Tantrika Samois' Blog

I just want to hang my head and cry in frustration.

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Did you know boredom can kill you? Apparently it can. According to a study (a real one not an internet poll), people who have intolerably boring jobs also seem to die premature deaths.

Link here: https://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/curious/201003/science-shows-you-can-die-boredom-literally

Thank god I have you to look forward to when I am not working or I really would lose my mind. I have been saying good-bye unexpectedly to a few folks these past months. I don't take insults, even veiled ones, or game playing lightly. I don't have time for that kind of teenage hostility from grown men and I will never need anyone's support that badly. It is sad though, that I even had to be in this position in the first place. I don't insult you or treat you like a game to be played, why would you ever think it would be fair or reasonable to do that to me? You know what I mean?

So bored. So tired. So aggravated and worse, in a position where I have to take politely bracketed condescension and underestimation of who I am or am capable of and swallow it with a smile and in silence because... they are the boss and that's how it works in the real world. Note to self: The real world sucks as badly as you remember it. Maybe worse. God, people and their stupid ego games are exhausting.

So I am sorry I haven't been around writing my chirpy, chipper little posts of glorious self confession. I will be back in a few days.

And for you lovely Baltimore boys who have so graciously and enthusiastically shown up in my mailbox, voicemail and text to let me know that you not only remember me but only think the nicest things about me - THANK YOU. Your warm words have…

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Hellcats and sex sirens.

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Today's new discovery.

I am grossly overqualified in every conceivable way for the normal world gig I am currently slogging through. The work is simple and easy enough but if it were any more mind-numbingly boring, I might be inspired to find some way to commit a dramatic, Rube Goldberg inspired, epic form of hara kiri while the screaming in my head from the agonizing boredom that begins 5 minutes into my arrival now extends outside my body and fills every available bit of air space within 50 miles, shattering windows and driving animals to run for high ground in a stampede. 

In direct correlation with this, it would appear that my frustration and stress manifests as a nearly ruthless sexual appetite that will not be sated with any other activity that normal, sane, healthy people would consider. If my vagina were an octopus, it would be the mythical one in the medieval maps of the sea; that reached up and pulled entire ships into the ocean for leisurely devouring. Clearly Medusa didn't have a head of snakes that turned men into stone but a head made of octopus with eight limbs that turned men into rock hard sex slaves and her ire was really just stress and frustration that had built up.

Well, that's my version of the story and I am sticking to it. ;-)

Supernatural sex drive and a fierce need to go hot, heavy and nasty like a Hellcat that can't be tamed by anything in the mortal realm. Jesus, its going to be a long month and we aren't even through it.

And you thought all tantrikas were gossamer veils and dancing fairies.... LOL

I still won't deal with crass or vulgar. I can't take any more reminders of classically low IQ, flat headed cretan…

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From tiny acorns, mighty oaks do grow.

These past few days, my brain has been overwrought and in overdrive with organizational planning. My planning work board space looks like a NASA engineering white board of calculations, data and notations. I have had to micro-manage myself by forcing myself to write out every small step of each project and in the exact order it needs to occur in so I can stay focused and keep on track. It looks like a to-do list for an Alzheimer's patient.

First, sit down. Put one leg in the pants. Then, the other leg. Now stand up and pull the pants up. Zip them closed....

And with that, my sleep has been anything but restful. The silence of my sleep now sounds like a radio station that refuses to power down.  Active, tossing and turning, vivid dreams and dialogues in my brain all night long about what needs to be done, when and how and what will happen if something goes wrong.

I heard an acronym recently. W.O.O.P. or Wish-Outcome-Obstacle-Plan. I have everything clearly defined except the outcome. For whatever reason, the outcome remains vague while everything else is so clear that I have the equivalent of legal citation notations attached to each small step. 

It seems that I know exactly what I have to do. I just don't know exactly where I am going or why. I just have all small parts that have to be tied together to try and make a sustainable vehicle to get me off the island of limited resources. Maybe that is all any of us really do until we can find our way to higher ground or safer shores. Make the vehicle, navigate by a distant star and hope for the best while we fight all manner of…

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pretty boys.

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Warning. This entry contains bi-sexual male material.
The following entry may or may not be true.
Parts of it may or may not be embellished.
I may or may not have been one of the participants.

At the end of the day, (and the entry) - will it really matter?


“You are so pretty.”

The words slipped out of my mouth like an unexpected rush of air escaping softly through a canopy of trees; barely noticed by anyone except the person it touches along the way. He smiled wide and looked away for a moment in surprised embarrassment before returning my gaze with intention and optimistic invitation. I didn’t want to open myself up for humiliation, thinking that I was reading interest where there was only polite flirtation to increase the cache in the tip jar and decided to focus on my order of business at the bar. It was a martini and a strong one. I promised him a marriage proposal if he made it strong enough and he replied with a cheerful, “And I would accept it!” as he made my drink.

 It had been a long day and standing there without cosmetics on my face, my hair pulled back in a utilitarian bun, wearing a loose blouse with no bra, shorts and sneakers, I hardly qualified as a femme fatale. And because this delicious man was making me feel like a human being instead of a human train wreck, I was willing to forget every bit of cautious common sense in my head and entertained the fantasy of what he would look like naked and entangled in sheets with me. He had a gentle face and I got lost in his eyes, full of…
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