Water Closet

that time i prematurely ejaculated during a foursome…

mature. latin: maturus – timely or ripe. premature – untimely, not yet ripe. perhaps, a little green and still hard as a rock. what exactly indicates mature behavior? because i see a world full of “adults” throwing tantrums on a geopolitical scale. which one of us is grading the test?

the definition of premature ejaculation is just as ridiculous a rubric: when semen leaving the body happens sooner than a person or their partner would like during sex.

no wonder we’re all out here pathologizing ourselves. if we earned a new diagnosis every time our bodies acted beyond our control, we’d be racking up conditions quicker than interest charges in late-stage capitalism. 

listen here jackoff, who said i had to want to ejaculate during sex? (…and a handful of other rhetorical inquiries that poke holes in the mature vs. premature distinction.) 

to localize dysfunction to the genitals is like blaming your ears for not liking the music. sometimes the band sucks. sometimes the ambiance is bad. sometimes your nervous system is so frayed that going out and listening to a concert nearly gives you a panic attack rather than an experience of pleasure.

i’ve cum many times before i ‘wanted’. sometimes, i couldn’t cum as hard as i tried. when i reflect on a few of the data points, there’s often an issue of safety at play. usually, i was moving quicker than the speed of trust. that is, for my own body. for my own timing. for what i’ve learned that i need to feel physically, emotionally, mentally safe in a sexual situation. 

that and i’ve watched a lot of porn over the years. have i desensitized myself in some way from decades of digital copulation? it seems likely, especially in the sense of understanding the cues of my body, my partner’s body, and my own personal rate of intimate development. not to mention the sexual mythology i’ve manufactured – one that usually culminates with a massive cock expelling semen onto a woman’s face.

coming to the title track of this piece.

first of all, i believe group sex can be a beautiful, grounded, expansive experience when executed in an intentional manner. if you’ve gathered from my above pretext… i’m not one for ‘fucking.’ paradoxically, i can generally only ‘fuck’ when i’ve been with a long-term partner for quite some time.

group sex is also complex when executed in an intentional manner. there are a lot of moving parts. literally. individuals need to be cared for. partnerships need to be cared for. bodies and boundaries need be honored and respected. when the rules of the game are clear is when there can be fun and freedom. 

the orgy manifesto is a different piece of writing. we’re here to talk about whether or not one of my orgasms was untimely.

here’s the short version: it was Boxing Day 2022. a completely irrelevant but somehow comical detail. a couple from a dating app came to our house to have sex. we talked, sipped some wine, showed off our less visible tattoos, and found a bunch of awkward ways to transition from strangers to sexual partners, including playing Truth or Dare off a phone app… which effectively landed my fingers in another woman’s (not my partner’s) pussy.

from there it was off to the races. all within a matter of minutes, someone (not me) took a Viagra, snapped a few videos for ‘content generation’ purposes, and in a torrent of bisexual fervor, i came with my cock in another man’s mouth. a first for both of us.

beyond the cum from my dick, something intangible was sucked out of the room in that moment. it’s whatever that thing was that i’m attempting to explore here. i had some shame for my timing. others had judgment. we all managed to limp back into the experience but that seemed to be an extension of the issue that manifested the overstimulation in the first place. i overrode myself. someone else overrode the boundaries of the situation by taking prescription drugs without telling anyone. there was misalignment between us when it came to desires and expectations.

in this light, the timing of ejaculation was just information from my body that i didn’t feel safe. that i was beating against the current of my own eroticism. clearly, i was turned on… but if i wasn’t ready to cum and i did, then it’s because i wasn’t honoring the way my body wanted to express in that moment. where was there physical dysfunction here? my body was functioning at its own rhythym and merely giving me feedback that i chose to ignore due to a flood of sensual information.

my body knew to slow down before i did. even though i was embarrassed in the moment, to have my needs and desires so exposed… in retrospect, it all seems like proper functioning to me.

it’s a weird sensation to not feel safe inside your own fantasy. when some part of you wants to push the pause button but another part is in your ear telling you that this is something that you’ve always wanted. not to mention the courage and discipline it takes to slow the sexual momentum of other people involved in a dynamic that may or may not be operating under the same erotic blueprint. 

there’s some quote out there that talks about war being a failure of communication. i think part of me feels like sometimes in highly stimulating situations, i’m at war with myself. that war is often a failure on my part to attune to myself, the needs of my nervous system, and an overriding borne from a desire to please others before myself.

perhaps, premature is an appropriate way to frame the situation after all. premature in the sense that i have not yet learned to adhere to my own boundaries, timing, and pleasure. granted, foursomes are an extreme situation. like learning to play a double-necked guitar in front of a live audience. but intense situations are a great way to measure the hardiness of a nervous system. and if anything, they make routine situations feel more routine. if i could make the commitment to listen to my body, to trust my pacing, and to believe that when my desires are honored it serves everyone involved, that would be an expression of maturity worth living into.

