Grief

Grief: 

Keen mental suffering or distress over affliction or loss; sharp sorrow; painful regret. 

Hello Grief.

I thought I knew you, I thought we had met many times before. I now know that they were just shadows left in your wake. Oh graceless crestfallen Grief; I offer myself as a sacrifice as your consumption acts like quicksand and my sweet resignation offers my limp lifeless body to be swallowed in deliverance.  

Dear graceless Grief,

You are the most sorrowful of sorrows, I have forgotten how to breath in your wraith. My heart is crying out of my chest and ripping through my skin as it breaks my breastbone. It is dying from the agony of the loss of something that I never had. My body aches for a life that was never meant for me and you Grief have come to ingurgitate what little is left.

I confess to you Grief, I want to rip my skin from my bones, crawl out of my body and float into the abyss where I belong.

I confess to you Grief, I am the most bereaved and heinous of people.

I confess to you Grief, I knew nothing of life and love and loss, until I met you.

You are my knight, not in shinning armour, but rather in tar and feathers.

My resignation is my gift.

I am yours to devour.

`Thank you. Goodbye

I love you.

It sounds crazy — but it’s true

I love you

for everything that you’ve already become

and everything that you could still be.

I love you

for the home that you build me in my imagination

and the life that we had together in my dreams.

I love you

for the pain that you triggered in my heart

because it birthed a moment of enlightenment

and I love you

for the fire that you lit in my sex

because you ignited something that I thought was lost forever.

I love you.

It sounds crazy, but it’s true.

Calling on God

I went down to crazy town

and took a shot of madness.

Speeding through the waves of sanity,

tickling the teat of sadness.

Let’s play make believe.

I’ll wear my mask,

You can keep yours.

We can swim in the chaos naked

and fish for a life of distraction.

A Love Story That's Not So Lovely

DISCLAIMER: The names have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved.

Dear Len,

 

This is what I would tell you if I could tell you the truth…

 

You have more on your plate than I can consume but I wanted to anyway. I wanted to eat you all up. Maybe it was your sadness – if I could heal yours, then maybe there was hope for mine. It was definitely your vibrance, your comfort in your own body, the way you owned yourself, your enthusiasm, the joy you had when you talked about things you loved, your attention to me and how you seemed genuinely interested in who I was…initially at least.

 

I was so broken and bruised from my past that I was deformed. I’ve mended with deep scars and fractures never cast. I knew that getting romantically involved with anyone before stabilizing myself could lead to a massive break, but I was enamored by you and excited in every way. Against my intuition, against my better judgment, I jumped in headfirst without a paddle.

 

My life had been an epic failure, progressively declining since 2017. Moving to NB was a last-ditch effort to get back on track. I lost nearly everything and then threw away what little was left, from career to friends, family, and lovers. I arrived in Fredericton with nothing but a droplet of hope that the area’s natural beauty, or the raw power of a total life change, could inspire the strength I needed to start again.

 

It’s no lie to say that, in a way, meeting you was the best thing to happen to me in a very long time. Initially you treated me with dignity and respect, and I fell for your caring and attention. It was easy to talk with you; we would get so immersed in conversation that waitresses would have to come back to our table 3 or 4 times to ask if we’d looked at the menu. You claimed interest in my work, you wanted to hear about my art, you texted constantly and sent weird but cute selfies throughout the day. You wanted to spend time with me almost every day and even acknowledged that you could be a little intense at times. You said that you didn’t want to fuck this up and gave me space when I needed it, affirming that you would be there when I came back because our connection was too special to throw away.

 

You asked me to participate in activities with you and made it seem like you were planning to have me in your life in the future. You sent me a link to the Atlantic Ballet Theatre of Canada’s summer recital series, a full six months away, and asked me if this was something I’d like to do. I responded by saying that I’d already been but yes, I would love to go again, and then said that we should hold off from committing to anything and if we’re still in each other’s life in 5 months we’ll buy tickets. You said you didn’t like the sound of that. I took that as you didn’t like the sound of us not being together in 5 months, but in retrospect maybe you meant something different.

 

There are so many things about you that I liked. You’re funny and fun. You said you’d do silly things with me like drive around to look at the Christmas lights and play bingo. You said you were interested in healing and open to meditation and didn’t get spooked at my God talk. You love being outdoors and would’ve gone hiking with me and, believe it or not, I was really looking forward to winter camping – terrified but looking forward to it – because it was going to be with you, and I knew we’d have an amazing time together and you would keep me safe. I was lonely and desperate for connection, and you were a shiny, sexy ray of sunshine that was filling the gaping hole in my chest.

 

Looking back, it’s clear what a danger this was. My loneliness and desperation led me to ignore that little voice in my head, that very first night we met, that spoke up in alarm when you shared what most would consider private, intimate details about your mental health and illnesses. I ignored that little voice as it sounded the alarm about your new divorce, PTSD, intense pharmaceutical regime, and recreational drug and alcohol use.

 

That list should have been enough, but it wasn’t until you divulged your affinity for porn, and your serious desire to make your own, that I started to really panic. We had taken an edible that night, and when you first started to talk about it, I thought you were joking. I laughed, hard, because I was stoned, but the joke didn’t have a punch line. In my increasingly paranoid state, I finally asked if you were just kidding. You very enthusiastically said, “NO!” and proceeded to pitch the idea like a pimp to a new recruit: you would make me into a porn star, we would make so much money, I was so hot that “they” would all come to watch me, we would block out my face so that no one would recognize me. You exuberantly explained how we could easily make 10 thousand dollars a week.

 

It was the most degrading experience I’d ever had. I’ve dated some real winners, but no man ever disrespected me so much that they were willing to exploit me in this way. I couldn’t believe what I was listening to; worst of all, I couldn’t believe that I was even listening to it. Nauseous, shocked, and sad, I stayed up all night after you left, replaying the conversation like a broken record.

 

There was a shift, I felt it in my body. Something fundamental changed. I needed to talk to you sober about that night. I needed to know what the fuck was going on and what the fuck did I just listen to? I swore to myself that I would bring it up, but I was too scared. I was scared to be left alone and scared to hear what I already knew was true in my heart. So I waited as my heartbreak stewed and anger percolated.

 

When you stood me up a week later to spend the evening chatting up your new crush, who is here on asylum from a war-torn country, who barely speaks English, who has two young children and a husband fighting in that war, I spun out. When he’s released, do you think her husband is going to shake your hand and thank you, a recently divorced man spending time alone with his wife and children in a country an ocean away, while he is risking his life fighting a war he didn’t sign up for?

 

I sent you a text that night that went something like this: “Having fun snorting cocaine off your woke hippy coworkers’ hairy asses while you make porn?” You were offended and replied something like: “I would never jeopardize my relationship with my coworkers by asking them to make porn.” This was the answer to the question I was passive-aggressively avoiding. How very Canadian of me, and you. I was the whore, and she was the Madonna.

 

I should have listened to you that very first night, when you said you just wanted a fuck once a week. You flat out said that you weren’t looking for anything serious. Of course, I completely understand why you didn’t want anything serious. Had we been run-of-the-mill friends, I would have agreed that jumping into something wouldn’t be wise given your current life circumstances.

 

After it all fell apart, our mutual friend apologized to me for ever introducing us. I told her it wasn’t her fault, she was just being a good friend. You gave her some watered-down version of the story, stripped of detail, making me seem like an overreactive queen who freaked out when you just wanted to hang out with your friends. Of course, she was shocked once I told her what actually happened. It must have been the medication, she claimed. She said that she’s known you for 10 years, that this was completely out of character. I believe that she believes this. She cares about you and wants to see the best in you – that’s what friends do. I can’t help but suspect that the version of every story she’s gotten from you throughout the years was a similar idealized version of what really happened. I would even wager that, in your mind and in your stories, your ex was always the one overreacting. But maybe that’s just my way of protecting myself from being hurt by you ever again.

 

Knowing myself the way I do, had I been in a stronger frame of mind that first night we met, I would have taken a taxi home alone , leaving you to explore whatever debauchery you could find in the crowd of 20 somethings. After listening to your traumas, something deep within me already knew that you were in no place to love a woman like me. You are in no place to love anyone. You are too immersed in your illnesses. You’re looking for a distraction, a woman that will coddle you in your pain and baby you in your suffering and transform your victimhood into a gold medal, because that is your fuel right now.

 

Still, I’m sorry. I’m sorry if I said or did anything to hurt you, I’m sorry that I didn’t listen to you, I’m sorry that I didn’t ask more questions and I’m sorry that I didn’t explain myself clearly. I got wrapped up in my own pain and took advantage of your enthusiasm. I could have handled it differently. I could have given it a minute, or maybe not. Maybe it was all inevitable.

 

This experience has provided me with invaluable healing, helping to dissolve traumas long buried from childhood. I feel a freedom I’ve never felt before and know that I can surrender my life to God and be guided by God’s Grace, every step of the way. I no longer make choices out of loneliness or desperation, but rather in faith. I deserve to be treated with love, respect, and dignity and I no longer tolerate bad behavior for fear that this is all there is. Because of you, I have learned how to listen to my intuition more keenly than ever and know in my heart that a life dictated by loneliness and fear is no life at all. Because of you, I can take responsibility for myself and my choices, wholly and completely, and as I’ve extracted the pain of our interactions I’ve replaced it with the space needed to find healthy loving relationships with humans who value me and recognize my worth.

 

I hope that I’m wrong about you, Len, and that our friend is right. I hope that it is the medication. That would mean that you have a wonderful opportunity to build a better life for yourself and the people around you. A beautiful life, one where your daughter will grow up knowing how a good man treats women. You can legitimately heal and live better and be better in every way, exemplifying what a good man represents.

 

I forgive you Len. I wish you all the best in your life. It must be hard living in your consciousness, and I genuinely hope that you find healing. You are only your traumas if you choose to be. You and your family are in my prayers.

 

God Bless

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“The role of the artist is exactly the same as the role of the lover. If I love you, I have to make you conscious of the things you don’t see.”

— James Baldwin

Doctor's Note: Part I

This morning, my mother received a hand-delivered letter from her General Practitioner (GP), Dr. Jinchao Xie, at the Kemptville Health and Wellness Centre in Kemptville, Ontario. The letter claims that my mother was verbally aggressive and rude with her Physician’s Assistant (PA) during a recent visit to the Centre. A PA is a relatively new medical position, developed in 2007, and has similar accreditation to a Registered Nurse (RN). The PA’s role goes well beyond the RN’s purview, however; PAs interact with, diagnose, and treat patients and relay that information to the GP in a way that minimizes the GP’s involvement.

