supremegoddessofall: (Default)
Weight loss goals, and my progress...
Starting weight (240) - 7/1/10
Out of Obese III (<40 BMI, 218) - ACHIEVED, 7/26/10
Under 200 - ACHIEVED, 9/27/10
Out of Obese II (<35 BMI, 191) - ACHIEVED, 10/24/10
Halfway to weight loss goal (180) - ACHIEVED, 12/13/10
170 - ACHIEVED, 1/27/11
No longer obese,just overweight (<30 BMI, 163.5) - ACHIEVED, 2/21/11
160 - ACHIEVED 3/9/11
150 - ACHIEVED 5/6/11
140 -
Officially "normal" weight (<25 BMI, 136) -
130 -
125 -
120 (goal) -

Today's weight - 150

Will repost this as I hit goals...
supremegoddessofall: (Default)
The run-off LJ Idol vote has been posted - fast turn around time - tomorrow (Tuesday) at 7 p.m. EST. Bottom five go home. So if you wanna keep me alive, vote here:

[Poll #1737349]
supremegoddessofall: (Default)
I don't like guns.

Obviously, this means I don't own a gun. And I don't let my partner have a gun, either - that would be a dealbreaker, in my house. Love me or love guns, but I can't allow you to love both.

It goes a bit farther than that, however - I don't believe guns should be legal, other than hunting weapons.

The right wing squawks about guns not killing people, people kill people, yada yada yada.

Bullshit. People with guns kill people, and at far higher rates than people without guns. You are more likely to die in a home invasion if there is a gun in your house. Suicidal people are far more likely to die if there is a gun in their home. Domestic violence incidents are much more likely to turn deadly if there is a gun in the home. You name a form of violence, and you can be pretty sure that a gun nearby increases the likelihood of it happening.

So I don't like guns.

This doesn't go over well in Texas, where it seems that more people have guns than don't.

Now, I also believe in "live and let live," so generally I don't preach my anti-gun stance at people. It's sort of a necessary thing, unless I want to spend a lot of time arguing with people who are convinced that my anti-gun position means that I am a pinko American-hating Commie (well, I *am* a socialist, but that's an entirely different diatribe). But I will answer when asked directly about my position.

And my position includes the belief that most gun owners out there are deluded. I've heard the arguments about self-protection, and they don't sway me. You're more likely to die if you're toting a gun than if you're not.

I worry, sometimes, about all the guns around me that I can't see. I mean, I live in an apartment complex, after all - I've no doubt that many of my neighbors have guns. And that makes me feel unsafe. As I've said before, we're all only one bad day away from irreversible decision. And I worry that one day I, or one of my loved ones, may come across someone with a gun having that one bad day.

Rationally, I know there's not a damned thing I can do about this. Gun, knife, car accident, random act of God - we all can be on our last day on earth and never know about it.

But why increase our chances? Why keep around implements that serve no purpose but to kill? They say that God helps those that help themselves, so maybe God sees the gun and helps you along...

For most of you gun-lovers out there, I'm probably wrong. You *probably* won't die because you own a gun. But some of you will, and I will mourn you.

I work with dangerous people. Even if I weren't working with inmates, the acutely mentally ill are often at higher risk for perpetrating gun violence. Not all, of course, and not even most. But some. I, along with the rest of my school community, was reminded of this by the recent murder-suicide by a client of a graduate of our program who killed our graduate's husband and then himself. Would this have happened if he hadn't been able to get access to a gun? Maybe. But it would have been a hell of a lot less likely. As would the numerous school shootings over the last ten years perpetrated by young people who all too easily got their hands on guns.

I firmly believe that you shouldn't be able to grab a Glock to go with your gallon of milk at Wal-mart. I firmly believe that there is no purpose for automatic weapons other than killing human beings. And I firmly believe that all guns outside of the police and the military should be illegal other than basic hunting rifles.

And you will not convince me otherwise.

Get rid of the guns. Pass the potatoes, not the ammunition. Your children will thank you.

I am in a runoff this week for LJ Idol; voting link will go up some time tomorrow. If you want to keep me alive, please vote!
supremegoddessofall: (Default)
So apparently we weren't competing *with* each other, we were competing *against* each other. Because Gary is an evil bastard. Whichever of us gets the lowest votes will be in a run-off with the lowest vote-getters from the other 12 tribes and some number of that group will go home. So I must compete against the truly awesome and amazing [ profile] alephz and [ profile] joeymichaels, both of whom are some of the best writers in the competition. Definitely read their entries as well - naturally I hope you vote for me. :) Voting closes Saturday April 30th at noon.

