January 16, 2014 — 64 Comments

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The Real Me sent Pretend Me on a mission: go through the motions of my life. Phone it in.

The Real Me was back in time, drifting through
“The Land Of Horrible Ways I’d Fucked Up My Life”

Welcome back. So good to see you again.

Would you like some drugs?


College BFF got the pathology report back from the surgery.

“What do you mean, Stage 3 aggressive? You said Stage 1!”

I argued like a petulant child.

She stayed calm, like I was the sick one.

“Yes. But there was another lump in the lump they removed.”

“What does that even MEAN?”

It just meant she was much, much sicker than we thought.


The Ex is professionally unemployed. He watches our son while I work, but not for too often or too long. He lacks patience.

One day I came home to find Little Dude crying bitterly. The Ex had kicked him.

My son’s favorite hobby is torturing us. BUT. DON’T. HIT. MY. CHILD. 


Two days later, we sat opposite my son’s absurdly overpriced ADHD therapist.

He’s the best in the state – particularly with keeping his eagle eyes trained on the clock. Your time is up. So sorry if you’re caught with your life down around your ankles.

I said, “You need to learn how to deal with him without putting your foot up his ass.”

Dr. Interloper says, “You kicked your son?”


“I’m going to have to report you to Child Protection Services.”

The Ex handled it well.

Called me a cunt, threw my car keys at me and stormed out of the room like a maniac.

I begged Dr. Interloper not to call CPS. I just knew the fallout would be epic.

I waited for the inevitable, walking around with a bruise on my left cheek from where the keys had landed.

Just like old times.


The next night two social workers appeared in my driveway, out of the dark.

They rematerialized, like from a Star Trek transporter.

They were wearing government pins that resembled United Federation of Planets Badges that read,

We look harmless but we’re here to destroy your life.”

They spoke with my son alone, and he charmed and reassured them. They looked at every room in the house.

They inspected my refrigerator.

I’m guessing they didn’t mind that there was only heroin and tequila; no food.

We passed inspection.

Have a good night, and don’t let the door hit you on your cloaking device on the way out.


A few days later, the call came.

I was under investigation.

They had asked me if there had ever been any domestic abuse in our home.

I lied.

I said there hadn’t been.  I was floating somewhere back in my failed past.

I didn’t realize they would check this out so thoroughly.

The local police department had records of domestic violence.

Two emergency room visits.

I’d had a restraining order against The Ex five years ago.

I had lied. What else had I lied about?

I was now under investigation.

They informed me that, for the time being, he could stay in my custody.

I stopped breathing when they said “stay in my custody.”

This isn’t happening.

Please tell me this isn’t happening.

They arranged to interview his teacher.

The guidance counselor.

His pediatrician.

His dentist.

His mother fucking dentist.


I wondered how far back they would investigate; what would they find?

Oh my God, the things they could find if they poked around enough.

I had stabbing panic attacks constantly; unexpectedly, vicious ones.


I called the case worker. I groveled.

Where my kid is concerned, I’m not above groveling.

I dialed her office. “I was the class mom 2 years in a row.”

Called again. “Did they tell you I run the PTO Trunk or Treat bake sale every year?”

I stayed up all night, searching through photos and keepsakes.  

Tears streamed down my face as I looked for evidence that I was a worthy mom.

I found pictures of the party I threw when my son started kindergarten.

We had invited 24 complete strangers, and their parents, to our home for a “Welcome to Kindergarten Party.”

I’d enlisted students for face painting, tumbling lessons, toy fencing lessons, quad rides around my backyard.

Little Dude and I had painted a banner that read:


welcome 2022

At 2 am I texted the case worker the picture.

It didn’t go through. It was an office number.

I texted it over. And over. And over, all night, anyway.


I had constant pain in my chest.

It was my heart breaking.

One night, my student said, “Um, Samara? You’e not making any sense.”

I went home and took my temperature. 104. The pain in my chest was bronchitis.

The doctor gave me antibiotics. But my body refused to get well.

What if they took my son away? He’d never survive a group home. I was such a piece of shit.


The investigation continued.

I was reliving the past, only the more intense version.

The one where you lose your child, instead of your dignity and self respect.


One night my heart ached so badly, it shot through my rib cage to my back.

I couldn’t breathe without terrible pain.

I thought, “This is what Kurt Cobain must have felt like right before he shot himself. Utter heart break.”

