Saturday, August 12, 2017

A Chance, String Cheese, and Vera

Trigger/Content Warning (TW/CW): the following blog post contains mentions of suicide, predatory grooming, masturbation, and domestic violence. Reader discretion is advised.

It appears, due to my lengthy absence, that the death of Chester Bennington took a lot out of me, more than I was anticipating. Chester's suicide devastated me so much that my own disease started to ferment itself, once again, in my brain. The disease is now dormant; for how long is yet to be determined.

Since my last blog post, I have been working a little bit harder than normal to stay safe. I always made sure I had food and beverage to eat and drink, respectively. My bills got paid. And I decided to take a chance.

A black cat lays on a pillow while looking to its left (the
viewer's right). This is Chance, a 10-month old American
shorthair kitten.
I felt somewhat stable enough, despite Chester's passing, to be adopted by another cat. My new owner is a neutered 10-month old American shorthair furball named Chance (that was his name when he was introduced to me). Chance comes to me from an individual whom I found out, during the weekend of TrotCon, was the niece of my cousin. This woman was placed up for adoption as an infant by her mother (my cousin's sister, the officially oldest of the Humphries/Hurd cousins) when her mother was 19-years old. After being introduced to her via my cousin on Facebook, I saw a post she made about needing to rehome a sweet black kitty because the family's other cat was no Grandpa Mason. For some reason, something in me said, "Go get the kitty." So, I did.

And unlike last year where I had Callie, Chance has been, well, a chance for redemption of epic proportions. I am not as cautious or bitter as I was last year about having a cat and whether or not I could adopt one. I strongly believe that the time I spent at the crisis stabilization unit had done something to me so radical that I now can live right now instead of waiting for tomorrow.

Today, I left Chance with two bowls of kibble and two bowls of water as I was invited to take a two-day excursion out to the Horseshoe Curve in Blair County, Pennsylvania. Hopefully, when I return tomorrow, the apartment unit will not be a disaster.

This is a welcomed break, a small little excursion, out of the area so I can rest my overactive cerebellum. Lately, the biggest concern right now that is messing with my psyche is string cheese.

*coughs to prevent choking* String cheese? Vera!

What, Dear Reader? It's my own personal idiom.

Oh?

"String cheese" is what I call an older male presenting individual. Why? When you leave a piece of string cheese out for any period of time, it becomes soft and flexible, similar to a phallus in cisgendered men as they age.

Are you saying that some hot guy is flirting with you? Is it The Lad? Did he finally make a move?

No, but I kind of wish he did. Actually, the move(s) may have come from one of my current doctors.

Oh, fucking hell.

The problem is that I am not sure if they legitimately flirting with me, or if they are potentially grooming me. I mean, don't get me wrong; I love it when someone as fuckable as this one doctor is saying thinly-veiled subtleties at me. Unfortunately, I have experienced this in a similar fashion about 15 years ago (and I am now realizing that it's been that long) to the point where I would end up in an emotionally abusive relationship. I should ask this love doctor directly if they are hitting on me, figuratively, or not. However, I actually had the wherewithal to ask my rebbetzin first. She told me to talk to another doctor before approaching this lotharix. And that fell apart when the other doctor told me to talk to the lotharix directly.

Did I ever mention that I have had it with doctors?

If it were me, if they're not Creepy McCreeperchild, and they're single or not in a committed relationship, go smash it.

*eyebrow perk* Smash it? With a shoe?

No no no no no. Sleep with the doctor. You only live once, you know.

Yeah, I know. *sigh* I don't think I could do it.

What? The all-awesome Vera Didenko can't seal the deal with someone?

Shush, I could if I wanted to.

My problem is I fawn over an older male presence who has shown me affection or sincerity, even if it's a cookie crumb worth. My brain computes if a man is showing compassion to me, or is being nice to me, and if I find them attractive enough, I should offer my services to that man right then and there. Yeah, being told that I was ugly and nobody wanted me when I was a child left me left a mighty dented impression on my psyche.

It's also the true reason why I don't make eye contact with male-appearing people. The moment my eyes lock with the eyes of some string cheese, I instantly get aroused to the point where I want to lean in and kiss them on the mouth - hard. Whenever I do make eye contact with a man who appears attractive to me, I ended up standing paralyzed, with their eyes looking beaming into mine, as if they can tell that I want to fuck their brains out. That burning, piercing sensation goes through my eyes all the way to the back of my head, as if two holes were created due to the man "looking through the windows of my soul." It also tickles my lower genitalia, fuck off very much.

Hypersexuality is a bitch.

This is why I do so much better with making eye contact with animals. First off, I don't want to fuck animals; bestiality is not my thing. Second, animals won't betray me the way most humans do. And finally, it doesn't make me standing paralyzed.

I could look into Chance's eyes all damn day and not get sidetracked. But whenever, for example, one of my doctors want to make eye contact with me, I find it very difficult to restrain myself from initiating some form of mental masturbation. I mean, I do restrain myself, right then and there. When I get home after the doctor appointment, on the other hand, is a completely different story.

Otherwise, you're doing okay.

Yeah, I guess you can say that much.

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