TL;DR the good news is it turns out i’m always cumming right on time.


Saturn Return Magic


May 28th, 2016:

“it happened yesterday when the full force of…gravity…weight…Saturn…a lifetime of choices and experiences… Harvey’s Death… and quitting my job without notice… SQUASHED me.

sat on me unyielding until i sobbed in total collapse…

i mean fetal position, stomach clutching, can’t breathe type of sobbing… a complete surrender to my emotional body.

i’m not sure i have ever cried like that in my adult life… not even with Bob…

i cried a lot with Bob, but i also thought a lot about crying… trapping it somewhere to fester.

i thought a lot about my emotions and what it meant for him to really be gone.

i did the Aquarian thing—thinking. believing that if i could just throw enough rational thought at my pain, it would help ease it.

but i know better… i tell others all the time—feel your feelings, its ok to feel, it’s good for you.

my Aquarius moon recognizes that as a rational truth, yet fumbles with the personal execution of it… that’s messy and hard, let’s stay in this safe head space…

i’m ok, i have to be ok. the world keeps moving and so must I.

If I just keep moving maybe it won’t catch up with me…

so, i “chose” haha choice…perhaps it was more like the universe commanded it of me. whatever the case, i let myself feel the loss of Harvey and to really feel every hurt i’d ever had.

the universe ripped me wide open and squeezed my soul like a long overdue zit.

thank you, Saturn and Pluto… fuck you, and thank you!

pealing myself off the kitchen floor, clutching my tear and snot-soaked paper towel i grabbed what was left of my smudge stick and went outside to do magic.

i rolled up my herbs in the grief soiled tissue and proceeded to burn it…

it was very wet and it took a great deal of effort and time… like all big wounds do.

as it slowly burned, i sent all my love and good will to everyone and everything in the universe, my thanks and gratitude and hope…

i talked to Bob for a long time while i did, and Harvey, and Tractor, and Spud, and Zippy… and i sobbed some more while i talked to them…

i told them how much i loved them, how much i missed them… but mostly i told them how much i needed them, in the past and right then and forever…

and as i smashed my thumb roughly against the lighter to keep the paper towel burning i let go of my anger and rage and hate…

like throwing maggots on a flesh wound, to devour the dead, the decaying, the rotten… trying to create space and let the peace of the sunshine replace it…

knowing that new skin, healthy skin, would grow back there…eventually.”

by: rae of f*cking sunshine @rae.creational.wyrding

visit: theWITCHwaycafe.com

a COMPOSITE of choices—1st House: Venus in Libra on ASC & Saturn/Pluto in Scorpio

“I do want truth— 




all of it…

truth is not cruel

or “ugly”.

yet the intent of words can be cruel and ugly at times…

but truth—

truth is always beautiful


no matter how much it may sting.

your truth makes me sad and reveals depths of hurt that make me question the reality of many things… 

“real” or “not real” 

forever pulling at my heart strings…

affirming painful half-truths

the unsaid 

buried too long in our cobwebbed corners. 

perhaps you are right and the cruelty is mine. 

but I am not sorry for my truth… 

or the steep conversations 

and actions 

that upheld my integrity. 

and I will never be sorry for loving…

to remove “sorry” and “I love you” leaves me with only a cut out heart-tongue.

and wishes…

and i wish you many many beautiful, kind, sweet things… 

i wish you the knowledge of your value and inherit worthiness…

and genuinely how much happier you will be without “romantic” me.

safe journeys (my friend?).” 

rae of f*cking sunshine @rae.creational.wyrding

For Josh:

You died four years ago..

Mostly I maintain happiness and fullness that you were here with us for as long as you were.

But then from the sacred place burrowed eternally inside this body that held your precious body until you joined us.  From some well spring of life the deep cries arise again..the bone drenched emptiness of your absence, there is nothing but your absence and I collapse grabbing the tiny urn with your ashes before I fall …clutching my homeopathic dose of you, the 6’ 3” powerful body of you, a life time of building houses, furniture, fixing stuff, snowboarding like a maniac in epic conditions making the world more beautiful, more vibrant with everything you touched.

