The chaotic ramblings of a retired adult industry entertainer.

There is nothing

“We want to know how it felt to do porn.  More details!”

I can’t offer up more details since there isn’t more to say.  I was numb to all of it.  I still am.

I wasn’t raised religious. I wasn’t taught that sex is sacred.  My own mom was a whore.

At about the age of 8 my dad told me that he expected I’d get knocked up instead of going to college.  At 18 my mom sat me down and told me that if I was going to be a whore, I should be a high class whore, and not a low class one (I don’t believe that my other siblings were given that same riveting talk).  So hopes for me were never very high to begin with.

Porn felt like having some lame sex.  That’s about it.  Nothing deeper.  No crazy or conflicted emotions involved.

Looking back on it stirs up a few feelings of “blah” and “ugh”.  I’m not full of regret, but I’m probably working my way towards that.

I’d say more, except there isn’t more to say.

The verge of disaster


That’s where I am alright.  On the edge of a disastrous situation.  For over a decade I lived through porn, poverty, and chaos.

Today if you first met me, you’d never know it.

I have a cushy corporate job, live in a nice place, and drive a nice car.

That’s what matters right?  I’m comfortable.  I should be happy.

So why am I going stir crazy?  Why am I sabotaging everything with this stupid blog?  The day H.R. puts two and two together, my ass is out of there.

I’m a little bit older, and a lot less impulsive than in my younger years.  So I’m playing it cool for a minute.  However, I don’t see me lasting much longer in cubicle land.

Deep in my guts I know that I need to shake things up dramatically.  This path that I’m walking down, it doesn’t belong to me.

My path will likely not be the most beautiful.  It’s surely not going to be the simplest one.  It’s meant to be mine though.  And I look forward to feeling more at peace when I finally reach it.


A million words of crap

That’s seriously all this blog is for.  But I’ll be damned if it isn’t working.  I feel a touch more inspired and creative every day.  I even have a solid plan for a book in mind.  And I’m getting ready to proceed with it.  Thank you all for the love and support as I work through my first million words of crap.

You won

I don’t say much about the people that are raising my kids.  Regardless of the truth, or my feelings…I want my kids to love and respect their parents.

I will say that one family in particular, hates to send me photos.  They are so petty about it, that I actually had to get a court order just to receive photos.  And I’ve had to have my lawyer threaten them with more court in the past, because they STILL weren’t sharing photos.

And they’re not private people.  They post public photographs of the kids all over social media (of course I’m blocked).  They just don’t want me to have any of them.  You know, the person who gave those kids life and all.

So now when they do reluctantly send photos.  The kids are always looking the other way.  Or they have food all over their faces.  Or something is blocking their faces. Etc.  If those kids have ever taken a nice picture, I would never know it.

So today is Mothers Day.  And guess what I receive?  Not a nice photo of my kids.  Nope.  A group selfie of the mom with all of her kids (biological and adopted).

My gift was some salt for that wound.

So should she ever read this.  Yes, you won.  My kids are yours.  You have their entire childhoods to yourself.  And I’m lucky if I even receive a picture.  All of your money + a corrupt system + my lack of sense/self esteem = you the winner.

For now anyways.  None of us can know how the kids will feel when they’re older.

Happy Mothers Day.



I was asked about the pros of living on the streets.

I can’t come up with any.


I could be all “yeah, freedom to go and do what I wanted, blah blah”.

But it just doesn’t really usually work that way.

I was a single, decent looking female living on the streets.  It was dangerous as heck.  Probably would have been a lot more terrifying if I wasn’t constantly wishing myself dead anyways.

Sometimes I would walk for 5 hours straight at night time, just to stay safe and warm.

Even if I did lay down to sleep, the cement is hard, but the grass has bugs.

Sometimes it was so cold I just prayed that I would die and get some relief.

Knowing that if you did die, nobody would even know (or care).

Sleeping with one eye open because you’re worried about being raped or at the very least, having your stuff robbed.

You’re constantly dodging police because it’s essentially illegal to be homeless.

