly after meeting D. I got a hit from where? New Hampshire. And from where in N.H. did the hit originate? Smack dab in the middle of Route 1 very near a campground named “Tidewater Campground” near the city of Hampton. Why was I amused? There’s a Route 1 in Alexandria, VA near where I grew up, and there is a city in VA name Hampton in an area of the state known as “tidewater”.  And what did I reference in my recently letter to D. but the Old Man of the Mountain. Which is where? You guessed it, northern New Hampshire.

OMG! I nearly forgot I got the funniest push from Urban Dictionary today as their word of the day: ghost paranoia. What makes it even funnier is earlier I walked back into the bedroom shortly after having left it to make dinner only to discover a ring laying on the floor that I swear wasn’t laying on the floor when I walked out of the room after meditating and before starting to make dinner. Either it jumped by itself or…

How much longer is the universe going to toy with me?

Is that a broom b/w your legs or RU just happy 2C me?

Dear Mr. Dickens,

I hope this finds you well. ‘Twas a rather dreary day here in the nation’s capital today but my weather bug shares with me that there is the promise of sun tomorrow (well at least a few peeks here and there through clouds scheduled to pass over through most of the day). It was the kind of day that would have been perfect to lounge in bed and taste the sweet lips of a lover (or two <g>) as it was far too beastly to do anything other.

Let’s see, to continue my twisted tale of quantum connections I suppose is what’s in order with this letter. So let me proceed with such.

Shortly after I received the keyword hit “brokeback mountain bondage”, I received an email from the gentleman G. with whom I’ve been doing the Lido Shuffle for a year plus now. I had just shut down the slate and was about to ready myself for bed after working on a few writing exercises. The message was to wish me a merry Xmas and it included two photos (one of an erect member [I assume his] and one of an exterior of a house [again, I assume his]). Due to my annoyance of having received yet another pic of a penis from G., I missed a couple of context clues hidden in the photos (more on this later), and merely responded with the curt response of “One word. Speechless.” and wished him a merry Xmas as well put the Xoom and Droid X on silent and rolled over hoping to find myself quickly embraced in the arms of Morpheus.

I was kicked out of R.E.M. at approximately 2 a.m for whatever reason and noticed the Xoom was blinking to let me know that I’d received a message. I removed it from its charging cradle, pressed the on button to bring it to life and noticed there was a message from G. that had been dispatched shortly after midnight. In this message, he pondered as to how a gentleman as my self, with such above average skills in the use of language, might be left speechless. He included a photo which was of a vintage advertisement for Coca-Cola that included Santa holding said beverage along with an address book, his list of those presumably having been nice on his desk, and on the floor next to him a globe of the world. While this image piqued my interest, I rolled over and attempted to go back to sleep after padding to the bathroom to relieve the call of nature since I was awake.

At approximately 5 a.m. I was once again awakened, this time to the obvious need to heed the call of nature. As I jumped back into the bed and pulled the covers about my head thoughts of the image of Santa returned to my consciousness once again. I was curiously drawn to this image because of the soda in his hand. This odd fascination with Santa’s beverage was due to the fact that in the late spring I’d come upon a personal ad posted by MMRFRO while cruising ads on OkayCupid. In his ad, D. extrapolates that he’s a simple man due to his love of mac & cheese and Pepsi. But what I found evermore curious about the photo was the file name “5V”. Okay, that makes absolutely no sense, I thought as I considered the photo. However, my subcon kicked in and made a quick connection to the tarot and the number five. “I wonder if 5(V) is the Hierophant?” I wondered aloud following the lead of my subcon. I quickly pulled a book from a shelf of the barrister bookcase next to the bed and confirmed that yes, indeed the Hierophant is number V in the major arcana.

According to The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Tarot, the book I referenced, the Hierophant is all about the lure of conformity. The card also represents education and connection with one’s community. He is the one who teaches the tribes how to connect and communicate through a common understanding, whether it is language, spirituality, or commerce. The underlying idea is the social evolution precipitated by both individuals and groups in combined efforts.

With this in mind, I sat down the morning of  Xmas eve before heading down my mother’s to draft a quick response to G. While I was hoping to find a tarot card with Santa as the Hierophant, I was unable to do so. However, as I did the google search hoping to find such an image, I came upon a card from a deck I own, The Alchemical Tarot Renewed.  I quickly scanned both the front and back of the card and drafted a response to G. that included the following, “And the heat is rising with the last message as we’re a little closer to the requested re-mix via Kaskade and dear Haley. We may get there yet.” I attached the photos that I’d scanned of the cards (The front with the file name “santa_is_that_U” and the back with the file name of “on_the_way_2_six”).

