Books and Their Covers.

When you tell me that the reason you don’t like me is my size, even when the way you say it, is sugar coated, and wrapped in gentleness, what I hear is “You could be absolutely perfect for me. You could be everything I am looking for in a woman… but I won’t consider you, because there is too much of you.”

I’m not going to lose weight for you. I am going to lose weight, but it will never be for you. If my weight is so important to someone that they will make it the deciding factor in whether or not I am ”good enough” for them, then they don’t deserve me.

I am an entire, complex person. I sing, I debate, (okay, sometimes, I revel in a downright argument) I paint, draw, color, I write, and I think I write well. I read so much sometimes that I burn myself out on it. I love research, if I don’t understand something I will look it up. I love words, colors, and shapes. (Not so much numbers. Anyone who knows me knows I can’t math.) I love being outside, walking on the beach or in the woods, swimming, playing in the rain. I love living and doing and being. I have been told my smile brightens a room, and that I am funny. My eyes get so many compliments, that sometimes it is actually a bit embarrassing. I am kind, smart, and beautiful inside and out. I am a complete package. A whole person lives inside this body.

The idea that someone can not appreciate me because of my body size is disgusting to me. I understand preference. Personally, I prefer a man who has an average build myself. However, preference does not mean that I would not consider someone because of their size. I have liked guys who were bigger, smaller, and everywhere in between. I have liked guys who were stereotypically attractive, and those who were not. Each of these men has captured my interest because of who they are, not what they look like. You could be the perfect Adonis, but be so insipid that I would be bored with them. What point would there be in that? Contrariwise, you could be the most interesting person on the planet, and look plain, and I would be head over heels, wanting your attention.
It saddens me that so many people value appearance over content.

If you can’t appreciate me when I am bigger, you don’t appreciate me.

Books and covers, everyone.

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Crush

I hate that word.

More appropriately, I hate that word when applied to an adult. A crush is, in my opinion, a fleeting feeling, generally experienced by children and teenagers. You know, “flavor of the week” type stuff.

Meriam Webster defines “crush” thusly: a strong feeling of romantic love for someone that is usually not expressed and does not last a long time

I personally do not feel like this word applies to me. I’m sure there have been times I have had a crush on someone, but it has been a long time since then. If I fall for someone, it LASTS. Even when unreciprocated, and especially when I enjoy how their mind works.

So to be told that I have a “crush”… I’m sure it was nothing more than a word to the person saying it, but to me… it was like a slap in the face. I don’t have a crush. I love.

There has been one man that I have ever liked enough to put myself out there, to put my heart on the line. I pulled my big girl panties up so far, I had a wedgie all the way to my heart, and I told him how I felt. When he told me he didn’t like me, my heart just about snapped in half, but I didn’t stop feeling it. That was in March. My feelings have only grown stronger. His feelings don’t exist. That’s fine. I can’t make someone feel something they don’t feel, I can’t make him care about me. I also can’t make myself stop loving him.

So, I have pulled back. We barely talk anymore. He doesn’t seem to care, or notice… perhaps he even prefers when I don’t talk to him. When I see him, I can’t look him in the eyes, because I am afraid that I will cry. I don’t want him to see that. I wish I could just stop loving him.

Perhaps, some day, I will.

Perhaps some day, I will even find myself caring about someone new… but I don’t think I will ever be able to put my heart on the line like that again. It just hurts too much.

Fear and Honesty

*Disclaimer* This is kind of all over the place. Take it as you will.

I am a very honest person.

Sometimes, vexingly honest.

If I am thinking something, and I feel like it is something you should know, and I haven’t been asked to not share it, or otherwise entrusted with it by another person, I’m going to tell you. Simply because withholding information is a form of lying, in my opinion. This is both a blessing, and a curse. I am upfront, very blunt. I don’t beat around the bush, or waste your time, but, at the same time, my honesty has a habit of making people I care about uncomfortable. That is not intentional; of course, it is just a byproduct of being called a liar so often as an adolescent, that you make it a point to be the complete opposite.

Sometimes, I will even blurt something out, not because I feel that you need to know it, but because I need to say it to someone, and I trust you enough to hear it and not judge me too harshly for it. Perhaps, I ought to do less of this.

I will not say that I don’t occasionally blur the edges to make people feel better…”yes, of course your baby is cute”… when asked… though, sometimes, I do wish it were okay to be honest about it, since, no. Not all babies are cute. As Dr. House said, quite frequently, “Everybody lies”. I do, however, try to keep it to the “necessary” minimum.


I realized last night, that there is one area of my life that I have never been able to be completely honest about. That realization tore into me like a knife on fire, and what followed was something else I rarely experience. Fear.

Now, I have always been afraid of something happening to my daughters. That fear has made me feel big, powerful… like I would do anything to keep them safe… and, of course I would.

This new fear made me feel small, fragile… like I wanted to curl into a ball and hide inside myself.

I don’t have a lot of experience with fear. I generally feel like, if it can’t kill you, there is no point in being afraid of it, and, if it can kill you, well, we are all going to die anyway, so, what’s the point? But this isn’t a thing; that is to say, it isn’t tangible.

I have never been able to be completely honest about what I need. Primarily in relationships, but not exclusively; whether it has been an emotional need, or a physical one, sexual or whatever, I have always been more concerned about what my partner needs than what I do.

Now that I have been honest with myself about this, and about what it is that I doneed… that is where the fear comes in. I find myself wanting to crawl inside myself, because I am afraid that I will someday decide to begin a relationship with someone who will then run away because I am too much… because what I need is more than he can or is willing to give. I am afraid that I will never find a man who can “handle” me. It leaves me wondering whether the reason it has been so difficult for anyone to actually care about me is because they can tell that I am a freak.

