Things I write when I'm drunk and find when I'm sober

It is quite revealing when you write little blurbs in your google documents whilst in the grips of an alcohol induced and self reflecting stupor. Here are some of the things I wrote after finishing off a bottle of Sailor Jerry's Rum that I found in my pantry sitting all alone and in need of a friend. I selflessly put aside my own needs and spent the rest of my night in the arms of Sailor Jerry. He was not as kind to me as I was to him. Probably because I didn't put out like I promised to in the beginning of our night. I'll admit it, I'm kind of a tease. The whole night ended badly, for me. I wrote about many things that all seemed to be stemmed from my prudish denial to make wild monkey sex with my imaginary rum sailor like he was only in port for the next 2 hours. Now you can know how fucked up I really am when I'm inebriated (and sober).

Blurb 1:

David Bowie is calling to me to do something amazing. But I’m afraid of failure, and more afraid of success. I dare not disappoint David Bowie. But it is myself that is the most disappointed. David Bowie is scowling his disapproval as I type this. FUCK YOU DAVID BOWIE. I mean, yes David Bowie, I will live up to my potential and start doing important shit with my life. Also, I will write my Ziggy Stardust inspired screenplay that delves into my own personal madness. Thank you David Bowie.

Blurb 2:

Words never stop running through my mind. I have more stories inside my head than I can get out. It is confusing and overwhelming so I end up not typing anything at all. Frustration yet again. What would Data Do? I'll tell you what Data would do. He would be grateful for such a human experience like confusion and creative crisis. Quit crying and be thankful for being human and not Data.

Blurb 3:

Duran Duran is my favorite masturbation music. It sets the mood with the excesses of the 80's and the rhythm of a gypsy's soul. A naughty gypsy sex slave. One who pretends not to like being a sex slave, but actually holds the power over her captors and she gets off on it so much that she creates reasons for them to punish her with a stiff leather riding crop. Submissiveness is power.

Blurb 4:

I just threw out a box of condoms that expired in 2009. This depressed me greatly. Not just that I haven’t needed them in all this time, but the fact that I hadn’t noticed they expired until then end of 2011. That is just really sad. I have just moved up to the top of the sex-life-loser list. I guess only Jesus would be proud of my chastity. But considering that I am not even a Christian, this should not be a concern. But Jesus is kind of a cool dude when you think about it. I mean he was the original rise up against the establishment and hang with other weird dudes and prostitues guy. Whatever, Jesus probably wouldn't like me saying fuck so much. But I don't need anyone to be proud of my celibacy. I need someone to say; Good God woman, I'll fuck you already.

Blurb 5:

Seeking a silver tongued nerd to dazzle me with geek talk and fly me away on his Firefly class space ship. He must be handsome, strong, and filled with a sense of honor and chivalry that is outdated, ill-advised, and sometimes awkwardly sexist. He should want to fuck me like a cheap whore and keep me spoiled like a polished lady of means. I have no idea what 'means' means.

The moral of this story is don't drink and reflect. You end up sounding really horny. Also, I just found my Aragorn action figure which has nothing to do with this post.

Next time I get drunk and start writing random shit I'll mention Star Trek TNG, Battlestar Galactica, Indiana Jones, and Doctor Who as they relate to my sex life. (I mean I'll mention TNG more)

37

So in a few short months I turn 37. Seems like an innocuous number to most. But for some reason this number is hurtling at me like a meteor from space. It has been suffocating me in my sleep and haunting me in my waking hours. I haven't been able to wrap my mind around why until recently. 

37 is the age that my mother was when she gave birth to me. After years of trying.
37 is the age that my brother was when he died. After years of fighting.

Am I nearer to giving life or my own mortality? These are subconscious questions pounding themselves into my brain. This is why I am so freaked out about turning 37. What have I done in the past 36 years? Am I even worthy of all this worry? 

