It’s official. You are hearing it here first. I am no longer a teen. I turned the big 20 yesterday and sorry for not making a big deal out of it - but I just felt that it was an ending of sorts and definitely not one I wanted to face. I’ll try to explain a bit later in this post, but first I do need to say thank you for the boys who actually did remember my big day with out my typical pomp and circumstance I usually throw around here on my bday and Christmas’. I say that somewhat sarcastically… I just have not been one to announce the big day like that. It isn’t even a chance to test you guys to see if you will remember - I just think that bdays aren’t that big of a deal anymore - and I actually feel funny asking for things on that day, especially in today’s economy and so close to Christmas. I figure I’d prefer a Christmas gift anyway (grin). That’s what my family basically did: waited until Christmas and then made up for there somewhat pathetic bday gifts, always done at the last minute while shopping for the turkey. Not that I’m complaining. Much. So thank you: Tiffy, SBJ, Karl (VERY sweet gift, sweetie!!), Uncle Randy, and those of you who wished me happy Bday on our calls together. **MUAH**

But this year it was really one of those things I did not want to mention on here because I knew that if I announced it, I would have to figure out what I was going to do about the big departure from TEEN wet dream into the world of just wet dreams. I thought for awhile that I would retire once I reached the point where I could no longer call myself a teen. And I’m aware of the fact that there are some characters on Niteflirt who never age, and no one really cares … but just as my braces will eventually come off (less than a year and counting) so must I lose the “teen” in my name. How will it sound when someone calls me up and asks me how old I am, and I say “twenty.”? *click* I figured that retirement was as good an option as any. I wasn’t going to go suddenly. I would have had a party. Balloons, ice cream cake, a big candle in the shape of a penis. You know the kind. *wink* But yeah, I figured turning twenty was a sign to hang up my phone and headset and go into retirement.

I’m not going to retire. Come on. I’m not even done with school now, and there is a recession going on out there — and retail is not having a great time. Retail is what I’m best suited for, being a ‘young adult’ and all. So I’m going to sit still for a bit longer. I may change over to a different domain, but more than likely that will happen once my braces come off and I’ll turn into a young adult and leave the teen thing behind me. Even Peter Pan had to face growing up , you know.

So school is going. I got a perfect score on my Geography Map Quiz by the way. Ask me where the Canary Islands are. Go ahead, ask me! Geography is about to hit an intense level. We’re learning all about currents and wind patterns and other stuff I can’t even repeat…that’s how lost I am. But as lost as I am, I’m still getting a solid B+ in that class. After our field trip this weekend, I’m sure I’m getting an A+. We went to see the butterfly um .. what is it called? Farm? Reserve? and it was by far the prettiest thing I had ever seen. Then we went and looked at wave patterns on the beach. I’m not lying. We looked at wave patterns and then we also picked up rocks and tried to figure out what caused what topography. I kept on looking around this certain bend after hearing that that is where Santa Barbara University was. Can you imagine going to school on the damn beach? Come ON! Is it possible to get any work done at all? I saw quite a few students out tanning and surfing that day and also quite a few walking through the forests where the Butterflies hung in their little pods from the Eucalyptus trees. I have to go back there with Jackson. He’d freak out over the waves, but he’d really dig the Monarch butterflies, and the hike would wear his ass out big time!