And then I fainted outside the supermarket, and the shopping cart kid called an ambulance.


The stabbing pain was pneumonia.

I must have looked BAD.

If the hospital got my insurance to approve a 4-day stay, I must have looked like Samara from “The Ring.”


My other dearest friend came to me. My New York BFF.

She’s a writing professor. And a gifted playwright.

She left her family, and her classes, for 4 days and watched my son because we have no family nearby.

She is extraordinary.

So is my son. He’s asleep upstairs.

As soon as I’m done writing this, I’m gonna go smell his little sleepy head.

CPS decided I was an okay mom after all.


People often do what feels good in the moment. A fleeting connection – it’s all good, right?

But: what if that brief encounter jams something horribly loose in the other person, and rolls around inside them like a stray bullet?

And damages a vital organ?

Their heart, maybe?

And they bleed out?


I live in an area where I don’t particularly fit in.

And I SO want to connect with others.

But. I cannot be someone’s entertainment for the week.

I’ve felt unsafe most of my life – and I suppose, I’ve always searched for that safe haven.

Sometimes my search has taken me to all the wrong places.


There’s a light in my eyes that’s gone now.  Little Dude says, “Mama, sometimes, you look so sad.”

I lost something last fall that I’ll never get back.

I keep going back to find it, and it’s not there. Because it never really was.

I’m going to get a new light.


I’m a survivor.

I’ve survived addiction. Sept 11. A horrible childhood. Domestic abuse. Rape.

I’m a single mom to a soulful, brilliant child with a fuck load of issues.

The Ex has done damage to me; divorce does that to the best of us.

And right now, I’m fighting to keep my best friend of 27 years alive.


I’ve made mistakes with my son, but I’m still the best mother I know.

No one can take that from me, no matter what 4 out 5 dentists say.

I am not just someone’s favorite new person.

I am not the number of followers I have.

In homage to myself, as a writer, I will never again let anyone quantify my talent.

I can’t look back at squandered opportunities anymore.




What other choice do I have?


This is “All Apologies,” Nirvana, Live at Leads.

Considered to be one of their top 10 all time best shows.

I loved Nirvana live. This is classic Nirvana; Kurt Cobain is so high he completely forgets the lyrics to the second verse.

I love this video.

Look at the closeups of Kurt Cobain’s face. His eyes.

Despite his fame, he looks like a lost, frightened child.

There are worse things than blowing your career after going on a tour, like I did.

Like blowing your brains out before you even make it on that very same tour.

Which is what Kurt did.

And I’m still here.




Do you know what it’s like to  rebuild your life after a fall from grace?
Talk to me. I’m listening.


Part One Click here

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    These are the first two posts I’ve read of yours. Nothing I can say will be sufficient. Just know I’m on board. There is a strength within you that I’ve never seen before.


    Rebuilding after a fall from grace? Oh yes.

    But as you said, chica, our best is straight ahead. Onward! 🙂


    Oh my God, Samara. I have such a pain in my chest from reading this. So much of what you said sent these little barbs into my heart. Things I can relate to… things I can’t… but am feeling nonetheless.
    I need to go back and read Part 1.
    What a fucking horrible set of experiences. Rebuilding after a fall from grace? Yes. So so many times, I don’t know why grace keeps giving me second chances. But it does, I promise.
    Be well, Samara.


      There are many reasons why your opinion matters to me most, some of which you may never know-
      But it does. You are extraordinary, and you inspire me.

      every day, we fall from grace. And I am in my second chance ,and we are so well. My son and I, we are so well.



    Damn! I read this and I CRIED, Samara. I wish I had the dough to be able to fly to where you are just so that I could give you a real life honest hug. You surely sound like you need one. It isn’t fair that we live so far apart.


      Actually, CPS descended on us… AGAIN… the other day. Yesterday, I think it was?


        I have regular weekly nightmares – when I sleep, which most of you know I no longer do – in which they’ve come back to take my child.

        That was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

        He’s pretty much my whole world. Not ashamed to admit it.


        Quite understandable.

        What was a bit disturbing was the main social worker that came in Wednesday was previously the understudy of Mr. Black Hat Dude of a previous visit, and she said so. (I hope she does not mention his name again.)


        I’m sorry you’re going through this.

        It’s the worst of times.

        I think, of everything, it was worst thing that’s ever happened to me.

        And I’ve been through. SOME. SHIT.


