Trump runs the government like a business


In the corporate world, when the executive makes all the final decisions and those who disagree are replaced, it’s called business as usual. In government, it’s called fascism. The reason democratic governments are not run like businesses is because there’s a different set of risks associated with the concentration of power. When you refuse access to unfavorable press and discredit judges for checking executive power, you have just gone after the two basic firewalls between us and fascism. This is why Michael Moore says that a coup is underway in the U.S. and no one realizes it. In fact, Trump himself may not realize it, as I suspect he is just managing the only way he knows how, oblivious to the historical implications.

I think U.S. institutions are strong enough to stave off the coup, but people need to stay vigilant and vocal about the implications of Trump’s manner of using…

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The People, United, can never be Divided.

Early in the morning, I write.

On Saturday I joined at least 10,000 unknown allies as we chanted and ranted our way through the Quarter. It was fucking beautiful. In a manner quite unlike myself, I did not take pictures. Well, not very many, and only on Snapchat, lol. I didn’t want the lens between myself and the river of righteousness. I needed that cleansing sweat down my neck. The buzz from the booze and the newfound friends, friends from college, friends from the time people called me “that feminist girl”; I was infused. The range of ages, gender, orientation, and religion that all, despite our massive numbers, feel alone and unsafe in our home.

I have been feeling unsafe in my home since I can remember. Even before things got physical, I fell asleep to the sounds of screams between my parents. Even as recently as last month, I was ejected from what was misrepresented as a home. WalMart is following through with their attendance policies like whoa, and homelessness is real.

If I’m anything, I’m my mother’s daughter. I have her quick wit, her compassion, and her lung capacity. I hope that I am always my own person, with a separate destiny from my mother. She carried me, and I hope I learn to carry myself at a pace that is improved. Does that make me cold or pragmatic?

How does a realist reconcile an unbalanced relationship? Marriage, by historical tradition, is a male-promoting (white, straight, cis, and usually wealthy males, specifically) institution. This is not to say that married women can’t be powerful. I know many who are. Nonetheless, the foundation of this institution is patriarchal bullshit. Can strong, motivated people make it work despite the system keepin’ us down? Yeah. But it sucks that we have to do that.

Since dumping my ex, I have benefited from life in the following ways:
-better eating habits for myself, not those who pretend to be vegan when it suits their menstrual cycle;
-an exchange of chores that does not involve me asking, begging, pleading, or just doing it all myself;
-regular, increasingly difficult exercise routines that empower me, not dedicated to guessing the physical needs of someone who doesn’t know in the first place;
-encouragement from friends in a variety of time zones;
-therapeutic confirmation that I, once again, did the right thing for me by shedding away a weak partner;
-grounding work to consider myself having a room of my own, a home in my own right, and the freedom to breathe easy there has begun;
-the mental clarity around my value of integrity, and the personal assurance that I do embody that, matched with the confirmation of allies;
-enforcement from people I feared losing that I am of value and bring concrete benefits to their lives, enough so that they want to keep me around;
-cleaner lungs and reprieve from the smokescreen that cloaks lies, plus whole days without smoking myself;
-reassurance that my limits with kink make perfect goddamn sense for me and I’m allowed to feel sexually safe at 30 years old;
-growth with both my stronger/remaining partners, which was long overdue and more rewarding than I’d imagined;

Since dumping my ex, I’ve gone freaking insane in the following ways:
-stalking her, if possible (it’s not easy)
-fantasizing about ways to harm her person (this is new, and I have so many others who deserved this before her)
-rephrasing the ways I would cut her down in haiku
-practicing the way I’ll greet her DaddyMike when I run into him fucking her in the club (so far: “No, I know who you are. I read up on partners, because ethics.” or “Don’t you have a Mistress? What the fuck does that mean to you?”)
-trying to remember all the shit I want back, because who knows what she may have already done (I didn’t think she would, and haven’t heard that she did, but I also didn’t think she’d lie like she did. All bets are off.)
-told all of our mutual friends that I am irrational with hatred for her, and even called her names (maybe the thing I dislike the most, because I’m breaking my own values)
-agonizing over why a man I’ve intimately known for three years knowingly fucks a girl who he knows lies to him
-pushing away my present and loving partners by drinking to access (something that makes me wonder how many steps I am from Crown Royal)
-explaining ageplay to all my vanilla friends
-setting new limits with safe people because safety has been shifted

She had my things moved without my permission, consent, or knowledge. Well, lol, she didn’t move them. She had Matt go move them. *sigh* So many reasons I should’ve left sooner.

