Expatria Wishes

It was after the implosion of the Howard Dean for President campaign and during Katrina that The Han and I sold our home in the hills of Berkeley, CA, packed up our belongings into two shipping containers (later shipped back and consolidated into one) for our farm in Venezuela, in the Andean Foothills.

Other than the daytime paradise of our farm (and nightime Hell of it), life for me went into a nosedive from which I’ve not fully recovered. While leaving the U.S. seemed to be a no-brainer given all evidence of the upcoming real estate collapse, the corrupt politics, and otherwise demographic implosion brought about by the maturation of my fellow “Baby Busters”, I left for the wrong country with the wrong man.

Today I’m hoping for a do-over, which at my age and with my baggage may well be overly optimistic.

Recent events in my life which I’ve only touched upon in these pages tell me that punishment is going to be my life going forward regardless of which country I call my home, like it will be for so many others. I’ve recently had my privacy and quietude (such as it is given that I am still in mourning for Axel) disrupted on a scale impossible to relate publicly to strangers in a manner easily believable. I therefore am forced to largely confine my accounting of the events to people who I already know and who otherwise have come to understand that my largely unbelievable life experiences are absolutely true. These latest events are merely the latest chapter of my life as, effectively, The Forest Gump of female transcended former teenaged runaways, given my impressive record of entirely coincidental brushes with historic events. Meanwhile, I’m more of a cautionary tale than a role model for young women, despite being the submissive woman of the late Dominant male extraordinaire known as Axel, and thereby the envy of many of my contemporaries.

In terms of my future romantic prospects, this last is a liability on many levels in terms of my status as an “Alpha Widow”. I therefore have to operate on the assumption that I will remain alone and likely celibate, wherever I may choose to live.

I have come to the conclusion that no matter where I may be, I will always be an “other”; therefore, living in a different country might actually be easier for me given that “foreign” behavior on my part will be expected rather than a surprise. Given that the U.S. is particularly ridden with a need for conformity (in contrast to the movie-cultivated “individualist” archetypes promoted), I believe that I would be better off elsewhere, whether Europe, Central or South America, Asia, or some place such as Eastern Europe where I’ve never been.

Since I expect to one day recover but a portion of what The Han stole from me, I eagerly look forward to expatriating that very modest windfall to more amenable environments, where one’s inflated food budget isn’t considered a moral weakness when it is concentrated on local, quality ingredients, rather than say dedicated to Walmart. This is just one of many values I harbor which are out of step with U.S. norms whether I live in the city or in the country. I’m adapted to either environment or “anything but the suburbs”.

At my age, however, striking out alone would probably be an invitation to prey on me, as a representative of the most privileged class on Earth: White Middle Aged American Woman. I therefore welcome suggestions from my readers as to which organization I ought to attach myself to which can assist in my quest for more welcoming pastures, where I won’t be tarred and feathered as a heretic, or otherwise singled out for punishment by the womanfolk with or without using their men as proxy.

Meanwhile, my plan, as soon as I can sell my home within my proven-to-me hostile environment, is to move to The Florida Panhandle, a.k.a. “The Redneck Riviera”. Should I happen to find myself seduced and claimed by a manly enough “redneck” I might decide to remain rather than flee; however, I am also open to joining forces with another aspiring Ex-Pat desirous of one such as me with experience in the expatriation process. Becoming a sales representative of a cigar brand is another option which appeals. Becoming the assistant/editor to another writer such that I would give “Caprizchka” a proper burial is yet another balloon I float.

Alternative suggestions are welcome here.

Things I Need to Learn

 

While I’m stuck here, in Southwest Florida, there are a few things I’m going to need to pound into my thick skull in order to lead a peaceful, non-molested existence. For example:

Global warming is real. Sell all your valuable coastal property now to surprisingly ignorant wealthy foreign investors.

Women need more civic, financial, legal, social, sexual, and cultural power because they deserve it after millennia of oppression. All women benefit when poor and working men lose their jobs and freedom, because men are bad.

