The Sad Story of Christopher Toughill

I walked into my apartment and immediately locked the door. I did it before turning on the light, before slipping off my shoes, before looking around.

Locking the door is not something I’ve ever much bothered with. I’ve been scolded for years by friends and family but I didn’t want to be the person who locks my shit up and then decides I’m safe because my possessions are tucked tightly behind a lock. I didn’t want to let that paranoia creep in–not even a little.

But then today I heard in depth the story of Christopher Toughill exactly as he told me. He stopped often to cry. Sometimes he would dip his head and begin going through the photos on his phone of rainbows. “I just took a lot of rainbow pictures. I suppose it was a crime of opportunity,” he quipped.

Before October 18, 2016- Christopher describes himself as a person who believed in “…rainbows and Unicorns, I believed in the very best in people and I thought that’s what they gave me. If I was ever disappointed it was worth the price of believing in the good in people.”

He grew up in DC to a journalist mom and a speech writing dad. His father, also a union organizer, taught him every labor song and chant and he still recounts them without a prompt breaking into song across the lunch table. In those moments, he’s someone else.

After October 18, 2016- Christopher has nowhere to live, owns nothing but one change of clothes and his dog, Harmony, a 14 year old geriatric pup who fits her name. His hands are still recovering, his teeth never will and his heart, however expansive, is shattered.

I found Christopher after he posted something on Facebook that sounded suicidal. “I give up” it began. When my intrepid friend tracked him down she asked me to go to him–a total stranger–and help. I said yes. That lead me to an abandoned mobile home space and a tall man with a brown dog sitting in a gravel spot surrounded by trash in a broken chair. He was on his cell phone and by his posture and expression he could have been a business person closing a deal, yet his dirty clothes, his untrimmed toe nails poking from old sandals, a single backpack with a broken zipper and his entire lack of options told part of the story.

But only part.

Christopher had been a very successful business owner. He had an optical shop in the affluent art village of Ashland, Oregon where he sold high end, hand crafted glasses to the rich and famous including more than one movie star.

Now-after his attacker brutalized him- he is homeless and by outside appearances looks broken.

On October 18, 2016- he was held hostage–chained in fact–by his landlord who rented him a one bedroom shop behind his house. Christopher was beaten, his hands broken, his teeth knocked out, his feet battered and he was burned with hot oil and dowsed in gasoline. “I was humiliated, degraded and tortured,” he says of the experience. Unknown to him at the time he rented his place–his landlord belonged to a criminal gang and had a long, violent history.

Christopher managed to escape to safety and the man who held him hostage is now in prison.

But in some ways so is Christopher. He cannot understand how so much evil exists on one hand, on another he chose mercy for his attacker. He agreed to his plea bargain. “I couldn’t be responsible for depriving someone of their freedom for life–even though I couldn’t understand what he did to me. Still, sometimes I wonder if I shouldn’t have taken the deal. He is not fit to live free among people. He is a monster.”

Christopher considered taking his own life. “I was in my shell. I was non functional.” He came away from the experience with nothing. His health too fragile to work, his home gone because he could never go back there, he found himself deteriorating. He went into a diabetic coma due to stress and lack of food and crashed his last thing–his car.

Christopher was waiting for his old dog to die so he could take his own life. “I couldn’t let Harmony down.” But Harmony did not die. She kept living and so did Christopher. “Now I don’t want to do it anymore. There are still sunrises and sunsets…the world itself. I got touched by the dregs of society, but for all its sham and drudgery the world is still a beautiful place.”

His pain is noticeable and I could feel it when we talked. He cried often, reached out for my hand, sometimes needed to get up and walk it off.  He would speak of the crime and discuss the “incomprehensible.”  He says he is disappointed that there was not a safety net deep enough to hold him. He’s tried all the services, he shows me all the calls he’s made on his cell phone to no good effect. “They can’t really help me.”

I left him at a clean hotel for the night where he could get a shower and his dog could take rest. It’s not enough. Nothing I do for Christopher is enough.