I get up off the floor eventually and join the land of the living.

You were not murdered at a music festival nor held hostage by your government’s enemies ..I did not pull your body from the rubble. I return to this moment and watch Al Jazeera’s bureau chief in Gaza hold the shrouded body of his grandchild and touch his dead wife’s face with the sorrow of the ages with his dead son and daughter somewhere nearby..

I get up to return and to remember to practice the wholesome joy that keeps me going…happiness will return as I engage wholeheartedly in this life again, as you always did..

Get back up, keep going, as you would do….


by: Mary Plumb

kindly fuck right off

they say that misery loves company.

…they must not have had many planets in Scorpio.

sometimes, nothing makes me more miserable than the company of other people. i realize how misanthropic this may sound. i’m in a brooding mood.

i love you, i just don’t want you near me. not forever, just not this now. in some other now, i’ll want you as close as i can have you.

why is that so hard to say if it’s honest? we’ve been sold the idea that the honest thing is the easy thing. the truth is so organic… gluten-free… ketogenic.

it’s really the fear of exposure in the truth that eats at me. if i say it out loud, then you’ll know how much of a selfish, perverted dick i am. so i’d rather just suffer inside myself than drag you into my Sisysphean mindfuck.

but my mindfuck is slipping. you can see it in the permanently furrowed space between my eyes. resting dick face.

how often is the world being honest to us? by the world, i mean society. and by society, i mean the orgy of information that influences the way we think and act.

somewhere along the way, i heard someone muse: we all have free will, but i’ve never seen anyone use it.

ironically, there’s not much room for isolation anymore. especially in the more domesticated world. Elon Musk figured out how to mainline 150GB worth of Info Wars to the middle of nowhere. look how civilized we are.

how many hours of Flat Earth Theory videos can you watch with 150GB of data? or Christianity vs. Critical Race? or the Sunday church of gladiation where men gather to break each other’s bodies in the Colosseum?

isolation just ain’t what it used to be. not when you’re staring back at civilization through a straw hole and pontificating to your livestock that you’ve found the one truth.

i love you, i just don’t want you near me right now. we’ve been married for a million years, don’t you think it’s normal that we take a break? get some space? go fuck somebody else? take a vacation?

take a hike. lovingly, of course.

schools were built like prisons. offices were built like prisons. prisons were built like prisons. so why are we doing this to ourselves?

is being alone better or worse for the self-loathing i feel at my insatiable desire for spaciousness? i need a therapist to help me unpack all the facets of that question. thank you for listening.

on one hand, being alone implies a type of sovereignty. as in, i’m clear about some fundamental part of me that’s untethered to the gravity of social influence. doesn’t sovereignty suffocate self-loathing? we had to learn to hate ourselves from somewhere. bought and sold baby!

on the other, shame flowers in isolation. like a poisonous night-bloom. the devil’s trumpet.

36 seasons of Scorpio and i still haven’t figured out how to live with you or without you. with or without myself.

maybe the shame i feel is the inability to comprehend why someone else would want to be near me when i feel like crawling out of my own skin. scorpions molt. still, i can never quite get away from myself. though i’ve burned through many a GB of chess tutorials trying.

i’m a currently grandmaster of dissociation.

what to do when everyone just sounds like static in the system, though? please, just shut the fuck up so i can feel myself. lovingly, of course.

go away. come back. go away again. come back again. i can’t help that i need my love to be orbital. like Halley’s comet. if you get too close it could destroy us all.

more than alone, what i want to be is honest. sometimes, it seems i can only find the current truth of myself when i’m slightly removed from the way you’ve come to know me. a keyhole of freedom in the fortress of mutually created identity.

honest. gracious, but never apologetic. even when it hurts.

now, fuck off. lovingly, of course.

words: @astro.diarist

Siren Song


(Cyclon Senses prequel):


my janky queen dreams…


I probably shouldn’t fall in love again…

I’ll just go around

slicing people open…

hoping they know how to hold their own guts in


I want dangerous beauty


and razor-sharp containers


a sphere of edges

flattening my heart strings

by bowing back the curtains

and demanding I be seen


devouring the light

the betrays the sullen darkness


I can’t be fuck from the outside in

you gotta work on my internal organs first

was it safer to keep them ethereal

at a distance…


maybe if I could hear it confirmed

just one more time

that they don’t want me…

never really did


I could jump into the deep end

skip the shallows completely…

and sing

just like a siren


by: rae of fucking sunshine


Tails of Saturn(a):reverently reclaiming scary bitch status (part 2)

what am i allowed to say? 