English is a joke. I had mentioned once that I loved my teacher, but that love has quickly turned into a hate I can’t even express. I’m going to mention something in here now knowing that my readers will be sensitive and not ask me to do some sort of warped fantasy. I can do a fantasy about any other kinky freaky professor except for this guy - because it’s just too real to the truth. This is what happened. I wrote a paper about milk and how it’s not a good thing to drink. It’s an argumentative paper, I’m not going to get into it because I’m bored with it already. It’s a good paper but … yeah. Anyway - so I’m talking about milk and the milk commercials and I mention that it’s kind of sexual in nature, the whole milk above the lip thing and sexy models in these tank tops and fit bodies drinking it and blah blah blah. I don’t mean anything other than “sexual” in a very LOOSE term. Why the fuck did my teacher write on my paper “some people call it cum shots?” ???!!! Why???!!! Can anyone tell me in what world is that appropriate? I’m so not even lying. Not only did he write this on my paper, but then he announced it in my class that he wrote it on my paper too. While I was busy trying to figure out why the fuck he felt he could write something on my paper like that (to my knowledge he is not a caller!) I started to feel the eyes of every fuckin male student in my class looking at me wondering what it is that I knew that made the teacher write something like that on my paper. Seriously, I could feel them assessing me - checking me out in a very uncomfortable fashion. There are fantasies and then there are realities, and this, my friends, is a most creepy and gross reality. Before that gross comment my teacher has had other stupid things to say, too. About the Holocaust: “Get over it - lots of people have suffered.” About Koreans, “I didn’t know my son was mine … he ate so much rice I thought my wife had an affair with the postman … he’s Korean.” About Black people, “I told my friend once - hey - at least I can change color!” you get the picture. I was getting a C+ in my English class after I got straight B’s on my papers and Essay - but then I missed handing in a paper and got a C+. I handed in my paper last week though and I got a A- on it, but got counted down to a B+ due to it being late. Hey - I’ll fuckin take it. But I won’t take comments of cum shots on my paper. I still feel dirty - and I have done/talked about far more dirtier things in my life, trust me. Just somethin’ about a comment like that outside of niteflirt makes me way uneasy. Strange, huh?

In order to process all this stress of school and work and life and the uncertainty of our futures - I’ve taken my stress to the gym. I hired a nazi, let’s call her Elsa, and she kicks my ass 2 -3 times a week. I went to see her today and my finger tips hurt. I stepped up and down on a platform holding on to a weight that made me immediately decide against breast implants. My goodness - I practically tipped over holding onto 10 pound wheel of a weight. How ever do you big titty women keep your balance? Elsa says things to me like, “Do you want the easy way to do this next exercise, or are you ready for a challenge?” Damn her. How quickly she learns. All you have to do is put “easy” in front of something and “challenge” in front of the other choice - and you know I will do it. “So CeCe - do you want to deep throat me on your knees which is the easy way? Or do you want the challenge? You’ll be on the bed - on your back - with your head over the edge - and I’ll lower my 10 inches down your throat and you try not to gag. Which way do you want?” Shit! 10 inches of course!!! lol. In all honesty, though, I’m competitive as hell. It’s a good thing most of the time, but often I just set myself up for pain. Which I am experiencing now. But I love it. I absolutely love it. I love lifting weights, and doing girl pull ups, and doing balance work and core work and going 4.2 MPH on the treatmill on a 6.0 incline for 45 minutes. I enjoy sweating like a pig - walking out of the gym past all the muscle dudes, and knowing that I kicked my own ass and that I’m strong and capable and sweaty! It’s a great, great feeling. It’s also a great way to release a whole lot of worry, anger, grief, pain, etc. with out hurting anyone!

There are so many ways that we can deal with discomfort, hurt, stress, anger - and most of these ways that we use to cope will land us in the hospital soon enough. Cigarettes, overeating, stress, tempers, destructive lifestyles, not asking for help (or directions), etc. are just really counter-productive. One of the ladies I met while working at the gym a few years ago was diagnosed with Lung Cancer. I house sat for her - and she was so alive and energetic and … I can not even bear to call her up and talk with her. But I know I need to because she’s not going to be here for long. I promised myself that I would not be one of those x-smokers who nagged people to quit, and I’ve really kept that promise. But today I’m just going to end my long waited for post by saying that there are other ways to relieve stress. You could go look at some monarch butterflies or take a walk on the beach if you live in sunny southern California. You could join a gym - all the money you’d spend on cigs will surely pay for a membership, won’t it? You could also masturbate to a favorite movie or pictures (I will be updating my galleries very soon!!! I mean it this time!!!) or even call me for some release. However you decide to release some stress - I hope that you are able to release some so that you are more able to enjoy this holiday season coming up. You’ve all been such great gifts to me this year and I appreciate each and every one of you. Even calls that weren’t “perfect” or “five star” quality taught me a lot about myself and helped me to grow into the mature 20 year old I am today. Happy Holidays!! May your days and nights be Merry & Bright!