Shortly thereafter the remix was revealed.

At 14:58 on Xmas Eve I received a hit to the biddy-biddy-blog with the keyword “ghosts near ghoti”. When I initially checked my stats that afternoon, saw the keyword combination and quickly checked the location of the hit, I laughed from obviousness of the context in regard to recent posts concerning spooks, etc. However, it wasn’t until I later did a deeper geolocate on the hit that I nearly shat a Xmas twinkie (or two) out my arse. The hit originated in Mumbai, on a thoroughfare named “Red Cross Street” and across from the “Israel Building.” I began to hear Rod Serlings voice in my head as I viewed the screen. The reason? Earlier in the week when I met with the gentleman who is my virtual doppelganger by way of having the same first initials and last name, he mentioned Clara Barton (the founder of the Red Cross) in a conversation, and my friend J. is currently residing in Israel. But it was with the next discovery I nearly fell off my chair laughing.

The keyword search hit the following letter that I’d written to St. Rita concerning a conversation I’d had with a grocery clerk at the Safeway nearby regarding a near death experience he’d had many years ago. The reason I laughed at this hit? The letter was entitled “Don’t shoot the messenger” and the graphic that I created to go with the message included the text “Bang! Bang! I Got Mine”. The very same phrase that I’d used as a file name for a photo that I sent G. during an email exchange several weeks ago regarding our mutual interest in target shooting.

Believe it or not the quantum threads wind even tighter around the axis mundi with this one. But once again, I need to redirect and concentrate efforts on other tasks. However, I promise I will complete this tale tomorrow.

Meanwhile, I ran into a clerk at the very same Safeway mentioned earlier who totally trips my gaydar. He’s a gentleman from Uruguay that has the cutest face, sweetest accent, the most divine alabaster skin, and darkest ebony eyes I’ve ever seen. Yesterday as we were finishing up the transaction he inquired as to whether I needed assistance with my bags. I jokingly replied, “I’m hoofing it. I doubt you’d want to carry these all the way back to my apartment.”

He shot me the sweetest smile and said, “If it were after five, perhaps I’d be able to do so?”

Somewhat thrown I replied, “There you go!” as I grabbed my cart and thanked him. Of course the thought, F*ck yeah! I’ll be back at 5 screamed loudly in my head the entire time.

 Maybe it’ll happen yet…

Nice hat!

Dearest Mr. Dickens,

I hope this finds you well and enjoying Boxing Day where ever it is that you find yourself these days. I have to tell you Charles—and I hope you don’t mind if I call you such—I feel a wee bit as though I may be the long lost funny uncle of your dearest misanthrope reformed, Ebenezer Scrooge. Why do I share this rather odd statement with you? It appears I’ve been visited by few cyber-ghosts over the Xmas holiday. However, I’ve yet to discern the nature of these spirits and whether they be clarions calling from the past, a key to the present, or portents of the future.

Given your expertise with such spectral anomalies perhaps you can shed a little light on the subject?

There have been a few rather odd and haunting hits via keyword searches to the biddy-biddy-blog over the past several days which have me wondering WTF? and if I might have a ghost protocol of my own brewing. Just hope I’m able to duck and cover before any semtex lurking under my ass is detonated.  But I digress.

It started on Friday evening at 18:46 with a cybernaut surfing onto the blog with the search term “brokeback mountain bondage”. A combination in itself that is rather unusual, however, it’s the associated quantum connections and context of deeper meaning to moi which makes the hit ever more curious. Let me see if I might engage my virtual protractor and slide rule to make the connections into a cohesive and meaningful narrative to you or anyone else possibly reading these ramblings.

On Friday I had lunch with a friend D., during lunch I shared with him the any number strange and perplexing circumstance that have plagued yours truly as of late. These circumstances ranging from being outted as Satan at work by a dead actress to the adventures resulting from one my latest adverts on Craigslist in my ongoing attempt to be a man-whore par excellence. Through this conversation I explained to D. about this blog and how I often engage in a hobby similar to trainspotting in that I track the hits to the blog their associated IP addresses and corresponding physical location in an attempt to make whatever connections may or may not have relevance to my life in the so called real world.  I like to think of it as sort of a global game of marco polo with the universe. It gives me endless hours of amusement and don’t have to worry about treading water in the deep end.

Okay, so back to the “brokeback mountain bondage” keyword search. That search term returned this letter written to J. in regard to my desire to explore bondage in the duel contexts of kink and an art project. In that letter, I mention the fact that MMRFRO made a set of mix-CDs for me to keep myself entertained on a drive to Maine for a vacation that I took shortly after he and I made our acquaintance. From where did this particular hit originate? Portland, ME. But the knot of quantum threads here gets even better as it appears the keyword search may have been done by the spirit of hookups past on the new MacBook Pro he got for Xmas.

