Now is the time!

You’re not late, you’re not late! Merri and I had a very important date!

A kerfuffle of feral bunnies, in the dawn’s early light, brought forth my dark companion. I knew she was coming when I saw them nod to one another just a moment ago - and then they fell into formation.

A tight little circle of fur and fervor near the swaying chaparral. Delicate branches sprawled just so - made the ascending sun appear fractured.

The valiant escorts, with their varied colors and patterned pelage, began darting - around and around. Their little leaps, rhythmic - gentle, up and down. Individuality was soon lost in their perfectly choreographed and otherworldly motion. Faster. A carousel of white cottontails and simple black silhouettes. Swirling. Dark and light. Determined.

Their sweet, busy paws and steadfast merry-go-round ways created a funnel, a portal - a conduit.

Mesmerizing. My lil’ mare - my little mayor. Merri.

She appeared within the hazy, lavender whirlwind. Ethereal and yet somehow, very salt of the earth. She smiled knowingly at me and winked; familiar and full of wonder.

I was both comforted, and slightly alarmed, by her reemergence.

The darkness and the light were flickering like morse code - our eyes were wide and knowing. Quetiapine be damned. After our silent, tearful reunion, and once we had heard Neal’s lullaby - the message was clear - our mission at lookout point was complete! We were ready to leave.

But did we? Or was there a crisis team intervention and a safety plan involving room service as self care?

FOREWORD

PRELUDE - Part One

PRELUDE - Part Deuce

See you down the rabbit hole!

If you have ever read my DTF Escape Series – you know that I do a lot of fucking around and finding out before moving forward with a relationship kiss and tell. I am going a different direction with this second part of my Meet Cute piece for a number of reasons - including but not limited to - the fact that one of my Kens (?????) is still kind of old-fashioned: a private person.

This one is going to get weird and totally nerdy – with astral projection, local history love-letter lore, transcending time, integrating cultures - all that, hang in – it’ll pay off.

A year prior to meeting my taxicab driver Ken, my fact, fiction, fusion personal memoire project – Notes on Trees and California Stars – was born in an Einstein Bagels drive through on a sunny April, afternoon.

As I listened to Freaks by Surf Curse – and waited for sustenance covered in strawberry cream-cheese, I began an outline in my mind – and started filling it in with details from my early relationships, circa 1987 to 1996 - vis-à-vis my recently re-curated and very extensive collection of analog communication that I have kept.

I still have the handwritten letters that I received back then, the sketches, the yearbooks with endearing (or suggestive) inscriptions, my original diary entries and more.

But how does Ken fit in? Where does Ken fit in? Why does Ken fit in? How many Kens are there, actually? Is any of this even real?

Great questions and time for a Full Moon in Aquarius confession!

When I started transcribing my vast compendium in 2024 – it became very clear to me that I had overlooked a few gems in my time – great guys who had really, fucking liked me - and they spilled their heart and souls and guts onto the empty pages before them – filling each line with longing in long form - and then, they were courageous enough to put these love letters in the mail.

Immortalized in my neatly organized binders, crafty scrapbooks, albums and original Contempo boxes.

Ken reminded me of one of them…

a Ken from back then…

and I am not writing this because I long for lost love - I am writing this because I am passionate about how fucking lucky we were … to have grown up where we did, when we did, and how we did. I took it for granted and I still miss its complicated but patient pace.

Yes, we were free from technology but our problems were still complex. Times may have been simpler, but teenagers will always scare the living shit out of me (Chef’s kiss to My Chemical Romance! Muah!)

Back then, when I was a teenager - we didn’t send texts or post on socials - we sent confessions that we couldn’t take back. We paid postage to torture ourselves – and we waited on pins and needles for a reply that could literally take up to seven days.

We didn’t watch the three dots anxiously; we checked the mail religiously and accosted the postman if he was late.

We also passed handwritten notes during, or in between, classes. Weekends were agony sometimes…we were so disconnected! I mean, unless we wanted to be bold and actually pick up the phone to talk to our crushes.

We had landlines back then and eventually, beepers. The internet was in its infantile stage, and during freshman year - we were still taking typing class – with typewriters!

We rarely carried cameras around unless it was a special occasion – pep rallies, twin day, a dance! and we had to get our photographs developed! We had to pay to catch glimpses of our lives and pray that the shots came out good – retakes were not an option.

We treasured them like trading cards – school photos especially. We had entire classes dedicated to producing yearbooks and we asked people to sign them. It was like we were collecting autographs from famous people – larger than life characters, frenemies, ride or die sidekicks, reoccurring guest stars, secret crush confessions with an innocent “KIT this Summer” suggestion and hastily written phone numbers, climbing the page vertically like clinging vines – hardy and full of promise!

All of which brings me to the first part of my project’s title: Notes on Trees.

We professed our love, confessed our fears, made declarations, shared secrets, stated our intentions, betrayed trust, mapped our futures and tempted the fates on PAPER!!!

Each note or treasured artifact - bearing unique, identifying factors – not only signatures, but the specific visual patterns of our handwriting style as well.

And all of these Notes on Trees – were about MY California Stars – the ones hanging brightly in MY special constellation – above our small town – illuminating the vast Cornucopia in which we resided.

One of these California Stars began expressing his interest in me at the start of seventh grade. We had homeroom together at the only junior high in town - which had funneled all of us in from five main arteries – our local elementary schools.

This California Star wrote me long letters and drew elaborate pictures of album covers, skulls and classic cars.

The taxi cab driver I met in May of 2025, the one I only recently began dating early on in 2026, he transported me back to 1987.

He reminded me of this kid – the one who had a crush me back then and was the first one bold enough to admit it at a time when such confessions began to carry real weight.

I imagined my current Ken – and how he would’ve been back then.

My current Ken and my back then Ken had a lot in common…

From their musical interests to their creative endeavors, from their hazel eyes and longer, dark hair to their beautifully tinged skin which made their gorgeous teeth shine brighter shades of white and were set perfectly below their pronounced noses.

From overbearing older siblings to confusing social constructs, from awesome cheekbones and their sexy voices to their sinewy necks, old soul vibes and similar abandonment wounds - which either scabbed over with emotional depth or continued to weep self-imposed, loneliness – these two Kens were very familiar.

So naturally, I did what any normal person, woman, writer, hopeless romantic reckless fool would do – and I didn’t mean to – it wasn’t my initial intention, but I projected the past onto him, my current Ken, and shrouded him lovingly in the unwavering, doe-eyed nostalgia I carried for my back then Ken.

I promptly began covering the man standing before me with three decades worth of missed kisses. I stood on my tiptoes to do so. He laughed every time – I was five foot nothing and he was five-nine.

I unwittingly (at first) knew that I had a lot of making up (and out) to do, especially after recently re-reading the love letters from him, my back then Ken, with this new, pulverized heart that I possessed. It had always been tender, it got tough and was now unfurling to become tender again.

I soon bestowed every ounce of my unfaltering adoration upon him, this imagined version of my back then Ken …

The young loner from junior high - reappearing before me now - a grown version of his past self.

Still single. Still interested in me. Still unassuming and no doubt full of surprises.

My back then Ken deserved everything I had never given him thirty years ago, and I wanted him to know that I had never forgotten about him. Or how I fell in love with his best friend.

In 1987, we had all collided in a new neighborhood – across the railroad tracks. We stumbled and fumbled our way around the East Side - on campus - and in all directions after school – as we spilled onto the streets when the last bell had rung.

Everything was new. Independence was new. But our new life, for the next two years anyway, was set against an old backdrop. This side of town was well established but slightly disheveled – and somewhat familiar.

Our middle school was located in a unique pocket of a somewhat historical, largely Hispanic neighborhood. The history here could be gauged based on the size of the trees and the reach of climbing vines. The rich cultural roots were well documented in intricate murals and measured by the health of succulents, the love bestowed upon potted agave and the freedom granted to the orange or cactus or oleander hedges which roamed beyond traditional property lines.

For some of us, before becoming students here, we may have only passed the middle school if we took a short cut to the freeway on the way out of town with our parents.

Or the rundown campus was just a place you drove by – in the summer while your dad ran in to grab cold beer, cigarettes, Coke in a bottle, live bait, & ice-cream or candy - from the best Mexican market in town.

The tomato canning factory was located near this little gem of a “bodega” which had of course, contributed to the market’s solid, decades long success. It’s noon whistle bellowed every day, and it was comforting (to me anyway) that amidst all of this teenage angst and turmoil that some of our friends, neighbors and relatives were being called to break for lunch.

There was a lady named Linda, who lived on my street, a favorite neighbor who smelled like tomato soup every day after work - she was always exhausted and hot. But she was also a single, badass Latina - in her mid-fifties - still feeding and housing two of her three kids who were both in their early twenties.

I spent a lot of time at her house – I loved her well-manicured back yard and coveted her giant collection of pennies – thousands upon thousands of them – lovingly displayed in all their copper glory in clear, oversized canning jars that were nearly two feet tall. I had a crush on her middle son, who was ALWAYS ten years my senior – and I babysat her young granddaughter who also lived with them.

My dad really liked Linda too and they would drink beers together in our driveway or hers after work – always talking shit about football. I came from a red and gold, San Francisco 49’ers home and her family resided three doors down within the silver and black confines of Raiders territory. My dad used to wear those colors too – but after the Raiders moved to LA for a brief time and then back to Oakland again – he had never nor word he ever forgive them.

When I went to school each day, I knew that Linda was just a few blocks away at the tomato canning factory and I found solace in that fact because there were periods of time when both of my parents commuted out of town – North to Silicon Valley – in all its 1980s glory – booming with emerging tech giants.

The commute should have only been 30 minutes each way – even if we did reside at the southernmost tip - the bottom of the “South Valley” it still should have taken less than 45 minutes to head to San Jose. But our communities had grown and expanded and become bedroom communities. Commuters spilled onto our freeways every morning and promptly got clogged at the bottleneck. Traveling to and fro each day could total three hours.

Even though arriving after school to an empty home was cherished and cool - knowing that you had people in your corner – right next door or just a few doors down - offered comfort. Comfort that many middle schoolers may have denied needing – that while we may have coveted our newly found independence – sometimes we were still grateful to have a familiar, warm face just a few knocks away.

Aside from the canning factory and the bodega - there was a nursing home near our junior high campus too, an acre of apartments and a huge mobile home park around the corner. There was an orphanage right across the street – which had originally opened its doors 1898 and was rebuilt and retrofitted to code in 1921 – just fifteen short years after the 1906 earthquake.

It ceased operating as a traditional orphanage in the 1950s and transitioned instead to providing mental health and social services, foster care and of course, however clandestine they tried to be with the “rebrand”- they still provided adoption services and housed wayward children.

When we arrived on campus at South Valley Junior High (SVJH) some thirty five years later, the “orphanage” still loomed large – serving as a daily reminder – right across the street - that we better fucking behave.

Our active, twelve, thirteen and fourteen year-old minds (errrr, mine, at least) never ceased to imagine that any one of us could be swooped up, captured like uncollared dogs, and held captive behind the orphanage’s mysterious, sprawling wrought iron gates.

For some of our peers - this neighborhood, was the day-to-day backdrop of their lives and not just a collection of odd landmarks that the rest of us only paid attention to for nine months out of each of the two years we would be here.

Our school was conveniently situated between both the railroad tracks and the freeway, routes bustling non-stop with livestock and the true fruits of our local labor: the perishable commodities that we were celebrated for.

We were surrounded by rich, rural fields – a stone’s throw in any direction – all of which yielded endless quantities of our regional, seasonal treasures. The fruits and vegetables, harvested via backbreaking and migratory work, rarely crossed our lips during school hours.

While some kids fumbled for joints or cigarettes during our morning and afternoon breaks – (covert location for smoking TBD on the daily, pass a note - spread the word, Man, spread the word) – the rest of us sampled new foods from the “walk up” cafeteria windows.

Greasy, French bread sandwiches - dripping government grade butter and cheese – were messy, hot and glorious. The soggy subs paired perfectly with our “It’s It” ice-cream sandwiches and Cokes – this combo was the common breakfast of champions.

The “It’s It” factory was located right outside of San Francisco – an hour & twenty north (without traffic!!) and we felt blessed that these famous chocolate covered, ice-cream oatmeal, cookie concoctions were also in our repertoire of award winning, regional treats

We needed all the carbs, caffeine and protein we could muster - for endurance, strength and agility. We had to bob and weave on the daily - or actually fight flocks of fucking selfish, wayward, seagulls who swooped into our open air quad - to steal anything left unattended. They came from the coast – just thirty five minutes west or down from the Bay. We prayed multiple times a day to whatever God or Deity would listen - that we didn’t get shit on in front of everyone.

Around 3:00pm - we left campus and began encroaching upon local businesses in search of additional delectable and unhealthy delights. Foster’s Freeze was the closest and prospered greatly from the crumbled bills and loose change kept in our pockets, purses and backpacks. Chocolate dipped cones, root-beer floats and deep fried burritos all around! French fries were also very affordable.

Some of us wore headphones as we spilled onto the streets - to either appear aloof or to create social distance. (Portable cd players would hit the market in the early 90s – so we were still listening to cassette tapes at this time). We each had a unique soundtrack to our lives – we listened to our anthems, or pretended to, as we turned the stones of our new schedules, responsibilities and expectations over and over in our impressionable minds.

Some of us rode ten speeds or Specialized mountain bikes home. Some of us took the buses as far as the buses would go and a lot of us walked – we were all headed in different directions.

North – towards Morgan Hill and Silicon Valley, to the latest suburban sprawl, only recently completed and situated just outside what we considered “traditional” town limits, near the well-established ranches, that lined our way to favorite, childhood pumpkin patches …

East - to the small farms and original homesteads nestled along the foothills of the gorgeous, rolling ribbon – The Diablo Mountain Range - the great, 30 mile wide, divide – that separated us from the Central Valley and it’s thousands and thousands and thousands of acres of coveted pistachios and almond orchards …

South- towards the fields of garlic and cherry orchards around the junior college, the bigger homes juxtaposed by migrant camps just before the bend to San Juan Bautista, lettuce and strawberry and artichoke fields glistening all the way to Salinas and Monterey …

West – beyond town and through the winding vineyards, past the greenhouses full of hybrid flowers, through the gnarled oaks and further still, through the dense ferns and shadowed creeks - under redwood canopies – Watsonville and Santa Cruz lay in wait on the other side of Mount Madonna …

Many of us meandered west “into town” after school. We would travel in herds - comingling at some previously agreed upon midway meeting point - where many of us lived. We would offer refuge at our homes or loiter with our friends at local businesses - before they embarked upon the second half their journeys: further west or splitting off to the north or south.

The kids who weren’t walking, riding bikes, buses, or cursed with the embarrassment of parent pickup - dropped cooly onto their skateboards and maneuvered around the crowds - surfing the concrete waves of this new life.