 

Traditionally, an RN would visit with a patient in preparation for the GP’s visit. They would take notes and provide an assessment of the patient’s condition for the GP to review, and this would be followed by the GP themselves visiting with the patient. In this approach, the GP’s visit is crucial – this is the expert’s chance to confirm or alter the diagnosis from the RN and prescribe treatment and medication as needed. While I’m not sure how PAs function in other doctors’ offices, this PA visited with my mom, diagnosed her, prescribed her medications and reviewed the visit with my mom’s GP. The real issue, however, is that the GP then signed off on my mom’s treatment without ever visiting with her directly. This was the source of one of my mom’s “aggressive complaints” that the letter was referring to. Most people would agree that a personal visit with a GP ensures the most accurate diagnosis and line of treatment, but apparently this is a new luxury in Canada’s mutating medical system.

 

The letter went on to describe the Centre’s Zero Tolerance Policy, which apparently excludes a patient’s right to express discontent with how they were treated or mistreated. This is yet another piece of evidence suggesting that Canada’s #1 “woke” arena is our healthcare system. Some core aspects of the woke are their inability to handle criticism, their inflated egos, and their victimhood personas; the letter my mom received from Kemptville exemplifies these attributes. It seems that, for the staff at Kemptville, a patient can be cast as “aggressive” for airing justifiable grievances. In my mother’s case, these were her complaints about being misdiagnosed, being prescribed medications that will conflict with current medical conditions, and being neglected by her GP. Taken together, these suggest that the Kemptville Centre completely lacks responsibility towards their patients, with this incompetence made all the more shocking by their attacks on any patient with the bravery to point out their degenerating standard of care.

 

The replacement of RNs by PAs parallels a disintegration of the GP role itself. The General Practitioner in Canada used to be a family doctor that would visit with patients at least once a year and spend quality time talking, treating, and getting to know their patients and their families. Although GPs are still considered family doctors, the same doctor rarely treats a patient’s family. In fact, they don’t seem to do any of the work that GPs were known to do, but get paid all the same.

 

This worsening standard of GP care seems even more unacceptable in light of the grinding inefficiency of the Canadian healthcare system as a whole. Dr. Xie accepted my mother as her patient this year after she had been on a waiting list for a GP for about 5 years. It’s well-known that the healthcare system in Canada has been on a downward spiral for over a decade. Yet the pandemic represents a breaking point, during which the system plummeted in efficacy, efficiency, and care. We now have a system where trained medical professionals consider a phone appointment as good as an in person visit, who pass off their responsibilities to lesser qualified staff and might go through an entire day without examining a single patient. Neglect has become a primary aspect of patient care and misdiagnosis a regular occurrence. 

 

My mother is well-placed to see these flaws, both because of her medical history and her own experience in the field. Aside from the usual health and wellness stuff that happens to the average person during a lifetime, my mom has been suffering from several progressive illnesses and ailments. These have greatly affected her quality of life, causing her to live in daily pain for years. These last two years proved to be her worst yet; she was in and out of the emergency room several times and, on one occasion, almost died. Nothing was Covid-related and she has never tested positive for Covid – a miracle given her compromised immune system.

 

My mom is also a retired RN. She was a brilliant nurse, and when she retired from the profession to take care of my dying father her superiors begged her to stay because of her dedication to caring for patients. Given my mom’s experience in the field, her health conditions, her lack of proficient medical care, and the years of neglect she experienced, it’s no surprise that she is angry. She is angry at how she has been treated and angry at how she hasn’t been treated. Long gone are the days where a doctor in Canada is trained in assiduity. 

 

At the most basic level, she is angry that at her very first appointment with her new GP she wasn’t even given a chance to meet her doctor in person. Dr. Xie would rather stand around chatting and giggling with her colleagues than have a face-to-face with my mother. This is not just me psychologizing at a distance: I accompanied my mother to her appointment that day, and while in the waiting room I saw Dr. Xie palling around. When my mom was finished with her appointment, I asked her what the doctor was like and she said, “I don’t know, I didn’t meet her.”

 

Instead of meeting her own doctor, my mom spent the hour talking with her PA. Initially she was only allowed to discuss one “issue,” otherwise known as one symptom. This an efficiency measure introduced several years ago for sick Canadians visiting medical clinics, meant to save time as clinics were experiencing longer and longer wait times. Perversely, these longer clinic wait times were themselves due to the increasing number of Canadians without a GP.  Although I can understand the logic, in practice the rule is ridiculous for any real-world patient, let alone for a patient on her first visit with her GP. Most ailments have several symptoms, and the best way to make an accurate diagnosis is to go through the details of those symptoms. 

 

The PA must have felt some sympathy for my mom, as she at least let her talk about her multiple problems. In the end, though, the PA didn’t actually pay any mind. According to my mother, the PA ignored most of the issues and proceeded to discuss what she deemed more important. The first problem that the PA wanted to address was my mom’s concerning ECG results; the PA’s analysis of the ECG results was that there was something very wrong with her valves and that she needed to see a cardiologist as soon as possible.

 

All well and good, you might think; those do seem like serious issues. Yet as I’ll show, this was yet another serious misstep and example of negligent care. My mom, for her part, desperately wanted to talk about her chronic pain from rheumatoid and osteo arthritis, chronic cough that was increasing in severity and the fistula in her bowel and vaginal wall that causes blood and feces to come out of her vagina. The PA felt that my mom’s ECG and slightly elevated blood sugar was more important that her chronic pain, cough and fistula. The PA proceeded to set up an appointment with technicians to test her heart and prescribed her a short-term medication for her elevated blood sugar levels. My mom’s other, arguably just as serious, issues were just swept aside.

 

My mom left the office, went home, and ordered her prescription. Unfortunately, her cough was still chronic and getting worse, and my mom was forced to go to the emergency room only a few days later. While she was being treated by an emergency room physician, she decided to ask about her ECG and showed him her results. She had the results on her smartphone as they were sent to her from the Kemptville Health and Wellness Centre…maybe the one way that her visit to the Centre wasn’t a complete loss. The ER doctor looked at the results and flatly stated that the test wasn’t done correctly. He said that it was obvious that the leads had not been attached and that “any medical professional” should have recognized this and ordered another ECG, which he promptly did. And…wait for it…according to the ECG performed in the ER, there is nothing wrong with my mom’s heart and there is nothing to be concerned about in that arena.

 

Her chronic cough, however, is a different story. The ER doctor diagnosed her with pneumonia, estimating from her chest x-ray that she had had it for approximately 5 weeks. This was more of a disappointment than a shock, as my mom had asked the PA in Kemptville for an x-ray; given her experience as an RN, she already had a sneaking suspicion that she had pneumonia and knew that she needed an x-ray to diagnose it, but she was ignored. The x-ray proved that she did in fact have pneumonia, as well as emphysema. It’s obvious that the PA would have discovered these conditions had she listened to my mom’s complaints. Finally, the PA in Kemptville either neglected to review my mom’s chart or didn’t bother to look up the side-effects of the medication she prescribed for her high blood sugar because the main side effect was diarrhea, which could possibly aggravate and enlarge her fistula which, in turn, could have led to death.

 

How my mom was treated by the so-called professionals at the Kemptville Health and Wellness Centre is just one example of many negative and neglectful medical experiences that she has had over the last few years. Dr. Xie’s complaint about my mom’s “attitude” is a clear indication that Dr. Xie herself has poor interpersonal skills and has yet to learn about fear, illness, and chronic pain and their psychological side-effects on patients. Her attacks on my mother even while failing to uphold the standard of care show she is incapable of listening to constructive criticism, taking responsibility for her own failings as a medical professional, and passes off her responsibilities to unqualified personnel at the patient’s expense.

 

Given my experience witnessing my mom’s consistent mistreatment over these last few years, I feel justified in saying that Covid precipitated disastrous changes in the Canadian medical system. Covid completed the system’s transformation into a racket that is no longer about caring for patients, but rather about waiting for them to die while the so-called professionals take home the bacon and the lesser professionals pass out diagnoses like Russian roulette and hand out pills like candy.

 

I feel shame as a Canadian citizen at what our medical system has mutated into. I moved back to Canada 4 years ago and have been progressively outraged bearing witness to the neglectful and apathetic treatment my mom has experienced. As my mom’s primary caretaker, I have been with her for many of her doctors’ visits, emergency room visits, and near-death experiences. I’ve watched her hobble in pain most days, for years, asking every doctor she can for help. I’ve witnessed how little these doctors, who took a Hippocratic Oath to do no harm, care about her health and wellbeing. The fact that anyone would even question my mom’s frustration and anger after all these years, let alone claim that she is harassing staff, is careless to say the least. But I guess that’s what it means to be a medical professional these days: careless. If you can’t care less go to medical school, you’ll fit right in. 

A Conversation about Fourth-Wave Feminism

Would I call myself a feminist? On one hand, yes. I am woman. Hear me roar. On the other hand, though, feminism has taken a turn in recent years such that I now question the movements aims. Specifically, I am speaking of fourth-wave feminism, where a focus on Gender Identity Politics (GIP) has resulted in the promotion of a problematic set of terms that limits rather than includes, that expels rather than welcomes. Perhaps most challenging for me is that the premise of fourth wave feminism’s inclusion chips away at how I define my own gender, so I felt the need to speak out.

 

How did I get to this point? For most of my adult life I’ve always advocated for a “live and let live” perspective. If someone believes that their birth identity differs from their true identity, who am I to judge? If this person finds peace and happiness in expressing their unique sexual preference and identity, I feel happy for them. I also believe firmly that they deserve all the rights and freedoms of every other living human on the planet. One’s identity should never limit their ability to live fully, to pursue employment goals, or to seek relationships that add richness to their lives. Because I feel this way, I have no qualms with “coming out” parties for all the acronyms, pronouns, and identities – that is, as long as they don’t negate my own biological identity, rights, and future possibilities.

 

I began thinking about this troubling deconstruction of “female” after I recently read a Tweet somewhere that went something like this: “There is nothing that I hate more than a feminist.” It was in reference to a woman who was accepting an award in film, an industry monopolized by men. Among other things, her speech addressed a field where she had to work diligently – and at times harder than her male comrades – to get to the position of power that she now holds. As a woman in the Fine Art field, a field similarly dominated by men for centuries, I can understand the sentiment. In my opinion the art world today has attained a more level playing field, as exceptional female artists have reclaimed a greater stake. Although there are still industries that are not as fortunate, the progress in equality for women nevertheless grows with every generation.

