Ahh… masturbation. Not everybody does it, but everybody should.

The trouble is, most of us that do do it are routine about it. Hey, even I have my go-to tricks. Masturbation’s usually something like this: “Well, I’m horny, I’d rather be post-horny with the fun of having had an orgasm, so let me just touch myself here and I’ll get that over with…” …but without all the fancy thinking stuff, because, really, who among us plots out our masturbatory plan in advance? Half the beauty of masturbation is that no scheming needs to come into play. A bit of privacy and a willing hand, and you’re half way to post-orgasmic bliss.

Here’s the thing, though. Putting the “play” back into playing with yourself could yield a bigger, better self-serve orgasm than the ones you’ve been having all your life, and might even introduce new things into your sex life. If you’re a woman and you’ve never yet been able to orgasm (you’re not alone, don’t worry, read my posting on it here), “playing” with yourself is THE most important thing you can do that will help you get to that point where you’ll finally be able to orgasm after all.

Here’s a letter from a reader that gave me a good chuckle and prompted this mini-posting in the first place:

I came across your website and started reading, and there was this article about handjobs. Well, I am a guy, so I got some serious practice in spanking the monkey, but damn! The thing about being really sensitive at the base of the penis? I never knew!

The really sad thing is that I had to get to the advanced age of 37 years to find out. All these man-years of wanking, and the hand was always a couple inches too far up.

Oh well. The good news is I am single at the moment, so I can put this newly acquired knowledge to good use. You’ve really improved my sex life.

So, readers, start touching surrounding areas in a variety of ways. Things to consider:

• Grope yourself in other areas, caress yourself, try to heighten your arousal. For example, try using your free hand to squeeze a nipple as you play below.
• Close your eyes and try a variety of touching techniques on areas surround your favourite spots. How does it feel? Finding anything new?
• Try bringing sex toys into the equation, and don’t just follow the instructions. Using a vibrator to play over genital-surrounding areas can be very surprising. This goes for men, too! Imagine a nice vibrating toy resting under your balls as you jack off. Lovely, yes? [And you’ll have a vibrator to use with women (learn how to sterilize it, though) for those times you finish before her yet still want to please her.]
• Try taking yourself to the brink of orgasm, then stopping, and go back to watching a movie or something, and finish the orgasm a couple hours later– it’ll be bigger and with more bang for your buck, and teasing–even yourself–can be entertaining at times. (I’ve posted before about orgasm-denying masturbation before big dates when you know you’re getting laid.)

No one should be able to come into YOUR house and show you how to get things done, right? It’s all about mastering your domain. Explore self-play. It’s safe, free, and you’ll never get rejected.

(New readers: I did a series on masturbation and women way back, which I consider very worth reading, among some of my best work. They include: Why 40% of Women Don’t Masturbate, Why Women Should Masturbate (Particularly the 40%), and my rant against a misogynist who said women shouldn’t be allowed to masturbate is also worth a look.)

Some questions, I just hate receiving, and it’s because I know there’s no happy ending. Like this one.

My g/f is very lukewarm towards sex. She just doesn’t enjoy it that much, and does it for me, which by itself is a bit of a turnoff. My ex-wife and I had a very good sex life, and I have had good sex with many women over the years. But my g/f is just not much into it. I want to marry her, and I will not let the sex issue stop that because I love her and she’s my best friend, but I’m kind of bummed at the thought of bad sex for the rest of my life. It’s a subject that we don’t even seem to be able to talk about.

Now, it needs to be known that this woman’s on an anti-depressant for chronic depression, so that’s quite possibly lowering her libido.

But.

The problem here is that this woman isn’t just not talking about it; she’s not trying to like sex more, she’s not initiating, she’s not willing to investigate what might be causing the lack of libido, and, of course, she won’t even talk about it.

I mean, if I’m understanding things, this isn’t a dry patch here. This is a status quo. You’re in the pre-marriage stage, when sex is supposed to be happening all the time, right? And it’s not, right? Well, THAT’S not the best of omens, now is it?

