I am someone who loved reading and writing. I don't claim to be any good, but it is a passion of mine. I just got out of an abusive relationship, and decided to use that as motivation to write for the first time in a while.

When we met, you gave me a key.

Not a key to your heart, but one to a house. I equated it to being the same.

It was a house I had never seen before.

With love in your eyes, you told me to sit in that house and wait for you. Without question, I did.

Every day, I waited.

You were scarce. You were unpredictable.

Some days, you would enter the house, and my heart would flutter. I finally wasn’t alone, we were together in a home. However, you always left again.

As time went on, things began to shift. Suddenly on the days you were there, you weren’t. The home I thought we'd built became a house again.

I was losing you the way I was slowly losing myself, yet I was too blind to realize it.

Sitting in the darkness, I would look out the windows. Outside there was brightness. There were smiles. Laughter. Happiness existed beyond the walls I was trapped inside.

I didn’t realize I was trapped. I sold the lie to myself “that is happiness, and that is what I will get, when this house finally becomes a home again.”

As time went on, the cracks in the foundation of the house mocked me. The darkness of the rooms consumed me. There was life outside of these walls, staring me in the face, and I was blinded.

Days, weeks, years went on.

I slowly realized the house was not a house, a home, a place of solace. It was a prison, a prison that was built around me.

The love was a prison that had locked me away from the world.

There was a Monday morning where sunlight peaked in through the blinds. For the first time in a long time, I felt my mind wake up, my body craving the rays creating lines on the cold floor.

Despite having the key all along, I never had the ability to use it. Finally I stuck my key in the door, opened it, and stepped into the light. The house disappeared, and my freedom returned.

coffee is expensive in china. i do a really strobg cup in the morning. i need the jump.

coffee is a faster release of caffeine and you wouldn't want to meet me if i didn't get my fix.

but as I drink my morning cup of ambition, i fill.the thermos with strong tea.

tea is cheap in china. it is also full of caffeine. but releases it slower.

I don't do teabags. I get oolong leaves.

once, a friend invited me to a teashop of a friend of his.

we tasted different kinds of tea, ostensibly different parts of just the same mountain. apprently you can taste the difference.

I couldn't.

neither could I sleep for two nights after.

so to those who pick a side- how you get a proper dose. an unstimulated life is not worth living.

for those who talk down at those who disagree- I say, if your choice is so great, how come a billion peoplw choose the other?

You’ve written your last word in a Challenge you thought you would never enter. Yet during that sleepless night, an idea blossoms. Painstaking minutes spent thinking about transforming plain old English into creative, beautiful Prose. Hesitation lasts thirty seconds before the click to Submit.

Six hours later, your inbox lights up with a message “Someone liked your post.”

A happy moment.

Several times each year, I post a link to an online version of my book, "Orange Socks," a series of little stories about how I survived Vietnam, the U.S. Navy, and my own personal Flaws & Failures. It's not a bang-bang, shoot 'em up tale, but rather more like "M*A*S*H" — except that I worked on radios instead of people. As my friend and colleague, Juli Cragg used to say, “You can laugh—or you can cry.” In Vietnam, I did both. PS: The graphic shows some of my cover design ideas.

both. https://theprose.com/post/356323/orange-socks-other-colorful-tales

My name is really Bud, but you can call me Sally. I’m the other woman.

You lie, sneak and cheat for me. I’m in your blood. You need me and love me more than your wife and family. I always win.

She cries and begs you to leave me as I sit back and laugh with my feet propped up waiting. She worries and I don’t care. You’ll always come to me.

She can smell me on you, I’m in your every breath and pore. Its fun when you lie and hide me. It’s my favorite game. You say “I’m done with you”, but I toss my head back and laugh. You’ll be back. I know.

I’m even familiar to your friends. They love me too. I’m a whore. I get around and I am everywhere. I don’t even have to be near, and you think of me. You think of me every minute of every day. Your mouth gets wet for me. You need to taste me. You want me. I bring you comfort. I put you to sleep. Who needs a wife when you have me. I’m always within reach.

I have seduced and murdered your family, and yet you still love me.

I cause heartache and grief, it’s my joy. You need me and want me so much. I am elated to know that I will be in your blood when you say your final goodbye. I will move on.

You have kids that need me too. I’m working on one right now. He’s thinking of me too. There’s enough of me to go around. I’m not faithful to anyone and I love men, women and children. Maybe a little part of me will worm into the brain of the tiniest ones. That is my hope. I’m not selective. I’m a whore.

I’m shameless. You can use me any time, anywhere and I will always come back. I’m always here for you. I will love you and come to you. Hold me and bring me to your lips. Again and again. I’m all you need. I’ll follow you anywhere. I’ll help you drive, I’ll go to work with you. I am always here. You love me.

I’m waiting patiently for you to leave your wife. I love you more. She’s no match for me. I am winning. You love me more.

Sally❤️

A Sequel to Sally

Do we wonder what happens to those Sally leaves behind? The wives of her victims. What happens after she does her damage? Questions to ponder, so deep that the answers can never be clear.

Could he come back to his wife? Would she love him still after kissing Sally all those lonely nights and endless days? The many years his whore held him in her grip, he enjoying her taste, her delicious wetness, lapping her up while listening to her lies and controlling his every thought. It was the perfect union of deception and comfort. She made him forget everything he loved.

He reached out and cried for mercy. He admitted he was powerless and weak. Alas he was finally done with the other woman. He would leave her.