One time a cop told me there are few real, innocent victims. He implied most people put themselves in bad spots. I tried to believe that because it makes life less scary. But Christopher did not invite his trouble. What happened to him could have happened to me–or you.

There are innocent victims. There are people who do evil to them.

But there are also people who forgive evil, people who get back up and try again. There is me and you. And those pictures of rainbows on Christopher’s phone did happen.

So tonight I’m behind the locked door. I’m thinking of Christopher and I may shed more tears. I don’t know the way forward for him and I don’t know how he overcomes but I know he does. I can see that he is still the hero of his story.

If you want to help Christopher he has a GoFundme:

















The Rise of Hysteria and Obedient Women

He reminded me I have no voice–the young Mexican guy.

The singer songwriter from Austin, Texas, his state flag mounted behind him next to the candles, you know the ones in the jars with the Virgin Mary, yes, those, singing in a tiny club up the stairs and over to the left- incited revolution.  David Ramirez fired a shot through song for what is to come: rage, despair, and more deeply troubling— resignation.

Don’t get me wrong there are people raising voices-but so few are women. The ones who do speak, urge calm. That’s not the right message.

Ramirez sang of throwing out the baby, a depiction of white America forgetting how we all really got here, he shattered himself on the stage crooning and yelling, sweat pouring from his face, soaking his beard and stringy brown hair, his eyes filled with exhaustion. He was like Dylan, if Dylan could sing.

Why can’t we, us, women-those who stand to lose everything get the steam up to lay it on the line the way this guy does?


Girls obey. That’s the rule handed down by God and enforced by culture. You don’t obey and the penalties are steep. “Lock her up!” they yell. Burn her, she is a witch. Hysterectomy. Look up the origin of that word. Restless? How about a lobotomy? Don’t believe it? Ask Francis Farmer how it worked. This is all recent history, recurring history, persistent His-story.

You damned right my normal response is tepid. And terrified. Aren’t you?


I don’t need the faithless fundamentalist Christian pew anymore, nor the patriarchy, or belt or threat because I have become expert in keeping myself down.

The shame of shouting and possibly being told to “calm down” is apparently greater than the threat of losing our country, our work and our world.

How sad is that?

I am told to keep an open mind, told it is not yet time to be so concerned.

If it is not now-then it will it never be, the God damned time.


I am not trying to hurt your feelings because you disagree but frankly what we face is bigger than your feelings and mine. We’re reasonably discussing the rise of a fascist- old school style. The rest of the world sees it.

I may lose my mind, my friendships, my love–but we stand to lose quite realistically –everything. Our sacred Pacific Ocean has been under threat to drilling off the Northern California coast for decades-this president has no qualms with drilling, we may lose our Oregon trees to old school, largely unregulated milling. Can we talk about what we’re doing to face down this threat rather than “being calm and open minded?


Are you afraid, like me?

That’s what’s at the root of all this, you know. It’s not politics or losers and winners–it’s fear. It’s the fear for children and grandchildren, for friends and people we’ve never met.

It’s not about me or you–but us.

For people who, like my friend often says, will die and never know why. For those under threat of deportation or arrest or merely having their life’s work trampled to shit.

I’m a journalist. I’m aware of seeing my profession turn to a sideshow. But the part I don’t know scares me even more. The part where protected lands are drilled, fucked, broken and used up. Where girls die again in back alley abortions, where gay people are shoved into airless closets, where black lives do not matter and children are ripped from loving parents because someone says they are criminals for wanting a better life. Where Jews who have endured and endured have to somehow do it again. Where sick people will die because, yet again, they cannot afford treatment.

Silence is a kind of insanity.




Why #Trump’s World is Wrong

When I pull into a parking space near my apartment, the little green house next door is dark. I no longer see its flowering Christmas Cactus in the shadow of my head lights. The ornate lamps are no longer on with their silk shades casting a yellow glow that seemed to tell me beauty exists, even here in a forgotten neighborhood of bad planning and poor views.