Someone.

Sometimes, okay, most of the time, I miss having someone. It isn’t just the physical aspect I miss, though of course I miss being touched, and held… having someone stronger than I am, who can take control physically… but, what I miss most is the other.

I need someone with whom I can spar mentally; somebody who I can talk to about anything and everything – from why some camels have one hump and others have two (this literally kept me up for hours one night, and I ended up having to look it up before I could sleep) to our innermost thoughts and secrets. Someone who is interested in knowing everything about me, and who will allow me to learn everything about him.

I want someone to be there for, someone who will be here for me, as well. Someone who won’t turn away when I am breaking into pieces. Someone I can wake up next to in the mornings, and smile with the knowledge that he loves me, and he is here because he wants to be.

I need someone I can poke at, and play with… someone who will run with me, not for exercise, but through a meadow, laughing, just to tumble to the ground and lay, sprawling, and looking at the clouds. Someone who will encourage me to be precisely who I am, and will love me all the more for it.

Someone who feels like home.

I am Taking Walking Back.

As a child, I remember asking my mother every day whether I could walk home from middle school. I would walk through the woods at the back of the school as a shortcut, where the “cool kids” would smoke, mentally daring them to offer me one so I could throw it to the ground and stomp on it. (Yeah, I was that kid) I loved walking. Whether it was a walk to the park, or the corner store, pizza place, library or school, I was all about it.

Then, at the beginning of 8th grade, we moved.

Everything inside me was so adamantly against moving that something must have broken. I hated everything about it. This meant that I would be spending my final year of middle school in a new town, where I knew nobody. Which also meant that I would know virtually nobody when I got to high school, and we all know that being a freshman is bad enough on the social scale. Everything and everyone I knew would be left behind, and to make matters worse, my cat had just run off; presumably to be alone when he died.

In my new town, I didn’t really make very many friends. I actually cried because people weren’t picking on me because I thought it meant nobody liked me… back home, my friends would all take little jabs at each other – all meant in fun, of course… and I didn’t have that anymore. I had nothing. I didn’t even have the ability to ride the bus to and from school… and suddenly, I hated walking.

It wasn’t that the walk was farther or anything, in fact, I feel like it was closer… lots of hills to walk up and down, but the distance wasn’t bad at all. I think it was just part of the moving experience. I wanted no part of it, and something I once loved now became something I loathed.

I have hated walking ever since the day I moved in November of 1998. However, even more than that, I have hated the fact that I lost my love for something I once loved. I hate that I haven been spending so much time outside anymore. The problem is, I have just been letting the hate stew, rather than doing something about it.

Then, a friend of mine introduced me to the local dam. It is an easy walk to the end, and there are so many nature paths that are so pretty. My favorite so far looks like it is made of magic. I have been trying to lose weight, and I can’t swim just yet. Walking is a good exercise… I used to love walking… so, I decided to reclaim it.

I am taking walking back.

I am making some changes in my life. One of them will be reclaiming things that I used to love that I have allowed to fall by the wayside.

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A New Set of Rules.

So, after a series of scattered events and some feelings sprinkled here and there over the past few weeks, I figure it is time for a new set of rules for anyone who thinks they want to be part of my life.

1: Don’t waste my time. My time is just as important as yours is, and if you can’t recognize that, you need to sit down.

2: Don’t make me do all the work. I will not be the one making first contact every time. If you put in zero effort, I will take that as zero interest and act accordingly.

3: Treat me the way you want me to treat you, unless and until a different dynamic is established between us.

4: If you have something to say, say it. Be straight forward with me. I cannot read your mind.

5: Be honest 100% of the time. I promise you there is nothing you can do to me that would be worse than lying about it. If you do something hurtful, and you are honest, I will likely be more lenient. If you lie about it, you are gone.

6: If you are interested in potentially becoming more than my friend, say so. Point blank. That is the only way I am going to know you like me. Not because I can’t see the hints, but because I don’t tend to believe I am very “likable”.

Adventures in Breakfast

So, the other day, I started talking to an ex I hadn’t really spoken to in a decade or so. He asked me to get breakfast, and, even though I am in no way interested in being with him, I was curious about what he has been up to, and how things are going for him, so I agreed. We decided to meet at 9 at the local breakfast place.


Here’s some backstory: Jason and I had met when I was 21 and he was 19. I found him adorable, and, frankly, I figure he found me to be conveniently capable of purchasing fireworks for him. We had a strange relationship, but it was fun, until he came to me and told me that he “had gotten drunk with a female friend and woken up next to her naked and this meant he must have cheated on me.” We broke up, and fast forward roughly 10 years to now.


I arrived after dropping Arienette off, at about 8:48, and went inside to grab a table. The server came with a menu, and I let her know I was waiting for someone, and ordered an orange juice. I watched some of the other people, and listened to the music, aware of the sideways glances I was getting from the other customers who must have been wondering either why I was alone, or why I had yet to order. 9:00 came and went.

The server came back, and asked if I was still waiting, I said I would give him a few minutes more, since I knew he had a bit to drive. I sat, I waited. 9:10. I told myself I would give him a couple minutes, and then it hit me. I thought wait a damn minute. I have spent far too many years allowing people to waste my time. My time is more important than this. I sent a message asking if he was still planning to come. No response.

I ordered my food.

I ate my food.

I paid.

I left.

Still no word. I was not overly interested in seeing him to begin with. I will not be affording him another chance. I don’t know what he thought he was going to accomplish with this, Perhaps he thought I was interested in him and simply meant to hurt me. If so, he miscalculated. My interest is firmly placed elsewhere.