 

I was raised in a household unique for its time, as my sex was never positioned as a hinderance on my ability. I was taught to believe that whatever I put my mind to I could achieve with effort and diligence. That’s not to say that my life was without trial in regard to my biology, as I was at times confronted with teachers and certain family members who believed my sex was my handicap. For example, my grandfather disliked me because I was smart and girls were not supposed to be smart. Then there was my guidance counselor in high school, who told me that I should consider a trade school because women didn’t belong in university. Fortunately, my mother and father’s belief in me held more weight, and I was brought up to believe in myself and the fact that what was between my legs would not determine my career or lack thereof.

 

Part of this confidence perhaps stemmed from the growing equality of women that had been achieved over generations. There were, for example, the hard-fought campaigns like the suffragettes (early 1900s) who fought for women’s right to vote, the Women’s Liberation Movement (1960-80’s) that effected political and intellectual change, and the Riot Grrrls of the 1990s, who were a hardcore punk movement bringing feminism into a male-dominated music scene. In recent years we’ve experienced what is considered the fourth wave of feminism (2012-present day) that was first coined by the “Me Too” movement and includes doctrines on gender identity equality. Pivotal to this fourth wave of feminism is the element of the inclusion. Women’s movements throughout history have been accused of rejecting women of color as well as trans women, but the fourth wave prides itself on racial inclusion and gender diversity or non-binary gender inclusion, including the LGBTQ2S+ pronouns and recognizing transgender women as “real” women. This shift toward such an inclusive platform is really crucial, because women of every color and identity have experienced hardships all over the world.

 

The practice of inclusion is a great in theory, yet ironically, the effort to create equality within the GIP movement has resulted in the growing erasure of the identity of biological females. Hints of this cancelation can be seen in the way the words we use are defined. Instead of woman, girl, mother, or female, the GIP would rather call biological females pregnant person, birthing parent, menstruator, chest feeder, ovulator (not even a word), uterus haver, or bleeder. These terms reinforce the very objectification of women that feminists have worked to abolish for a century. Transgender women, however, are still able to refer to themselves as women. Is there really any question why biological women are getting upset about this? Why a feminist in her 70s who’s worked diligently over the course of her life to fight the patriarchy is now upset that a group of men who chose to transition to women have decided that biological women should be dehumanized and objectified? All I can see here is the irony, because as they cancel women they are also canceling themselves.

 

When Caitlyn Jenner won “Woman of the Year” award in 2016, I didn’t feel much about it, other than acknowledging the ridiculousness of it. A transgender woman, having lived as a woman for less than a year, received an award that prior recipients received for living as females their entire lives. This isn’t transphobia talking (again, if Caitlyn Jenner has found her happiness, that is great); rather, it is just to note how her journey – and her celebrity – perhaps skewed the symbolism of the award (tell me the recipient of “Woman of the Year” from the year prior from your own memory and I think my point is proven). More recently, though, I thought back to Jenner’s acceptance of this award when world-renowned singer Adele was called transphobic when she accepted the Artist of the Year award. This award used to be subdivided in to “Best Male” and “Best Female” categories, but in receiving the ungendered version she stated, in short, that she understood the gender neutrality of the award but was still proud to be a female artist. Being proud of being a successful, world-renowned female musician in an industry monopolized by men is not transphobic, in the same way that being proud to be a successful transgender person in an industry monopolized by men is not female-phobic. They are completely unrelated.

 

Adele’s story opened the floodgates of my evolving education in the land of transgenderism and transphobia. All of a sudden, the term “transphobe” was being thrown around like a frisbee. People of every gender identity or lack thereof started accusing successful, self-made women of being transphobes simply for acknowledging their journey to success in industries monopolized by men. Heterosexuals were being called transphobes if they didn’t find transgender people sexually attractive. I don’t find short men attractive; does this mean I’m a short-phobe? On that same note, I have thick thighs, if a man doesn’t find that attractive does that make him thigh-phobic? These might seem extreme examples, but these hypotheticals point to the potentially problematic ways we use such terms.

 

My lukewarm response to cases like Caitlyn Jenner and Adele bubbled into boiling anger, though, when I started learning about young female athletes losing titles and medals to transgender women. I think we can all agree that a young, athletic man who has gone through puberty and has trained athletically as a man will be stronger and faster than an athletic woman. Admittedly, being on hormone treatments after such training may decrease the male athlete’s testosterone and musculature while increasing fat. This transformation, though, will not magically turn his body into a woman’s body, thereby making the competition unequal and unethical. Even in a sport like CrossFit, where female competitors have often been criticized as looking like men because of their musculature, there is still separate categories for male and female competitors because of the inequality of their biology. Why is this the case? Because there is a biological difference between men and women.

 

To put it another way: there is a reason why there are no transgender male athletes competing on biological male teams. I have yet to hear the same controversy being used in relation to transgender men. Moreover, I haven’t heard of a transgender man winning “Man of the Year” or “Best Male Actor” or even making the cut on a male athletic team, let alone winning an actual medal. Regardless of the hormones and surgeries the transgender male consumes, if he was born and lived a large portion of his life as a female, his biological makeup would simply not include the musculature or bone structure to compete against athletic men.

 

The problem here is the pressure that this places on biologically female athletes. These young women are living in fear of losing not only their scholarships but the very sport in which they’ve trained their entire lives. If they say nothing, they run the risk of steeper competition for scholarships in the future; if they instead choose to stand up for their rights and acknowledge the inequality of competing against a transgender woman who’s lived the majority of her life as a man, how will that statement be received?

 

I have heard of women being called transphobes should they question a man’s ability to give birth. Should a transgender man decide to get pregnant, he then has to stop his hormone treatment and revert to a female hormone cycle in order to conceive. And yet, society seems to cancel out biological women yet again by claiming that pregnant transgender men can give birth. My intention in pointing out these truths is not to in turn cancel transgenderism or their right to equality but rather to seek a real solution to achieve that equality.  

 

I am a woman, and I am proud to be a woman. That shouldn’t be used as a weapon against me. It should be celebrated as an achievement in a world that has subjugated women for exactly that.  As a woman in my generation, I have been raised with socially constructed ideas of what women do with their lives and bodies, such as getting married and birthing children, but I am also seeing those constructs evaporate amongst the young ladies of today as they are choosing their life paths for themselves. I too chose to live my life differently than what was considered socially acceptable at the time and was treated differently because of it. My biology was used as a weapon back then too. Thankfully I am from a generation where a century of women and men before me fought for my rights and freedoms to such an extent that in the end it was my choice as to whether I abided by those socially constructed ideologies or not. This was a luxury not afforded previous generations of women, yet it is at risk once again today in the tricky terminology advocated for in fourth wave feminism. In the end, the fourth wave of feminism is using the transphobic argument to recreate the very bigotry and exclusion against women that the transgender and non-binary community have themselves experienced, inflicting further pain and suffering unnecessarily.

 

We are living in a crazy, topsy-turvy world right now. Sometimes I think that our planet has travelled through a wormhole into a parallel universe where everything is upside down and everything that I thought I knew about humans and our evolution was wrong. I’m honestly shocked that we need to grapple with bigotry veiled under the trending term of “inclusion,” as hate, segregation, and exclusion have never contributed fruitfully to the evolution of humanity. The world is a big place and there is more than enough room for more than two base categories of celebration. The truth that even I hate to acknowledge is that until biological men and women are on equal playing fields across the board we need to reassess how we categorized identities, not to exclude some but rather to really include everyone. Particularly when it comes to athletic competitions, having transgender categories would be the epitome of inclusion. It would be the ultimate recognition of who they are wholly, without needing to cancel anyone to get it. It would be an acknowledgement of their differences, which is what makes them beautiful and worthy of celebration. Rather than cancel the humans who remind you of what you are not, why not celebrate you completely by honoring everything that you are.

My Journey to Getting Vaccinated

Full disclosure: I waited a long time to get vaccinated. In total transparency, I probably wouldn’t have gotten vaccinated at all if I wasn’t looking for work in a new country and didn’t need to travel. I would have waited it out. Why? No, it’s not because I’m a misogynist or a racist (contrary to our fucking ignorant Prime Minister Mr. Justin Trudeau’s labels declared in a recent La Semaine de 4 Julie interview).[1] And before I get called out for my language, recall that cursing is often a sign of intelligence, honesty, and creativity. I think it’s also safe to say that everyone around the world, no matter what language they speak, will understand my intention when I say that Canada’s Prime Minister, Mr. Justin Trudeau, is a fucking moron. He lacks morals, doesn’t care to help the country’s citizens or the environment and seems intent on only raising the cost of housing, food, and destroying a once-admirable health care system.

 

The pitfall to Mr. Trudeau’s approach – at least when it comes to vaccination – is that he cannot seem to differentiate between the non-vaccinated and the anti-vaxxers.  I am sure that anti-vaxxers exist, but I am not one of them. Growing up I had all the necessary vaccines including a Hepatitis vaccine, the first one that I chose to have as an adult. I was also vaccinated with a bunch of stuff before travelling throughout Asia. That, though, was where my vaccination journey ended. During that travel, I experienced an adverse reaction to malaria medication. After that experience, I didn’t see any reason to have additional vaccines or boosters and wasn’t planning to travel to any other countries where my health would be similarly at risk.

 

After moving to San Francisco in my twenties, I progressively became more health driven, athletic, and spiritualized. I believed, and still do believe, that the body can heal itself and although I would rather not suffer before death I don’t fear dying. Admittedly, in these last two years have on a few occasions longed for it, as I see death in part as a freedom from a planet that has been increasingly losing viability even before the onset of the pandemic. I realize that this is a polarized belief system and I’m not writing this to convert anyone; my intention is purely to express myself openly and honestly. In doing so I hope to encourage empathy, as I believe that in the end being open to listening and understanding another point of view is a central facet of humanity.

 

By the time I moved to New York I managed my health naturally and very rarely got sick. I did have an unfortunate sinus infection one year that required a trip to the clinic as I was planning holiday travel back to Canada and needed antibiotics to be fit for the flight. At the end of the visit, the doctor inquired as to whether I’d like the flu shot. I was unsure, so I asked for his advice. He shared that, if I had never had the flu shot by this time in my life that I didn’t need it. I hadn’t had the flu since I was young. I was hospitalized as a child because of a severe flu case, but that was the last time, so it would seem I had built up somewhat of a natural immunity over the years.