Now there are long shadows across empty carpet. The house is hunched in hollowness: its lavender plants by the front door gone, its deck furniture and sitting bench on the side patio have left only stains behind.

Nancy’s smile as she fiddles with her keys, mail in one hand and grocery bag in the other is a fading ghost. I still see her but I know she no longer looks through my kitchen window from her front porch. She has gone somewhere else yet her perfume lingers.

I keep looking for her. Some hope arises then drops, the elevator in my gut falls five stories.

I miss her. Everyday I miss her.

She raised a son and a daughter in that house, watched her husband die of Alzheimer’s disease, made it back to wanting to live after five years of dying a bit at a time and she collected little things which she lovingly placed on the shelves he hewed from hand and left behind. Japanese tea pots, style magazines, crystals, books-all pretty things.

She lived in the little house with its handsome wood shingles for nearly thirty years and she cared also for the tenants around her, like me. Living here was hard at first. Used to a house and a yard, a cat and a dog and a family gathered around the fireplace, moving into an apartment on my own on the wrong side of “The Boulevard” felt like failure and fatigue.

But she would say hello, ask me how I was and we talked in quick but deep terms. We knew each other. Sometimes we shared our grief and other times resilience. But whatever we shared got us through.

Then one day she came to me and said it was all ending. The owner was selling the place, turning it over to a property manager and she had thirty days to leave her life behind. I watched garage sales, estate sales and I felt like she seemed smaller, more quiet. I also felt her moving away from me. Then she was gone. I came home and the house was empty. The curtains left open with only shadows where a life had been.

But here’s the worst part: she was given just one month. That timing was not flexible. I have watched every day since she left and not one thing has happened there. Like most things, the date was a fiction. It was made up to make things easy for someone, somewhere I will probably never meet. Whoever moves into the little green house will be a good person or not, but they will not be Nancy with three decades of knowing, loving and fixing the pains of these old places.

The property manager will receive my check each month but will not ask how I am and eventually rents will rise and maybe, I too, will one day have thirty days to get out just because.

Everything that makes life bearable is about connection. Everything that makes it not bearable is a loss of that connection, especially when you have no choice.

No matter how many computers you own, no matter how much time you spend locked away alone in an office, car or house, we are connected like the web entwining the roots of trees, like the unspoken yet real language of butterflies.

Nothing can make us not want to be connected because nothing is quite like us breathing the same air as Aristotle and still asking his questions. We simply are connected and the loss of it is always painful.

A loss of a neighbor and friend is a profound loss. It’s felt daily in a hundred small routines. The loss of the leader of our apartment tribe has left us lonely. What was our home is now four rather poorly made walls. Nancy made this a community. A rich guy getting richer means nothing to those of us who send him checks.

This impersonal style of our culture is making us actually crazy. We are on pills, heading for a cliff of obesity and heart disease and our children are losing attention spans and empathy annually because video games don’t teach the value of watching rain and wondering how it really works. That takes time, nurturing and care. Television sets do not love you. They talk to you, they sell you things but they don’t care if you choke to death on the Carl’s Junior Hamburger they convinced you to buy.

This is what’s really behind the divisions and rage in our country–a lack of connection. The rich guy who bought our homes doesn’t care if we miss Nancy, doesn’t care that she had to shift 30 years into 30 days and doesn’t care if we leave. He’ll rent them to someone else with more money. He most likely hopes we’ll leave just like many wish homeless people would go to some kind of somewhere else. But we’ve run out of somewhere else and “others”. We are all here, all in this interconnected system.

It’s not until we recognize the value of Nancy, of talks that run a little too long at the store, of reading the whole story with its anguished author hoping she’s not alone that we will begin to mend. We may talk about our minds as if we are computers, we may describe personal growth as 2.0 but nothing about that is true. We are covered in soft tissue and exude emotion for a reason.