Voting is the most important thing you can do, especially when it comes to the President, because, after all, he (or she) is the moral leader, like a King (or Queen).

Republicans, being patriarchal, are immoral, and Democrats are the good guys or rather the rightfully female or woman-like minority goodpersons. These two parties are rivals such that they represent Evil vs. Good, respectively. Fortunately, there are some Good Republicans who would rather see a Democrat in office than succumb to Evil.

Trust your doctor. There is no cost too great for FDA-approved immortality, but only if there is no carbon footprint (for bad people; good people are entitled to all the carbon they can burn.)

Walls are bad, unless they surround the properties of rich liberals.

Smoking is the cause of all disease and there is no redeeming qualities in the tobacco plant. Now that worldwide, smoking is down, all diseases are down. Diseases are bad. Good people don’t get them. Lung cancer that is a consequence of breast cancer results from the behavior of Bad people who shame breasts or who smoke sometimes within a 100 mile radius of Good people, or who refuse vaccines. Vaccines are good as they have eradicated all bad diseases for which they were designed, or would have, if there weren’t a few Bad people who have refused them.

Disagreement with majority thought is a mental illness or pharmaceutical deficiency. To cure it, take your pills and go to approved discussion groups where you can learn how to think Good by means of Good group affirmation.

All public schools are good. We need more of them and to otherwise throw money at them. All deficiencies of public schools and universities can be attributed to not enough money.

Good people don’t need money, only a Good cell in the Good hive.

Safety, security, conformity, and lack of privacy make for a better world.

Everything you need to know about a person can be found by looking at his, her, or its presence in social media or by chatting online. Actual human contact is a waste of time because Good people have no secrets.

Knowledge is free and it is on television and on the internet, therefore, travelling is unnecessary.

I’m interested in emigrating to more expansive environs where I can be free to rid myself of these notions. If you’d like to have a Caprizchka in your country, please inquire within.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All Misty

I’d like to dedicate the following song to all the individuals involved in the elaborate set up I just survived.

I’m not worthy! How many well-meaning persons had their time wasted and how many were deliberate players?

There.

By now you ought to realize that…

a. I’m mostly truthful except where necessary to protect the innocent.

b. I’m not bereft of resources especially when cornered by unscrupulous persons regardless of how many letters applied after the moniker. Even central Indian Psychiatrists. Bring it on, you fucking sadists. You think you invented your shit? Small potatoes is what you are.

c. My intentions are noble despite the idiocy of that notion in this day and age. In other words, I’m a fool. So? What of it? You are the ones who wasted all that time, money, resources, space, etc.

d. I am a generous person both with time and resources right up to the point where I am made a pawn in a stupid game with no noble winners evident.

e. I’m a hopeless romantic even if due to the aforementioned Math Problem the only man who can handle me is The Prince of Darkness himself and thus obeying such a man is the ultimate paradox for a Believer such as myself but at least it beats being baptised by charismatic Southern Evangelists. I have my priorities and don’t apologize for them.

f. I truly appreciate fine food especially when it’s my own recipes reasonably adapted using available ingredients—and how flattering was that? Wow. Truly honoured am I. By the way, you forgot the pine nuts.

g. You all still have no fucking idea what I have survived. That’s not an invitation for you to attempt to replicate it better only that I hope you understand that your expense reports are going to be unjustifiable if you do so.

h. I have a sense of humour even when I am the butt of the joke and everyone is in on it including me. I know. I know. I’m such a spoil sport. Deal with it.

i. I can fucking sing, you fucking bastards. Talk about a hostile audience. Cannibals! Or was that the whole point? Truly bored and jaded you must be. So sad. I guess we’ve established which one of us has the substance abuse problem. What will you do when you run out of hamburger for your grinder?

j. God exists and He ain’t you. I’ll take my chances with whatever the afterlife holds rather than be your parasitic host so, until you’re prepared to end my life, you lose. Score 1 for me.

k. I do indeed have at least two books in me that are not dastardly how-to manuals and so I had best write them soon before you pull a similar stunt and my luck runs out because God loves those who exercise their God-given talents even when they’ve been severely compromised.