[Poll #1735220]
supremegoddessofall: (Default)
It’s been a long time since we last saw our heroes. Time passes, and life marches on, even for superheroes. It’s harder to fight crime when your arthritis is acting up, let alone the gout!

The aging Red Raider has traded in the Red Racer for something that gets better gas mileage – even the wealthy Jack B. Nimbel finds it hard to justify the conspicuous consumption of excess fossil fuels when gas is nearly four dollars a gallon! Besides, after Nosso Slick, the Chief Financial Officer of Nimbel Industries, was convicted of insider trading, the finances of the company really took a nosedive, so every penny counts.

As for the Blue Burst, well…let’s just say that Ned Nemo may have been an ace reporter, but that no longer cuts the mustard. He never really mastered that “blogging” thing and has been struggling to simply keep his job in an age where print media is a walking carcass that isn’t aware it died.

Yup, times are tight for our hapless duo. Sure, the mayor sends out the beacon periodically for the odd bank robbery or chemical spill, but it seems that cybercrime is the wave of the future. The need for caped crusaders has been replaced by a need for a good firewall. Are our heroes becoming obsolete?

Let’s tune in and find out!


Ned shuffles to the fridge, only to find that the compressor had gone out again, so his beer was warm. Sighing, he pops it open anyway and meanders back to the couch. He’s been meaning to buy a new one before the editor cut his piece rate again. Something about needing to be more culturally sensitive… Ned snorts and thinks to himself, “You write one article about ragheads and they call you a racist…”

He glances at the dusty police radio on the dresser before beginning to nurse the beer. He grimaces at the skunky flavor – Milwaukee’s Best really is more like Milwaukee’s Beast, but when it was Guinness or his electric bill, Guinness had to go. So the Beast it is, for now anyway…

Ned burps and takes another swig. No matter how long he stares at the radio, it only squawks about routine traffic stops and public intoxication.

Which reminds him, he needs to get his own PI ticket taken care of. PI, what an inane charge! You urinate on one park bench and they want to call you an alcoholic…

Maybe I really should stop drinking, Ned thinks to himself, finishing the beer and opening a second. His rounded beer belly gurgles at the introduction of more cheap alcohol. Nah, he thinks.


Meanwhile, on the other side of town Jack is attempting to plunge a toilet. He lets loose a stream of profanity as he manages to slosh sewage onto his Versace alligator wing-tips. He mentally curses Mycroft for having the indecency to die of old age before reminding himself that these things happen. He mentally makes a note to put another ad in the paper for a butler, preferably one with an English accent. Or at least one that speaks English – Guadalupe simply wasn’t working out.

Clog removed, Jack retires to his study and mixes a vodka gimlet. Nothing like Grey Goose to help him forget that his pant leg smells of shit! He opens his briefcase and takes out the latest quarterly report on Nimbel Industries to review before the shareholder’s meeting next week. A quick glance at the sharp downward slope of the arrows on the earnings graph is enough to start his head pounding again.

Jack sets down the gimlet and reaches for his Atenolol. Dr. Noah E. Tawl increased the dosage of both his blood pressure medication and his migraine medication at Jack’s last appointment. Apparently financial ruin is bad for the blood pressure – who knew? All Jack knows is that he can’t afford to have another stroke. The last one almost killed him and left him with a permanent droop to the left side of his once handsome face.

Abandoning the financial reports for the newspaper, he skips over Ned’s latest column on “the Muslim threat” and reads Laura G. Tata’s latest expose on Hollywood gossip. Maybe Ms. Tata has the inside scoop on the latest Brangelina drama…

Jack reads a few paragraphs about the latest season of The Real Housewives of Toledo before spitting the remnants of his gimlet out of his nose. He rereads Ms. Tata’s most recent commentary:

In amazing news, it seems that the next big Hollywood blockbuster isn’t just coming to a theater near you, it’s being filmed near you! That’s right Metronians – “Who Wants To Be Sold To A Russian Brothel?” is going to be filmed right here in Metro City! And they’re looking for extras! If you are a hot young woman aged 16 to 24, now is your chance to break into stardom! Just be at the Metro Central Plaza today at ten in the morning and see if you’ve got what the casting directors are looking for! Director Malice has said that preference will be given to young women with no family or friends and valid passports! See you there!


Jack glances at his watch and notes that it’s almost eleven. He bolts out of the chair and heads for the secret entrance to the Raider Retreat. He barely catches himself as he falls over on the mop bucket Guadalupe forgot to put away.


