Home » Erotica » Centenial


When I started fooling around with this blog a few months before, in the waning days of Spring (4/13/2011 was my first post, where I just had a few warnings for my dozens of readers), I never intended for it evolve into what it is today.

In fact it was almost dead on arrival: I had very little posting in April, not a bad May, and then I just died in June.  Too much personal bullshit hit me, depression set in, I didn’t feel like writing . . . yeah, it was all there.  I wanted to give up in many ways, and there are still days when I feel that way.

But I kept on, because I really, truly decided to not only write, but I was going to write about what I was writing–due in part to someone bitching at me to get my ass in gear and write!–and that very act evolved into something incredible for me.  Not only because I told people about what I was doing every day, but because it started to open my eyes to other things in my life.

So here I am, 100 posts later, and what do I know about myself now that I didn’t know 100 posts back a little after noon on 4/13?  A lot:


I hate the business world.  Yes, I know: I’m looking for a job–have been for almost three years–but I hate that part of my life.  Those 25 years in IT were wasted, man; they were fucking wasted.  I thought that getting into IT would allow me to use my intelligence and creativity.  It did jack shit.  It exposed me to small minded individual; jackoffs who were crazier than me; and self-important little people with over-inflated egos.  And what I will carry with me for a very long time was having a meeting with my last company’s CFO, Alan the Butthole, and how he got pissed off because I was taking notes on a computer table, pulled it out of my hands, and laid a pad of paper and a pencil in front of me and said he expected me to take notes that way from now on . . . thanks for the most condescending moment of my life, Alan–and, should you somehow find this post, you’ll now know how close you came to having that pencil shoved up your ass, you stupid nimrod.

I shouldn’t be ashamed of the fetish fiction I used to do for the hell of it.  Yes, a majority of what I wrote at the beginning of the 21st Century was crap.  Yes, it was going to be wanked to by a lot of people.  Yes, it put me in touch with a few people who should remain well hidden.  But . . . it taught me to write.  It taught me to create characters and stories and not settled for simply churning out crap for the lowest common denominator.  I’ve shown a series of stories to my Trusty Editortm and they liked what I wrote, even though they’d never seen anything like that before.  And, like it or not, it was me.  It was something I did and, for a while, enjoyed.  I learned that I could write funky erotica, and right now I’m working on an erotica short that, believe it, is gonna get freaky–and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I am a writer.  I really am.  Not because I write, but because . . . I have been paid!  Just a few weeks ago I was given $40 for four of my old fetish stories, so . . . yeah, Cash Money Brothers, baby!  I’ve been given compensation for my work and I’m happy.

And along those same lines, I’m nearly ready to publish my short horror story on Smashwords.  Yesterday saw me doing the final ebook formatting, and today I’m going to work on a cover for my 24,200 word story, but it is going to become an ebook and it will be bought by someone, and that means a lot to me.  Not to mention I will pinp the hell out of it here.

And I will continue to write.  I have the first novel I ever tried in Scrivener and I have another WiP set up as well, and I am going to damn well do those stories.  I’m through screwing about, and if I’m going to do this writing thing, then fucking do it.  If nothing else I’d publish the damn things myself and make a nice little living on my work, because while it would be nice to be the next Big Thing, often the next Big Thing is writing crap, and I’m not interested in writing crap: I wanna tell good stories with good, believable characters.  When I decide I’m only going to write for a paycheck, then it’s time to stick a gun in my mouth and pull the trigger until it goes click.  I’m not a monkey; I’m a writer.

I’m bi-polar, and I’ve been that way nearly my whole life.  It sucks, it really does, and until you’ve been on a long run of depression you can’t imagine what it’s like.  I have been suicidal, and I was once committed because I was very close to ending it all–again.  I deal with it because I must.  Mental illness is a bitch and fight it every day, usually alone, but I still fight it ’cause I’m just not ready to check out.  Not yet.  And damn sure not today.

I have secrets.  We all do, but recently I told two people a secret I’ve had for most of my life, and in doing so I feel a hell of a lot better about myself.  Is it something I’m going to tell everyone, right now, on this page?  No.  I’m not quite there yet.  But I’ve told people who I know, who had no reason to believe I would tell them this, and they didn’t run screaming into the night.  And that makes me believe there is hope.

I’ve discovered that people do care about me.  They really do.  Sometimes we live in this bubble of crushing, oppressive loneliness, and when you hook that up to any form of mental illness then, hell, folks, you’re just looking for a bottle of pills from which to jump.  But I am not totally alone.  I have people around me that care, and that care goes deep.  And for that I thank you.

And excuse me a little ranting, but:

For my Facebook friends who have nothing better to do than bitch about their horrible social media experience due to a change in said social media’s portal–and you know who you are–leave, just leave.  Abandon your accounts and get the fuck out, and stop whining like the bunch of entitled children that you are who believe the Internets should revolve around your every whim.  And for that group of friends who spent days posting the bullshit meme that Facebook was going to start charging–you’ll never know how close I came to hunting your butts down and going Robocop on your asses.  Deal with change.

And, lastly, and more personally–Jill Bridges, in Michigan.  Yeah, you.  Maybe someone–well, two of us, anyway–are smart enough not to be your friend because you have all the charm, grace, poise, and personality of a syphilitic hyena.  So, in closing: blow me.  And you know why.


I started this blog as a place where I could come and rant.  And now it’s something . . . different.  And that’s because in the course of 100 posts I’ve become someone different.

Where am I going to be in another 100 posts?

Stick around and find out.  You might be surprised.

7 thoughts on “Centenial

  1. Pingback: All the Lies That Seem to Be My Life « Wide Awake but Dreaming

  2. Pingback: Fifteen Thirty Over | Wide Awake But Dreaming

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