Tho’ I was staying in Wells during that particular vacation with my parents, I decided to fish the waters in a smaller pond of strange and posted an advert on Craiglist in the hopes of finding a hook up (or two).  And a hookup I did find and it was stranger than most. Our meeting was initially dampened by the fact that I felt zero physical attraction to the gentleman upon meeting him. But rather than say, “Thanks but no thanks” and be on my way. I decided to make the best of the situation and see it through (as it were) as I was out of my mind horny by the time we met at our agreed rendezvous point.

The second troubling fact of the encounter is that the gentleman was obviously a wee bit tipsy as a result of the several cocktails he’d had with friends before we met up. Again, while I was not amused by this fact, I rolled with it. While he didn’t make me aware of his intention, he guided me (in my rental car) to a park nearby to where he was staying with friends. After winding our way down to parking lot and choosing a space that looked out onto a small bay, we sat a few minutes talking.

Suddenly he grabbed the lever for the passenger seat and plopped the seat into the horizontal recline position, looked at me and said, “Let’s make out.”

Somewhat startled, I looked back at him in slight horror and said, “Um no. There will be no making out in the car.”

He smiled somewhat glassy eyed and leered, “Com’on kiss me!”

“Ugh. No.” I again responded. “I am so not risking getting arrested in a park and having to call my parents to come bail me out of jail. Doesn’t the straight friend you’re staying with live nearby here?”

“Yes” he pouted. “Given that I met you on Craigslist I didn’t realize you’d be so piss proper.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” I responded. “I can drop you by there and be on my way.”

“No.” he said after considering this for a moment. “Let’s head over there. I think we can make it work.”

After snaking our way through the backstreets of the east end, finding a parking space, and winding our way up the back stairs of the condo of his friend, we were in the bedroom where he was staying in the short term.

“Wait here.” he cautioned, “I’ll be back in a moment.” A few moments later he popped his head back into the room to relay the fact that his friend would like for the two of us to hang out with him for a little while.

“Um. Okay.” I affirmed as I got up from the bed where I’d parked my ass in the short-term.

As we entered the living area of the apartment, I could see a young woman passed out face down on the dining room table. And sitting on the couch was a young man that can best be described as f*cking, smoking hot and stoned off his ass. As I slipped my behind on the couch next to the smoking hot, smoked up beauty that was already perched there he looked at me through narrow slits for eyes and said, “Man sorry about the girlfriend, she’s had a little too much to drink.”

“No worries here.” I smiled wide-eyed at the slice of beefcake sitting next to me.

We sat for an hour watching episodes of The Simpsons on DVD while discussing the history and current affairs of the state of Maine while my hookup continued to drink more and get toked up as well. The endless loop of Jesus how’d I love to f*ck the shit of the straight friend (and the associated visual imagery) that was playing in the back of my head was cut far too short when my hookup said that he was ready for bed. We bid the hot young child who I so dearly wanted to f*ck a good night and headed to my hookup’s temporary lair.

Long story short, I spent a hour giving him an extended back rub, worked my best to get him there which was followed with him promptly rolling over and beginning to snore without making so much as the smallest effort to attempt to get me there. After lying next to him for nearly 20 minutes thinking he might revive at any moment and at the very least attempt an offer of returning the favor, he didn’t.

As I slipped out of the bed and began to put on my clothes he awakened just enough to inquire as to where I was going. “I’m going back to Wells,” I sighed.

“You aren’t going to stay the night?” he asked.

“Uh no.” I grunted. “See ya!” quickly followed as I threw my bag over my shoulder and opened the door to the back porch. Fifteen minutes later I was on the Maine Turnpike heading south in the thickest pea soup of fog I’ve ever experienced in my life.

Okay dear Chaz, while there’s far more to tell with this tale, I’ve got other writing I need to tend to so I shall follow with another letter to you tomorrow.

‘Til then, I wish you well.

The Joker's Wild!

Dearest Ms. Gilmore,

As you are most likely aware you’ve been the subject of a couple of letters by yours truly as of late. The first being a letter I wrote to Frigyes Karinthy in regard to an email that was sent by you (or someone impersonating you) to the V.P. in charge of client services at my place of employ. The second was a letter to Charles Babbage in which I speculated as to whether I am an accidental avatar. And quite honestly, given that on any given day my life continues to become ever more surreal, I wonder (often aloud to anyone who will listen without judging) if such speculation may be true—be I the Devil as you’ve suggested or otherwise.