Meanwhile, Director Malice, formerly Major Malice, looks across the Plaza at a sea of young nymphettes eager for stardom. He chuckles to himself at the naivete of the girls. The driver opens the door to the limousine and he steps out, bracing himself for the expected high-pitched shrieking of the buxom beauties.

They do not disappoint.

“Ladies, ladies, you’ll all get your chance!” Malice nods to his henchman-producer Hugh G. Val, who begins to hand out applications. “Make sure to sign on the bottom of page ten; don’t worry about the small print, it’s just the standard information about your union rights.”

As expected, the star-struck bimbettes don’t bother reading before signing. Malice makes a mental cackle as Hugh collects the forms. “Alright, form lines behind each of these nice white-paneled vans so we can drive you to the studio for auditions.”

“Stop right there, Malice!” The Red Raider’s voice booms from across the plaza. “Unhand those women!” He strides across the plaza and stops before Malice, hands on hips.

“Unhand them? They’re here of their own accord! I even have their signatures, right here!” Malice shoves a signed contract under the Raider’s nose. “Looks like my ducks are in a row, Scarlet Sucker!”

The Red Raider scans the document. “Lifelong indentured sexual servitude in Siberia? That’s some terribly un-fine fine print!”

“Perhaps so, but they’ve signed and there’s nothing you can do to stop me! So buzz off, Maroon Moron!” Malice motions to Hugh, who puts his hand on the gun barely concealed underneath his jacket. Hugh and his assistant-producer-henchmen begin to inch forward. The girls continue to mindlessly pile in vans.


Ned smacks at the nightstand. What was the buzzing sound? Annoyed, he grabs the phone and slurs into it. “This better be good, I was dreaming about a threesome with Megan Fox and Katy Perry.”

He listens for a minute as the Red Raider kvetches. Something about women and legally binding contracts and vans and…Malice?

He bolts out of bed, knocking over five empty Beasts on the nightstand in the process. Digging through his laundry, he finds a pair of blue tights that aren’t too stained and pulls them on.

“Give me five minutes” the still inebriated Blue Burst informs the Red Raider. He stumbles into the bathroom for a quick piss and a shave. Three minutes and a considerably more empty bladder later, the Blue Burst is on his way to Metro Central Plaza on his moped. He kicks himself again for the DUI that cost him his license – the moped is so much slower than the Blue Blazer was, and its a hell of a lot harder to smoke on a moped. He once again regrets that Chevy pulled his endorsement after he ran over that pedestrian... The Blue Burst putts along the highway and vows again to stop drinking. Next week.


That’s all for this week, folks!

Will the Red Raider and the Blue Burst save the nubile cuties from a certain life of turning tricks for slovenly Russian businessmen? Or will Malice’s binding legal contract render the Dynamic Duo wrapped in endless red tape? And more importantly, will Guadalupe be fired once and for all? Will Ned get on the wagon?

All this and more, next time in Dynamic Stories!


This has been an entry for LJ Idol. This week we were in groups of three. My story is "part three" of a superhero saga started here by [ profile] alephz and continued here by [ profile] joeymichaels. If you enjoyed our stories, the poll will be posted sometime toorrow.
supremegoddessofall: (Default)
Poll is up for LJ Idol. As I said in my post, I am linked with [ profile] i_17bingo, so our votes count together. If you liked one or both pieces you can vote below. The bottom two teams will be eliminated. Voting closes Saturday at 10 a.m. EST.

[Poll #1731842]
supremegoddessofall: (Default)
Sometimes days go by and no one comes. Weeks even.

That's the way of it, these days.

Les Américains no longer revere our fashion esthétique the way they once did. de Vise, Doucat, Paquin...these names mean nothing to les Américains any more. Even Chanel must compete with the Gap and Wal-Mart.

Odious, Wal-Mart is. But what can one do? C'est la manière des choses.

My shoppe, it grows dusty. I smell the mildew trying to take hold. But it will not win - let it never be said that Madame de la Rouche keeps a dirty store.

Once I was the busiest magasin d'habillement in all of New York City. The mayor's wife, she came frequently. All the stars of Broadway, too. Where else to get the latest Parisian fashion but at An American in Paris? The waiting list to even enter was months long.

But no more. Les Américains that came earlier were my first customers this week. And they left without buying. Probably couldn't have afforded my wares anyway. C'est la vie.

Les Américains...I both love them and loathe them. They are so full of hope, of life. They look at the sky and see a future of wonder, of joy.

Or at least they were - now their eyes look down instead of up. They move like rats in the Paris subway - scurrying along, suspicious of their neighbors.

I moved from Paris as a young girl, with stars in my eyes. I saw the bright lights, the bustle of the city. I would be part of le rêve Américain. I would create my dream. And so I did - An American in Paris was my dream.