 

How does this compare to COVID? To be clear: COVID and the flu are like apples and oranges. However, I do think that, in Canada, more stock needs to be put in the conversation surrounding the need for individualized assessments as to the necessity of vaccination.

 

Take myself as an example: my personal health and demographic aside (according to the CDC I am not at high risk of hospitalization or death[2]), I live a very simple lifestyle. I’m currently living in a shitty little town that has always had comparably low rates of infection. I live and work from home as an artist. I also teach, but as soon as the first lockdown occurred, my classes moved online and I haven’t taught in person since. I have a very, very small social group here and rarely went out during non-pandemic days (in part because the number and quality of restaurants and bars are limited in this area). Aside from eating a 3-inch-thick pizza and drinking to blackout, there really isn’t any other type of outing nearby. You’d have to travel at least an hour to get to any cultural or extracurricular event. I even tried to find an athletic group to join after moving here and was only able to find gyms, where you go to work out alongside other people, but not necessarily socialize with other people. So, I don’t have many interactions with people (and, if you’re wondering, yes, it can be lonely).

 

I decided before the pandemic hit Canada that I was going to leave my hometown. My desire was to move back to the United States as I love that country. I had some of the greatest relationships and experiences and accomplished the most amazing feats in my years living there. Meanwhile, in Canada, I’ve endured some of the most depressing times, with the least amount of success having the most difficult time making new friends and relationships, something that my therapist and I analyze together. I am still ready to leave, but my departure has been hampered. A few months after my decision to leave Canada, the first lockdown occurred. Then, several months later my mother got very sick and almost died on a couple of occasions, which, aside from the pandemic, is why I’m still here. Her illness was 99% unrelated to the pandemic, other than the fact that if the pandemic hadn’t been so mismanaged, her illness could have been caught and treated sooner and her suffering would have been significantly less.

 

So, it is safe to say that the pandemic has been chiefly responsible for keeping me in Canada, where increasing restrictions continue to confound Canadians and choke the already failing healthcare system. From my basic understanding of recent data, the current Omicron variant actually is comparable to a common flu or even a cold for healthy children and adults, albeit highly infectious.[3] Yet, regardless of the decreasing severity of this mutation of the virus, and an ever-increasing percentage of vaccinations[4] and growing natural immunity[5] in the population, the Canadian government sees fit to place even stricter mandates on the Canadian public. It continues to enforce mandates after 80% of its population is vaccinated and enforces them to carry a scannable “passport” that relays their medical history simply in order to participate in such social activities as eating in restaurants (but not such activities as shopping). Here’s just one example of the irrationality of how the Canadian government has mismanaged the politics around this pandemic and how the mandates are illogical and poorly enforced. Let’s imagine a local restaurant that had maybe a hundred people pass though it randomly throughout the day. This location gets shut down because it’s employees are not vaccinated, but Walmart is still open and has thousands of customers – who don’t need to show proof of vaccination – rubbing shoulders every single day. Statistically speaking, then, you are more like to contract COVID at Walmart (vaxxed or not) than you are at a local “Ma & Pa” establishment with few people and where they encourage social distancing among those who frequent there.

 

The Canadian government seems to be completely ignoring the conversation of natural immunity, with statistics coming out of South Africa (a country where only approximately 40% of its population is vaccinated) proving that natural immunity is a credible source of immunity[6]. Moreover, nowhere in these mandates are alternative options, such as testing for antibodies or proof of a negative infection, even with the “quick test” now being available. With so many countries, not just my own, mismanaging this pandemic and ignoring the obvious upturn in the increasing lack of severity of this virus, I must ask: why are mandates still being implemented, forcefully administered, and with increasing in austerity? Why is there not greater consideration for natural immunity or more options for exemptions?[7]

 

I mentioned above that I am for science, I believe in the scientific process, but my country alongside many other countries have not provided the public with accurate statistics and documentation of double-blind studies or control groups to show:

1. the efficacy of the vaccine;

2. the severity of ALL of the variants of SARS-CoV-2;

3. the demographics of people hospitalized;

4. the possible adverse side effects of the vaccine (and before you get on me for that, it’s impossible for a medication not to have adverse side effects, even aspirin has a warning label);

5. Comparing the adverse side effects of the vaccine to the adverse side effects of the virus.

Instead of sharing this data, my country prefers to shame people with valid and varying reasons for not being vaccinated and enforce draconian mandates impacting all aspects of life. Families are being kept apart, children are growing up in isolation, all while these measures are encouraging mass consumption, fear based herd mentality and irrational thought and action, such as the Prime Minister’s unfounded accusations of the unvaccinated being misogynists and racists. As a you man who wore “black face” to a costume party, I would be inclined to ask if his irrational attack of the non-vaxxed is more of an admission than an accusation. What his behavior demonstrates is a grown adult resorting to bullying to get his way.

 

Okay, you might say, what’s so wrong in just getting the shot then, if it shuts up the PM? First, I am not sure at this point it is necessary. In the past strains, COVID has been compared to diseases like Polio or measles; the current Omicron strain, though, according to data coming out of South Africa[8], Germany[9], Israel[10] and countries other than Canada, is comparable to the flu. If this is true, who are the unvaccinated harming now? Themselves more than anyone else.[11]

 

Should it be up to the government to decide whether an individual is allowed to put their own life in harms way? If you believe it is, then where does it stop? With the prohibition of drugs or alcohol? Banning pornography or contact sports that often result in significant bodily injury?

Maybe Canada will follow in Sweden’s footsteps and soon people will be shamed, bullied, and indoctrinated into inserting microchips in their bodies. I’m not a criminal, so why the hell would I want the government to know where I am at all times? It is so perverted to me and quite frankly anyone that desires to have that level of control over anyone let alone an entire population has major mental problems and should seek professional help (I am looking at you, Mr. Trudeau).

 

I know you’re dying to know what I would have done? Well, let me tell you. Ironically, I believe whole heartedly that, had our governments been transparent from the get-go and released data openly and honestly derived from worthwhile and robust experiments, there would have been significantly less backlash. Maybe many less people would have been vaccinated initially but as the vaccines proved to be efficient and safe, more people would have freely chosen to be vaccinated and life would be moving back into liberty and freedom, without mandating vaccine passports.

 

With an international health pandemic that is hospitalizing and killing people all over the world I would have mandated that all countries (or at least the majority of countries) band together from the beginning. We do live in the technological age after all, it is very easy to communicate with anyone around the world. I would have hired the best non-biased medical professionals and scientists in every nation, developed official scientific method experiments with PAID VOLOUNTEERS to conduct blind and double-blind experiments with control groups.

 

I would have NOT terrified the citizens of the world with extremist, irrational fear mongering, and shaming, but rather I would have explained through the media and otherwise, calmly, logically and earnestly what the data findings were. I would have provided comparable data in relation to other deadly viruses that have infected our species. As the vaccines were being developed, I would be 100% transparent with all of the possible side-effects positive and negative and provide data that compare and contrasts the exact percentages of risk or lack thereof to EVERYONE in EVERY demographic. As the efficacy of the drug becomes more and more obvious, I would then strongly encourage the people who are more likely at risk of hospitalization and death to get vaccinated. The pharmaceutical companies would be mandated to create these drugs for every country on the planet without financial incentive because the last thing that this international health scare should be about is money. Given these companies were multi-billion-dollar companies before the pandemic, there would be no great loss. As the majority of the world’s population got vaccinated and proof that the mNRA vaccines didn’t get rid of COVID or prevent the spread but rather minimized the effects of the virus (no small feat for the people most at risk) I would start alleviating mandates on the people, not reinforcing them.

 

Who am I to give this advice? No one of any international acclaim or recognition. I’m just an artist, living in a shitty small honky-tonk town, with nowhere to go and no one to go there with.  Artists throughout history have been attributed to predicting the future[12]. Certain artists have been called prophets or seers, but I have a different theory. I think that artists live in the present. Artists are seeing exactly what is happening when it is happening and can see how these events are creating patterns of events that will lead to certain types of outcomes. We are not psychic, we are not prophets, we are not geniuses, we are simply awake. Whether you’re for woke culture or against it, being “awake” is the only way to truly be free. Taking ownership of yourself in every conceivable way, the good, the bad, the ugly…and the beautiful. Understanding that your understanding might be flawed, that someone else’s ideologies or point of view stems from reason if you just take the time to listen and that throwing stones always causes more harm than good.

 

Ask yourself what kind of a world do you want to live the rest of your days in. Are you so adamant about being right that you are unwilling to be wrong? Are you so terrified of death that you are willing to put children’s life and psyches at risk? In relation to the Universe human evolution is happening in a split second but human perception living within that split second can feel like a nightmare running in slow motion with no end in sight. How the Canadian government and arguably many other governments have managed this pandemic is creating just that feeling, a worldwide prison with no end in sight.

 

Admittedly, yes, I did get vaccinated, but only so that I can move about the planet freely when I need to. It’s still coercion, though, something I’m accustomed to as a woman living in our day and age. I wish I had the fortitude to stand strong and wait this out, as it does seem to be getting better. I am also open to the possibility that I am wrong but feel as though my lifestyle is so simple that I haven’t put anyone else’s life in jeopardy with my choices. It should be noted that as far as I am aware I have never had any variation of COVID, nor have I had any symptoms and never felt any need to be tested, although I would have loved to have been tested for antibodies and would have volunteered to be a part of a control group had that been an option.

 

I honestly though more of humanity. Unfortunately, the sickness on our planet is not COVID, but rather human beings suffering from the human condition. That is the real virus and sadly no vaccine can cure that…but that is another topic for a different conversation at another time.