As for what I learned?

1. I learned that I need to forgive those who I believe wronged me because some of them may well be innocent even if time will tell who is who.

For now, I’m got time.

2. Trump 2016!

A Date for a Chase or a Kill

Follow me at your Peril, or mine, I’m Easy that way. Or Honor your word for my Truth. I’ve got all day, or two, or three. Who knows? Do you? What Hubris. It would be a Shame if it’s just a gas, my ass, or yours.

What are you looking for?

It’s a reasonable question and one that I apparently don’t answer satisfactorily here and here, but not here. If I seek “character,” rather than a “type” that might not be adequate encouragement to those who personify a “type.” Moreover, exactly what “type” am I? It would be apparent from my writing that I have a lot of strong opinions. Does that make me an unbearable bore? I surely hope not.

The best I can do to explain why it is so difficult to get a clear read on me by merely reading my writing is that I am somewhat of a chameleon, and that I’m not seeking a “type” except Dominant, smoker, and high testosterone, with a strong character, an open mind, a sense of adventure, and good with his hands or otherwise physically and mechanically inclined. In the presence of those things, I adapt, which, by the way, is an understatement.

As for exotic sexual activities, those would fall under “sense of adventure,” and “good with his hands,” because if there is something I like that he hasn’t yet tried, with the above qualities, all things are possible. However, I don’t like being so specific with someone I haven’t gotten to know and trust because I don’t mean to make titillation overwhelm common sense on either of our parts such as to outweigh basic compatibility or character. Besides, I don’t require that every sexual exchange be some sort of circus act. Chemistry, on the other hand, doesn’t lend itself to two-dimensional descriptions.

I listen well, learn quickly, apply myself to diverse circumstances, and aim to please. I’ve lived in exalted circumstances and very humble ones, in the heart of the city, and in deep in the country. I don’t much care for the suburbs or otherwise being subjected to the attention of a lot of busybodies, but, with the right person, all situations are possible, including, say, an RV park or harbor.

Speaking of RV parks, I am currently planning to move to one, not yet picked out, somewhere in Florida. I see no good reason to put down deeper roots as I like to be relocated to wherever he feels most comfortable. Meanwhile, I might as well keep my living expenses down.

I like to travel, both the high road and the low road, and blend in. Because of that last, in every photograph of me, I look a little different. It doesn’t serve me to be easily identifiable given my adventurousness combined with my controversial views.

I don’t have the usual requirements in terms of material things or image. I have no one to impress. Rather, I tend to prefer a more low key existence which I suppose is partially the result of having been robbed so badly, so many times. However, those events alone don’t explain it because I’ve never been much for pomp and circumstance if I have enjoyed the opportunity to patronize fancy establishments on occasion. Even there, the small charming chambre d’hôte generally beats out the luxury resort as I don’t enjoy being fussed over.

I also don’t like living in fear of disaster especially in terms of whether such could impact our relationship. A relationship that can’t weather the strain of material loss is of no use to me.

Since I’ve already had my dream farm, I don’t need to pursue another one. Rather his happiness is more important to me than my own and besides mine would follow. To that end, I strive to be pleasing and pleasant. It even took Axel a while to fully comprehend that statement perhaps because he couldn’t understand why his happiness was so important to me whereas I have such difficulty determining what would make me happy independently. The answer or key to my own happiness is to know that I am pleasing.

Dietary compatibility would also be essential even if I have enough confidence in my vast encyclopedic knowledge of nutrition and culinary skills such as to be able to come to terms regardless of whatever limitations may apply.

