Diary of a Sex-Starved Pseudo-Mennonite, Part 30

I have powerful magnetic energy. If you respond to my energy, you may notice you can feel it through texts and social media and this blog and even post cards and letters. (Yeah. I still use snail mail when inspired. Are you not charmed?) If you really feel my energy, you may be overwhelmed by it in person. Some people this spooks. Some people this draws close. 

One guy was so freaked out by my energy that he kicked me out of his house. The eviction wasn't instantaneous, but he's like, "You gotta go." He couldn't handle feeling so not in control of himself on his own turf. That's what happens when a chick is all air and fire and water. I'm like, What turf? He didn't want me to cuddle up. Lie on him. Sit on him. Stroke him. Then he got accustomed to it. Then he wanted it and was like why aren't you on me right now? and didn't want to want that level of me. Cuz I feel good and he didn't want to feel stuff. I was fine with leaving and shared my exit plan. As the day approached, he said I could stay another day. If I wanted. I said naw. The day of, he kept trying to get me to leave later and later in the day. After I agreed to go per his initial request, personally relieved by a clear plan, he got fucked up. Withdrawn. Visibly hurting with boo-boo bottom lip. Wanting to be held. Wanting to kiss me. Then a spastic outburst of love. So much love. He got fucked up. I was only with him a week.

The remote and controlling Italian American future litigator once felt he had to slam his front door in my face because of my magnetism. He knew what would happen if he let me in. Yet when he couldn't see me in person anymore once we both returned to our respective states after studying abroad, he made a point of sending me a letter out of the blue stating "I am not in love with you." Then he called me in the middle of the night, drunk, at my GRANDMOTHER'S house, so he and his roommate, whom I'd never met but apparently heard about me, could tell me over that phone that I was dumb. I just called...to say...I dumb you. Methinks he dost protest too much. 

Control is an illusion. I am real. But unreal in the best ways. My cousin referred to me as The Goose that Laid the Golden Eggs. Actually, he called me The Golden Egg. Cuz we communicate in the shorthand of people with ADHD who drink. He invited me to stay gold with him in Florida. At a resort. In a townhouse with my own bedroom and bath and private patio with hot tub. For free. Cuz you don't gots ta pay for the Magic Kingdom when you rollin' wit Gold Egg.

This is how without trying, I find myself invited on vacations that are not mine and into families that are not mine and to The Sandbar every time. The energy I am able to bring cannot be duplicated and typically makes most social or domestic situations better. People won't go to stuff sometimes if I won't go. Because if I want to go and do, they know they will have a good time. My physical presence makes them feel good. Soothed. Entertained. Loved. Important. I'm an excellent investment if you value your own happy Ness.

This is why me being alone is such a waste. I can do it. It's fine. But no one is getting me and I'm not getting the pleasure of feeding them my good Gold Egg energy. This opportunity to give and receive makes both of us better, if the other person is not a succubus and I get the support I need to be my best.

Writers don't want to be alone all the time. Writers write to be understood. By people. So many drink and drug and isolate and kill themselves because they can't seem to write their way out of the loneliness, if that's all they have. Writers need people and love just like everybody else. We have to write what we're afraid to write. We might have to write what you're afraid we'll write. That's just part of the deal. We don't choose to be writers or gay or born in the wrong body or black or Iranian or disabled. It chooses us. And if we fail to accept and embrace who we are, we suffer. Am I suggesting "writer" should be a protected class? Yes. Yes I am. We need support. And you need us if you want to keep enjoying quality movies and TV shows and commercials and web content and books. Most good actors who aren't assholes will tell you their success relies on good writing. When a series wanes, often a good writer left or got tired or was taken for granted. Quiet types so easily become invisible to the insensitive. 

Did you even know how much you needed me? Neither did I. Before. But now I do. What have you done for me lately? This blog is free, people. Free. Yes, I have to write. But I don't have to publish. I am much more experienced NOT publishing. You should see all the writing in my basement and in random drawers and on a flash drive and in a Chromebook and on my ex-husband's computer that I will never get back. I could just show my stuff to Daisy. Three sniffs means it's really good.

Until Next Time, Sweeties!

Ness Sweet Ness