And for awhile, the city dreamed with me.

But no more.

The world changes. I become obsolete. One day no one will remain who remembers Madame de la Rouche and her An American in Paris.

C'est la manière des choses.

This has been an entry for LJ Idol. Once again, we are paired together, so my fate is linked to [ profile] i_17bingo. His entry is linked above - I encourage you to read it first, as his nonfictional tale inspired my fictional one. If you want to vote for one or both of us, the poll will likely be up later today.
supremegoddessofall: (Default)
Voting is up for LJ Idol. Voting closes Saturday at 2 p.m. EST. I'm linked with [ profile] applespicy this week, so it's the total of hers and mine together that matters. The lowest two pairs (4 people altogether) will be eliminated. If you want to vote for one or both of us, here's the poll:

[Poll #1729815]
supremegoddessofall: (Default)
I can't believe the fuckers actually caught me.

I know, I was careless. I was supposed to just be scoping out the Depot for the Action next month. But when I saw the Animals trying to rape the little sisters, I guess I just lost it. I mean, just because the little sisters don't have Minds doesn't mean they're not Our sisters, you know? know what happened next.

The Animals think with their fists, and little else.

They're beasts. Gaia gave the Animals brains but damned if they'll use them.

Beat and fuck, beat and fuck some more - that's all they know, all they care about.

And they wonder why We want to stop them.

Well, actually...they don't seem to wonder at all. Because if they did they would have noticed two things. First, we only target Animals. Second, they rarely catch a male Brain. Brain...what a silly, inarticulate way to describe what We are. But what else can you expect, from Animals?


We call Ourselves the Children of the Mind.

Most of Us are women, of course. Gaia knew what She was doing when She handed out the Talent, so it's only natural that most of Us are women. Those few men among Us are the Special ones - the ones more like women, so they think more like the rest of Us. Usually they are lovers of men, which suits Us just fine. Regardless, they will copulate with Us when needed - it's the only way We can ensure that Our children will also be Children of the Mind.


They think We can't talk. That's the Animals for you - always assuming that if they can't see it, touch it, or feel it, it doesn't exist. Dumbasses.

Of course We can talk. Gaia didn't take Our human voices when She gave Us Our Minds.

But why walk when you can run? We don't talk because We have no need.


They'll put the Lock on soon, of course.

I am but one, and my talents are limited. I'll take out a few more before they can put me in the Lock, but eventually they will.

And then I'll be sent to the Quiet Grounds. Others who have escaped were nearly mad when they came back to Us. I can only imagine what it will be like - to be unable to hear my Sisters. To be unable to call out, to be heard. To be limited in such a way.

I can only hope that my Mind survives. Not everyone's does.

I will wait for my Sisters to free me, and hope.


The Animals tell the public they have caught Us all. They're wrong, of course. We've just gotten better about hiding Ourselves from their Eyes. We watch, We wait, and We grow strong.

The Animals should be afraid. They aren't, of course - Animals think they know everything, and since they don't know about Us, clearly We must not exist.

We watch, and We wait.

One day soon, Our numbers will be enough. One day soon, We will play the odds.

One day...

But not yet.


Come, my Sisters.

I am waiting.


This has been a post for LJ Idol. This week my fate is linked to the lovely [ profile] applespicy. Her entry is here. Ideally hers should be read before mine. If you want to vote, the link will be up later in week.


Apr. 7th, 2011 09:29 pm
supremegoddessofall: (Default)
Voting is up for LJ Idol. If you want to vote, the poll is linked below. Voting closes Sunday at 7 p.m. EST. This week you have to be a community member to vote. Bottom two go home.

[Poll #1727842]
supremegoddessofall: (gay terror alert)
Someone wrote "queer" on my car the other day.

Honestly, I have no idea how long it was there - it was my girlfriend who noticed it.

We were getting in the car, headed off to pick up a friend. I got in, but she stood there for a minute and stared at the passenger side door.

"Did you know someone wrote in the dust on your car?"

No, I hadn't.

But they had. Someone had written "queer," and someone (else? the same person?) had then attempted to erase it.

Part of me is curious as to who did it, and why. Was it a neighbor? Someone at school? If, so, who? One of my students? A peer?

And was it designed to be an insult, or a compliment?

I mean, I am, after all, queer. A dyke, a byke, a lesbian-identified woman, a pansexual, a Kinsey 5....I am all of those things, so I can truly be upset if someone else labels me as such?

And yet...