Tuesday: 11:00AM - 3:00PM, MIDNIGHT - 3:00AM - (later if needed)
Wednesday: 12:00PM - 3:00PM, off and on Wednesday evening - Thanksgiving preparations under way.
Thursday: Will try to log in once everyone passes out from the Turkey - but no promises. If I can make it it will be after 7:00PM PST.
Friday: TBA
Saturday: TBA
Sunday: TBA
*Feel free to make an appointment or email me if you need me to be available during a specific time for you. I will do my best to accommodate. *

Update to schedule: 11/26/08 — my late nites and school is catchin up with me! I’m actually going to take a nap. Yeah. A nap. It does a body good! I will be logging in and out intermittently throughout the next few days - but will try to keep you abreast of my comings and goings. How much innuendo can I use in a sentence?

I have so much to write about and nothing wants to come out. Or I won’t let it come out. Or something. I don’t know.

I feel that if I write anything right now it will truly be on some cryptic level, and there is nothing wrong with cryptic except everyone will wonder what exactly I’m talking about and it will seem like some juvenile cry for attention. Girls know what I am referring to. It’s that completely aggravating way some girls have of showing you they are distraught - the tears and sniffles and catches in their voice, but when you ask them what is wrong they look at you sideways and say so unconvincingly, “Nothing…” God - I wanna slap girls like that. Hard. I have no desire to be one of those cryptic losers - and yet I have nothing else inside of me that is fighting to get out right now except for that. And I can’t write a letter about it. I’ve done that. I can’t even vent to people about it because the people who I can vent to have already told me, in no uncertain terms, that I would be best to just let this all go and be happy.

And I am happy, by the way. Really happy. I have started school again, I am still smoke-free, I am so incredibly healthy and full of energy because of my pact to walk 10K miles every day (and yup - I did it! I actually averaged 11K steps last week. Go me!) and eat healthy, balanced, non processed meals. It’s a wonder how much better I feel after having started this new way of living. I also have been reading quite a few books about being present and living in the now which is a fancy way of saying don’t have regrets. All in all my life is going pretty damn good. I could complain, but what would be the point? Not to mention, I’m learning this year that nothing is perfect. You can never have a day that doesn’t hold some challenges - and life is all about how you deal with those challenges, those things that come up unexpectedly that threaten to steer you off course.

But I have a twinge of unhappiness. A lot of disappointment, actually. And I’m trying my best to figure out how to deal appropriately with it. I want to give myself permission to feel it, but I don’t want it to turn into bitterness and hatred as those things surprisingly do nothing to the person who you’re disappointed in - and do everything negative to you: tearing your insides up, keeping you up at night, giving you something to worry about, etc.

So that’s where I’m at on a personal level. Just thought I’d share.

In other news, Happy Birthday to Chris! I checked your comment to me and then looked back at my feedback and sure enough, there you were celebrating your birthday with me even back then. I’m happy to be one of your traditions. Have a very very happy birthday and good luck with that other thing that we were talking about. I’m sure you will have a lovely time (or else she’s a fool!)

I’m going to close up shop and head off to bed to write a bit of my story for writing group tomorrow. I will be on late tomorrow evening, but will do my best to log in a little bit before I leave for class. I have a lot of things to squeeze in before I leave for group, and it’s just nearing 3:00AM here now. Forgive me if I can’t log on any earlier than 11:30PM (or so). I’ll post a bit more about my schedule this weekend later today. Stay tuned.

Talk soon!

I have a very good friend - best really - who I occasionally live vicariously through. She has that type of life I always envisioned myself having in a few years: the hubby, the kids, a nice home in NYC, and every Christmas a tree that Martha Stewart would envy. A lot older and wiser than I am, she often gives me tidbits of advise that I gobble up like… I dunno … Skittles that have been sitting in your hand a little too long and have become soft and just a tad bit warm. Shit… that sounds kinda good.

Anyways - my friend, who I shall not name but anyone who knows me knows whom I am speaking, calls me up one day and is way upset. When she gets excited/mad her voice always raises up 2 more octaves and she sounds even more like Minnie Mouse with a ‘tude from the Bronx. It’s adorable.

“CeCe! He’s doing it again!”

“huh?” I ask - immediately turning down the volume on my phone to compensate for the volume of my friend. I turn it down to 5 and then after a moment turn it down to a two. It’s definitely sounding like a two volume conversation.