Also, there have been a few hits to the biddy biddy blog as of late which have me wondering if you’re up to your old tricks and are about to convince your dear sister of the silver screen Peg E. to stray from her comfortable haunting ground below the “H” of the Hollywood sign for a cybercafé or the libraries public to tap out yet another email message to God knows whom concerning your speculation about my person, its origins, and placement upon this planet.

Last evening when I arrived home from the day gig, I did as I often do, and checked the web stats for ye olde b-b-blog before placing my posterior upon the meditation cushion for a moment of communing with the cosmos. When doing this I discovered there was a rather curious hit. It being for the keyword search of “evil squirrel” which is not that unusual since writing the letter to St. Francis back in May in regard to a long standing feud I’ve had with a squirrel in the ‘hood I often get several hits in a week with this particular combination, sometimes daily. So seeing this keyword search didn’t arouse my curiosity—at first.

However, once I did the IP search and viewed the geo-located coordinates returned for the hit. My curiosity was more than aroused and I let out a good hearty chuckle. And why is this dear Virginia? Because the location of the hit was from none other than a Clayton, CA an area exactly due north of Mt. Diablo State Park.

And why did this induce a chuckle from yours truly?

Shortly after you outted me at work as an apparent Devil, I attended the holiday party for my company. As part of a little inside joke with my co-workers about the awkwardness of the situation and the associated outing, I placed the following initials on my name tag, “e. d.” Each time someone would look at my name tag rather quizzically I would say, “It stands for El Diablo, because after all, I am the Devil.” For the rest of the evening and for several days thereafter I was El Diablo to all who know me well.

There is also another minor cosmic co-incidence with the hit. I had a good friend that I met via a personal ad shortly after I got into Al-Anon who lived in a town that borders on the northwest quadrant of MDSP, Walnut Creek. Something interesting that I discovered about the area as well is that the indigenous tribes that lived in the area (the Miwoks) believed the mountains to be the cradle of civilization. Also the site is known to be an area of any number of Fortean phenomena.  I appears I need to plan a trip to Mt. Diablo sometime soon.

A second hit that I found to be rather odd occurred to the b-b-blog shortly after I finished my meditation at 20:33:09. I believe at that moment I was listening to a track on my iPerd that includes binaural tones that are supposed to put the brain into delta wave state. Or in other words a state that includes, “The rhythms [that] allow us to tap into ‘universal knowledge,’ or the mind beyond our own. This ‘universal knowledge’ has been referred to as the ‘collective unconscious”’– which is comparable to one large pool of the collective knowledge and understanding all of humanity.”¹ as stated on 4Mind4Life.com.  I was doing what? I was checking the stats of the blog at the same time. What was the keyword search that was done? It was “ghoti letters”.

So while I was connected to the collective unconscious and at the same time perusing the ghoti letters, I apparently synched up with someone doing a keyword search of the term of “ghoti letters”. And from where did this search originate? Houston, TX. As I zoomed closer into the geo-location data in Google Maps for this associated hit the synchronicities of it made me chuckle once again. The street where the pin on the Gmap that showed the origin of the hit? Inker Street. The street that is a block and a half west of its location? TC Jester Boulevard. Why did the combination of these two streets incite me to laughter?

The laughter is due to the letter that I sent MMRFRO earlier this week. Okay. So the one synchronicity is pretty apparent—a letter sent, a street named “Inker”. Ba-da-bing! However, the cosmic joke goes a slight bit deeper. In the design of the fold over mailer I created, I included this poem (written by yours truly) entitled Joke on the back of the outside portion of the mailer. In the text of the letter to D., I expounded on the fact that he never really understood my sense of humor and how he pretty much misinterpreted everything that happened between he and I—hence the chuckle with TC Jester Boulevard. After all I do have a stronger than average connection with the fool archetype.

The interesting thing about the eponym of the aforementioned thoroughfare is that he was an influential pastor of a Baptist church in that area of Houston. I found the funniest posting in a forum in which someone asked about the name of the street. Someone answered that “TC” stood for “The Court”. The adolescent nerdy humor caused me to let out a good snort.

So Virginia, got any big plans for Xmas?

Knock, knock, knocking on Ghoti's door?

Dear Mr. Turing,

Why it’s taken me so long to write you, I’m not sure. After all, if there’s anyone in the history of mathematics and computer science that is a kindred spirit to I, it would be you. I feel it necessary to let you know that your treatment by Her Majesty’s Courts of Justice while you were living is nothing short of a crime against humanity. It is little wonder that you were lured, as was dear Snow White, to take a bite from that apple to induce a lengthy slumber. It is heartening to see that within a week from today your life, and achievements, will be celebrated world-wide for an entire year. I hope to make it to one of the celebrations here in the United States.