Some kids traveled in clusters, others in pairs, a few lone wolves staggered like tumbleweeds in between. I sensed that EVERYONE was contemplating how they fit in, or didn’t…how they planned to, or didn’t…

We were surrounded by new people every day (many of whom had extremely varied, often times intimidating, either real or fabled, life experiences thus far) during every class period, on every field trip, at every school dance or annual community gathering, we recognized a new face somewhere - someone from school – or a friend’s older sibling - at every restaurant, fishing hole, church, horse arena or grocery store that we visited. And those faces changed every semester. We were all being folded into each other’s current and future realities.

We practiced new approaches to things, took chances and tried to establish & integrate our blossoming identities - amidst the safety of our longtime friends. Our touchstones, the cornerstones of the very foundations upon which we were recently built.

At the start of the school year, friendships still appeared to be solid – but by late fall, many had been tested. The new cliques, subcultures, bolder voices, temptations and varied interests revealed weaknesses underfoot.

There also quite a remarkable lack of – well, a historical relationship cross reference guide – if you must know! I needed Cliff’s notes from the elementary schools that each of us had come from - before proceeding further with any romantic endeavors – back then Ken – or his best friend. I didn’t want to piss of the wrong girls.

Our teenage angst was bubbling up like hot lava, and we were ready to spill into the precipice of independence before us - the one that had opened up slowly over the course of our first semester and now loomed larger after Christmas break - because we had realized & actually grasped the consequences of realizing - that life was hard, not everyone liked you and not all relationships were meant to last.

Our twelve and thirteen and fourteen year old realities were shifting every day, IRT just like the slippery, tectonic plates we resided upon IRL. Always in financial jeopardy from the droughts and always in physical danger from the San Andreas fault. Life was shaky at best for most of us and in shambles or gone completely to hell by seventh grade for others.

Like the kids who unexpectedly had to go to continuation school and had new babies enrolled at the on-sight day care. While we were all on the same campus, those students and their tiny children were segregated to a small lot, in an obscure corner, behind a chain-link fence. There were boys, girls, babies, toddlers and government workers – all residing within the cheap portables – and practically on top of the gawd-damned railroad tracks from 7am to 5pm.

Everywhere we turned, there was more mature language, a variety of new and dangerous past times to explore and multiple opportunities for cross pollination, vis-à-vis, unsupervised class transitions. While we had no lockers to decorate or linger around (except in gym class) there was still juicy and undeniable soap opera level shit going on – easy to detect if you paid attention.

Smoldering glances, whoops and wolf calls, grabbed asses, fake punches, handholding, over the top make out sessions, real punches – switch blades, missed connections, tears, first kisses – intercourse and oops! pregnancy confessions - anything you could imagine and everything you could not – it was all happening.

Amidst our bustling, open air walkways - hormones were zinging all over the fucking place - and there wasn’t anywhere to take refuge – because even while the covered “halls” may have provided us protection from the elements – the corrugated steel above betrayed us too. Ricocheting our whispered secrets, amplifying our laughter and making loud threats feel closer - everything was echoed and arrived across campus in one way or another - before the next bell rang.

One day, I ran to catch up with my all-time, favorite cousin (one of my bestest buds) and his friends – the cigarette smoking, skateboard kind.

I found myself alone, without my girls due to feigned or real illnesses (most likely menstrual cramps or mono), traveling sports team schedules or a newly minted and necessary bus ride across town.

Being alone on this side of town after school was not a great idea because when you live in a town who’s population was:

50% Hispanic/Latino
48% White/Non-Hispanic and
2% “Other”

Well little white girls like me, learned real, real quick about who was in charge over here. Not too many of the hardcore, Hispanic girls liked me or my “white-washed” Mexican, besties very much.

As far as I could tell… generations of Chicano Queens had always ruled this neighborhood and its resident males. Machismo be damned. These women watched and listened from their stoops, yards, or open windows – they knew that lazy breezes and secrets too - could catch in their threadbare, pastel curtains. The soft wind could bring words: confirming suspicions or letting someone off the hook.

They ran this shit with iron fists. Some had long, dark panther like nails, while others had short, jagged ones stained with field dirt, or covered in yummy tamale masa messes – regardless – it seemed like they were always prepared to strike – accurately – unexpectedly and best believe, brass knuckles would be the least of your fucking worries if you crossed them.

Like their mothers and abuelitas and great grandmothers had been before them, they were still leery of white-girls and the chaos that could ensue if we were left unchecked.

The true Cholas - old and new school, gangster girls - did not like the way I squealed during softball. Or my cheerful, confident, can-do-it attitude.

Or that my bangs were just as glorious as theirs – waterfalls of long curls, cascading down to their waists, framing their hard faces.

My hair was almost as long – my bangs were almost as large – and yet my face and my eyes seemed softer.

White, lower-middle-class privilege and the cadence of its (somewhat) stable, day-to-day lullaby – provided shelter.

Protection from the unpredictability and difficulties of a hard knocked life: trauma inducing altercations, real and perceived threats, fist-to-cuff scarcity, and the migratory nature of love and loss - relatives and lovers chasing the harvests, carrying tender hearts away with them – while those left behind are left to grapple with uncertainties - were their promises to return were real? or just false hope?

All of it was apparently – not only bad for your disposition but it could impact your complexion too.

My family had its fair share of alcohol and drug induced traumatic events resulting in prison stints, domestic violence, unpaid child support, infidelity, local holding tanks, drug trafficking, divorces, DUIs, lost wages - but I was not jaded yet.

I hadn’t been forced to be - at such an early age - because my experiences were occurrences - and not the blood and marrow and breath within the walls and bones of my home.

Aqua-net and curling irons were not fussy when it came to different ethnicities, and I took immense pride in doing my hair too. The Latinas with big hair were called “hair-bears” and my friends deemed me a Polar Bear.

These Gilas girls - some of them just mad-dawged the fuck out of me. With their blunt, black eyeliner, emphasizing hatred or envy and shrouding the homing devices set within their irises – which locked in on my weakness and nativity.

They wore dark, maroon matte lipstick, layered thickly between penciled lines - stenciling a perfect pair of lips on their gorgeous or gross faces. Most wore a permanent frown or scowl when we were around.

Some of them with tiny, tattooed teardrops
dripping down
from the corners of their shifty eyes – black or brown, black or brown.

It wasn’t a good idea to walk alone. I caught up with my cousin and chilled with him and his friends behind Foster Freeze – we hung around on the railroad tracks. Goodness – some of these guys were to die for. I was silently scoping them all out while I pretended that I like smoking.

This was when I first started hanging out with my back then Ken - outside of homeroom. My mind wandered and I thought about how lucky I was to have this freedom to be feral, and spontaneous - the right amount of scruples to safely test new boundaries and the faith & open arms of an amazing bunch of friends and family - to soften any blows.

I was an only child, but most of my best friends had younger siblings AND new “junior high” responsibilities – which included everything from retrieving their little brothers and sisters from nearby elementary schools - to making bottles and changing diapers after mom’s 15 minute break – which of course, was doubled to a half hour, noted for sure but silently overlooked - because the local employee pool was limited - and that extra time was used to do day-care pickup and at home drop off – before these women returned to work and stayed late to make up for lost time.

I did not live that life, but I observed and pitched in! Between homework, watching M-Tv, talking on the telephone, fixing snacks, the endless after school specials about drugs and divorce, favorite cartoon loops, dinner prep and extra credit...

My friends were fucking exhausted. Not as exhausted as their single parents, but damn near close. I helped my friends lighten the load whenever I could - to give them relief and enjoy their company, to dote on the littles and make them feel special - as we all gobbled up our portions - of the heavily guarded and militantly distributed - after school cookies or cuties or chips or grapes. The budgets were so tight in these households that we couldn’t ever risk overindulging.

Most of my friends and I had always worn the latchkeys - but now, some of my friends were saddled with the ongoing responsibilities of a failed partner – who no longer resided within the walls of an unbalanced relationship.

Cornerstones crumbled but the lawns were still being mowed. The grass was still green. Foundations were devastated and food was still on the table.

An extra glass of wine with dinner – and our treasured rose bushes were still being pruned, albeit after midnight – when we were invited to walk behind them and encouraged through flared nostrils, to inhale their wisdom under the moonlight.

We listened intently as we traced their paths – the white-gray smoke from Capri cigarettes or Marlboro Lights – loving every minute in the Garden of Good and Evil – thanking Bacchus for that extra pour.

Divorces were popping up all over town - like flaming weeds in sidewalk cracks. But they were beautiful and produced such scattered bouquets about town – and it was marvelous to witness these strong women rise and bloom and declare – no more – this shit is fucking unfair!

They talked to us like we were their fun, sassy girlfriends and warned us about marriages and men and motherhood and finances - and they rolled their tired eyes.

Our moms, our friends’ moms, our aunts, our cousins, our neighbors, our bosses, our fucking grammas dude, told us direct and not so direct tones and varying ways - that relationships were fucking hard …

Most of our moms worked full time work outside the home. And most of our dads if we were still lucky enough to have one in the home – or unlucky in some cases depending on the day or the decade – but the rest was up to all of us – chores, child care, light shopping on the way home from school or getting your own damn ass to cheer or football practice. No chauffeur at your beck and call ‘round these parts. No, sir!

We were essentially free from any parental oversight from 3:00 to 6:30pm - Monday through Friday (considering commute times, errands and our parent’s extracurriculars).

My apologies, I digress - back to Ken – current Ken and back then Ken.

They both had hard-working, kind but tired parents, comfortable homes, pets, and siblings. Some older, some younger, some by blood, some by marriage or other means. Some of their brothers or sisters were overbearing while others were just irresponsible, bad influences forever lingering.

Both Kens had been in the boy scouts or something similar when they were young - and had each tried their hands at afterschool stuff during elementary – mainly baseball. Karate, maybe wrestling. I do not believe either of them had any interest in any sports at any point past ninth grade.

The two of them had active imaginations - and the immense amount of voluntary social isolation allowed for their elaborate stories and sketches to flourish and flow onto the page with ease. Music, canned soda, testosterone, and teenage angst began fueling their fires and shaping their desires.

They each exhibited signs – at these two different times - of a unique persona, spanning thirty years – committed to the bit of an endearing combination and always keeping you guessing.

Sinner, saint, martyr and behind those ivory tower walls – a grandiose, personality complex. Passionate yet they presented as sweet, sincere, shy, loyal and slightly dangerous Doberman types (if provoked but rarely allowing themselves to be put into positions or situations where they could be provoked publicly).

I remembered everything about my back then Ken - and as I listened to current Ken recount his experiences from 1987 to 1996 – the four of them were forever intertwined in my mind.

The one I had originally denied would no longer go without.

The one who stood before me, just recently - as if he had been conjured that night at the wayward, gas-station – appearing because of the $17.77 angel message on the old cash register –

would soon reap the benefits of my primal and ongoing search for dick-stractions - recently discovered sex addiction (????) expert moves whimsical tendencies to over indulge in the throes of ecstasy? Sagittarius in my fifth house, this girl is making up for lost time - escapades of intimacy???

You say tomatoes, I say perishable meet cutes.

I would dote on him, my current Ken and make him feel good in every way - for at least 12 to 16 weeks - to make up for lost time. I don’t think that the man in front of me suspected any of this and I didn’t let on but…I think he felt blessed. He hadn’t had sex in five years. I had only been without for eight weeks.

I felt like - the other version of him, the back then Ken that I had known so long ago - the one who currently lived a life of solitude in Wyoming or Illinois, or Montana or Idaho - being all rugged and chopping firewood…

I imagined that HE could feel all of it – all of my memories – and sex magic manifestations – KISSING FUCKING FISHING HUNTING – swirling across the thousands of miles and decades between us.

I hoped that he could feel the kinetic energy I was creating in his honor, I hoped the thermal motion warmed his heart and helped if he needed help – especially during those severe winters.

(Disclaimer, I’m not a stalker (tee-hee-hee-hee) - I just simply followed his mom on Facebook until I quit about 3 years ago – she and I had always been fond of one another and I would message her sometimes and ask how my back then Ken was doing - she was such a good mom – had always been dedicated to her kids, her home, work and her marriage).

I prayed that every missing molecule of self-confidence – began coming in from every direction – and reassembling with my help. To repair anything in the self-worth realm that may have still been lacking for either of my Kens – in their past, present or futures.

I envisioned myself carefully crafting each of these sweet, time capsule, sexy power boosts for back then Ken…

And every time I spent time with current Ken, I sent the level ups to all four of these guys – infused with positive healing intensions and whispered apologies.

I hoped that all of my efforts made back then Ken – the one who had only recently stood before me - the one who arrived from back then – fully grown and poured into a cool, sexy glass of second chances …

I hoped that my back then Ken and my current Ken and all versions of their former and current selves – I hoped that at least one of them - felt self-assured if needed, extra attractive if needed, and extremely desirable all the time.

I smiled and trusted that my back then Ken – who lived a thousand miles away, alone somewhere in a cabin – would run into someone that seemed familiar to him - the way current Ken seemed familiar to me.

I imagined it was gonna be someone cute and genuine – warm, around five foot tall – and blond - who was keen on him for all the right reasons – kissed him on tip toes.

I hoped they were banging like bunnies – and felt like teenagers – then way current Ken and I did. We could not believe how lucky we were - when we clicked so well and fucked so well - a few weeks after colliding at that fated gas station.

We laid under black lights in his bedroom and admired each other for hours - bathed in electric, lavender as we listened to dark-wave goth and talked about how hard it was to “people.”

I learned that my current Ken owned the taxi-cab company and it would have been against his own policy if he had tried to initiate contact. He was a man of principles and business smarts, neither he and nor his employees could initiate romantic endeavors – interest had to be clearly expressed by the customers first - not the cab drivers.

That made me feel better because I had wondered why the fuck it took so long for him to let me fuck his fucking brains out.

We were an instantly charged, unexpected, short-lived - but absolutely amazing cosmic collision.

I hoped that my back then Ken would get lucky like my current Ken did - it really turned me on – imagining him with a crazy, feral cougar – giving her multiple shuddering orgasms, and the genuine, steadfast commitment and loving adoration that everything between her legs ever deserved.

I felt powerful - I had recognized an opportunity, created, continually generated, and dwelled within - a parallel universe, power of a pleasure-house that I alone - had constructed

for the three, five now six of us – to take refuge in – as we all recovered from the damage caused when our foundations had no doubt, fallen apart or disappeared. In different ways, at different times, in different places with different people for different but recognizable reasons …

While my guests may have not had any idea that any of THIS was actually fucking happening – well, it all made me feel intense. Intuitive. And strong. Finding my footing again - in a chaotic good, dark and light feminine energy, walking hedonistic, cute wild, willing conundrum, sex magic & pleasure goddess kind of way.

Lord, it was cute. He was beaming when I told them all about how we met - and I loved telling the story. His arm was casually around my shoulder, I had the floor and I leaned back into him.