i am so over polite society. 

you want truth—“you can’t handle the truth!!!” 

go cry in your corn flakes…


empathy is strength

start exercising it.

we have a twisted dominating ideology floating around that nature is evil. 

yet, i argue that the only evil you will find on earth is the human. 

we can argue that humans are nature or part of it.  

i think we are part alien. or virus… 

you know just a really advanced species of genital warts taking over the world. 

can you sense my sideways smirk here…

i hope you are laughing too…

life is sexually transmitted after all.

we have to come to terms with our destructive nature so we can stop destroying ourselves 

and everything else in the process.

heal the split between spirit and flesh…

remember that the funky, stinky, flesh eating, 

gruesome side of the earth plane 

is natural and normal 

and beautiful. 

the evil part pops up when we think some life is more important than other life. 

because the truth is all life is connected—one root—one source 

just one part of earth—earthing.

when you wish that person or group of people dead 

you wish part of yourself dead too. 

so I invite you to: sit down, shut up and stop pointing your finger 

because those who throw shit get shit on their hands. 

own it—your own feces-infested self. 

ain’t it grand!

this is the core of saturn and radical responsibility. 

everything is just a reflection. 

own it. 

own your deep desire for blood and guts and drama and murder.

or insert whatever horrifies you most. 

you are that. 

they are you. 

and the harder you try to reject that 

the more it will be shoved down your throat.


this is why I like dark humor. 

saturn says horrifying or humorous—you pick.

karma is a bitch? 

gravity sucks?

perception is everything…

we all want it to be someone else’s fault

but there is no magic pill 

just consistent effort towards the ultimate orgasm.

so if it feels hard, stroke it—get off

no one wants a flaccid world.


look at your reflection in the hall of mirrors we call life, 

for the root of all-evil is tangled up in our minds.

start roaring and ecstatically laugh while they burn you…


by: rae of fucking sunshine


TAILS of SATUNR(A): reverently reclaiming SCARY BITCH status

part 1:

do I have to be human? 

can I switch teams? 

i think I got the sign-up sheet wrong…

or maybe I am here to be their voice.

the animals…

i am with them.

if push comes to shove and I have to pick them or humans… 

i pick them—just so we are clear.


i want astrologers to be gods 

and when they show their human sides 

i want to devour them. 


capricorn karma is heavy—deal with it.


take back the power of words. 

the power of everything—

you don’t get to use anything against me anymore

because “I have revenged myself 

all over my self 

and there is nothing left for you to say to me.”


for “sticks and stones 

turn to ash just like our bones… 

it’s words that hurt the most 

now isn’t it?”


this is what the great malefic’s are here to teach us… 

that boundary between pleasure and pain. 

ecstasy on the edge of agony. 

learning how to get off on everything. 

letting the torture be the most exquisite dance of decadent enjoyment…


inhale back your power—you are the writer of this story. 



by: rae of fucking sunshine


why i tell my secrets to strangers: the power of confessional writing

the religious history of the confessional is long, twisting, and rife with corruption and exploitation. as far as i know, the practice began as a voluntary public offering of repentance and reconciliation but somewhere along the way the communal aspect was traded in for the privacy of the partitioned booth and became a compulsory demonstration of ‘good faith’. 

i read somewhere that this was done to try and eliminate the potential for public shame. given the trajectory of the Catholic church over the last 700 years (or since time immemorial), one can’t help but contemplate the consequences of privatizing the confessional space.

is shame ever alleviated in privacy? on the other hand, we certainly don’t want to face public ridicule for the most sensitive details of our lives. perhaps, if the spirit of the confessional space remained intent (if it ever truly was) on providing people with a container for restorative acceptance, it could have acted as a constructive social force. oof… big ifs.

the idea of catharsis seems to be a lynchpin of this contemplation. with ancient Greek roots, catharsis was the emotional release that theater-goers experienced while watching a fictional tragedy transpire on stage, which Aristotle believed could induce a sort of spiritual wellbeing. later the notion was adopted by the Catholic church as the fruit of confession. there it hung on the tree of religiosity for more than a millennium until Sigmund Freud and his peers came along to pick and process it in the name of secularized psychoanalytics. 

