Cyberstalking

I need to tighten the reins yet again, on my cyberprivacy.

This loser ex of mine, the one who i stuck with for 9 months but is, as J would say, an "ineffectual basement dweller"... just found this blog by way of some seriously psychotic searching, read nothing but anything he thought might be about him, and then decided-- entirely unaware of what's real and what's fiction (AND WHO CARES MAN, it's over) that I cheated on him, and texted me at 1 in the morning to call me a bunch of names. We haven't spoken really in almost a year.

So, Ineffectual Basement Dweller, if you're gonna read my blog at least become a follower and show some respect.

Hahaha.

It's things like this that actually sort of reaffirm my confidence in my abilities, my potential, my future.

Thanks, IBD

Interior Decorating

I am one tired lady. I tried to go to bed earlyish last night but it was tough... I don't even know when I got to sleep but I kept waking up... Then I woke up at 8 and went for a run. I totally cleaned and also rearranged my furniture and the doma looks so much better and feels so much more comfortable. Jesus. That feng shui musta been pretty off.

But now I'm so tired. I wanna take a nap. I'm meeting Sunny at 7 for dinner. I can't afford dinner though. I'll probably get coffee. Or a soup. And then, of course, work.

I hung out with Cam last night. We did his scene thing again. He's real attractive. And sweet. We're gonna go to the beach tomorrow, and the Gogol Bordello show. And he hasn't like, kissed me or anything yet. (I mean we've slept with each other and kinda dated like a year and a half ago but I mean now...) And he always almost does and walks me home and then says good bye. And I really like it. And obviously we flirt a lot and he's always trying to impress me and over the three times we hung out gotten more touchy and stuff. And you know. I know he likes me.

But this makes me think. Maybe none of these people like me. Maybe they're just flirting with me to be flirty.

I mean... Cam really liked me before... the last time... and men have fallen all over me, been crushed, made fools of themselves, poured their hearts out for the first time ever, and proposed, with diamond rings, introduced me to family, etc, etc, always. Hot shot lawyers, millionaires, rockstars, nice boys from Idaho, married, single, young, old, mobsters, Christians, all nationalities. And all the guys I meet in the club. And at the shows.

But... maybe, some of it is just all in my head... I mean... I need a mirror... all the time... I see myself in photos and I feel like that person is beautiful but it's not me... Or onscreen... and I always feel like I just don't look like that anymore... I only feel pretty when I'm seeing myself onscreen or in a mirror at the club or when people are watching me and telling me I'm pretty. I'm like... It's not even that important, because I just don't care anymore. But it's important because... it really makes me wonder if I'm just delusional all the time. If the club and the pictures made me think, or the particular men, and I'm not anything attractive or anything anyone would wanna be with. I damn sure don't feel pretty right now. I don't have any nice clothes AT ALL. NOTHING.



But. now that I've moved the bed, the breeze and the sunlight coming through the window are caressing my body and there's nothing more beautiful than that...

Not Another Stripper Blog

Dear. Everyone.

Dear Anyone.

I stand here before you, in the backyard of cyberspace, cradling my dirty laundry as the breeze catches my hair... I'm here because I need to unload, because, I'm in therapy.

I'm a young person, shall-we-say, a twenty-something. I'm single, though not lacking for suitors or even people who think they're my boyfriend, and I live in a notorious hellhole, and I have a lot of secrets.

Secret #1: I have a very prestigious occupation as a dancer at a gentleman's club, but this is not another stripper blog, and I'm not gonna dwell on it.

Secret #2: I have a very mild form of every Cluster-B personality disorder in the DSM-IV and a load of addictive tendencies and bad habits.

Secret #3: I am terribly, terribly lonely.

Secret #4: I am terribly, hopelessly in love with my therapist.

There. I have lots of secrets, my own and other people's, and I'm very good at keeping them, but I think that's a good place to start.

I began therapy at the urging of an old f*@!buddy/person-who-thought-he-was-my-boyfriend/ex/person, and sent him to the curb after my second session. I was only with the ineffectual SOB because of Secrets no. 2 & 3 and because I live in a notorious hellhole, and I was getting so depressed I could no less stand him than kick him to the curb, and the further I sank the more impossible it was to commit to a 9-5, and the more tempting it was to resort to Secret no. 1, which I couldn't possibly do with him around. He was keeping me down but also paying for everything so I was in a sort of Catch-22 and, despondent, I figured I'd just label myself dysfunctional and hide behind a professional skirt. I used my insurance (blessed, blessed PPO, cursed, cursed new government plan) Dial-A-Doc option and found one with a positively Austenian name, jogging distance from my apartment, and after a brief-- intelligent, compassionate and concise-- phone interview, I made an appointment. I was anxious to get in there, cry me a river, and turn all anguish and personal responsibility over to the hands of a qualified provider (double-entendre duely, dually noted.)

I sat in his waiting room and browsed through the literary selection-- Time, Vanity Fair, Newsweek-- standard stuff but a refreshing contrast to my other shrink's variety which could rouse a latent eating disorder or sexual identity crisis with all the cut, sun-kissed, bare-chested dudes on the covers. (Among the weeklies also lurked a dated, unbound, black-and-white precautionary pamphlet about the perils and no-no's of Whitecoat-Wacko sex, which upon discovery struck me as funny and a little odd, but which I now recognize as a preemptive strike, and have lately taken to reading as I wait, hidden between the pages of one of the heftier glossies, perched almost upright on my knee.)

He opened the door and I was just, taken aback. Dr. Darcy* is gobsmacked gorgeous. Stupid gorgeous, really. He looks like a doctor from a soap opera, as photographed by a giggling, Gaussian Blur-happy groupie-amateur with a digicam and bootleg version of Adobe PhotoChop, sans tutorial. He truly glows; he towers, just under the maximum height cutoff for male models, his eyes are the color of the midday sky after a thunderstorm, he really could turn the world on with his smile, it is genuine and contagious and radiant and brimming with unironic joy. Somewhere in the back of my mind I regretted the depressed teenager getup I wore.

As he asked the routine questions and jotted down his impressions (what were they! what were they!) I took in my surroundings. Tasteful. Spacious. Original painting. Print, artist's name unrecognizable. Love the art. He has a really good poker-face but even at that first meeting I caught the barely perceptible shift, the shadow lengthening under his eyelashes, when he has a hidden thought. This time the hidden thought was that I said something ridiculous, as I spilt my tired old beans about moving, loneliness, bad relationship. And then point blank:

"Wait a minute, what's good about this guy?"

And buh-bye, boyfriend.

Anyhow. That's enough for today. It's been over three months and needless to say, I've stirred another ingredient into my can of beans, and I can't very well talk to my therapist about it, because, in spite of my better sense, I am still hopeful that I have a shot. In spite of all the odds against me on this one-- in spite of "transference," his position, his career, in spite of all the crap he knows about me that I'd never share with a man with whom I had any hopes for any kind of union, even an ineffectual SOB monkey-man and let alone a demigod like Dr. Darcy, and all the personal crap I know about him that he'd never share with me or any other walk-in lunatic, potential Tony Soprano patient-person, and for good reason, but that I've discovered on my own, well-guarded as it is, because if I'd been given some different opportunities in life I'd make a damn good spy.

So, here I am, faceless and anonymous, airing out my dirty laundry in cyberspace, in hopes of some connection, support, and therapy... Maybe even some answers. Maybe it'll stop. But I will be the unsung hero of Transferers everywhere, and I will chronicle my experience on the couch.

Love and latent phobias,

Scarlet O.







*Names changed. Obviously.