As you have no doubt heard from Mr. Babbage, my life at times can be a tad bit surreal and this week has been no exception. Earlier in the week, despite the advice of my Magic 8 Ball, I made the decision to send yet another letter to MMRFRO. Tho’ the one I sent in its final form was a slightly edited version, to be less accusatory, than the version for which I queried my prognosticating friend. At least I would like to think. It was sent in hopes of being a final purge of the anger I continue to feel in regard to our premature parting of ways. Because in a strange turn of events, I’ve met someone within whom I hope I’m able to form a long-term bond and potential intimate relationship—but more on this later.

When I dropped the letter to D. in the post box on Tuesday, there followed thereafter the strangest series of cascading synchronistic events on the biddy biddy blog that have me once again proverbially scratching my head and wondering if I possibly have spooks on my tail. And why?

Literally an hour to the minute after I dropped the letter in the collection box, there was a hit to the b-b-blog via a dial-up network in Kansas to this letter that I wrote D. two years ago in December entitled “Ambivalence—the Supreme Aphrodisiac?” Then not seconds later there was a hit to the feed for a letter to J. entitled my “My Honeypot is on Fire” from a server somewhere in Alexandria, VA that belongs to none other than the Department of Homeland Security (DHS). I must confess that one gave me a good chuckle. Concurrent with the hit to the feed there was a hit from a Google search from the same IP address for the keyword phrase, “what is the meaning of ambivalence is the greatest aphrodisiac”.

And here my friend is where I began to cue up the theme to “The Twilight Zone.”

Roughly 20 minutes later, once again there was a Google search done via a DHS server housed somewhere on Long Island—at least according to its IP address—for the same search term. After I plugged in the GPS coordinates for the IPS address into Google Maps and viewed the return for the associated location, that my friend is when I hit the play button for the aforementioned musical theme. Because, the location that showed up could not have more quantum connections with me than those between the keyword search that was done by the DHS and the letter I sent D. on Tuesday.

But let me see if I might connect the dots properly so this makes sense to you or anyone else who may happen upon this letter. Within the radius of a few miles where the server that hit the b-b-blog is supposedly located the name of two areas have a distinct resonance with circumstance over the past several days/weeks and my personal history. Nearby, there is an area called “Rockville Centre” and adjacent to that is the hamlet of “Roosevelt”. When I saw the names of these two locations I could not stifle a laugh.

On Sunday night, I had a gentleman come over who pinged me through an ad I placed on Craigslist. It was an ad I placed more for the hookup variety of meeting as opposed to the date kind of meeting. The strangest thing happened that evening tho’. A gentleman showed up at my door (and in my bed) who could not be more stereotypically the kind of guy that I’m looking for. He is in his own words, as Dan Savage would say, “Good, Giving and Game.” I was truly floored by this chance encounter. Where did this gentleman grow up? But in Montgomery County, MD where there is a Rockville as well.

Way back in the summer where did I suggest that G. (another gentleman I’ve connect with via CL) initially meet in real time? Roosevelt Island here in Arlington. Back in October, I sent MMRFRO an invitation to meet for a hike. Where did I suggest that we meet for said activity? Yes, once again, Roosevelt Island!

Oh but dear Mr. Turing, that’s only the beginning of the knots in the quantum threads here. Back in August when I sent D. the postcard that I made him for his birthday, one of the things that I mentioned was his ambivalent attitude and how much it frustrated me which lead my being unkind to him. Also the particular area on Long Island from where the hit originated is very near where R. (my last serious boyfriend) grew up along with his ex-wife (with whom I still talk on occasion).

I swear I think the Thought Police are going to be battering in my door any day now to hogtie me, throw me in a sack, and carry me off into the night to be seen no more by co-workers, friends/neighbors and family.

And now back to my new acquaintance P. as promised. Alan I’m scared. More so than I’ve been in a long, long time. I really connected with this guy. He truly is just the kind of guy that I’m looking for. He’s very much into personal awareness and growth. He seems to be working quite diligently at the moment to get a better understanding of him self and how to relate better with others. I really want to trust him and the universe at large here, but there is this tiny little voice in the back of my head that’s screaming, BUT…! I really need to figure out a way to get it to butt out!

Please say hello the St. Hubert for me!

Meet Virginia...

Dear Frigyes Karinthy,

I’ve had a recent experience in the office that can only be describe as a manifestation of your theory of six degrees of separation with a post 20^th Century cyber-twist and a heap o’crazy thrown on for good measure. Let me see if I might properly explain.

Yesterday afternoon, the VP of my group popped over to the section of the cube farm where in our suite I, along with my fellow cohorts in crime, reside. With a rather odd grin on his face and with great earnestness in his voice he inquired of me, “Was there ever a Virginia Gilmore who worked here?”

