A guy who cares and isn’t afraid to show it is far more attractive than someone who acts like they don’t give a shit.
You know what’s sexy? Effort. Effort is sexy as fuck.
Many who aren’t yet self-aware make a very bad choice in youth, get their hearts broken, then shut off for good — and tell themselves that’s how it must be.
By these same principles, one would choose dodgy food truck tacos at 4a.m., get wicked food poisoning, end up in the hospital, and claim they can’t go near Mexican food for the rest of their lives. I am not sure they understand how childish they come off to others who have a grasp on reality.
There are so many who do this to themselves and fail to see it’s their own fault. And the common thread? 1. They ALL made awful choices in women based on their own desperate neediness at the time. 2. Everyone around them saw and warned them, but they didn’t listen. They wanted what they wanted.
Then they get defensive and back up their god-awful decision defensively by putting up ridiculous barriers and living in fear instead of seeing it for what it was…their own fault…and breaking patterns.
Living without emotion isn’t living at all. It’s just going through life half empty. When people wish for the big things in life, they’re not things money can buy. They are wishing for peace of mind, fulfillment, love, health, and contentment.
We get none of that by putting up barriers and pretending we don’t give a fuck, using others to fill voids, and being afraid to feel.
Kids skate by getting B’s and C’s in class. People accept whatever is told to them by the news channel that aligns with their own opinions. “American made” now means it’s half-assed at best. Work ethic falls in line with effort. Honing intuition and developing the ability to think critically is discouraged. After all, we’re raised with the delusion that we have five senses when we actually have SIX. That sixth sense is what keeps us from making those awful mistakes and leading us down the wrong paths. Our subconscious registers everything else going on and computes the entire story. Tune that out and you’ll lose your way. Everyone thinks they and theirs are special, but it’s the lazy and average personalities who are most abundant.
Effort is a life skill that must be developed. But math (which doesn’t include learning about PMI or credit card interest) is required to graduate.
No effort…no reward. To get what you don’t have you must do what you have never done before. Break the patterns.
Thank you for reading.
Instagram: @realaprilhunter
The A Show Podcast, the Moderate Voice of Reason, where Smart is the New Sexy! www.Twitch.tv/TheAShow
April K. Hunteris a television writer, short story author, copywriter, blogger, and primarily writes thrillers and memoirs. She has her B.F.A. in Creative Writing for Entertainment and her work appears in a variety of publications, including RxMuscle, Page & Spine, Medium, and European Journal FONT. Her first book, UNDISCLOSED DARKNESS can be found on Smashwords and Barnes & Noble. Her children’s book, Monty, A Tale of No Tail, can be found on Amazon and Barnes & Noble.
A model and pro wrestler, she’s currently a part-time superhero at geek conventions, Mother of Chickens, a co-host of The A Show podcase with Aron Stevens, and fostering dogs until they’re spoiled rotten. When not crafting stories, she is learning something new each day or scouring the internet for funny memes while drinking too much coffee.
April Hunter on Quora. Author, Model, Entrepreneur & Mental Health Advocate.
I don’t know if I have 10, but I have a few.
1. If you make the easiest choices, you’ll live a hard life. If you make the hard choices, you will live an easy life. Many people take the path of least resistance…and pay for it later. Not having lived their dream, not having “gone for it”, dropping out of school or classes, etc.
2. Sex isn’t love. Chemistry isn’t compatibility. In a relationship, a lot of things matter far more than love and chemistry. That’s why arranged marriages work and marriages for love often do not.
3. Infidelity isn’t limited to sex. There can be emotional, addiction, or financial infidelity, too. Any DECEPTION is infidelity. Conversely, when someone is (sexually) cheated on, it’s the deception and lies that hurt the most.
4. People are inherently self-centered.
5. Stop worrying about what people think. They don’t give a damn about you. They don’t think about you at all. Don’t lose valuable time or life over what others think.
6. Dogs are better than humans. They don’t bite the hand that feeds them.
7. Despite #6 & #4, humans are inherently good. Or, at least NOT inherently bad. They want to be decent. Don’t believe the news. The news earns money when people tune in. So, they give us violence and train wrecks to keep us glued to the screen. Makes the advertisers happy. But, not us.
8. Go by his/her actions…not their words. Talk is cheap. Actually, it’s free. Actions tell you everything you need to know.
9. Mental health matters. Taking care of your mental health should absolutely be a priority. Sometimes saying “I can’t, I’m busy” might mean that you’re sorting out your own feelings, or taking some recharging time away from everyone. That’s okay.
10. There’s a difference between REACTING and RESPONDING. The first is done by the emotionally immature. The latter is when you take a moment, some time…to read everything, watch the entire thing, absorb the article, and research the source material-not just skim a headline. Take a breath, hear the entire story…and respond. It can save marriages, friendships, careers, and lives.
Oh, look. I did make it to 10. Yay! Here are a few more:
11. Ladies, if you want to know if he “likes” you, ask him to do something. A favor, help you with something… If he makes time to do it, then yes, he probably LIKES you.
12. Take care of your body and start doing that while you’re young. Once you get past the age of 28, people age at vastly different rates. Filters, my dear, won’t follow you or your aching knees around. You can look and feel amazing at age 50, or you can look and feel like a haggard, wheezing great grandmother who has one foot in the grave. You have to have a healthy lifestyle.
13. Some will say they want a relationship, but they don’t. They just want their needs met.
14. Not choosing to have kids is something most people without children don’t seem to regret. They are happy.
15. Too many people are afraid to be alone…alone with the quiet, alone with their thoughts, alone with themselves. They constantly need to be distracted. This fear causes a lot of problems for them and those around them.
16. Be grateful for every shitty situation and fucked up experience you’ve been through. It’s a valuable lesson and it’s made you stronger.
Someone asked me to write about what happened this past week with the Capitol. “I’d be really curious to see what you think, even if I don’t agree with it.” I declined because I can see so many sides to this situation, I said I’d end up alienating everyone. But, after thinking for a day or two, I decided to go ahead and hit the keyboard.
People hear what they want to hear. Context matters. You might only see a phrase that offends you, read too much into what I’m saying, then take my words and twist them. I’d hope you don’t, but I can’t control that if you do…it’s your decision.
And as much as people claim they don’t like labels, they fucking LOOOVE labels. They want to fly labels out to Vegas and marry them. They want to have 8 babies with their labels. We’ve gotten to where labels are our personal identity. If you insult a political party, you’ve now just personally insulted a person. This person will knee-jerk react as if you’ve slapped their baby. To me, this makes no goddamn sense. Just like you are not what you do to put food on your table, you also are not who you vote for. Those in power have zero fucks to give about you. Why do you have so many to give to them?
We’re so desperate for affirmation that “we’re right” that we only watch and read the news outlets that align with our own views.
Following is easy. Thinking is hard. That’s why so few do it.
I’m of no political party. I don’t even register as an Independent, as that’s now a party. I’m a fiscal conservative/social liberal and there’s no party for us. When I vote, I sit in front of a laptop for hours with my ballot and I’m all over the place. Republican, Democrat, Independent, Green, Libertarian. I research each candidate’s HISTORY…what their actions have been. Not what they promise. Normally, I feel the president is a figurehead and it’s everyone underneath in our Legislative, Executive, and Judicial branches that matter the most.
Our last presidential election has proved me wrong.
I’m going to chunk random thoughts on current events and regarding storming the Capitol, which was indeed a historic day in America:
-Many have said they never thought they’d see what happened in DC happen in our country. I did. I’ve been waiting for YEARS and I’m shocked it hasn’t happened sooner. I now realize the only reason it hasn’t is that we’re worked to death and too tired and distracted to pay attention to the many ways we’ve been getting fucked over, no matter what administration is in office. Unfortunately, most still think this is all a current issue. It’s not. They don’t realize that the history of actions (or NON-actions) has led us to this point. We can be very short-sighted and happy to blame others rather than looking to ourselves as the problem.
We are as responsible for what happened as anyone. Patriot Act. Getting rid of Net Neutrality. Blue gold. Eco issues. Piggyback laws. Sockpuppet accounts. I could go on. But very few pay attention outside of their little bubble. It’s only now that people are home, able to learn a bit and see how other countries treat their citizens, that they are upset.
Well…it took you long enough. I’ve been waiting for the goddamn revolution since the first Bush era. You’re not “Woke.” It’s just a tee shirt in your wardrobe.
But I do wish this happened under different circumstances.
-I don’t condone the violence. Let me repeat that: I do not condone the violence. However, lawmakers – without term limits – make laws for us, the common people, regarding healthcare, public schools, unions…things they don’t even use. They aren’t us. They don’t understand how it works. They have no idea how it is to fight with your insurance company, the soul-sucking energy, how many calls we have to make to do so…because they don’t have to do it.
These lawmakers keep making shitty laws based on finances rather than morals because they can. They only see the bottom line, not the reality. They don’t care, because they don’t use the systems we use.
I think it’s not necessarily a bad thing that they’ve come face to face with armed, angry Americans and now realize how vulnerable they are. They should be afraid of us, we shouldn’t be afraid of them. It’s forgotten that we pay their salary, and they are public servants. We are not heard. That, I feel, is a huge mistake. I’m shocked it’s taken this long for an uprising. We are a massive country with a lot of guns. Not listening is something I would advise against.
-We pay billions of dollars in defense and yet, a group was able to storm the Capitol in a matter of hours. WTF?
-Some knew this would happen. The military had been deployed earlier to Washington. DC knew it was likely to happen, too.
-If this group were black, more than just a few people would have been killed during those hours. And speaking of, we’re so interested in learning WHY they stormed the Capitol…and this is good. But why are we not equally as interested in learning about why Black Lives Matter is a movement? Instead, we make up shitty memes and spread false lies about it. How hard is it to have a conversation and really listen? Colin Kaepernick risked his entire career to make a peaceful statement, which was his protected right…and that turned into “he hates the military, he’s disrespected them, he needs to be fired”.
My whole family is military, a couple S.O.’s have been military, I grew up on military bases. I fully supported his right to protest was absolutely slaughtered for writing about it.