But you seem to be doing this whole “Well, she’s a fantastic friend, I love her… she’s not much of a lover, but, boy, is she swell” thing. Admirable, yes, but you hit the nail on the head:

“I’m kind of bummed at the thought of bad sex for the rest of my life.”

Well, YEAH. Of COURSE you are! You should be! It’s not about “sex”. It’s about everything that it encompasses. Sex is tenderness, a lowering of guards, raw animal instinct, it’s even slow, lingering moments that seem to suspend time. It’s so much more than just some thrusting and grunting. It’s not just sex.

Sex is that altered state of our relationships. It’s when we’re able to strip away all the bullshit of our lives, and just get down to two naked bodies sharing a moment.

Sex and its passion have spawned great art, great literature, and great stories for all of mankind’s history. Love and lust are things that transcend time, generations, geography, and even culture. We all long to be loved, but there are those of us who are great romantics, passionate people with great libido and desiring of intimacy in all its forms, and that’s not just us being needy, that’s milleniums of cultural reinforcement and biology speaking. That’s who we are, right down to our DNA, man. Who are you to fight that?

It is absolutely insane that so many people are willing to say, “Oh, but they’re such a great person– who cares if we don’t have sex?” before signing up for marriage. What the fuck are you people thinking?

After all, every time you have bad sex that they’re not really in the mood for, or they “grin and bear/bare it”, or they just don’t want to, they’re rejecting you.

We all need to accept a little rejection, it’s part of life, we don’t always get what we want. But when it comes to wanting sex in a marriage, I don’t think it’s wrong to want what you want, or even to expect to get a little of it from time to time.

But I think you’re kidding yourself if you believe you can live with rejection as a status quo and not have it change you as a person. Do you really think signing up for what’s essentially a lifestyle filled with rejection will ever make you happy and content, regardless of what a great “friend” your wife is?

People seem to get this really silly feeling that they’re being selfish for wanting to have good sex. No, you’re simply trying to be true to what your biological requirements are. Some of us are more sexual beings, and it’s part of who we are. We can’t pretend that it’s not the case, but what we can do is, mate with people who are similarly driven.

Your girlfriend doesn’t just not like sex, she has no interest in trying to change that. Which means you either have to take what you get and like it, or you have to decide now, before you put both your futures into a marriage contract that is very likely to be something you one day break or end if you make this sacrifice that makes you “bummed out” now before you’ve even gotten before a minister, whether or not you can spend the rest of your life possibly never having that great sexual union (or any sex at all) with this woman you love but can’t really call a “lover”.

If she’s not willing to at least meet you halfway, then you seriously need to consider making her your friend, and not your lover.

The reality is, she needs to see this as being a problem. If she fails to believe it is one, and refuses to take steps like counselling, weekly sex, libido tweaking via diet, exercise, or even a change in drugs, then marrying her might be the biggest mistake you could make.

Seriously. You are a sexual guy. You deserve to know what knee-shaking, gut-wrenching, explosively intimate yet animal sex with a woman you truly love feels like. That’s not selfishness. That’s understandable, even biological. If it’s something you crave now, imagine what it’ll be like 10 years down the line, even 20. You want to be the guy cheating on his wife that he “loves” but who doesn’t ever show her love to him via intimacy and sex? You want to be wracked with guilt because you think you’re not man enough to overcome your sexual urges? Do you?

The choice is yours. You need to MAKE this conversation happen. She needs to KNOW you crave intimacy and love and affection and even orgasms. She needs to know that not only do you deserve it, but that you think she deserves it from you, too, and you have it to give. She needs to know that you guys need to be somewhat on a sex-friendly page, or this marriage can’t happen.

If she won’t work with you to at least get you both in a better place, then maybe all you have is a good living arrangement with a great friend. But even if she does start trying to be a real “lover”, then you need to take at least a year or longer before you finally do marry, because it’s easy to have sex for six weeks and then stop. You need to make sure any changes she adopts are going to be more than just temporary. You need to be sure she’s starting to feel the passion, too.

I wish I could a lacking sex life an easy thing to overcome, but it’s not. Sex and money cause the majority of the divorces out there, and it’s because of making naive decisions like “sex isn’t that important”… because it really is. Be very, very sure.

