Hello again.

Well, hi.  I guess it's been a while.

A lot's happened.  Three jobs.  (Four if you count getting laid off, then rehired two weeks later.)  I turned thirty.  I came out as trans and started taking hormones.  Rowdy and I moved in together, then two years later moved out again, but we still see each other and still consider each other family.  I had cancer, but I got better.  (Melanoma, successfully removed surgically.)  I live in an old barn out in the woods now, which is kind of nice.

I've been plenty active on my Tumblr, so if you want more moment-to-moment updates on what I've been up to, albeit mixed in with random arguments and shitposting in a format that's frustratingly difficult to search or sort, that might give you an idea.

I'd like to say "I've just been so busy," as an excuse for neglecting this blog, but the truth is probably somewhere between "I've been drastically underestimating how bad my mental health issues really were" and "I've been ashamed that I don't have as much weird sex as I used to, and am not as confident speaking about sex from the perspective of someone who is no longer a cute slutty girl."

Well, I mean, let's be clear here, I'm still fucking cute.

Getting negotiation going.

First, some big news:

I am going to be speaking at the University of Chicago Sex Week!
More details available here, but the short version:

• 5:30 to 7:00pm on February 16th
• The eighth floor of Logan Center (directions on linked page) at the University of Chicago
• It's free and open to the public, and you can register here.

I’m going to be speaking about “How To Have Sex On Purpose”—about creating an intentional and conscious sexuality, informed by kink and poly ethics. Or, less pretentiously: how to go from “sex just happens between us” to “we do sex.” (Doing is better. Not just on, like, an ethical philosophical relational whatever level. Better on the “OH FUCK YEAH” level too.)

We now return you to your incredibly irregularly scheduled Pervocracy.

I never can find pictures that represent these abstract topics.
Here's the cuddly enema that hangs out next to my lab bench at school.

A question I got on Tumblr:

So, I've reread your blog posts on relationship negotiation several times each, because they're so awesome, so I was wondering if you might have some advice. Relationship negotiation meetings is something I'd really like to do. My partner likes the idea too. However, we're both worried that we'll just end up sitting there with neither of us having any idea what to say. Do you have any advice/resources for beginning/structuring such a meeting? Possible discussion questions/categories, etc?

The way these things begin is: awkwardly.  Sitting down and talking frankly about what you're doing in a relationship is awkward as fuck and I can't really sugarcoat that.  It's awkward because it's an activity that completely lacks a cultural script.  It's not something you're "supposed" to do, it's not something you get to watch others do in real life or in media, and the only version of it that does get talked about is one where "can we talk?" means "you're in trouble."  So this isn't going to go super smoothly the first time, and that's okay.  Being real and vulnerable enough to be awkward with each other is great for a relationship.

But how do you get it to go at all?

It starts before you meet, with both of you asking yourselves what you want to get out of the discussion.  What needs work in your relationship?  What's causing you difficulty right now?  If you could have the perfect relationship, how would it be different from this one?  It doesn't have to be all big-deal serious things.  "I need you to stop stealing the blanket" is every bit as legitimate to bring out here as "I need to know how you really feel about my body."  Plus, seeing how able you are to come to an amicable agreement on a simple thing like "we should have two twin-size blankets" is good motivation and practice for working on touchier issues.

I've said this before, in a different context, but any time you catch yourself thinking "well, of course what I would say if I could is XYZ, but I can't possibly," that's your brain telling you exactly what you need to say.  Also, any time something makes you think "I'm unhappy about XYZ, but obviously my partner knows that and has decided to do it anyway," definitely bring it up, because like 75% of the time the answer will be "oh shit, I had no idea that was a problem."

Come to the table with requests, not complaints.  Try to turn every statement about what's wrong into a statement about what you need instead.  (It's okay to not always have solutions in mind.  Just say "I need [thing] to stop/start/change" or "I want us to find a solution to [thing]," rather than "[thing] is bad.")  Even though it's almost the same statement, "I want to have more sex" is a lot easier and less upsetting to address than "I feel like we never have sex anymore."  It makes "we can totally have more sex, I'd like that too" into an agreeable response instead of a defensive one.