 “Ummm. That name sounds vaguely familiar.” I responded. “Why do you ask?”

“Well. She says that you claim that you’re the devil.” he chuckled.

“Excuse me?” I replied with curiosity growing in my voice.

“She sent an email to a VP in our Texas office stating that you claim you’re the devil and you’re using your devil’s numbers in the cakes you make.” he laughed.

“Oooooh-kay.” I chuckled in return.

“Come to my office. You can read it for yourself.” he replied with a glint of mischievousness in his eye.

We made our way to his office tout de suite and when I plopped my derriere in his executive chair I was greeted with following message:

It’s very important that I should report to you about Arlington Office in va.
I don’t believe this happening in the office don’t work for [company name omitted] anymore.
I can only trust you in the past you took action and you are very straight forward person and I really admire you.
e. claim that he is a Devil he used some kind of Devil number’s on people in our office on cakes and grapes and he use light bulb.
The key people for him are [coworker’s names omitted]
You have to investigate and find out the fact on your own what is the real story behind this.
He has something that can tease men using women.
They are playing some kind of game and please do not contact me back
Good Luck!

“Oh my.” I gasped as I turned toward my boss after reading the message, “It appears I have far greater a number of powers than for which I give myself credit or that I am aware.”

“It would appear.” he laughed.

“Can you forward this to me?” I asked, “I’d like to see if I can trace its origin.”

“Sure thing.” he grinned.

He and I returned to cube land and had a good chuckle with the rest of our group for about 20 minutes discussing the message and wondering who might have sent it and wondering why it was sent to a VP in another group half a continent away.

Of course being the ever curious type, as we were discussing the email and laughing I did a google search of the name Virginia Gilmore and discovered there was an actress from the classic period of film with the same name. I chuckled at a bit of cosmic irony I came across in her bio on Wikipedia apparently she was leader in AA later in her life.

However, it was with the next google search I performed that the tangled threads of the cosmic web began to weave themselves into the strangest tapestry of six degrees of separation. Curious as to why the email might have been sent to a VP in our account  services division I did a quick google search of her name. In a strange moment of cosmic coincidence, I discovered from her LinkedIn profile that she worked for many years at the same financial services company where my sister was recently RIFed and during my sister’s tenure with the same company. The hair on the back of my neck came to attention as I read this in her LI profile.

I shot the sis a quick email this morning asking her if she remember this VP explaining that she’d gotten a rather strange email about me and about an hour later she replied that the name sounded vaguely familiar. She also shared with me yet another cosmic coincidence in that at the same time there was an employee at the same company with my name. While reading this detail, the twilight zone theme began to queue up in my cranium.

Yet another detail in this cosmic alphabet soup that intrigued me was the user name for the email address that was used to contact the VP—gvirginia54. Thinking perhaps the 54 in the user name might be the route number for a Virginia State Highway, I quickly googled “Virginia 54” and indeed received a return for the wikipage for a highway in Virginia with that number.

Okay here’s where it gets really weird (As if it might get any weirder. Right?). Virginia State Route 54 is known for most of the way as Patrick Henry Road, a portion of which leads to the estate of the highway’s eponym. The thoroughfare on which MMRFRO lives is eponymous in the same manner. And a month ago, I sent him an invitation requesting we get together for a hike over the weekend.  And of course so as not to disappoint, he didn’t show.

Pity!

Then this afternoon, I get an email from a company that provides training for massage CEUs and where are they located? Ashland, Virginia the city that bisects State Highway 54 into east and west Patrick Henry Road.

Methinks the Universe is f*cking with me.

What are your thoughts?

I dream a little dream of you...

Dearest W,

You’ve been on my mind a great deal as of late. So much so that I had the weirdest dream about you the other night. In the dream, I was on the phone with you. I don’t remember what the conversation was about nor any of the details associated with it. However, what I do remember is how vivid the dream and the fact that about halfway through our conversation I realized that I was speaking with you from the other side. When I questioned you about this fact, the line went dead, and I awoke with the strangest feeling about the dream and swearing I could feel your presence in the room.

The reason you are on my mind with such frequency is most likely due to any number of disparate factors. One being your upcoming memorial service. I have been receiving emails from your bother and daughter in regard to the service. For some reason, I’m feeling very ambivalent about it and have come to the decision not to attend. I hope you’ll not be too angry with me and somehow I get the impression that you won’t.

There is of course a bit of irony associated with hearing from your family when I did. You see, the other reason you have been on my mind lately has to do with the Incan-based shamanistic ceremony you turned me onto—despacho making.