I’m not trying to prevent a marriage here; I’m trying to prevent a divorce. Think about it. Divorces happen over moments of indiscretion or years of inattention, so don’t go gently into thy good night, reader.

Earlier, at the grocery store, I got shaken out of my pouting about money, thinking of my heady week, by this adorable little two-year-old Asian girl. All dressed in pink, a plastic golden tiara perched atop her precious little head, bubbling up and down the aisle as she giggled and babbled at her mother. She radiated glee.

“Aww, how cute,” I gushed to myself. I turned the corner, pushed my way up, and thought, “Man, she gets too into this princess thing, she’s gonna be one high-maintenance teen one day. Fuckin’ Disney!”

Last year when I was working at an arts centre and had to do registrations, I used to be endlessly amused by all the adorable little girls wanting to sign up for ballet because they thought it was the first step one took toward becoming a real, live princess. A pretty pink dress, a twirl and a pose, it’s all a girl really needs, after all, isn’t it? Paris thinks so.

There are those of us who want to flat-out blame Disney for all of it. It’s Disney’s fault for everyone– the over the top two-year-old at the store, Britney Spears, Paris fuckin’ Hilton– all the bubbly, looks-first, diva-in-training girls. They’re all Disney’s fault.

Disney and their endless parade of fairytale females, girls all victimized by life in varying ways, all left clinging to hope and wishing against all wisdom that some gorgeous man’ll come along and sweep ’em off their feet, solve all their woes, and, yes, it’ll all end happily ever after.

Which works GREAT when you’re a two-dimensional figure in an animation world with a roaring soundtrack and the genius of editing to keep you at your rhythm.

Reality, however, is a wee bit trickier.

There is hope, though. There’s hope that girl who’ve seen the Incredibles will rather be ass-kicking, name-taking toughies who do some saving of their own, ‘cos they know men are just as fucked by fate as females are, and every now and then, even boys need a little savin’.

(Want to explore the alleged evils of Disney, well beyond the social ramifications of their princessifying of a whole generation of girls? Check out Carl Hiaasen’s Team Rodent. Funny but startling expose on the great Kingdom.)

