I’m a gambler

Welcome to the fondue party, everyone.

There’s a Hula Girl on my Dashboard now has forty-three reviews—one step closer to fifty…

I’m busy with a Thing this weekend. I’ve been somewhat stressed out because of it, but everything turned out well and I’m very relieved. I am extremely protective of the person the Thing involved (this is one Thing among a number of Things that have been taking place since the beginning of the year), and am caring for this loved one in every manner that’s possible.

We don’t see eye to eye as far as a few matters go, but it’s absolutely inconsequential. No one agrees about everything. In this instance, what we agree about is greater than our differing points of view. Our bond is greater and more important.

As I’ve mentioned before, there are a lot of people who understand next to nothing about the mechanisms of domestic violence. About psychological captivity. Why do you stay in a prison without walls?

There is one who dangles the keys in front of your face, there is one who’s locked the invisible door, there is one who has you trapped and who conditions you with every subtle, identity-crushing method imaginable until you’re unable to move a muscle, until you doubt yourself utterly and are in a permanent state of fear and eventually don’t even realize you’re constrained because you’ve been terrorized into believing that whatever happens is “your” doing: the perpetrator.

The perpetrator alone is to blame. The type of individual who says, “You made me do it. It’s because of you, what you are, what you aren’t, what you do or don’t do, what you think or don’t think—and all you are and should be and should do is subject to change without notice depending upon my psychopathology.”

Life can be complicated. And relations with people you love always have specific challenges. As the song goes, you have to know when to hold ’em, and know when to fold ’em.

Every gambler knows
That the secret to survivin’
Is knowin’ what to throw away
And knowin’ what to keep

I certainly know what I’m throwing away and what I’m keeping.

There is a coping device that helped my loved one hold it together in the midst of absolute fucking shit, a device I myself thought would help me, but it didn’t. At all. Sure. Like I said, life isn’t a straight-forward affair.

The coping device in question is one I’ve personally found almost entirely and inherently problematic. I believe this device is a wolf in sheep’s clothing and harms those it claims to assist.

I do, however, know one thing. The coping device is a separate issue. Our misery had its origin in one source, and one source only: the perpetrator, an individual who regularly blamed his targets for his behavior and the anguish it caused. An individual who knew where their vulnerabilities lay and how to use it against them, who trained them to blame themselves, who made sure they were helpless, who cut their wings and said “You’re worthless because you can’t fly.” That is where the responsibility lies.

I’ve known this since I was old enough to think.

This individual can basically rot for all I care.

And that’s all I’m going to say. If you’ve read my work, I imagine you can figure it out. Don’t understand a situation like the one I’ve described? Move on.

There are “causes” that would grind up the purported objects of their solicitude.

Causes often have a way of doing that.

It’s one of the reasons I’ve always been and will always be an outsider.

I don’t skate the edge; I am the edge.


On that note, it’s a lovely summer’s day, and I’ll be doing happy stuff today. Quiet, tranquil stuff. And carefully watching over a beloved somebody. We’ll be celebrating a Sixth Month Anniversary soon.

I updated my personal blog Apostate Island yesterday, and today too:

satanic agenda


Take a peek. New polyester shirts and vinyl records.

Time to clean up the house a bit. I got some chillout playing, I got my oil diffuser making the air fragrant.

Say cheese.