Next was Sex King, he said he might come down to LA in the next few weeks and wondered what I was up to.  What I am up to is trying not to succumb to his amazing sexual prowess.  If he comes to LA I am running away, even though I probably shouldn’t.

After that was the painter/photographer, we had a really sordid affair because I met him as he was leaving LA but we have always been friendly.  He just wanted me to know he would be in Hollywood for Christmas, we should get drinks.  I can’t disagree with this, he is awesome.

Shortly after I thought about playing with my painter in the bottom of a glass of bourbon, I received a text from a guy I dated who still likes to tell me we will end up together.  We will never end up together.  He told me I should come with him to see his parents and I proclaimed that to be, quite possibly, the worst idea of all time.  Then he told me to come to a party.  I am probably heading to that party.

But then one of the guys I toyed with a whole bunch earlier this year saw me online today and sent me an Instant Message.  “We should get drinks?  Where are you living now?  Are you happy?”  Really, what difference does it make?  I am free Tuesday.  Take it or leave it.  So Tuesday, I have plans with him.

And then there’s Married Boyfriend, who is consistently making plans for him and I, that I more often than not, have to find ways to get out of, even though I don’t want to.  His wife’s having a gallery exhibition on the Westside and he wants me to be there.  So I’ll be there but first I have to find a couth, cunning & awesome fellow to accompany me.  The last time I went to one of their events solo, it was like a tragic nightmare of people trying to figure out what the implied intimacy between him and I was.  And it wasn’t sex I can guarantee you that, which made whatever is between us, so much more threatening to his wife.

And there’s still 10 more days till Christmas, so I can’t see who decides to poke their head up and into the Sabrina-o-sphere.  Cause I know there’s a whole bunch more I’d like to see and even more I’d like to turn down for eternity.

You go out with someone.  You hangout a few times.  You bang.  You hangout with someone else maybe you bang them too, maybe not.  And you can do it like this forever, weaving a braid out of the people you have been with, will be with and people you’ll never want to be with again.

That being said, why is it so shocking that maybe I would be dating multiple people?  And moreover, how can you think I wouldn’t assume you’re doing the same thing.  Cause I know you are.  In fact, unless you do that thing where you sit me down and are like, “We are exclusive.” I will assume everyone is just out and doing whatever they want, cause why wouldn’t I?

The thing is, this is exactly what everyone is doing but no one wants to admit it and I think it’s the dumbest thing in the universe.  Do men think that I am going to seriously believe that they are not seeing anyone else?  And then assume that I should give a shit in the case that it comes up?  Cause I’m not.  I’ll be annoyed that you crossed your streams because the cardinal rule is never to bring up your other bitches in any way.  Ever.

That is called respect.  And I don’t have any for any one man so even though I am dating someone I am going to keep writing and tweeting and facebooking all the shit I am up to because I honestly do not give a fuck if someone’s pride is hurt.  If I really liked them, I wouldn’t be out all night prowling.  If I really liked them there wouldn’t be any point in this post.

Usually I do it in panties and a t-shirt and knee socks and I dance around and jump on the bed and just enjoy my moment.

Every year the same thing. Every year getting older.

I don’t feel older. If anything, I feel younger, dumber and more irresponsible. It’s almost as if I am going back in time and by the time I am officially a senior citizen I will be a full fledged emotional and psychological paramecium brain.

But I like the thought of that because you’re supposed to fall apart. My body is already doing that. When I want to be depressed, I just think how terribly crippled I’ll be by the time I’m 50 and then I go out and slay a bunch of men like I am the last knight in a battle of the ages.

Slaying men might be the only thing that placates me anymore. Which is weird and sad. Sometimes I really have to wonder if I am in it for the prize of eternal (or whatever people call it) companionship or if I really am ok floating around and experiencing as many people and problems as possible.

And every time I sit down to write one of my exploits, a news story or even an interview I think about how boring life could be and I have my answer.