We had been dating for two months - intimate for one. He invited me to dinner to meet his whole family, while we gathered to celebrate both his mom, and his sister’s birthdays (two, powerful Aries women - chef’s kiss)! I gave them the concise version of our paths crossing while I had the floor that night, but I have a longer tale for you, Dear Reader!

We met in May 2025 - he was a taxi-cab driver. I needed a ride to a rental car place because I didn’t want to test my car during a six hour drive, west to San Diego. He arrived a bit earlier than expected and was greeted at the door by my shirtless, indifferent ten year old son.

When I came outside I greeted him with enthusiasm - as I generally do when I greet anyone for the first time. I was heading toward the back seat and he promptly ushered me to the front - opened the door and told me he liked my t-shirt. It was an AC/DC tee and he called me concert girl.

I thought he was very handsome and I liked his energy - it felt like it matched mine. We only drove about two miles and chatted happily the entire time. I later learned, that as he watched me walk into Enterprise - he had wished that he could accompany me to San Diego (kids and all).

I also learned that when he arrived to pick me up a week later - to take me home (sans kids - staying in Cali for three weeks!) from the rental car place - that it wasn’t a lucky coincidence. He had saved my phone number and had marked it somehow, to be at the top of the list for any inbound dispatching calls.

He dropped me off and that was that.

For the next seven months, I couldn’t help but check out the taxis around our small, mountain town. I was casually involved with two different men during that time, from June 2025 onward, but I couldn’t help hoping to catch a glimpse of this tall drink of water in the yellow cab. He seemed intelligent and engaged from what I could tell based on our brief encounters.

He wore glasses and a jaunty, newsboy cap. He was spry and lanky. I knew he had moved here to help his parents and his sister. I thought that I had remembered that he was either single or had never been married and had no children.

I wondered why he had never reached out again.

Then one night, on January 26, 2026, my eldest son were leaving the gym, and I was saying I needed to get gas before we went home – he couldn’t have cared less about anything I said and continued to watch YouTube. I envisioned what gas station I should go to on our way home - and I had only ever been there once - in five years.

As I drove, I thought I shouldn’t go THERE because it would be on the left hand side and I would have to get in the divider lane and cross two lanes of traffic. I even got in the far right lane and turned on my blinker to go to a more sensible gas station. But - I kept seeing flashes of the other one.

I turned off my blinker, followed my intuition and continued to drive straight for another 6 blocks. I was just going to pull up to the pump because it was 27 degrees outside. I got in the center lane and waited to turn left. I saw a taxi cab and I gasped out loud. My son didn’t notice.

I peered inside and saw a tall, dapper man in a peacoat at the counter. He had a newsboy cap on. And glasses!

I told my son I was going to run inside – and I later told Ken, and recounted it again, to his family – who squealed with delight and laughter, as he soaked it all up and I was cozy in the crook of his arm - that if we could pull camera footage from the parking lot that night…they would see a crazy, feral, cougar bounding towards her unsuspecting prey.

Luckily, I did look kind of cute that night - even though I was coming from the gym. I pulled myself together as I casually opened the door. I walked past him – and my nostrils flared. He was talking to the cashier. I strode to the nearest cooler, opened it, and kept my peripheral on Ken through the glass door to make sure he wasn’t leaving - and grabbed a chocolate milk for my son.

I closed the door and stalked to the counter – and exclaimed, – “KEN? Is that you!"

I later learned how bashful he was – but he was still in customer service, taxi driver mode – so, he looked at me and smiled.

“Concert Girl!”

“Yes, it’s me Danielle, from up by Acker Park! How are you!”

The cashier, I later learned, was a pal of his – a former, client – and she was eating this all up.

“When are we gonna go to a concert?”

“I don’t know…” I began to say and then cashier cut in – “Are there even any concerts going on right now?”

We all looked at one another – not sure how to move forward

I said, “I saw a poster for a country one coming up, next month!”

“Well, give us a call if you need a ride!” he said as he walked out the door with his distilled water and waved over his shoulder.

I paid for my stuff and wanted to go outside before he drove away, but the cashier was getting really excited about something.

“Girl, you need to go to a casino, right now!!!! Look at these numbers on the cash register – look at your total!!!! It’s $17.77!”

Of course, I googled it later that night and googled it again just now - good’ole, ChatGPT says, 777 is a sign of divine alignment, heightened intuition and spiritual awakening – you are on the right path – with a thumbs up from the universe!”

I was caught up in the shock of seeing Ken again, via Divine Intervention, and trying to catch another glimpse of him, but she was really all about this good luck! So, I lost sight of my prey and focused on – what I believed to be an angel message – a double lucky situation - where I had been guided to this exact location at this exact time.

So, I took her words seriously and decided to go the casino later that evening – thinking maybe I was destined to win big OR that Ken would be picking up or dropping off a client.

To Be Continued…

It was dark at look-out point. I was disoriented at first but gained my sense of direction soon enough. I also remembered that I had my days mixed up – I originally thought my kids were coming back (later today – if Part One of My Prelude were to be believed). I backed into my favorite spot and quickly surveilled the parking lot as I pretended to check my reflection in the visor. I had received a second notification for calendar alert I must have ignored the first time around. I now see that they were staying a few extra days with their dad, his girlfriend and her son at an AirBnB on a trip I had forgotten about. Love that for me. And for them.

My satchels were loaded in the back - I had my notebook, a few sharp pencils, a thermos of black coffee, pack of smokes, couple lighters, my phone, my switch blade, a super fog sativa vape, frozen blackberry nic flavored vape, the binoculars, gloves, a grin, gumption, good music (obviously) and two days off. I felt unencumbered up in the driver’s seat. Like, I was becoming untethered as everything clicked into place.

I wondered what time I had arrived, but Princess Nokia and Medusa shook their snakes and hissed, “Who cares?”

More of their words slithered into my ears…. Hail Medusa, blood moon in her eyes Hail Medusa, make a grown man cry Hail Medusa, kiss of death on her lips Catch the Holy Spirit, rebuke the bad dick.

I knew from a few years’ (escapism) experience up here, that most of the staff and the security personal – from the Reservation or otherwise – used this location to park and take their breaks. So, it was pretty safe.

I loved watching the sunsets and sun rises in the summer from up here. Or on special days during the winter cornucopia to see the vast storms or the snowy peaks between here and Flagstaff. Plus, if I walked to the casino from this particular, spot – I had time for a full cigarette before I arrived and went inside. No smoking in the casino. Eye roll. The shuttle bus drivers took their breaks here as well.

We all liked this side of the property because of the picturesque views below; we could monitor the east-west, gray ribbon – Highway 89 - from our perch. It was a gentile, mountain corridor that slithered along one of our largest creeks - which was lined with thick, mature, green foliage of varying shades and shapes and varieties. It was a small, four lane highway that was rarely used other than during the “long-way, rush hour route” in this little, mountain town - but most of the cowboys and farmers drove less than ten miles to their ranches.

It was super early and there was like zero activity in the mostly empty lot – graveyard shift was pretty much a skeleton crew. The only movement was the whirr coming from the caged, industrial operating infrastructure nearby. It wasn’t obnoxiously loud – just a constant - the cost of running a semi-large hotel, conference center and casino – a lone star - atop one of the highest points in our up’ndown’elevation’town.

I was under a tree and surrounded by a curb on two sides which was awesome because it eliminated the possibility of someone parking next to me. There was so much space and so many empty spots – I doubt anyone would need to. I turned off my compact SUV and got out slowly, pretending to stretch after a long drive. I felt like Rue from Euphoria – she was so good at that type of nonchalant but necessary – NPC, character building. I linked my fingers together over my head and elongated my spine as I reached for the clouds with my eyes closed.

I had my aviators on, but the sun was just barely blushing in the east – it was more lavender than orange right now. I did a gently swaying, thirty count move and pretended I really needed it even though I lived less than 2 miles away. Maybe I took a forgotten detour on the way over and that’s why it felt like there was time I couldn’t account for.

I finally meandered to the back and popped the cargo trunk. I found and situated my thermos, unscrewed the lid - that looked like an obscenely large bullet casing – and poured some fresh, black coffee. Well, there was a tiny bit of cream, but it was still dark as fuck. I sat down and shimmied backwards into the cargo area and set crisscross, applesauce while I set up a little office around me. About two feet away from my bumper there was a sharp drop-off that ran the perimeter of this side of the property - about 150 years in each direction.

I turned on some music, sipped some coffee and lit a cigarette. I had all the windows open, and it was nice and crisp outside. I was quite early. I knew Voldemort didn’t usually arrive for breakfast until 5:30 or so – so, I had about an hour and a half before I needed to pay attention to anything other than song lyrics and fleeting glimpses of sweet, early morning wild-life – whom would be bathed in varying shades of ethereal purple & navy pre-dawn, light. If they were brave enough to come forth.

There was a veil, almost lacey - like a thread bare, white, cotton-eyelet-nightgown was spread across the top of the creek’s beautiful, dense canopy. But it was fog which reminded me of home. We always had fog where I came from. That’s why we were so successful, agriculturally. It appeared as if it was perforated, billowing grey and lined in silver – worn with love – in both senses. We barely ever had fog here in Northern Arizona. I could see my breath, and I watched the slivers of mist from outside commingling with the smoke I exhaled - through my nose - like an experienced dragon. It seemed like everything was coming together. I was a Dragon after all. Born in the Year of the Wood Dragon. Belly of the beast and all that.

I thought of Patsy Cline and Three Cigarettes in an Ashtray. Everything outside would be tinged with dawn’s, warm, cathartic-peachy, caress soon. I was getting a bit tired because the adrenaline had dropped off a little. I wondered if all of my hard work would pay off. Would I toast the other jockeys after I crossed the finish line? Would there be flashing bulbs? Would all of us be doused in champagne and deemed victorious?

My eyes were getting droopy and I thought - a perfect trifecta propelled me to this point – since my cart and carriage had been relinquished. I felt like betting on myself again and I felt destiny stirring on the wind as I exhaled and finally, safely stubbed out my cigarette. My Shadow would take the lead - securing first place. Chaotic Good to come in next. See What Happens When You FA&FO was a sure bet - perfect for third. I didn’t know if I was a race horse anymore - maybe a Unicorn, maybe a Pegasus

I don’t think I slept at all before I arrived at look-out point, which meant I hadn’t taken my meds. It was Thursday around 4am – I guessed. I had wrapped up the witching hour with the ladies a while ago and then – I thought - drove directly here - which usually takes less than ten minutes – five of which were just chugging up the switch backs on the steep hill.

A song came on and it reminded me of someone - that person who I knew had a hold on me - the dark one who put a pep in my step. And I took comfort because I knew she would stick around for about twenty more hours - stay until I knocked her out with an Rx make-up dose of mood stabilizers and some…unless….

I had the rest of today off and tomorrow as well. What if I called out sick on Saturday? And let my dark companion - my little jockey with a slight build and a sassy smile, stay for an additional 48 hours? I felt like she was gonna show up any minute. And if I had to call off Sunday too well, that would just be practically implied when I called out Saturday wouldn’t it?

I could use Sunday to rest, hydrate and recuperate. Return to work Monday, soak up any concern and take advantage of being “off a bit” from the day time, cold meds – just trying to power through - ya’know? Get the boys Tuesday, afternoon and finish the work week with my half day – Wednesday.

I liked that plan! Thanks, my pretty lil’ Mare. My lil’ Mayor. I am so glad we’re having another slumber party - it’s been more than two years, my Love, I thought as she arrived – or appeared – I think the women may have conjured and sent her because she came as though, she had been encased in a little scuffle of dust – created by a scurry of juvenile, cottontail bunnies, playing under some wild, native lavender nearby. Her valiant escorts.

She mimed, dusting herself off, fixing her hair and straightening an imaginary tie with great enthusiasm. She laughed lightly as if she was surprised, and not at all surprised as she regarded her current whereabouts. She was like an apparition – waving, elegantly – like a Royal – to all of us? I guess? Hello to me, goodbye to the bunnies, the moon. Goodbye to the stars and a grand welcome to the – soon to make an appearance – sun.

We were all enamored with her – and I blinked a couple of times – as I watched her climb into the back of the suv with me. She made herself at home in the seating area I had unknowingly and knowingly prepared for her. Like, she was not an unexpected guest per se, and with her – an arrival was always eminent, I guess. I didn’t want to bother with all the logistics.

She was a little, brunette - tinker bell type - with aquamarine and blue tiger’s eye tinged, Albatross wings. When and if she had wings I corrected myself. She was so familiar – I loved her (again?) immediately. I sensed she could – not shape shift – but size shift. Sometimes she was my size. Like five-foot tall, petite and a bit thinner than me. Maybe the age I was before I was saddled down with a husband and a job and a student loan.

Sometimes when I was stressed - she was about one-sixteenth the size of Tinker Bell – and just as magnificent and determined. When she was small like that, I imagined that she got trapped in my mind and then pushed hard against the inside, of the conclave located within my right, orbital socket. It felt like she was urgently trying to escape. She didn’t like all of the anxieties swirling around or the cortisol spikes.

She pushed with all her might - her little hands – were freezing against my bone- which would then, cause my eye to twitch. Other times she seemed bigger and stronger – like a tea-cup sized, tiger cub. She clawed her way into my awareness with sharp pain, beginning at the bottom of my right shoulder blade. And then made her way, cleaving my delicate muscles for stability, and shimmied up to the base of my neck.

She would stop briefly as she surveyed her journey thus far and looked up playfully towards her next vulnerable, resting place. My jaw, my ear or her favorite place again- my orbital socket. She would shrink as needed to accomplish her next flight plan of pain – I mean fancy. Flight of fancy.

Her name is Merri Kurbits Brillantini and I imagine - she hails from north of the Faroe Islands. She came from of a small, lush, green fjord. It was surrounded by the gently lapping gray and lavender ocean. Her culvert was carved by ancient glaciers - she kept track of Nordic and Greek mythology for us. The legends, the lore, their lives – our Danes and Swedes - we honored Native American warriors, too – explorers, heroes - we were on their land now.

She looked like Bjork and Alice from the Twilight saga – with longer hair. My pretty, Mare - my lil’ Mayor. My Die Fee. My Fe. My Kentauride. My ride or die. She was sometimes a pain and sometimes a salve.

Merri and I collabed on the cosmos & gave thanks for our tendency toward being amongst the first wavers. Zodiac insights gave us so much grace and guidance now that we took them seriously. Validating our old soul, confidence – which had been laying a bit dormant – and reinvigorating our vast, radiant intuition.

I kept records of our ancestry and familial birth charts & the history of our lineages. I recently started doing house placements for our dearest, dearly Departed. And our loved ones who were still alive too. I wanted to get to know everyone again but in a different way.

Merri’s irises were like kaleidoscopes. And that reminded me of the crystals and the facets and the prisms. I could see cold, dark gray – French Cadette Blue colored seas, churning gently under pink and orange skies. Blurring into a muted, but somehow still exuberant lavender.