What is true is that I miss Nancy.  What is true is that a kind word of one person can change your reality for a day or more.  What is also true is that a house sitting empty that once held a family will never be anything but sad.

We do not need a perfect world. We need a world willing to be imperfect together. We do not need more money but more compassion. We do not need to be better at business but better at the business of being human.



The Angry Onion: Jesus Take the Wheel

He said, handing me a bag of little bits of Indian spices as he shuffles nervously outside his tidy old Toyota with it’s bottled water and remnants left from the last time his son was in the car, “I bought these for you. It’s a gift!” Explaining each little packet of spices and its uses he shuffled from his good leg to his other one damaged by childhood polio.

Later over my coffee, “I don’t take coffee or tea” he shrugs without much explanation as he  dives into his belief in a God to whom he prays. His God does not appear to have a particular name but the belief moves him along when he can’t move another way.

We are on a date. It appears I have a secret. I know it’s not going in any particular direction except meeting a stranger and learning something about them. He appears more hopeful. “Poor guy”, I think.

I suspect he really does know there’s not much to this, no real attraction, no possible future but he’s in recent free fall heart ache and wants to grab a branch on the way down. I’ve been there.

Being a religious person has a certain convenience. When it all becomes too hard to figure out or there is too much pain to manage, a person with a God can fall back on faith.

Jesus take the wheel, drive this car for awhile, I can’t figure out where to go.

I don’t know if I’m religious. I don’t know if there is a God, many gods, or a collective understanding tied together by whatever animates all this life, death and wonder. But I can see where having a God can be better than not having one.

He has his wavy, salt and pepper hair very short. His Hawaiian shirt an Americanized variation to allow him color. He misses India. He wants me to understand his god.

Whatever it is–sometimes I trust it. When that trust swallows me into its great belly of joy, life is a hammock hanging in the stars with the moon warming and breeze blowing the planets around. I’m a child in love with life and totally trusting. I’m holding hands with the Universe in full faith.

Other times, I don’t trust it. I climb out of that belly, fall off the hammock and decide I’ve rested enough. I strike out, walking stick in hand for defense and direction and I chart a course toward some goal. The striking out almost always feels strong and sure, there is certainty that of course success is one correct turn away, and if not, there is strength to take whatever comes, but the goal will be reached.

Both approaches eventually yield to one consistent understanding: I do not understand. I do not know if the goal I hoped to reach is really in my highest good or that of others. Failure cannot be defined. Perhaps not hitting the mark is the best thing that can happen.

The fact is, this foray into seeking love after 50 has made me transparently confused. Not hitting the mark of finding “love” may be the Universe doing me a solid.

In today’s internet ordering, “everything can be found on line” culture, we reduce each other down to products. It’s shame inducing.

Still, there is nothing all good or all bad. There is no need to change the world or maybe even me. 

I will find the good in this, damn it. Somehow I will.

Here’s one thing I’ve learned or really re-learned: There is a clear and present need to show the world and me compassion and understanding. I say this looking at this once little girl’s face now aging with her wrinkles and smiles buried under an avalanche of criticism and misunderstandings on these “dates” which are really more like job interviews. I see this looking at this also aging man. He is kind. Nervous. Making it worse.

“I came here with 500 dollars in my pocket and undergraduate degree. There were 50 seats and thousands who wanted it. But I got it. Then I got my Master’s.”

He is bringing his merits to the discussion to pass the interview. When I discuss my work he brings me back to him or his travels or oddly, my appearance.

What. The. Hell?

Apparently the way I look has become my resume.

He wants to hold hands. I feel like a drug dealer. 

I’ll leave meanness to the world. I’ll just go ahead and love this face and in this moment hold his hand. It’s probably the wrong decision but what does one actually do when another is standing, slightly broken, with his hand out?

Sometimes I am a mom. Sometimes I know how broken I am too.

This process has left me hurt, weakened, but not shattered, not yet. There are some cracks, but they let the light through.