But I am thankful for my family and my friends who continue to stand alongside me despite my fucked up, stupid decisions.  I am also thankful for any and all opportunities I have had to write professionally.  And mostly, I am thankful to be here, even if means I’ve got a lifetime of fucked up situations to get myself into and out of.

Who are these people that can make doctor’s appointments and life appointments and pay student loans and keep their life in perfect order. That shit makes me suicidal. Want to see me lose my ability to write really fast? Ask me to put everything in a certain order.

I’ve been thinking about this and I know the answer. I’m obsessive compulsive. When I was a little kid, I’d get super nervous and to calm myself I would count or play these bizarre games where I would have to recite all the conversations I had in a day backwards. Then it got more severe and to calm myself I had to run concentric circles on the top of my head an odd number of times till I wasn’t about to lose my shit. I would also do it while reading. It was so, so calming.

Until my mother noticed I’d rubbed off the hair on the top of my head in about a fifty cent piece shape. I was told to stop doing this. It was a command more than a request cause little girls shouldn’t have huge bald spots. I was filled with shame over my private pacification method.

That was around the same time my mother decided I was losing my mind. To be perfectly honest, I probably was, I was trying to be the smartest with the best grades while worrying about the fact that my parents could die any second, the world could end in any moment and that it was very likely no one would ever love me.

So she pulled me out of all the programs and the testing and the all encompassing hell hole that was my gifted program childhood. And I decided that I’d never join anything again, which was also lame.

I think, to this day, despite what chaos I’ve created for myself, I can blame that meltdown for how I deal with things by not dealing with them at all.

In a way, life just sorts itself out while I am busy being a brassy broad. And I have to stick with this methodology even if it’s probably not the best one out there cause the last thing I want to do is drive myself insane and have to rub off all my hair in order to find that missing calm in my life.

Cause there’s always the chance that my life wasn’t constructed to be calm.

If I like them, I’ll take a look around and try to take as many mental photographs as humanly possible.  The sheets are light blue.  The comforter is dark blue.  At dawn the light in the bedroom peeks through the cracks and it looks like a tiny miracle is happening outside.

And then I will look at them quickly, as they sleep, on their back, on their side, on their stomach.  Far away in a place I will never get to visit.  And I will think about how I wish I could stay but probably it is better to go.

And then I run around and try and collect as much of my stuff as I can remember.  I almost always forget my earrings so now I do a double earring check.  I look around their living room.  I peek onto their coffee table.  I check out their pillows.  I say good bye to their animal and I tell them that I really enjoyed meeting them and hope to see them soon.

The saddest is when I know I will never see their animal again and I liked their animal more than the guy.  That happens a lot.

And then I will put my shoes on very slowly and silently and head for the front door and as I am leaving I take a look through the crack as it’s closing and I think to myself, “Fuck, this hangover is going to ruin my life.” And with a quick snap, click, lock they are likely out of my life forever.

But there is a certain power in leaving like that.  Like you are saying, I don’t care if you never want to see me.  I am just ok with walking home at dawn alone with my thoughts and my flask and enjoying the early morning.  Until I get home and realize that once again, I am alone.

A couple of years ago, I was in a relationship that was just sort of not working.  But I was lazy and could not figure out how to end it.  How is it, in most relationships, the hardest part is admitting that you want to get out but do not have any idea how?  That’s something they should teach a class on How To Effectively Breakup 101. God, I probably should have majored in that.

Things started getting tense sometime past our first year anniversary.  Sort of like it was shocking to either of us that we were still together.  A poet had recently been in contact with me and he was rugged and handsome and bearded and wanted to know what was the deal with my “idiot boyfriend” and that he would love to have sex with me.  I would have loved that too.

I am not sure what was going through my exes head, but I am probably pretty sure it was similar to my doubts but with less people being interested in having sex with him.

Mostly, we just hung out and went drinking, which is the same thing I do with all my dude friends, so I didn’t hate him entirely.  I just got to that point where I hated him mostly but I was still able to repress most of that.