why does this all matter? as postmodernism proposes, the discursive power of words becomes the tangled roots of meaning that can both bind us and liberate us from our socially constructed mental formations. words are given both their explicit and implicit definitions through cultural convention, but can quickly become self-imposed prisons through our own internal dialogue. 

ironically, given my recurring critique of humanity’s flawed interpretation and actualization of spirituality into religion, i believe this is a bit of what the Bible is referring to in Genesis: in the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.

if catharsis bears the weight of your connection to Source, and the restoration of that connection can only transpire within a specifically designated space and be bestowed upon you by a specific authority, then that space and that authority hold a massive amount of power over your sense of psycho-spiritual wellbeing. thus enters the gargantuan potential and temptation for exploitation.

moving forward, i will use the word catharsis to describe any experience that relieves us from shame and transmutes it to joy by reconnecting us both to ourselves and others. i leave out the divine here, partially because of the trigger it induces for many people, but also because it is a burgeoning personal belief that we can never be separate from God, regardless of conceptualization or behavior. 

in my experience, catharsis rarely, if ever, happens in isolation. shame has a way of festering in the shadows of our aloneness. i’d like to believe that the original inspiration for the confessional practice carried a seed of this intent, that by being seen in our vulnerability by our community, we are offered healing through understanding, acceptance, and a collective embrace. 

what i’ve learned over the past few years of blogging out some of my biggest insecurities to strangers on the internet is that… though i retain a certain degree of anonymity and privacy from this medium, i’ve experienced a huge alleviation from simply knowing that others are reading my honest accounts of my otherwise isolated experiences. though many of these experiences involved other people, rarely did i have the courage to discuss the emotional content associated with those experiences with anyone neither in real-time nor in post. and in a society that associates normativity with acceptance, abnormality equates to ostracization, which is ancestrally linked to our fear of death. thus, closeted confusions and uncertainties rotted into shameful ‘perversions’ and all the while i had no idea i was sitting on a wealth of fertilizer.

putting pen to paper, or fingers to plastic keys, is a big piece of the cathartic puzzle but if these stories were merely confined to the pages of my journal, i don’t think they’d have the same alleviating power that they’ve had for me. anyone who responds to my writing in some authentic way acts as a lighthouse in the sea of self-perceived abnormality – abnormality in the sense of deviation from some imagined norm. when someone sees me, adrift and waving my distress flag from my barge of sexual and emotional baggage, i feel like i’m saved again and again. and while i had a vague notion that what i had to say might offer some alleviation for those who came across my sun-drunk depravity, i was unsure of what i’d feel from someone else feeling themselves through the lens of my experience.

every time we step onto the stage, we face the potential of ridicule. and certainly, people have ‘punished’ me with their misunderstandings of and aversions to my confessions, but even that too has been incredibly clarifying in terms of what’s worth holding onto.

what we risk in potential humiliation is ultimately what is transmuted into the alleviation of our shame, guilt, or whatever emotional contraction we’re experiencing around our personal histories. when received well by others, we experience the catharsis of ‘normalization’, which is a transition from the sensation of isolation back into connection. however, if further humiliation occurs at the hands of someone who intentionally or unintentionally doesn’t understand us or isn’t ready to accept the side of themselves that our confessions invoke, then we are asked to find the capacity inside ourselves to be with the humiliation, to digest ourselves through its innards, and allow our nervous systems the lived experience of not physically dying from our shame. that in of itself can be just as cathartic, or even more cathartic than acceptance because it gives us access to something that is undisturbed by and independent from anything or anyone outside of ourselves. 

what catharsis means to us and how we experience it is deeply personal. and while i’ve defined it here for myself and the context of this blog, i don’t pretend to understand what it means for anyone else nor do i wish to enforce it against anyone’s else definition or experience. anytime a perceived authority, whether that be a religious body, a social science, a teacher/educational system, or any other person close to us attempts to wedge themselves between us and our ability to emotionally heal, feel connection to our Source, or otherwise release tension, i think the motivations of that authority merit rigorous scrutiny. 