Right after things ended, I remember HD telling me that I don’t need to think of it as time wasted, and I balked at the idea. Immediately lists of ways I grew, ways I learned about myself, about what safe fathers might look like, about how emotional abuse can look like physical abuse, how to care for someone who is physically weaker and how to care for someone who is mentally weaker, along with how to paint a room and how to scrape a deck. As time goes on, I do think I’m wasting my time here: being furious. My feels are valid and my anger is understandable, but it’s unproductive. I rage and get nowhere but sniffly. Sure, it’s nice to justify all the reasons I’m the bee’s knees and she sucks donkey dick, but why? What’s the purpose of doing all that personal growth/therapy work if I’m gonna be bitter anyway?

Besides the fact that I somehow think it makes me “win”.

I walked away with myself. What more do I need to win?


I’m on my second night of consecutive not-sleeping. I wish I could say this was rare, but those who know me know this all too well. On the bright side, it is less and less common. Therapy gold star.

Lin sings to me and I see the face of my Northern Love, shining down on me like the moon did this evening. I miss that woman so fucking much. I have been spoiled with freely loving both genders, and now I need that lady. She gives me so much, all the more considering what resources are available to her. Her family embraces me with little to no knowledge of my Self. It’s beautiful how people can come together in a time where the world seems so divided.

I’m dizzy. That’s because I’m sleep deprived. I’ve been eating by the timer Liz sets, so I’m not too hungry to promote dizziness.

The System swings at full force. I am finally less sick than I’ve been for weeks and I want to do so much. I have so much to do. The OKSis is a mental blessing beyond words, but a physical burden on my nose and lungs. She slips her paw under the door and cries kitten mews like Prim’s Buttercup. I tell her that if Amanda can sleep without me, so can she. I haven’t been able to catch my breath yet this year.

I can see, with Jim’s death being thirteen years ago last month, the amount of growth I’ve made since I tried to kill myself and got stuck inpatient. In short, I fucking rock this shit. Check it. Until I pace myself, I see nothing in terms of growth. I am so behind from where I wanted to be. I’m thirty (gasp) and while my breasts didn’t slinky to my waist as the media had me expecting, but I have none of my life together. Charlie makes things look managed by comparison.

This is not a plea for compliments, but rather a grounded perspective of reality. If nothing, I hope to be a romantic realist in the way I am one and many. I have some decks stacked in my advantage, for sure. Despite my advantages, I also face my share of uphill battles. The euphemisms fall short when I try to list my ratio of pros and cons.

I am not normal. That’s a goddamn gospel fact. I’m not awful, not bad, and in fact, may be a good person. It’s quite likely, in fact. I have my failings and my dreamy skills to balance. A Libra deems me long-term-commitment worthy. And he’ll be around to keep an eye on those scales.

Tonight a woman, a teacher, a Master, a wife, a survivor, a fucking powerhouse Lady called me to feel a sense of safety.

I’m worthwhile.

I’m also tired.

I wrote mean things. On the Internet, where my ex can easily find and read said mean things. Mean things. I’m not nice. I’m not sorry. lol But still, goddamn. I’m not bad, but I may be close. Maybe not good after all. It’s murky in that gray area, isn’t it? The lights lead me astray and I fall into the swamps as Frodo. Gollum has melded into Smeagol, leaving no one to pull me out of the death puddle. I’m gonna drown in three inches of muddy Mississippi.

My boy held my bare legs to his chest tonight while we watched The Magical Mystery Tour. His fingertips brush against me like it’s typical to have me in his house. It will be soon. Sooner than planned.

Changing my legal status does not mean I am sacrificing who and what I am. Jared loves me for who and what I am, and would not ask me to change that.

This summer when I go to California and introduce my mother to my boy, do I reach out to Steph? I tried to call Aubrey on her birthday and was shut down, informed that my unsealed letter to my niece was not given to her. I haven’t done a thing since. I mean, I’ve cried when she updates her profile picture to her and her other maid of honor and noted the all-caps words of “best friend” in the picture caption. But I haven’t tried to talk to her.