Until one night when I had decided to stay home and watch TV and I made a huge jug of martinis and was going to drink it out of fancy martini glasses.  It was going to be the perfect evening until my ex was like I WANT TO DRINK THOSE TOO.

At the time, I thought nothing of it because my general attitude towards drinking is the more the merrier in terms of people and drinks, but I was wrong, so wrong.

Eventually, we drank that pitcher and I made more and we began watching some show with a very handsome, tall, masculine, bearded man who I was immediately smitten with.  Of course, I just said what I was thinking cause that is who I am and what I do and I commented that the man was very, extremely dreamy.

It was at this point my ex got up and began exercising the craziest behavior I had ever experienced from him.  He started doing solo karate moves and chanting at me.

You don’t even love me. (Rabbit punch)

I am not your type.  (Roundhouse kick)

You like masculine men.  (More kicks)

I can’t even grow a beard. (punches and karate hand movements)

And if he had just stopped here, I probably would have had to agree with him and tell him I didn’t really love him and that I had checked out of the relationship cause everything we had in common began and ended with our love of memes on the internet.

But it didn’t end there.  He then ran up to the microwave and punched it.  In a way it was kind of magical.  He punched through the glass and it exploded all over the kitchen like a beautiful supernova killing what was left of our relationship, a scorched Earth policy, and destroying anything good we had left between us.

Of course, I got up and said the first thing I felt, which was that he hit the microwave cause he wanted to punch the shit out of me.  My god, am I stupid sometimes.  Cause of course he deflected his desire to destroy me by ending the microwave but I just had to make a point of knowing what he did and why he did it.

Which is when the words came out of my mouth, “You wanted to punch me, so fucking do it you idiot.”  And then, he hit me.

Right on the face.  It was shocking mostly because I never thought he had the balls to do it.  He was always crying and extremely insecure about everything.  But he did.  I think almost any man has the capacity to hit anyone or anything, just most of the time they have the wherewithal to know it’s a really poor choice and that they want to be better than that.  But not my ex.

I guess if I’ve learned anything from that experience it’s that it’s ok to leave when you know you’ve checked out of a relationship cause then you can salvage something and perhaps be friends.  Of course, I was too stubborn to do that.  I was too stubborn to even leave him because he hit me.  I wanted to leave him on my own terms which included the fact that I didn’t enjoy sex with him, he wasn’t masculine, he couldn’t grow a beard and he whined and cried a lot.  I wanted to leave him because he wasn’t what I wanted and I needed him to know that.

So I stayed with him for a lot longer making both of us extremely miserable in the process and never telling anyone what happened until I did leave him.  Initially, I told Erin probably the same day that I broke up with him.  But that was over a year ago and this past weekend I just decided I wanted everyone to know, so I told my sisters and then I called my mom.  After that, I went and admitted it on Facebook and Twitter.

I don’t want anyone to retaliate on him.  I don’t want anything bad to happen to him.  I just need people to know that this can happen to anyone.  I want people to know that it happened to me because I am not embarrassed or sad or upset about it.  I just want to own up to the experience and grow from it.  I hope he does too.

I like to think, the magical bionic way that my body regenerates is exactly the same way I deal with stress and chaos.

Problems.

Whatever it is, it’ll sort itself out, that’s life. I spend a lot of time stumbling but I like it. That part where you realize for a second that you’re about to get hurt, that’s when I’m most present. The thing people forget is that you can stumble anytime and it doesn’t even have to be anyone’s fault.

Sometimes, you’re just due for a beating.

I’m often due for a beating I guess.

When I was a little girl my parents would spank us. It wasn’t terrible but I didn’t want it happening either. One day I started telling my mom I loved getting spanked.

LOVED IT.

And it creeped the shit out of her. My spankings went away and I was subjected to psychological warfare with my parents who were weirded out that I sexualized spanking at 7.

Sometimes you need to be hurt. Sometimes you need a spanking.

Mostly it’s your mind that heals. But the body has to be present. I healed my problem by convincing myself I liked getting spanked.

Now I just like getting spanked.

