The Archives are written after the dust has settled.
The Margins are written while it is still in the air.
Usually somewhere in Jacksonville, Florida, where apparently there is always something in the air.
These are not daily entries. I have neither the discipline nor the interest.
They appear when something happens that is simply too scandalous, strange, delicious, or revealing to wait until it becomes history.
Written the morning after. Weekdays only.
If there is nothing here for a while, assume I am behaving.
Or don’t.
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The Ritual and the Aftermath
Friday was quiet. No men. No mythology. No strange little plot twists waiting behind a cocktail glass. I went home, cooked, and rested. Which, apparently, was the universe conserving energy. Because Saturday got loud. I found a beautiful little coffee shop downtown, ordered something delicious, opened my homework, and settled in wearing an off-white lace…
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Thoroughly Marinated
Forty eight hours. That was apparently all it took. By yesterday afternoon I was so fucking horny I could barely stand myself. Wounded Boy was supposed to be at my house by six. I got off work at five. Dinner reservations were at six thirty. Afterward, we were going to the speakeasy I have quietly…
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An Unusual Amount of Playmates
There are suddenly too many creatures wandering around my freshly waxed forest. Okay. Freshly might be generous. It’s been a couple of weeks. Still. There seems to be an unusual amount of playmates wandering around lately. Pint Sized Mechanic, however, seems to be dawdling. This is particularly amusing considering the last time I saw him,…
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Too Many Men, Not Enough Nights
I came in Pint Sized Mechanic’s bed before he even touched me. Which, frankly, feels rude. Not rude of me. Rude of him. My mouth was otherwise occupied and somehow this man still managed to have me losing my fucking mind before he’d put a hand on me. Then he told me to take a…
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Ravenous
The burger place never happened. By the time I left the salon, my nails were fresh and my toes were perfect. His favorite color. Of course. Wounded Boy has always had a particular weakness for my feet, and I knew exactly where his mind would go when he saw them. I didn’t need to tell…
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The Morning I Stopped Asking Questions
The morning I stopped asking questions, the Wounded Boy started answering ones I hadn’t asked. This was particularly funny because the day before, he’d apparently fed some of my text messages into ChatGPT for analysis. The machine diagnosed me as fearful avoidant and highly sexual. I shrugged. Maybe. I don’t talk to virtually anyone in…
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The Breakup That Wasn’t
Monday morning, at 6:05, my lover broke up with me. By Tuesday evening he was standing at my door with flowers. So that went well. In fairness, it was a very mature breakup. Thoughtful. Self aware. He had decided that he caused me stress. That he’d affected my family. That things had been said that…