This movement has been about one thing: police brutality – with a side dish of lack of equality. In a nutshell: Human Rights.
For those who don’t understand the term “white privilege” (and I *really* hate this term)…here you go: It’s the fact that you (and your children) can storm the capital and know you will not get killed. It’s not about the fact that you came from nothing, had an absentee parent, went to public school, got your ass (or more) beaten on a regular basis, and worked hard for everything you have. That’s me. That’s many of you as well. Our backgrounds are not unlike many blacks who had it rough growing up. That’s undeniable. But our color is. We can get pulled over or go jogging at night through a nice neighborhood wearing a hoody and we won’t get killed.
“But they did this and they did that…” No. Stop.
Here’s the root of the problem: Too many people said how terrible it was that cities and businesses were getting destroyed because an unarmed man was shot. What we need to say: It’s terrible that an unarmed man was shot, so therefore cities and businesses got destroyed. Action…reaction.
We value life, right?
The problem is, people don’t care until their own shit gets fucked up. Then…they’re all ears.
It wasn’t MLK who got people to listen. It was Malcolm X. Is it not ridiculous that decades later, it still goes on?
BLM isn’t something you paste to your FB page like a trending fashion statement. And trust me…your friends of color see who does and doesn’t truly understand that.
-I don’t think a few extremists who stormed the Capitol represent an entire party, and I think it’s wrong to take this out on every Republican. I don’t think either side is the stereotype portrayed by the media, which serves to divide. Divided, we fall.
-We value free speech so much, it’s the very first amendment in our Constitution. Yet, the censoring has been going on for a while and sets a dangerous precedent. We’ve seen plenty of it on Facebook, where the term “Facebook Jail” has been coined. Who decides what can be said or posted? Who suspends accounts? They hide behind the “privatized company” and “TOS” to justify doing whatever they please, but they’re still founded on the principles of free speech and are opting to shit all over that. EVERYTHING in America is privatized and corporate-owned. If this is the way it’s going, free speech will cease to exist except on street corners and in public squares.
Frankly, I find it un-American and the equivalent to digital book burning, except in 3 situations:
1. Spreading fake news. Napoleon was of average height for his era, but he was so good at what he did, the British decided to attack his character instead, saying he was short. It’s stuck…even now. That’s how dangerous fake news is.
2. Inciting violence and terrorism…which is what our president has done. You can be a Republican and not approve of the way Trump has handled things.
3. Porn. And by porn, I mean the true XXX definition: anything that shows insertion and/or the exchange of bodily fluids. All else is Erotica. What’s titillating to one may not be to another. It’s very subjective. There are people who get excited over feet and armpits. Are we going to rip down all barefoot photos and anything baring pits next? When does it stop?
The world was built on nude statues, naked art, and expression. This is both healthy and natural.
“We live in a world where we have to hide love, while violence is practiced in broad daylight.”
Porn should be behind a paywall so those who are earning a living can actually EARN. No one grows up thinking, “I know…I’ll be a porn star!” For fucks sake, let them earn their dollars.
-I feel banning President Trump was the right thing to do. When free speech crosses over into inciting violence and hurting others, that’s an issue, especially from someone in a position of power like he is. With great power comes great responsibility. Yes, that’s a Spiderman quote, but that doesn’t make it any less true. Trump has had makings of a dictator, and there’s a core group of people who devotedly follow him like an enslaved cult, drinking all the Fresca they can. It’s more than a little scary.
I don’t understand that love, or what he’s done to earn it. I can’t list 4 things in the years since he’s been our leader to make me feel devoted. Feel free to point out the accomplishments. I honestly mean this because I’m curious and open-minded. I love that he passed The Farm Bill. At times, I feel he was unnecessarily crucified because of severe dislike and I think his sarcasm was twisted. There are times he’s said things that were good advice but crapped on…because it came from him.
I don’t have any emotional stake in politics. Neither should you. Events happen. It’s up to us to allow them to affect us personally. We cannot separate our personal feelings from events or advice and that’s a detriment. It’s also an ego issue.
-I don’t think there’s time to invoke the 25th Amendment, and it could be a waste of taxpayer money. Hopefully, more damage isn’t done in the days leading up to Biden’s inauguration. I feel for Pence, he’s got a lot on his shoulders. Except overturning an election. He never had that kind of power and it was unfair to throw him under a bus and state that.
-I feel our lack of education has led us to believe way too much. We should have more common sense, rationality, and stoicism. But believing ridiculousness has led to anger, frustration, and depression. For those who can think, see the bigger picture, the moderates…we really want to punch the rest of you in the face. Hard.
(Except for those of you who actually take the time to listen and think. You peeps are cool – and rare breeds.)
For us, politics don’t bring us down. YOU do. Your never-ending hostile assaults and weird energy force us off social media, make us avoid emails…we just want to retreat for preservation. It costs us work, bookings, and business opportunities. Thanks for that. Life isn’t difficult enough or anything.
-Dear Conspiracy Theorists…please stop. You’re ruining it for those of us who are actual conspiracy theorists. The ones who do real investigative research with credible sources, speak to people in the field, study history. We don’t just watch a few YouTube videos done by some ranting idiot and call ourselves “an expert”. I understand the lack of trust in the government. I really do. Not being a lemming is healthy. But not EVERYTHING is a conspiracy. Sometimes Occam’s Razor really is the correct theory.
–“Are you (we, the country) better off now than you were four years ago?” – Ronald Reagan. This is the question Reagan asked that won him the election. I believe that answer is a resounding no. I don’t feel Biden won…I just think Trump lost. Wouldn’t it be great to vote for someone instead of against the other guy?
But that’s OUR fault. We set our standards for leaders so unrealistically high, it’s beyond stupid. We would never elect anyone who is fallible like us. You smoked pot? We’ll splash that all over 679 news cycles. You were divorced? Oh my fucking god. You were never married? What’s wrong with you??? You sent nudes to your partner? What a whore. Did you use to be an alcoholic? He/she must be weak. You’re under a certain age? Inexperienced. Over a certain age? One foot in the grave. You’re a smaller man? Bitch. You’re a stronger woman? Bitch. You can’t spell Aleppo? Unforgivable! Meanwhile, 90% of Americans not only can’t spell it, but they cannot locate it on the map. (They also don’t know the difference between you’re/your, to/too, then/than. Fucking hypocrites.) Your kid is a fuck-up? OMG, so is mine…but somehow it’s only you who is the loser here.
What we put these prospective candidates and their families through is shameful. No SANE person in their right mind would take this job. And it is OUR FAULT. We have to stop being moronic dicks so we can get someone to lead who isn’t.
-I don’t understand the fear of Biden. The man was already at the helm for 8 very tumultuous years and we ended up fine.
-We need to stop the divide and stop being manipulated and used by the media. Stop insulting everyone who isn’t what we are: our voting party, our religion, our race. It’s beyond elitist – and it’s the behavior of a shitty human being. It’s not Christian. It’s not Humanist. It’s just shittarded.
-Why do we still have limited sick days and very little vacation time? Why aren’t we pushing to change that? We now know that you cannot limit sick days. Study after study proves we’re more productive with more time off.
-Workplaces are tiny kingdoms and dictatorships. Bosses have way too much power, and if you’re in a Right to Work State, you can be fired for no reason at all. Then you lose your healthcare. This is COMPLETE FUCKING BULLSHIT. How can people not SEE this? NO OTHER COUNTRY DOES IT THIS WAY – for a reason. It’s quite literally inhumane.
So, why are we allowing workplaces to have so much power? Then, we’re angry and feel powerless, so we take it out on those around us or assume everything else runs the same way. We need to UNITE to fix things. We spent so much time at work…most of our lives. Get that shit fixed.
If you want to revolt, I’ve given you multiple ideas that are worthwhile. Work. Vacation time. Equality. Net Neutrality. Repealing the Patriot Act. Unaddressed eco issues.
Fight for things that REALLY MATTER and affect all of us, our quality of life, and our privacy.
If you can handle a few more harsh truths about our society:
-A lot of people *think* they want more friends or a significant other, but they don’t. They aren’t willing to do the work that’s involved in cultivating real relationships. Social media relations are easier: they’re on YOUR time. Convenient. One-sided. Real relationships take time, effort, compromise, trust, commitment, and energy. Most people like the idea, not the reality. So, they would rather play on their phones.
-If you take the easy choices, you’ll lead a hard life. If you make the hard choices, you’ll lead an easy life.
-Intimacy isn’t sex. It has nothing to do with sex. It’s being vulnerable, letting your guard down. Into Me, See. It’s letting someone see *the real you.* Any animal can fuck. It’s really not that special. But it’s hard to let people in and be emotionally open, to bare your soul, to risk being rejected or judged…hurt. Everyone wants to be seen as so strong. No one is that strong. We love characters in films because of their flaws. That’s what makes them relatable. But you must hone your intuition and judgment skills *first* in order to choose those around you wisely. You can only do that by opting for silence, quieting your mind. Stay distracted and you won’t see.
Most people give up trying because they’re scared. Fear is the killer of all dreams, including love.
-People who are easily offended have low self-esteem.
-Much of what I admonish on here I’ve done. To be older and wiser is to first be young and stupid.
-I’m tired of the dumb. I’m tired of the misinformation. I’m tired of the hypocrites. I’m tired of the anger and violence. And I’m tired of people not taking responsibility for their own actions or lack of.
We’re humans. Not the party we vote for. Not what we do for a living. Not the color of our skin.
Stripped down, we’re all pretty much the same. You are not special. Neither am I. It’s time we realize this.
Those who do not learn history are condemned to repeat it.
Empires fall. If we don’t change our behavior immediately, we are next.
You could post about puppies or a lemonade stand and sooner or later, it will turn it into a political divide.
I have a theory. Ego.
As much as people claim they hate labels, they don’t. People love labels so much that if these titles were human, they’d be whisked off to Vegas and married in a little chapel by Elvis. For the sake of this article, I’ll say “we” (but I kinda mostly mean you.) We define ourselves with a variety of tidy markers that make sense to us and others. Liberal, Conservative. Vegan, Paleo. Christian, Atheist. Straight, Gay. Actor, Builder. Mother, Father. Husband, Wife. And so on. Some people even allow their illnesses to define them.