Make a date for your first discussion (we call ours the State Of The Relationship Address, because giving it a silly name makes it feel more like "our thing" and less like getting called to the principal's office) somewhere quiet that doesn't mind people camping out for a while--a park bench, a coffeeshop, or a particularly boring bar.

(Actually, it got updated to State Of Our Union, and then corrected to State Of Our Intersection, but anyway.)

Bring notes, and take notes.  It may be dorky--it may even help to acknowledge it's dorky and laugh at it--but nothing says "the serious part of this conversation has started now" like getting out a notepad with "need more attention paid to my clitoris" on it.

As for things to actually discuss, if "stuff that you want to be more better" feels like a hopelessly broad field:

• Sex! Are you happy with the amount you're having?  The type?  Who initiates?  Is there something you'd love to try but couldn't possibly bring up?  Is there something you secretly hate but have been politely not complaining about?
• How much time you spend together.  Too much, too little, too often spent fiddling around the house being bored?
• The path your relationship is on.  Is it something that's going to escalate along the traditional dating -> moving in -> marriage -> kids pathway, follow a less traditional path, or simply stay where it's at?  Obviously your partner can't promise you what the future will bring, but at least saying "I'm hoping if we stay together we can..." versus "I'm really not ever looking for..." can seriously clear the air.
• Fun things you'd like to do together.  Like I said, this doesn't have to all be Heavy Processing.  "We should plan a trip to Maine!" is worth bringing up too.
• Are you monogamous?  If so, what does that mean to you--just no sleeping with other people, or no expressing any kind of attraction, or something in between?  I know this one can be pretty easy to shove under the rug of "but I don't want anyone but you anyway," but it's good to clarify how you feel about flirting/kissing/dinner dates/etc. before you're debating about a specific incident.
• Are you open or poly?  If so, there's a whole bunch of issues that open up, but some relevant ones are: scheduling, how you can express it and what will comfort you if you feel jealous, how much you want them to tell you about what they do with other people, when/whether you want to meet their other partner(s), how you're handling safe sex issues.
• Their friends, your friends, mutual friends--is there anyone who's a major problem for you?  It's hard to ask a partner to drop a friend (although... depends what they've done), but they should at least know what you're feeling.  Or, conversely, do you want to spend more time with your/their/plural-your friends and feel more like you're partnered socially as well as romantically?
• If you live together, all the roommate issues that brings up--chores, budgeting, standards of cleanliness, making your sleep schedules work together, making your "I want to be totally undisturbed while I do this" versus your "I want to interact with you" needs work together.
• How you argue.  "We never argue" isn't good; it means at least one of you is suppressing their disagreement.  But obviously fighting rather than arguing is really, really bad.  Make it explicit between you that dissent is always okay and personal attacks never are, and that you will make every effort to remember the difference.
• That you love each other, and feel your love is worth working on.  Because the end result of all the above shouldn't just be a workable arrangement; it should be a workable arrangement with someone you find incredibly awesome.  Affirming that before, during, and after the meeting makes a big difference.

So that's kind of a lot!  I hope it helps.  I'm sure smart people will add things in the comments that I didn't even think of.

Cosmocking is next!

All in the mind.

Pic unrelated; I just wanted to show off
what an amazing pumpkin carver I am.

One of my grandmother's favorite platitudes when I was a little kid was "it's all in the mind."  Cut yourself? You shouldn't feel bad, because "pain is all in the mind."  Hunger, heat, cold, fear, social rejection, and all kinds of assorted suffering were, to my grandmother, "all in the mind."

I'm sure that processing things that way gave her great strength, and she's lived through a hell of a lot, so I don't begrudge her the fact that that's kind of a jerk thing to say to a crying six-year-old.

But here's how I process things: yeah, technically very true Grandma, suffering is all in the mind.  But the mind is where I live!



So I've been away for a while.  I've been sick.  Sick all in the mind.

Long story short, I've been mildly depressed for a long time, in the last month I had a full-on major depressive episode, I went to a doctor, now I'm on antidepressants and feeling much better.

Long story slightly longer--the horrible Catch-22 of depression is that it makes you hate yourself, but you have to have tremendous faith in yourself to seek treatment for depression.

