Stories. Not a blog.


I have ten-thousand dollars, ten thousand wishes. And it is all thanks to you. (all thanks to:) Your vileness. Your stupidity. Your selfishness and ego. And mine too, of course. I'm no white lamb; but at least I fess up to it. (most of the time.)

I have ten-thousand dollars, ten thousand wishes. Each one stuck in a moment of time; a moment of awful and pedantic misery.

(yes, stranger! i'm in my feelings, but only for five more minutes! just let me be, okay?)

I have ten-thousand dollars, ten thousand wishes. And while the tears dry up on my pillow, I lay down quietly and wonder how I'll spend them.

Therapy? No. (no r.o.i. when it comes to the physical) A new car? No. (can't drive—yet; i'm too scared!) A room to live? No. (i have one that's (currently) physically free, even if being there rips my soul apart.) Food maybe, just for me to eat? No. (no r.o.i when it comes to the physical) (and dying of hunger would be easy too! why? well..... because then, i'd finally die, knowing i'm a size two!)

So then, what should I do? With my ten-thousand dollars, and ten-thousand wishes, too?

Maybe a book? (or two?) A toy for my dog or a subscription to Hulu? An imaginary apartment in New York City? The love of my life or an autograph or two? Or how about a table at the best restaurant in town? Or even better—how about a chance to start over?

Awaaaayyyyyy Awaaaayyyyyy Away. From. You.

From your ten-thousand reasons, and ten-thousand thorns too.

I hate that pain is a source of material. I hate it. I really (x2) do. But whenever something awful happens, I secretly relish too. “This is good! (very) Good writing material,” I say. (maybe someday it'll help me make a buck or two) And I mean it. I really (x2) do. I mean what I say. And sometimes I say what I mean. And I always try to be honest; (keeping in mind that you will someday get tired of me.)

I hate that pain is a source of material. I hate it. I really (x2) do. But whenever something awful happens, I secretly relish too. “This'll be good for the blog, I say. (or for a short story or two...) And I mean it. I really (x2) do. I mean what I say. And sometimes I say what I mean. And I always try to be honest; (knowing full well you'll get tired of me, too)

Isn't it ironic, that I am at my “writing best” when I feel at my mental worst?

Life is funny that way.

Someone asked me a few days ago why I stay. “If you hate it here so much—if you hate me, why do you stay?” I chose not to answer, as many victims of trauma people often do, but I thought about it. I did. I really, really did. I thought about it good and hard. And I have an answer. I do. I really, really do. I'm just not willing to give it publicly (read: verbally).

As you can see I am (trying my best to be) [very] self-aware, and because I cannot help but think overly intrusive thoughts I allowed this one to take hold of my consciousness for the better part of five days.

Here is my answer.

I stay because I have nowhere to go. I stay because financially it is not possible for me to go anywhere. I stay because I need to protect my siblings. (better that it happens to me than them) I stay because Max loves it here—he loves you, and us leaving would break his heart. (and in the process it would break mine too; that's love, you see...) (but not in the way you think) (my heart wouldn't break because of you, but rather because of what the absence of you would do to him) (you're all he's ever known) (and i hate that i made it that way in the first place) (oh, well) I stay because I'm still looking (for a job, for an apartment, for a safe place to go) I stay because I've stayed for so know what I mean. I stay because I need time to finish the Endeavor. I stay because the outside world isn't as easy as you make it out to be. I stay because I have no outside resources. (i have no friends or relatives, nothing temporary or semi-permanent) I stay because I am alone. (person-wise, of course. i have Max and he is wonderful, but he is just a dog and he depends on me more than anyone in this world.) And money. As usual. But most importantly, I stay because I just do. (and here is my little jab: i stay because you are a convenience to me, a temporary tool, a source of comfort for my dog, who would die without you)

There! There it is! There is my answer! Tell me now, are you— Happy?

I've been sick for the past week or so and I'm very behind with my Endeavor. Negativity got the better of me during the Blood Moon and it manifested physically—in the form of horrible hives, chills, and an earache.

I haven't had the strength/mental space to work on anything and (now that I am slightly better) it is finally getting to me.

Intrusive thoughts are starting to enter my head:


I woke up at 7:50am just to do my laundry. I know that sounds weird but I love cleaning my clothes. I do. I genuinely do. I like how calming and peaceful this very important activity is, and I like how it makes me feel.

Doing the laundry makes me (feel) happy. It brings me joy. Peace. It makes me feel accomplished and productive. Whenever I feel sad or physically unwell washing my clothes always makes me feel better. I can't explain it. There is something so magical about making old things feel new again by doing something that isn't super involved—or time consuming.

Just look at me now (metaphorically, of course!). My laundry is in the dryer and here I am, typing this very odd bit about cleaning my clothes. In about an hour or so I am going to hear a tiny ding! from my phone and then off I'll go; to the cold emptiness of the laundry room to retrieve warm sheets, pillowcases, and blankets. How glorious! How very, very glorious!

But, oh, how I hate folding clothes!


I have to finish On War and Morality (Studies in Moral, Political, and Legal Philosophy) by Robert L. Holmes by the end of next week and I haven't even started it. Well, I did start it, but I'm only three pages in, so does that count? In my book, no; but I'll let you be the judge.

My sister and I participate in a 2-woman book club and we've read quite a few books so far. Among those are: To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee, Coraline by Neil Gaiman, The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster (R.I.P. sir, your books will forever be a gift to this world), the Harry Potter series by J.K. Rowling, and The Republic by Plato.



I have everything I could possibly want. The list goes on and on. But I still want more. As to what I truly need?


C. W.

I got my COVID vaccine bright and early today! Overall, I had a pretty positive experience and I am excited to get the second shot. I haven't had any crazy symptoms (thankfully!) beyond a sore arm and even that hasn't been bad. I even went to do my laundry afterwards and took my dog out for a walk in the afternoon.


I have officially become a wannabe-runner! (woohoo!)

After my last post I decided to take my kid out for a walk (to clear my head) and after coming home I decided to just start running.

I took both of my siblings with me and although I feel incredibly excited and accomplished (in a mediocre sort of way, but we all gotta start somewhere!), tonight's first running “session” was ruined by an unfortunate accident.


i make checklists for things i love —and for things i hate too (to do).

Go to the funeral? (check) Study French? (check) Study Morality? (crossed out—too tired! i'll do it tomorrow) Wash my teeth/brush my face? (i do it anyways...and crossing things off of checklists makes me happy) Read? (check) Write? (check—but it's tedious and i hate it—even though i love it and cannot go a day —or two—or three—our four—etc.! [you get the idea]—without doing it...)

[. . .]

Doing it? (with who?) (we'll see...i'm too tired and i have a headache—from making lists of course, and nothing else at all. not depression or anxiety or nausea or insomnia [it is 233 as i write this] or anything else that makes me un (anything, but mostly) “un” h a p p y .)


c. w.

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