At the time, she was battling a gambling addiction too, so she also consistently had a room at the hotel connected to the Commerce Casino.  I didn’t give a shit about gambling but I cared a lot about drinking and sometimes when I would get super wasted at a bar, she’d drive across the city to Commerce to play poker while I passed out in the backseat.  When I’d wake up I’d know the score and get my card to the hotel room and pass out.

Then I got my own money and decided to stay in my own hotels.  I blame Bowen for introducing me to this luxury cause I have friends all over the place, but very few I will actually stay with.  So I will burst into your city like a hurricane of chaos and then retire to my safe little room where I can call security at anytime if I feel like the party I am throwing is getting too out of hand or I can lie and never tell you my room number and you can just wait impatiently for me never to show up.

I liked having a job where I was forced to stay in hotel rooms.  I did not like that they would pair up women at random and you’d be forced to stay with someone you wished was dead.  When I worked at CBS I constantly had to share a room with this fat girl who would get up in the middle of the night and soak in the bathtub.  All of the sloshing would keep me up and when I started to have to stay in a room with her all the time, I started to hate her.  If you have to share a hotel room with someone, do not spend most of the night in the tub, that shit is just weird.

Sometimes, when I cannot be creative, I get a hotel room.  I put on red lipstick and over-the-knee socks and I start drinking whiskey and jumping on beds.  Jumping on beds in hotel rooms never gets old.  If I have a lover, I will get drunk and call him and explain that I am in panties and knee socks and a band t-shirt and I am making ideas and he should come over.  Before he comes over I can finally start to write so then I call back and tell him I need more booze, smokes, drugs, food, whatever to stall him so that I can groove with my words.  But I am still drinking and now I am lonely and I do not want to keep writing, I want to lie on his chest and kiss him so by the time he gets to the door I am just sitting on the bed in a hotel listening to music and waiting for him to kiss me.

So sometimes I like to remind my brain that it is incredibly strong and this shit I am going through in life is just a game.  Everything’s a game.  And that is probably what was going through in my mind when I told my friend I WANT TO GET MY NIPPLES PIERCED.  Of course, this was when I was about 70 lbs heavier and I could drink a man 6’4 and about 220 lbs under the table.  Naturally, I drank about a half a bottle of jagermeister and demanded to get my nipples pierced.

Getting them pierced is not the interesting part.  Nor is anything I did with them the entire time I had them.  I think men were mostly mesmerized with the size of my breasts at the time and the piercings just happened to be some sort of freakish bonus.  I am not even sure they were any fun, I like to try and think about it but it seems like a million  years ago in the midst of a billion bad decisions.

I do remember going to this girls house one night and everyone was drinking on the patio.  Some guy named Kyle would fuck three different women that night, including his girlfriend and not including me.  I remember sitting outside and thinking to myself, I AM GOING TO DRINK AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE.  And then smiling at people and watching them smoke and laugh like we were characters in a really boring film school production.  I remember a lot of stuff and then I remember nothing.

It’s that nothing that I usually really enjoy because it is nice to just know that when I cross certain lines my brain turns off and my body just goes through the motions like it’s some sort of solider of misfortune.  And I guess I did enjoy it, until I got up with my hangover next to my friend in a bedroom in that house that I had never even been in before.  And I decided to get into the shower and barf and while undressing I noticed that both my nipple piercings were gone.  Just gone.

So I woke up my friend, totally topless and pointed to my breasts and said, “WAKE UP, WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO THEM?”  It took her a long time to wake up and when she finally got it together she had no idea what I was talking about.  Then we began to go over everything we could collectively remember about the night before but she swore I didn’t hook up with anyone and that I never took them out, she was keeping an eye on me.

I like to think that in the middle of the night little sex goblins decided that those piercings were tacky because I am a breast fetishist dream and that they had to go.  That someone should like me for more than my stupid breasts.  And not because everything I have shaped for myself is a fucking novelty.

But I’m pretty sure I just went to the bathroom, hated myself immensely and took them out and never told anyone because when I want to keep a secret, I start with keeping it from myself.