[1] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SCae3IroTqw

[2] https://www.cdc.gov/nchs/nvss/vsrr/covid_weekly/index.htm

[3] https://www.publichealthontario.ca/-/media/documents/ncov/epi/covid-19-epi-enhanced-estimates-omicron-severity-study.pdf?sc_lang=en

[4] https://ourworldindata.org/covid-vaccinations

[5] https://www.cdc.gov/vaccines/vac-gen/immunity-types.htm

[6] https://www.ft.com/content/b0cd9239-f2df-4afc-912f-b3f87fc676ff

[7] https://travel.gc.ca/travel-covid/travel-restrictions/covid-vaccinated-travellers-entering-canada

[8] https://www.reuters.com/business/healthcare-pharmaceuticals/south-african-hospital-sees-less-serious-disease-coming-end-omicron-surge-2022-01-07/

[9] https://www.theguardian.com/world/2021/dec/31/germany-buoyed-by-data-from-abroad-amid-omicron-spread

[10] https://www.reuters.com/world/middle-east/infections-record-high-hospitalisations-low-omicron-sweeps-israel-2022-01-06/

[11] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QcLGXFOdtt0

[12] https://www.dazeddigital.com/art-photography/article/39915/1/artworks-predicted-the-future-of-the-world-warhol-yayoi-caravaggio-beuys

They call me Dreamer

They call me Dreamer.

I wouldn’t live any other way.

It’s a feeling,

A sense,

A sensibility.

 

Pride or prejudice.

 

A visceral experience.

 

I can smell it in the early morning dew when the grass is still damp

with teardrops dancing on the treetops.

 

I can see it in the peach-coloured sunrise and cotton candy clouds.

 

I sigh.

It sweeps

Rhythmic waves of freedom

Freestyling.

 

My home;

My heart;

My healing.

 

A whisper tickling my earlobe.

A firm gentle grip

On my hip.

A butterfly kiss.

 

My home;

My heart;

My healing.

 

It’s a feeling,

A sense,

& sensibility.

6 Degrees

Kevin Bacon opened an art school in Nova Scotia. It was the only “Atelier” style school in the area and had quite a reputation because Kevin Bacon was the founder. I sat down for lunch and a chat with Mr. Bacon, believing he would be thrilled to chat with me, as I wanted to teach at his school. When I told him that I’d like to work for him he laughed at me and said, “You’re not nearly good enough to work at my school.” Perplexed and hurt by his reaction, I stuttered and proceeded to list all of the courses I’d designed and describe the in-depth education my students would receive from what I’d created. To which Kevin Bacon sincerely and condescendingly replied, “But my dear Gaetanne, you have no idea how to create the “Leoni” method and it’s the foundation of what our school is built on.” Embarrassed that I didn’t even know who “Leoni” was and deflated, I fumbled my words, attempting to convince him that I AM good enough. Kevin Bacon, unmoved, remained resolute in his belief that I wasn’t good enough – and I woke up.

 

A nightmare. A verifiable nightmare. But why Kevin Bacon? Does Kevin Bacon make art? Does Kevin Bacon even like art?

 

I woke up to my dog giving me morning snuggles. He’s my alarm clock. He wakes me up every morning at exactly the same time, 5:55am, by burrowing his face in my armpit and pawing at my shoulder for morning snuggles, belly rubs, and kisses. At least something wants to kiss this mug. He must have felt the pain in my heart this particular morning. He often does.

 

Does 6 degrees count if it’s a dream?

 

I grew up in Ryan Gosling’s hometown. He might have hated it here as much as I did. I remember sitting at an adjacent table to him once at the 5th Wheel, a local truck stop coffee shop, open 24 hours. We used to hang out there before we were legal. I was allowed to stay out later if my mom knew I was only getting high on coffee.

 

Has Ryan Gosling met Kevin Bacon? He must know someone who knows someone who knows Kevin Bacon that’ll make the 6 degrees.

 

Moving back to Canada three years ago has been the most challenging thing I’ve ever done. More challenging than quitting smoking. More challenging than deciding to be an artist. More challenging than healing from my father’s death. Who would have thought that moving back to my hometown, close to my family, in my native country, would have felt so foreign? I certainly didn’t. I knew it was going to be a change after living in big cities for the last 20 years. Moving here after living in New York city was bound to be an adjustment. Regardless of my Kevin Bacon dream, I’m no dummy, I knew it was going to be tuff; but I thought that I, at least, knew what I was coming home to.  I mean…I grew up here. I wasn’t completely ignorant. I knew that not much had changed in 20 years. Small marks of progress, small signs of evolution, minor aesthetic adjustments and efforts to “improve” the town and culture are here; but overall, in general, on the whole, it’s the same place.

 

The struggle lies in me, I’m not the same young, shy, insecure girl I was when I lived here all those years ago.  Throughout my life’s experiences over the last 20 years or so, I’ve evolved into an educated, strong, independent woman. The three years here, in this place – this place over the last three years has brought down forces of the Universe that have torn me apart, forces of nature having me question everything that I’ve accomplished, down to my own identity. Who knew that at forty-two I would feel so lost? Imposter Syndrome, you ain’t got nothin’ on this. Every turn. A brick wall. Every other step, a pile of shit. Every success met with 3 failures. All hopes for my future, possibilities and dreams, shattering with every failed attempt. I’ve been living my worst nightmare and greatest fear. To be trapped without option or opportunity. Even something as flip as a date with a man who recognizes that women are his equal and can maintain eye contact whilst holding a conversation with the opposite sex. How about going to a social event where men and women intermingle, rather than hang out on the opposite sides of the room, like an awkward middle school dance in a John Hughes movie? Too much to ask?

 

I never had a phobia of spiders, I’m not afraid of heights, I love high speeds and can honestly say that I’m not even afraid of death…pain perhaps, but not death. Some days…many days over these last three years I’ve longed for it. My one fear, imprinted in me since infancy, has been not being free. To be shackled – shackled by poverty, shackled by circumstance, shackled by addiction, a job I hate, depression, a relationship I’m unhappy in, children. Worst of all, shackled by indifference…and here I am. The last three years I’ve spent wriggling out of my straight jacket. The irony is priceless. A dark comedy indeed.

 

Regardless of my struggles and pain and how strong my desire has been to run away from all of this trash, I wholeheartedly believe that it was necessary for me to suffer through all of it, to heal from the trauma I buried in my cells growing up here. I could have run, but I chose to stay, I chose to suffer and I’m choosing to heal, once and for all.

 

I still have hopes and dreams of getting out. I still have hopes and dreams of living the life I want to live in a place I want to be in, surrounded by the people I’d like to be surrounded by. Afterall, I am in the second half of my life and I don’t have time to entertain jerks and bullshit. Covid and all – I haven’t given up yet – although admittedly thought I might several times and might actually still. But for today, I’m here, I’m sane-ish and I’m planning for a future that I desire with people that I love.

 

Mr. Kevin Bacon, no offense, I’m sure you’re a great guy, or maybe you’re an asshole; either way, you are not the dictator of my talent or my future, simply the mirror to my Imposter. 6 degrees or not, you better believe I’m good enough.

Something Like What I've Been Missing

I had a dream that I gave you a hug.

You could probably use one right now.

My heart was beating so fast,

I was positive you could feel it’s treble,

And praying you couldn’t.

 

Because this wasn’t about me;

It was about what you needed.

Your sadness sometimes permeates your pores

Like dancing after eating too much garlic.

 

I felt your anger

A steal trap 100 feet high.

And I felt your sadness

A willow tree billowing in the nothing.

And I felt your desperation.

Razorblade shaking against your wrist…

Or…

Or…

Or was it my wrist?

 

I held you

Tight.

The heat from our bodies rising so high

I thought we were going to spontaneously combust.

 

Remember that?

Spontaneous combustion?

What ever happened to spontaneous combustion?

A made for TV documentary in the 90’s

About the unsolved mysteries of the universe.

Too much heat leading to an internal explosion.

Out of nowhere.

For unknown reasons.

 

We didn’t.

 

I woke up instead.

 

The hug was for you.

And you held me just as tight as I did and not let go.

You needed that hug.

I did so and;

We blended

Like a sable blends the horizon.

 

I had a dream.

Dreams I always have.

You were in it.

It was about you or was it me.

 

I felt yourmy anger

More like a rage boiling over, scalding the surface.

I felt yourmy sorrow

A pressure so deep in my heart, like a magnet swallowing me into the earth.

I felt yourmy desperation

A terrible fear that this is it, this is what all of it led to, this is all there is,

Nevermore.

 

I’m home and it’s horrible.

I’m here.

Witnessing death, a little each day.

It’s not as bad as that other time,

That time the frozen river called my name.

My body breaking the ice

The cold swallowing my shell.

 

It is

 

A loneliness I haven’t touched in many years sits here.

 

Enveloped in the dust of what was, what could have been and what might never be.

 

A loneliness sits here.

 

I needed your hug,

It was for you,

But I needed it too.

 

It reminded me of something, something that I used to feel.

 

 

Stripped

I’m being stripped.

Over the last three years, everything that I considered integral to my identity has been progressively stripped. It started with the desire to get out of the city then eased its way into my romantic life, and recently affecting the most pivotal aspect of my identity, my art. Like a virus this stripping is infecting every part of my person and like the panic the media and government create with every new virus entering into our solar system, I feel frightened and lost, experiencing bouts of panic and confusion while attempting to regain and maintain faith and knowing.

This stripping has felt forced onto me. I used to know who I was. I had dreams and they were clear. I dreamed of being an artist, and not just famous but legitimately great, with true skill and talent. I wanted to be featured in high school art history books. I wanted to live an eccentric life with my husband. At one time I thought I wanted children but that desire also stripped itself from my psyche.

Bit by bit, year after year, after witnessing friends and family have children of their own, I realized their altered lifestyles didn’t fit with what I desired for my life. So that was the first thing to go. What followed was my desire for romantic relationships. I got tired. I got tired of dating handsome assholes because they were sexy and passionate and aroused my passion but little else. I got tired of dating the funny nice guy who was boring in the sack because I thought I had to settle. I got tired of dating the kinky guy who wanted me to join him in his debauchery because in the end, the only thing I ever truly desired was genuine intimacy and I certainly never found that in a sex club or through any violent fetish. I got tired of believing that I deserved to be hurt, physically and emotionally and got tired of actively seeking out that pain. And so bit by bit, year after year, experience after experience, I lost my desire to be in a romantic relationship. Every now and again a young hot stud comes along, but it doesn’t last, and I’m left even emptier than I began with even less desire.

In my last year in New York, the stripping leaked its way into my finances. Trumps election seemed to coincide with my art sales slowing to a virtual halt and my Visa stipulated that I wasn’t allowed to take on any employment that wasn’t directly involving my personal artwork. I moved back to Canada thinking cost of living would be less expensive but as it turns out, it’s not all that different with the high cost of groceries and needing a car to get around. Art sales here are even worse and teaching gigs aren’t stable, often not paying enough to cover rent, let alone thrive. My current financial crisis’ is forcing me into living situations I would have never gone into. I’m obliged to take jobs that I would rather not take and my desire to create is suffering.