We still live in a world where kids play "smear the queer" as children. Where "queer" is a slur hurled at those who dare to be variant in their gender presentation or love interest. Where "queers" are sometimes beaten, tied to fences, and left to die.

A world where, because I am "queer," I can be fired in many states simply for being perceived as queer. A world where I cannot marry, and am not guaranteed many of the basic rights non-queer people take for granted.

And so I do wonder who decided to whisper queer onto my car. And I wonder what they meant by it. Was it an affirmation of who I am? Or was it yet another way in which to designate me as different, as other.


When I was 20 years old and discovering my political self, Matthew Shepard was murdered shortly before National Coming Out Day (NCOD). At the time, I was heavily involved in the LGBT organization at my school. We already had an event planned for NCOD, and while we were unwilling to allow the tragedy to overshadow what was meant to be a celebration of our lives, we also couldn't ignore it.

And so I was chosen to be the voice of our group. The voice of my people. This is what I said that day, and what was broadcast on the news:

Let me tell you a story: Last week, late Tuesday or early Wednesday in Laramie, Wyoming, two men, Russell Henderson and Aaron Mckinney, drove off from a bar in a truck with a young man named Matthew Shepard. Once inside the truck, they beat Matthew, then drove to the outskirts of Laramie. There, they proceeded to tie him, crucifix style, to a fence, and beat him some more. Then they burned him with cigarettes, smashed in the back of his skull with a handgun, and left him to die. When he was found late Wednesday afternoon, almost eighteen hours after
the ordeal began, the bicyclists who rescued him first thought that he was a scarecrow, dangling and strapped to the fence. Early Monday morning, Matthew died in the hospital, having never regained consciousness.

What did Matthew do to "provoke" this? He embarrassed one of the men. Let me say that again--he embarrassed one of them. Matthew was gay. He made the mistake of making a pass at one of the men. And they killed him for it.

Matthew's killers will be tried for first-degree murder, robbery, and kidnapping. But they will not be charged with committing a hate crime. Wyoming, along with several other states, including New York, has yet to pass hate-crime legislation including hate crimes committed because of real or perceived sexual orientatino. And thus the true reason Matthew
Shepard was murdered will not be entered into the lawbooks. Make no doubtabout it--Matthew Shepard was killed because he was gay.

Why do we tell you this story, especially on today, of all days? Today is supposed to be a celebration, a marking of all the progress we have made. Today we celebrate the tenth anniversary of Coming Out Day. But how can we celebrate, how can we feel we've accomplished anything, when things like this still happen?

Today is the day where queer people all over the country take the step, or celebrate having taken the step, to come out of the closet. To stop hiding, stop pretending. To stop changing pronouns when talking about the people we love. To feel proud of who we are and who we love,
instead of ashamed.

I strongly fear that many of our brothers and sisters may want to return to the safety of that closet. To feel that they have to make a choice between being gay and staying alive.

But we cannot go back, now more than ever. Rather, we need to come out stronger and more often. If we are as visible as we can be, if every gay man and woman came out, perhaps we wouldn't seem so isolated, so few. It's easier to fear and hate what you do not now. And as long as we remain closeted, we shall forever be the other.

We are your mothers and fathers, your brothers and sisters, your aunts and uncles, your cousins, your friends, your neighbors, and your classmates. We are old and young, fat and thin, healthy and not, rich and poor. We are lesbians and gays, bisexuals and transgendereds, fags and dykes, butches and femmes, queers and queens. And we have always been here. Someone you love, right now, is queer. And they are struggling. Let them know that you love them. Make them feel safe. And make sure that we never have another young man or woman die like Matthew Shepard did.

We'd like to ask that everyone in the Union participate in a minute of silence in memory of Matthew Shepard and the countless thousands of gay men and women who have also been murdered whose names are unknown.

You'll be glad to know that the thousand or so onlookers did indeed observe a minute of silence.


I gave that speech more than ten years ago. So much has changed in that time, but so much remains to be changed.

So I will remain watchful, remain vigilant. Sometimes the whisperers don't stop at cowardly writing. Sometimes they come with knives. Or with guns.

It would be easy to remain hidden. As a femme, I often am not visible as a queer woman. It would be a simple matter to allow myself to be perceived as heterosexual.

But I cannot. Or rather, I will not. I will wear my "queer flag" on my sleeve, and I will wear it proudly.

I cannot countenance doing otherwise, as long as my brothers and sisters who can't pass as easily for "straight" do not have the luxury that I do. So I stand in solidarity. I refuse to change pronouns. I speak about my wife, and I use that language to do so. I out myself whenever appropriate, to as many people as appropriate.

Because they need to know we're here, even when they don't think they can see us.

