We managed to move up our joint therapy session. We go to the first one this Thursday. I’m happy about this. We need some help with what we are doing.

I need to do some art around intentions. And that breaks my head. Ewwww. I’m that fucking woo woo.

Yes, motherfucker I am. Nobody is giving it to me as an assignment so it’s ok. I’m doing it for me. To organize my thoughts.

Who do I want to be at the end of this journey. What do I want my relationship to be like? What do I want my life to be like?

We shouldn’t finish this process till the remodel is done. Oh shit. I’ll call in the morning.

I’m pre-planning Mardi Gras. Like I do. If you aren’t on my schedule and you wish you were… well… the window will soon close. For a few years more than likely. (Which isn’t forever.) I’m just not going to be able to find time for new people. So uhm, yes. I’m not going to hunt for more people to fill time with. But I’m not done booking Mardi Gras.

Here’s my passive aggressive state of affairs.

I like being chased.

If you can’t be bothered to chase even a little then you don’t want me bad enough.

I gotta be realistic about my energy.

And I’m there for sex. To be clear. I have one month to uhh, err, burn it out of my system for a while.

After that I’m going to go do that breeder thing. Which means you are going to need to want to hang out with me for my sparkling wit and sobbing countenance (I don’t feel good for most of pregnancy) if you want to spend time with me.

Cheers, motherfuckers.

I sorta feel like the remodel from hell exists in its form to give me time to think about the different email lists/calendars I want to have for how to invite people over: vanilla friends for hangout time, dates, sex parties, vanilla friends for parties.

This weekend I was told I held court at the party I was at. Oh you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

Just wait.

Soon my house will be ready. Like. The kind of ready I’ve been working on for years.

I want you to see my happy place.

I am lucky; I am lucky; I am lucky.