Merri liked declaring independence - just like Austria did - she helped me divorce my Germany and I tried to stay Switzerland as long as I could - but it broke me at one point. Not from a loss of love but from seeing the final straw of trust and respect for someone as a father – breaking under the weight bad decisions and lifelong consequences - in slow motion.

She understood all of it. My lil’ Mayor had mesmerizing eyes. Her gaze felt like amber. Like the comfort and the wonder of fresh, sun warmed, honey straight from the comb.

We liked to do dance routines with roller skates and short shorts - and hair brushes. Our favorite of late was Chain of Fools - we’re such a hoot. Other times she sang me lullabies like How You Like Me Know by The Heavy.

She would tell me how she loved the South and its association with winter - she didn’t care for the stability offered by Capricorn, but she was loyal. Merri was here to see things through like a Taurus. She told me about Chiron and Lilith in our ninth house with Aries. We loved Spring and the reset. She enjoyed feeling twitterpated as she sometimes dreamt of the East, but her heart was mainly in the West, with duplicitous Gemini. We both very much cared about balancing Libra’s scales with Karma. We loved Autumn as well, watching the leaves fall away.

We got on our hands and knees like kids and gingerly, climbed towards the “tailgate” and shifted our positions so we could swing our legs over the asphalt and tip toes along the curb that separated us from the drop off. We looked toward the cosmos, we felt friskiest in the summer. And the summer reminded us of the ocean. We loved the sea and found enlightenment riding those endless, nostalgic Pisces Moon waves.

Leaning back on our elbows - gazing northward - we watched ourselves swaying on the Astral Plane together - near our native inlet – her birthplace - bathed in ever-shifting, shimmering Sanguine, shafts of light. We were barefoot on a lavender, powdery snow, strewn landscape.

We also kept an eye on the highway below and the clock. We still had time before we had to get the binoculars to see if Voldemort used this route for breakfast Monday through Friday at 5:30am – sharp.

Back on the plane, everything was relaxed and the ice was offsetting the sky’s blues, and hues of magenta, fuchsia, dark violent, violet. Maybe there was like, a modern-day Venus meets Arora Borealis situation under the ice? Was this a situation? Were Venus and her giant shell and her Cherubs trapped? I looked around. No one seemed alarmed – so, I just continued to relax, stressfully and enjoy the light show that we were both standing on in a parallel universe and witnessing from the back of my suv at the same time.

I wondered what it would feel like – to be trapped underneath our own, icy, negative, self-talk ocean – clinging too and fleeing from the self-doubt, chunks of chilly. Trying not to get frantic or to panic - trying to gently, brush the bobbing obstacles away so we could make it to the finish line and get on the door with Rose. I know there was room, bitch! Our demure hands doggy-paddling, our russet hair swaying, hypnotic tendrils – an abstract and fleeting halo in our wake.

It certainly, looked “citrusy” under that lavender ice – like, it was teeming with torrents of orange, lemon, lime and grapefruit slices. I imagined something akin to sugarplum fairies –fine sugar on the coats of the sweet, sour, zesty and bitter sergeants all of whom were carrying serrated spoons. Their invigorating scent sparkled in the wintry air briefly - like the daring, silver flash from a darting school of fish.

Merri was funny but we learned it was from trauma. While she had this enigmatic aura of like, making people feel at ease with whomever they were or pretended to be in her (our) presence – she was a bit bossy. She did have to, ever-so-gently, remind me about being more on brand during THIS mission.

The last one was – well, mis-managed to say the least. We needed to elevate our game a bit but not overtly. She wanted me well rested, properly fed and hydrated, clean, present. That whole oxygen mask for yourself first kind of thing.

We smirked, bumped our shoulders together gently and got tears in our eyes simultaneously. We remembered when we hadn’t taken such self-care precautions in July of 2024 ~ the lack of fireworks, the discovery, the adoption gone wrong, the detectives, the flood, the security escorts, the crisis intervention team - room service as an action item on a selfcare plan. We had been scheming and then suffered from the falling asleep under the bed. just too. tired. to plug the charger. in. kind of exhaustion.

I think that particular slumber party was longer than five days - maybe seven. I remember Trump got “shot” the “first-time” at some point, earlier that summer. I was in a bathroom stall at our community center/clubhouse when I heard, I smiled big behind my locked door - surrounded by Red Women who would’ve been alarmed to have me walk out smirking because I was a Blue. I did a secret happy dance - combined with praying hands and hallelujahs stomping my demure feet silently - sending kisses to the Cosmos all simultaneously while I peed (like a race horse)!! I wanted to go back and bask in the poolside, sun AND this exciting news.

But Merri and I jumped ahead a few weeks at that point. There were gawdy shards of other awful details – a collapse at the courthouse, a voluntary ambulance ride to an inpatient facility, disrobing, no probing, a breathalyzer, photographs, clean scrubs like jammies, good drugs, and a room full of women in numbered recliners with warm blankets and brown paper lunch bags on their laps. It was night time - and we were watching Legally Blond. That was then, this is now though.

But if we wanted to keep track of the patterns, we had to look more intently.

There was a slight tremor detected in 2017 - indicative of emotional instability but that was scary - this here, at lookout point is fun.

Emotional dis-regulation fault line was discovered 2020 and determined to be quite dangerous and unpredictable - but this - this was, calculated. Premeditated, recon – organized, nuanced, goal oriented, structured. Yeah, but didn’t you say you wanted that? Like, in the Foreword? Something about – what did you say – forced magic?

True and we did have to do a little more forcing of the cosmetic magic - my lil’ Mare wanted me to exfoliate, straighten my hair, play around with makeup more and avoid always going for the black joggers – she wanted me to rock some dark, cute, petite, bootcut jeans. Babe, like with flats to reinforce a non-threatening stature – duh! Casual, put together and just hustling and bustling about town as some types of women often do. Capable was the look we were going for - above suspicion. When they go low and all that.

I mean, some people did say I should get outta the house more. Others wished otherwise. I shared with her about the Divine Intervention at the Verizon store in December. She already knew and agreed: we were lucky that those eight thousand texts that we deleted had been restored during the transfer. I thought they had been permanently erased too - but turns out all the evidence is there again the lies and the unsolicited pics – all of it.

Voldemort had told me a few weeks ago that he, “already knew how I felt” and followed THAT up with a, “you can spare the lecture” and then he used my first name and I almost gasped. I thought REALLY, Hun?

Merri banged a makeshift gavel to call everyone to attention and so I could get up on my, high horse. I cleared my throat.

“Well, Voldemort, I don’t think you took good notes while I was at the pulpit then, Babe, because clearly if you knew how I felt – you, duplicitous SOB, well, then you wouldn’t’ve repeated the same slick, slip-slide-on-by pattern, AGAIN then right? Am I mistaken, Sir!”

I went on with my little powered wig and black robe.

“The court finds you guilty - you read a sentence about how I felt. You became annoyed. You neither felt, nor absorbed, a thing from the words I wrote. Or whispered. Or wrote again over the course of these tumultuous, dozen plus months.”

Merri and I laughed as we remembered how much fun we had had with Voldemort UNDER THE SHEETS! and she lit my cigarette – it was almost time. As the sun rose higher and higher – I heard a man’s voice floating our way - it was time for Neil: The Reveal.

Notes:

Physical Environment:

Immediate Family: Pacific North West - Continually in a drought dicting showers, landscaping, politics, laundry, lakes’ water levels, acrigulture, rivers, aquaducts

Extended Family Mom’s Side

Family Fled the dustbowl to Texas, Nevada and finally San Francisco

Others landed much earlier and peppered the west coast from Washinton, to Oregon to California - great grandmother frightened of tsunamis and sold her caostal property for fear of tsunami wiping out her glass walled home across the street from the beach (similar to 17 miles drive but in Oregon) Heavily influenced by water - Danes, Swedes, shipbulders, Merchant Marines,

Extended Family Dad’s Side

US Marines - also peppered Pacific Northwest but hailed from Illinois - land locked but Ethel loved water too

Pop Culture: My Childhood before The Little Mermaid in 1989

Early Influences with significant water scenes or references : 1976 - 1989

Flash Gordan, Posiden Adventure, Poltergeiest, Black Stallion, Blue Lagoon, Secret of NIMH, Alice in Wonderland, Fantasia, The NeverEnding Story, Romancing The Stone, Jaws, Goonies, Lost Boys, Labrinth, Stand By Me

Kidney Shaped Tubs - Medical - Tears - Doll Set

1983 - 1986

I love water and rain and mist and fog and snow (tranformation?) Rainbow Book 2nd Grade

Junior High and High School

I started giving thanks for running water daily and being “free” as a female

Relatives Mother’s Side

Location and Significance of BirthPlace

Pop Culture: Titanic 1999

Pop Culture: 2008, real life tsunami could not understand why my cousin was so emotionally impacted by this - later when I became a mother - it was the only movie I could use to induce crying

Past Lives Reading 2025

The link to your reading: kiss kiss kiss!

Atlantis - past lives could have had to do with herbs and a social mask that was resented

I wonder if this is based on mother’s side passage from Scotland to San Francisco - being on an “island” (the boat) without access to fresh herbs and deailing with illnsesses not seen on land (scurvy, nausea, motion sickness, lack of equlibrium)

I was on my way to Look-Out Point #1, and as I gripped the steering wheel with my newly discovered, 1940s, keyed-up female, private investigator, induced gumption - I remembered that I had only quit the restaurant business (again) two summers ago.

I started thinking about how I am trying to be different now. Trying to tame myself again after a rampage around that same time. I am trying to be shrewd and discerning and also be aloof. But approachable. And open. Soft, too of course. No need to beat a dead horse!

Astrology wise, I had recently learned that I needed a dark, masculine, Doberman Daddy, protector type – so, that I could become my full empath self. If I was lucky enough for that magical alchemy to occur, then we could both reap the rewards that I would gain, from fully embracing my own eroticism.

And in order to do that, I needed to feel safe and learn to accept and receive – and in order to succeed… oh, Gosh! All this while wrapping my head around life’s impermanence too?

Dayuuuuum, Son! Right? Like, (pass the waxy, diamond dusted J, no bogarting) how do you even explain that – to like anyone, bro? Like, besides your best friend (who is totally going through the same thing – well, similar but different trajectory) and to the people on Substack? Maybe by creating a weird, like black web, dating profile? But no, I know! Too scary.

And honestly, gurl - managing another app at this point in my life would be more bothersome than subjecting myself to potential rejection or waiting in vain or being stood up or, or, or. Lord, help me! No wonder I felt a bit off lately – but I was almost to look-out point! Things were surely looking up!

Becoming this new me – I thought - well, it’s as frustrating as serving a table of twenty Red Hat Ladies. All of whom want separate checks. For ten fucking dollars apiece. And they all use debit cards - instead of planning ahead with cash. JHC.

And they do the same thing EVERY. MONTH. On a rotating schedule of varying red hat “factions” – I don’t fucking know. But they were there at the restaurant every week – usually on Thursday or Friday afternoons.

I recalled how I never wanted to be one of them - as I watched them slowly gathering in the lobby, at 11am sharp - like hens peckin’ dough around a pie pan - and I just knew they were going to be seated in my section. MFL.

I hated the cliché YOLO but – jeeeeeze I was afraid of getting old and looking back and seeing that I had settled. I had my degree in Gerontology and had worked in aging and adult services for five years – and I was empathetic and kind and genuinely concerned about the elderly – and then I worked in the medical field doing triage over the phone - I didn’t want to look back when I was old and have regrets. Especially the relationship kind.

I would busy myself with preparations before they even finished arriving - as I pondered my future – well before they were seated – I was readying their “made to order” waters (yes, waters) because I could just hear them. …

“You’d be surprised how fast those sodas add up! Tell Gertrude! Three dollars a pop! (A pop! You’re funny, Dorthea!). Ladies! Stand firm on water! Don’t succumb to her charm, she’s the predator of upselling (I know, because I read an article!) and you’re her prey!!”

Five more minutes until they were sat. The hostesses had finished putting the tables together, laying the silverware rolls, menus and bread plates just so. These red hat ladies always acted like they were the only ones who knew that drinking water was a great way to save money when dining out.

“Remember, just water and no appetizers!” they would no doubt whisper down the line like busy, telephone operators.

Of course, I knew that they would all want lemons or limes or fucking orange slices with their waters. I rolled my eyes.

“What kind of hot tea do you have? Is it caffeinated? Well, that’s ridiculous! A bag of tea is $3.50?????? I will just have hot water with extra lemon. Tell Dorthea I almost fell for the upsell! Oh, my! June, you rebel – you! I can’t believe you snuck a tea bag in for me!”

I carried the large serving tray out on my shoulder and added to the tables’ set up: I put down a glass for each shaky guest. Every other glass had ice cubes. That way they could switch or trade glasses if need be (some of them are very anti-ice). I didn’t pour water in to the glasses.

I went back to the kitchen and grabbed the four pitchers of water I had prepared for the table so they could pour their own. Two pitchers had water with ice, and two pitchers had water but did not have ice.

I floated through the restaurant on auto pilot and found myself at the bar. I created three ridiculously, pathetic, dried out, bar fruit buffet platters – much to the chagrin of my bartender. I watched golf on one of the big screens and side-eyed the small, red hat, purple cloaked clad army in the lobby as they assembled for their parade to my section.

Walkers, quilted shoulder bags full of Mary Poppin like treasures, canes, is that a fucking corsage??? I already had the hot water set-ups on the table for them – saucers laden with honey packets, spoons and up-side down mugs – little miniature, silver tea pots, dotted the table - in addition to the glistening, cooler water selections of course. The condensation on the glasses indicated a sophisticated level of proactivity – I must say! God, they were going to float outta here.

And they would say that too - and grab each other’s delicate wrists and laugh amongst themselves. Some would be moved to tears – beyond most of the others’ comprehension – because of how absurd all of this was. I caught a glimpse – a sliver of the truth, glinting behind the leaves and shadows in their irises - that they didn’t want to be here either – that they wished they had gone to live in the woods alone. Never to be married or tied down to corporations or child rearing. It was too late now. Maybe tonight was the last one. Let go, and let God!

This is why I preferred to minimize the need for customers to ask me for things. Or even talk to me - I didn’t want to listen to anyone. I didn’t want to absorb their energy. My bartender gave me a nod and a sympathetic eye roll. I looked at her and thought…maybe, I should bartend again. So there was some sort of barrier between the customers and myself.

I wanted to be free again. When I first started in the service industry - I used to describe being bored of simple guys, local guys, predictable guys, offering us wild fillies boring treats - sugar cubes, apples, carrots.

And here I was skewering various fruit combos onto plastic swords and raising my right eyebrow – silently indicating to my bartender that I needed a few splashes of 7up from the gun - and Cran and OJ too – I wanted everything to look presentable for the red hats…

I wanted a feed bucket of wild lavender and varied sea grasses. With clementine oranges and bundles of mint. And chrysanthemums. Cilantro! Bouquets of black roses, dripping with Spanish moss and succulents and crimson and clover – over and over. Hello, Daddy, Hello Mom – I’m you’re Cha-Cha-Cha - Cherry Bomb! Cherry Bomb!