Part of why a breakup can be devastating is because we’ve lost our identity. We’re no longer a girlfriend or boyfriend, stepmom or stepdad. We’re set adrift, left to gather ourselves. We can recover like a party animal or an athlete. Some jump right back into anything, immersing themselves in destructive behavior in order to avoid feeling lost. Others reassess and get healthy by leaving the hurt area alone to heal while working out other areas instead.
I digress. When a discussion on social media about ANYTHING turns political, it’s nothing but ego. This is a person asserting their label rather than “I” into the conversation. And depending on the tone, it often means, “YOU are the problem. I am not. I am better than you.”
The reason we get offended and engage rather than staying silent and/or rational? Because at some deeper level, we recognize that this person has insulted us. They’ve shit on who we’ve decided we are.
There’s an enormous difference between reacting and responding. Most of us lack the ability to step back and look at the bigger picture in a neutral, removed fashion. We lash out and cling to our beliefs because they ARE us. They define us.
But they don’t have to. It’s a choice. And if my theory is correct, you have the choice to recognize this next time someone turns a casual discussion about buying patio furniture into a split sided political argument.
There are 2 types of people: Those who want to know, and those who want to believe.
Everything is an exchange of energy. Currently, we’re a fractured country and we all know we shouldn’t continue down this path. Too many would rather be RIGHT than happy, which lends itself to the anxious and hostile energy many have been experiencing.
Hurt people hurt people.
If only one person gets something out of this, the time spent writing was worthwhile.
Once upon a time, there was a lovely princess with long red hair and a short-legged dog. She ruled Castle Huntress quite efficiently. Her wares sold, she frolicked by the water with her little dog, and the villagers spoke well of her. “Oh, yes. This is our favorite princess yet! She has a generous nature and a very naughty sense of humor,” said they.
But after hundreds and hundreds of days alone, she began to seek a Prince. Not because she needed one, mind you, but because she had no one with whom to laugh.
Word got out, and soon the village was buzzing. A notice arrived from Prince Haddad of Romania with the offer of companionship. He was tall, dark, and handsome. The prince was also an accomplished warrior who frequented the battlefields. She, a former warrior in her own right, felt a kinship. After all, blood is thicker than water. Following an exchange of letters, the princess accepted.
But he did not appear. She inquired as to his absence and he replied with, “Soon, my dear. For now, I must fight.”
She couldn’t wait for his return from battle, for they had much in common and plenty to talk about. Their letters were never a bore, and they conversed endlessly about everything. The prince made her laugh, was well-traveled, and had a quick wit. He seemed perfect for her.
However, the days turned into nights, and the nights turned into days as the princess sat by the window, brushing her long, red hair and petting her short, black dog. She watched the leaves turn crimson and drop. Then, the snow flurries came and blustered forth. Eventually, spring brought new life and the same promises. “Soon, my dear.”
The princess’s hair grew longer, and her dog grew shorter.
Lady Amy and Lady Susan came to tea. They both agreed, the Prince should be there. If he wanted to see the Princess of Huntress Castle, he would find a way. “Actions are telling,” they warned. The princess did not want to hear their words, but she could not deny them.
Instead, she filled her time with art, entertaining, selling her wares, and tending to her affairs, but she spent most days and nights in solitude.
On a warm day when the sun was high in the sky, she sat by the window watching the clouds form the shapes of postal letters that said, “My dear, I’m on my way.” They burst apart before she could grab one.
Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a voice with an accent from a land far away.
“Oi, Princess! Your hair is like fire!” She looked down and saw the Duke Liggitt of Birmingham. He stood below her window with a toothy grin and gazed up at her through spectacles. Though he was slighter in stature, he was reputed to have a robust character and a heart so vast it could fill a castle, along with a title from the Shah dynasty.
“Is it?” She asked. Admittedly, not her wittiest response, but she was quite out of practice, having only spoken to her little dog for days on end.
“Christ on a bike, you’re beautiful,” he said as he bowed and pulled forth a striking white rose swirled with hues of pink, red, and violet. “I’ve traveled a great distance to request the pleasure of your company, and behold, I would be willing to travel even further after setting eyes upon you. I should like to take you dancing. We’ll have such fun!”
“Return as the sun sets,” the princess said. “If my answer is yes, I shall meet you in the foyer.”
Now, the princess was in a quandary. Wait for the handsome prince or dance. Wait…or dance. Her heart was torn. Suitors had called after Prince Haddad, but none were as charming as he or the Duke.
As the clock chimed behind her, her little dog yawned with its greying muzzle glinting in the sunlight, and a vision of her mother on her deathbed appeared. “Don’t be a fool, child. Time is the most valuable thing, meant to be spent, not squandered. Go.”
She knew her mother was right. As she gathered all her hair, the post arrived with another letter from Prince Haddad. “The fight goes on. There’s much to be done. I’ll be there as soon as I can, my dear.” She sighed as she placed the letter atop of the pile of his other correspondences, which mounted several feet in height on her boudoir.
It was just a night of dancing. She could always return early to the castle with the explanation that she simply must walk her short dog by a preferred hour.
As the sun sank in the glowing sky, she stood tall in the ornate foyer, clad in her best dancing slippers. Encrusted in shimmering beads and stones, her servant had given the shoes a quick dust-off before he opened the door with a flourish to reveal the awaiting Marquess of Birmingham, decked out in his finest.
“Good evening, Duke,” the princess said with a curtsey as she held out her hand to be kissed. “I am ready.”
“So,” the server asked disinterestedly while smashing avocados. “How did you two meet?” We both laughed.
“You wanna…?”
“Nope,” I shook my head. “You go right ahead.”
He summed it up nicely in about a minute. The kid hastily shoved the bowl of guacamole at us and backed up a step. “You’re a cop?”
I understood. That’s kind of how I met him, too.
If you’ve read my blogs, then you know about some unbelievably weird dating stuff that goes on in my world.
The time a deputy served me a (falsely filed) restraining order for domestic violence and asked me out in my driveway while I was holding my bags. Or, how my defense lawyer from that same injunction…nevermind. Yeah.
Well, I’ve got a new one that might top those. I could not make this shit up.
For the record, I originally wrote this on February 15th.
Valentine’s Day was just Taco Tuesday to me. I’d planned on a titillating evening full of blowschoolwork and sexy gym time. Being a student is hard. Being an adult student with a career, mortgage, traveling for shoots, a homestead and small soy candle business can really suck unwashed, hairy balls. Most weeks, I feel like I’m gasping for air, nearly drowning in deadlines, assignments, past due orders, owed work and lost emails. I haven’t had much of a life in the past year other than occasionally seeing my friends and some random dating.
Yesterday morning, the doorbell rang while I was still in my pajamas, drinking coffee. Usually, it’s mail delivery. But as I passed the window, I saw a city truck outside.
Shit, I thought. That’s never a good sign. I have an extreme dislike for people showing up on my doorstep. There’s a pleasant sign telling them to piss off unless they have an Amazon package or Girl Scout cookies. Clearly, this guy couldn’t read.
I yanked Bella back and opened the door. “Yes?”
A youngish-looking guy in an official shirt greeted me and said, “Do you have chickens?”
SHIT.
“Yes. Why?” I asked, as Bella practically went into convulsions trying to get the infidel to pet her.
“Well, we received a complaint from one of your neighbors about this property and another a few streets over.”
“Uh, OK. You’re welcome to look but I’ve already been through this last year with the other guy. We went all the way to mediation and won, plus everything is up to code. I don’t have a rooster. They go to bed at sunset. The coop is cleaned daily,” I wasn’t sure I did a good job containing my hostility, but I tried. “I’m not sure what the issue is?” I visualized hopping the fence and stabbing my whiny neighbor in the face with a metal spoon, simply because it would hurt more. This gave me enough momentary pleasure, I was able to calm down and hear him out.
“Look, I just took over for the last guy,” he said. He was cool and polite. “If there’s a complaint, I have to follow up. It’s my job.” Excessively polite. But he didn’t seem like he was playing around. If he could tell I was upset, there was no acknowledgment.
He later told me I should never have let him in. But if I hadn’t, the story would end right here.
I’d only been awake for an hour and was wearing a short, charcoal colored chemise slip with a clingy, light gray “Hollister” tee-shirt over it. My long, red hair was twisted up and clipped into an unflattering bun and my face was bare. So was my spirit, since I hadn’t yet caffeinated to completion.
I stepped aside and let him in, walking him through the main room. He paused and looked around.
“Wow, this is really nice. How long have you lived here?” Thank God I filed all my permits.
“Thanks. I bought it as a fixer-upper and did it about a year and a half ago. I don’t know anyone from the area yet. I work and go to school from home.”
The New Guy was a former deputy with a sturdy physique who looked like he’d been in more than a few brawls. He was a remarkable blend of badass and unwaveringly respectful.
I called, and the chickens came running, which amused him. He’d never pet a chicken before, so Ginger took one for the team. He determined that he probably wasn’t going to ask me to get rid of them. I waited to inform him that they’re registered ESAs (Emotional Support Animals) and he can’t. I politely let him know I’m versed in the laws of the county and city and would fight him on it. He politely acknowledged that I wasn’t incorrect. The conversation was done. Yet, he didn’t leave.
“Oh, a yoga trapeze,” he said as we slowly headed back inside the house. I just had it installed a few weeks earlier and love it.
“You know what that is? I’m impressed.”
“Yeah, I have one. I got a lot of injuries when I was on the force. You ever try the Smiling Mind meditation app?”
I’d been blinded by irritation, but at this point, I actually looked and saw him. Officer was a tallish, broad shouldered guy with dark hair, bright blue almond-shaped eyes, neatly trimmed facial hair and great teeth. He had a healthy build, a boxer’s flattened nose and looked like he could kick my ass with one arm tied behind his back. I don’t have a type, but if I did, he’d fall into one of my preferred categories. He seemed the kind of guy who would be content in a cabin in the woods with nothing but a fishing pole and a beer. Country boy-meets-Parrothead. (<–Jimmy Buffet reference for those of you who aren’t caught up on all things tropical.)