Because what you have to do, basically, is make a doctor's appointment for "I have sad feelings." And shit, I have enough mental blocks against complaining about anything to the doctor.  I get all "probably it's nothing, why waste money and look like a hypochondriac" when I am actively bleeding.  Making an appointment for my sad widdle feelings, at the same time as the depression was filling my brain with "NOBODY CARES ABOUT YOUR STUPID PROBLEMS"... that was tough.*

Tough, and worth it.  Because the doctor didn't say "you called a doctor for feelings?".  He said "I'm glad you came here.  I know it's difficult."**  He wrote me a prescription for Wellbutrin*** and a referral for therapy.

It's a week later, I haven't even been to my first therapy appointment yet, and oh my God do I feel better.  Chemically better, but still with a lot of recovery to do in the getting-life-and-thinking-unscrambled department.  Which is okay.  It took the chemicals for me to even realize that these were two separate issues.  Damn those are some good chemicals.



The real take-home lesson here, besides "oh my god the Pervocracy is back, I thought Cliff had fallen into the sun or something," is that when you feel bad and you don't know quite why, it's all in your head.

And your head is very real and the most important part of you.  Take care of your head!  A feeling doesn't have to be somehow proven "real" before you're allowed to acknowledge it.  Feelings are real.   (That's not a warmfuzzy affirmation.  That's neurophysiology.)  Finding the causes and solutions for suffering that's "all in your head" is as important--as real a need--as bandaging a wound.



Cosmocking next!  Oh how I have missed the Cosmocking.



*Rowdy helped a lot.  When I needed a push to get help, he was there pushing.  Thanks, Rowdy.  I love you big.  I love you robot servant army.

**I have a pretty good doctor. I realize some are "you're just complaining, it's normal to feel down sometimes" jerks about depression.  If you get one, please remember that the problem is located in the doctor, not in you.  A good doctor might make a different prescription/diagnosis decision than you expected, but if the doctor brushes you off without seriously investigating your symptoms, try and get a second opinion.

***Sex on Wellbutrin?  DAAAMN.  (That's a good daaamn.  Or more specifically, a "oh my god, I think I just tore a hole in the mattress, or possibly in space-time itself" daaamn.)  Hell of a side effect. 

Name change.

I'm changing my name!  Yep!  I shall henceforth be known as Cliff Pervocracy.

Details:
a) I'm still going primarily by "Holly" in real life, but I'll answer to "Cliff."
b) My pronoun is still "she."
c) No big deal if you call me "Holly" from time to time. I realize this is an abrupt change, that not everybody reads every post, and I won't be upset or anything.  I expect to be "Holly/Cliff" for a while and that's okay.


Reasons:
a) Anonymity.  "Holly Pervocracy" is too close to my real name (my real name is "Hailey Bervocracy") and I've had some privacy scares recently.  A new name will help maintain the division between my real life and my work/school/family life.

b) Gender, part 1: Holly is a rather unambiguously feminine name, and I am a rather ambiguously feminine person.  I'm more comfortable with a masculine/neutral name.

c) Gender, part 2: I'm curious if my treatment on the Internet will change what I appear male to the casual viewer.  I've heard a lot of stories about women being engaged in discussion when they posted as "X" but treated with condescension or cynicism when they posted as "LadyX," and I'm curious if I'll have experiences mirroring that.

d) Maybe it'll stop skeevy dudes from thinking this blog is a personal ad.  NO I DO NOT WISH TO SEE YOUR PENIS SIR NO THANK YOU.

e) I like the idea of a chosen name.  In my despotic utopian fantasies, everyone would have to change their name (or consciously and explicitly choose to keep their birth name) upon reaching adulthood.  (Or better yet, every ten years.  This would result in a lot of middle-schoolers named Rocketship Dinosaur McExplosion and that's awesome.)  It's such a big and important part of your identity, it seems odd to just go with whatever you were handed.

Especially with what you were handed as a baby, when your parents couldn't know the sort of person you'd grow up to be.  Certain names fit certain sorts of people, and it's hard to predict that fit from a newborn.  "Cliff" is a name that's tough but dorky, macho-outdoorsy until you remember it's short for "Clifford," and that seems to fit me far better than "Holly."



f) The big one: I want to.