In some situations, I’m as non-confrontational as my ex. Ugh. Another layer of gross shame to my actions.

No wonder I can’t sleep.

Hamilton wrote with purpose. He giving lessons and defense for foundations of the lives we all take for granted now. I write stream of consciousness whining while being too checked out to edit in the moment. I don’t have any right to relate.

Right when I want to lash out at age players overall, I see my friend shine through the fear I cover her with. She is strong and does what she does because she has control and can play within the rules. I was violated, deeply, at an insanely young age. Before I had gender stable in my mind I knew my dad would fuck me and blame me. I cannot separate myself from the rush of playing with a taboo when it comes to this kink. My lack of understanding does not make me bad. It makes me traumatized.

It makes me separate. Disabled. Not normal. Outside of the typical experience.

Why can’t I accept my separation?

I know I’m not worthless. I don’t need to die or even be banished to some blank room on the coast.

Just as deeply, maybe more so, I know I can’t do what Jared does. I can’t do what Niki does. I can’t do what Amanda or Matt or basically anyone I admire does. If I can wake during sunlit hours, go outside, and eat twice in one day, it’s a freaking success.

Where does that leave me?

Awake at 3:23am, apparently. Writing to no one on a blog.

Haikus I wrote tonight

Between Hamilton,
and Obama’s speech, needing
a Revelation.

Between pages of
novels and letters, words give
consistent shelter.

Take my words, my love,
Build yourself up strong, kindle
our passion, for now.

Commitment falls not
like snow, glittering and light.
There could be a trap.

A thin broth is an
odd choice when a person can
go cook for themselves.

Dead relationships
compost before me, new life
stronger for the loss.

Do all people get
wild support from strangers, or
am I just louder?

Hunks of herb with my
gang up north; we blaze for real

I’m made of bricks, built
over the spaces your love
was weak and crumbled.

I hope my words cut
as cleanly as the knife I
keep, clement, ready.

Illusions of
control keep my mind, our minds,
and the world, in line.

Orgasm with a
partner acting as a child
skirts alongside Jim.

Fetishizing the
same toys your nephew would be
drawn to use seems sick.

I know I am blind
to some things, but I also
know my shit. Do you?

Everything is fine
when you sleep most nights. The
screaming is ignored.

I don’t always play
Oppression Olympics; but
I win when I play.

You sit, the victim,
pitied by all for your

It took over a
decade for me to own my
anger. I’ll use it.

My ex and “sister”
fear being their mothers.
Now, they are no one.

If you cannot be
yourself and you do not want
to be others, what?

Avoiding conflict
while bitching about that choice
makes no goddamn sense.

What the Black Pearl is,
is impossible to sail
to Colorado.

Grind and offer greens,
white strawberry diesel hits
sweeter in the south.

Proverbs Thirty-One
was the standard of success
and now I want more.

I want love, truth, sex,
loyalty, a challenge, my
freedom; more pending.

Warm kitty bellies
should be prescribed as freely
as pills we shovel.

I find comfort in
knowing Death will come for me.
My mind will quiet.

The water poured,
overflowing her cups with
promised abundance.

Best friends do not
ask you to go into debt
for a damn wedding.

Have I really been
wronged by those who harmed
me, or was Jim right?

Devils and angels
battle around us, always.
Don’t yield higher ground.

Jumping lunges are
more torture than exercise.
Just waterboard me.

Air purifiers
filter the dander and smoke.
So, why can’t I breathe?

Does your dick dry out
without frequent puss, or are
you just that lazy?

River roaches crawl
patiently, expecting to
be crushed by you.

Jimmy left for work.
I’ve spent another night with
the blinking cursor.

His body hugs the edge
of our bed, enough room for
my absence tonight.

The curve of his chin
covered in stubble, for me,
endears him all over.

At night, when the dark
looms loudly, his arms tighten
to secure my soul.

Days drag on without
kisses from either set of
lips I long to love.

All the breakup rants and the Plan for the Future.