Look, life can be hard. I want someone to smile at me, walk through it with me, tell me when I’m okay and help me when I’m not. I want that. But it is not worth any price.

Some things may just be too expensive.

I don’t think the dating game brings out the best there is in humans. In the goal to find or create the “perfect mate” we dehumanize each other, reduce us down to the individual parts rather than a sum total-a full person, an entire book that adds up to the truly miraculous story we each carry.

Today I am in the hammock, a harder bound copy of me, but no pages are ripped out and the words matter more than the pictures. I have not broken. Bent some, a few dog ears (thanks to those who cared enough to fold back a page or two) and there are some wine stains and faded ink passages but that goes with it.

One day maybe this old book will make it to the backseat of a car with Jesus driving and he’ll know where we’re going. Maybe it’ll fluff itself and start a passage unknown.

Either way, there is love. There is a mother, a god or gods, a universe with its hand out and the very soul of compassion. The Universe loves itself and so do I as a part of all her majesty.

I hope the bright man with his spices finds the mom, the drug, the care taker, the woman who wants his resume but won’t leave him battered.

But once again I am more Bob Dylan than any of those things, “….it aint me babe. I aint the one you’re lookin’ for.”










The Angry Onion & the Sensible Shoes

The road to love is paved with rocks. I can’t speak to intentions..just those heavy leaden formations of various shapes and sizes that cause me to stub my romance toe every single time.

Part of the problem for me and my daughter/matchmaker is that I’m kind of a weird girl. Okay, maybe, a really weird girl. I cannot play the game or even watch it anymore.

I mean this literally and figuratively. When the Super Bowl was on I was sitting in total ignorance enjoying a plant based meal and sipping a Mimosa,(this one had blueberries-delicious) and had no earthly idea there was anything else happening in households and bars across the US. (that’s lower 48 to my friends up north or the states to the crew in Europe). I was thanking the parking fairies and car karma for allowing me an awesome spot. Clueless.


So here’s where I’m going, who is going to want to hang out with a twig eater who won’t go to football or even watch it on television, who also won’t go to violent movies, laugh at jokes about people of color or gay people, doesn’t think non human animals are inferior in any way and is also, by the way, not rich but works a lot? I mean how gorgeous would I have to be?

I walked out of “Apocalypse Now”. I really did. That was in 1978. I haven’t changed. That guy never asked me out again. Worst part: I had no idea what went wrong.

As to football–I’m a lot like my friend who said he just couldn’t take it and “left after the first inning.”

All forms of manliness commit suicide in my presence. I met a guy who told me how well trained his big dogs were, “..maybe we could go out, I could bring them by and you could meet them?” My response, “I have a rabbit.” Yea, never heard from him again either.

I’m crushing this thing. If being undatable was a thing I’d be on Oprah and have a book deal. Adoring crowds would clap. Instead I’m in my plush pink robe and flannels writing to you. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

I’m picking out my sensible shoes and preparing for what my mother and her sisters whispered about behind the back of the organist at church with the peaceful face and sneakers with her cotton dress, “spinster” .

Still, there is a faint hope or two. My matchmaker/daughter says I haven’t made a strong enough list of pros and cons. My Dharma sister, Canada Carmen says enjoy the ride and practice detachment, which is great advice just all around, and my dear old Brit says, ‘Don’t worry darling, I love you. ‘

Yet candidate #1, turned candidate #0 is gone and no one else has come around. The damned Onion Guy, may he have to peel them for eternity with no cool water or mushrooms, garlic or wine and accidentally wipe his face, has been entirely dead air, total radio silence. Still, I kind of like those guys in the way that they are real. We didn’t work out but it’s because we didn’t lie to each other. So in a way, that’s a win.

Things don’t always work out. Sometimes you stub your toe. Sometimes you do it over and over and buy shoes with stronger support, get a pedicure and hit the road again.

The road to romance is paved with rocks. But if it is also paved with good intentions then the trip is worth the trip.

