You can tell my pussy isn’t getting enough attention because I noticed this morning when I was taking a bath that my pussy ring was missing. Oops! I wonder how long it had been gone. I know it was there last Sunday but don’t remember noticing it since.

M. found it under the bed but couldn’t find the bead, of course. I had to leave quickly, so he found an old barbell from who knows when and put that in. The hole was already starting to close so that was a close call!

Clearly, more attention to my pussy is required.

I look different without the ring. It sure was easier to shave without anything there, but he wasn’t going to let that last.

For the first time in all these years, I can’t say it’s been 21 years of the best.

It’s been 21 years, though. We married on December 1, 1990. Today is December 1, 2011.

This last year has sucked, sadly, and is still sucking.

I guess I shouldn’t expect every year to be good, right? Surely it can only go up from here.

My brain has decided that he’s never going to play with me again. It’s been awhile.

I dreamt last night that “was” was added to the top of my pussy tattoo.

Man. 46 is getting old! I suddenly don’t feel very young lately, but I think it’s mostly because I’ve been working so much.

But! It’s only 4 and I’m taking the rest of the day off and I have high hopes for 46 of something tonight.

We have steak and a bottle of 7 Deadly Zins for dinner.

I haven’t take a day off in forever. Seriously.

I need one. I wish it could be one where I didn’t have a care in the world.

Please?

The news lately is making me have serious flashbacks. Someone who beats his child with a belt with the help of his wife. Damn. If only webcams had been available when I was a teen.

A coach who witnessed a child being abused by a coach. But he didn’t say anything to anyone. Huh.

I’m going to bury my head in the sand and just wish I was a different person. How’s that? Go me.

So my son got married. Wow! I think that means I’m officially old. You have to be a “friend” of mine elsewhere to see the photo. But for once in my life, I felt pretty and proud all day. Wow. I’m a fan of that!

My mother showed up. It was not as weird as I’d feared, except that she was reasonable. And kind. She had an envelope of photos of my childhood, all of which she’d denied existed for years. She’d told me I was insane.

But then she admitted it all. Wow.

I told her in email today that

“I would like a copy of my birth certificate. It’s been sealed,
because I have been adopted twice. Can you get me a copy?”

I’ll see what I can do and get back to you.

Time goes by too quickly.

I had a nightmare last night that was one of those recurring ones, where I finally figured out that what was happening really was just a dream, but I still couldn’t make it go away. Stupid brain. I do not need more hassles in my life.

The cooling weather makes my joints ache. If M. plays with me at all, it takes me a week to recover. Stupid joints. I do not need more hassles in my life.

I’ve been taking off Thursdays for a while. My body says I am owed the day off, even if the weather is nice finally and it’s been crap all week. I like routine, damn it. I do not need more hassles in my life.

I’ve had some sort of crud in my lungs for a week now. This is only the third time in my life with some sort of “cold”. Once when I was 15, and once in the late 90s. I may get injured a lot, but I don’t get colds, damn it. Viruses make everyone else miserable, might give me a couple of hours of “gastric distress”, but that’s it. Sinus infections? Not since I quit traveling, THANK GOD and I’m an atheist. I do not need more hassles in my life. My puppy freaks out when I cough, which does not a peaceful night of sleeping make.

We had a really, really hot scene the other day. I’m not sure what made it so hot, actually, but it was just one of those times that clicked.

Hoods are an important part of it, I think. Except sometimes the hood doesn’t work for me, and it’s all an exercise in endurance and acceptance.

I remind myself all the time that belonging to a sadist means I’m often not going to like things. Damn it. I thought being a masochist means I liked it. But being miserable sucks, and having someone who is enjoying making you miserable is really really sucky.

Sometimes, it gets so damn hot and it’s the same damn stuff.

Jkid’s wedding was postponed to mid-October, poor guy. I still can’t believe it’s going to happen. He’s too young, and despite really liking his girlfriend and she’s all sorts of good for him, he reminds me a lot of my ex. He’s pretending to be straighter and less kinky than he is, but though I haven’t talked to him about it, he knows that I know.

Poor kid. It sucks that the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.

He’s drinking too much and bouncing around being unemployed a lot, just like his father. But he’s trying harder than his dad ever did (or does), and he’s determined not to move in with either us or her parents. He makes more freelance singing and goofing around with bands and some acting, and he’s drawing portraits for law enforcements, just like I tried to get him to do when he was a teen. He’s good.

Remember when he went to a strip club in Montreal for his 18th birthday? He and his buds duplicated that in Atlantic City for a party before the wedding (that never happened). I guess maybe that’s more normal than I’m thinking … but that’s where my ex took me for our honeymoon when I was 18, and Jkid had no interest in taking his girlfriend there. Instead, they are taking a paid for honeymoon to Italy for 2 weeks, to visit her relatives and visit museums. That’s not going to end well.

Still, I’m looking forward to going to the wedding, sort of. I have an outfit all picked out with very high heels and a new necklace. I still need to find lime green sheer hose to wear, no matter how many tell me to not wear hose. I found the dress really cheap on Ebay in size 10 and had it tailored to fit the boobs and taken in at the waist. I topped up my roots and had my hair trimmed and eyebrows done, and I guess I’m going to need to do that again. I have to figure out when, so I don’t smell like a damn hippie when I’m dancing with my son. (We picked John Michael Montgomery to dance to.)

I’m sort of dreading photos, though. I’m trying very hard to just not care. I don’t want to spoil his wedding in any way. I will smile and relax and not stress about so many people seeing me who I haven’t seen in forever, like my damn mother and my ex. Fuck.

M. told me to “get ready”. I’m hoping for another really good time, thanks.

I’ve told him a dozen times that I’m done. Done, done, done.

Who the hell knows what happens after 21 years? I don’t want to be a control group, someone who you’d compare “normal” people to, you know?

I don’t look any different, really, nor feel any different, specifically, but I do, in sort of major ways that I find hard to articulate.

He says they don’t exist if I can’t put them into concrete language.

Huh.

I’m not ever sure what it means when I can’t remember a single thing, there’s nothing on the camera, and clothes are scattered all over the place and I wake up naked.

Huh.