The one where I watch Zootopia

Alright, I'm just going to stream of consciousness this. I'm on my laptop so I'll go back later and add reaction gifs if I think they'd be appropriate, but for now I'm just starting with a bulleted list.

Gotta love a good bulleted list.

Upon further review of the play, I can't insert gifs easily into a bulleted list. So I'm just going to go for a normally typed double-spaced affect.

Alright, the small rabbit just got rape-threatened but it's cool because she got her friend's carnival tickets back.

There are seriously obvious implications that all the "prey" are girls and all the predators are fuck boys.

Or there's super racial stuff going on. I can't tell. She's still in her hometown. Let's see how it works once she gets to the disgustingly homosexual big city.

"Aren't there any fox ice cream stores you could go to?" 

OMG that's just what I thought. Elephant noses are disgusting mucus membranes.

"It's rare that I find someone so non-patronizing." He said that with a straight face I'm going to die.

So...basically this guy is a hipster Robin Hood.

Jesus Christ Disney these rabbits have 400 other children by this point and they still have time to call their little baby bunny in the big city? 

Oh, geez. A suspenseful villain chase through the smallest part of town. If only there was a new cop on the force who's approximately the same size.

Emmitt Otter? Surely they mean Emmet Otter's Jugband Christmas?

I think Bellwether is my favorite.

I'm so glad that amongst all the stereotypes this movie is supposed to be fighting, the fat gay one is still a hilariously reliable trope.

He's fucking typing it slow the hell down.

My Netflix just lagged and I seriously thought it was still part of the bit.

NOBODY saw that visual gag coming. "Mr. Big?" Well played.

 So...they're like zombies or something.


Nick's fucking back story.

You have to get enthusiastic consent to touch a sheep's wool.

American Horror Story: Zootopia

I want to know what the hell is going on with the fish and birds.

YOU'RE THE WORST AT PRESS CONFERENCES.

Awww. Bullies just feel scared to be themselves.

Oh okay. The "savages" are just tripping on bath salts.

Dang Mr. Big's daughter about to have hundreds of babies.

Cool. The Walter White character showed up.

FUUUUCK Bellwether I trusted you!

"It starts with all of us."

EPIC SHAKIRA DANCE PARTY ENDING.

Stale Mate

Now-hubby and I have reached a bit of an impasse with our relationship. After four sessions with the therapist, things weren't progressing. That's the standard relationship cut-off point, yeah? Four dates to figure out whether the two of you are trying for forever?

To be perfectly clear, we weren't trying to date our therapist. I'm being explicitly facetious about "standard" relationship progression in order to express frustration with how much time and effort I've invested for the minimal changes within our relationship. Our therapist was phenomenal. She had a lot of insights into how Now-hubby and I operate as a couple. In the end, I decided to discontinue couples therapy because it started to feel like an "easy" fix for Now-hubby. Talk in front of a professional: one hour, once a week. Address a lot of issues in the way we understand each other and how things have gone down since capital-T Thursday. Make the absolute minimal effort to adapt our relationship outside of that weekly hour.

Which is not to say the therapy train has let the station. I've got two appointments set for early December with psychiatrists. The only reason for the time delay is I wanted to narrow the field to fit some strict criteria. I'm considering letting somebody alter the way my brain works chemically; I'd like them to have at least a 4/5 star rating from previous patients. Also important: a pysch that's taking new patients and has an actual human I can talk to when I call their office. Don't worry, dear readers, I'll be posting on how the medicinal approach to what previous therapists have diagnosed as "generalized anxiety disorder" goes.

Next week will mark the two month anniversary of capital-T Thursday. Two months in which Now-hubby and I haven't so much as kissed on the mouth. I've reached lows I haven't since when I was still living at home. Now-hubby's waiting for me to match the emotional intensity he's got going on in his other relationship. I'm waiting for his NRE (new relationship energy) rose-colored glasses to fade back to standard UV levels.

It'll be another two months before I can even start the discussion of changing the way I address reality. By that time, I don't know what color Now-hubby's glasses are going to be.

I don't know if it will matter.

Willful Girl Talks it Out

The school year is officially back in full swing again. When my department got together on the first day to discuss our schedule and expectations for the year, we started the meeting by sharing one word that best described our summers. My word was: over.

Which is not to say that my summer wasn't any other adjective, verb, or noun that I could have said instead. Once I got through with Summer School, I traveled down to America's penis (Florida) to spend some time with my best of all best friends. Devoted three days of the trip to losing my damn nerd mind at The Wizarding World of Harry Potter.

After just enough time at home to do laundry and re-pack my suitcase, Frisbee and I gathered our passports and headed to the international side of the airport for a week-long trip across the Atlantic. 

We got back stateside, I had one day to sleep off the jet lag, and then it was back to school. Granted, teachers etc. were back on Thursday and students didn't start back until the following Monday. Which means I had an entire weekend to try and get myself over what has become known as capital-T Thursday. The day Now-hubby and I blew ourselves up over bad timing regarding a possible emotionally significant advancement in his other relationship. If the context two sentences ago wasn't enough of a clue, no, I'm still not over it.