I became painfully aware I wasn’t wearing any makeup and was still in my pajamas. Shit, shit, shit. I self-consciously pulled the clip from my hair and let it tumble down around my shoulders and back. It was all I had to work with. Mid-sentence he trailed off and just stared.
“Great hair,” he said after a seconds’ pause.
“Thanks,” I said. We both stood there.
“So, uh…what are we listening to?” He asked.
“Robbie Williams.”
“Never heard of him. Great song.”
“I lived in England for a while. He’s kind of big deal everywhere else but here.”
“I’m going to add him to my Pandora.”
He strode across the house and bid me and “my husband” a good day.
“Him?” I gestured to Matt in the kitchen with a wave of my hand as if to say that old thing? I was just about to toss it in the trash. “That’s my cousin and roommate.”
“Oh? Really?” He lingered at the door. “Would you maybe want to continue this conversation later?” When the officer grinned, his eyes smiled, too. Something about those devilishly bright eyes grabbed me. “I know its short notice, but do you want to go out for a drink tonight?”
Right. I can hear you thinking, “Oh, April…so soon? You just met him and went out that night? Have you no game?”
Here’s the thing: Some of us think people come into our lives for a reason. (Ahem.) It could rather simple. Maybe it’s a lesson or a blessing. I rarely meet anyone (ever) since I work and attend university from home. When the universe delivers a good-looking dude on your doorstep – on Valentine’s Day, no less – you should probably say yes.
“Sure.”
“Pick you up at eight?” I hadn’t been picked up since high school. I meet people. It’s safer. At least until I know them. But it’s not like he didn’t know where I live.
“So, I guess you’re single?”
“Yeah. Guess you are, too?”
“Have been since summer. Wait. Um…are you crazy?” I asked.
He laughed. “No. But most crazy peopledon’t know they’re crazy.”
“Good answer. See you at eight.”
Chickens? What chickens?
It dawned on me I haven’t met a person in real life in years. When I date, I meet people through OKCupid or Match. The great thing about online dating is that all the important information, like politics, height, age, religion, and kids, is out in the open.
The bad thing about online dating is all that information is out in the open. We filter and dismiss people quickly and harshly. Or, maybe that’s just me. No smokers, no one under five-foot-eleven, age range 35-45, middle of the road for politics, kids ok, social drinking only, prefer atheists. That last part is simply because atheists tend to be educated and/or foreign. I relate well to these types. Sexually, I’m equally (if not more) stimulated by the intellectual as well as the physical. Little is hotter to me than a deep, meaningful conversation. (Sometimes a good kisser can cut to the front of the line.) However, I’ve met people in real life, like my short ex-husband-turned-good-friend, whom I would never have given a chance had I seen his stats on a screen. With age comes wisdom, so my mind remains open.
I knew nothing about Officer. I didn’t even know how old he was. He looked young. What if he was too young? Granted, age is just a number, but with going on dates between the ages of 27 and 59 lately (don’t judge me), I was hoping to narrow it down to one generation instead of three. So, I Googled him. Nada. Cops and prosecutors are ghosts; they have to be for safety. However, university journalism class taught me how to stalk search for anything. In short time, I was able to ascertain he was younger, but only by three years. Also, a Trump voter. Oh, no. There are two types of Trump voters: the observable (douche types) and those who simply want change from a non-corporate president. I can deal with the latter group.
This is a law I can fully support.
The post Officer vs. Chicken conversation with my roommate: “I dunno. I just don’t think we have much in common.”
Matt: “You both have the same amount of letters in your last names.”
“Spoken like a psycho.”
Matt continued as if I hadn’t said anything. “You both have two hands and ten toes. Injuries from fighting. You both like Robbie Williams. You both have good manners. See? There’s plenty if you look.”
“I’m not sure that’s the stuff you build on,” I said as I brushed my hair.
“I’m just saying you can find common ground if you really look.”
“Right. Like, oh hey – how are all ten of your toes doing today?” I rummaged through my closet looking for something to wear that wasn’t in the pajama category. “We are assuming he has all ten toes?”
“Exactly.” He poked his head through my bedroom doorway. “Don’t forget that he met you like you look right now. You don’t have to bother doing that much.”
“Fair point.”
Yet, I did. I spent an absurd amount of time doing my face and hair, as if I had something to prove. It dawned on me there could be a murky future. I thought forward: my hair in a bun, no makeup, ripped sweat pants. Upon failing to make him a sammich due to marathoning my favorite shitty reality show, he’d comment snidely over his eleventh beer: “Wow, April. You have really let yourself go.” Me, jabbing my finger in his face and screaming at the top of my lungs: “Fuck you! YOU MET ME THIS WAY!”
Such a fatalist. Let’s just erase that. I’m not the “fall to shit” type, anyway. We all know there’s no such thing as an ugly woman, just a lazy one.
The date commenced. It was a combination of interesting pierced with some truly awkwardmoments, as many first dates typically are. Occasional silences stretched for seconds while he gazed at me with his light eyes, like he was memorizing my face. It was unnerving. I felt like I was in an unwinnable staring contest with a cat. I am almost always the alpha at any given table, so it threw me out of my comfort zone.
The best part about going on date with someone not in the business is attempting to explain the business. Pure sarcasm. This is especially discomfiting when they are trained to fight.
Him: “So, uh…I googled you. And there was this arm wrestling video–“
Me: “Oh, God. Please don’t watch that. It was a custom match. There’s a bunch of bullshit on the internet fans put up from customs.”
Him: “From what? Customs?”
Me: “Yeah. Customers order them and book it, right down to the grip and what color nail polish we wear. They’re fetish videos.”
Him: “That’s someone’s fetish? Really? Well, I really didn’t want to be disrespectful, but you weren’t doing it right.”
Me: “I know. You are correct. We were just following the script.”
Him: “They write scripts? Are they there while you film?”
Me: “Yes to scripts. No on filming. We generally don’t know who orders them.”
Him: “So, how much does something like that pay?”
I told him.
Him: “Are you shittin’ me? I’m in the wrong business. I shoulda been a hot chick.”
I wish he hadn’t seen that as his first impression after telling him I was a pro wrestler. I scrambled to pull up some matches with credibility.
Him: “Holy shit, you’re a bad ass. I like it! Wanna spar?”
“No. Maybe.” I should have left it at that, but my dumb ass sparred with him and he took me down in .03 seconds. Maybe less.
I won’t lie – it hurt. And it was pretty cool.
However, he genuinely seemed to be a decent guy, and not in a ‘friend zone’ way. I’ve always been partial to the ‘nice guy’ and I think women who dismiss this type are missing out. True alpha males are quieter, confident, reluctant to fight unless they have to, and play well with others. The term ‘alpha male’ originates from wolves. If wolf alphas acted like our human version, their pack would die. What we mistakenly call ‘alpha males’ are usually just loud fucktards with big egos. Read more on that here: http://www.artofmanliness.com/2016/04/24/how-to-really-be-alpha-like-the-wolf/
As a rule, I’ll only date alphas now – the real version. I cannot do a weak personality. Nor can I deal with men who play a victim, complain, aren’t pro-active, take my shit, are indecisive or let me walk all over them. I lose respect. #Truth. I’ve learned how to discern this in order to not waste time.
Alphas: It’s how a man carries himself, with confidence. He’s comfortable in his own skin,(even if that skin has flaws.) He maintains eye contact, allows himself to be vulnerable enough to admit personal things without apology, and he owns his mistakes or has learned from them. Alphas don’t put other men down. They know they don’t know everything and constantly seek to educate themselves. They are accommodating and willing to compromise, but not willing to sacrifice who they are in the process. An alpha doesn’t seek compliments but appreciates being appreciated. He does his own thing and doesn’t follow trends. He respects others. He respects women and appreciates their beauty. He is supportive and views them as equals. He has both male and female friendships. He gets along with his exes. Others seek him out for advice. He is calm, thinks before speaking and generous in the right moments.
I wondered if Officer was a little too nice. I’m kind of an asshole. I don’t want to feel like a massive dickhead because the person across from me is a saint. I’ll own my heathen ways. I know I have to be with someone who thinks outside the box, is a little dirty, curious in life, not jealous, not the least bit politically correct, a nonconformist and who thinks nothing can’t be made into a joke. I’m just a “fuck the establishment” antihero to the core. Annnnnd, he was part of the establishment.
Speaking of being laissez-faire, despite the Trump thing (I’m non-party affiliated, but have shloads of Mexican, Muslim and foreign friends whom I adore), he was pretty damn religious…like very religious (“I believe Christ is my savior. What’s your stance on faith?”
“Oh, uh…I don’t believe in Jesus. I grew up in the church, but none of that ever made any sense to me.”
“Well, how do you think we got here? Evolution?”
“Yes.”
I still planned on kissing him. Why not? Life is short and some of these Christian conservative types are total freaks! Kidding. Or, am I?
But for reals, I have no issue respecting someone’s beliefs, even if they’re vastly different from mine. Not only does it make for interesting conversations, but regarding spirituality, the only thing I know is that I don’t know. I don’t care what someone believes, as long as they’re a damn good person, and they like a finger up their–
Kidding! Or, am I?
If someone respects me in return, there’s no problem. My bigger issue would be if he wasn’t fluent in sarcasm and didn’t swear. Those are fucking deal breakers.
Despite the inauspicious beginning, we were on the same page with end-of-date opportunities. He walked me to my door and kissed me goodnight several times …and bit me once… (he isdefinitely a little freaky,I knew it.)
As he turned to leave, he pointed at me and said, “Thank you for having chickens.”
“Allegedly.”
“Right. Allegedly.”
To recap the untied ends: I HAVE had conversations with him other than “How are all ten of your toes?” He did add Robbie Williams to his Pandora, was in the “drastic change” Trump voter category and we did have a second date. He has all his toes. I counted them.
He’s also not as nice as I originally thought.
……….…..Thank fuck.