Sally would move on to seduce another. It is effortless for her. Somewhere deep inside she hopes he’ll come back so she can finish him. One day at a time he tells himself. One day at a time Sally hopes he comes back to her. This time she will kill him. Promises made that cannot be kept, leave behind deep pain and a legacy of death.

The wife remembers, will never forget, she knows the temptation is always and forever. It’s reminiscent of their wedding vows “until death do we part”. Reminders are around every corner and like the whore that she is, Sally is always a cat call away. Can wife ever be sure? To trust blindly would be foolish, and the question can never be answered.

Pass by the bar but do not look in. Avoid familiar places and common friends. Sally is everywhere and nowhere if you don’t look for her. It’s tribulation to be sure.

2020

2:00am musings of a post menopausal insomniac mind

After you turn twenty-five, life accelerates at an incredible pace.

Health is not a given. My prostate needs urgent attention, as do my knees.

People who were once your friends are becoming strangers.

Sometimes you are the bad guy.

There's no such thing as karma. Sometimes bad people win and never face consequences.

You can’t save people.

Doing your best and making sacrifices do not guarantee success. You can speak as many languages as you want, have multiple degrees and certificates and still be doing a monotonous shitty job or be rejected at the simplest of jobs.

Work is not fun. My coworkers are not my friends. My boss doesn't care if I am happy. HR is there to protect the company from me, not the other way around. I am replaceable no matter how intelligent and diligent I may be.

Merit is bullshit.

I am nowhere near as intelligent and attractive as I thought I was.

$100 is actually not a lot of money. Less so, when your currency is in a free fall, and so is your salary. Making $700 a month sucks, more so when you have to pay $150 as a monthly mortgage installment.

No matter how much you care for and value someone, they’re never obligated to be the same to you. Especially friends.

In a relationship, love is not just enough.

Nostalgia is always a liar.

Worrying about what others think is pointless, most people are so caught up in themselves they barely know anyone else exists. Don’t let your ego convince you that anyone gives a shit about what you’re doing.

The idea of God is basically Santa for adults.

Last spring, members of First Baptist-Elfers selected me as an alternate Deacon. Turns out, there’s an unexpected opening, so I’ll soon go from “alternate” to “actual.” Why mention this? Because, if 2020 has taught me anything, it’s that things change—often fast.

Campus Crusade for Christ used to have a tract with the phrase “God loves you and has a wonderful plan for your life.” I’m accepting that God wants me to be a Deacon. We’ll see where that leads.

As you may recall, Stephen was one of the church’s first deacons—he was also the church’s first martyr. In unsettling times like this, it’s best to remember things like that.

“Wonderful” doesn’t mean a big house, good job, or a new car. (If you don’t believe that, read “Foxe’s Book of Martyrs” or Richard Wurmbrand’s compelling biography “Tortured For Christ.”)

I became a follower of the man from Nazareth back in 1971 after going forward during an evening chapel service in Vietnam. I’d been living a life of “Drugs, Sex, and Rock ’n’ Roll”—a hollow, barren, and shallow existence. As Paul wrote in Romans 7: 24-25, “O wretched man that I am! who shall deliver me from the body of this death? I thank God through Jesus Christ our Lord. So then with the mind I myself serve the law of God; but with the flesh the law of sin.”

Wish I could say that long-ago decision made me perfect. Didn’t happen. But it did change my direction. Since then, I’ve learned more about Jesus, his love, and his grace; the more I’ve learned, the more grateful I’ve become—for his righteous life, sacrificial death, and glorious resurrection.

I’m asking friends and family to pray for me as I take on this new responsibility so I may serve King Jesus with honor and humility.

Becoming a Deacon won’t make me perfect, but it’s a milestone in my ongoing walk with Christ.

Thank you,

Jim

i used to be an idiot..emm i mean anarchist. what's mine is yours, man, let's share. i know your intentions are good. and that is all that matters. we can share the little we have and feed each other on love. we'll be set up so well, that we can stay like this, in bed all day long. isn't anarchism great?!

then i realized that i was poor. that poverty, is actually depressing. you miss out on a lot of cool things. you can tell yourself that you are rich in spirit all you want, but just like with anarchism, it's just a nice coat of ketchup on the bread, to hide the fact that you have not even cheese under the misdirecting condiment.

then i had a baby. a can of baby formyla isn't going to be cheap, neither do dipers. some day, she will want , or need, even more expensive things. so the feelinf i get, when money cones my way , these days, is joy. i enjoy providing and earning for my not-so-hungry baby. I want wealth and comforting luxuries for her. i want to provide her with enough wealth, that she will never need to worry.

and it can be arranged that mt wealth cures me of the need to worry abour stuff, well that is not bad at all...

Why did Twitter suspend the NY Post account when they ran the story?

Why did Hunter leave a laptop to be fixed and not paid for?

What is it with Democrats and their tens of thousands of emails they try to hide?

If this story had been about President Trump and his son, you would know.

Since it is about a Democrat and his son, no one wants you to know.

Apparently, if you are a Democrat voter, neither do you.

For it is easier to keep chanting "Orange Man Bad" then thinking about corruption.

Democrat voters didn't care about Democrat corruption in 2016.

Democrat voters don't care about Democrat corruption in 2020.

You are your own worst enemy.

2020 is 2016

And you wonder why the Democrats and their obsequious media lackeys are so proud of keeping you so ignorant?

Side note: If you still can, take a look at the Pelosi (Democrat) Treatment of Wolf Blitzer having the gall to even suggest the Democrats could do better. Imagine what the trip to the Democrat reeducation camp would have been like had she been sober.

2020 is 2016