Anyone who’s read me for forever and a day will know I draw upon Hunter Stockton Thompson as probably my strongest writing influence.
I was about 18 when Hunter got introduced to me by Whipped Boy, who’s lasted through the crowds of friends I had way back when, and is one of two people I’ll call to Dead Body Removal Services when required.
The other body-removing-friend is GayBoy, who I barely even knew at the time, but who I then proceeded to indoctrinate into the writings of the Good Doctor.
Who I knew better was Dan, but only for that short year that we hung out together. But we’ll come back to him in a moment.
Hunter blew my mind, and helped me figure out my own writing style, which I suspect emulates HST from time to time, but I think it’s more that his writing made my mindset finally feel all right, like it was okay to be a bit rageful and over the top. It was all right to think my opinion was the only one that mattered. If he could get away with it, then what did my journalism professors know after all? Objectivity? Fuck objectivity! Oh, how freeing that became.
Seldom have I ever truly tried to borrow HST’s style, but I bring it out on special occasions, usually ones involving drugs and travels, because sometimes imitation really, truly is the finest form of flattery.
One such time was when I tried to capture the experience of my first exposure to marijuana.
My story I wrote way back then is only on paper, somewhere in my boxes of writing… but I almost want to go digging through everything, as I’d love to see it again.
Still, I remember the start of the story, but only two people have read it, as it was before the advent of blogging, before I had an outlet. It was one of the few times back then I felt like I might be an all right writer, so it’s a bit nostalgically that I can recall my being excited enough about this one to actually show it to anyone else.
“We were somewhere around Cambie and 65th when the drugs began to take hold. I began feeling a bit light-headed and said, “Maybe you should solder–” when all of a sudden…”*
A completely honest and blatant rip-off of the brilliant opening to HST’s iconic novel Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, but it was a story about a night that forever changed me.
It was about the night that Dan introduced me to pot. He never pressured me, just let me go there if I wanted, since he and GB were indulging. The three of us hung out a fair bit for a while there, but Dan began to grow away from us. Now and then we’d still get together, and this was one of those happy convergences where we all had a good time, after when I’d begun becoming much better friends with GayBoy, and Dan was off becoming some new guy with new friends.
But the introduction to pot was huge, and changed me to my core (over time). I’m not encouraging anyone to try it; I vehemently believe a lot of people should never touch the stuff, and a lot of the people who are doing it could maybe use a break. I’m not one of them.
Yet I had been radically antidrug at that point. I’m still pretty radically anti-anything-not-pot, but I was really judgmental of potsmokers, thinking they were all unmotivated losers, swallowing Anslinger’s big ol’ myth on that count. So, y’know, toking up wasn’t exactly something I’d ever itched to do.
Thing is, this Hunter Thompson guy I’d read not too long before that, well, it made me sort of start to realize how linear my perception of the world was. Could I see more of the big picture? Was I too uptight and rigid in my assumptions? Was I missing out?
So, I tried it. Nothing huge happened. It didn’t blow my mind… it just made me feel less restrained and happy and pleasantly amused at, well, just about everything.
Not long after that, I moved up north. Within a matter of weeks, really. I’d only smoked up a handful of times, hadn’t bought it, so when I moved to the Yukon, I didn’t touch any dope since I didn’t know anyone and didn’t have a connection.
GayBoy cured that conundrum, bringing some ganja up for a visit in the spring, after I’d been up there for six months or so. It wasn’t till after he headed back south that I had the chance to finally, at long last, try dope on my own, sans company.
And it blew my mind. The Northern lights were playing on the skies and I just… got lost in it all, finally understood my smallness, and how beautiful it was that I got to plug my smallness into a world this big. I felt gifted, fortunate, and ready for the world. And the sounds! The crunch of snow under tires, the whistle of the wind… Wow. For someone born with a hearing impairment, even the most fleeting moments of aural clarity can just stop one’s heart. Amazing, amazing experience to just suddenly hear things in nature you’ve never picked up on before.
On Saturday we’ll be laying Dan to rest. 33 years old. A 10-day-old baby girl left behind, fatherless. She’s the only really sad thing in all this, but Dan certainly wasn’t robbed of life; life was robbed of him.
I may not have been friends with Dan the last 10 years, but for a short time he was someone who pushed me to write, helped me try things, and set an example as someone who may not have made millions, but who really fucking lived his life while he could. The guy really understood that “live” is a verb.
As I forge through this year of change and growth in my life, he’s already been in the back of my mind. That I should hear of his death really rocked me a bit this week, despite him being so far removed from my life of late. I’m sad he’s gone. I’m sad he and I drifted apart. I’m fortunate to have had the gift of his friendship while I did.
I cycled home from work last night, and stopped at the highest point of my ascent over the city, stared down at the skyscrapers and the inlet and across to the mountains as golden light from the setting sun washed over the peaks and the scattered marine clouds dotted their space, lit up a bowl of dope, smoked a bit, listened to MLK by u2 as I took a rest on the grass a moment, and said a prayer of thanks to Dan, because, in a way, he’s the man who taught me how to find “god” in ordinary moments in an extraordinary world.
He exalted our nature, our part of the world, this incredibly rugged, beautiful rainforest landscape that is Vancouver. Fitting, then, that he should die at its hands in a river he’d probably made his bitch time and time again.
Tonight I’m left wondering if I’ve learned all I could from those who’ve been in my life, wondering if I should be less inclined to let people slip from my grasp, wondering who’s next, what’s next.
Saturday, we’ll lay him to rest. Saturday, we’ll all remember what exuberance he had, how indomitable and immortal he always seemed. Saturday, we’ll all go back to our respective lives and, with any luck, the lessons he taught us all about life and friendship and adventure will endure long past his too short 33 years.