NOTE:It’s been two years (today, actually). We are “labeled” LAT’s. That’s a new thing mostly known in Europe/Canada. It means Living Together Apart. We like our autonomy, but we also like coming and going from each others homes. For me, it works for now and I think it does for him, too. In my past, I’ve given up way too much for the relationships in my life, putting them ahead of myself, my goals – to the detriment of my career and more. He’s done the same. With with school and running a small business (www.etsy.com/shop/aprilsscentsations) I’d like to put myself first while also making him a priority.
There’s no sappy, romantic end to this story at this point in time. Nor would I share if there was because I tell more than enough. He’s been up front about not wanting anything serious, which works for me, too. He confessed he isn’t a fan of my career path, and that was one of the major hesitations I had with dating someone devout. Admittedly, it bothered me because what I do isn’t who I am, and I like him as a human being. (“Any man who cares about you would have a problem with what you do.” Me: “That hasn’t been my experience at all. They understand one side is a business and the other is me. I’ve never run into problems.” Him: “Well, I’ve tried to imagine introducing you to my parents and I’m not sure how I’d explain it.” Me *feeling slapped*: “So, don’t. To any of it. That’s obviously how you see me. It doesn’t mean others do. If you see me as what I do, that’s your issue.”) And this is one of the many reasons religion (its perceived ideals and dogma) can be harmful and keep people from living. If you’re not doing anything to hurt others, I’m guessing you’re probably still a good person. How ironic that religion can be what hurts people or holds them back the most.
In all fairness, he had no idea what I did until I told him. I was just “the hot chicken lady”. But the start of this story was too cute not to share.
I’ve met his kids, and his parents know about me. It turns out neither of us was like the other had harshly assumed. While no one is running to any altar, (Ha. I think it’s safe to assume practice doesn’t always make perfect?) I reluctantly gave up all the other dick I’d been getting. KIDDING! Well, about the reluctant part, not the all-the-dick part. 😉 He treats me very well, is ridiculously spontaneous and fun. Now that’s he’s been around my business more, he understands it. Oddly enough, being with someone so Christian (and forgiving) is exceptionally helpful with bipolar disorder.
That’ll learn ya.
If you get nothing else out of this story, bear in mind two small things: Often it takes more than 90 minutes and 2 drinks to decide if you like someone. Especially if they’re introverted.
And, don’t shun someone simply because they don’t see the world exactly as you do. If one is open-minded, it can lead to deep conversations.
My own two bucks (because two cents, really? At least you can buy a protein drink with a couple dollars):
Some women aren’t meant to be tamed. They just need an equal to keep up, laugh at life and experience this crazy world along with them.
After much introspection, writing, screwing up, therapy and learning, I’ve come to the conclusion that I fall into this category. Any other stab at normalcy will likely be met with the same previous (ill-fated) results. The definition of insanity is…right. That. Doing it over and over again and expecting a different result. I think it’s time to embrace my weird, colorful inner flamenco dancer. If someone can keep up, fine. If not, also fine. I’m not sure I go dates, per se – it’s more like holding auditions. Some get call backs. Most don’t. I’ve learned the hard way not to shove square pegs through round holes.
I’ve also learned to own it. Everything dire that’s happened to me in some way, shape or form, is my own responsibility. Therefore, it’s my duty to be alert and not let it happen again.
Perhaps more of us need to examine ourselves closely and see what works and what doesn’t. Societal opinion be damned. (This is called being Self Aware, which is so rare for most human beings it’s considered a super power.) If things are meant to be, they’ll flow. And it won’t cost a chunk of your heart and soul.
That said, on the topic of dating in general, I may not have a string of successful relationships behind me, but I am extraordinarily good at love. Love is when you want the best for someone, even if it’s not in your best interest. Love is when someone makes you want to be a better person. Love is autonomous; accepting and respecting that they are free to do as they please without restrictions. It’s wanting someone, not needing them.Love is when you never fail to appreciate that there are seven billion people on this Earth, and someone chooses to spend their time with you. Love is always learning, so you don’t sit across from each other at the table with nothing to talk about. Love is always compromising. Love is respecting boundaries. Love is choosing your battles and knowing when to sincerely apologize, even if you feel it’s not your fault. Love is communicating, waiting to respond instead of having a knee-jerk reaction and always remembering you are a team. Love gives, it doesn’t withhold. Lasting love is when you truly like someone as well as love them. Lasting love is WE, not I or me.
If you take a plate and throw it on the floor, it’ll shatter into little pieces. You can tell those pieces you’re sorry. You might feel better, but the plate is still broken. Even if you manage to glue it all back together, it cannot be unbroken; ever.
Well, that’s not one hundred percent true. The Japanese tradition of Kintsugi uses melted gold to repair broken pottery and dishes, which makes them even more beautiful than before. Maybe when it matters, we have to use precious metals instead of glue.
That’s all I know. The rest is a work in progress, an open experiment in life.
I’m simply sharing some insight with you from years of fuckups so perhaps you can avoid some of my costly mistakes or melt some gold for your own.
Free tip #56798:Don’t ever complain about your partner publicly on social media. Ever. Just don’t do it.
Same goes for publicly posting loveycrap. You have text. Use it. Nothing says “we have some serious issues” like endless status updates about how in love you guys are. No. We are all watching, knowing the other shoe is about to drop and betting cash on the date papers are gonna be filed. We love Schadenfreude. Makes us feel better about our own lives. So, stop that shit. You’re welcome.
April Hunter is a writer, professional wrestler, full-time student at Full Sail University, professional cosplayer and pin-up, Playboy and fetish model.
She’s also a fitness competitor, former Met-RX & Extreme Nutrition spokes-model, the subject of several comic book characters, an admitted coffee snob, road rage enthusiast, Mother of Chickens and world renowned potty mouth. She uses the C-word as liberally as you use butter on your biscuits. Which you shouldn’t be eating, since you know…carbs and gluten. She struggles with bipolar disorder and Lupus and chooses to view challenges as opportunities.
See more of April on Instagram @realAprilHunter, www.AprilHunter.com and Twitter @AprilHunter. She’s also on Facebook.com/AprilHunterOfficial and owns AprilsScentSations Soy Candles.
Special thanks to Hubert O’Hearn and Matt McDermott for editing! Time is valuable and I appreciate yours!
I’ve spent most of my adult life in a relationship. I’ve always put someone first, even at the cost of myself, my career or both. This is the very first time I don’t have to answer to anyone. I’ll admit, I kinda enjoy it.
There was an adjustment period after a tragic breakup with someone who had undiagnosed Borderline Personality Disorder. He was also bipolar. Well, shit. If anyone could help him, it would be me, right? As a card-carrying member of Club Van Gogh, I understand crazy. I know what to expect.
What in themuther-of-fuck was I thinking?
The difficult part for me to swallow is that before I saw all the mental issues, I actually *thought* I was in my first healthy relationship. Yeah. Then I stuck around out of hope and loyalty. That really fucked my head up.
It didn’t help that of the two of us, I was the calm, nonviolent one (yeah…me!) and with his disorder, he had the ability to twist things around, convince me I was the problem and everything was my fault.
I spent a lot of time on therapist’s couches and having coffee with friends working on rewiring myself since. Luckily, these are also the same couches he sat on and friends who knew him, so these people had insight as to what was really going on.
My own bipolar medication doses have been spot-on the past few years. I get regular blood tests and the aforementioned therapy. I’d been better than ever. And yet, that happened. The lack of judgment and constant second-guessing made me unable to figure out what was up from down. Now that I’m dating again, I’m very cautious and wish I could rely on my instinct and judgment. You know, like normal people don’t. I over-think and get confused at times. Living alone has been challenging, too. There’s no one to reign me in when I go a little too far outside the lines. I think that’s one of the things you need to find in both your closest friend(s) and a partner when you’re bipolar, or it won’t work.
My Fucktarded Brain:
“Is this what’s going on in reality, or is it just my mind seeing things in the worst possible light?
Wait.
What if I’m simply being paranoid that it’s my bipolar mind, but it IS really going on and I’m talking myself into staying calm and letting things go while I’m actually getting completely fucked over?”
That’s what it’s like to be crazy. Even on stabilizing medication, it never completely goes away. I’m just able to keep it hidden better.
Steven Griffey Photography
It’s like a little MMA/Lucha Libre match going on in my head:
“In this corner, Irrational Thoughts! Coming in from Parts Unknown at 6’5” and 385 pounds! His opponent, the high-flying Lucha Libre sensation known simply as SANITY! Sanity hails from Doctor’s Orders and weighs in at a sleek but deceptively quick 135 pounds! Ring the bell!
Oh, wow. WOW! Sanity is just taking a BEATING from Irrational Thoughts! It’s going exactly as we’d thought. Irrationality is all over, just cleaning freakin’ house. It got real ugly, real RAPIDO, folks. He’s got Sanity locked in the WTF-Are-You-Thinking submission and is not letting go…oh, ouch!…but Sanity refuses to tap! He goes for the pin! 1…2…no! Shoulder raised!
Irrational has just put Sanity on top of the cage…he’s backing up…he charges at him… OH MY GOD…Sanity has KICKED Irrational Thoughts IN THE FACE! IN.THE.FACE! And here comes Sanity OFF THE CAGE with a flying triple Functionally Balanced! HO-LY SHIT! Sure didn’t see that coming! Ay, Dios mio! 1… 2…3! Sanity! Sanity! Sanity WINS!”
But Sanity doesn’t always prevail, does he? Sometimes Irrational Thoughts hits the ring and it’s a travesty of a squash match. There have been several times where I have connected the dots to something and let someone have it. Friends, lovers. Over something that wasn’t there. This, while stabilized. Meanwhile, those dots connected clear as anything to me. For me, it was a calm, rational connecting of dots. THE FUCKING DOTS CONNECTED. Not only did they connect, but they fit together like Legos.
But, the other person couldn’t have been more shocked at how in the blue hell I came with my dots OR connections. Oh, and my Legos? They can just piss the fuck off, mate. After that, my dot connecting ability was severely questioned. I lost a lot of my dot connecting credit. I was put on dot connection suspension.
Now, what kind of defense does one have in this case? “Well…you knew I was bipolar!”
Sure. OK. They can say, “I know. You were straight up about it.” (Or in my case, “I read your blogs.” Nothing like having it all out there.)