Spending time in my studio used to be my time with God, it’s since turned into a stressful burden, as I spend hours creating something that took years to learn how to make. I’m filled with anger and resentment that I live in a Country that underappreciats artists and in a world that makes it virtually impossible to be creative and survive.  I’ve lost something pivotal, my hope and with that loss my identity has progressively been disintegrating and what I feel more often than I’d like, is completely lost.  

Now that my last stitch of identity is being stripped from me I officially feel like meat tendon that just won’t give and something is digging it out slowly as one hand wraps every finger around that thin piece of membrane, that’s as strong as an evergreen’s root system, while the other hand forces the larger fleshy muscle down as that fundamental part of my being is ripped out of me. That part that I harnessed and developed as a child. I could have gone in so many directions but chose this one.

I chose to be an artist. It was all that I ever wanted to be. I dabbled in different art forms and if I had ten lifetimes or more opportunities or more confidence, I would have probably pursued different avenues, but I didn’t, I pursued one and I’ve excelled. I could name 10 figurative painters off the top of my head that are better than me, in every conceivable way, not just technique but in concept, composition, imagination, but I can also say with full confidence that I’m in their league and am a close 11, only getting better with every painting. My work is beautiful and sometimes I look at my own paintings and think, I’d buy that, which is the highest form of compliment.  

I am an artist. I always wanted to be an artist. I’ve worked my entire conscious life to be an excellent artist. When I make it to the studio, I still work to be excellent, each painting to be better than the last and when I succeed, I feel God. There is nothing like it in the world, I’ve never had a relationship like this with anything else or anyone else and it’s being stripped from me. Taken without my permission. Stolen. It’s being torn from every fibre of my being. I can no longer afford to make art on a regular basis…Don’t scoff… I’ve been fortunate and I will be the first in line to admit that.  Being raised to have gratitude and give thanks for my many blessings, I was allotted financial luxuries that gave me the freedom to learn and create my dreams. I had been living the better part of 20 years in that comfort. When I was financially stable, I spent my days in the studio, and I found happiness. When I felt free to create without fear, I felt God. My heart was at peace. My body was in harmony with the source. There were days where I couldn’t distinguish my skin from the air. I understood my purpose and walked in God’s rhythm and boy does It have great rhythm.

People have asked me why I moved back to Canada and normally I respond “family”. It’s not false, after my nephew and niece were born, I craved to be in their lives, but it’s not true either. The truth is that I started to suffer financial losses my last year in New York. If I could have sustained, maintained and grown my financial situation where I could have lived comfortably in Manhattan and afforded a studio and a couple of holidays a year (because everyone knows that if you want to live happily in Manhattan you have to be able to get out of Manhattan), I would have stayed. But with my financial struggle and my impending expensive Visa renewal, my failed relationships and broken friendships, life there became suffocating and lonely that last year. Everything that I knew about who I was, what I wanted and where I was going was shattered. And so, I came home. I can’t really call it home because where I grew up never felt like home, but it’s where my family lives, and they are a part of my home no matter where they are.

I’ve been debating on how honest I would be about my hometown. Struggling because how I feel about this place is not very nice and I recognize that any local reading this will most likely get offended in some capacity, even if they do recognize that this is my experience and I have every right to feel what I feel and every right to express it. The truth is, I’ve never felt at home here, I’ve never felt love or joy or fondness for this place. I moved away at 18 and vowed I would never return and when I moved to California at 25, I felt more at home 2000 miles away, in a city where I knew no one than I ever had growing up here. I appreciate that there are people here who are happy in this town and I let them have that. It’s never been my experience. I remember sneaking out of my bedroom window only to run down to the waterfront (the only beautiful thing about this place) where I would smoke cigarettes, listen to my Walkman and cry about how I hated it here. I never felt understood. I always felt like an outsider. I knew if I stayed, I would die. We’re all a little melodramatic at that age. Nevertheless, I hated growing up here and because of my financial circumstances I could afford to leave without struggle and ironically, because of my current financial predicament I’m back, living in a town that I would describe as the slayer of happiness.

 

I have been practising healing from the trauma I grew up with here. The kicker being that I wish I felt differently. Logistically it would be so much easier if I loved it here and could be successful. I knew moving back would eliminate any future dating possibilities by like 99%, although that doesn’t seem to faze the old fuckers trotting around. I guess they’re accustomed to women who’ll make do with anything with a pulse, even if it is barely audible. I’ve tried to feel differently. I meditate on it. I pray about it. I ask my family to pray about it. They point out positive experiences that I’ve had in an attempt to help me feel better; like the exhibit I’m in with the local gallery. It is a top-notch gallery, which was shocking to see, but also gave me hope. My experience working with them has been wonderful and the exhibit they put together is beautiful, equal to any “big city show”. Unfortunately, it hasn’t been enough.

 

Believe it or not, I do look for the positives here, I try every day to find something of joy, but inevitably something happens, and it jolts me back to the reality of where I’m living. Like the people who want to develop a “friendship” with me because I lived and was successful in New York city and they misguidedly think that I have connections that will benefit them. Or like all of the free hours I’ve put into different events that I founded and was never acknowledged for, even being pushed to the side as though it wasn’t my idea to begin with, as though I was just another volunteer and didn’t deserve thanks or praise. Or how people think that just because I didn’t live here that somehow, I haven’t put in my dues and don’t deserve success without decades of struggle and strife. How these people talk to me as though I were a 21 year old moron just graduating from undergrad, rather than a 42 year old grown woman with 3 degrees under my belt, who’s travelled around the world, lived in 6 different cities, started from scratch in each one, exhibited internationally, been represented by a gallery in Chelsea, curated group exhibits in The United States and Canada, won awards and residencies, and been published multiple times.

 

People say that living in small town is inspirational, there’s nothing to distract you and your imagination can take the reins. I already have a strong imagination. I won’t be at a loss for ideas. But I am feeling a loss of drive. This town is worse than what I imagine a black hole to be like; at least with a black hole there’s the possibility of an alternate universe or two, maybe it’s a hyper port that will transport you to other galaxies and solar systems, maybe it’s an alien ship in disguise. This town is exactly what it is, it used to literally smell like shit because of the mill and now it just looks like shit. There is some integrity in that, to be unabashedly disgusting without shame, but I feel like staying here is stripping the very last inkling of essence that I have. I’m turning into an empty angry vessel, a person who feels no great joy, no great passion, no butterflies or excitement and worst of all no hope.

 

I’d rather die.  

 

I’m stripped. I have to give up my studio because I can’t afford the rent, but I’ve transformed my living room into my new studio. I’m not sure how successful I will be at continuing to create here, but I’m going to try. I will be teaching some classes and workshops and am looking into part-time and full-time work with contractors and nurseries because I’ve always wanted to learn how to build my own house and love being around plants. I am also putting together a top-notch resume for residencies, grant applications and jobs in my field. Not in this town because there aren’t any and I’m overqualified; being overqualified here is like tying the noose around your own neck, your seen as competition rather than an asset.

 

I’m stripped. I pray every day that my new determination to get out of this shithole is exactly what God intends. Being positive isn’t always the answer, sometimes the answer is in the angst and the only way to happiness is stepping in that massive pile of shit and walking though it for what feels like miles, uphill, in a desert heat, the steaming hot piles of manure wafting up so that every step is a little more rotten than the last. Can you smell it through these pages? Sometimes, the shit is the answer, the shit is the joy because it’s the jolt needed to move into the next phase. If I were comfortable here, I would stay and if I stayed, I may not accomplish what I’m meant to accomplish.

 

I’m stripped, like a newborn baby only fully grown with all my faculties…well…most of my faculties. I’m stripped and it’s time. Time to get out. I am going to do what I need to do to succeed, and that my friend is how I will succeed. It’s not easy, I have to remind myself daily that there’s a whole other world out there waiting for me and that this isn’t the end of my life.

 

I’m stripped and I’m ready to start again.

 

Suck on that Motherfuckers.

 

Poontang

Is digital anxiety a thing?

If it is, I’ve got it.

Increasingly over the last few weeks, I’ve been getting more and more FB invites for “friendships”. I’m totally not comfortable with this...but accept them anyway...like a masochist getting her next hit.

There are some similar interests with a majority of these invites; most are artists (Great! Super!) That works out fine. Some are obvious art enthusiasts, also totally fine!

They are ALL men...like ALL OF THEM...like not ONE female...starting to get strange.

Age range: majority 40 and up...seems strange but statistically Facebook is primarily used by this generation. The younger kids prefer more immediate gratification, such as, Instagram.

The creepiest profiles that I tend not to accept are the ones without any photos or with really weird photos (you know the ones I’m talking about).

What disturbs me the most is the relatively recent influx! Is this something FB is doing? Are they trolls or real people?

I inevitably end up getting “waves” or “Hello’s”. When they send the wave I send the Ted Bundy meme (picture below) I’m not sure if it translates to other countries but I sure do think it’s funny never the less. They just wanted some digital poontang, which has always been a strange phenomenon to me. How can you prefer digital pussy when if you just applied yourself you could get real pussy? They’re probably trolling for money more than poontang.

Regardless of the anxiety I am experiencing, I accept their friendship requests like a neurotic crazy lady. Some part of me gets off on the curiosity of it all, but alas, curiosity killed the cat my friend.

TedBundyMeme.jpg

A Tale to Tell About a Time Long Ago

The warmth of the sun carried the wind in my hair,

Always dishevelled.

Always dreaming.

Pastel colored painted ladies,

Naked neighbour,

Dancing in the street.

Because you are a fragment.

A piece of something I once knew,

A rogue radiowave,

A piece of someone I once drew;

A dust particle on a gypsy suitcase;

A storm from another time that’s never been forgotten.

How To Follow That???

I’ve just come back from my studio; a first in over a year. I haven’t worked on anything substantial in over a year…maybe up to a year and a half. There’s this popular notion amongst artists, that we must always and forever be inspired and create magnificence with ever breath. Melodramatic, but isn’t that what artists are famous for? We are the Kings and Queens and hierarchies of melodrama, not just in artistic form but in life. We need to be. It’s how we get inspired in the first place. It’s the seed of our creativity.

…or is it just me?

 

…maybe

 

Regardless, melodrama is a brilliant attribute to my creative process. If you’ve been fortunate enough to see my work, it’s the foundation of most of my compositions. I don’t think I would have anything to paint without some melodrama.