*”Maybe you should solder–“… That really does need expanding, doesn’t it? Right, well, Dan didn’t have a coffee table. He apparently had connections with BC Tel and managed to snag an old massive, massive… hmm, the word escapes me. Spindle? The massive 4-foot-round wooden contraptions they’d roll the hundreds of yards of exterior telephone wires around… …all right, “discarded telephone wire spindle” it is, then. So, he had this for a coffee table, about 2 feet high, and he had a soldering iron he’d keep nearby and would plug in when people came over. He’d fired it up and once we’d sparked the doobie, we all started burning sentiments into the “table” top. At some point I realized I had become transfixed in watching the heat searing the wood, the resulting smoke, and I began pressing my luck, egging on the sparks and, potentially, a fire– then I realized I was getting a little too in touch with my inner would-be arsonist and passed off the soldering rod to GayBoy with Dan laughing hysterically at me. Ahh, youth.

I had a little weepy moment at work when telling my bosses I’d need a day off for a funeral in the coming weeks, so they told me to take off for the day.

“I think it’s a sick day, Steff! Go drink a greyhound and toast your pal.”

GayBoy and I will do an impromptu wake later this evening, so that’ll be the theme. For now, though, it’s a movie and curry before an ass-kicking memorial ride for my departed friend, who was passionate about cycling.

But that’s what I’d like to write about — sports/athletics, and women.

I’ve known for a while now, thanks to my chiropractors, that women’s bodies do weird things at different times on their cycles. When I’m on mine, my joints pop in and out like a fuckin’ jack-in-the-box, man. It’s crazy. When I’m athletic, like I was last week, since I was on my period during my whole kamikaze intro to spring fitness, I really, really need to spend a long time stretching, or I could get really fucked up in a hurry.

And now science offers a definitive study that shows this link really does exist, and it’s not just new-age practitioners who buy the whole “hormonal disturbance” thing that a woman experiences on her period.

This is significant for women everywhere who can plan their schedules around their cycles and avoid potentially painful injuries Rebecca Morrison British School of Osteopathy

The study suggests the risk of injury is linked to fluctuating hormone levels which affect the muscles and ligaments.

Both tissues appear to be vulnerable midway through the menstrual cycle, while the ligaments are at greater risk at the end.

Midway through the cycle, the level of the female sex hormone oestrogen, which gives strength to muscles and ligaments, drops dramatically, resulting in sudden weakness.

I shredded my knee by picking up a piece of paper off the ground a couple years ago. I just twisted the wrong way when leaning down (it was recovering from injury at that time, almost healed) and rr-r-r-r-rrip! I felt it pop apart, and I was on crutches for 10 weeks after that. THAT was on my period.

Then again, last week I cycled around 100 kilometres, worked out 90 minutes, and did a lot of work with freeweights, so I’m obviously not suggesting staying home with a ring of garlic around your neck for protection or anything, all right?

Just sayin’, if you’re ever, ever going to take the time to stretch before and after being physical, make sure it’s when you’re cyclically most vulnerable. Learn this shit. Use it.

Maybe I’m in a bad mood because an old friend went and died on the weekend. Maybe I’m in a bad mood because I got up and saw more snow falling when we should be well into a spring that’s never yet arrived. Maybe I’m in a bad mood because it’s Monday.

But I was pretty pissy when I got this comment on one of my best old posts, The Good Girl’s Guide to Giving Great Head (Part 2):

You are a dude. No woman would recall this much detail unless she had a dick herself.

Where to even begin?

One, most average guys couldn’t describe a great blowjob to save their lives. “Well, she… I don’t know, but, man, when I came, oh! And I remember this thing she did with her tongue…” They’re just happy when a woman’s lips are on their penis, but when she starts doing things with it, well, that’s even better. (No offence, guys. 🙂

Two, good writing is ALL about the details, just like blowjobs and cooking, man. It’s all about the details. I aim to be a good writer, in all its definitions. So, I write well, and I capture details very well, it’s why I should really be writing manuals for a living. But then I’d be bored and would have to kill myself, so, no, I blog instead.

Three, you just insulted every woman alive, including yourself. What, you don’t think a woman could get that good at giving head? You think every woman sees a penis and goes, “God, get me out of this as quick as possible. Give him a really itchy trigger. Man, I hate doing this” or something, and then just turns stupid and can’t remember the series of things she did to make him whimper and groan?