Therefore, if the contents of my mind displayed on these pages is pleasing then that would be a good reason to take the next step and otherwise get to know the woman behind Caprizchka and this blog. That woman is more than what can be conveyed on a page or even in my book, and she seeks a harmonious kindred spirit with the courage to get to know her.

Maybe Jacksonville, Maybe ESL

Maybe I’ll decide to give Florida another chance, and merely move to an apartment in a different part of it. Having an apartment means that instead of being personally responsible for insurance and repairs, someone with ties to the local community is. That would be a major burden lifted.

It would also force me to get out a bit more in the world.

I’m currently leaning toward Jacksonville.

Another possibility is to volunteer in some foreign country to teach English. That would require significant investment on my part, but, what else am I going to do? I don’t even know which country to pick however. It would be nice to be invited rather than to find out that all of my fellow Americans are liberal vegetarians who abhor tobacco and believe that women worldwide need more “rights”.

I’m open to suggestions.

Leaving Florida

The manufactured home that I inherited from Axel and which was his father’s was put up for sale today. The residential community decided to stop honoring the grandfathered-in lease agreement because Axel and I weren’t married and to otherwise charge me “market rate”. This indicates to me that they don’t want me here and so I have put the home up for sale. I have no idea where I am to live now.

I no longer feel any particular connection with any particular state although I certainly prefer warm weather over snow.

Irregardless, I will probably move in with my parents in New Jersey which is its own Hell but just deserts, as well, I suppose, until I can decide what else to do.

The only “direction” that makes sense to me is to be the submissive to a heterosexual man but not to be submissive or subordinate to a woman. There would not appear to be much demand for the likes of me, a 54-year-old heterosexual female iconoclast out of touch with the modern world and possessing decidedly regressive political and social views. Perhaps if I were younger and prettier there would be more of a market. This is not to say that I have been overwhelmed by the quality of men expressing an interest in me either. I suppose that Axel spoiled me beyond repair.

Meanwhile, it would seem that women with my age and education are not in short supply and further have not exactly endeared themselves to the world. The fact that I haven’t been of this world for all intensive purposes for at least 17 years (if not much longer) is of no consequence if demographics are destiny. Women my age are expected to be well-off and so sexually liberated that sex is a matter of course with no particularly intimate connection or commitment required. It would seem that for many men my age, sex is either the only reason to have any contact with a female, or there is a odd sense of worship about them. If there are other options I suspect it would be with women who are familiar in terms of social group and geographic area. Since I have no “people” any more, only scattered acquaintances or persons with whom I don’t have a whole lot of commonality, I certainly cannot represent myself as a known-entity or otherwise vetted.

Lately, it would seem, I get the most pleasure out of life from interacting with strangers online, to cook, write, swim, and smoke. Everything else seems dull and without meaning. I haven’t even bothered to sing much lately. At least I have perfected my sourdough pizza recipe for my current environs and ingredients. It’s out of this world.

I had the pleasure of the company of a girlfriend for a week; however, since she’s a feminist and practically a socialist, there are huge blocks of conversational fodder that are effectively off limits being that we each find the other’s views to be insane. However, at least she’s warm and fun, and we were able to do things together like eat, watch movies, and talk about Axel. That was something but I can’t imagine that we could live together and preserve our friendship at the same time.

I’ll miss having her here in Florida as her visits have been the high points of my existence since Axel died.

For what it’s worth, I’ll continue to drive to meet Dominant men in Florida for as long as interest from them persists. I wouldn’t rule out moving in with such a man if he wants to keep me around. As always, I offer cooking, shopping, laundry, housekeeping, and first class fellatio for starters. Writing, editing, computer, and secretarial services; assistance to a general contractor or similar trade; travel itinerary and concierge; and dog or livestock breeding services also available.