“He’s humping his pillow.”

“Ok - well … I guess these things happen.” I tell her in my most authorative voice. I remember reading something in Human Sexuality Class about masturbation in children - but not sure exactly what I read. Was it bad? Normal? A sign of something to come? (no pun intended)

“He’s doing it in the open in front of everyone.”

“Well… ok. Well that’s not so good then.” I say delicately while holding back my laughter.

“It’s not funny!”

Busted. “Ok - well - maybe you should just tell him to go into his room and do it.” I have no idea what the hell I’m talking about really. But I know my friend and she is upset. She probably said some things to her son that will forever scar him and I’m trying my best to do intervention with out sounding like I’m a know-it-all because I know nothing at this point. I’m not a Mom. Or I wasn’t then.

“I fuckin’ told him to stop fuckin his pillow!” My friend exploded. “His sister started laughing at him and told him he was gross.”

“But…” I interrupted passionately “He’ll get a damn complex! Do you want him calling up those lines and talking to a Mistress who will make fun of his thingee because that’s the only way he will be able to get off and it will all be because you made him feel ashamed of what is just natural?”

“Shut up, Ce!”

I could hear her softening on the other end and I continued carefully, “Masturbation is natural and it relieves stress! He just needs to do it in a more appropriate place. Can’t his daddy talk to him about it?”

“Shiiiiit” My friend sighed. It was a defeated “shit” though. Her anger was subsiding. “Maybe I should take his pillow away from him.” She considered.

“He’ll just find something else - and then he’ll learn to hide it and be ashamed of what he is doing instead of understanding there isn’t anything wrong with masturbating - he just needs to find a private place to do it because not everyone wants to see that kind of thing or somethin’.”

I was sounding more and more like a child therapist as the conversation went on. My friend must have thought so too - because she told me she would consider my advise and try harder to not freak out when her little boy was masturbating against various stuffed things in the house.

Before I took away Jackson’s manhood he was providing me with a certain sick sort of entertainment. He would take various stuffed animals - attack them - grabbing bits of their soft furry flesh in his teeth and shake the victim back and forth while making growling noises. Once he was sure they were …um … tamed (?) he would mount various parts of their bodies and go to work. Remembering my earlier conversations with my friend I decided to casually move the stuffed animal ala Jackson to a secluded part of the living room and go about my business. He would eventually stop and move on to other activities. I spoke casually about it to the Vet, relieved that he wasn’t humping people’s legs or other dogs in the doggy park (such things carry a serious stigmatization that aren’t easily discarded!) The vet insisted that once Jackson had the operation
he wouldn’t feel the need to do that often/ever. I had hope. At 6 months Jackson had the surgery and after he stopped glaring at me and his stitches healed he was back to doing the humpy dumpy. He had his favorite mates; The Zebra - an old child hood friend he hung out with, a toy bunny that he also had since he was 8 weeks old. Not “had” in that sense. Then there was the huge stuffed dog that I bought because I thought it would be cute if my little tiny doggy cuddled with a stuffed animal 5 times his size. Jackson prefers humping one of his legs and basically doesn’t even do the post-coital thing with the dog. He’s a love em fuck em and leave em kinda dog - what can I say?

I dealt with Jackson’s horniness because it was well contained inside of the home. No one knew that behind his little furry face that housed the sweetest, loving eyes and mischievous grin, he actually was Ron Jeremy to the stuffed animals in the house. I swear I fond a few of them hiding, fearing the way he casually tossed the others to the side after he had had their way with them.

A few weeks ago something happened - something BIG - and I realized that something had to change. I had a big decision to make. Only I could make it for him. I was the adult, the Mommy - and I had to really take my role in Jackson’s life seriously or he would harm himself.

Jackson’s penis got stuck.

All I remember is that he was having his special time with Ms. Zebra and um … he stopped - sated - and went about his business. I don’t look down there all that often because it’s his privates you know? And he gets shy sometimes. But I did happen to notice that there was something there that was kinda stuck. It usually goes back after a few licks or whatever (sorry - it’s natural!) and so I didn’t really worry about it. *sigh* This is a NF friendly blog - so please read that last sentence as it was intended: JACKSON licks himself and it goes back. Thanks. As I was saying… I wasn’t worried. But the next day I saw that it was still kinda peeking out as if to say “Hi - where’s the Zebra bitch - I’m ready for round 2 DAWG!!!” I quelled my fears and went about my business. I took Jackson for a walk where we ran across (of course) the adoring public who immediately wanted to pet my dog until he rolled onto his back displaying for the whole world to see his little Jackson. “Hi…” it said. “Where’s my Zebra bitch?” Embarrassed and shamed I quickly escorted Jackson back home and headed towards Google.