        Having been a child without a voice, having no real way to communicate the horrors I was experiencing, I understand the agency has good intentions. But I also agree with friends and family that they can really sow misery on those who deserve it less while the real abusers shimmy and sneak through the cracks.

        They are especially after Cimmorene, which alternately chills and boils my blood. The aforementioned Dude came in supposedly wearing a white hat, but shifted to a dark one when she freaked out. He kept that blackhat on ever since then, and that pissed me off (but I was too cowed to express such).


        Oh, my God. Exactly.

        These assclowns were investigating me-


        I fucking live for this child. Whatever. Now I sound like I’m defending myself, and I’ll not do that again. My mothering speaks for itself,

        There are people they need to investigate.

        Don’t waste taxpayers money investigating ME, assclowns.

        Douchecanoes. That one. Always the most satisfying one.


      don’t cry. I hate it when you cry.

      I’m fine. I waited to start answering comments in the light of day, fortified with coffee. I’m always better in the morning. after a brisk walk to school with Little Dude.

      Today is pajama day. I wish adults had a pajama day!



    Oh Samara, what a nightmare! You have been to hell and back. But you’re back and you are strong. I know as I read this that you are. It’s so sad when kids get mixed up in all this. It’s not fair. You’re a wonderful mother. I love that sign you made and what a party! Only brighter times are ahead for you. Besides, you’re a writer now. Don’t forget!


      If I do say so myself, that sign was a stroke of motherfucking genius!

      But guess whose idea? Little Dude’s. He was not even 6.

      That’s how smart he is. Scary smart.

      And we are loving life. No one has ever forgotten that party, either!!


    Welll… I just about freaked reading this. As I was saying… stupid CPS case workers, at our door, AGAIN, I want them GONE, I am tired of seeing them OVER and OVER and OVER again…


      Yes. That was the feeling I had.

      Everytime they came back, to continue. The thing went on forever.

      I want them GONE. I used to say to myself. I want them GONE. I want them GONE.


    Hi Samara, You’re so powerful, I’ve meet many people that have abstained from addiction
    and they jusk keep going out, I myself have gone back out many times just to make sure the drugs were still not my friends. Then to top off all the crap the universe dumped on you you find Mr. Right and he turns out to be an abuser? That’s crazy. You said he takes care of your son part time it because he is professionally unemployed and he lacks tolerance with your boy. Maybe he is really a good guy, he must have been at some point for you to marry him right? When does he see your son, how much time does he spend, is he good to him sometimes? I don’t mean to ask so many questions but I have to imagine he still adds some vitality to you sons live. A boy needs his dad, otherwise he grows up all screwed up too. You mention that the ex did damage and you fear, do you fear reprisal? does he take the divorce out on the little guy. Your son sounds amazing, and if he has issues it sounds like you’re doing everything to help him.
    I have to get ready for work and I have to go now but I will come back later.


      He was a good person. He was, at one time. My Hero. That’s another post.

      He is a good dad, a lot of the time.

      But my son has ADHD, and he needs so much love and patience. And my Ex is angry that we’re not together, and ohhh, this is getting way too personal and complicated.

      I’m a little better with my son, that’s all. I’m a mommy. I carried him in my womb. I breast fed him. I don’t have anger issues. I don’t know. I just am.

      I need my son to see that his father is a HERO.. Not a ZERO. So I paint him in the best light possible.

      This is becoming too intense a comment for me, so I’m going to stop now.



        Thank you for replying. He was your hero and still your sons hero it is so good that you have your son still see him in that positive light. Everything must be so overwhelming to deal with for him. Unemployed in this job market can take a toll on his ego. A man in this society is supposed to support his family and when they cannot because sometimes shit just happens they can’t handle the rest of the responsibilities that go along with being a father and husband. I too was long term unemployed. I had a great job on Wall Street for about 15 years and between the automation and WTC attack thousands of good employees were displaced. I’m fortunate that I was able to come back a new man and get a good job. I not earning nearly what I was making back then because when I went on interviews there were always 20 guys my age and 20 guys half my age applying for the same jobs. Employers have an upper hand now. It’s not like 1990 where you can get a job earning low 6 figures just because your good in math and can sell milk to the cow. I adore your work and the fact that you respond to my comments. Thank you for being an incredible writer. If anyone ever attempts to beat down your spirit you have to just ignore the naysaying mf..ers. You’re a wonderful gifted writer and good looking to. I saw the pic. (can’t see your whole face but there is pic in a blog where you’re drining coffee with your glasses). By the way I love ladies in glasses and I am a big fan of the REDHEADS.