I've been having issues with wanting things lately.  Something in my brain, part from my family and part from society and maybe part just me, tells me that simply wanting a thing isn't a good enough reason to do it.  It tells me that wanting is inherently selfish and unbecoming, that wants must always be placed below all other considerations.  I can do a thing because it's healthy, because it's feminist, because it makes other people happy, because it's educational.  I can't do it just because I want to.

(This has not made me a beautifully selfless and giving person.  More "neurotic and passive.")

Honoring our own desires is not something we're taught to do.  It's assumed that kids are balls of cheerfully self-indulgent id already, that all you have to be taught is how not to eat everything and hump everything and name yourself Rocketship.  The lesson on "actually, indulging yourself in safe and considerate ways is not just okay but necessary" never really comes.

So it's something I'm learning as an adult.  I'm learning that eating delicious things makes me healthier than diet-and-shameful-binge cycles.  I'm learning that asking for sex doesn't always get me laid but it has a much better track record than not asking for sex.  I'm learning that when I have the time and money I'm allowed to go out and do silly things.  (Did you know Boston has a trampoline park?!)  I'm learning that well-considered self-indulgence is not half as annoying or gross or immature as allowing yourself to turn into a big bitter ball of frustrated desires.

I've wanted for months to start using this new name, and my "Wanting Isn't Good Enough" brain kept digging up objections.  It'll be inconvenient for people!  It'll be confusing!  It'd be okay to change to a masculine name if you were trans but since you're not then you're not allowed! It's frivolous!  It's self-indulgent.

Damn skippy it's self-indulgent.  It brings me happiness and does nothing else for the world, and that's okay, because bringing me happiness is something real and important.

So call me Cliff.  It'll make me happy. :)

Four years!

Today is my fourth bloggiversary! That's 1264 posts spanning across 5 homes, 4 relationships, 3 jobs, a move across the country, and a massive refocus from "my vagina: let me tell you about it" to "my vagina: it is a tool for liberation." Also, 43 issues of Cosmo.

I'm looking back at my archives from the very beginning, and it strikes me, to the point of cringing, just how much I've changed. Changing minds is something I wonder about a lot--sometimes I worry it can't be done at all, that people who are now assholes will be forever assholes.

So it's good to see that I used to be an asshole. Not a complete one, but I used to be a very different person, and I learned and changed. There was no one moment where someone said something to me that made me go "holy shit, I've been wrong all along, and I must change everything!" Instead, it was water dripping on a stone; over time, though I often looked very resistant, I was changing bit by little bit until I'm so different I don't feel like the early entries are my own voice any more. (And not just because I used to throw out "lame, retarded, crazy" insults like they were candy. Sorry about that.)



I mean, look at this asshole:
I feel like sexuality has no legitimacy unless you're hot. If you're hot it's sexy, if you're ugly it's just ridiculous.
Sure, she admits that she's voicing her own insecurities, but those insecurities are leaking out into judgement of everybody on some completely unspoken beauty standard, and people who don't meet that... aren't allowed to be sexual? Christ, past-Holly.

Or, oh jeez, what was she thinking?
There's a well-known sex/BDSM club with a relatively low skeeve factor in town and I've visited a couple times. I suppose I should join but I just never make the commitment. Partly because the median age is kind of "hi there, dad," but partly because I don't want a community. I like being a little furtive, a little unhealthy, a little freaky. Nothing ruins the illusion of being an outlaw like going to a "spanking enthusiasts social."
Not only is she being incredibly snobby about age (and not even correct about the demographics, as it turns out), but she's so dedicated to feeling like an "outlaw" that she won't deign to talk to her own community and get actual friends and allies who understand what she's doing. Is her little fantasy really more important than learning anything or connecting to anybody? Cripes.