The first weekend of October, I was inspired to do a despacho ceremony for varying reasons. One was for my dear friend J. who was to meet a gentlemen, with whom she’d been corresponding on the interwebs, roughly six hours from the moment I chose to do the despacho ceremony. The second despacho I chose to make was for me to attract love and a partner. In a truly misguided moment, I created the despacho with the hope of some how magically reuniting me and MMRFRO, however, since that moment I’ve come to realize it was such a foolish notion to wish such a thing. The last despacho I chose to make was for you and to honor your passing to the other side.

I had a most interesting syncronistic experience in regard to the one that I made for you. Nearly 12 hours (nearly to the second) after making the despacho, I got an email from your brother regarding your memorial service. I nearly dropped the Xoom from laughing when I got the message. As I mentioned at the begining of this letter, I doubt that I’ll attend your service.

I have come to this conclusion as I feel you and I had a relationship that was a) on a level that few ever experience and b) one that so few would understand without experiencing it themselves. So I don’t feel as tho’ I’d feel any kind of connection with your friends and family that will be attending the service. I prefer to celebrate the relationship we had in the connection I feel with you on a daily basis.

The other interesting synchronistic experience which I believe falls under the category of getting what one needs as opposed to what one wants is that I heard from a couple of friends that I’d not heard from in a while a few days after making the despachos. Both of whom wanted to set up a time to come over for massage and little catch up time.

One was a friend, double D., who lives way out in the boonies of western Maryland. We’d been trying for the past couple of month to find a time that would work for him to come over. Ironically, the one day that he was able to make it over was the same day T. was looking to come over as well. So it was a day of back to back massage and yackity shamaticity Saturday before last.

What was nice with double D. this time is that he stuck around after I gave him the massage to take me to dinner. I’ve always felt a little something, something with him. He couldn’t be more my stereotypical type. He’s a little shorter than I am and slightly stocky. Physically he reminds me very much of my first boyfriend J. but a bit taller and a bit broader. But his personality couldn’t be more different. Where J. was very into movies, almost obessively so, D. is not that much into movies and rarely sees any.

It’s funny. Now that I think about it. I’m not sure I’ve ever really discussed with D. what he enjoys regarding entertainment.

While I enjoyed spending the evening with double D. and it was nice to spend some time with him that lended itself to our relationship seeming to be something a little more substantial than a f-buddy type of thing. It was a moment earlier in the evening that had a much more profound effect upon me.

Before we headed out to dinner, we decided to have a little quality time with each other in the sack. We’d barely landed on the bed when double D. pounced on me and began to delicately pleasure me with his lips and tongue in an ever so delightful manner. Shortly thereafter, as I made the effort to change positions so I could return the favor. D pushed me gently back onto the bed and said, “Relax, let me take care of you for awhile.”

I was dumbfounded and at the same time deeply touched by his insistence of taking care of me. It’s very sad to say, but it was the first time in the thirty some years of my adult life that I’ve had someone act in such a manner with me.

But what was to follow, was ever more amazing. As often occurs, I had a difficult time getting there that evening. So much so, I didn’t think it was going happen, however, double D. was ever patient and determined to be successful in his mission. Therefore to facilitate this I decided to engage in fantasy to help me get there. This of course created a bit of a moral quandary within me as I wondered whether it was wrong to use another person to have an orgasm that you desperately wish someone else might provide. None-the-less, I imagined that I was banging the sh*t out of MMRFRO as double D. was pleasuring me.

As a result, I had the most intense orgasm I’ve ever had in my life. It was crazy wild. I could feel an intense heat building up within my body. As I got closer and closer to the edge it was as if I could feel the blood pounding from my heart and coursing through my veins. And when I got to the moment of release, it literally took my breath away. It truly was le petite mort as the French would say.

Maybe the moment I shared with double D. is a prime example of what I need to be looking for in my life. Rather than attempting to find quote/unquote love from one individual. Or in some preconceived form, perhaps instead I should be looking to spend time with guys such as double D. who are good, giving and game as Dan Savage would say. And feel the love in such moments as those.

Food for thought anyway.

As always, sending you much love!

Looks like that monkey could use a spanking!

Dearest St. Mary M.,

I had the most interesting experience Wednesday evening. I received a gentleman caller that I met through the internet dating/hook up web site SilverDaddies. The gentleman who I will call D. pinged me late last week and mentioned that he’d like to come over one evening to meet and have a little fun. From reading through his profile and based upon the initial email that he sent me, I was game and sent him a return reply to the affirmative. Through our email exchange, he indicated that he works retail (and on the weekends) which kind of limits his availability, but that he has regular days off on Wednesday and Thursday.

We agreed on Wednesay afternoon to meet, and he arrived at casa my assa on the agreed day—in the evening—later than the afternoon as planned due to having to head into the store that day unexpectedly.

