You Always Murder

You Always Murder! 

I'm a published author. I write nearly every genre. I have six books available on Amazon. I have no clue how to link my books, as I am not tech savvy. (You can find me on Amazon by searching "Chasity Conley) 

Now that I've got that shameless plug out of the way, (shew, I bet we all feel better cause we knew it was coming!), I will move on to my post. 

 I write for a blog called Friday Frights. It's just like it sounds. A group of writers posting horror themed stories every Friday. 

(http://www.fridayfrights.ws/) 

Shameless plug! 

Anyhow, my daughter, who is 3 and a half, knows I write for this blog. She also knows I love reality murder stuff. The First 48, Disappeared, Forensic Files, you name it. I'm sure I love it. 

 I rarely get to watch these shows, because no one here lets me have the damn TV! 

 I watch them on my phone when I get the chance. 

Today my daughter saw me watching it on my phone and said SO LOUDLY, 

"You write murder, you watch murder. YOU ALWAYS MURDER!"

Did I mention we live in an apartment building with walls that seem to be made OF PAPER?

 

I am super excited for the first day she attends school. 

"Teacher: What does your mom do? 

My child: She murders! She's probably murdering right now! "

Holy shit. Why does this kid not recall I also write poetry, romance, children's books, and I illustrate?

She sure remembers the murder! 

Uncaring Father

Today I am linking up with More than Cheese and Beer. Our word prompt is "father". 

 When I think of the word 'father', nothing positive comes to mind. I wish I had fond memories of my father, but I do not. 

 Instead of writing a long, boring post about how I was abused at his drunken hands, I'll let a poem I wrote speak for me. 

"Uncaring Father 

How dare you help create me, and then just walk out on me?

Never once did you try to make me a part of your new family. 

Instead I was an outcast, I was never good enough. 

I could never please you, never earn your fatherly love. 

But your hatred and resentment was as clear as the light of day. 

I saw in your eyes every single time you looked my way. 

I felt it with the beatings you felt I so richly deserved. 

It was in your voice every time you ever uttered a word. 

Yet  I was desperate for your love, for your acceptance of me. 

But your heart held no love..it was dark , cold and empty. 

Instead of allowing your cruelty to turn me into a person like you, 

I became better, I'm able to love..which was more than you could ever do." 

 Even at the ripe age of 38, I still have a deep fear of rejection. I guess it stems from my father, I'm not sure. But I do know it's something I have struggled with my entire life and I'm still learning to deal with it. I'm trying my best to overcome it. I don't want the way my father treated me to write the story of my life. I do not want him to have any control over me anymore. Maybe I can finally be free of his cold grasp one day. 

My Beef With Boobs

Boobs are pretty awesome, aren't they? They can nourish your baby, and most people enjoy looking at some plumpy cleavage. 

Here's my only issue with boobs. 

They are over sexualized. People get all fired up if a mother Breastfeeds in public, but don't blink an eye if a woman shows her breasts in a sexual way. 

Sure, it's ok to wear a small piece of cloth over your boobs at the beach, but don't you dare move that cloth aside to feed your baby. How dare you use your breasts the way you want to?! Don't you know you are supposed to use them the way society says?! 

You will make a lot of people extremely uncomfortable if you dare nourish your child in front of them. 

Why is that? Why do people get so offended seeing a baby eat? I can't comprehend it. 

I'm not raising my daughter to view breasts as something to flaunt. Their size doesn't equal how attractive you are. Their size doesn't add or take away from your self worth. That's what I want her to grow up understanding. 

Here, is our home, breasts are nourishment. It was where her milk came from. They are not objects to be obsessed with. I want her to value her brain and heart more than her breasts when she grows up. 

She's a Runner

 

( Anyone get that Billy Squier reference in the title? If so, can we be friends?) 

  Today I'm linking up with More than Cheese and Beer. Our word prompt is "run". 

  Oh boy. Actually running is not a concept I'm familiar with. I nearly had to google it to get the exact definition. 

  I do have a general idea of "running". And I don't like it. I don't "run". If you ever do see me running, just go on and start running yourself. Because some bad shit is about to happen. 

  I prefer to move at a much slower pace. Maybe even a crawl, if you will. Even my toddler can outrun me. 

  Nearly every time I take her outside to play, I hear the dreaded words, "Mommy, let's race!" 

  Gah. No. How about we don't race and just sit here and stare at cars passing instead. We can ponder on the meaning of life. How's that sound instead, little girl? 

  But I don't say that. Instead I get up and prepare myself to be humiliated. If you can try for a minute to imagine this..

  She leans over and prepares herself in the correct way to run. (Stripper ran track for many years and has passed his infinite knowledge on to her) 

  She starts to count down. 

 On your mark...get set...GO!! 

  Me, well I'm still standing there dreading it. She takes off in a blast while I grip my boobs the best I can and limp along. Did I mention I don't run? I think I did. 

  She beats me in an instant. She is already on her way back by the time I have taken two steps. And guess what? Those two steps made me tired, dammit. 

  I hate running. That is all. 

I Am The Poet

 I'm someone who is all too familiar with depression. Unfortunately, I have suffered from it since I was merely a teenager. Most people brushed it off as typical "teenage hormones" until I first attempted to take my life at age 14. Might I say, I was even more depressed when I woke up from my overdose in the hospital and realized that I was, in fact,  still living. 

 Medication never worked for me. Therapy did help some. What I found that helped me the most was writing. Specifically, writing poetry. 

  Poetry was my drug. It kept me up at night. It invaded my mind during the day. It nagged me until I listened. And I always listened. 

 Most people can tell when depression is creeping upon them. I can too. A sure sign for me is when I'm unable to write a poem. 

  You have to understand. Poetry is literally who I am. Like most addicts, it took over my life. I had no control anymore. Feelings and emotions poured out onto paper. And I felt free. I felt a huge weight lifted off me. When I write, I feel myself healing. 

When I'm unable to write, when it seems I have to force a poem out of me, it scares me. It scares me because the only time that happens is when I'm depressed. 

 It's like depression takes my voice away. It takes my freedom away. It takes my poetry right from me. 

I am the face of depression. I am the voice of depression. 

I am the poet. 

My First Love

First Love 

I fell in love with her instantly,

The moment her eyes met mine.

I knew she loved me just as much,

The instant our hands entwined.

She placed a kiss upon my cheek, 

And laid my head upon her chest. 

The sound of her heart beating, 

Made it so easy for me to rest. 

I curled as close as I could, 

And drifted off to sleep fast. 

My first true love slept, too. 

This is a love that will always last. 

Nothing could compare to it, 

Nothing could cause it to fade. 

My mom is my first true love, 

And she is until this very day. 

Guilty Pleasures

  Today I am linking up with More than Cheese and Beer for Sunday Confessions. Our prompt is "guilty pleasures". 

  Now, I have literally pondered on this topic for several days, trying to figure out what my guilty pleasure is. 

  I don't even have many pleasures to begin with. Here they are in no particular order: 

  Sex, books, Coca Cola, and Star Trek. (I don't feel guilty about loving any of those) 

  That's it. That's all I've got.

I began to wonder if maybe something wasn't seriously wrong with me. Doesn't everyone have a guilty pleasure? I have no clue. You weren't expecting me to answer that, were you? 

 Instead of writing about my guilty pleasure, I am writing about my lack of one. 

  That's right, folks. I don't feel the least bit guilty about any of my pleasures. Although, Stripper assures me I should, in fact, feel guilty about loving Star Trek.