And then there's this post where she really gets going:
Call me a rich white het cis privilegebunny, but I don't feel very oppressed. Sometimes insulted, sometimes worried, sometimes concerned for the oppression of people in other places, but in my own life I just don't feel the boot on my neck. At work, at school, socially, nobody acts like I'm less than human or tries to enforce the Patriarchy on me directly. For me, in my daily life, I don't feel like being female is difficult or painful.
I still have my issues with the concept of "privilege," but I don't just disdainfully make fun of it and then deny that there's any oppression of women as well. I mean, we've got the vote and everything, right? What more could you need once they let you vote?

Overall, though, there's less in the old entries that's "asshole," and more that's just "ouch":
Sometimes I think that if I were strong enough to say "I'm not seeing you unless you treat me well, and I'm not fucking you unless you treat me like a goddamn princess," my relationships would go a lot better. But the problem is that I'm so damn happy to be seeing/fucking the guys at all, I can't stand to withhold it for any reason.
It's incredibly clear that she knew from the beginning that Benny was treating her horribly. I thought there was a "honeymoon," some sort of time when the relationship was going well, but there really wasn't. The first entries about him make it clear that he's a huge jerk but at least he'll deign to fuck her. That she stuck with him for years until he actually assaulted her is... a major source of shame for me and frankly one of the reasons I'm hesitant to talk much about it. I don't think she "should have seen it coming"--who does?--but I think she should have long since dumped him for all the other reasons.

I can't believe she went and just threw this in as an embarrassed little parenthetical (well, I can, but I feel terrible for her):
(Benny, always happy to be on the worse side of any comparison, once actually fucked me against a "no," and not in scene or anything--we were just hanging out naked in bed and he got on me and I wasn't really ready and said so and he started anyway. Again, it was mere moments until things got sorted out, but... I could swear I was audible the first time, goddammit.)
Holy shit, past-Holly.



I'm not here to lick the wounds of my past. I'm here to marvel at just how much growth and change and learning is possible. I'm here because what I said here was my belief and no longer is:
I've been a little wary of feminism, because my initial exposure was way too academic and way too unrealistic. No, I don't feel that my life is unbearably suffused with phallic energy, and no, I don't believe that the world used to be a utopian matriarchy, and no, I don't think that having sex with boys--including nasty filthy sex, including sex on camera--is betraying the Sisters.
So I stand as living proof that people aren't lost causes if they don't agree with you, and they aren't lost causes if you try to teach them and they spit it back at you. Change is something that happens on a person's own schedule and not on yours, and often when they do change you won't even hear about it, but it happens. People really can learn.



I hope that what I'm writing now will embarrass the hell out of me in another four years.

OMG!

I haven't mentioned this on the blog before, but I was in the process of applying to nursing school for the last couple months. It was iffy, because my work experience is great but my academics are a bit patchy.

I just got in.

PERVOCRACY: CONFESSIONS OF A SEXY NURSE.

Post-meetup.

The meetup was fun! Thanks tons to everyone who came out! Real post in the morning!

I took notes on the things we talked about, but looking back on them, all I see are things like "hamster bottles for people" and "caterpenis metamorphoses into cockoon," and I think these may define the very essence of You Had To Be There.

So I'll just say, again, that it was fun, and I love meeting seriously awesome real people via Blogland.

Meetup!

Boston-area Pervocrats! Exciting news!

In conjunction with the blog Manboobz, we are holding a Pervocracy-Manboobz Joint Meetup!

We'll meet at 6:00 PM on Friday the 17th, at the Prudential Center food court in downtown Boston (access via the Green Line or a short walk from Back Bay Station on the Orange Line; parking at the Pru is obscenely expensive and not recommended). We'll talk about issues of interests to crotchety humorless feminists, frivolous fun-feminists, sexually deviant feminists, and "I have a big complex objection to the word feminist but am basically an ally"s alike!

Apologies for the short notice; if I get a big response from people saying "I could've made it, but" I might organize a second one.

I have a lot of smart and snappy readers and I know quite a few of you are in Boston; come on out and say hi.


EDIT: For Fetlife members, the event page is here.

Freedom.

I quit my job.

Well, I went per diem, which is the coward's quit, because I can still make money. But I won't get benefits and I won't get regularly scheduled shifts. April 10th is my last "real" day. After that I'll need to find a real job, but if things get tight I can pick up shifts, so I won't be under oh my god poverty doom pressure to find a real job.