I really fucking hate it when people either a) steal this post of mine — which has been plagiarized all over the fucking web (gutless thieving fucking cowards) or b) think I had to be a GUY to know what to do with a penis.

No, I’m not a guy. No, I’m not a “trained professional”. No, I’ve never taken biology class. No, I’ve never taught or have been taught sexuality.

But I give a wicked blowjob, and I love the power it gives me. I make grown men crumple beneath me. It’s fabulous. I’m that person who sees life through hyper-detailed eyes. It yields me terrific results. I remember that everything I do is a collection of smaller actions that build into larger events. That’s what makes life fun. When I do anything sexual, I don’t often close my eyes. Instead, I watch my partner’s reactions, every breath they take and every move they make, and I’m really fully aware of the sensations I’m causing. You throw my great memory and my penchant to detail into the mix, and whew, you get some of this blog, babe.

Sigh. It’s what you get when you throw a philosophy addict into the art of sexuality and get ’em to write about how to make it all good. I live the overthought life. It pays off when I write about giving hummers, it would seem.

But I ain’t no guy. I’ve written about PMS and periods a few times too many to be male. But if you, cynical reader, want to delude yourself into thinking all women are too aloof to write such a thing, then I guess that’s your very-1950s’ prerogative. Go for it.

Oh, let it be known here and now then: I love comments. I’m just fully prepared to throw down when I see cheesy comments that need some commentary. (Fortunately, that seldom happens.)

(By the way, a lot of the older posts, like The Good Girl’s Guide, were originally posted on my old blog, The Cunting Linguist, but I didn’t copy all the comments over. This one was left this morning, so it’s a totally new comment, ergo probably a totally new reader. Or, was. Ha.)

My dear buddy lost his high school best friend today. Completely took us by surprise. For a short time there, I was friends with this guy, good friends. For about six months, we hung out a lot, but then we stopped, and I started hanging out with dear buddy because we were both grumping about this friend. Sixteen years later, we’re each other’s Dead Body Removal Service and will take each others’ 4am calls.

And now his bestest friend of old has taken early leave of this life, and I get to watch my friend be shattered. I’m really, really sorry that he has to experience such intense loss. I’m sorry any of us has to experience it, ever.

This friend who’s just taken his leave of us, he was one of those people with whom I was friends with for only a short time, yet still managed to make an impression on me as far as how I live my life, even today. He was into all the cool music, an early fan of snowboards, just a really cool, likable, earnest guy. We’d hit up coffee shops and discuss things, writing, movies. There were probably 10 people who really conveyed to me how much they thought I should be a writer back when I was younger, but he was one who pushed it at me for a short time there.

I don’t know why he and I stopped hanging out. I never understood that. I always felt a little betrayed that way, but I get the sense he did that to a lot of people. A dark, brooding guy at times, he seemed to go through phases with friendships, but I always was that type, too. Moving from era to era, group to group. The last time I saw him was several years after we’d stopped hanging, it was a brief visit the night buddy and I saw the Santana concert, many drugs were involved, and I was acting like an ass, so he called me on it. That’s the last time I ever saw him, when he told me off for being an idiot. But we’d long since stopped really being friends, so it wasn’t a big deal. Just, “Wow, I was sure an ass.”

But he was the first really, truly cool, comfortable, popular, honest guy that let down his exterior with me and allowed me in and to see his cerebral innerworkings. When I heard his father had died in a pretty brutal way, I sort of always saw that destroying this guy, so when I first heard he was dead this morning, I thought, “Drugs?”

No. Nothing like that. Died doing sports, something he always loved. Swept away, lost in a fury of foam. And I’m so sorry he’s gone. He lived an amazing life for the short years he was around.

When it came to sports, he was invincible. Amazing athlete. Always reckless, though, so there’s a sense of a lack of surprise in his death that way, too.

It’s so sad how we slip away from friends over the years, and when one just falls away forever like this one did yesterday, it’s hard not to wonder just how much more we could have learned from them, learned of them, loved them. It’s hard not to ask if we tried hard enough.