I appreciate therapy more as I go without it for spells. I have boiled down my time to fit weeks, sometimes months, of info into 90 minutes or less. A key question Kimberley asked me a few months ago that I’m using as a goalpost for 2017 is “where is your self-worth?” At the time, it was not where it should have been. I was letting myself be traded for my livelihood, something I’ve been re-enforcing through my life, consciously and otherwise. It reaffirms the base lessons that the incest seared into my brain. I had accepted myself as disabled, but aside from getting enough insurance to take antidepressants, I was nowhere. Depression thickened like my apartment air. My partners could not reach me, and I may not have been available for comment, anyway. So, I left Matt. I moved in with Niki.

Niki lived with her dad, Brian. He has MS and a genetic stubbornness problem. Niki had a house, a dependent parent, a full-time job, two untrained dogs who didn’t understand how to use a dog door, and no extra time. I had time in abundance, between nightmares and the pieces I lost. If I could help at night, I could help. I moved in and started helping.

I have the good fortune to be “out” in most all of my life. Many people do not. I hope I never cross a line that makes someone feel “outed” without their consent.

We hide our truths in the intimate places between people. There were nights when I held Niki because I couldn’t find anything else in the waking world, and she kept me tethered, giving me a place to be, even if I couldn’t be. I loved her. We had a beautiful dynamic.

We had a beautiful dynamic when we were at our best. Living together changes things. Adding family and money changes things. Our lives did not sync together magically. I did not unpack for a while. And before the end, I had started to pack again. My place felt awkward, uninvited and unearned. My experience is tainted by myself. I did not know how to live with a father figure, let alone one that was in the house 24-7. Brian is wheelchair bound. The company, I thought, would be good for both of us. His depression was obvious and understandable; something I shared for different reasons. The house was where Niki had grown up. Parts of it had not been cleaned since around then. Again, with the time constraints and physical issues, it all made sense. Here was something I could help for the better. A concrete way to enrich my girl’s life, the life of those she loves, to help her have a place for her nephew and friends to visit.

I am not a selfless person. I was provided for by money I did not earn. I am not an idle person. I contributed how and when I could.

In relationships, our layers bud and bloom and bud again, like jasmine overnight. I didn’t see things clearly until I was closer. Neither did she.

I’ve been explaining it to vanilla people with the phrase “she cheated on me,” but it isn’t that simple. (Is it ever?) At the core of the betrayal was miscommunication, and lack of communication, and mistakes. Niki disappointed me. People do that. I am sure I’ve disappointed her as well, and/or any number of other people. We wanted to work through it. We tried. For months, we tried.

It didn’t work. For numerous reasons that are private and public, it did not work.

She asked me to leave her house. I told her I was breaking up with her. I got some of my stuff and moved into Matt’s guest room. The very place I’d left because I’d been taken for granted. Over the time I’d lived at Niki’s, Matt had come to appreciate what I did for him when we had lived together. Things had changed in how he treated me, and the time he spent with me. We were talking differently; talking alone was a big step. Still, Matt did not invite me to live with him. I imposed on someone who has my furniture. The place I’d been ejected from was a place where I was invited to not be taken for granted, and yet that is exactly what happened. My forgiveness was not recognized because it didn’t come alongside my cunt. The promises of “my home too” from my now-ex were null and void. I hesitate to say they were not accurate when they were stated, but it was a temporary condition. Of course, she would stay in her childhood home with her father and I would leave. Nonetheless, it hurt.

She got ugly with it. Her friends told me they were getting different stories from both of us, so I don’t know what she told people. I know she posted about our breakup on social media and then blocked a number of people who thought of her as a friend because I was notified by those people. Her dad unfriended me on social media, which surprisingly, hurt. He doesn’t even know the story, I tell myself, even now. He can’t because it would require Niki to be open and honest with herself, and then another person. I hope she can get there one day, for her own sake. People do what they think is best given the pieces they have to work with. Brian will always side with his daughter. I know how much he loves that girl, even if she doesn’t get it.

I made it down south, to my boy. I’ve been soaking in the love he lays out for me. He kissed me on New Year’s Eve at Tina’s party. The way he is so purely good scares me half to death. I think of other good men-Ryan Gaston-who have offered me so much, and I ran the other direction. I want to be near my boy. He’s so good for me. I can keep pushing the idea that I am not good enough for him to the back of my mind.