My eyes grew wide. I imagined sugar cubes from yester year transforming in my newly, unbridled mouth – they simply wouldn’t do any longer. They never did. I remembered their sticky, transient, sweetness and felt or imagined feeling – that jolt of energy and excitement that they had once provided – as the condensed granules liquified and slid down my long, lean throat. It reminded me of doing cocaine, you know?

But now, it was like lines of time – decades laid out, side by side on a round, worn mirror or an old, pitted, CD case - and I could see myself even if the surface was dull now or blemished with black spots – outlined in rust.

I imagined a seafoam green, hour glass nearby – I was captivated by the particles of fine, shiny sand as they merged together and slipped collectively through the middle of the two, stout, ribbed bulbs – slithering demurely through the liminal space - between then and now. Times almost up.

These days, I wanted wild, red pomegranate juice frothing from my mouth - spilling forth from once white choppers - stained with fleeting bright, fuchsia foam. Remnants of other flora from my trough - swinging wildly from my teeth like seaweed. I shuddered and tossed my mane to shake something off.

I thought about that one guy. That customer – he was a regular that I looked forward to seeing. For a while, anyway. He reminded me of a chubby, old, unassuming, slightly domesticated wolf from an Indian Reservation. He would come in for dinner maybe twice a month with his two room-mates – a man and a woman – the three of them were of varying ages over 65.

They were fun and witty and wistful and tipped so well! They really had a hoot when I began greeting them with a round of Diet Cokes! Such a good memory, they would croon! But soon the wolf’s eyes got too big. He started coming alone for lunch when it was slow and he would ask for my section. He looked like he was licking his chops, and I did not want to be any dish. At all, like – what-so-ever.

He fumbled with his words – his desire and his restraint. He reminded me of a cartoon character - nervously wringing a pork pie hat in his trying so hard to be humble hands. He wasn’t stealthy – too bold. Charm long gone and a long forgotten reason to be cocky. He was like Ricky Ricardo turned Fred Mertz. Doughy – desperate – most likely flaccid. Grasping.

I turned abruptly – I thought I heard a loud snap. I smiled. It was just me remembering how carrots had easily fractured between my large molars. I straightened my shoulders.

I carried the little “fruit” buffet, bread plates to the table for the eager, most likely, freezing cold women – that would soon be herded my way. The women who were probably going to stick around for three hours after they settled their checks – to play either play Mahjong or read bible verses together. They would still need attention. After giving me shitty tips and if Dorthea, the water Nazi was gone by then – they might even splurge order decaf coffee! And share one dessert and then ask to split the check five ways. And use their debit cards AGAIN.

I rolled my eyes – and shifted my focus - apple slices were so over, I thought as I meandered to and fro preparing for battle. And they certainly had not provided sustenance for quite some time.

Before these women lingered way too long – with cards, or tiles, or books - I knew, from years of experience, that a million annoying things were headed in my direction soon… I readied myself – fortified with a shield of foresight.

“Can you turn down the A/C?”

“Can you make sure my bread has no butter? So, I can do my own butter. Miss! Miss? I swear, it’s hard to get good help these days, My Lord! Heavens to Betsy!”

“Can we have PAPER NAPKINS!!!!!!!!!!”

“Did the manager turn down the A/C yet – I mean, otherwise, we may have to move tables. I brought my cardigan and my scarf this time – but I just can’t be under this vent!!! It’s making my soup cold!”

“Oh Miss! I wanted pats of butter. Not whatever kind of butter this is. Oh, never mind, I found the butter pats and the plain bread basket. But you might as well bring more bread now. (I want to take some home for Fred, shhhh! Gonna sneak them into my purse. You ask for extras too.”)

“Next time, ladies REMEMBER, we have to ask for a table that is NOT under the vents! Who wants to be in charge of making the reservation next time? Can I get a fresh bowl of HOT soup?”

“When are they going to sing Happy Birthday!!! Shhhhh, yes, I told the hostess!!!! Miss, Oh Miss!!”

All of this tootsy’ing around and needing to be spoiled like Queens of Sheeba – for Christ’s Sake! It certainly called for more than a miserable buck sixty, tip per biddy. But no. It would be exactly 15% per ticket.

“Oh, my Lord! These pats of butter are so cold! Downright rigid! How are we supposed to spread the butter??? The bread isn’t even warm enough (now) to melt the butter. I have to hold them in between my hands or, Oh! What a great idea Gretchen! Hold the pats between your hand and the hot mug! Genius! I swear if women ruled the world…”

You know what I want? For all of you to have a fucking potluck. At your own houses. Sometimes my soft still tends to gets hard. But I digress.

I buzzed around their table like a horse fly for a good 45 minutes. Never in a rush. Always had what the demanded in hand before they threw their fits. Refilling soups, serving up platitudes with their endless salads and grabbing those $6.00 take home meals for their husbands or sisters or grown adult children in varying states of rehabilitation after illness or injury or addiction. I shook my head – glad that was over.

I pulled into the parking lot at look out point number one. As I did so, I remembered why I currently had this bee in my bonnet. I mean aside from the Voldemort in the Blue Truck bee - it was that wolfy guy. He had pushed me to the brink. And when that American, Neil, breached the perimeter a few days ago – treading lightly through my boundaries - this whole thing made sense. It was my time for me to cross the line now.

I know you’re wonderin’ about and the mess I had to clean up and about Neil and Stephen. But hold yer’ horses and gather ‘round - let’s make a fire in the middle of this wagon train. Get the horses watered and let them rest and graze. I gotta tale to tell. A tail? No, a tale - just be quiet. I wanna shoot the breeze, chew the cud - maybe hit the hay before we move on. Put your feet up, too. Go on’now.

I will refer to him now only as Voldemort in the Blue Truck – the DTF formerly known as, well – you know the first rule of Fight Club – we don’t talk about it – let’s just say, his name wasn’t Robert Paulson. This one no longer had a name - he was – duplicitous. Like Voldemort. And well, he did have a strange mouth – Gemini Rising tugged the corner of his mouth and gave his charming smiles a crooked look. Plus, he was bald like Voldemort. And he seemed to have eyes in the back of his head – I wasn’t sure how else he could have juggled all of our fragile, apparently disposable – or in my case, recyclable – hearts, so easily.

He became something else then. He represented a conglomerate of, well, I mean - he was a link - in MY Chain of Fools. All hail, Queen Aretha!

We met in May of 2024. We went through phases of hot & heavy three, four or five times a week – for two to three to four hours at a time – and then he disappeared unexpectedly that November. He reemerged in January of 25’ with apologies and admitted an attempt at dating someone. We were back on track with our main or side dish shenanigans. In October we hit a predictable slump. Neither of us cared for the holidays and they were just around the corner (again). I knew what was coming. Or at least, I thought I did.

A month later he caught my attention with a “serious” question incoming. I was intrigued and of course hopelessly romantic – thinking he’d finally come around. I watched the dots with bated breath.

He suggested something that caught me off guard and made me cry. Not tears of joy. We opened up because of it and our conversations got more real. I was vulnerable and he pretended he needed time to think about my response to his proposal. Voldemort in the Blue Truck wanted something beyond what our, already unconventional, relationship provided. I told him what I needed (and wanted) in order to make both of our fantasies come true.

HE went on actin’ like he was ponderin’ our future, but it remained the same for a few more weeks while I anxiously awaited his decision – any moment now. But, just splash and dash. Voldemort needed more time. He just Slip Slides On By like Miss Valerie June beautifully, and painfully, croons.

Our tie was severed on January 5, 2026 when he had claimed - that he just didn’t feel a connection. Beyond the best lay ever declaration type of connection. Or the I love you that slipped out of his double-dealing, (best head ever) mouth once – but here’s the kicker – I still had the texts. The texts that said he…well, we’ll get to that later.

While there was minimal opportunity for course correction with this guy - no change on the horizon, even after 18 months, I knew it wasn’t over. He just didn’t know it was only the beginning. A woman scorned was right around the corner, and I was going to be serving that up ice cold. After it was hot first and then - ya’know, I dipped it in the water to forge it? Like a blacksmith? With a broadsword or some horse shoes…Whatever. Let’s move on.

While the chain still rattled around in my brain – I thought it might be time for something new - Shovels and Rope. Time to dig. Perhaps. A plot? And prepare to bind. A spell? A cord cutting ceremony? Who knew? Early days, I shrugged nonchalantly to myself – I even tilted my head to the left a lil’ and raised an eyebrow – puckered my lips sideways. I laughed.

I had simply wanted to be complacent, but now, I needed to be complicit. If not me - then who? If not now - then when? I wanted to be a PI for quite some time, and I do like killing two birds with one stone. I decided I should see if I liked that line of work before committing, you know?

As Hillel the Babylonian and John Lewis’s variations of this important call to action rolled around inside my head like a marble, I smiled to myself. Would this be social activism via military stealth like MO or would in be more of a personal accountability and the urgency of living a purposeful life type stuff? Who knew? Again, I shrugged early days, I snorted and snickered out loud.

I began to busy myself. Voldemort had given me so much information about himself and his schedule - his committments. It would be easy to fill in the blanks if I was diligent and steadfast. Maybe I needed a partner in crime. Well, if I went the social activism route on this mission – like, my version of it anyway, maybe one of Voldemort’s former lovers would become a friend?

Current world events had been/still were/remain to be causing a lot of nervous energy to buzz through my veins and I wanted to channel it into something with a beginning and an end. To hone my skills as a potential, unassuming investigator. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had deviated from a similar path in a past life. I didn’t want to tread lightly this time around - I wanted to get my hands dirty. Maybe keep a tiny derringer in my glove compartment box like grandma? Just kidding - Immajushorsin’round.

Now, if you do recall, I had mentioned previously, that I’m task driven. Off and on. Imma people pleaser. Off and on. Guess which switch was now flipped ON full time, and which one was OFF - shut down completely?

I wanted to put my Pisces Moon to work with its long memory but under the guise of my outgoing, skillful lioness like, Leo Rising. But with my quirky, chaotic good, independent Aquarius Sun Sign as a compass. Chiron and Lilith were the lead co-deputies and I was the Sherrif. I had a star tattooed on my right wrist in case you needed proof.

I wanted to right some wrongs and write about righting those wrongs. Record keeping had always been my forte. It was passed down on both sides of the family.

I rummaged around and found some binoculars in my kid’s room and a small, spiral pocket notebook in my junk drawer. It happened to be empty which I loved and thanked my past self for the foresight to stock up. Very PI – I must say – slip that into my front left, flannel pocket there we go. I went on Amazon for some other supplies and I wasn’t nervous about the digital footprint. I felt good. I slid my favorite number 2 pencil into my messy bun. It was perfectly sharpened.

Then I received a confirmation through song and I felt even better. The road less traveled was a good idea right now vis-à-vis - Blues for Momma. Activation sequence initiated.

Oh Miss Nina, Miss Simone, pull up a chair baby, girl – join us – oh wise one!

I am so glad Spirit sent you - I got the table set for you and Mazzy, Dusty, and Janis. This here is Celeste, that there is Lucinda, Eilen Jewell, Brittney Howard, an Angel from Montgomery right here and you already know Aretha. Nancy Sinatra is on her way. She said she just gotta brand new box of matches, and it was time to play.

I have the Cherry Bombs and a new Coping Mechanism. What did the old guard say about a woman scorned? I say the rebrand should include something like, “If you see Blue Birds swirling in Black Glitter - Run! It means Cherry Bombs of Truth are inbound!!!!!! Take cover – she ain’t fragile like a flower, motherfuckers!!!!”

Something definitely Had a Hold on Me - but it wasn’t love as Miss Etta - Miss James suggested.

I did have a pep in my step, I felt lighter - because the darkness had begun enveloping me. And I didn’t sound sweeter when I talked - I sounded more discerning confident.

I decided at the last minute to take a shower. I practiced keeping my eyes dull and unresponsive while I was in there – locked in place on the grout - in my resting bitch face position – which was really hard for me. A friendly reminder – an inside joke: I can’t play poker. It’s hard for me to hide my excitement. But I was really good at the grey rock method – came naturally at the tender age of two or three. (Thanks, Uncle D!).

I washed my hair and realized I hadn’t really had to where any masks since I told my husband I was filing for divorce without even the trespass of a tear (well, except in one of the court hearings while I got fucked up the ass with no lube – but HAY! HEY? Oh, yeah HEY! More money buys better lawyers. IYKYK ammeye right, ladies?)

I dried off and did all the things. Put the yellow pencil back into my messy bun and put on some moisturizer. Finished getting dressed and put my favorite blue and gray flannel back on as the finishing touch – I love layers, you know?

I’d let the windows to my Indigo soul do most of the talking from here on out and I had a list of really cool private investigator phrases that I’d been hoarding in my mind for a few decades, so, it really seemed like the stars were aligning. I had the facial expression for those phrases memorized too. And I knew the proper time to remove my Aviators and swing my keys leisurely around my finger pr ask for a light.

I started rehearsing now, in my mind, as I gathered the last of my things - and kissed loving farewells to the women around the table. Mwuah! Mwuah! Love you, Baes! I knew they would hold down the fort, and I wished I could be a fly on the wall.

But, when duty calls and all that. I settled my stuff on the passenger’s seat (sometimes, I liked to buckle my purse in since my kids are all grown now and I don’t get to dote on anyone’s physical safety too often – cute!). I put my keys in the ignition - I kept the words in my mind sharp and simple - which was really easy. And also, hard.

“Isthattafact?”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Eat a dick”

That made me feel alright - in the middle of the night – Nah, Nah, Nah, Nah - and no, I wouldn’t rather go blind, Miss Etta. My eyes were wide open. Pupils dilated in the dark, early dawn. I felt locked the fuck in.

That American guy’s name? Neil – and he was actually Canadian American. His voice filled the room. It was lyrical and as I listened to him, I was reminded of my past and I began to wonder if any of it was extraordinary.

Like, was I already a legend – to someone, somewhere or had I been one - at some point? If I had been - in their eyes, was I still? Neil was a legend. If I wasn’t yet, I thought, maybe I would be after all of this. Like, THIS time around – you, know?

He went on and I recalled how wild and free I used to be – and how the service industry was kind of the beginning – after high school anyway, which was my original stomping ground - but after graduation, circa ’94, and a few failures under my saddle – waitressing was my first my first rodeo. And the arena was independence.

I’ll tell you what. You sure do come across some characters when you’re a waitress. I’ve got more than twenty-five years in the business under my apron now – off and on. Servin’ people - off and on. I’m task driven - off and on. Imma people pleaser’ - off and on.