The constant battle of finding a restroom.  Or a way to get clean.  Feeling self-conscious because you look at feel like shit (and you know it).

I was always thirsty and dehydrated.  But the fountain water at the parks was so gross that I generally just preferred to stay dehydrated vs. choking that nastiness down.

I read tons of books to keep my mind occupied.  Bonus…the library usually has nice restrooms.

Did you know that San Fransisco doesn’t have any emergency shelters for single women? (at least they didn’t back in 2014).  I’d have to find a way to get myself into the city to sign a list at lunch time.  Then I’d have to get back there again at dinner time.  I’d sit there for hours and hours waiting for my name to be called while watching other folks get called and shuttled off in vans.  Then come 7 o’clock, they kick you out with a “sucks to be you”.

I never pan-handled.  Shoot, I could barely look people in the eye as I wandered aimless through towns with my backpack that had my blanket tied to the outside of it.

Only a few groups of people seem to actually enjoy living on the streets.  The mentally ill.  Those who are trying to prove something, but know that they have mommy and daddy to fall back on when they get bored of adventuring.  And drug addicts who are too far gone to care.

Living in my van was a huge improvement.  But I still wouldn’t recommend it.  Sure there was some good times.  But one doesn’t usually have much energy for parties or adventures when just staying alive requires so much effort.









More porn!

Since folks want to complain.  Here’s a little story about porn:

I’d show up to a random house in Los Angeles.  It would take what felt like three years for whoever to get everything ready.  I’d get fucked for money.  And I’d take my measly earnings and leave.

Look at me being a writer.




  • I’m not sleeping in my car or on the streets.  No more walking aimlessly for miles and miles a night just to stay warm (and safe).
  • No more constant searches just to find a restroom.
  • No more having to always carry around my heavy ass backpack full of everything that I own.
  • No more hunts for water that doesn’t make me feel sick to drink.
  • No more baby wipe “showers”
  • There are no bugs in my home.
  • Access to plenty of food that didn’t have to be stolen, or come from a food pantry.
  • I have the essentials I need to live a comfortable life (there was a time I didn’t even have so much as my own towel).
  • Medical and dental insurance (feeling for everyone who has to go without).
  • Beautiful children.
  • A stable career that allows me the ability to give back every week.

Life is good.




I read other blogs from actual writers, and it’s intimidating as fuck.  I’m never going to pretend to be something I’m not.  My rambles will always be in my speaking style.  But I wonder what the heck anyone is even doing by spending time on this blog.

There are amazing, talented writers all over this place.  And then there’s me lol.

You’re welcome to stay.  But I may question your sanity as much as I do my own.





I wish that I was ugly.

My opinion of my own looks is very poor.  I see every wrinkle, line, blemish, and bulge and wonder why I’m often referred to as “pretty”.  I understand that conventionally I meet the standard definition of attractive.  But when I look at myself…blah.  And it’s nothing that self-love, or affirmations, or even therapy is ever going to fix.

You’d never know it based on my life decisions.  My poor grammar probably doesn’t help either.  But I’m actually smart.  I’ve even been officially tested and all that jazz.  School is a breeze for me, I read very quickly, can pick up languages with ease (except for Spanish, me and Spanish don’t get along lol)

So I often wonder what my life would have turned out like if I hadn’t spent my entire childhood hearing nothing positive about myself, except for: “you’re beautiful”.

I didn’t have any encouragement or positive role models anyways.  But if I was ugly would I have focused more in school?

If I was less popular in school, would I have partied less and gotten into less trouble (that snowballed as I aged)?

Would all those men who eventually destroyed me, have ever been in the picture?

Most importantly, would the porn career that’s wrecked me, have even happened at all?

No way of ever knowing.  But I like to fantasize about an alternative life.  The one where I was born ugly.  And now I’m a happy chiropractor living somewhere in a flyover state.  Loving my job, my house, my and taking vacations.  I bet I’d even have an equally ugly husband and a couple of unattractive kids.  Probably a couple of dogs and cats in the picture too.  Sounds like a wonderful life.

I wish it were mine.

Blog at

Up ↑