I'm so glad. I know this is where the regret and fear are supposed to kick in, or at least a little shame that I'm in a privileged enough position that I can quit a steady job just because I don't like it, but I'm looking forward to the prospect of not being tired. Right now sleeping eight hours in the dark is a privilege for days off. I'm unreasonably stoked about the prospect, whatever the cost goddamn it, of doing this every night. It seems like the ultimate luxury.

It would also be somewhat luxurious to not have to deal with bodily fluids and the threat of assault so much, or at least not the threat of being assaulted with bodily fluids.

(As happened last night. What the hell place do you have to be in your life when "I know! I'll cut myself and smear my blood on the ER staff! That'll solve my problems!" seems like your best option?)

I knew things were bad when a coworker and I watched Dirty Jobs together, and both of us were consumed not with disgust but with envy. "So this guy has to handle fish guts. You know, he's working outdoors, doesn't have to deal with the public, seems to get along pretty well with his fellow fishgutters, he's union, he's day shift... ahhh... that must be the life."

I'm not 100% sure where I'm going from here. Story of my life. It's worked out okay so far.

Fleaing the scene.

I'll be leaving for the Fetish Flea tonight, and the hotel charges a stupid amount for Internet, so I won't be posting 'til Monday or possibly late Sunday. I'll try to write down my experiences for some fun posts when I get back. I'll tweet some too.

I won't be able to get emails there, but I will get texts, including Twitter messages.

I'm also bringing my fully annotated Cosmo with me, and hope to write a really good Cosmocking if I have any downtime. (Downtime at the Flea? Perish the thought! But I tend to have early-morning insomnia, and I suspect 6 AM could really be downtime.)

This time around, I want to focus on The True Meaning Of Cosmocking. It's easy to hit the slowpitches of "rub his balls with your nipples!" and "want a guy to do something particular for you? think about it really hard!" I'm getting bored of that. I want to dig into what we can learn from Cosmo.

LESSON 1: Just because it's printed nicely doesn't mean it's true.
I mean, duh, right? But there's a tremendous amount of credibility afforded simply by the medium of glossy printing and broad distribution--ever since we read textbooks in school, we've associated professional printing with Truth and Facts. We were taught that when the source is "reputable" (i.e., printed nicely), our job was to absorb and apply, not to second-guess or criticize. It can be kind of a quiet revelation to fully understand that access to a nice printing facility just means you have money, and that the writers of a national magazine are under no binding obligation not to tell us that the moon is made of bleu cheese dressing.

There's a lot more lessons. I'll get to those when I get back from the Flea.

I know posting has been light/lazy of late and I thank y'all for bearing with me. My energy for life waxes and wanes, and the last couple weeks it's been at a definite "sleep eat work, sleep eat work" wane. These slumps never last--and having some kinkventures is a great way to break out of them, too--and I know I'll come back strong and ready to yell at people on the Internet with renewed zest and vigor.



Now, off to the Flea!

wheeeeeeee fleeeeeeeeeeaaaaa wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

I'm twittering my social 2.0 in the cloud!

I got a Twitter. @pervocracy. Not much on it right now. I don't think I'll announce all my posts on it, since I'm near-daily, but I'll use it for interesting links, pithy observations, and short blitherings. And hashtag games! Mustn't forget the hashtag games.

#itwouldbesomuchcoolerifwecalledthemoctothorpgames

Resolute.

I usually don't do the New Year's Resolutions thing, because resolving to do something is very personal and not for a big public holiday, right? But then it turns out, often as not, that I don't actually make any February 17th Resolutions either, so surely conformity beats complacency.



I resolve to be okay with wanting what I want. I will not let myself feel unworthy, creepy, or "crazy" because I'm attracted to a person, or because I want a specific activity. I will never imagine that I have nothing to offer to others. I will also say what I want, rather than relying on psychic phenomena to orchestrate my sex life.

I resolve to be okay with not getting what I want. People have every right to say "no" and partners have every right to say "I don't want to do that," and there's nothing I can do to fix this whole "other people have free will" thing, and that's okay. It's no reason to be angry at them, angry at myself, or to in any way increase the net misery in my world.