the power of postmodernist thought, in this regard, is that it helps free us from the discursive bonds of culturally constructed ideas, especially ones borne from more oppressive paradigms. language is an imperfect tool for explaining our reality and yet it carries an impressive amount of weight in the way it shapes the way we view and make meaning of ourselves, others, and our surroundings. for me this is the beauty of confessional writing, the semantics, syntactics, and pragmatics of language become loosened when i am less focused on whether someone understands me and more motivated by desire to feel alleviated from some psychosomatic tension. it puts some of the agency back into my hands to evolve the narrative  – not in a way that shirks accountability – but in a manner that feels more authentic to my experience and less confined by the oppression of what has been deemed normal. 

it’s my sincere hope that a reimagined confessional space, like the one i’ve been invited into here at the Neptune Underground can help us collectively explore and at least partially resolve this tension between the power of normalization to give us an experience of reintegration into wholeness, and the way normativity can restricts us from our truer identities and expressions. normativity is an outside-in force in which it retains its power from mitigation and elimination of deviation. whereas normalization works from the inside-out in which our unique and otherwise private experiences and expressions are released from the confines of our personal judgments so that they can be witnessed, embraced, and ultimately provide relief for both the us that are sharing and those we share them with. simply put, normativity feels like the sharp inhale of anxiousness, normalization feels like the exhale of relief. and i confess, i’m far more interested in the latter. 

words: @astro.diarist

VENUS DIRECT: chewing the fat of love

i want to say everything, so I say nothing.

cyber communication has always felt foreign to me. i like to be in a person’s energetic space. they say road rage primarily exists because we cannot see and read the other human while it is going on. when you bump into somebody walking down the street there are clear non-verbal signs of apology or intention.

machines and men the question of our age perhaps?

i constantly have era envy, i’m working on quitting that habit… i think that’s why i like being present, it’s primal. to read the whole human while you interact with them. otherwise it’s like sending your heart and thoughts out into the ethers and holding your breath.

is that going to land where i want it to land? can they gauge my tone? was I clear?

i have such messy emotions… chaos magick or nothing at all. astrology charts are like diving into whole other worlds. i love the endless potential of stories they tell me.

but i still have writing blocks around it. when someone is sitting in front of me what I see leaks out of me endlessly. i can talk for hours about the signatures, the lessons, the possibilities… the written word is so final, so concrete. so edited, even when i try not to.

the magical practice i follow mostly deals with the laws of synchronicity. what patterns are showing up, and what does that say about my current inner nature?

a client requesting a relationship reading showed up and both had venus conjunct pluto

i’m really chewing the fat of this one. it is a complex archetype… one I share. and a hard signature to unpack in our culture. it is about power dynamics in love. it is about passion, jealousy, anger, revenge. it is linked to all things considered taboo.

it speaks to the necessity for ugly truth and being soul naked… to feel seen warts and all and still be loved. it is about the power of choice, to feel picked. in a sea of infinite options, I choose to love you type of feeling.

but the paradox is that it is growth oriented. the emotional belly of the beast that hungers for more as a natural force of evolutionary appetite. to understand your own power, you must go to extremes. this archetype can be cruel when it feels its growth infringed upon. in intimate partnership it speaks to needing someone who can grow with you. to do that, each partner must feel comfortable speaking their truth. yet culturally we are taught that certain sexual truths must be hidden otherwise it will cause hurt and rupture.


why is the relationship house in ancient astrology also the house of open enemies?

why is marriage still, statistically, the most dangerous place in the world for a woman to be?

understanding the emotional history of humanity…

our secrets.

who decides what is fair in love and war?

what is the nature of emotional memory vs. mental memory?

what stories do you tell yourself?

which ones do you crystallize and which ones do you delete?


the venus-pluto archetype is vampiric. it is the, if I can’t have you no one else can energy. it is the type of passion that makes people believe there is no safety in sexual relationships. it is conditional love. it is about learning how to embrace the dangers of loving and being vulnerable.

i have always been an advocate for maintaining friendship with exes. for me I think it mostly comes down to I would never they rather be dead. i don’t like the delete button. it is a funny swamp to swim. i attract a lot of judgment for it that I find odd. who knows, I could be the incorrect one, but I refuse to think that the answer lies in learning how to love less…

an old lover spoke to me of the infidelities he had had in his marriage. i understood he needed a place where he felt safe to expose this world destroying truth. a female friend told me I was inappropriate for even having the conversation…but I have found trust is a hard thing to find and we are all just trying to do our best. i didn’t ridicule or judge, instead i helped him unwind his self-loathing and proceed with care.

intention and the thought police, what a force when trying to understand a new sense of morality. if we are a generation that feels reference-less how do we create an emotional future that works for us?


by: rae of fucking sunshine