Now-hubby and I have both been in other romantic, emotionally significant relationships since we've been together. Despite me being the nonmonogamy instigator, Now-hubby's the one who handles it better. He approaches everything from a perspective of loving me and wanting me to be happy, whereas I'm always waiting for the other shoe to drop. For fuck's sake, Now-hubby helped me clear out our extra room when Frisbee was moving in. And I'm consistently waiting for the moment when  Now-hubby (or any of my partners, really) is going to look over and say, "this nonmonogamy thing is too hard and you're not worth the effort." Or even worse: "Things in this other relationship are going so well I've decided I'd rather be there instead of with you." Again, this is one of those hilariously fun things that's carried over from the way people who supposedly cared about me have treated me in the past. I am getting better about my turn-around - getting faster at shutting down those internal voices and better about asking for what I need in moments I feel vulnerable. 

Which doesn't at all mean that moments like capital-T Thursday don't still happen and knock me right back on my emotionally unstable ass. It's been just under a month of mental examination, conversations with my best friend, and trying to get back to my version of "normal."

Hence, Willful Girl returns to the therapist's office. Similar to the first time, it's in deference to Now-hubby recognizing that there's a problem. Contrastingly, Now-hubby's coming with me and we're talking things through together. Bless that man and his willingness to be there for me. 

Highly Contagious

After feeling not great the past few days, I took a half day off work and Now-hubby brought me to Urgent Care. One of my coworkers had already been out last week with strep throat, so I didn't have the highest of hopes in regards to my own wellness.

Downside? Yes, I have strep throat.

Upside? The nurse complimented me on my deep throat abilities during the throat swab. ("Oh, you're very good.")

My recommended course of treatment: 5 days of Azithromycin and 24 hours sick leave from work.

Which means I spent a bit of time this morning shopping for new sex toys. It's been awhile since I've added to my collection, I have a bit of extra income during the summer, and I've always wanted a butt plug with a jeweled base. Also treated myself to something made of glass, because that's a material I've wanted to experience but haven't as of yet. (I'll leave it up to your fantastically perverted minds, dear readers, as to which one I got.)

The rest of the day was spent in a weird state of not-quite-sick, not-quite-well stress. I had already taken 2 doses of the medication and was feeling better. I didn't, however, have the energy to accomplish anything beyond finishing Nurse Jackie and getting a few more episodes in on The Affair. Credit to my fantastic mental quirks for each time I tried to lay down and rest only to anxiously fidget for 20 minutes before getting back up. Difficult to sleep when my internal voices are running the show. The ones that echo out of the past on how if I was really felling sick I wouldn't be able to get out of bed. Or if I'm feeling so much better then why isn't anything getting done around the house today?

Those sentiments were repeated often when I was growing up. They weren't always directed at me, but were said enough within earshot for me to internalize them. People who are feeling sick are probably exaggerating, and there's absolutely nothing worse than having to take care of somebody else. I'm getting much better at shutting those internal voices down. When Now-hubby and I were first living together, me even thinking about taking a sick day could have been an all-night emotional ordeal. Today, when Now-hubby got home from work, I only cried for 10 minutes over the laundry before going into the kitchen and asking if I could have a hug. I don't know if I'll ever reach a point where I don't have to frantically fold laundry on the pretense that if nobody else is going to be mad at me, I'll just be mad at myself. It's bolstering to know that I'm still making progress, and that I can handle a slightly weakened immune system without having to completely impair my emotional system as well.

The Very Spark

Abandoning all pretense, I just saved plans into Google calendar as "DP Date," because that's what the date is going to entail and I didn't want to waste keystrokes trying to be clever about it. I'll save the Sahara-dry wit for you all, dear readers.

Last Saturday, one of the other gentleman "on staff" at the gang bangs and I reached official peak boredom while downstairs watching a bunch of dudes' naked butts meander for spots around the women playing that evening. We started whispering play-by-play commentary to each other.

"Ah, here comes the rookie draft pick. He's an unknown talent, but he's showing promise."

"Jim, can we get the playback on that?"

"That's a strong contender for 'Fuck of the Night.' Definitely making the highlight reel."

There was also a new girl that evening who chastised me for being "mean" to one of the participating gentleman while I was chatting with him during social hour. Which just goes to show that, regardless of setting, my incredibly winning personality shines through.

Said gentleman and I actually know each other really well. He's used to my acerbic verbosity as an indicator of emotional affection. I relayed the information to him that I had been "kind of mean" and begged forgiveness in the prescribed method - on my knees.

Yesterday evening, I spent a fantastically platonic time with Newcastle. You know, because not everything in my life is blowjob innuendos. 

It's been a long time since I've written about Newcastle. This is not because we haven't been seeing each other. We didn't have to discontinue our friendship after we made out at a mutual friend's birthday party and he said he wasn't interested in being part of an open relationship structure. We did, however, spend a bit of time talking it over. Because there's one misconception about my "sexy" lifestyle that trumps all others: I'm more likely to wear out my jaw talking about all the intricacies of what everyone's doing and how everyone feels than I am to suffer strain due to the genitals I'm interacting with orally. 

The eventual summation: I'm a gigantic slut who's still got a significant crush on him. I'm also capable of respecting his relationship preferences and maintaining a platonic-ish decorum when we hang out.

For our date, we went out for conveyor belt sushi (our seat reservation number was 69, because even when I'm behaving myself, the Universe isn't.)

I bought him a milkshake on the way back to his place and teased him because the girl working the register clearly thought he was cute. We spent the remainder of the evening sipping whiskey while watching Clone High and the commentary track on a few Rick and Morty episodes.