It was hard, non-stop and fast-paced but it was always a blast. I mean it was a land mine of power trips – but it paid the bills. Co-workers and customers were both equally perplexing in this line of work. They probably thought that I was quirky too, but I did meet two of my very best friends working at family-friendly chain restaurants & in upscale cigar or divey sports bars – so that’s gotta count for something, right? We’re still friends and I just saw them last month.

I enjoyed looking back on my serving career through the unique lenses of my big three. And then to zoom in and examine portions of my life at that time even further - with a beautiful but fragmented view - the kind that only my personal kaleidoscope of house placements could lend.

With each twist of the object chamber, different parts of my birth chart clicked into place. And I could give myself grace. In some cases, anyway. I could see the infinite colors and shapes and patterns from my past – I wanted to focus on the patterns.

Maybe I would go back even further, eventually… but for now, I was enjoying another, almost otherworldly, instrument involving change & perspective. A crystal. Facets and refractions. But, like, I was the lattice within the crystal and I the crystal too – which to my surprise, is a receptacle.

Crystals appear impermeable – but I was fascinated as I watched my Aquarian sun enter it. Bending as it coincided with aspects of my watery Pisces moon. My Leo Rising then carried and spread my sun and moon’s combined efforts - depending on their speed and angle. I saw the dispersion and the rainbows – and I thought – I am hard and soft at the same time.

Elusive, passionate, sparkling, captivating, intricate, impermanent - dancing light scattered colors across my ceilings and walls: illuminating my present, tapdancing around my future – luring me back to the past.

I remember feeling like a wild filly back then - independent, capable, and confident (at work anyway). I was employed at one of the busiest restaurants in the Bay Area, circa 1996. A novel chain for family dining, the likes of which our town had never seen - and it was centered at the heart of a brand-new shopping destination - an outlet center.

Our little Silicon Valley bedroom community had been so sleepy - and this new edition of one hundred and fifty retail stores really put us on the map. I mean we were the Garlic Capital of the World - but this was a whole new level of famous and I was exposed to a whole new realm of people and an endless world of possibilities at that point. So naturally, after a while, as I am sure you can imagine if you’re from a small town too, I got really tired of the regular, local snacks and their predictable rewards - sugar cubes, apple slices, baby carrots.

I started noticing other types of guys. These dark horses. And they started noticing me too. Opportunities abound. From around the region in the beginning, then the state – even from across the country, as time went on. My eyes grew wide. New blood stock.

Our location became one of the top three (Do I sense a theme here? Should I note this? Is this a pattern? Threesomes, trifectas, big threes…ok, sorry, please continue… ) performing stores in the nation for sales and volume – coming in third behind Anchorage and Time Square. People from around the globe came to spend time and money – arriving on tour buses or in rental cars. The foreigners favored our spring and fall for their travel - (pattern noted). We had time to rest and reconvene amongst our own kind during the winter, and a large majority of the summer months.

My eyes grew wider each year and even now, remembering this one guy, I am biting my lower lip. He must have been 6’4 and the color of coffee with alotta cream. I was paralyzed when he turned around – I had never, ever seen a man, or a person for that matter - with amber colored eyes – set so perfectly, in such a carefully sculpted, warm and confident face - he made me stutter. I thought of vampires. And lions and tigers and bears! And how powerful and captivating all of them were. I thought of African Savannahs and the golden grass bending to the wind;s will. Or the sleek, calculated predator crouched within. Waiting, resting. Camflouged.

He seemed to know that he made me halt because he grinned and gave me a chance to compose myself, I held the menus and silverware rolls tighter to my chest. I posed my question again - Are you my party of 4? Yes, he snickered sweetly - and made a grand gesture for me to lead the way to greener pastures - his friends followed

Remember how I said that this was gonna’ be a recipe rich with unbridled passion? Well let’s take a look at the ingredients. I have a recipe card around here somewhere for that one - and then there is another one – the one for Walking Conundrums - we’ll get to that later. Here it is!!!!!

My Unbridled Passion in the Restaurant Industry

One Part Blue Birds: Leo Rising. Makes me fantastic waitress material, even if I do say so myself – I mean I am very outgoing and I genuinely enjoy creating a memorable dining experience for my customers. I love celebrating with them and I am constantly scanning for unaddressed needs. I take pride in my work and I want everything to go smoothly - for all of us. I am proactive, you’ll rarely have to ask me for a refill or a side of ranch – I gotcha covered.

One Part Cherry Bombs: Aquarian Sun. Creates an air of mystery and casts a shadow of faith - the chaotic good kind. Like, I see you - just trust me. You might not be sure how I got you those complementary mozzarella sticks or a side of fries with that shake - but you have everything you never knew you needed with very few words even exchanged and almost zero questions asked. I got you! I get you.

One Part Black Glitter: Pisces Moon. Illuminates those who are having a rough day so I can serve up some TLC or I can see who needed a pick me up and a couple of laughs. Dark humor? Maybe a free dessert? I’d scan my section and the hostess stand - and go grab customers who needed ease and privacy. I would tone it down for them – they tip good too – especially if their overworked, white-collar workers just trying to catch a break.

I could also sense who had just been released from prison based on their eye contact or lack thereof - and what they ordered: salad, steak, fries and a milkshake - maybe a beer but not too often. I made everyone feel welcome and respected regardless.

I pay attention and I don’t flirt for attention. Or for tips. I never slept with a manager and I would only flirt with co-workers or customers to tempt the Fates – and only when their pheromones were so undeniably strong and comingled nicely with mine – indicating a “minimal investment required” type of ride. I mean return.

Even then, when we both knew it was gonna be a sure thing – we kept it covert – lil’ eye contact transactions - barely visible but undeniably bold. Hush-hush, growing excitement type knowing. Just sitting at the bar, sipping on somethin’ in a pint or a tumbler, waitin’ on me to finish my side work so we could get outta there type eager.

Lookin’ back now – it was a dangerous recipe when you’re genuinely friendly and have a child like sense of trust and wonder - and you’re servin’ up smiles, a‘course.

To social chameleons - camouflaged, “bad boys” with charming AF personas. And there was never a shortage of quiet, furtively forward, slightly older eye candy from abroad - deliciously dangerous, or the enigmatic, obviously experienced & intellectually inclined - varieties.

On a pretty consistent schedule.

At the same location. Locally. It was a buffet. But…

Well, see, I generally tend to be drawn toward underdogs - and/or underdogs are drawn to me and well, aside from being an empath - let’s just say that - that type of primal attraction complicates an already, very precarious and very public, “career.”

These dark horses - were all shifty. Raring to go. And so was I. But some of them were unpredictable. And so was I – but still. Their pheromones communicated that they wanted dominance, and I used the flehmen response – I was usually able to safely distinguish the gentle, humbly (if only for a few hours) welcomed kind of assertive from the scary, out of control kind. I might submit.

Back then – green flags became so large that it was hard to see the smaller, red ones clamoring for attention. Yield! A Wounded Warrior! Yield! A Rogue Anti-Hero! Yield…

A sweet heart? Trapped within a self-made prison? Behind slick emotional slats – (strong as steel, you say?) forged by the insecurity of being misunderstood?

Each archetype created a slight shift within me, and influenced my participation in the hopeless romantics’ race, my endurance & my behavior on the track – if they gave me just a little more and I sensed safety behind those bars…Or the starting gate in this case.

Regardless of what type of smile they wore, or tried not to wear, the dark horses – the underdogs, they usually possessed something that the sugar cube and baby carrot boys and apple slice men didn’t.

A Familiarity. Barely visible to the untrained eye - like a dare. They were feral. Like me. Behind their societally polite composure was an intense current of knowing. And desire. They were raw and real. Like me. They knew restraint. Practiced it for the public’s sake.

But they didn’t want to be or remain tamed for long. Like me.

I watched each one of them - sitting in a booth surrounded by friends or alone at the bar - from afar - as I served endless gallons of flavored tea - peach or raspberry was all the rage at that time and Torrini syrups had just hit the market. I delivered Bourbon Street steaks with those Oreo shakes. I saw them through the decorative carousel horses - trying to keep their confidence, or their insecurity, under wraps – their muscles twitched and I was mesmerized by the tiny ripples across their sleek, shiny stallion-like coats or flannels. Ready to take my crown.

Catching a secret, fleeting glimpse of how keen they were on me rearranged my physiology and when they knew I knew – everything melded together in less than a millisecond. Freedom, and fun and submission. Stirred via divine intervention. Perhaps a splash or dash of fleeting chance – let it linger and watch how it settles.

We’d slip in to our stalls – eager for the race to begin. Aware of the risks but willing for the reward. I liked the ones that didn’t have blinders on and knew the way. This wasn’t their first rodeo - or mine - and with Sagittarius in my fourth house of love affairs - I always felt slightly buzzed. The lines between romance and reality were continually blurred. Win or a loose - I let the tail gate drop into place to keep me from backing out or rearing up - and we waited for the starting gun.

A toast to the beginning of the chase with my signature, detachment cocktail: impermanence. Served aloof. Don’t forget the garnish! A tiny, colorful umbrella of adoration or a sharp, bright, plastic sword baring skewered sarcasm depending on your preference. And my assessment.

If I had too much of this elixur – I would start bucking off societal norms. Again. Not that I felt strange in my skin – it wasn’t that. I just feel like I have always received “more input” from my environment. And the people in it. And their energy. And I knew I didn’t like being saddled down with responsibilities and regret. And I recognized the others who felt the same way.

When I was young, I just chalked it up to an active imagination and wanting to be a writer. But the “input” kept getting stronger and stronger until one day – just recently - when I had the mental space to listen, receive, interpret and act – to reflect.

I still feel different from the herd, like a black sheep or a dark horse, and I have grace for myself - but that didn’t happen until now - when I was looking through the prism’s facets - at and through myself - and I was proud of how I amplified Spirit.

I hope this isn’t leaning towards the supernatural – I mean, I did wonder if my life was normal or extraordinary -if you recall - but there are no powerful entities or immortal beings here. It’s more about intuition, past lives and ancestral enlightenment – I can’t say ancestral trauma or ancestral healing. Not yet.

I am just a sanguine girl – standing within the Cosmos – asking the Zodiac to send more witnesses as my individuality integrates and then folds into the Collective.

Well shoot – I just remembered, there was one vampire – he was a local favorite. And while we DID live right over the hill from where the Lost Boys was filmed in in 1987 – our local blood sucker was immortalized in a mural downtown on fifth.

Tourists didn’t always notice him, but we were proud of his clandestine nature. He is dressed in traditional, nosferatu garb - with a slight pastel blue hue - to his pale skin - which was junxtaposed nicely by his timeless, black pompadour. He was lifting up the corner of the mural with one hand – as though he may live, behind that scene, and with his other hand - he appears to be either blocking the sun from his eyes or obscuring the vision of his kryptonite. Our locally grown garlic. Crates and crates of it! Anyway, vampires are not a plot point in this here tale, but agriculture certainly will be.

Looking back on this time – before I was even twenty-one - I remembered we were all just human. Waiting to bare our teeth. Sometimes like rabid wolves - frothing at the mouth. Loss of fear - appearing tame or being unusually bold. Howling for one another - silently. But like, with our eyes. You know?

Wanting and waiting to be recognized, challenged. Sometimes like horses. Chomping at the bit. Pleading with the universe for more magnificent unicorns - scanning for the others who could see in the dark. Embody the dark. We yearned to be understood and unleashed - at the same time.

If the Fates allowed for our simultaneous release - we would stretch our legs - raring, willing, long limbs. Together. And sink our teeth into chaos.

And believe you, me baby - while I had always been up for these emotionally charged, shall we say…adventures? I was NEVER delusional when it came to how dangerous the wrong kind of customer could be. Would be. Shouldn’t be. But was.

Neil reminded me of that. And so did Stephen.

Thanks for the promt this was fun!

Last night he made a ruckus which led to his downfall this morning.

I sat at the familiar vanity and admired myself. I made direct eye contact and nodded once. I started preparing for the day ahead that would change the course of our lives forever.

He had no idea about what was coming. But I do. Because I’d been waiting for years … quietly planning, anxiously wanting to watch his demise.

I prepared my hair and my face just so - like I was in a stage production or on a movie set. I sat erect, confident, and ready for him to return, carrying an empty apology - holding it like an unlit lantern in the dark.

I dawned my black garb for the day.

I had heard chanting last night; an incantation for village idiots. And it was loud - interrupting the evening’s familiar schedule. When he chose not to stop, he didn’t realize it was the beginning of the end.

I chose to unleash the demon. An entity - summoned to devour him. I smiled lovingly at the thought. Thunderous and formidable and bigger than anything he had ever seen or could’ve imagined. Lightening fast.

He didn’t know how large it had grown, even though he was the one who had been feeding it. Like shoveling coal into an insatiable furnace. Or injecting it with performance enhancing steroids.

He had only ever seen the flash of its teeth, but he had no idea about the power in its mandible, the pressure per square inch. He didn’t believe it could actually bite or how long it had been waiting to do so.

When he had caught a quick glimpse of it in the past, he never seemed too scared or nervous. He had faith that he would always be safe, and I was happy to finally prove him wrong. Any minute now. He would enter the lair.

My new backbone - that made me sit so straight also made me happy. I felt strong and powerful.

He came in and started mumbling a halfhearted (and then halved again) apology that he must have practiced when he was out doing the morning’s errands. Which was not the norm. I usually did everything – he must have volunteered out of guilt. I had nodded silently and thanked him for being so very helpful.

The apology continued to dribble out of his mouth – joining the dried foam and droplets of ale that had collected in his beard the night before. I looked at him and listened, selectively, with the slightest trace of a smile on my naked lips. He was always too oblivious to know that it was a smirk.

He admitted that he didn’t even remember what he had said after I confronted him about the chanting.

I continued to ready myself - as I looked at his large reflection in the mirror behind me – and skillfully applied my black eyeliner. He looked dumber than ever. Like a peasant. Trying to take a stance in the shadow of authority. I applied my black lipstick. And then gloss.

He was bumbling and back peddling. I listened, nodded and pouted my lips in sympathy when he sounded the victim alarm.

I stood – cool and calculated - and rose to my full height. Even then, I only came to his collar bones. I turned around and lifted my hair and asked him to do the clasp on my necklace.

I gazed at us in the mirror. I looked demure and decidedly so - all the better to let his expectations grow - that I would let this one go.

I batted my long, thick lashes - and straightened my headpiece.

I turned and faced him again. I looked up into his dull, willfully ignorant eyes. Boarded up windows to his empty soul.

I held his gaze.

One, two, three seconds passed.

I heard the entity chittering. My eyes got wide with anticipation. I imagined its black claws clicking together. I sensed it coming, ready to ruin his jugular with one vicious bite or primal swipe.

Four, five, six…

I prepared for the stunningly beautiful, red gash across his throat. I anticipated that it would catch him off-guard and puncture his Leo ego too as the breath left his body.

Seven, eight…

I didn’t brace myself for it - but relished in our liminal space – licking my lips. It would scare him and I loved that.