I resolve to take things seriously. When I talk to or touch another person, that's happening for real, for keepsies, and although I may be joking or playing with them that doesn't mean I have any licence to be disrespectful or dishonest. And likewise, going "it's a joke, jeez" is no free pass for fucking with me. (This doesn't mean I'm anti-joke, or even anti-crude-joke. But I can tell the difference between "this insult is funny because it's absurd" and "this insult is funny because it's just so true.")

I resolve to not take things too seriously. A badly chosen word or misplaced touch, from an otherwise decent person, is not cause to bare my teeth and snarl. (In particular, a new person should not be cast out of the Feminist Club nor the Kinky Club because they don't know all the rules yet.) Not everyone has the exact same rules of ettiquette as me, and giving a little allowance can make situations go a lot smoother and keep people from just closing me out.

I resolve to learn how to educate as well as debate, to not always go straight to "here's why you're wrong, asshole," but when appropriate to say "here's why I believe what I do, and I hope you'll find some truth in it."

I resolve to find a job that sucks a bit less of my soul, and to only hold that job until, through entrepenuership or schooling, I have a career.

I resolve to make the Pervocracy better, shinier, more interesting, to revamp the site and make it more useful and appealing than this design from 2006 with the horrible background color. And every post should either enlighten, entertain, or educate; if all I can write is some blither that does none of the above, I just won't post that day. I also resolve not to say "just," "actually," "X, but Y" or use italics quite so often. Also I should get better about semicolons.

I resolve to keep my room a whole lot cleaner.

I resolve to pet my guinea pigs more.

I resolve to answer my email occasionally.

I resolve to sell, donate, or throw out all that stuff in the "misc. useless items" box. Okay, boxes.

I resolve to screw around on my boyfriend more. (I also resolve to screw around on my boyfriend.)

I resolve to go outside more.

I resolve to whine less.

I resolve to consume less and create more.

I resolve to never, ever, even a little bit, unless I torture a puppy or something, hate myself.

I resolve not to torture puppies.

HOME!

I am home. I am still sick. But at least I get to be sick in peace and on my own terms.

More than anything--more even than that shower that I really need right now--I just want to sleep. In the hospital there were so many nighttime tests and botherings that my sleep was terrible and I think that impairs healing worse than anything.

I'll shower in the morning. Afternoon. Whenever I get up. It's my own fucking decision for once.

I'm so glad to be home.

Frustration.

I don't know if I'll go home today or not. I desperately want to. The first night here I needed the hospital, I needed my fever and fluids and pain controlled continuously. And I was so sick and medicated that I wasn't all that aware of things anyway.

The second night was a maybe. I was still having a bit of pain, and one spike of fever.

But now I'm awake. I'm walking. I'm hydrated. I haven't had narcotics in 14 hours and my pain is entirely manageable. And I still don't know if I'm going home.

All the hospital is doing for me at this moment is running a very slow IV drip when I'm taking plenty by mouth, and making me spend most of my time in a bed that wasn't comfortable two days ago. Obviously I don't want to go home and get sicker, but I hate it here. I can't bend my right arm because of the IV and I have to drag the stupid pole everywhere and I can't wear normal-person clothes and they make me save all my piss and they keep doing painful things to me without even warning me and I can't fix my hair.

At least I have wonderful friends and lovers. Jack and Sprite and Rowdy came up last night and it made all the difference in the world. I was pretty strung out but I got to feel like a human being--emotions and sense of humor and outside life and all--for a couple hours. People dance the Macarena, they fold origami dinosaurs, they draw silly cartoons, they make filthy jokes, they bend the rules and they poke fun at each other. Instead of just having to sit in the back of my head like I was at a "while-U-wait" repair shop for my body.

I'm not 100% better. But I'm okay. I want this IV out of my arm. I want to wear jeans. I want to walk around on the street even if it hurts. I want to pet my guinea pigs. I want to fucking masturbate, for Chrissakes, I can't even get that done properly in here.

Maybe it'll be today. They're saying maybe. I'm really really hoping. I just want my body back.

Improvement.