“My Dog’s Penis is stuck - what do I do?” Come on. What did you think I typed in there?

Minutes later I knew what I needed to do. I had to wade through ALOT of advise too. Butter, Neosporin, to massage or not massage?, until I finally stumbled upon the one thing I knew I could do. I had to ice my dog’s um “balls”. Carrying Jackson to the kitchen I opened up the freezer and grabbed a few ice cubes. Grabbing some paper towel I placed the ice cubes in it and turned Jackson onto his back, cradling him in my arms. His tongue escaped to give me a quick kiss.

“You’re not going to wanna kiss me after this…” I muttered and gently applied the ice.

Jackson’s expression shifted from curiosity to absolute disgust. “I don’t have any balls, stupid.” I heard him say. So I shifted the ice cubes up a bit to the base of his …”Oh - you’re the meanest mommy alive!” his eyes screamed at me and he started to squirm and close his legs at the same time.

“You need to stop humpin the dry ass animals!” I told Jackson.

“Um - I make do with what I have you cruel heartless woman!” He replied.

Looking past the Brawny that was now mush I saw that Jackson’s thingee was still out saying hello to the world. Considering butter for a brief moment (didn’t know where the damn Neosporin was!) I set Jackson down on the floor to consider my other options. I could call the Vet in the morning and HE could put that thing back in. I could try to push it back in…eeeew. No. I could … ‘Damn’ I interrupted my own thoughts, ‘I can’t believe I fuckin was icing my dog’s dick!’ Ok - so - the vet. I’ll bring Jack to the vet!

“Jackson!” I screamed suddenly. “Don’t lick it it will NEVER GO BACK IN!” I Rushed to Jackson to pick him up and interrupt his masturbatory experience - but as I got closer I noticed… The thingee was back in. My nightmare was over. My baby was going to live another day! And most importantly - I didn’t have to take him in to the vet to get his penis put back in.

The very next day I knew what I needed to do. I picked up all his “girlfriends” threw them into the washing machine on delicate and put a bit of wool light in there to make things all nice and soft. Once they were all washed I placed them all on the picnic table in the backyard to dry. I was planning on packing them up after they were nice and dry and giving them to Jackson on “special” occasions. I figured he could have a date night and he could go at it for a bit and I would then pick up the girls and put them away until next time. *sigh* Once the girls were on the picnic table though, Jackson wouldn’t leave me alone. He would go to the table - look up at the nice pieces of ass that were laid out there - and cry, whine, claw at the table legs and attempt to jump up to get them. After hours of this I finally relented and gave him his pieces of ass warning him to not get anything stuck - I still hadn’t found the Neosporin and I wasn’t in the mood to ice his nether regions again. He ignored me and went to work. Luckily nothing got stuck. I kept an eye on things.

So my big decision still is upon me. Do I take away Jackson’s … um … girlfriends again? Do I take away the only thing that brings him pleasure? Do I rob him of his sexuality just as I robbed him of his balls? Shouldn’t a little white Doggy have a little bit of boom boom if he wants it? Who is he hurting? The zebra really isn’t complaining. But if I let him continue to hump dry ass stuffed animals, his penis may very well get stuck again. He’s sort of asking for it by not using any lubrication, don’t you think?

I haven’t made up my mind…and I’m open to suggestions. I really am. A parent needs to do what is in the best interest of their child, you know. I’m suppose to protect him from the harsh realities of life - which I assume means stuck penis’.

My momma definitely didn’t tell me there would be days like this!