 

Don’t Date a Writer

In our information age, where all knowledge is free, and anyone can write, maintain a blog, publish a book, and otherwise call him or herself “a writer,” it is assumed by some recreational writers or non-writers that writing is not only fun and easy but that by simply providing a writer a reason to write is a favor which ought to be repaid somehow. (By writing?) Moreover, just writing alone is reward enough for writing. The same would apply to the opportunity to give advice to strangers who demand it. It’s a privilege! Thank you all!

As a purveyor of a free blog I suppose that I perpetuate these notions. I even take advantage of my circumstances in that I answer to no one in writing it. Even the most diligent muckraker will be unable to show bias that doesn’t exist in terms of whatever economic forces might shape my opinions. I exploit my unique position to present an unbiased opinion to the public albeit couched in anonymity.

Feminism, Anthropogenic Global Warming, and Health-Nannyism however, have plenty of deep-pocketed agendas. I am opposed to those ideologies.

My blog does in fact have several missions. Sure, I enjoy doing it but it isn’t for nothing.

One of those missions is romance. I’m a girl and that’s my first priority. Once that is in place, I have loads of energy for bigger and better things, as is my track record. This first mission is a tall order, of course. I have no illusions in that regard. I’m not only over the hill but behind the times.

Another of those missions is to get a finger on the pulse of the world I largely left behind in order to marry and be a homesteader of sorts in Venezuela.

Another of those missions is to flaunt my stuff in terms of possibly one day reentering “the workforce” as most people know it, albeit ideally as not just another “working stiff.” I am however losing heart in terms of finding a boss and a lover in the same man, for, as described further, such a man both interested and capable of the same roles probably need not trouble himself with the difficulties of such engagement with a writer.

Another of those missions was to attempt to locate my missing international con artist husband. I’ve put that mission on hold for now pending further developments.

Another of those missions and perhaps the most important one is to express my views in a multitude of ways, such that if I fail in the other missions, I will have at least left my electronic footprint on the world in terms of a cautionary tale, as concerns the agendas and trail of tears of Feminism, Cultural Marxism, Atheism, Health-Nannyism, Climate, Nutrition, and other forms of Universal Morality/Government agendas a.k.a. Utopianism, and, frankly, whatever else may come to mind in terms of soap-box-worthy notions in my view.

If I can or can’t save myself, I at least want to feel that I have a purpose of some merit in the universe. Ideally, this purpose will in fact save me somehow, even if today, I’m unsure of the form that salvage will take. It would appear however that this last mission will subvert my first mission in some form.

Back when I was in college, on a scholarship, as a former teen-aged runaway, I entered into a specific concerted writing program. One of the achievements of that program was for my professor to announce that my own project of the time was in her view “the most finished” of all the other student projects. I do not delude myself that this particular lauded state was due to some great talent that I had that my other classmates did not but rather to the truism of writing which is that one must write about what one knows, and I happened to have known a bit more about life than my older classmates.

One of the areas of writing in which apparently I shone was in my ability to write dialog. That ability was doubtless formed by my fly-on-the-wall status with older adults who had decided that I was safe to include in a variety of conversations and endeavors. The breadth of experiences of those adults across various demographics informed my ability to pick up on dialect and lingo. However, I suspect that this ability of mine is now largely out-of-date given my current largely isolated existence and the vagaries of the Dating by Catalogue and Tamagotchi Complex era that we live in, but within which I only just barely reside. However, I am actively working to change my ability to navigate popular dialog by getting out, socializing, having conversations with strangers, and yes—when I can’t find a reason not to which is most of the time—online dating.

Back in college, one of my short stories was inspired by individuals who I had known there, as well as some known elsewhere; however, although I put in place deliberate modifications in order to disguise their identities, some of the real life individuals seemed to recognize themselves in the story, even if this recognition might have resulted in choosing the wrong characters with which to identify. My biggest mistake was inserting a caricature of myself therein which added enough realism to cause others to become obsessed about identifying themselves. This was a power that I didn’t want but is apparently part of the price for being a writer capable of writing fiction that seems like it isn’t. Jerzy Kosinski who has served as an inspiration for me on more than one occasion, had a similar lament.

