That Time I Drove Off A Sexual Harasser With My Dick…

This is a funny story, but not a joke. It really happened.

I was at a small pool party at my friend “K”‘s house. It was mostly girls, but a creepy guy that was K’s acquaintance from facebook was there. For most of the afternoon, he was creeping on the girls, flirting and asking inappropriate questions. Nothing so bad that he earned the door, but enough to be weird.

Night came, and everyone left until it was Me, K, and creeper. Now he goes into full harassment mode. He’s talking about how hot and fuckable K is, and then suggests that she go skinny dipping (not him or me, just K). K and I are both hippies and have skinnydipped together, so normally we would have no problem with it. But K was weirded out and asked me how to get rid of him without physically throwing him out.

So I walked up to him said, “that’s a great idea! I’ll go first.” He was sitting, I was standing. I strip down right in front of him, my dick maybe three feet from him.

“Okay dude, now it’s your turn.” I gave a little hip check, just enough to make things wiggle. I’ve rarely seen a face with that much fear and embarrassment on it.

And suddenly he changed his mind. Shocking, right? He left five minutes later. The perv so intent on seeing a naked woman wasn’t brave enough to put up, so he ran.

Predators are cowards. How weak do you have to be to be scared of genitals?

The moral: If you won’t do something yourself, don’t demand it of others.

It’s a dick move.

The Watchmage of Old New York: Only 99 cents for a short time only!

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doge in space card redux

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You Can’t Save Everyone…

There is someone very important in my life who has been in a downward spiral for…well…for all of their life. They’ve always been…troubled, but it’s gotten worse. I’ve spent most of my life looking after this person and bailing them out when they get into trouble…which is always. And I am so messed in the head that I shouldn’t be looking after anyone. I can barely take care of Shelvin (my turtle, see the previous post).

Shelvin watching

I don’t know what to do anymore. I’m mentally exhausted, and they are only getting worse, more self-destructive, and potentially dangerous to others. We used to be so close, but now I only hear from the person if they need me to help them. Mostly I hear about them from their friends, who message me about how worried they are about the person.

And I want so bad to help the person, but they aggressively refuse all help and then blame you for not helping enough. I’ve seen, heard, and have been the recipient of it for 25 years. I’m not a babysitter.

And yet, I know that I’ll keep trying. You can’t save someone that doesn’t want to save themselves. But it’s a lesson I’ll never learn.

I suppose I don’t want to save myself either.

The Watchmage of Old New York: Only 99 cents for a short time only!

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Happy Adoption Day Shelvin

35 years ago when I was 6, I got a little Eastern Painted Turtle from the local pet shop in Co-op City (in the Bronx, where I lived until I was 10). That little turtle, Shelvin, has been my companion for 35 years. For 35 years I’ve watched over my friend. 35 years! Have you ever had a pet for 35 years? Can you even imagine it? I hardly remember a time where I didn’t hear him splashing around his tank. He’s a part of me. You might call him my familiar if you have a head for fantasy.

Shelvin watching

Shelvin’s old. 35 years is a long time for his species to live in captivity. Usually, they live for about 25 years. He doesn’t do much. He’s as picky an eater as a cat addicted to wet food. He won’t touch leafy greens or brine shrimp anymore, only his food pellets. But when you walk by his tank, he gets excited and pecks on the glass. He’s friendly for a turtle, but only because he knows that I’m the Great and Powerful Food Giver. Maybe I’m his pet.

I don’t know if today is his actual adoption day. I know that it was in April, and today is close enough. Happy adoption day, Shelvin. You’re kinda boring, but so am I. We go together.

I like turtles…

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(Im)mortality

A guy that I knew from my childhood died on Friday.

We were not close. He was the older brother of my friend and two years older than me. When you’re six, two years is a canyon, practically adulthood.

When you’re forty-one, it’s a crack in the sidewalk.

I lost contact with my friend about twenty-five years ago, but I heard about the death through the grapevine. If I wasn’t for the hive mind of the internet, I would’ve never known.

Still, I sad for the family, but I’m also self-centered. “Oh my god, how did he die? Can this happen to me? I don’t want to die young, and he was my age! Ahhh! *starts doing cardio*

I don’t think I’m abnormal in this way. People are naturally self-centered. Usually, the first thing anyone asks after someone dies is “how did they die?”

Do people want to be immortal? I don’t, but I don’t want to die either, at least not for another forty years. In The Watchmage of Old New York (Just 99 cents for the Kindle copy or free with KU), the main character does not age, and he constantly suffers for it. He’s not quite part of society, and he grieves for all the loved ones that he had to watch die.

As someone that lost their fiance five years ago, I can tell you that the only thing more fearful than death is a loved one’s death.

So I grieve for the deceased and his family, but I can’t help grieving for myself. I know that it’s weakness, but part of strength is admitting your weaknesses. Shine a light on your darkness. Be self-aware.

But you can still fear the Reaper.

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doge in space card redux

Inside Looking Out

Ever since I was a wee lad, I have felt out of place. I never had more than a handful of friends and still don’t. And I’ve come to terms with not fitting in. I know that I’m weird. I say awkward things and trip over my tongue. I embarrass myself and anyone I’m with. My voice is funny. I have nervous tics. I understand why people don’t want to be around me.

But I feel like I’m staring out the window, watching the world and wanting to be a part of it. There’s so much going on, but always out of my reach. My face is pressed up against that window, watching the other kids play. What was once literal is now a metaphor.

There’s a great big world out there. If only I could get out the door.

doge in space card redux

I’m trying to figure out why I haven’t been blogging here. Is there some backlog of stuff in my brain that’s making things hard to focus. Or do I have some issue that if I start writing about, all of my insides will come pouring out through my fingers (probably from under the nails) and onto the screen.

I don’t know. I want to write, but something is stopping me. At least I’m getting a lot of editing done. Dilly dilly.

Are we still saying dilly dilly, or is that over?

I don’t want it to be over.

Don’t let it be over.

The Hanger…The Hanger…

The hanger is real. I am so hangry right now that I don’t know whether to yell at the wall or eat it. Yes, I will eat the wall. I will eat that fucking wall until I get at all of that sweet insolation inside, like the inside of a tootsie roll pop.

I’m so hangry…so very hangry…

I’ve been trying very hard to drop these last 20 pounds, completing my Frodo-like journey from 390 to 220 over the past 5 years. I’ve been stuck at 240 for almost a year. I was down to 230 until last November when I visited my dad in Vegas. My dad…he really loves buffets. And all he keeps in the house to eat are giant muffins, bagels, and pasta. I put on 15 pounds. Yes, I understand that it’s not his fault, and I should have more willpower. But I don’t have willpower. I’m a see food eater. As long as I keep that stuff out of the house, I don’t eat it.

Soooo hangry.

I’m tempted to eat a pint of halo top right now.

I must be strong…

But so hangry…

Thoughts and prayers

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Pssst: Cheap plug below. Buy my book, and it might make the hanger go away. Probably not, but it’s worth a try.

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