I have this really interesting relationship with music … for those who have read me often you know my music tastes span from Bach & Beethoven & Clementi to Prince, Kanye West, Tori Amos, and most recently Charlotte Martin. There is a song on her Stromata album called “The Dance”. The chorus … oh my god. It has to be one of the prettiest things I’ve heard in a long time. The rhythm is intricate, interesting, haunting and poignant. Her voice sounds similar to Tori Amos which is a big huge plus for me, too. So yeah … I’m totally into Charlotte lately. I dig her. If you enjoy chick music (eyes Tiffy with a wink) you may really enjoy her, too.

So this post is going to be to the accompaniment of Charlotte Martin. Think Chick music with a certain depressing/yearning note and you’ll get the affect. *wink*.

I realize that I have written some pretty interesting and “deep” posts lately - and not that I need to explain anything in my blog to anyone …. I’d like to.

I’m a writer… I write all the time with and with out paper and pen. I write in my head - gathering up little bits of information that may come out in a story, role play, poem, journal entry, etc. I write on little pieces of paper while listening to lectures during school, or while waiting in line at the grocery store, or sitting in the really comfy chair with Jackson in my lap after breakfast. I’ve always written. When I’m not writing I’m buying things to write with or buying things to write on. Writing makes me feel … relief. Writing makes me feel better and sometimes (lately) it makes me feel slightly worse… I am a writer and I’m one of the most frustrating kinds of writers, I think. I’m not well organized in how I write and I know my punctuation leaves much to be desired. I’m also an emotional writer - which means (as you probably have guessed) I either write when I’m on some rant fest, or when I’m in love, or when I’m frustrated or sad or one of the other 50 or so emotionally charged feelings that cause me to write in here. I can be either very funny or extremely depressing, I can write and inspire you or write and completely frustrate the ever living hell out of you. I can write things that will make you want to know me better, or I could write something that could cut you to the core…leaving nothing unexposed and laying all your shit bare (tyt). I can use my words as little tiny daggers aimed directly at the most sensitive part of your soul and I can use words as soft delicate caresses - snake charming explosive orgasms from your body.

Writing - is how I dance. And the things that I write here … though some may see it as a sort of marketing genius - is really just an invitation to “you” to dance with me. It may not be the type of dance you are looking for all the time - but it will be a dance that is intimate. You WILL get to know me while dancing with me - or by reading what I write. You may not always like what I have to say, hell, sometimes I don’t like what I have to say, either! But you will get to know who I am … and if you just hang in there for a little bit you’ll get to the place where I make you laugh again, or give you a shiver down your spine from some delicate verbal caress I throw out onto the page. You may even hold some of the more intimate “CeCe-isms” hostage and unleash them during a call with me…making our time even that much more connected. If you want. It’s up to you.

I know that my “job” is often an escape from the real world … and sometimes I feel a certain amount of pressure to be that type of an escape for you all. I know that you have a wife that is telling you how she feels all the time maybe - or that demanding girlfriend who is always so caught up in her feelings and blah blah blah. Maybe you’d prefer to have a girl to sit back and drink beer with - trouble free - just another one of the guys…with tits. Maybe getting to know me is just a little too much information … a little too real when all you really wanted was a convenient 15 minute fantasy; a break from your own reality. I get it. I don’t blame you. Truth is … I’m that girl that you can sit back and drink a beer with. I’m that girl that can give you 15 minute breaks from reality. But I’m also pretty damn complex (or at least I’d like to think I am…). I’m “flighty” at times, a little demanding, spoiled, egotistical, self-loathing at times, hyper, imaginative, stubborn, sensitive, pensive, shy, eager… and a dancer. I like to dance. I live for that type of connection. That’s just who I am.

I’ll be dancing tonight from 9:00PM - 1:00AM.