Whereas other classmates, in the fine arts program, who engaged in the practice of photographing, sketching, and painting my nude body as an artist’s model didn’t feel that their practice was in any way equivalent to my own art form and therefore couldn’t understand why I felt entitled to engage in it. In other words, use of my youthful body, with it’s obvious future expiration date, was worth nothing in terms of the morals of the day, whereas use of selected characteristics from a live human within fiction could negate a friendship. Huh?

Meanwhile, according to the morals of today, the use of my own time and craft to create personalized prose and erotica for the benefit of individuals who have no particular material investment in me, is apparently the price of courtship or friendship for me, because as a writer, my craft is worth nothing. In what manner after I invest such time for apparently no return am I obligated to exclude selected characteristics of such an individual that don’t specifically identify that individual from my writing? I don’t see it. I call that fair game!

It is no wonder that so many writers limit their own social activity.

When I chose to leave the cloistered and pampered college environment of my youth it was largely because I decided to stop writing fiction and short stories as not worth the social hassle, and to instead first get any job in the real world for which I was qualified. I was then to become a technical writer, which, I believed, was to cause me less in the way of emotional fallout from other human beings.

One of the events which informed that decision was the Silicon Valley Boom of the times. It seemed like a no-brainer recipe for achievement and success, which were two things I had been told that I should want, rather than say marry and attach my star to a man rather than forging my own. However, such things were out of fashion with the people who I had been led to believe were my peers to include my largely much older lovers.

Nowadays, I write more about my own conclusions and life itself than either fiction or technical writing. The things I write about include my various romantic forays, past and present. However, I do not disclose confidential information or otherwise “out” anybody who hasn’t consented to it, with the exception of The Han, of course, and I reserve the right to do damage in kind to anyone attempting to so damage me. While I may be inspired by various real individuals, I change details, combine archetypes, and otherwise protect confidentiality. That hasn’t stopped certain individuals from circumventing my efforts and effectively outing themselves, but I tend to delete such comments, depending on the forum in which they appear, and whether I personally have the power to do so.

In order to both protect confidences and to avoid making my blog into some sort of gossip column, I engage in “composites”, distortions of the timeline, and otherwise blur real life in all of its forms for purposes of making points, illustrating concepts, and otherwise conveying messages. Sometimes these messages have specific individual audience members in mind, but they are always plural audience members rather than specific individuals among the hundreds who visit this blog every day. However, for those who assume that their importance in my life is elevated, it is entirely possible that my blog seems like it is all about them. To those persons I say, “join the club.”

Jerzy Kosinski lamented that so many people assumed that even his fiction was nonfiction to the point of interviewers who queried, “Mr. Kosinski, how many people have you assassinated?” The answer is “None.”

For the record, I accept his defense made against accusations of plagiarism and other malfeasance, even if eventually the pressure on his friends and family and the futility of it all prompted him to take his own life.

Some people are incapable of distinguishing fiction or composite characters from real life. To those people the television must appear as if it is speaking only to them.

Men who assume that they “own” me having only shared minute experiences of me will harbor their delusions with no help from me.

Part of the lie of The Sexual Revolution is the notion that a woman shall always have “value” regardless of her age or level of sexual experience. While I do indeed see that all persons have value, that value changes over time, by biological and psychological necessity. If, in our collective past, a woman’s value in The West was guaranteed by her husband, family, and community, in the modern age, only The State and whatever lawyers a woman can either afford or attract guarantee that value. In my case, not willing to play the game of The State, all out of money to spend on expensive lawyers, and having a story that so far doesn’t have an interest group that wants to promote it and otherwise invest in it for my own benefit as well as their own, there are no guarantees.