But does that actually work with someone who really has no clue what it’s like to be something they cannot possibly imagine? Maybe they can look past it, but are fissures not created, tiny hairline cracks?
Meanwhile, they’ve put you in dot connection Time Out.
(Note: There have been a few times where I thought I was crazy because I was told I was wrong – but I found out later I wasn’t. This has happened when I’ve been seeing someone and they simply weren’t comfortable with me calling something so accurately or being brutally truthful. I’m not one for games or bullshit.)
It makes me crawl inside myself. I apologize, back away. Far away. It makes me not want to interact with anyone. Because, clearly, I can’t. I can’t sustain a normal fucking…whatever you call it. Just when I think maybe I’m OK – surprise, mutherfucker! -Nope.
And this, onmedication.
Previously, I hurt everyone around me and walked away unfazed. Now, I just hurt myself trying to make sure others are okay. I suppose it’s an improvement.
Let’s skip the n-word (normal), in lieu of aiming for “functionally balanced”. One day. Not just out of debt, paying my bills, healthy and responsible. I’m already there. But I’d like to be completely balanced. I’d like my mind to quit fucking with me – and I’d like to retain the quick wit and creativity bonuses that come with being crazy, por favor.
I want it all.
Functionally balanced. So much prettier of a phrase than the n-word.
Photo: Modern Myth Photography
April Hunter is a writer, professional wrestler, full-time student at Full Sail University, professional cosplayer and pin-up, Playboy and fetish model.
She’s also a fitness competitor, former Met-RX & Extreme Nutrition spokes-model, the subject of several comic book characters, an admitted coffee snob, road rage enthusiast, Mother of Chickens and world renowned potty mouth. She uses the C-word as liberally as you use butter on your biscuits. Which you shouldn’t be eating, since you know…carbs and gluten. She struggles with bipolar disorder and Lupus and chooses to view challenges as opportunities.
See more of April on Instagram @realAprilHunter, www.AprilHunter.com and Twitter @AprilHunter. She’s also on Facebook.com/AprilHunterOfficial and owns AprilsScentSations Soy Candles.
They say the way to stop time is kissing. She stood under the shower, warm water streaming down her face, and she imagined their wedding. A Hollywood themed wedding, with R.S.V.P. cards that looked like theater tickets, guests arriving on a red carpet and metal film reels for centerpieces. He loved movies, she thought.
She tried his last name on. Could work.
No, maybe not.
Of course, there would be no wedding. She had no interest in getting married again. But she imagined it, just because. Because she’s a woman. She did this with everyone she dated; tried on their last name. She just did.
Not with the redhead. There wouldn’t be any wedding, real or imagined. Because he was already married. She knew she should feel bad about dating a man who was committed, but she didn’t. She just didn’t.
She’d known him fifteen years. He was barely twenty-one years old when he arrived from a small farm town in another country. They sat across from each other on the frigid concrete floor in a dim locker room in snowy Pennsylvania, and he averted his eyes, polite, but intimidated. They faced each other around the ring, meeting the first time as fighters, and later as lovers.
He remembered what she’d worn that night.
She walked through the entrance and the host pointed to his table without asking who she was meeting. He embraced and kissed her, then she slid into a seat, once again sitting across from him. Now he was a man, with the confidence of someone who had been through the rigors of life and ended up on top.
She studied his face, which was no longer familiar. He looked like the professional athlete and fighter he’d become. His thick, muscular physique was covered in tattoos and his nose looked like it had been broken more than once. His unruly auburn hair was shaved into a punk style and he was attractive in an unconventional way. He looked like he stepped off the set of Vikings. They had common views and values, yet he knew little about her. None of the deep stuff. None of the illness. None of the things she struggled with. And that was fine. He was a fun distraction. It was genuinely light. After the heavy mess she’d gone through the year before, something sweet was welcome.
She rarely connected with people, but something felt right about him and she didn’t know what it was. They were cut from the same cloth – that’s how the host knew. He was familiar. They knew all the same people, they traveled all the same paths. He felt a little like home.
He made her feel things she hadn’t felt in a long time. Elated, euphoric. When he texted, which was frequently, she smiled. He was there as much as the other wasn’t. He was warm, sensual and animalistic. It wasn’t mental with him, it was physical.
She wanted to rip his clothes off and bite him, feel him pressed against her. He told her his dreams of her, how he couldn’t wait to see her in a few days, he wished he could fast forward.
She had never been attracted to vapid or stupid, no matter how pretty a package it was wrapped in. He was bright, not afraid to say exactly what was on his mind or ask for what he wanted. They never ran out of things to talk about, but there were no profoundly deep conversations. An avid reader, he asked about her writing, which fascinated him. He didn’t probe for more about her life, and she was grateful. He texted to say he was thinking of her, morning, noon and night.
She liked him.
I’m into you, he said. I like being with you, around you. You’re easy to talk to. I want this to keep going…if you’re OK with it. I knew we’d be right. I haven’t been wrong yet.
And they were, but in a different way than she was right with the other. She wondered if the redhead was like her, crazy. Game recognizes game. He laughed when she suggested it. She appreciated crazy. She appreciated redheads. She appreciated tattoos. She appreciated kissing.
Anticipation. Waiting to do things they weren’t supposed to be doing. It was utterly intoxicating. He brought out the best in her. He brought out the worst in her. He brought out her, the person she knew for a lifetime, before the bipolar diagnosis and stabilizing medications.
He will never be mine, nor me his. It’s fleeting. Safe. I know exactly where I stand with him. He was honest; never afraid to say how he felt, never holding back. They agreed to that from the start, brutal honesty. He traveled distance to be with her, driving several hours after a day rife with flights, appearances and filming.
It was temporary. Dangerous. Was it the illicit element? Living in the moment?
When he stopped on the street lit sidewalk on that first chilly night and pulled her into him, people stepped around them or stared as he wrapped his hands in her hair, his lips on hers, and neither of them cared.
Maybe eight minutes passed. Maybe thirty. He pressed her against the brick building, and with his hand still wrapped in her hair, he pulled her head back and his full lips were on her jaw bone, down her neck…he came back up, parted her lips with his, and bit one, holding it gently with his teeth. His blue eyes crinkled at the corners as he grinned devilishly down at her. It was an audition. An invitation. He never once touched her anywhere else. He didn’t have to. This is what I can do for you…if you let me. The glow of the street lamps glinted off his dark ginger beard as they sized each other up. He brought her hand to his warm lips and kissed it softly, then tucked her arm under his for the remainder of the stroll. He wasn’t wearing his wedding ring. It wouldn’t have mattered if he was. She already knew the answer, and so did he.
There it was. That ever-pervasive drug, her drug of choice — hypomania — seeping its way back into her life again. It pulsed through her veins, splashing vibrant hues of color to her world, as time stood still.
I’m ‘bout as low as I can get, I’d leave but I can’t forget.
Still wonder why it ain’t right. It ain’t right.
Now we’re as low as we can get. Can’t leave and can’t forget.
We ain’t right. Not right.
Well, it’s hard to believe that somebody tricked you.
When you can see you were only high.
It’s all up to you, so you gamble.
Flat on your face and into the fire.”
Written July-September 2016
The moonlight shimmered off the ocean as the waves broke and lapped at the sand. Walking along the beach, puddles of sea water felt warm and cold at the same time. Bob pranced alongside us, a glowing ball in his mouth. Scooter said this was the only time Bob could play in the water since The Powers That Be decided dogs weren’t allowed on the beach. Makes sense. Dogs digging holes or pooping is far more devastating to the beautiful beaches than the endless broken beer bottles, cigarette butts, cans and plastic wrappers we humans leave.
Scooter and I were in a parallel situation with our significant others, but mine came with a deputy eviction and lawyers. He was mostly angry; I was mostly beaten down.
We commiserated. Words of frustration and hurt tumbled from our mouths, often crossing over each other at the same time. Taken advantage of, damaged, misunderstood, unappreciated. Incensed.
“Oh, your neighbors are definitely talking about you,” he said.
“I know.” The endless parade of police cars and drama in our driveway was mortifying.
“The minute you guys leave, they are SO turning that place into an age 65+ community.”
“Probably,” I said.
“What I want to know is how this happens,” he said, gesturing around with his hand. “This. How two people, who mean the world to one another, get to the point not being able to stand each other?”
“How it goes from that person consuming your every waking thought to just get the fuck away from me?”
“Yeah. Exactly.” He threw the ball out to the waves and Bob scampered off into the darkness to find it.
“If we could figure that out, we could write a book called “Break the Pattern”. Which would obviously hit the bestseller list and we’d rich,” I said.
I felt fortunate to have landed softly at the beach after falling hard. There was something about the water and waves that calmed, and I spent my days holed up in that secluded location walking along the sand until I couldn’t remember which inlet led me back.
The fact that Scooter allowed me to stay at his rental getaway by myself was the proverbial last straw between him and his girlfriend, who, despite being incredibly friendly towards me, hadn’t been happy. Unfortunately, I’ve lost a lot of male friends due to their significant others not being comfortable around me. I never understood this. I’d known them for years before these women came into their lives. If anything were to have happened, it already would have.
To be fair, unlike most of my male friends, I briefly met Scooter on an online dating site, before my profile was yanked down for being “fake”. He looked (stalked) me up on Facebook and said he was surprised I wasn’t some bored guy with stolen photos. We chatted for a while and then got caught up in traveling for work. However, we made a date for the following month. Meanwhile, things with C got more serious. Upon finding that C left his dating profile up, I decided to keep my plans with Scooter. I was up-front and told him that I was seeing someone and thought it was going somewhere, so he probably wouldn’t want to keep the meeting. He said he’d take his chances, thankyouverymuch. I reluctantly met the man and his dog that would go on to be part of my life in the future.
After a glass of wine and witty conversation, I liked him. It was nearing my birthday and he arrived with gourmet dog cookies for Bella and a bullet for me (we share a similar fucked up sense of humor), which I still have. His dog, Bob, sat at my feet, tail gently wagging every time I looked at him.
“Your partner in crime?” I asked.