And, come to think of it, the woman who played the organ had a peaceful face and her sneakers were really comfortable with that cotton dress. Maybe she went hiking after church. Maybe she was happy.




The Angry Onion-We have cold feet

So quickly up to speed: I met “the one”, we dated, he left, he came back and he still not ready for a relationship. My daughter and I decided as a unique possibility perhaps she could be a matchmaker for me. Here is what follows.

First she began a rigorous screening process, not allowing my picture to be shown because she said, “It can’t be about that.” I agree. That’s nice.

But then it gets serious. Her first screening and filter was set to such heights it yielded precisely one guy. It’s only been a few days and she’s had inquiries about bending the high bar which she may consider, but not yet.

She was going to meet the one guy this weekend but it got pushed back. Hmm. Let the insecurity begin. She seems fine with it. All good. But me. Now I have a problem.

I’m already anticipating rejection, failure, whatever that flaw is within me that is just not feminine enough will come through and he’ll run for the door. Just like the onion guy (I call him that due to his cooking tips), I feel rejection coming and I don’t know if I’m up to it. I was always the girl at the high school dance who asked the boys. Why? I couldn’t stand leaning against the wall and not being chosen. I don’t have the female bravado, or would it be bravada, that believes there will always be someone who will want to dance with me. Nor do I have the cool eyed patience to stand pat. I break–almost straight away. I thought, I’ll take the lead and make something happen, why wait? It never worked, really, in a good way except that I did dance.

This quality has been rewarded in every other part of life. I dove into motherhood like a doctoral candidate. I read every book, went to parenting seminars, deliberately engaged women at the playground to glean their best tips and when my daughter came along I never gave up. I tried one thing, if it didn’t work I tried 100 more. As a journalist I dug for the story. I used to say there is no such thing as no, I will get the information I need, if not today eventually. Sometimes I would work six months or a year on a single story until it was absolutely substantiated. My whole thinking was that if all else fails there is will and tenacity. There is hard work.

Not one part of that applies here.

My matchmaker is the best. If it is possible, she will do it. But, what if it is not possible? Then she feels like she failed and I know I have. I also don’t know what “it” is or what success even looks like. This is what is in my head right now.

Truthfully, I’m not desperate. I have a business I am growing and its finally taking nice shape, I have a fantastic family and amazing friends. I’m out and about often and not particularly lonely. So what’s this about?

Maybe, honestly, I just want to be chosen. I want to be at the dance, smiling in my perfect dress and be asked. I want to think that maybe it’s not up to me. But then I also want all this irrational crap like fireworks, and soul connection and some scene from a Ginger Rogers/Fred Astaire movie. I know I need to just grow up, heaven knows I’m old enough to have, yet it rattles around in me.

I don’t know. I do know that the human condition and all human beings have more in common than we have differences. If I feel this way, there are others. There are always others. I’m hoping by sharing this experience with its ups and downs something can be taken away for you…and maybe even for me.

Yes, I had hoped by this time in life I would be happily ensconced in a long marriage surrounded by comfortable things and people. I hoped I would confidently let my hair gray and I would no longer care. But it’s not what happened and I don’t think it happens for many people. It seems we are doomed to aspire until we die. So there it is.

I will continue with my matchmaker and see what happens. My make over was pushed back until next weekend and I will smile through the waxed face and new hair. I will meet the candidates and I will hope and fear and love (even if its just a little) or I will not meet anyone and go back to that book and Netflix.

One thing I know for sure; however this dance comes out–I did not lean against a wall and go home early. I’ve got that.

Please join me in telling your stories of angry onions, failed love, great advice or whatever you feel like talking about. It’s good to know we are not alone.


The Angry Onion Returns: I’d rather be shameless than shamed

When last we met I told you about “onion guy” he swayed me with his little cooking tidbits and affections, vague discussions of love and then total disappearance, then reappearance, then disappearance. This technique, according to psychologists, seals love and psychosis all in one sweep. How charming.