In a way, that makes me “like a man”. Men are expected to “stand on their own two feet,” whereas women—all rhetoric to the contrary—not only aren’t expected to do this but few actually do. Only a father or similar figure interested in protecting his daughter from heterosexuality would entertain such a delusion. Women’s brains and muscles compete with the uterus for calories. Just how productive can a woman be with that handicap especially during one’s reproductive bloom? For some, it is plenty productive, however in terms of the spectrum of femininity, women fall short of the spectrum of masculinity. Deal with it. Those who approach masculine productivity are generally speaking only attractive to men who miss their mommies in some form, whether as a young princess who he first laid eyes on as an infant or some idealized media-driven form. Men who are transcended from their mommies, in my observation, desire a woman who will accept his authority rather then merely sexual dominance given or received. Such “authority” gleaned purely through electronic means however is every bit as regressive as the mommy-obsessed.

If all I required for my sexual satisfaction was some sort of BDSM recipe then surely I would be throwing myself into professional success right now so that I could buy it just the way I like it, rather than dealing with rank amateurs who think that my sharing of my rhetorical self implies some sort of covenant or contract.

Men who think that I will be monogamous and intellectually faithful to the mere idea of some sort of productivity provisioning from them, and assume that I as an “empowered” woman am already in no need of such provisioning given my own assumed economic and productive success, are as deluded as a Feminist for assuming that women don’t need men!

Without a tribe to adopt me, I am forced to hedge my bets and to assume nor give no loyalty. This blog is about me! It’s not about someone who is not here with strong shoulders and an insurance policy to cover my outcomes should he, say, die, go mad, take up drinking, decide that his experience with me has enriched and strengthened him enough to return to a previous relationship thus renewed, etc.

For a better offer, I would drop this blog like a bad habit, but certainly not as some sort of affectation as to demonstrate my neediness, loyalty, and ability to conform to some feminine archetype of an imaginary patron’s imagination. Meanwhile, even if I am not writing, my writer’s observational abilities in terms of the foibles of human existence aren’t likely to diminish. Therefore, it would behoove men to approach my mind with a degree of caution rather than some presumption that I am as gullible and malleable as all females of his experience.

I haven’t eliminated the possibility of accepting contributions for this blog one day; however, the idea that such will nudge me into compliance with modern morality makes me balk. For example, it is my observation today that Americans with children and even grandchildren are deluded that spending their money at big box warehouse food concerns is somehow sustainable in terms of leaving their children a decent world, rather than say, paying top dollar for the output of small local farms, patronizing local businesses, and otherwise creating a place and economy of value for their descendants. In other words, there is some sort of mixed up morality in terms of frugality that competes with having an interest in the future of one’s children. If at all possible, I would prefer to not be in a position such as to be forced to cater to that moral sense or lack thereof or risk appearing “extravagant” or even “condescending” in my values by not reproducing children I can’t afford to feed according to my own values. Oops I guess I just did.

Therefore, as best as I can tell, the only way to contribute to my blog without shaping it would be to do so posthumously, although that could also result in some form of influence out of my admiration for someone who would do such a thing without direct self-interest in the here-and-now. It’s a paradox, for certain.

Meanwhile, if the possibility that I might display some sense of independence or disloyalty by means of contributing my own writing to my own blog is considered a threat to any romantic possibility whatsoever, then such a man is advised to please go away. Don’t go away sad. Don’t go away mad. Just go away.

Next time, don’t choose a writer. Choose someone safe and easy that doesn’t challenge your conceptions of what a woman is, or hire a pro.

As for me, I have no intention of remaining young forever. Should you be interested in the ride, all the way to the finish line, then perhaps you can persuade me that you and only you—not my international blog audience—deserve my undivided attention. An insurance policy of some sort would however offer me more sense than empty rhetoric or emotional appeals. Meanwhile, longevity, security, and romance are simply not sufficient motivators for me to entirely subsume my ideals anymore, and therefore it is entirely possible that this blog shall impede all efforts of mine toward romantic connection.

At least this doesn’t require me to lobotomize myself in order to gain satisfaction from it.