I'm doing a lot better and will probably go home tomorrow. I still have some pain but it's no longer double-over-crying bad, and my fever is miraculously gone. Turns out the mono is complicated by hepatitis (not the ABCDEFG kind, the "the infection done monkeyed up your liver but good" kind) so I have these unsettling yellow eyes at the moment, but that'll go away too.

Thanks so much to everyone who sent their well-wishes; when I'm lying here feeling about 98 years old it makes a huge difference to know I have friends who care.

In other news, I made the list of Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2010! I'm #54! Yay! *holds up extremely large and complicated foam hand* And huge congratulations to Quizzical Pussy for making #4 (holy crap) and everyone else on the list. Sexblogging isn't just typing, it's... typing about sex.

This is why you shouldn't write your acceptance speech while on intravenous narcotics.

Mono.

So I have mono. I have it like bad--the fever has been going way out of control, I've been getting dehydrated despite being on my fifth liter of saline, and my liver function is all screwed up. I'm going to have to stay in the hospital at least one more night, and might be kinda crappy for a couple weeks.

Oh, uh, if you've exchanged saliva with me recently... I'm really sorry. If you feel sick in the next couple weeks you're probably gonna want to get tested for mono. (Most people have actually had it and didn't know, though, and you can't get it twice. It's one of those diseases that is less severe if you get it at a younger age. So odds are good that even if we've swapped spit you'll be okay.)

At least I have a good hospital room. It's private and shiny-new and there's a nice view. The nurses and doctors have been very kind to me too. Although a bit obfuscating; it's weird that when I'm at work I have instant access to a patient's lab results and med list and care plan and progress notes, and when I'm the patient I barely know what they're injecting into me right now. I've literally learned more about my condition by overhearing conversations about me than I've had directly addressed to me.



My cellphone is dead, so please email me to contact; I have a hospital phone number I'll give out by email. I'm mightily bored and would love visitors; the hospital is close to a T stop in Cambridge.

OW.

I went to the doctor and they sent me to the ER. It is (oh joy) Random Nonspecific Abdominal Pain, again, but this time the massive fever and bloody urine convinced them this was Srs Business. So now I get at least a few hours of Funtimes. Whoo.

My cell battery is low, so it's cool to text but I need to save my calls. I'll keep y'all updated.

This sucks such balls. :p

EDIT: no cell signal. Email me, I can get that.

EDIT: Dilaudid is proof of a loving God. I was just crying and crying as the pain got worse and now I feel like all the pain turned into a warm fuzzy blanket.

EDIT: I'm being admitted, maybe for a couple days. Whoo.

NYC.

I'm off to New York with Sprite and Rowdy until Monday evening. We're going to the NYC Fetish Tribe Experience and to cause grief to hotel housekeeping staff. I'll keep you posted of course.


eeee this is gonna be so fun eeeeee

KEYBOARD!

I have a keyboard I have a keyboard I have a keyboard. Oh QWERTY you feel so good under my fingers. Home row, I'm home. After more than a month of blogging on an iPod, I cracked and got a cheapie netbook, and now I'm typing in blazing Actual-Typing-O-Vision instead of painfully picking out each letter like a butterfly in some kind of goddamn diving bell.

Unfortunately, I also have to work a double-back shift in the Emergency Pit in less than an hour, so I don't have time to really explore what's possible with a blog when you can fucking type, but I'm looking forward to getting around to everything I'd backlogged, from two full Cosmockings to some more serious essay-style posts and probably some good dirty stories too.

For the moment, I leave you with this vignette:

Rowdy and Sprite are fucking while I'm ordering dinner from Foodler.
Me: Do you guys want Thai food?
Rowdy: [thrust, thrust] Yeah, get me some phad thai.
Me: With the shrimp?
Rowdy: [thrust, thrust] Uh huh.
Me: Sprite, do you want anything?
Sprite: No thanks, I'm full.
Rowdy and me: [helpless laughter]

Moved.

The move is finished. My stuff is still a mess of boxes and piled-up junk, but it's in a new place. I can stay here. I can make it my own.

This move totaled 5 carloads that I moved myself, plus one vanload that my friends were VERY kind to help me with. I haven't slept in... a while. I can sleep now. I have a home. I'm lucky that way.