Nine…I took a breath

TEN!

Something swelled within me – pride? A dark, feminine crescendo - I waited for the warm blood to spill forth.

I did not ask. I declared…

I am filing for a divorce.

He was stunned, seemed frozen for a few milliseconds as everything clicked. He crumpled. And I could care less.

I stepped around him. Left him alone and proceeded with my morning.

One slipped past.

I thought I had been vigilant when setting the new boundaries a few weeks ago.

According to the astrology of late, I was supposed to try and be softer. And open to the unknown. Both are difficult for me. Maybe that’s why I missed him: my head had been in the clouds; trying to harness the cosmos.

I was busy. Aside from chasing, with the intent of breaking, selfcare like a wild stallion - corralling all of those lofty aspirations into one place (journal, journal, journal!) and incorporating them into daily practice (affirmations! manifestations! a vision board!) the Cirque Ma’Ceo that was my life, was a great responsibility.

Lately - it had begun to feel like forced magic - it was hard work but performative whimsy. Too soft.

I wanted to be grounded again. I wanted something more serious - with structure and statistics to keep me in line; I wanted to remain hard. The Zodiac had suggested to be bold and take action: time to focus and make some difficult choices.

After “sitting with my feelings” for a while - I decided to take this guy’s particular trespass as an opportunity. Not an offense. And here we are.

I had been entertaining some Spanish, French, Italian and Catalan men - allowing them to play. Sometimes it was all night - sometimes just afternoon delight.

I loved listening to them. I was over the moon - really, really head over heels - due to
the simple fact that I couldn’t understand what they were saying. We were all good for a few memorable - and truth be told - at times - melancholy, months.

Then, an American snuck past. Breached the perimeter and reminded me about all of
this. This stuff I forgot. I could understand HIM clearly.

He gave me a prompt, a “what if” - if you will - from my past.

Was it time to put someone out to pasture?

That was five days ago. Now, I am sitting here, chain smoking. Enjoying my daily dose
of full sugar, Cherry Pepsi and Sativa - ready and willing but wondering how I would clean this mess up.

I needed to reign it in before my kids came back again - tomorrow. They’re one town over, with my ex husband. Seven miles away.

HEY! HAY? No! Neigh? No, Nay! Ohhhhhhhh, HEY? Yes! Yay!

I don’t know which baller or shot caller is announcing this race anymore - it’s been hard to stay on track.

Regardless, I wouldn’t put much stock in them being a reliable narrator.

So, I am taking the reins - and endorsing my own damn self.

I know about the subject matter at hand. All too well, my friends, all too well. Lived every moment of it - actively engaged or totally delusional, depending on the day or the decade.

I don’t need the Grand Marshall (he can go fuck himself) or a mentor, a peer, a competitor or a colleague to hype my story or lend credibility.

I’m sure they’re all chomping at the bit to share. I just simply, no longer care.

I’m not going to include their input. We won’t be hearing from the syndicate manager, trainer or even the foreman.

I mean - the way I see it - we’re all essentially one team. I can speak for them.

But I want to focus on the bloodstock agent’s account and get the hot walkers’ hot takes. We’ll gain additional insight from the farrier and the vet of course, but mainly, we’ll be hearing from the jockey herself - straight from the horse’s mouth, if you will.

We’re gunnin’ for first, and second, and third & with that being said - I’m writing this foreword.

It’s not long.

I have been forlorn, rebranding a woman scorned - check the benchmarks before placing your bets, ladies and gents, ladies and gents!

Pay attention or simply sitback and enjoy the ride.

It’s The Year of The Horse - after all - and there is always room for improvement. This is the time to be bold and stake a claim and we’re back in the saddle again! I think my team is worthy of a photo finish!

Who’s your ride or die? Who’ll take the lead? Which ones form your perfect trifecta?

My top three picks for this action packed season are as follows:

Not in that particular order, per se…

We’ll be reviewing their past performances, looking for clues as to where things could possibly go off the rails - for any one of them - again.

Tryin’ to see - now that they’re gone - where we may have kept the blinders on for too long.

We’ll be reliving what led to our triumphs and leaning into those epic failures; this is course correction at it’s finest.

I’ve got the original documents - registration and pedigree papers, newspaper clippings, records, receipts - you get the gist.

I’ve kept everything in a detailed journal, which I call Notes on Trees & California Stars.

It’ll all make sense, you’ll see! We’re going totally analog, baby!

What’s to follow might be fact. Could be fiction. Possibly fusion. It’s certainly a secret recipe - for intrigue! Simmering with unbridled passion, rich with walking contradictions & ripe with that stop/start mentality - plot twists that often accompany the racing flags.

Black & white checkered ones but more importantly - the red, green and yellow flags that we could have learned more from along the way.

You’ve been forewarned. And after our review - do you think you can accurately mark your racing forms?

Or will you rely upon your intution? A lucky guess, your gut feeling?

Whatever works - it’s all just a gamble anyway.

Giddy up, let’s fucking go!

Here’s your first lyrical clue & I hope you enoy the show!

This is a simple love letter to all the amazing women who have helped me grow over the last year - and blessing me with gifts - zodiac guidance, tarot, birth-chart placement interpretations and cosmic messages…

You have comforted me more than you will ever know with your words and wonder - and if know me, you know I love to take IRT dictation while I listen to lyrics and absorb them into my being. This one is for you!

Lyrics:

Yeah, I'm a midnight rider
Stone bona fide night flyer
I'm an angel of the morning too
The promise that the dawn will bring you, you

I'm the melody and the space between
Every note the swallow sings
I'm fourteen vultures circling
I'm that crawling, dying thing
I'm the smoke up above the trees, Good Lord
The fire and the branch that's burning, Lord
Maybe you were sleeping, Lord
But Mary she's not weeping no more, no, hhhhmm-mm

Yeah, I'm a midnight rider
Stone bona fide night flyer
I'm an angel of the morning too
The promise that the dawn will bring you, you, you

I'm the sick light of a hurricanе's eye
I'm a violent lullaby
I'm six firеflies, one streetlight
I'm a suffocating summer night hm-mm, mm
I'm each of his steps on the stairway
I'm his shadow in the door frame
I'm the tap-tap of a lunar moth
I'm the stale beer on his breath hm-mm, hm-mm

His soul is trapped in that room
But I crawled back in my mother's womb
Came back out with my gold and my greens
Now I see everything
Now I feel everything, Good Lord
What the hell could they bring to stop me, Lord?
Nothing from the earth, nothing from the sea

NOT A GOD ALMIGHTY THING


Yeah, I'm a midnight rider
Stone bona fide night flyer
I'm an angel of the morning too
The promise that the dawn will bring you, you, you

I'm the wounded bird, I'm the screaming hawk
I'm the one who can't be counted out
I'm the dove thrown into battle
I can roll and shake and rattle hm-mm, hm-mm
I'm the moon's dark side, I'm the solar flare
The child of the Earth, the child of the Air
I am The Mother of the Evening Star
I am the Love that Conquers All

Yeah, I'm a midnight rider
Stone bona fide night flyer
I'm an angel of the morning too
The promise that the dawn will bring you
Yeah, I'm a midnight rider
Stone bona fide night flyer
I'm an angel of the morning too
The promise that the dawn will bring you

You, you
You, you
You, you

One of my favorite things about writing on Substack - aside from the anonymity - is that I just bee-pop around town - knowing that I write “literatica” sharing my DTF escapades & my insatiable, feral fucking desire for good dick and dopamine inducing make out sessions.

I drive around this tiny, mountain town feeling super undercover cause I am anonymous IRL too - and I just listen to straight, fucking ganster rap with a lot of base (as I have since high school).

I wear sunglasses at all times, trucker hats from dispos - I smoke a shit ton of weed (when appropriate but due to shared custody - I got a lot of free time to indulge).

I look like a Pinterest mom and people often ask if my parents are home when I answer the phone - because of my voice.

The property owner (who looks like the Grandpa from Jurassic Park) came over a couple weeks ago to check on something I reported to the property manager.

He asked me if I was the mom or one of the kids - I was like yep I am the mom - I am in my mid to late forties. My family has been blessed with nice skin.

I am under 5’2 and I can share shoes with my boys ages, 12 and 14, and I can shop in the kids section too - which is great for saving money as a single mom.

I should note here though that the only real “juvenile” type attire I wear are band t-shirts - like Modest Mouse, Rage Against the Machine, AC/DC and a lot of Vans.

My kids and I share hoodies and sweatshirts too.

Other than that - I did indulge in a new pair of Doc Martins - the gray, rough leather pull on motorcycle boot type (lower mid calf, no laces) and couple pairs of jeans & pants from Hot Topic.

I lost 40 lbs of hatred and resentment once I declared - DIVORCE NOW circa 2023 -

I am almost back to my pre-wedding weight which is really good for my frame.

I am happy to fit into sizes and form fitting shit now that I hadn’t been able too for about 15 years.

But I don’t dress “sexy” or act “seductive” when I am out and about - I just mind my own business.

Other than those fun, youthful indulgences - I wear leisure wear everyday bc I work from home. And I rarely leave home when I don’t have my kids except to do simple errands.

I rarely participate in activities that require formal attire unless I am going to church (rarely) or on an interview (rarely - but that’s another story for another time).

Anyhoo - here is my Anthem for 2026 - and I am so excited!

Astrologically - it’s a year of action.

This was one of my main jams as I rode around in HS with my cheerleading friends in my convertible jeep or drove my other friends to do their drug deals (by the fucking bricks) and waited patiently at the curb. Just a sweet white girl, broad daylight - blond hair blue eyes - not raising any suspicions - just chilling in my Audi .

You already know I like to take dictation while I listen to music -

COCK THE HAMMER by Cypress Hill

I’m a chicken hawk huntin’ for a chicken
Get paranoid when you hear my Glock clickin’
Speakin’ to the punk that’s tweakin’

With the bitch-ass styles I hit you like Deacon
Jones house, cough without the bones
I rolled ya up and smoked you like cloves

Split the seed and grow you like clones
Don’t start-me-up, cause I’m not the Rolling Stones
But I get stoned with a little help from my friends
With the (goodblend), then I passed it round

back to me again

I can make you famous

like Amos
Same as the last punk,

when I stuck the gatt up his anus

Hear me growl:

Grrra! Howl!
I got the night vision just like the wise old owl

I’m comin’ ta fetch ya

Yeah homes I’ll wet ya
Bury them bones
Under my home and

Cock the hammer!
Cock the hammer, it’s time for action!
Cock the hammer!
Cock the hammer, it’s time for action!

Run run the massive posse soul assassins mind the pretty gun talk

ruh ruh Cypress massive ruh ruh make the pretty gun talk

With my weapon, step into a whole new realm
And step back, as I take up the helm

Of the pirate ship I’m steerin’
Jump into gear’n
Just realize what you’re hearin’

The cannon’s soundin’
That’s my companions surroundin’
As my crew comes poundin’

It’s the captain
Afro-america
Whole lotta gattin’
With the loc’ed out Latin

Bust that
Yo I’m a red beard with a musket
Better duck quick ‘cause ya might get dusted

Your gatt looks rusted, disgusted

Oh look away, look away boy

as I rush it
Yes I know that you can’t withstand it
Watch that ass cause

punk I’ll brand it

With my steel-toe, how you feel now
When my boot stuck in that ass like a dildo

Cry on a pillow, weepin’ ass willow
The Hill got the steel for the static like brillo

Hmmm, what you talkin’ `bout punk
Gimme room as I light up the boom
Cock the hammer, wave the white banner
Ever heard a gun (Glock) go `click’ like a camera?

Cock the hammer!
Cock the hammer, it’s time for action!
Cock the hammer!
Cock the hammer, it’s time for action!

Run run the massive posse soul assassins mind the pretty gun talk

ruh ruh Cypress massive ruh ruh make the pretty gun talk

Cock the hammer!
Cock the hammer, it’s time for action!
Cock the hammer!
Cock the hammer, it’s time for action!

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm - love this one! And no one is counting, but it’s been three weeks since I last fucked Steve.

For the last time.

I lost my mojo - I used to take care of my self frequently - between seeing him every few days - because I was ripe and wet with anticipation

A rock solid guarantee - I would get my needs met again.

Alas, I am Alone Again, Naturally.

Today, my mojo came back!

And it’s Friday - and I thought if you were sitting in solitude, longing for the warmth of another body - but only had yourself to turn to for satisfaction, well - this may encourage your release!

Just one of many that makes me climax -

American Horror Show by Snow Wife

They call me an American horror - ohhhhh

ohhhhh

ohhhhh

ohhhhh

What I gotta do to find a sub who down to choke me?

Tie me up and hold me down and get a little dirty

Haven’t tasted boujee spit since homie hit on Thursday

I’ll be there in 30 cause a bitch is getting thurrrsty

Got you in a chokehold til’ you’re turnin’ blue

Down to blow a bag and my back out too

Like an older man cause he know just what to do

I’m a plan b regular bitch

Monster

I’m a stone cold monster

I could be your little monster

I’m a stone cold monster

I could be your little monster

I kiss freaks that treat me like an animal

Fuck on me

and eat me like a cannibal

I’m miss It

that Rocky Horror Picture hoe

They call me an American Horror show (ohhhh)

They call me an American Horror show (ohhhh)

Ohhh (ohhhh)

Show (ohhhh)

They call me an American Horror show

Hey baby

I like it when you piss me off

Hey baby

usually means the sex is rough

Hey Baby

Take a picture when we fuck

Hey baby

I think we should blow it up

It’s a freak show baby I’m the ring leader

Like an acrobat in a dark arena

I could dance both ways like a ballerina

Caught an emo bitch she my man eater

Monster

I’m a stone cold monster

I could be your little monster

I’m a stone cold monster

I could be your little monster

I kiss freaks that treat me like an animal

Fuck on me

and eat me like a cannibal

I’m miss It that Rocky Horror Picture hoe

They call me an American Horror show (ohhhh)

They call me an American Horror show (ohhhh)

Ohhh (ohhhh)

Show (ohhhh)

They call me an American Horror show

I must admit this was a heavy - but very good week (? it’s fucking Wednesday) here on Substack.