And I won't stop. Not until "queer" is no longer a whispered insult.

Even if that means that sometimes I get "queer" written on my car.

Which I haven't washed. And don't plan to any time in the near future, either.

Let them see I'm queer.

And let them see I won't back down.

I am indeed here. I am indeed queer.

And you better well get used to it.
supremegoddessofall: (Default)
My partner's father is incarcerated for first-degree murder.

For life, without the possibility of parole. Seeing as how he's in his 60's and not in the best of health, we expect that he'll die in there.

Now, this isn't a case of "getting screwed by the man" or an innocent man taking the fall for someone else. It's nothing so romantic than that. He is absolutely, positively guilty.

Don't think that he's a bad man, because he's not. He was a career military man and served several tours in Vietnam. Afterward, he worked as a correctional officer for several years. He wasn't always the greatest father, and was known to cheat on his wife, but he wasn't a bad man.

I'll say it again - he wasn't a bad man, he just had a bad day.

A hell of a bad day, but a bad day all the same. See, money was tight and he didn't know how to tell his wife that the bank was foreclosing on the house. So when the deputy sheriff came with the new owner to evict him from his home, he didn't handle it too well. In addition to trashing the house prior to their arrival, when the deputy knocked on the door, he answered it with a loaded gun. He then proceeded to fire that gun at the deputy and the owner, and succeeded in killing the owner.

After discharging the gun, he retreated into the house and shot himself in the head. The bullet went through his cheek and out his temple.

The man couldn't even kill himself successfully - sad, I know.

I should at this point note a couple of things:
1) He was drunk as a skunk when the police showed up to arrest him.
2) Although he surrendered himself without a fuss, he did claim that he had planted a bomb in the house. There was no bomb.
3) When at the police station awaiting interrogation, there is video tape showing him sitting in a room alone singing "I shot the sheriff, but I should have shot the deputy."

Now, although this all happened in early 2003, my partner didn't know about any of this until late 2003, as her mother didn't bother to tell her about it until then (they had been estranged). When we went to visit him, he was very clear that he had indeed done the deed. When we asked how it all came about, he simply said, as noted above, "I had a bad day."

A bad day indeed, but how many of us truly can say that we're not one bad day of our own away from being in the same place?

Now, I know many readers out there are saying "but I would never kill someone!"

Would you? Probably not. But have you ever had too much to drink? Have you ever done things you regretted while drunk? Have you ever (sober or not) been so angry you've said "I could kill them right now!" or other similar things?

I'd be willing to bet you have.

And maybe, just maybe, a confluence of these sorts of events will lead you to your own bad day. Maybe you won't kill someone. Maybe you'll just drink and drive. Maybe you'll just speed. But maybe you'll run a red light and hit a pedestrian.

Still deny that it could be you? Let's look at something else - how many of us are one or two paychecks away from complete and utter financial ruin? We all know we *should* be saving money, but how many of us do? We're *supposed* to have two years worth of money in savings "just in case." I don't know too many people that have *two months* set aside, let alone too years.

In reality, your security is illusory.

Your freedom is also illusory.

Indeed, your sense of control over your life is illusory.

You may think "I'll never be one of *them*" when you see a homeless person or an inmate. But you're deluding yourself.

The reality it is that you're *already* one of them. You just haven't had your one bad day yet.

I hope beyond hopes that I'll never have my one bad day. But I know I could have one.

And that's why I don't see inmates or homeless people as "the other." I look at them and I see us. Us with one bad day.

This has been a post for LJ Idol. If you liked it and want to vote, the link will be up later in the week.
supremegoddessofall: (Default)
Polls are up for this week's LJ Idol if you want to vote. We're all in one tribe this time. Lowest five go home. Polls close Saturday at 3 p.m. EST.

[Poll #1721301]
supremegoddessofall: (Default)
I wish my jetsam would, y'know...JET.

But it keeps fucking hanging around, making waves, reminding me in a not-so-subtle tone "Bitch, you still need to deal with us." And then sticks out its tongue and goes "nyah nyah nyah."

Whatever, whatever, yada yada.

Mostly my jetsam costs me money. I may have dealt with the baggage itself, but the drain on my pocket reminds me (frequently) that it's not gone yet.

Let's start with the house. Although I now live in Texas, I'm still floating a mortgage back in North Carolina. Let me tell you how much fun it is to float a mortgage and rent (and all the other associated monetary goodies that come with the non-virtual version of Life) on a grad student's "salary."

I may finally have an opportunity to cut the strings there, though - there is (finally) a contract pending on the house. I'll probably still end up having to pay nearly a thousand dollars at closing just to get rid of the thing, but at least then I can wipe my hands of it.