“Well, we get along well. We’re very similar.”
“How’s that?”
“We both love food. For another, we both get super excited when we poop.”
He was tall and lanky with sandy-colored facial stubble. He could have used a few pounds and didn’t always seem comfortable in his own skin, but he had a bold, blue-eyed gaze that dared you to look away first. As my friend Heather would say, “Guuuuurl, he is hot!” Though he’d been in Tampa for a while, he hadn’t quite lost that California surfer laissez faire personality. He was confident, humble, independent, and I would eventually learn, self-aware. This is a rare superpower most people don’t possess. Too many choose to place emphasis on their looks or acquiring material possessions rather than take the time to learn about themselves. While it’s great to keep yourself up, looks eventually fade. Who you are will not, and an education of any kind is always a solid investment.
The evening ended with a bro-hug in the parking lot and him saying that if anything changed to let him know. Had Christopher not solidly been in the picture, I’d have seen him again. He had a vintage German car habit, was more broken down from various sports than I am (which is no easy feat) and his dog was quite literally his best friend, but that’s who he was.
We routinely text sarcastic jabs back and forth.
Him: “Many unanswered questions in life. What if Rosa Parks had a car?”
Me: “Well, December first and February fourth would be way different for many of us, that’s for sure. I think cars ruined the Civil Rights movement. Had more people sat their asses in the front of the bus, shit would be further along now. I blame cars for these bullshit shootings and retaliation riots. One hundred percent. Are you putting baby in a corner tonight or do you want to grab something for dinner?”
Him: “So, what do you think the handicapped parking situation is at the Special Olympics?”
Me: “I just want you to know you ruined my night. I’ll be thinking about this for the next several hours. Thanks, Fucker. ”
“Anytime. Do you know what fastest car in the world is?
Me: “Uh…something Italian?”
“A rental car.” He usually wins.
A couple weeks ago he asked, “Level up. Are you ok?”
A pause. “Why are you asking?”
“Because you seem off.” I stared at his text and exhaled as tears welled up. It had been a long time since anyone had noticed how I was doing or cared. Fuck. I thought I was hiding the cycling mania/depression hitting from all angles. I cover it well and don’t talk about it. A key thing with bipolar disorder is awareness. I was aware that I was currently fucked in the head from all the crap going on around me in the aftermath of C. Most people close to me can’t tell. This person, whom I see once I week, could tell how I was doing through text?
“Nope. Not really ok.” And I told him the brutal truth, like I always do, figuring it’ll freak him out and scare him off – for his own good.
“So, where do you want to go for your birthday?” Guess it’s gonna take a little more time.
Photo: Getty Images/Doug Benc
We had a lot in common, so it hadn’t been tough to move into a friendship after we first met. He traveled a lot and once lived in that elusive limelight, signing autographs and trying to catch sleep on planes while winning trophies in professional sports car racing. (We probably share more than a few of the same fans.) I didn’t have to explain my life to him. After that first meeting, every once in a while he’d email to say hello and ask if C had suddenly died in a fiery automobile crash. He found a girlfriend not long after our date, one whose muscular thighs and gym dedication put mine to shame. I followed their escapades on Facebook, often wishing C was the adventurous just-get-in-the-car-and-go type. Or even a workout-without-complaining type. The couple of times we vacationed, it because I arranged and paid for everything. Scooter had once told me, “I have no doubt that we would be an amazing duo. Partners in crime and traveling companions.” I occasionally wondered if I had chosen wrong.
Photo: Dustin McClease
Bob bounded back with the ball, wiggling his entire behind.
“Here’s something entertaining,” I said. “One of the deputies who evicted me asked me to hang out.”
“Guess he didn’t think you were guilty.”
“Guess not.”
“Yeah, well, dates aren’t going to be a problem for you.”
“Ha. Dating. I can’t even fathom that right now. I think I just need to do my own thing for a while. School, work, get back to making candles. Be alone for a while. This one is probably going to mess me up pretty good. My douche bag radar is clearly wrecked. I don’t know if I can trust myself to make a good decision anytime soon.”
Looking back now, my stomach was in knots from the first day C and I stepped into the house as owners. Once we got inside, we saw it needed far more work than we’d first realized. Our previous walk-through had been while the former owners were living there, clutter piled high against walls and windows; walls that had water damage and windows that didn’t open. He flipped out. I love a challenge and told him not to worry, I’d done this before and it would be fine. He stalked off to the garage and I continued to take inventory of the house. When I found him, he said he went out to the garage to find rope and was seriously contemplating killing himself. That day. The first day.
Oh… my… fuck.
What had I just gotten myself in to? We signed a thirty-year mortgage together. I never saw any of this until that day. He’d always come off as calm, stable and logical. I spent the next year that we lived together trying not to let boiling water spill over. My own life, career and hobbies suffered. I gave up candle making, barely had time to read a book, blew off bookings and didn’t have energy for anything other than putting out fires.
To recap: Between the house renovations and the first contractor ripping us off, then the neighbor’s incessant complaining about everything we did (along with surprise inspections by city and county) which brought the HOA coming down on us about the shed and chickens. (It’s a big yard surrounded by woods, no rooster. No one else had an issue except the guy who shared a property line.) Meanwhile, two of our three chickens mysteriously died, and then I was diagnosed with Lupus. All the while, the aforementioned neighbor went house-to-house around our (elderly) neighborhood with topless photos of me, telling people I was a “porn star, who will bring the property values down”. We had to go to court to get a harassment & stalking restraining order against him to make him stop. Court again to get the HOA to leave us alone. Once we were on their radar, the letters and threats kept coming. We won that mediation as well, but it was stressful as fuck. As soon as it calmed down, C got injured. I’d just started Full Sail University and had been unsuccessfully trying to balance work, travel, school and learning to be a full-time student in an accelerated degree program. His niece moved in. While it was a great help at first, it became a game of pitting us against each other while trying to take care of him. I often felt unwelcome in my own house.
(Note: Despite my big ass titties, I’m not a porn star. I am a centerfold/fetish/pin-up model, pro wrestler, comic book model and professional cosplayer. I’m also an entrepreneur, freelance ad writer & blogger, student, own a small soy candle business called AprilsScentSations and run two websites. Sometimes things are busy, sometimes they’re not. It depends on the market, exposure, and time of year. As far as I can tell, my big ass titties haven’t ruined the property values. However, it’s always entertaining to come home from a convention dressed as Poison Ivy or Jessica Rabbit to get the mail and wave hello to someone walking by. Never gets old.)
Photo: Steven Griffey
In the end, shortly before he evicted me, I’d started to emotionally pull away. At one point, after he broke or punched something in rage, I told him a friend said I should file a restraining order – but I was doing my best to handle everything. I told him I needed more from him. Shortly after that, he filed for a restraining order, claiming he “feared for his life”.
While I was out on my thirty-day eviction, C reported me several times for violating the protection order. First, over some magnetic letters on the fridge I’d had up since the day he left, which he perceived to be a threatening message. (The letters: break-up song titles. Pantera’s This Love and I Will Survive aren’t usually frightening to read.) Another was when I sent him a brief email* after not being able to get in touch with my lawyer all day, asking him to please contact USAA because our mortgage company was about to put us into collections because he hadn’t paid the due payment and they didn’t have his new phone number. Instead of handling the situation, he opted to call the police and file a violation against me. He never did pay it until after our final day in court, where I was forced to split it with him because he had to pay attorney fees. I hadn’t even lived there in June. He also filed a complaint against one of the deputies he knew I used to be neighbors with for “being partial and unprofessional.”
(*Note: I paid the entire down payment for the house and the renovations. C was to handle the mortgage/electric/water/insurance so I could cut back on work and go back to school for my degree. That’s why it was his responsibility to take care of it.)
We went to court after fourteen days, and he and his lawyer pushed for a one-year permanent injunction. Had it been granted, I wouldn’t have been allowed back into my home. C played his head injury to the hilt, claiming total disablement and that he needed “exclusive use of the home.” (Incidentally, Bipolar Disorder has been listed on the Americans with Disabilities Act since 2008.) The judge waived their motion but allowed the original order to stay in place for two more weeks until we could figure out a living arrangement regarding the house. After court, he got into his car and drove away, but not before posting on Facebook, “Time to celebrate! Who’s up for drinks?”
I’d been granted a one-time visit to the house to collect more things. C changed the door locks, which under a temporary restraining order, he wasn’t supposed to do. I couldn’t get in. He let my houseplants and garden die, too. He made me wait four hours, presumably to enjoy his celebratory drinks first.
It’s never just one cop car, there are always two. A deputy escorted me into my own house, checking my ID and paperwork with his left hand, right hand resting lightly near his gun. There’s just something about that that made me feel guilty, no matter what. For this latest episode of That Nice Looking Man vs. The Weird Chicken Lady Who Looks like a Porn Star, the neighbors hid behind their shades.
When I finally got in, I went straight into the bedroom and started packing underwear and dresses.
“Can I talk to her?” C asked the deputy.
“No,” I said.
“Sure, as long as you two don’t fight.”
He followed me around like a puppy, talking about normal household stuff as if he hadn’t just tried to take everything away from me that morning.
I then asked what the hell he was thinking. He told me he filed the order because he ‘just needed a break.’ The deputy looked at him incredulously.
“Sir, that is not why you file an injunction. They’re used because you need someone to stay away long enough so you can move out. Not for a relationship break.”
“Pull the order, C. You said you would.”
“I can do that?”
“Yes,” the deputy said. “You can.”
“Ok, I’ll see about it.”
“Ma’am,” the deputy said to me, while looking directly at C. “No matter what he says right now, there is a chance he is not telling you the truth.”
He wasn’t.
Driving back from a frenetic weekend of taping customs for SlamminLadies after that, the thought of facing the secluded bungalow became overwhelming. I just felt as if there was no point. If the one person whom I would put first and trust would turn on me for no reason; if everything I’d worked for could be taken away by the county without a single shred of proof – even my ability to earn a living and my pets, it all seemed futile. I started to calculate exactly how much sleep medication I had, and if it was enough to do the trick.