The cat comes inside, meowing. I pick her up and she purrs against my palm. I think suddenly, “I hate Niki”. It catches me off guard. I sound venomous in my mind. I’m livid. I cannot believe she would betray me this way, so many ways, and be so fucking cavalier about it. I am beside myself with rage that I cannot tell everyone exactly what happened, damn her insecurities, and if she’s ashamed of what she does, maybe she shouldn’t fucking do it in the first place. I find myself on the floor, the cat licking my tears. I’m stricken with the loss of new friends and family, the kind we were both developing for each other. The hours and hours of my time, planning and working and being all but exploited. I am so mad I can’t see straight. I’m glad I don’t have to see her, because I wonder if the urge to harm her would be strong enough that I’d need to leave the room. Mostly, the lies are what lingers. Like barbs from tracker jackers that I missed after the initial attack. Her telling me that the time I made for her nightly meant something-well, that’s probably a lie, because she told DaddyWhatsHisName that she wanted that from someone. Implying she did not get it from someone.

She didn’t even use my name. I didn’t have the worth to be named between the lunches I made her, the times I cleaned or painted or repaired her house, or helped her father. And the asshole who went along with her didn’t think that “Mistress” meant anything, apparently, because he never said a goddamn word.

I have to get out of this wheel house.

My new phone is in process and Jared is spending every waking minute working to make me feel empowered as a person. I will never be good enough to deserve that man. I am totally going to try and lock him down anyway.

I’ll be going back to Colorado in February. Most of my belongings are there, scattered throughout the homes of those cursed to have seen me naked. I’ve left Niki and ended romantic/kinky/sexy ties with Matt. As I stand on the porch in the humid south, I am still looking northward, just past the lit-up star, where a flower stands. I’m going to go back and tend that bloom as long as I can. Now I’ll have the time and energy that she deserves.

I don’t think I can be with someone who can’t be without me. My partners have to be strong enough to stand on their own. I need people that can grow their own roots and tend themselves now and again. Strong, tall, blossoms, with yellow kisses from the sun.

Depending on weather and scheduling, I’ll be back in the Parish for Mardi Gras. Ideally for Baccus. Chalmette will be my home base, officially.

I’m allowed to be happy. I’m allowed to have good things. I’m a good person, dammit, and if people don’t agree, I hope they remove me from their lives. I’ll heal. I’m really good at healing. However, finding another Brittany is hard to do.

Haikus at 4am

As a Top, growth
is a requirement. I
won’t tolerate less.

Scenes I plan revolve,
involving changes in life,
so we can evolve.

I stew and brew and
my anger feels very real.
Still, nothing happens.

A spider bite on
my neck itches, skin crawling,
my hairs stand on end.

Only when I look
back do I feel loss. My present
is bright and peaceful.

My forgiveness does
not come from my cunt, but from
my words, ya dumb bitch.

I am in poly
dynamics so that I can
say no without guilt.

Please, Lordisa, bring
another person into
her life. Break needed.

The distance between
Colorado and Chalmette,
an ocean away.

Finest weed south of
the mason-dixon, exhaled
from Bilbo, no joke.

After Katrina,
losing belongings seems trite.
Still, I want my stuff.

Angry hatred floods
my System, and I know I
truly loved that girl.

If it comes down to
you or me, I will pick me.
I can’t regret that.

Therapy only
works if you are honest, with
everyone involved.

American made
glass-on-glass hits hard, heavy,
the way I like it.

I attract victims.
My courage under pressure
will not fix your life.

New Personal Best:
Breakup complete in under
five minutes. No scene.

Thankfully, I don’t
cry most of my feelings. It
seems awful from here.

Puff, puff, pass. Cashed.
Shit, if we’re smoking, I’ll hit
it.I blaze for real.

As I go to bed
the day reflects in my mind.
I’m a good person.

Debates with Myself; my only real Opponent.

Over the last eight days, I have been pondering my place in this state. I’ve been listing what I’m doing and why it matters, making note of reasons to live anywhere and reasons to live here. I’ve been polling the voices, gathering conclusions, and uncovering fears. My webs of thoughts bunch in sticky spots and gleam when dew drops slide down the long, narrow strands of reason. Am I the spider or the fly? Displayed beautifully, my ideas and rationalizations still gather bodies for the slaughter. Or do they? Am I deluded with my own self-importance? …Screamed the dust speck.