Then there's my former job (well, a few jobs ago). Y'see, I started working as the clinical coordinator at an agency back in 2008. They *might* have neglected to mention that at the time they owed Medicaid nearly a hundred thousand dollars and thus didn't have the money to do little things like, y'know, pay the staff? Even after they copped to the money issues, my dumb ass (and several others) fought the good fight and tried to turn the agency around for several months. But you can't get blood from a stone, and so we eventually quit and the agency went under. Never did get paid, to the tune of nearly 10k.

I could really use that 10k. But since the owner of the agency filed bankruptcy, the odds I'll ever see a dime are slim to none (and naturally, Slim's out of town). But I keep the "amount owed" in my Excel tracking just in case, and it burns me every time I look at it.

There are little snippets, too. Little "owed to me" in my spreadsheet that I'll likely never see. Friends who I loaned money to when they were going through rough patches.

I know, I know, you should always consider money given to friends as gifts rather than loans. But they said they would pay it back and never have, and so the column in my spreadsheet mocks me.

And then finally there's the motherload. The big ole crowning glory. My ex-husband. Not that he was a bad man or anything, but that's 160 pounds of dead weight that definitely needed to get tossed overboard.

The divorce was fairly amicable, and there was an (unofficial, of course) understanding that he owed me just shy of 20k as his share of the credit card debt we had accumulated while together.

Because he was lazy (and a dumbass), he never bothered taking me off the car insurance, so we mutually agreed that that "counted" as him paying $100 a month off of what he owed me (generous on my part, I feel, given that now that I finally pay for my own insurance it costs my girlfriend and I $100 a month combined to insure both our vehicles. But I digress.). That finally stopped in August 2010. Our agreement post-divorce started in June 2006. I'll let you do the math.

So I have been poking at him for quite awhile to begin some form of payment plan - say maybe $300 to $500 a month. Has he done anything about it? No, of course not.

I've been a patient gal, really I have. But I feel my claws below the surface, and they're itching to come out.

See, I feel for him - he and his new wife have two special needs children that have a ton of medical bills.

But I have bills, too, dammit.

And I also have years worth of email in which he confirms exactly how much money he owes me.

So my inner bitch is about to go on the warpath. Had a darling accountant friend crunch the math for me - how much would he owe me given the fact that I have still been paying interest on the credit cards and considering the "payments" he has made to me? If you're math-inclined, you're welcome to figure it out, but let's just say that it's *considerably* more than the principal balance he would owe if he would just start making payments. Like nearly double. So his choices will be to either start repayment on the principal or I will go after him in court for the full amount, with interest and court costs.

Pretty soon I'm going to have to send a nasty-gram via email to him. I really don't want to threaten him. Really. But this has got to stop, and I need my money.

I don't expect he'll respond well, and part of why I'm waiting is to make sure I have the energy to deal with whatever nastiness he throws back at me.

But I will get around to sending that email, and soon. I need to be able to cut loose that rope once and for all and say "so long, farewell" to the jetsam that just won't float away.

This has been an entry for LJ Idol. If you want to vote (and assuming it's a public vote), the link will be up later today or tomorrow.
supremegoddessofall: (Default)
Haven't done one of these in awhile...there's a lot so I'll put it behind a cut...

Lots o'links and videos, oh my! )
supremegoddessofall: (Default)
Confessions of the Slightly Obsessed

Please don't tell me about the latest Facebook game.

Please don't tell me about how great Twitter is.

Please don't tell me about this new book/movie/show/green dancing alien that I simply *must* see.

No, really. Don't tell me. I don't wanna hear about it, don't wanna know about it.

Because if it is as great as you say (and quite possibly, even if it sucks big sweaty balls) I will end up addicted to it.

Just ask my girlfriend - among other things, she's watched me go through Neopets, Farmville, Pogo games, Yahoo pinochle, and more television shows that you can count (she's quite sick of Dr. Who.)

The obsession du'jour is's version of mah jongg.

My obsessions usually have rules. For mah jongg, the rule is that I must play until I get a score of at least 12,000 across two games. Sometimes that means I'm playing for ten minutes. But sometimes that means I'm playing for several hours.

Yes, I know - it borders on compulsiveness.

Well, I guess I *could* just stop. But then I get anxious. And when I'm anxious I'm not productive, so I might as well just engage in the compulsion anyway.

Vicious cycle, it is.

I don't know where I get this from, but it seems I've always been this way. I suppose in some ways it's an extension of my anal-retentiveness. I have an organization system for everything, and god help you if you mess any of them up. CDs, books, clothes - a place for everything and everything in its place.

