mind-numbing anger management.

Sad News: I've had to pull out of writing for threeifbyspace.net. I'm all kinds of sad about it; I was deeply excited about reviewing The Expanse in December. I got to do some Comic-Con write ups about it, though, and that was cool. But I'll be very honest: Life is really kicking my ass right now. Personally and professionally. I've been reviewing Extant on CBS, which has one of my favorite storytellers, David Morrissey, in it. And Jeffrey Dean Morgan (oh my god, that long drink of water Jeffrey Dean Morgan). But shitty shit happened and I couldn't keep up. I just had to stop; I do need deadlines and editors, but I also need to sleep, earn money, and learn how to be a single mom without having a mental meltdown. It was just too much on my plate, and I was having emotional meltdowns which were keeping me from doing a good job for them. And I'm still super excited about watching The Expanse and will most likely write about it (if Life's not kicking my ass) here, on this blog.

They're lovely, kind people, those three if by spacers. They said I was a terrific writer and I can come back and write for them whenever I feel like it. And if/when I can pull myself together, I can rejoin their fun family all the time, because I will always be in their family. I like nice, kind people. Don't you?

But mostly I'm here to say: I finally figured out why I'm so mad. (Mom! Look away!) 


Here it is: I'm sexually frustrated. 

I'm not going to go into the gory details on a public blog, but I will tell you it's been a long while. Since that's happened. With another human being.

My fears/concerns: I'm 43. In less than six months, I'll be 44. (And in two decades I'll be 64 and probably drooling with dementia and this torture won't even be an issue. Silver linings.) I've just left a marriage. Right now, what I need to be doing is taking care of me and my daughter, not thinking about shit like this. But I do, and it's kinda/sorta a problem, I guess? I'm writing about it here, so it must be. 

I'm very picky about whose hands I want on me. I have a long record of making horrible choices in this area. I either end up with a man who knows what he's doing but is fucked up in some way or another, or I end up with one who doesn't have a clue what he's doing and I end up even more frustrated than before.

So I guess if I had to choose between those, I'd pick the fucked up man who knows what he's doing. Because I want to be devoured. Except not chewed up and spit out. And, in my experience, I find men who know how to properly devour women really just chew them up...then spit them out. They get bored quickly, grow aloof, and move on. And that's a shitty feeling, no? Not only do you get to be disgusted with and mad at the devourer, you also get to be disgusted with and mad at yourself because you're part of the problem: you're the bleeding fish that threw itself in the water with the sharks. What did you think would happen?

Also, this is hard to write about and not just because my mom's probably reading.

At any rate. I'm having a really hard time. I'm completely in sexual limbo right now. Still married legally, not free to date. Don't really want to date, because I talk to people who do date and the process sounds so mind-numbingly depressing my brain wants to hurl itself off a cliff. Want to have sex, but not really free to have sex. Want to have sex with the right person, but not really free to find the right person. Thinking about the process of finding the right person is mind-numbingly depressing. 

I know you're reading this going: you're over-thinking this, Amy. One day, someone will just come along when you don't expect it. I disagree with you. That's like saying: trust in the Lord, He will provide. No, He won't, you naive psycho. Not unless you do some seriously hard legwork, too. You don't just pray for cash and then the next day a million dollar check shows up at your door. Life does not work like Pat Robertson wants you to think it does. The Universe is not a wishing well.

Meanwhile, I can feel my libido aging. 

And I also know you're probably thinking: well, Amy. There's always self-love. And if you're thinking that, hahaha! I so want to punch you right now. I don't care if we're related or not. I want to punch you. Self-love is NOT the same and you know it.

This is why I'm angry, Internet. This is exactly why. I love men. But I don't love men who are pigs. (Are there men who aren't pigs? Maybe just the men I know and love.) 

And I'm overwhelmed by work. I want to meet a nice person to be just friends with, to meet for dinner and conversation, and then also no strings other stuff that won't get messy and complicated. And be devoured but not chewed up and spit out. 

I feel like I'm asking for the sun, the moon, and the stars. And it's mind-numbingly anger-inducing. 

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