Sometimes I crawl into my mother’s lap and I just snuggle in there … knowing I’m way too big to be carrying on this way - but enjoying the lap experience even so. A man I’m seeing (lol! That sounds so much better than the reality so let’s just go with the fantasy, k?) says that I’m kinda searching for the parent I didn’t quite get, but I really hate that typical therapeutic bullshit. It reminds me of the other day when I was watching some Oprah show about (what else?!) dieting and weight loss/food plans/ etc. I find these shows absolutely ADDICTING. I always wanna just see the after the life change people when they walk onto the stage next to their fat former selves. So anyway - I’m watching this show impatiently (of course) cuz I just wanna get to the end (don’t act surprised!). Here is this guy who is like … 500 somethin pounds. I’m not kidding. And he says something like um “I use food for love” - and I lost it. I absolutely lost it. As far as I’m concerned, people watch too much of this psychological bullshit babble. Too many wanna be “Doctors” say some key things that in theory are pretty damn true (Food is an addiction - people who are overweight often use food to self medicate…) and I just think that often times people drink up that stuff like another Frosty from Wendy’s. Slurp Slurp Slurp. Now let’s repeat what we just drank in. Oh yeah … I’m fat because food is a drug. I’m fat because my mommy didn’t love me and I turned to food. I’m fat because gas is almost 5.00/gal. I hate hearing what people think people want to hear. We all know how food isn’t love anymore - but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re sitting on the Oprah stage at 500 plus pounds dying of obesity. Knowing that “love is food to me” does not cure anyone of their addiction. So where is the connection, you know? Could the connection be that isolating and eating is an easy cure for anxiety and loneliness - and risking rejection or whatever is more difficult so a person who struggles with weight picks the “easy” choice with the predictable result? That feels more “real” to me than spouting off some psychological babble bullshit. Sorry - rant over. Wait - let me just tie it back to what I was saying: So when the man I am seeing gives me some of that psychological babble bullshit after I’m telling him something that REALLY has the issue I want to talk about - it upsets me. Yeah yeah yeah - dysfunctional, co-dependent, unhealthy. LOL. Can we have some new terms, here?

I’m not sure if this impatience is a new thing to me, by the way, or something that was always here but just a hidden side of me. It can be pretty entertaining at times, but I realize it can also come off as particularly cold and heartless. Bitchy-like. I’m seriously a sweetheart. Most of the time. I think.

Back to my mom … I was sitting in her lap - smelling a spot on her shirt that reminded me of raspberry sorbet or somethin’ - and I was telling her how I don’t have any time. Her response to me? “CeCe - you were saying this when you were 8 years old. ‘But Mom’ - you said to me, ‘I want to do everything NOW because who knows if tomorrow I will still have the time!!!’ ” Yeah. 8 years old. Amazing ain’t it? I was an emotional wreck even as a young child. *takes a bow*

So today I ran around like I had a rocket up my ass. No it’s not the drugs - and no I can’t sell you any. I don’t think. I went to the gym and worked out with my ex boss for an hour - then we went shopping to pick up a “few” groceries. Yeah right. We went to CostCo. You can not pick up a “few” of anything there. Costco is love - and I am certain I have substituted Cosco for love. There, I said it, Dr. Oz. So - we go to Costco - then I fill up my prescription - and then I go back to my friend’s house and jump in her pool to cool off for a few - then I remember I have to take my groceries home too - so we go back to my house. Then we pick up Jackson who got an impromptu hair cut from a friend who is staying at our house (she has too MUCH time on her side… she’s not a groomer and Jack looks a fricken hot mess…) and we continue to go for an hour walk (11,024 steps today!!) and then I realize that I have done absolutely nothing today for myself really - like no alone time, you know how that is, right? And I started to get REALLY cranky/bitchy/pouty/passive aggressive. Danger zone. Seriously. And what is it that makes me so damn cranky?

I look at that damn clock and I think to myself - I need about 10 more hours in a day. I need time to sift everything back into my life. I’m convinced that I could possibly make it all fit. Maybe. If I tried. Hard enough. I start to feel cheated - then I start to panic because there is SO much I want to do… so much … and there is this limit on my life called a “day” which has this annoying thing in it called “hours” which are limited to 24 hours. Then my own mother gently reminds me (while laughing softly at my misery - just like a mom! lol!) that I have plenty of time and that people always feel this way - and that this is “life”. That I will do all the things that I want and more - if they are right for me to do… I’ll always want to do more and that is healthy. (??) So I guess I can stay with that for a moment. It’s 11:32 now and I logged in an hour before I thought I would be able to but an hour later than I had been shooting for. You get what I’m saying, right? But I am trying to take solace in the smaller victories here - and the things I am discovering and learning about myself. I’m granting myself an hour of totally useless Oprah Philosophy because hey … everybody needs a little time away (I heard her say…. *Extra points for the song reference, boys!*) and there will be time. For everything. Within reason.

I hope.