I felt inspired to write about many things

Many, many, many - and due to OCPD and some other abbreviations that indicate hyper vigilance - I am conflicted as to go chronological or alphabetical

I guess chronological:

being born as a fucking empath and INFJ apparently, with a wacky fucking astrology placement and then having empathy for my abusers or the people who abused others around me

Alcoholism

Molestation

Depression

Self Harm Talk

admitting to the molestation

Gaslighting Grooming LoveBombjng leading up to breaking up with a sweet sweet heart and destoying my best friend as well bc she had a crush on the guy whonwooed me losing my virginity freshman year to him a junior only to be dumped two months later after 6 months of “courting”

seclusion

Recklessness

wanton behavior

abortion

methanphetamines without needing rehab thankfully

more bad choices

graduate high school With a B minus average even though I’ve missed 45 days throughout the school year of one class

abortion

black out drunk tendencies

violence on my behalf towards men resulting in strange phonecalls

gaslighting love bombing married a narcissist, didn’t know it was a narcissist had two children was abused the whole time neglected all of us

suicide - my dad SIGSWTTH

I CLEANED UP HIS BRAINS OFF THE FENCE THE NEXT DAY WHILE I WAS FIVE MONTHS PREGNANT-AND GAVE HIS EULOGY LESS THAN TWO WEEKS LATER

Insert

CPTSD

PMDD

GAD

OCPD

divorced 10 years later

but there were three psychotic breaks

the first one didn’t lead to institutionalization,

the second one didn’t either

but for the third

I raised my hand and fucking volunteered for it twice in two weeks

because

molestation forced stuff

8 victims that we know of all under the age of eight I’ll mail all within two block radius of my home and the perpetrators home. We all lived right there.

Suicidal ideation

Feeling better now

2025 was fucking hard

Have rough days

But I still wake up every day and I try to have a good day

But there’s lots of triggers, lots and lots and lots of triggers

so I’m not gonna write about all those things in detail not today because this week was hard, but I’m glad for so many of us because of one person’s post

and of course, Sub stack is acting weird, so I can’t at her right now

to all of you who shared your brave stories too. I’m grateful.

🌟💡❤️‍🩹😎❤️‍🔥❣️🔆🌟☪️💖

Never Have I Ever:

Felt compelled to keep weapons on my person.

Not Until: Arizona - June 2023

Gurl! You’re the reason I still carry a switch blade in my purse. It’s been two years.

You’re the reason why I slept with a hammer on my bedside table, the reason I put a screw driver in my bra every day for MONTHS, why I kept a fire poker on my front porch and a baseball bat out back.

YOU STUPID MEGA, MAGA HOE! Blatantly fake hair (cheap ass, platinum “extensions” (the kind with a black band? not tied in), fake tan, fake lips, fake lashes, fake tits….

And I am sure you have seen a meme or a GIF about me:

You forgot that I was really nice and nice and nice and nice and nice and nice and nice and nice and nice and thennnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn???

I am a fucking, honey badger! (note to self: update dating profile xoxoxo)

A honey badger reminds me of the Marine’s Devil Dog: and since I was raised by one - and knew many - I feel confident saying that there is:

“No better friend, no worse enemy, than a U.S. Marine”

My dad raised me to be a strong woman when it came to protecting myself physically from threats and he taught me about intelligence and how to wield my ferocity shrewdly and only when necessary. Someone tried to kiss me in second grade and I came home and said TEACH ME HOW TO FIGHT and he did.

Marines show unwavering loyalty and friendship to their allies

While being a formidable and

Relentless force to their enemies

their official motto is Semper Fidelis, Latin for “Always Faithful”

And Bitch - you wanted to fuck with my kids?

The loyalty that I have for my children and their safety - I am ever faithful to their well being

Gurl, Joan - you fuck with my kids?

And all this wild Tasmanian devil wolverine shit - intensifies ten times ten times ten fold

Gurl! Gawd damn it - I learned an amazing lesson today when I was writing this piece in my mind.

I have to trust my gut -

My Crown and Third Eye Chakras - every fiber of my being - every ounce of intuition - and I have to remember to be ever faithful to all of my amazing spirit guides - Marines and otherwise.

I wasn’t strong enough when I accidentally decided to (get sucked into) participate in a fucking ridiculous “friendship” with you that crashed and burned within 6 weeks.

And then crashed and burned again and then again then the police were involved almost one year later -

And then crashed and burned again and then the police were involved. And there were more crashes and more burns.

You’re such a fucking disgusting woman.

Negligent Mother. Careless Neighbor. Fucking Idiot. Fraud from head to tow and inside and out.

Belligerent Irresponsible. Beeezeeeeee. Gross.

When I saw your lame car at the bus stop in August of 2022 - at the beginning of the school year - I was like - whatevs. Noted. Didn’t care.

I was deep into the “my life was changing drastically mode” that comes after you FINALLY have the courage to tell your husband you want a divorce.

And then having to live with him for five months while going to court and meeting lawyers and sorting mail - and packing and preparing - behind the scenes and not telling the kids JUST yet.

Funny thing about Honey Badgers - this adorable little divine spirit animal of mine - had really been rearing it’s head more and more.

My husband had been scared for about five years. Increasingly so.

Like a honey badger: I wasn’t the domesticated type. I was wild when he met me.

I had survived just fine without him; I didn’t get married til I was over 30.

I wasn’t really interest in companionship that resulted in responsibility.

But that didn’t sit well with my fam bam.

So - just note: I love all you all who are not getting married and having kids. XOXOXO Don’t cave to social pressure!! I am proud of you!

He began to see what I was coming: SAVAGE.

The truth I was now spewing instead of swallowing.

My husband was a Leo.

The marriage was the zoo - and I - as a honey badger - am difficult to contain.

It may take me a couple years to escape but once I have come out of the complete and utter shock and awe and brain fog of people being so manipulative, mean, intentionally awful for no reason….

well - then I get a lil’ nutty (prescription med kind cray cray!) (Note to self - do not put this in the dating profile - unless it’s the kind of kink site where dudes like the feral ones).

And you bitch - you’re a fucking dirty dessert rat, hyena.

And you’re wayyyyyyyyyyyyyy bigger than me.

So was my husband. He was close to 6 foot and weighted 245 - and he was scared of me at 5 foot 1

I know you got at least 75 lbs on me hoe and 4 inches in height.

But I am agile.

And you’re an alcoholic who staggers.

So I was 3 months into all that divorcing my zoo keeper - heheheheh - and we were preparing to tell our children about “getting two houses” a boys only gamer trampoline dirtbike place and a safe home filled with genuine love.

Anyhoo - you were so insignificant behind your cheap ass tint job in your dumb white knock off sedan.

I lifted my head from the divorce, soon to be single mom, living far away from all my family, fog about three weeks later - and still I was telling myself not to fucking say hi to you.

Nope. Nope. Nope.

But then gawsh darn it - my kids started liking your kids devil spawn (I don’t use this term lightly, people)

You had just moved in less than two blocks away a month or two before.

But you hadn’t released the crackens yet.

So we hadn’t noticed that you slipped in - only to plague the neighborhood with your alcoholism and oversight. And selfish, selfish opportunistic hoe bag ways.

I mean - you literally self identified as a cum bucket…

I mean - that’s cool - like I get it. I had never heard the term before but I hear you.

I just - I mean, this is just me - but I would self identify as a cum bucket

TO THE DUDE who was providing the offerings and filling me up - like if we were super slutty sweethearts -

but like - I would never call myself that PUBLICALLY - especially in front of other women?????

You do you though.

Your twin boys monsters were only in kinder or first and my boys were a couple years older.

After another three weeks I finally stepped out of my car (against my will and better judgement) at the bus stop because we were always early and I came over to your passenger side window.

We talked and that was that.

We made plans to go to the pool with the boys and talk about school and the neighborhood. You didn’t want to meet at the park which we could have walked to?

Blah blah blah blah - you moved to AZ from SoCal and I moved to AZ from NorCal.

Both us of blonde (?), Caucasian, mothers of two - I am about 5 years older than you.

We both bartended and waitressed a lot in our lives, had fun before we became mothers and/or wives.

Current day: we both smoked weed, had tattoos, loved leisure wear, hated cooking, liked talking shit about our exes

(well mine was a soon to be ex - and your little ears perked up at that, huh?)

We both fed our children processed food, vaped, cussed like sailors, wore baseball hats, stunner shades, liked loud fucking rap music - driving with bass blaring when we didn’t have the kids.

But I am not nearly as deceitful or manipulative as you - you make my jaw drop. Lies. Lies. Lies.

I take pride at how good I am at lying when I let my kids play hooky from school - like that’s my level of deception.

But you’re over there defrauding SNAP while your mom drives a fucking Bentley and she probably gave you the money to buy that house so you could have a tax write off - while you work from home for yourself - but drink all day.

I still can’t wait to call and report you to SNAP.

I just wanted to wait and make sure everything cooled down first - and with a new year upon us soon - maybe that will be your Christmas prezzie! And my type of revenge!

XOXOXOX

Lyrics and Songs and Music and Dance and Execution and Production are my everything.

My Alpha. My Omega. The Core of my Being and the Marrow in my Bones.

I cannot play an instrument, I’ve never been in the choir, or on stage

(well not to sing or perform but to present and teach) -

I make people giggle lovingly on karaoke nights - they love my enthusiasm and commitment to the bit but - I am horribly off key (unless of course, I am home alone or in the car or in the shower - then I could probably win a fucking Grammy)

I didn’t make the cheerleading team in HS because I can’t dance well

under pressure;

intentionally for myself, yes

organically, like at clubs or concerts or weddings yes -

for me AND someone else in a ritual of seduction yes - or practicing for like, my debut stripper song - if there ever was a night for amateurs - sure of course - I have it choregraphed down to the last swing of the peach and orange bejeweled pastie tassels covering my tiny nipples

but on demand - no!

only when the feeling moves me

My feelings are too big and if my energy was negatively impacted before cheering at a game on a Friday night - I wouldn’t be able to perform well.

Not sure if you can relate - but - I am very impressed with people who can still put on a show even if they were having a bad day.

I have never been a serious athlete though. I fucked around with soccer and tennis but - I just don’t know how to perform under pressure - like for a team.

Anyhoo, I digress - so to avoid another tangent - here is the point of this simple post - and no one has known about me until now:

I use some songs as mantras, prayers, guided meditation…

It began with Christmas songs - I would try to impress the words and lyrics into my crown and third eye chakras (before I knew what those things were) to pray for a good Christmas with my husband. But it never worked. Each Christmas got worse.

I used those songs and lyrics like rosary beads and I am not a organized religion type person.

Now that I am happily divorced - I know I will have good Christmases.

But, I took the mantra and prayer practice of those Christmas Carols and their lyrics - trying to conjure calm - pray for presence - and wish away anxiety.

Now I use new songs and their lyrics to conjure things in me.

To focus on myself. To take me to my happy place.

I multitask too - I put my earbuds or air pods or what ever the fuck in - and I take dictation while I listen to music - I love typing or handwriting lyrics IRL

I love engraving certain words into my brain - I can type about 85 WPM which I am happy with.

And sometimes, if I don’t feel too creative - taking dictation from the artists I love makes me feel like I am doing something productive.

Because then I can also share them. The artist’s sheer fucking brilliance - with you!

Without asking you to listen or click on a link -

Qveen Herby is ONE of my everything artists - and the way she accomplishes her goals - chef’s kiss! Read about her if you haven’t heard of her:

Amy Renee Heidmann Noonan

From tarot to the gray rock method - from vitamins to sugar daddies to naughty girls and pre-rolls - here is one of my favorites from this highly intelligent - elevated - musical genius -

Qveen Herby - High Priestess

I was like please bitch

I feel like a high priestess

every scar is my thesis

beat the pain with new ice

i was like gee wizz

you’ve been holding some grief sis

time to bless and

release it

beat the death with your life

Whatcha think about this

whatcha you think about that

whatcha think about me huh?

Topless in Ibiza

Pussy so free

you can’t keep her

If you wanna get rich if you wanna get free huh

then you gotta get deep ya

You gotta say whatcha mean nuh

getting in touch with your feel-uhnns

it doesn’t have to be for anyone else

you can do it for you

when you do it so well

bitch you better be indulging in joy

do not let them destroy

your magnificent form

Pause on lyrics for a virtual mix tape intermission

Right here is where I would like make a mix tape for because I think she will love these lyrics so much - like Qveen could be a kindred spirit who would flip people off with us - but allow for full makeup and costumes and hair and catering!!

but since we are on different continents and anonymous on purpose here: I will just dedicate this homage to her to here instead: I love her spirit msgs in the form of memes (as do we all)

I also see , and in the homage above as well -

Anyway - intermission over - let’s let these sick lyrics flow

I was like please bitch I feel like a high priestess

every scar is my thesis

beat the pain with new ice beat the pain with new ice

i was like gee wizz you’ve been holding some grief sis

time to bless and

release it

beat the death with your life beat the death with your life

Quick disclaimer

make the law so weak

it’s my nature

integrator

I am the keeper of the deep (Holiness)

strong sailors never came from smooth seas

you can find me walking barefoot

through the chaos like a G’

The Bridge between the Human and the goddess

are you ready to be honest

are you exhausted

please step in my office

I was like please bitch I feel like a high priestess

every scar is my thesis

read the ban with new eyes

i was like gee wizz you’ve been holding some grief sis

time to bless and

release it

meet the depth of your lie

I was like please bitch I feel like a high priestess

every scar is my thesis

read the ban with new eyes

i was like gee wizz you’ve been holding some grief sis

time to bless and

release it

meet the depth of your lie

Before I start on a new piece, or finish the last few that I have for the year - before crossing over the final thresh-hold of release, transformation, shadow work - before the Year of The Snake is over and the Year of The Horse begins….

I just have to give a big shout out to a (few????) Substackers;

It would have been difficult to make it through the last 7 months with out you -

whether it was an amazing meme or tearful spirit message from or when we invited into our fantasy cottage with our fur babies - for friendly banter and to flip people off from the front window.…

led me here from Twitter (DIVINE INTERVENTION) I followed them for two years there before I came here - thus far - they are the only Substackers to whom I have a paid subscription.

My apologies that I cannot afford more paid subscribers or buying too many coffees or candles (at this time) but

I am so blessed to have discovered so many of you and your words, insights, brilliance, truth, strength - you’ve inspired me or made me laugh or made me cry or made me ponder

or gave me language that I had not had before - but your work gave my unnamed feelings structure:

(in the Astrology realm): ,, , , more recently: , , , , , , I have kept an Astrology Journal and Calendar since June and all of your wise words are in there somewhere - important dates, transits, blessings, breath work …

(in the “my truth resonates here” category): , , , , , , , & , , , - each of you - thank you for speaking your truth and making me stronger and making me feel like I have kindred spirits all around

(in my “we are not exactly the same but we are totally the same” category): , , , , - your truths and dedication to sharing - even if it’s difficult to explain or you think someone might not get it - I see myself there - and you’ve also provided greater insight into myself at times, or my friends, family members, co-workers, the mental health and medical fields and have helped me become a greater advocate for myself and others

(in my “intimacy, sex, relationships, insights into sensuality, and lusty lusty, sexy stuff and love notes” inspiration category:) , , , , , , , , , , and most recently: - I am just so glad we can speak freely about expressing our desires, experiences, heartbreaks, best practices, worst practices, new boundaries, ceaseless longing, self pleasure, feeling confident, insatiable desires, being sensitive, feeling sexual, desired and delicious

(in my “I am extremely impressed with these authors” and “I love the deep insight here” and “they have opened my eyes to something new, inspirational and/or important” category:) , , , , , ,

PS - thank you for always liking my posts