        The Ex also used to make lots of money on Wall Street, and just can’t come back a new man.
        Considerate yourself fortunate.


    This is an absolutely harrowing read. No clever quips from me this time. Is it a good idea to blog about this stuff? I hope you’re able to maintain your anonymity. And I hope you don’t lose your faith in humanity.

    While I admire Cobain as an artist, I’m still very, very angry with him. He’s a selfish failure as a father. He left, for all intents and purposes, an orphan. I can’t seem to look past that.


      Cobain would not have been a good dad to Frances Bean, Mark. He was a deeply troubled, depressed, drug addicted man. Not that he was better off dead.

      But not a father like you. And you know how I feel about you. That my whole life would have been different if I’d had a father like you.

      But Courtney is a whole new level of low. She was fucking Billy Corgan a few months after Kurt died. That was in my Lollapallooza post, and it just made. everyone. on. the. tour. sick.

      Always faith in humanity. Don’t I appear that way?



      By the way, when Little Dude and I watch this video, he says, “Mama, even his CLOTHES look sad.”

      Out of the mouths of babes.


    Yes, I have had to rebuild my life. Yes, I’m in the middle of rebuilding it again. Yes, I have had to deal with CPS and yes I’ve had them investigate me and threaten to take my children away. I was emotionally abused by a woman who held me captive with the threat of suicide every time I attempted to leave. When I did leave she verbally and physically abused me every time I picked up or dropped off the kids for almost a year. I have been kicked while I was down.

    I have risen from the ashes of all that bullshit, and will do so again. You are a strong woman. You have endured a lot of shit, but your heart is still beating and there is still strength within you, waiting to be harnessed. YOU GOT THIS. You’re fucking bad ass and will kick life’s ass until you’re right where you want to be. If/when you need to vent/bitch/whine/whatever, feel free to reach out to me or someone else here you feel is trustworthy. Despite all the shenanigans that have taken place her the last week, WordPress is filled with great people, and I have made many good friends here.


      I am currently typing this off my phone.

      My ex smashed my computer after finding hate mail on it. I can’t win.

      There seems to me to be no place for me in writing. I felt before, last fall, that I had been punished for trying to reclaim myself as a writer. Of course, I was having a breakdown, so it obviously become all jumbled.

      But here it is. Again. The punishment. My inbox fills with emails accusing me of the most… whatever.

      I can’t even comment on a fellow bloggers funny, silly post without being vilified and ridiculed.

      I’d forward you the hate mail, but it would Make. You. Sick.

      Thank you for thinking I’m strong. I can assure you, I’m anything but.


        Don’t focus on the “punishment” or the how’s or why’s. Focus on what you want and need to accomplish. Don’t let anyone deter you from what YOU want to do. Don’t let them win.

        As I said, I’m here if you need me to be. I know we barely know each other, but I’m willing to listen to anything you need to get off of your chest.

        I don’t know why you’re being ridiculed on other blogs. Seems ludicrous to me, but I don’t know the story. If you feel like sharing, by all means I’ll listen.

        Lastly, you are strong. I know you don’t feel strong. I don’t either. A weak person would have crumbled by now and you haven’t. A weaker person would have lost sight of what’s important (your child) and you haven’t. You ARE strong. I can see it in your words. I hope one day you see it in yourself.


    Samara, my comments on that blog were not directed to you. Also, just so we are clear, I would hate to hear that anyone would be sending you hate mail, that is awful. I’ve had some myself lately, so I know the feeling. But I did want to clarify that my tantrum on Monsters Are People, had nothing to do with YOU. I would send this privately except I don’t really see the need for it. I am not here to attack anyone, I’ve pointed out in several lengthy replies to your posts how great of a writer you are.


      Unfortunately, I have been drawn into this.

      I am guilty by association. I am friend to him, so bloggers are writing me disgusting accusations. It’s killing me.

      I have been through too much. I need this to be a safe place. I just want to take my blog down and run.

      I want this to be over. I want my life back.