Today, with much pride and a surprising tone of confidence, I told my therapist, “I’m a good and giving person”. That woman has been telling me that I’m a good person since 2006. Given my notes from this week, I am able to say that by all my accounts, I am generous and generally good. Granted, I may be biased. It’s not a scientifically held up survey. My therapist’s eyes went wide when I said it. “I’m a good and giving person.” She confirmed it for me and then said that everyone else has known it for a long time.

I’m not perfect. I have crazy and vices and many inabilities. However, I am hardworking. I am clever and self-motivated. I am active. I’m faithful and I’m honest. As I get older and fuck up more, I learn better ways to communicate. There is little I say about anyone that I cannot say to them. I am a woman of integrity. I’m a good person. I never thought I’d be able to say that and believe it.

In my imperfection, I have been sharply reminded that I cannot sustain my life single-handedly at the moment. Maybe I never will. Maybe that’s my real fear: being dependent for the rest of eternity. Marriage says a lot of things to me that others don’t hear, and one of those things is dependence. My freedom was hard earned and I am not done with it yet, thanks. I may not be for a while.

Because of my years of work and my picky tendencies, I was met with a breaking wave of support. I have great friends. I am warm and fed, clothed and content. I have more than most and I have the intelligence to know it.

I sought the advice of trusted friends. I was surprised by the answers I got. I kept the silence requested. Unexpected calm seeped into my days. No one cried on me for more than five days in a row. My shoulder hasn’t been that dry in months. I find time to feel more. I ask myself questions I’ve been avoiding. I stretch and copy Katie’s exercises and get my hair cut. I’m told that this change was what I needed; what we both needed. I’m told that people are not worried about me. “If there’s one person who I think could survive anything, it’s you.” “You’ve been through bigger things than this.” “You are very good at putting in the work, and knowing when to leave. Trust yourself.”

As the fog of drama, fury, and manipulation clears, I see the many good things. I’ve been discovering some downsides of poly I’d not previously considered, and now I’m faced with a benefit I’d also missed. When one relationship breaks down, a poly person may have other healthy strong dynamics to help through the difficult tims. I am one such fortune person. People who have every reason to feel off-put have been at my side. I have a choice of places I can stay. I don’t want to test how many are genuine offers vs. said to offer comfort and moral support, but the idea that I do not have to want for a roof gives me peace. I am thankful once more that I am single, without Lyra or any child. The worst parts of my subconscious tells me that I’ve failed as an adult, again. I’m homeless, again. I’m unwanted and outsted and fired after hard work, again. I’m mean and I’m working hard not to listen to myself. I am not great at the whole of personing. I would not be as bold as Charlie and claim I’ve been in charge of pretty much everything in my life. It’s probably why I play a Top in kink, so I can pretend to have my shit together.

Still, I’m not just downsides. Emotionally, I’m a healing ninja. I’m creative. I can figure out how to work more things than I knew and I can bond with unexpected people.

Although, there’s a double edge to that sword. When I get close to someone, and then explain my crazy, and then am severed, it sucks. What about when it’s legal, and I’m married into something, into a family-then they get taken away, too? I consider tracing back all the failed father figures I’ve had, and I think of my friends talking me down last week. I was surrounded with good reminders of platonic father-daughter dynamics and praised for bravery. “I love you” does not have to be a threat or a requirement for physical action, even when it comes from a dad. Partners want their families included as relationships get more serious. I wish there was some way to include family without allowing myself to get attached to those people. I still miss Patty and Al. I don’t know what I’d do without Jolene and Jimmy. I was making a friend and building a healthy, platonic relationship. I’m hurt and angry and confused about being hurt and angry. None of these parents are mine. And they never will be.

These are situations that cannot be avoided if I wish to live in the world. Even in monogamy, people change or lie or cheat or quit. Life changes and people do whatever they can to survive their own experiences. I don’t have anyone in my life who wishes malice upon me. I doubt I have anyone who would act against me on purpose. Still, being exposed and vulnerable to people allows harm, despite the best of intentions. It’s my job to make sure I’m safe. And I will.

I wish trauma didn’t have my brain side-fucked into believing it’s unsafe and worthless more often than not. Although, that “good and giving person” bit is a pretty huge step forward. I guess I’ll keep going. lol Besides, I have to see season 7 of GoT and I have great dinner plans Saturday.