So to counter my fears, I am going to make 37 my glory year. It will be the year I become the perfect embodiment of the AMY of my mind's eye, the AMY of legend. So starting in February The Year Of Amy begins. I will make my mark on this age and make it an epic event. 

I will write something amazing. I will save lives. I will fall in love. I will have the greatest orgasm of my existence. I will dance ecstatically to my own music. I will travel to a place I've always wanted to go. I will face one of my fears, grab them by the balls, and throw them into a pit of poisonous snakes. I will conquer the year 37. 

This is how Thanksgiving rolls in my hood...

Be jealous.

Kitchen Witchery: Homemade pore mask experiment.

Tonight I tried this facial recipe I found online to mimick the effects of those expensive pore strips. It works terrifically for exfoliating. But it is a bit difficult to apply.

As usual the herbalist in me had to tweek the recipe. I added a few drops of essential lavender oil. I applied it as fast as I could, but it went on very unevenly with big jelly-like globs. I waited until I felt my skin tighten up and it was dry. The most difficult part was removing it. It did not peel off in sheets like I expected. It was more like I had to scrape it off with my fingernails. When that was unsuccessful, I washed it off with warm water.

It wasn't totally unsuccessful, mind you. My skin feels incredibly soft and clean. But I learned that next time I try this recipe I will add more milk and apply the concoction faster. I also have a few more ideas on how to tweek the recipe to become a bit more skin replenishing. My first thought was to add warm honey to the milk or possibly a bit of oatmeal flour to the gelatin. I plan on experimenting with different variations of the recipe. 

All in all this facial gets a homemade beauty grade of A-. Mostly because of my inexperience with gelatin and the mixing process. Given a few more experiments I think this will turn out to be one of my go to facials. My face really does have a glow to it.

Here is a no make-up post facial pic of my glowing skin. I am very happy with the results even if the process was cumbersome.

The Goldfish Are Coming And They're Bringing Coconuts

Old new age girls shouldn't be left unsupervised with their thoughts...

If The Secret really works, I'm in trouble. Because I'd probably have been accidentally killed by my time traveling Scottish warrior during a weird sex act involving his claymore by now. Or possibly I'd have died trying to hook a flux capacitor to my vibrator in order to travel through time and have an orgasm at the simultaneously. Seriously, if what I think about manifests itself I'm fucked. Like totally fucked.

I noticed recently that even my daydreams are beginning to take on plot complications. I am finding myself dodging evil and fighting for my life in order to survive these daydreams. Usually the evil doers want to kidnap me and leave me marooned on an island with sexy movie stars. Then I find myself being annoyed by the self-indulgent celebrity while also trying not to die from anaphylaxis by having only coconuts to eat. This does not seem like normal daydreaming to me. And I really hope the universe is not paying attention. 

I know what all of you Secret devotees are saying, "Amy, just change your thinking. Attract things like happiness, wealth, a loving relationship, a husband, a family...blah, blah, blah. Use the power of positive thinking."

Well, that's all fine and dandy. I try to be an optimist while real life is draining me like a ravenous vampire. But you must realize, I am not consciously controlling these thoughts. My little Buddhist monks would say I have a wild elephant running loose through my mind. They would be right. My fantasies always start out sweet and innocent, filled with fluffy puppies and rainbows. But they inevitably get sucked through a wormhole of horror and turn into zombie werewolves and rainbows bleeding unicorn blood. It never fails. For instance, yesterday I was having a nice sex fantasy about super sexy (insert generic celebrity identity here). We were in a mountain cabin with a gentle snow fall outside the windows. By the end of the fantasy we were both being mauled by a rabid polar bear. I came out of this fantasy/daydream traumatized and in full panic mode. I began to accuse my cats of plotting with the polar bear and sending psychic messages to sexy movie stars to seduce me and lure me into the wilderness where I'd be vulnerable to bear attacks.

So, in conclusion, I hope that the law of attraction is complete bullshit. Because I may just be fucked when the world ends up being destroyed by mutant goldfish with British accents.