    Still here. Still writing stories that keep us on the edge of our seat, keep wowing us, keep inspiring us to do more, to be better, to become the best versions of us we possibly can be. Still being an awesome mother, because that’s you are and always will be. Still here. Reaching. Striving. Learning. Your best work is ahead of you, and that’s a treat for us, because what you’ve already given us has been terrific. What you are going to give us will blow our minds. Still here.
    And we will still be here, too, even after you realize and accept that you don’t need us, even after you realize and accept that the words you write will still be potent, powerful, wonderful and important whether we read them or not, even after you realize and accept that you never lost your talent for writing, it is in you, it always has been, and it always will be.
    I can’t wait to see what that Samara gives us tomorrow. Because I’ll be here.


      You just made me cry.

      How did I ever get so lucky to end up with a friend like you?

      I can’t even write anymore.


        Knock it off!! There’s no crying in blogging! Oh, wait, that’s baseball. Well, it’s Friday, and there really shouldn’t be any crying on Fridays. That’s my new rule, okay? Okay. Glad we got that settled. There, I wrote a bunch of silliness to make up for all the sappiness. All better?


        Sometimes I think life likes to mess with us. It throws a bunch of shit at us, makes us think we can’t sink any lower, and then hits us again. Life is twisted. But, life can also be brilliant, and send us the right people, the right words, the right feelings exactly when we need them most. I’m honored to be considered your friend. You truly are a gifted writer, and, more importantly, a good person. There seems to be a shortage of good people these days.


        Big bloggy love. Coming at you.

    Shards Of DuBois January 17, 2014 at 8:12 pm

    hey there girl…first off don’t ever let anyone else define you! remember that song, “I am woman”, sing it to yourself!! I’ve been there, done almost all of that, except my first x tried to kill me repeatedly…I was a bit stupid then, mostly from the head jarring, but made it out alive with both my awesome sons. my youngest was a close call, still adhd, but I have to mention this..don’t give him ridelin, or anything similar. fast forward 23 years, and my son is addicted to meth, and I blame it on the fkn ridelin. it made him crave speed, to slow down. make him learn to control himself without any drugs…my bad as a mother, I never did this, and I regret it daily.if I had known about meditation or yoga at the time, I’d have jumped on it…it works… just my advice to you..take it or leave it. I did want to make you smile tho, so here’s a quick CPS story…my oldest was 3 or so, and we were standing on our front deck. our house at the time was divided into 3 apartments. so the nibshit neighbors were listenint to us…my son kept saying over and over again, “I want to go see my Daddy!” well after about the 15th time, I told him, “If you don’t shut up, I’m gonna put you in a box, cut holes in it, and ship your ass COD… UPS to him!” Anyone who knows me, knew this was a joke, but they called cps on me, and I had to go thru all that shit too, for weeks, they would pop in unexpectedly, look for bruises, see if I had shipped him off. lol I swear they are about as useless as wet toilet pater. anyway, hope that made you smile, and remember, You KNOW you’re a great person, a great Mom, so Fuck em if they can’t take a joke, or don’t understand you and your life. everyone goes thru shit, it’s how you wipe it off and don’t spread it around that counts. 🙂 and I don’t know how your beliefs are, but I will say a prayer for your friend, and pray for you to find some peace too! TC



      Thanks for your prayers. Right about now, she needs all she can get.

      Man, CPS is a Whore! Picking on people who don’t need to be, and ignoring those who do.



    …So, hopefully you remember, I found your blog the other day when you wrote about Little Dude and instantly became a fan.

    I am mesmerized by your writing.

    You make me smile, you make me laugh, you make me frown, you make me worry, you make me hopeful.

    You evoke so much passion and love and emotion in your art.

    That’s what writers do. YOU ARE A WRITER!

    I don’t wait for your posts to come up on my reader. I type in “sam” and my computer pulls up your page. I get excited when I see a new post.

    You are my favorite wordpress blog, your words entice me. You had something to do with me starting my own, you are an inspiration.

    I look at your work & only hope that I can have work like this, something I can be proud of.

    I hate that you have had a difficult past, but as I wrote in one of my poems “Pain breeds the most stunning beauties.”

    much love.
    always & forever,
    to infinity & beyond!
    — suzsar



      Wow. To be told that I could actually help inspire someone to blog is beyond amazing, since I’m just finding my own way. I’m incredibly grateful that you said that.

      To infinity and beyond, indeed!



    Not knowing anything about you but what I’ve read here, all I can say is don’t let anyone ever make you doubt you’re a writer. Ever.
    And don’t let anyone ever wonder about your love and devotion to your son.