But what we really need to do is be grateful that, somehow, our paths crossed long enough to leave a mark, long enough to maybe have changed us for our remaining days.

Rest in peace, man. You were one of the first people who ever truly made me feel cool for having known you, and then to see how much lay beneath that swank exterior, what a great gift. May your ride be everlasting, man.

PS: This is my first post-Facebook death. It’s so fucking weird to look at his profile now and see “anything with a mild element of danger” in his interests. Fucking Facebook.

Tonight’s all about cleaning my apartment and doing a little Thai cooking, so I’m just posting an email from a friend of mine.

I’m opting out of online dating for a while. My focus this month is killer workouts so I can go shopping for some hot new clothes next month, then I’ll start playing the dating game the old-fashioned way. After all, this little anecdote gives one a bit of pause:

You should write about this DB! Guy is a friend from high school. Saw his pic was from plentyoffish.com and I asked him about it. Here is what he replied back to me. Let’s call him Douche for short.

Yeah
I signed up a couple months ago, Ive got a lineup of 65 chicks what want to date me, I dont have the time or energy for them all, Had one ofer last night , Nailed her 5 times then gave her the boot, might have another one tonite and ive got chicks booked for Sunday and Monday allreasdy. Its sickening how easy it is.

Anyone want to share some thoughts or experiences of these kinds? Hmm?

Yesterday proved to be a monumental day in that I had a major breakthrough in my mental game.

Now I have to try to convey it, so let’s see what I can conjure for ya.

I was one of those kids that grew up with a lot of health issues. You’d never know it to look at me, but they were there. So, I was sick a lot throughout my childhood, till 12 years or or so, which is a whole complicated story, but I think I’m only now starting to realize how much I always believed I was different, lesser, less able than others who didn’t have health issues. (None of which plague me today.)

I just never became active, and I always, always had excuses. I’ve always had a weight problem, since I was 9. I’ve never liked to exercise. Never thought I was good at it.

Yesterday, I got up, weighed myself (on my period, that was my first mistake) and saw I’d still not lost any weight. Sat down on the couch. “It’s time to start getting drastic,” I thought. “I’ll bike.”

I felt like shit. I was tired, not well hydrated, bitchy. But I did it. And 6 blocks in I stopped, thought, “Wow, am I bagged. This’ll take forever. I can still throw the bike on the bus…” But I did it. I pushed out the next 90 blocks (12k/8m). And got there, what, six minutes earlier than two weeks ago? (45 minutes.)

I was thrilled. As work wound down, I was feeling pretty ill, yet thought it’d be more of a hassle to go get bus fare and bus the bike than it would to ride the bike home. I was halfway up the hard part of the ride home when I thought I was nuts, but still pushed. I got home 10 minutes earlier than I did 2 weeks ago, three minutes off my best time ever. (40 minutes.) It’s fucking April, man! I’m not even in “summer” shape yet… though I’m in the best shape I’ve probably ever been in. (Really.) Love having a tripometer on the bike!

I have never fought through adversity with sports. Ever. The last month or so I’ve had this realization that I need intensity in my workouts, and I need to have an intense regimen. No longer will casual biking suffice as “exercise”. Now it’s full-out, leave-it-out there every time. It has to be. But dialing that up wasn’t working for me, until last weekend.

Tonight I had a screaming headache yet still turned in a 90-minute workout with my new gym buddy. Tomorrow, it’s the stairs followed by aggressive free weights in the morning. Friday, I hope (okay “hope” isn’t the right word… “plan to because my ass needs it” maybe) to ride my bike again, if weather permits.

I was in the gym, doing my freewights, and I stared at my reflection and thought, “Okay, now I’m seeing it…” ‘Cos I haven’t done the weights-in-the-full-mirror thing since December, but now I see that my already-lost 25, 30 pounds is a significant change in my body. Like, significant. It’s been gradual, so I haven’t really noticed until tonight, really. Next paycheque, I pick up a couple items of clothing to fit my new body, then I’ll really notice things. And get noticed as being thinner, I suspect.