I like to think of this past year as the year of creating, extracting and harnessing a shit load of melodrama. I haven’t painted a single painting. Instead I’ve been healing. After my move from New York, I gave myself one year to get over my shit so that I can go forward in my life without any of my baggage getting in my way. I don’t want to run into it, I don’t want to have to step over it, I don’t what to run around it, I’m tired of carrying it; I’m throwing it out.

Throughout this process I couldn’t work, at least not on my artwork. I made a couple of drawings that relied mostly on my technical skill and couldn’t bring myself to paint a God Damn Thing.

 

…but

 

…I created other things

 

…in other ways

 

…

 

What a strange and unusual year indeed…that is ending on an even stranger and unusual note. It’s almost Christmas. I moved from New York Citay, October 9th, 2017 and am now living in Kingston, Ontario; a quaint little city that has lovely architecture, delicious restaurants, a thriving cultural scene, loads of beautiful young buff student man/boys (literally running around doing fitness and stuff, yum ;D) and so far, extremely friendly, welcoming, nice people. I’ve already been invited to my first Holiday party and my heart is warm with gratitude for their generosity.

Moving, yet again, to another city where I know no one and have to start from scratch, again, is challenging to say the least; and somehow everything is looking bright. I have a nicer, larger and less expensive apartment than the one I had in New York, I love my dog (like crazy ass dog love happening here, like I would die for that little fucker, and believe me sometimes he is a little fucker…just like his mom I guess ;)). I’ve joined a gym…that has many of those young buff man/boys I mentioned and started at a new yoga place (the studios here have these fabulous intro month deals. I’m going to go around the city doing an intro month at every studio). I’ve found work in 3, possibly 4 reputable organizations and have moved my artwork into an AMAZING new studio in a BEAUTIFUL building along the water. It’s a little on the grayer side, given that I moved in November and it’s now December and I’m in Canada and it gets cold and gray around this time of year, but even the gray is beautiful in it’s melancholy, reminding me of what I imagine Wuthering Heights would look and feel like. I’m getting my health back and have healed from some very deep-rooted issues and trauma. The year in Cornwall wasn’t a bust after all. Sometimes it’s important to do nothing in order to achieve everything. “Doing nothing often leads to the very best of something.”  ~ Winnie the Pooh ~

I am lonely for that special kind of relationship and sometimes worry that when I meet handsome new prospects, if they read any of my last few posts, they’ll run for the hills…but then I remember that I’m looking for that unique kind of soul who doesn’t abide by typical social standards and understands the ebbs and flows of the human condition. My excellence doesn’t eliminate me from fear and anger, it simply helps me recognize it and meliorate.

In case you haven’t noticed…I keep intimating grandiosity’s…you should try it, it’s really fun, and you’ll feel like a million bucks afterward.

Whether I find that special person or not, I know that right now, in this moment and the very soon moments to come, most of the time I feel…

 

HAPPY.

 

And for that, I am…

GRATEFUL

 

I look forward to following my path in Faith. I look forward to planning my new adventures and acting on those plans; whilst remembering not to plan too much, because you never know what you may come across when you’re not expecting it.

 

The End…

 

For Now

 

““You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.” ”
— ~ Winnie the Pooh ~

Top 10 Tips for M Seeking W from a W Seeking M

I'm daring to date again.

I've recently moved to a new place where I have no solid social network, other than a few family members. I am a single, accomplished, attractive woman about to turn 40. Never married. No children and currently not in a romantic relationship. I haven't been in one for some time. I removed myself from the online dating circuit a few years ago because I had found a fella that I liked and wanted to explore that. When that relationship ended, I couldn't bare the idea of going back online, the thought terrified and disgusted me. Memories of experiences that I'd had flooded my brains' gates and I cursed and yelled at anyone who suggested I get back online. I was healing from past relationships and didn't feel any desire to go out of my way to meet anyone, aside from the obvious fact that my personal experiences online have primarily been a huge massive stank ass shit show.

Fast forward to a year later, a few short relationships met/made/developed naturally but not lasting and I'm living in a small mill town that's smack dab in the middle of two cities. Although the cities are close enough, they are still approximately an hour or so away and I have to borrow a family members car every time I want to drive to one. Keep your judgements to yourself, I had a car once but sold it a year after I moved to San Francisco because I lived in the city and didn't need it. I haven't had a car since given that I've lived in cities that had all of the amenities you could desire within a 10 block radius and great public transit, (Montreal, NYC).

The winter holiday season comes and goes and my loneliness is quickly creeping up on me. My thoughts start drifting and I start thinking that maybe I'd like to try to meet someone, one more time. I thought that I had made up my mind to be perfectly ok growing old alone, having a garden, strange and unusual pets, and wearing big brimmed hats and long dresses all in black so that the neighborhood kids start seeing me as the local witch. (At least this is what my generation was taught happens to women like me) My family members start hinting at going online again and I've forgotten the pains of the trials of my past experiences, much like what I imagine getting pregnant is for the second time. Why would I put myself through these horrible experiences again? Because I have forgotten what it feels like and think, it wasn't so bad and maybe it'll be different this time.

So here it is, my top 10 Tips to fellas dating online. All of these tips stem from my own personal experiences and are from this most recent tour online, although not necessarily solely.

Online Dating Tip #10:

HEY GUYS!! You fellas online!!! HELLOOOO!

Ask her questions about herself! I know, a mind shattering concept, but here's the thing, it actually works!!! Insert open mouthed smiley excited emoji face here

If you are genuinely interested in meeting a partner (not just a sex buddy but a real relationship ---- no judgement either way it’s just that this tip is for relationship guys ---- I know for a fact there are a lot of you out there and I want to help you out ---- truly!!!)

Ask the person questions about THEM. You can start with just about anything, but an easy way is to look at their pictures, find something in them to enquire about.

For instance,

Was that photo taken at Niagara Falls?

You looked like you were having a lot of fun in that picture by the water, was that a holiday?

Is that your child?

How old is your pet?

EVERYONE, including you, wants to feel special and unique, and although there may be a few people you’re finding special enough to chat with, they are still more special than the slew of others, so find out if they actually are more special.

If they are they’ll ask you enough questions about yourself to keep your ego perfectly erect! And with your ego at attention, why not exemplify how caring, compassionate and interested you are in someone other than yourself! Insert winky smiley face emoji here

A Secret: it’s a real turn on!

 

Online Dating Tip #9:

Don’t make group photos your primary photo or the only photos in your profile. 

Everyone is assuming that you have friends and family and that will become very clear when you start chatting.  What a woman is looking for is pictures of you, your face, your body, doing "you" things. If she sees 5 pictures of you with a group of people how is she to distinguish who you are from the rest of them? Especially when viewed on a phone. It’s hard enough to figure out if some people are attractive in the kind of way you’d like on a cell phone, why make it more difficult?

Worse yet, what if your friends are better looking than you are…what then? Don’t get offended if a woman contacts you asking for your friends digits cause he looks cuter, taller and more charismatic in photos.

These apps were not designed to spark immediate emotional connections, THEY ARE APPS, INTERNET, COMPUTER PROGRAMS and are incapable of emoting, regardless of how many emojis you use. Insert stunned emoji face here

BONUS points to Bitmoji users, sense of humor, especially at oneself, never ceases to be attractive.

Don’t take it personally, it’s the nature of the product. Just do the best you can and be real, be you, be honest and true and you’ll find someone who…(sung in musical theater voice)

 

Online Dating Tip #8:

Hey fellas!

Driving an hour to meet someone new is not a journey to the moon, it’s a chivalrous act.

The worst thing that will happen is that you end up driving for a few hours on a Sunday afternoon. If you’re really interested in meeting someone special and the woman you wink at lives an hour away, don’t ask her when she’s coming to you, ask her when you can talk on the phone, then, if all goes well, ask her when you can come to her. We aren’t planning our futures with virtual strangers.

Literally...virtual strangers...

Take it one step at a time. If she were your dream lady, wouldn’t you fly to the moon and back? Put your baggage and insecurities to the side, initially at the very least and be a gentleman.

To the liars:

If the reason you won’t go out of your way is because you’re just looking for a FWB, be a fucking decent human being and say so. Don’t try to manipulate her to coming to you so that you can attempt to get her so tipsy she can’t drive home and then tell her she can sleep at your house…

Nothing will happen…

You promise…Insert sly winky smiley face emoji here

Jesus man! You’re not 18, not for almost 2 decades, how young are the women you try to manipulate? I know you think you’re being suave and probably think you’re seductive, but she sees right though you. She’s just debating whether she’s horny enough and whether you’re good looking enough for her to bother.

 

Online Dating Tip #7:

Hey fellas!!!

Don’t tell the new girl how stunningly gorgeous the old girl was, so much so that you wondered why a woman as beautiful as she would be online to begin with. How she was so unbelievably beautiful that you wondered what kind of crazy she must be if she can't find a date and keep a man in the real world.

First of all beautiful women have a difficult time dating in life, just like everyone else. Most men are either too shy to say hello or just see her as a conquest... I should know... ehem... Insert toothy grimacing emoji face here

Secondly, it makes you look like a manipulative jerk. If your intention is to make the new girl feel so insecure that she’ll settle for your crazy ass, dude, we’re not living in 1940, get your shit together, get some therapy, build true self-confidence and be grateful for what you have and respectful of your future partner.

Thridly, WTF is wrong with you? You're online too dude! Need I say, projection much?

Happy dating! Insert original smiley face emoji here

 

Online Dating Tip #6:

(this one’s a nice one by comparison)

(which is probably why it's a shorter one)

(it's more fun writing the meaner ones) Insert all the emjoi's here

Hey Fellas,

If you’re genuinely interested in meeting and getting to know a lovely lady, give more than one line answers.

With all of the options and swipes out there, this is not the time to be shy. Chances are, she’s not going to feel your beautiful personality through her smartphone screen. Be as charming and charismatic as you possibly can to get that first phone call! That first phone call is often the first step to that first date...see where this is going?!

Life is too short to let shyness get in the way of progress.

If you are just looking for a booty call, be honest, no one likes wasting time!

 

Online Dating Tip #5:

Hey fellas...

Topless photos are only appropriate in...

water skiing, scuba diving, surfing, water sport photos in general, on the beach, and...

that’s just about it.