    With those two things to start with, and the fact that you keep going despite everything else, it sounds like a great start to rebuilding a life even better than you can imagine.


      Thanks, Your Coolness.

      I actually rebuilt my life, sans writing, 20 years ago.

      Now I’m trying to rebuild it, with. Just a few false starts is all.

      And my son? The greatest kid that ever lived. He’s the reason I got FP’d. He’s the subject of just about every great post I write. He’s the best thing that ever happened to me. Aren’t our kids?

      Thanks for stopping by and reading. I’m truly honored,sir.


    Ugh. I hate to even THINK about it let alone talk about it, but I was investigated by CPS also when Squido was 3. It was the WORST. So, I know the hell you went through and I’m sorry you had to go through it too. Also sorry you are in the middle of some WordPress drama – glad I came to the scene late!


    I don’t know what else I can say that hasn’t been said (seems I am saying that a lot recently), but ditto the above. Based on your story, you and I have a lot in common. Starting over (twice!), CPS, abusive exes, single parentdom, and a lot of other things I don’t share online even now.

    Your words are enthralling. Keep creating, producing, writing, etc. whether it is for stress release, because it’s your passion, or both.

    Looking forward to seeing what you have to share with us next,



    *shrugs* I got nothing, Precious. I can’t add to what’s already been said, and I can’t make you feel any better than you allow yourself to feel, no matter how many people call you strong or amazing or incredible. But they (we) mean it, and have sufficient discernment to say it with some authority.

    I’d say most bloggers have been through some kind of crap in their lives, or why would they write? Keep writing? Keep sharing and trying to heal?

    You keep writing. You keep healing. And eventually you might be – not whole, but enough put-back-together, to be – able to see how wonderful you are.


      Yes. Pandora’s box has been opened, and I can’t really stop now. Writing. It’s how I breathe.

      I made a lot of jokes today on twitter about that note, but here – buried in the comment section of an old post –

      He’s right. I have a sadness in my eyes. He saw it. My son sees it.

      But I’m getting a new light, just like I said in the post. You’re part of it.


    Man, this might be weird, but after reading this, I got a picture in my mind of the class of 2022 — your son being the valedictorian at his graduation, and just praising you for everything you’ve done to get him to that point. And his speech will be all anyone talks about for days because he’s brilliant and caring and a damn good writer just like his mom. xoxo


      Oh my god, I just started crying. I’m such a mush.

      Thank you that. My son is my whole world. That’s why I broke.

      But we’re good, now. We’re so good. Thank you sister wife. love you.


    I love what Carly said, and now I can too *see* that. Samara, darling, I don’t give a shit what midwest boy said or did or whatever…you are a friggin great writer, whether you want to hear it or not. I wish you didn’t have to hurt to get here, but your life experiences have made you the woman that you are, and I for one, admire her.


      Thank you for that.
      It was really just something that triggered old wounds and then everything got all melded together.

      WP still doesn’t feel completely safe to me. I’m always looking to protect myself. Always.



    Now I know even more why that poem got to you that I shared. Keep staying, Samara… keep staying. I’m saying “Live” at your back, okay?


      Thank you, Laurie.

      That was a really dark time. I somehow got everything all jumbled and confused with my past.

      But I came back to WordPress with this blog. And I’m living. Some days it takes so much effort. But I am.

      It’s so nice having your support.


    You are quite the warrior, are you not? For lack of anything brilliant to say I will give you this…what does not kill us makes us stronger. You seem to be the epitome of that corny cliche’. Keep fighting, keep writing, keep living. You got this.


      We’ve all been through some shit, otherwise, we wouldn’t be blogging, right?

      My “dark night of the soul” last fall is not completely healed. But it’s almost healed. It’s a process like everything else.

      One day at a time. I guess, that’s a cliche too? But so appropriate.


    I held my breath through all of that. You are one amazing beautiful lady. you are a survivor.


    Damn this was a tough read from part 1 to 2 but you seem to be quite a tough girl so you keep on going and kick some ass while doing it (recommendation; yr ex. No one is allowed to hurt any kid ever…).

    Big kisses to you.


      I’m so glad you found my blog. I really liked looking through yours.
      A little too much, hahaha

      I need a more diverse audience. I’m glad we met through Hasty.
      I will keep going and kicking some ass! But it helps to get support along the way.
      kisses back,

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