I must confess, I was pleasantly surprised upon D.’s arrival. In his profile he described himself as being handsome, and I had little reason to doubt the sincerity and truth of this assertion. However dearest Saint Mary, as we both know, men often have the tendency to exaggerate any number of physical traits about themselves from attractiveness of their facial features to attributes a little further south.

D. did not dissapoint in either regard.

The plan for the evening was for me to give him a massage, followed by dinner, followed by whatever. It was the whatever that proved to be the most interesting and enlightening part of the evening for yours truly.

As D. arrived, I was doing some prep for the baked tilapia to be made later in the evening as part of dinner. He cracked open the bottle of wine he’d brought for himself, poured a glass, and we began to chat and share a bit of our history with each other.  While I chopped pecans and threw together the other ingredients for the tilapia crust D. explained that he is currently separated from his wife (for two years) but they have yet to divorce. Oh, I thought as he shared this news with me.

This however was just the beginning of D.’s somewhat tragic tale. He share with me that he has a daughter who in her teens was diagnosed with bi-polar disorder and in her younger years used to cut herself. Also, she’s spent any number of years in therapy while on and off various pharmaceuticals including being on lithium at one point.

“Oh my.” I offered as D. shared this with me, “How very sad.”

“Yes, it is.” he replied, “It has been heart breaking at points.”

Approximately two hours later after having finished up the massage and getting dinner prepared, D. and shared more conversation over the dinner meal. He explained that he’d made his way back to Virginia by way of Vermont after having had a good run with flipping houses in Virginia Beach for several years. A situation that unfortunately ended in disaster when the market crashed. An associated tipping point within the financial collapse was the implosion of his marriage as part of the resulting collateral damage.

He and his wife separated and he landed in the District of Crazy the shards of his life in the palm of hand and a burning desire to start over again.

After collecting up the leftovers and stowing them in the ‘fridge and keeping my gentleman caller company as he finished his meal, I began to tuck the dirty dishes into the dishwasher. D. came up from behind, dropped his plate in the sink, grabbed me around the waist and playfully whispered into my ear, “So how about I take care of you for while?”

“You’ll get no argument out of me!” I laughed as I slide the top shelf of the dishwasher into place and closed the door, “Just give me a sec here.”

“Don’t take too long.” he chuckled with a gleam in his eye.

After roughly thirty minutes of fun with friction in any number of ways, and getting D. there in a rather boisterous climatic moment, I had to sheepishly apologize once again for Mr. Happy’s lackluster performance. As we lounged on our sides taking a break, D. stroked my ribs ever so slightly and asked with the greatest sincerity and earnestness, “I take it you’re a little nervous?”

“Yeah. A little.” I sighed, “For whatever reason.”

“Baby. Don’t be nervous on my account.” D. said as he shook me ever so slightly, “I just want to please you and for you to enjoy yourself.”

“Oh, believe me, I’m enjoying this.” I laughed, “It’s just a little frustrating and I don’t want you think it’s you or that I’m not finding any pleasure in the activity.”

“It’s okay.” D. purred. “We can take as long as you need.”

Approximately twenty minutes later, after having coaxed the life back into Mr. Happy and enjoy a rather intense moment of the warm and tingly myself, I rolled off of D. and tried to explain further.

“It’s weird,” I began, “While I enjoy sex as much as the next guy. There is a part of me that very much has a difficult time letting go. It’s as though I have this strange fear of the primal energy that’s associated with sexual activity.”

“Primal fear?” laughed D. “I understand what you mean somewhat. However, for me sex is so enjoyable that I can’t imagine being afraid of it in any way.”

“Yes.” I offered as I playfully kissed D. on the shoulder, “I have quickly realized you are a creature of sensual delight and derive great pleasure from such activity. And there’s nothing wrong with that. Maybe you can assist me in learning to let go in that regard.”

“I’m always willing to do my part!” he exclaimed as we both let out a good laugh.

Shortly thereafter, after a good night kiss, D. made his way off into the night and I crawled into bed. As I laid there waiting to slip into the arms of Morpheus I thought to myself, geez why does everything have to be so friggen complicated?

Here I’d just spent the evening with a guy who is extraordinary in so many ways and could make a really good partner and provide the kind of support and affection in a relationship that I’ve always desired. But—and there’s always a big but—his life is such a mess right now. And of course there’s always the ever present residual feelings I have for MMRFRO that color every encounter and potential dating situation.

Lerd Ms. Mary, I think I’m just as much a mess!

Can you give a shout out to St. Rita for me? It looks like I’m still in need of her assistance ova hee-ah!

Sending you much love!