So, dear blog, I am not doing so well. “You’re doing alright, I’m not feeling so good myself” could be the anthem of anyone in free fall heartache after yet another fail that leaves me–and maybe you–wondering how we keep getting it wrong.  Just how many times can one dust oneself off?  I am wondering and calculating the math, is there a specific number of times?

Ladies–if we could be real for a moment and dive into a massive generalization–guys know how to do the full force rejection. The kind that has passive, detached voice, slightly cocked head and an expression of surprise that your being dumped is even a thing, at all. They seem to act as if it has no meaning and should be no problem. Like they’ve ordered tacos and you brought burritos.

I don’t know how they do it, but they’ve mastered this. I think there is some sort of man school that has seven day intensives on rejecting with full force and least investment. Maybe it’s called,” Ripping off the bandage quickly with def com 5, black ops efficiency”.

They have this other trick in the playbook called “ghosting” or “fading back” which means disappearing. No call, no text, no personal messaging, no e-mail. Poof they vanish. Sadly this normally does not happen when they are seeking your acquaintance but after they have become all too well acquainted. It’s an ugly reality. What’s crazy is that this is still happening. Now?

(Guys: feel free to chime in here and break it down for me. I am myopic, I can only see my own hurt so if I’ve got it wrong, please explain. Maybe my faith in man being kind could be restored.)

But in this moment as a modern woman I am left asking if my mother’s admonitions about buying the cow when you can get the milk for free is actually, pitifully accurate?  Are we really living in the kind of world where women must play coy and hard to get, must make the man give chase and hide their intentions and manipulate the situation in order to have a relationship? Am I really supposed to be blushing under a fan or dashing home in my penny loafers? How? No, really I don’t know how.

That whole thing escaped me. I was busy reading “Call of the Wild” in my homemade tree fort and floating leaf boats down the stream. Where and when was I supposed to pick this up? Do I have to rent movies from the fifties to sort this out? Oy vey–I’m at a loss.

I may just have to say I’m out. I cannot do it. I cannot play princess in a castle who needs rescuing nor can I play prey animal to be hunted or the queen who is disinterested because I am so prized. It’s all a boring load of cow dung. If I can’t just be a person living a life who would like another nice person living a life to hang out with and see what happens, then maybe, to hell with it. If this is true I’m pissed.

Maybe it’s some whole other thing I don’t know–see how this insecurity spins along taking a small event and turning it into an hysterical phobic situation?

I can occupy my time just fine. I have no trouble being out and about and seeing  movies on my own or bellying up to a bar for a glass of wine. I’m not intimidated. I can bring home the tofu on my own and my doors tend to open themselves these days. It seems like it would be nice to have someone to love. But that could be off too. Should I sink into monk status, “Om” or become a hermit, “You come in here, you’ll get a buckshot to the seat. Now bug off!”

I don’t know.

Here a desperate last ditch: if ,and that’s an IF as in never, I took out ad ad it would say this,

“Person seeking person to speak with, enjoy good conversation which goes back and forth equally and does not consume the entire conversation with either person’s prowess . Seeking person who can enjoy a show, a glass of wine and maybe a good hike now and then. Someone to do fun things with but not someone to fix me, change me, dominate me or manipulate me. I also won’t do those things to you nor will I dress you or make you shop with me or have lunch with my girlfriends–cause some shit is sacred. Someone who has no need to show my picture to his friends–preferred.”

Is that crazy needy? Too much? Is it weird to think a person one loves could be a friend, like other friends who enjoy hanging out, calling, talking about life’s various spikes and crashes? Is that what counts as high maintenance these days?

This Angry Onion thing did really well. Thank you. I picked up some new friends and followers and I’d like to keep it going. Maybe you can steer me off the rocks–the people in my constellation aren’t sure what to tell me (or they’re afraid) so hit me with your reality.

I am still also seeking my first brave soul willing to trivialize their misery into a blog so we can share. It somehow feels better to stand naked with all this than trying to cover it up. I’d just as well be shameless than shamed–any day.