Then…FUCK. His asshat lawyer (“Your Honor, I have the privilege of representing Mr. C…and we request a one-year restraining order, as my client is disabled and needs sole occupancy of the home”) stated we were “tenants in common”. Should one of us kick the bucket, the house would automatically go to the other. Suicide would be a fucking Christmas gift to this guy. Hell, he was probably hoping to drive me to that point in order make things easier for him. No. I’ll die one day, but it wasn’t going to be that day. Plus, it would’ve been extremely impolite to leave a body in a place that someone had so kindly lent me, especially in brutal Florida summer heat. Can you imagine the smell? Scooter would have to burn my soy candles twenty-four-seven. There’s also the fact that my fat cat would’ve eaten my face off within a scant few hours if his kibble wasn’t replenished.
Two days later, C’s sister in law was dead. She’d killed herself, leaving behind two great sons whom she loved very much. There had been a huge betrayal by C’s brother, and C moved him into our home the day I was taken out. She had a very public meltdown in our driveway, where she hysterically dumped his brother’s stuff all over the yard while screaming and crying, and then overdosed the day after.
While we were married, Jordan had given me crap for wearing old tee shirts around the house. “Your fans see you looking hot, so I should, too.” Not an unreasonable request. I bought a bunch of cute little chemise slips that were comfy and perfect for the hot Florida climate.
Pre restraining order: Chris said I was showing too much and he was getting impervious to my “constant nudity”. He stood in the living room, vein bulging in his neck and yelled at me. “Did you know my niece [whom we took in because her father/his brother wouldn’t take care of her, which turned into an excellent six months full of C pitting one against another] saw your VAGINA??”
“Uh, she’s 19, female, it’s just us and she’s living in our house. Vag happens. It was an accident. It’s not like I’m running around naked or anything. I’m not sure the issue here?” He was so irritated, like he was looking for anything to berate me about.
“You need to cover up more. I’m becoming immune to everything.”
“Oh, Jesus. It’s always something with you and your reason to not have sex. Now it’s too much sudden vagina. Fantastic.” I finally caved and went back to shorts and tee shirts to keep the peace.
With a lot of time alone to think while couch-surfing, I eventually realized that a large part of C’s appeal was his complete “normalcy” compared to my life. In society, he was average, safe. Normal. That dreaded N-word. I wanted to avoid the crazy, a circus, and the insane. When my Gram and Mom died back-to-back in 2012 from battling dementia and cancer respectively, then I got divorced, it was gutting. I was neck deep in the entertainment and fitness businesses and walked away from nearly everything for almost two years while coping with depression and nonstop respiratory issues. As awful as that time was, it wasn’t half as traumatic as this past year has been with C.
Epiphany #1:
I think that I believed if I was with normal, then I would be normal. Clearly, it didn’t exactly work out that way.
“Sometimes, when things are falling apart, they may actually be falling into place.” – Unknown
What I didn’t know then is that ultimately, I’d be grateful to C for filing that order, even though he put me through hell and so much embarrassment I still avoid walking my dog during daylight hours so I don’t run into neighbors. As brutal as it was to go through at the time, it worked out for the best. He severed everything clean. Had he not, we’d still be limping along. I would never have left him, not with his head injury. I still don’t know what happened. One moment, we were cuddling in bed in the morning. In the next, he drove himself to the courthouse and filed a domestic violence report. Those around me said he probably set it up ages ago. I’ll never understand it. The only thing I’m certain of, if I go by actions and not words, is that C only cared about his own interests.
Epiphany #2:
You shouldn’t always put someone first, because that teaches them you come second. As I mentioned in Part 1 of this story, he said, “All my exes are crazy.” I have no doubt I’ll be labeled as yet another crazy ex, despite the common thread in the constant insane equation being him. If someone calls you a horse, tell them to go fuck themselves. When four or five people call you a horse, you might want to think about buying a saddle.
I think Scooter and I needed each other during this bleak time. No one understood the frustration, grieving and dashed dreams better than we did. And besides, our friends were sick of listening to our shit. We also talked about some fairly deep life-politics-religion-thoughts stuff. It had felt like forever since I’d really talked with anyone. My dad used to quote: “Great minds talk ideas. Good minds talk events. Small minds talk people.” After nothing but tears and frustration I’d been starving for real conversation and laughter.
“So, wait. He filed a bullshit restraining order and had you taken out of your house,” mused Scooter. “Then you had to pay him to get him to leave, and he’s tried to contact your exes. You do realize you were the man in that relationship, right?”
“Seems to be a role I play too often.”
“That’s not a role anyone should play.” He shook his head. “OK, let’s get this out of the way right now. Exactly how big is your dick?”
“Not big enough.”
I talk to him about some no-holds-barred shit. Through all of this, he’s pretty much seen worst of me and is still there. He’s going through his own realizations/mid life crisis/epiphanies as well. Our conversations run the gamut from the works of Hunter S. Thompson to Hunger Games, obscure documentaries to obscure dog breeds, Trump to tranny porn.
Him: “You really need a fuck buddy.” I *may* have mentioned missing human contact.
Me: “Think so? I imagine being solo for a while might be smarter. I’m a mess. Plus I don’t wanna confuse sex for something it’s not.”
Him: “That’s why it’s necessary to have more than one fuck buddy. Keeps it from getting serious.”
Me: “Player teaching me how to be a playa? Hmmmm, no. I don’t think that’s a great idea. Don’t need any more complications. You bitches be crazy. Or haven’t you noticed?”
He’s right, of course. Both therapists have encouraged me to ‘get back on the horse again’ to some degree. I refuse to let Chris break me, even if I feel broken.
Not sure what you’d call what we have. Companionship. Going places and doing things. It’s more than friendship, but less than dating. Why isn’t there a word for this? Frating? Diendship? It’s kind of dating without actually dating. I’ve had this before, mostly while traveling. I tend to connect with people more easily on the road than home. With frating, there aren’t any expectations, no physical entanglements, nothing owed or promised, but we’re there for each other. Middle finger to the world, he is opinionated, quickly helps those in need, honest, unapologetic, open minded, introverted, moody, loyal, kind, and considers himself a bit of an asshole.
He’s a whole lot like me and I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing yet. However, the sheer irony of turning away this guy for C only to have C inadvertently reintroduce us was not lost. While I felt exceptionally connected to him mentally, we stayed far away from each other physically. There was a constant polite awkwardness present, likely from the overall situation and how we originally met.
Epiphany #3:
Learning to be alone – and not angry. “You always keep what you give away.” For many men, anger is the first response that comes hard and fast. Being “kind of a dude” (as Scooter had called me in Part 1), it always had been for me, too. It gnawed at me. I carried it over into everything else in life. With years of reprogramming, I try not to let it rule me any longer, and I forgive easier. I’ve been allowing myself to mourn. Feel it. Be alone. Not bury my sadness under another person or in a shot glass. American culture tells us that “grief is bad”. We try to distract ourselves from sad feelings rather than embrace them. “The best way to get over someone is to get under someone new.” Maybe, if we are the type who doesn’t mind repeating mistakes over and over again and hoping for a different result. But then, that’s the textbook definition of insanity, isn’t it?
There was no unfaithfulness from me during our relationship, or even after the incident. It never even crossed my mind. I didn’t feel that need to go looking for what was missing elsewhere, even though a lot was missing from our relationship. I think I just wanted it to be fixed. Or, the meds worked in keeping me sane enough to realize that infidelity wasn’t an answer to that problem.
But I’ll tell you this; being angry is a great deal easier than being sad and gutted.
However, at that moment in Scooter’s tiny luggage-laden bungalow, all I needed was a place to stay and an ear to bend. And, that was all he offered. After dinner, the beach walk, a Wi-Fi password and an awkward hug goodbye, he and Bob Barker stepped toward the car.
He opened the door to let the gentle blond dog climb in, then he turned and said, “Don’t waste your days. You don’t get them back.”
When the vintage Porsche drove away, I washed Bob’s slimy, rubber ball and placed it on the windowsill to recharge for his next illicit beach adventure.
Coming soon, Part 3: Sometimes You Win, Sometimes You Learn – An Ex-Wives Club of Sorts & Predatory Habits of a NarcissisticSociopath
As I’ve written before, I’ve almost no family left, and none of whom are here in Florida, so my friends are my support network. They mean a lot to me. My sanity is a direct result of being able to lean on them some days. Scooter has been a good friend (not a boyfriend…he seems perfectly satisfied with his free-range single status, and I am happy with remaining that way myself for now) who stepped in to help with wise insight and ridiculous humor during a critical time. History has proven I’m lousy at picking people to date, but frating… got that down to a fucking art.
Getting back on my feet (or in my high heels) again and grateful to this guy, his dog and my friends for all their incredible help. I don’t know what I would have done without them.
Thank you to Danielle Dadamo, Hubert O’Hearn, Jeff Ritter, Brian Hairbottle, Nick Wilkinson, Carroll Grant, Matt McDermott and Mick Foley for their valuable time editing.
I am deeply grateful to my psychotherapist, Amy. She goes above and beyond, keeping me grounded in times of upheaval despite having her own battles to fight.
Thank you to those who have reached out to help. So many of you were good to me during this time and I feel incredibly fortunate. You know who you are, and so do I.
Note: I wrote about this because I withdrew from nearly everything from this time until the present with little explanation other than “lots going on right now.” Work, customers, friends. I blew a lot off and let people down. It was too much to talk about and explain. I’ve always been better at writing than speaking.
Disclaimer: This is my recollection of events and I’ve related them to the best of my knowledge. Some names have been changed or omitted.
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If you’ve read my blogs, then you know about some unbelievably weird dating stuff that goes on in my world.
“Well, we received a complaint from one of your neighbors about this property and another a few streets over.”
“In this corner, Irrational Thoughts! Coming in from Parts Unknown at 6’5” and 385 pounds! 
They say the way to stop time is kissing. She stood under the shower, warm water streaming down her face, and she imagined their wedding. A Hollywood themed wedding, with R.S.V.P. cards that looked like theater tickets, guests arriving on a red carpet and metal film reels for centerpieces. He loved movies, she thought.
Putting The Clothes On, Taking The Gloves Off. 
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