Now I’m thinking 50 more pounds by September won’t be so hard. If I can do this this week, then I have no excuse not to do it consistently, then, do I?

I want to be that girl that kicks ass and takes names. I want to leave men in my wake in sports. God knows I’m getting there, and faster, better, cooler than I’d hoped. Very, very rewarding, this seeing-results-thing. Very.

Actualizing who you always thought you were, putting that person out there on display for the world, making that happen, is really fucking empowering, and I’m only now starting to really experience it. Ooh, this could be fun.

And I’m totally hitting another 10 pounds loss this month. Totally. Did I mention I feel awesome? So fucking tired, but I got two more weekdays of ass-kicking and name-taking before the blessed sloth of the weekend appears. Ahhh, earned sloth, what a beauteous thing. Still, I feel strong, leaner, and crazy fucking toning starting to happen all over. Very little jiggles these days. Bounces, yes; jiggles, no. This is good.

Relationships are never, ever going to be simple ever, ever, ever again.

Get used to it.

This woman’s taken her divorce proceedings onto YouTube in an assumed effort to mock, humiliate, and god-knows-what-else her older husband. (CNN’s story is here, you’ll have to find it yourself on YouTube; I refuse to watch it in the hopes of deluding myself that we, as a race, are still better than that, if only for a short while longer.)

No, what do I really think? It’s reprehensible. Grow up.

We’re going to see a drastic revisiting of the right to privacy in the future, but I fucking dread the road that takes us there, man.

Divorces are already horrific. Bad shit comes down. Is it really necessary to take a relationship’s demise to such a nasty new plateau?

When I dated what’s-his-face a couple years back almost now, and things went south, I wrote about it. Did I get a mouthful on that one.

What I should have said was that he was a fucking hypocrite. I had said (specifically to him) my relationship would always be fodder for writing. I’d always talk about aspects of things but I’d keep specifics out, right? But everything was systems-go. Which he was pretty fucking keen about. Turns out it can be fun to be written about.

Until, of course, I finally had something bad to write about, and then he suddenly thought he had been slighted somehow. Bullshit. But whatever. That comes after me saying “Yeah, well, you know, I got carte blanche when it comes to blogging.”

Not that I think I’m anywhere NEAR this woman on any ethical scale. Not even close! I’m honest and I do kindly unto others. The thing is, I stated a caveat emptor before things got rolling and gave my intended an out — I think that’s a really important distinction to make.

This dude never signed up to be on YouTube in any way, which is half YouTube’s appeal, I guess. But is it fair?

I’m very, very unkeen on censoring speech. Freedom of speech is so very important. And I believe that– However… if people continue to do stupid-ass shit like this, rednecks are going to have a lot of ammunition regarding why freedom of speech should be a little less free.

I’m beginning to think it may be hard to mount an argument if relationships continue deteriorating so much that the only way we know how to communicate is via the internet or cells, and if slagging people a la fucking kindergarten becomes commonplace on the World Wide Web and “sucking it up” is expected de rigeur whether you deserve the exposure or not, then I’m not so sure I’m going to want to defend freedom of speech so passionately. Maybe with an asterisk next to it, like, you know:

*Free to speak, except when you’re not some deranged, slighted motherfucker with an ax to grind who’ll say anything that makes a dent…

For the first time in a long time, I miss high school a little. Coming out of French class to find a cute boy waiting with a smile. “Wanna see a movie with me Friday?” Simple, easy. “I’ll call ya tonight.” Had to pass balled up notes in the hall between classes. Simple things.

We had call waiting, that made us special. I was the first kid I knew with a push-button phone. Fuck, man, I’m 34. Smack dab at the end of one era and the start of another.

And here I am, a blogger. So I blog about whatever my life is about, right? Including relationships. Does it make me bad? No, rather an open book. But I’m open about that, too. Now I’m starting to put my feelers out for dating again, and I wonder just how any new guys might respond to the “open book” status. We’ll see.

Like I said, it’s never going to be simple again, is it? Damn you, YouTube.