And let's not get started on TV! Survivor? Never miss an episode. Glee? Totally there. Want to know what's happening with Gray's Anatomy or Private Practice? I'm your woman. And I'm your woman for about twenty other shows, too.

It's really quite pathetic. I know this. I waste at least 20-30 hours per week maintaining my obsessions and compulsions. Sure, the anal-retention serves me well when it comes to schoolwork. But all the obsessions and compulsions reduce the time I have for the productive things?

But I could quit. Really I could. I can quit any time.


And now if you'll excuse me, I need to return to watching Gary Busey be crazy on The Celebrity Apprentice.

This has been a post for LJ Idol. Voting link will be up later in the week if you want to vote.
supremegoddessofall: (Default)
If you enjoyed my kink-related entry from earlier in the week and would like to vote for it, the poll is up. Bottom three are going home, so vote vote vote if you want to see me write more stuff (let's face it, if it weren't for this competition I would barely blog at all - stupid grad school!). Voting closes Thursday at 9 p.m. EST.

[Poll #1714506]
supremegoddessofall: (BDSM)
I beat people for fun.

I make welts, bruises, and sometimes even abrasions.

I hit them with riding crops. I hit them with paddles. I hit them with my hands, with bats, and even (sometimes) with tent stake mallets.

I affix clothespins to their balls and cackle with delight as they scream when I pull them off. It's especially fun to make a zipline with them - want to see?

I hook up TENS units to their balls and turn up the current - higher, higher, just a little higher than they can stand.

I make them crawl, make them worship at my feet, and slap them when they don't do as they're told.

I make them grovel, make them beg, and most importantly, make them cry.

I push them to their limits and make them realize those limits are more than what they believed them to be.

I get excited when they bleed. When the red rises up and coalesces into concrete signs of my handiwork.

And when I am done they say "thank you, Mistress" and yearn for more.

And I enjoy what I do. Oh, do I enjoy it.

I am a dominatrix, a top, a mistress - choose your word, because at some level they're all the same.

Fuck the semantics, the protocol - just call me a giver of pain to those who seek it.

I love the screams, the tears, and the sight of bright red blood running down the curve of a quivering back.

And they enjoy what I do. Oh, do they enjoy it.

They seek me out at parties, at events. They send me messages begging me to hurt them. They follow me like puppies, yearning for a scrap of my attention.

A true sadist, I often make them wait. Make them wait until the need to be subsumed to my will vibrates through them like a California earthquake on the Richter scale.

And then, only then, do my eyes, full of fire, dart to them and say "you."

They crawl to me, melted puddles to my hardened ice.

And we begin.

At a recent event. I'm the short one.

This has been a post for LJ Idol. If you would like to vote, I'll post the poll later in the week.
supremegoddessofall: (Default)
Voting time again, and now I'm back in the main competition. If you liked my poem from earlier in the week, please vote for me. Bottom two in my poll get eliminated. Voting closes Tuesday at 9 p.m. EST.

[Poll #1710695]
supremegoddessofall: (lj idol)
I am a Scapegoat yearning to be an eScapegoat,
for whatever the fuck that means.

I am nebulous in my solidity,
Translucent in my opacity.
(If you have to ask if both are possible,
you don't know all.)

I aspire to the Queen of Wands,
or maybe that of Swords -
instead I am the Hanged Man,
or perhaps the Fool.

I shall never be the unblinking Sphinx -
her blind Eye sees
what my open eyes are Blinded to.

Or maybe I plucked my own eyes out -
Oedipus no longer worthy of Sight.

I am not cold because I am quiet in the telling,
and your tears do not mean you feel more than I.

Even Anchors grow tired of the weight,
and long to be unmoored.
You may find it heavy to be a burden all the time,
yet I find it a burden to be heavy all the time.

But Function follows Form,
and Anchor-shaped girls
become Anchor-shaped women
become Anchors.

No one ever asks the Anchor
if it needs to be Held.

And Form follows Function,
so anchor becomes Anchor becomes ANCHOR,
and it no longer remembers
what it is to be Free.

To be ungrounded, floating.

Atlas never asked to carry it, you know -
stoicism wins top prize at the masque.

Still Atlas gets tired, too,
and he has long forgotten how to Shrug -
Who carries Atlas,
when he is worn out and shaking?

Maybe robots do dream of electric sheep.

I wouldn't know.

I tilt my head and affirm
that One is always Glad to be of Service.


supremegoddessofall: (Default)
Kimberly Boyd-Bowman

May 2011

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