Photos of you topless, laying in bed = Creepy with a capital C

Topless selfie in the bathroom = weird

Duckface topless selfie = weird no matter where it was taken. P.s. there’s a reason why there was a whole season a few years back of comedy bits about the duck face...it’s not sexy...it’s weird.

Topless selfie at the gym = why are you topless at the gym? Have you been approached by the staff about inappropriate attire? Are you really looking to date a lady?

Squinty eye, duckface, topless selfie in bed= needs no explanation Insert unamused emoji face here

Topless or not...all selfies all the time are strange. Set up a tripod if you don’t have anyone else to take photos of you. And take photos out and about, not just in your house, car or bathroom. Try to avoid all three of these locations until you get the hang of it.

I mean, what are you guys thinking???

Signed, Genuinely Curious

P.S. If looking for a "hookup", or "I'll host" and you want to exhibit your weird duckface naked torso pointy man nipples alongside your semi tidy apartment, be honest or better yet, join a hookup app and stop wasting the authentic ladies' time.

 

Online Dating Tip #4.

(This one’s a duesy!)

Hey Fellas,

If you’re going to be a perv, straight outta the gate, be sure to include that in your bio.

Unless you mention desiring purely sexual connections or the woman flat out asks you for a dick pick or a booty call — DO NOT assume it is EVER appropriate to start a connection with a sexual dialogue.

If you do slip up (because it happens), rather than trying to convince her that she mistook your innuendo...

(PUHLEEZE!, what rock do you think she just crawled out from under?)

Simply admit it and apologize. Simple. Be a grown adult man and take ownership of yo-self!

If she decides that regardless of your apology, your approach was too creep-like to overlook for a total and complete stranger. Accept that you acted like a douche and move on in silence.

Actual written dialogue that took place.

Disclaimer                                                                                                                        The name has been changed to protect the privacy of a certain individual...but really because I’d rather not get sued in the future for defamation of character, even though this is 100% true written dialogue that I copied and pasted from my device.

Before this conversation (if you can call it that) I had had minimal online texting with this individual. We never met in person, never spoke on the phone and I hadn’t heard from him in about a month. I had all but forgotten about him...and then... to my surprise, I get this...

Guy: Hey Gaetanne, Question for you. Do you identify as Dom or Sub?

Me: Really? Question for you, do you have a shitty sense of humor or have you been laying it on thick with the cocaine?

(Admittedly a teeny bit excessive, but at this stage that’s what you get for being a doucher)

Guy: “Personality“
Dominant or Submissive

Me: Ya, I understand the question. Don’t pretend you weren’t insinuating sexually, one thing I don’t identify myself as is stupid.

Guy: Ok...sexually, personality, artistically...I’m looking at your paintings...
I believe some of them are self-portraits.

(He attaches an image of my painting “The Definition of Insanity”. A painting of a woman with a clown face, Harley Quinn-esq. She is handcuffed to the bed, but only with one hand. The title of the painting is a clear indication of the narrative direction, as is the rest of the paintings composition if taken the time to look at it. Obviously he only saw, woman (me), handcuffs and a bed.)

Guy: So I’m putting pieces of the puzzle together.

Insert eyes rolling to the back of my head emoji here

Sigh

(Hardly)

Me: Not self-portraits, psycho-spiritual narratives that I happen to use myself in as the subject. Had you bothered to ask me about my work rather than my sexual habits we could have had a good conversation.

Guy: Psycho-spiritual?
As in subconscious?
And FYI you shouldn’t jump to conclusions...

Me: psycho as in psy-cho-lo-gi-cal.
You’re right, I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Forgive me for jumping down your throat after decades of dealing with certain men who think that asking me about my sexuality before making any effort of getting to know me as a living breathing thinking feeling human being is appropriate conversation.
Maybe...and this is just a thought...you should think about your sentence structure.

Guy: You 100% right.
Thank you for your honesty.
I’m sorry to hear that you’ve had to deal with these types of men and situations. (um...you are this type of man and created this situation)
If there’s a positive to draw from it...it’s that I can tell you have a thick skin!                (oh, a passive aggressive insult disguised as a compliment)
And apologies for assuming I was being clear.                                                              (you were being clear, I understood exactly what you meant)

(I admit that by this point I’m convinced that he’s totally full of shit, because I do believe that if he really were sorry he would have had the common sense not to go down that road to begin with. There is very little compassion on my end at this point, if any at all.)

Me: Apology accepted.
But if you think I’m going to believe your intent was pure in nature you’re mistaken.
All the best to you.
Don’t bother contacting me again.

Guy: Like I said, I meant it in all aspects of the word(s)...you chose to interpret it as such and I can understand why, but unfortunately because you let the experience of bad apples in your life cause you to pass judgement on someone truly different than what’s out there. I’m not any better or any worse than anyone...but I’m not your typical guy.
No worries...I have zero desire to invest energy in this...I guess you’ll never know what you walked away from. Ciao
Oh ya, and I tried calling 2 weeks ago and never herd back...

Me: I never received a phone call and was never left a message.
I think I have a pretty good idea of what I’m gladly walking away from!

Ciao (said in valley girl accent) Insert winky smiley face with tongue hanging out here

 

Online Dating Tip #3:

Hey fellas!!!

When you finally do meet a girl you like...

Step 1: RELAX

Don’t go messaging her little love notes 5 times a day and sending her heart and kissy heart emojis before you’ve even spoken on the phone.

Step 2: CHILL THE FAWK OUT

If she doesn’t respond within 24 hours and you’re freeking out wondering what you did wrong, thinking about the AMAZING connection you had with this super sexy lady that you sent 2 emails to and picture as your bride, don’t message her an all caps “HELLOOO???”

When she does finally message you back...the next day...don’t write, “I though you weren’t interested! Thank GAWD you finally messaged back!” (To be fair this is a slight exaggeration of a personal experience, but only slight)

Chill the fawk out guys!!!

We’re as anxious as you are to meet someone special and when we meet a dude who seems to check all the boxes (or at least most of them) we get excited too! But text stalking her and sending her love emojis and expecting her to be waiting with the phone in hand for each and every message 24 hours a day 7 days a week, is not reasonable for an established relationship let alone a “we literally just started texting two days ago, and have never even spoken on the phone yet.” acquaintance.

You want to get that first date???

Here’s a simple 1, 2, 3 step guide...

1. Text her a few paragraphs about yourself, be generous, if she’s interested she’ll read it! Then ask her questions about herself, she wants to know that you genuinely want to get to know her, not just her vagina. Figure out if you actually have anything in common or if you just like that picture of her in her mermaid costume at the mermaid parade in Coney Island.

2. Then if you still like her, ask for a phone call, YES! YOU SHOULD VOICE CALL HER! And make a plan. If she’s a single lady living in this jungle we call earth, she’s going to have a job, family, friends, hobbies, a pet, plants, I.e.: a life, and as far as you’re concerned, you are a stranger. The sooner that fact is no longer a fact, the sooner she’ll express more interest in you.

3. Once the phone call was had, and you’re still interested, make plans to meet. Because remember, she most likely has a lot more guys messaging her than you have ladies messaging you.

Moral of the story, be proactive, not creepy.

 

Online Dating Tip #2.

Don’t talk about other women in a romantic, sexualized, gossipy way to the woman you are currently talking with.

a) WTF guy? When did giving a woman a compliment entail telling her how attractive all other women are?

answer: NEVER. If you think that the woman you're talking to online is beautiful in her pictures, tell her, directly.

b) When did using the phrase, "Gotta look good for the ladies" become an appropriate statement to a woman you've never met and are trying to date?

answer: NEVER. If you work out and manscape for the ladies, good for you, but keep it to yourself and the locker room, especially with someone new. It's a put off. You want to see how cool and down to earth she is? Then talk to her like a real human being.

c) When did talking about how stunningly gorgeous the last woman you went out on a date with seem like a good idea?

answer: NEVER. Are you trying to make her feel insecure? Are you that guy? That guy who likes to make the woman he's trying to date feel inferior as a method of seduction? Be a gentleman, keep your beautiful ex's out of the picture, literally and figuratively, (unless you're poly, in which case you should mention that as an FYI)

d) When did mentioning how wonderful your ex girlfriend was but how she was kind of nuts seem like a fun topic with a stranger that you're trying to bed?

answer: NEVER. It takes two to tango and if your discussion around your ex is..."she was great but"...that's a clear indication that you don't take responsibility for your actions. A gossip is a gossip is a gossip, if you're gossiping about her with me, a woman you've just met, I would make a very expensive bet that you would turn around and do the same to me in no time flat. Don't bitch about your ex unless you want to talk about your shit bag behavior as well.

Insert tired emoji here

 

Online Dating Tip #1.

The big Kahuna

The ultimate Online Dating Tip of the decade!

Here it is folks!

This one is a repeated theme throughout this post and mentioned in almost every tip. Given that it was coming up over and over again, I thought it deserved mention and deserved the number one spot.

How does lying to somebody about who you are or what you do end well, ever?

You, you guy, you know who you are.

Ya, you, I’m talking to you.

The one who lays out bait to see what the response is so that you can mold your story to whatever you think will be what she wants to hear so that you can finally get laid. How well has that been workin' for ya' anyway?

You, over there, the liar about who you are, what you want and what you’re looking for.

You, the perpetual cheater, only you’re single and you’re really only cheating yourself in the end. Insert sentimental emoji here

If you’ve read my tips up to this point, you might have noticed a repeated theme throughout, regardless of the initial topic. At the end of several posts I mention things like...

If you are just looking for casual hook-ups, BE HONEST.

Believe it or not, there are women who are interested in that also.

If you are married and want to cheat on your spouse, be honest. You will find women who desire that as well.

If you are in an open relationship and want another partner, be honest.

If you are in a poly relationship and you and your current partner want another partner, be honest.

If you are a playa, and have no intention of being monogamous, be honest.

If you get off on lying. If lying about your intentions is what arouses you and gets you excited, then you have some deep rooted psychological issues that you should find a therapist for. That is addiction my friend and is a real problem, most likely stemming from trauma of some kind. Getting off on hurting innocent people just to stick your dick in is a kind of psychosis that has been minimized and dismissed as "guys being guys". I know many guys, and although many of them have probably tried this method once or twice in their lives, all of the healthy, strong, independent, confident, sexy, masculine men that I know would never deliberately manipulate and hurt a woman just to get laid. So if that's your thing, you should truly consider getting yourself some professional help.

Moral of the story

BE HONEST

BE TRUE

BE YOU