Blog, page 5
This blog is a dumping ground for all my thoughts. It mostly seems to be about my personal life. In such posts, I stay as close to the truth as possiblei, but things like names or locations have been made fuzzy to protect the anonymity of other people involved.
I woke to a cold room.
Light wasn't yet poking through the security shutters of my street level bedroom, so I rolled over and turned my phone's screen on. It was 06:48, some two hours before I even intended to be up. My plan for the day was to sleep in as late as possible to both catch up on sleep from a long week and bank what I could in the event the day's demonstration carried on in to the night.
My insomnia had other ideas.
Note: My memory is a little fuzzy on this one in part due to the passage of time, and in part due to the drugs.
In the early spring of 2016, my girlfriend, Zoe, and I had started dating people together. Once we started, we found our stride very quickly and within a couple of weeks were more inundated with interested parties than we had time for. These affairs were all rather sweet with us all as queer, grungy trios romping about Berlin and visiting the lakes.
I was laying on the hill, listening to the drums when she arrived. She wore tattered clothes, black from head to toe. Her skin showed the creases of her age, a face cratered by time. The evening sky, fading from vibrant coral to cloudy amethyst, lit up when she smiled.
She was beautiful.
In December of 2016, Zoe and I broke up for the first time. During this time I met Frida, a pretty Berlin native in her early twenties. We got to chatting with the intention of going out. However, a week later Zoe and I got back together having seemingly resolved our issues.
Fun fact: We had not actually resolved them.
Act I: ██████ and Lust
I was recovering from a cold as the morning light snuck around my drapes and into my room. It was my fourth May Day in Berlin, and I was enjoying the heavy blankets and warmth of my bed before I started what was promising to be a very busy day. After two days of delay because of scheduling conflicts, illness, and the general malaise of depression, █ ███ ███ ██ ██ ███████ ████ █████ ████ ██████ ███ ███████.
One of the things I've always found hard is taking to heart the usage of nouns or groups to describe who I am. For example, for 5 years I spent nearly all my resources on bicycle gear, training, and racing, yet it never fully felt right to call myself "a cyclist." I tend to see the ways I don't fit into the archetype; maybe I'm 80% of the way there, but not enough to "be" that thing. This is a bit of an artifact of growing up being picked on and being an outsider.
In the winter of 2015, I'd been living in Berlin for over a year and a half and had just crossed the one year mark on breaking up with my horrible wife, Tammy.
Note: I was asked to make this guide by my girlfriend to help her and my sex worker friends stay safe by staying anonymous both online and off.
I've seen a number of guides designed to help people protect their identities while online. These usually recommend using Tor and setting up private email servers. I've also seen a number of guides for sex workers about how to stay safe by protecting their real identity, but often they don't go much beyond common sense. This article is designed to merge these two into something that is useful and practical.
In a previous post, I'd written about the wonderful lady, Tammy, a woman I loved who I whisked off to Berlin and married to get her a visa.
SPOILER ALERT: We break up and get divorced.
Back in college, I found myself often engaging in all manners of buffonery, usually involving sex and alcohol. To me, this seemed normal, but to my friends it was absurd, hilarious, and worthy of being documented. After over a year of being pestered into blogging, I created Why Can't I Find My Pants? I kept up with writing about some of my stupid misadventures, but let it die when my girlfriend at the time asked me not to include stories about us in it. Fair enough. After we broke up, I continued my abstinence from writing because I was no longer in the habit.