​One of the company cofounders comes over to our team. He pulls up a chair and sits next to the coworker beside me and says to her, “Just a quick question. Has anyone ever complained about X?”

Even though I am not the one he is asking, I respond first: I immediately burst out laughing. I laugh loudly. Loud enough to get the sales team to send someone over to shush me as they present to clients nearby.

My laughter, infectious, made the cofounder and my coworker also laugh.

My coworker: “This happens all the time. You ask what you think is a perfectly reasonable and normal question, and Fel just bursts out laughing.”

A New Challenger Has Appeared!

Lord Byron, busy as always, has been writing less. (I was and still am flattered he looked for me and found me on Facebook–you naughty old chap!) So I’ve been trying to find other connections in the UK.

So, feeling blue after the whole Njal ordeal, I responded last weekend to a strictly platonic ad in the UK, that ended with these lines:

So….. What you waiting for? Let’s travel this journey and see where it goes.

All aboard 🙂

It looked promising. So I responded:


I never thought of CL as a train so much as a sea of effluvia, given the number of posts one has to wade through to get to a real gem.

I’m not in the UK but across the pond. I’m here seeking companionship, hoping to make some friends. I lead a lonely life this side of the pond and have always found it difficult to make friends–I’m the silent wallflower/bookworm type. But writing! I enjoy writing, and that I can do. I live a life of words…

Perhaps you’ll write back, or perhaps you only are looking for folks on that side of the pond. Either way, best of luck to you and where the CL train takes you!



And thus our flirtatious exchange on that CL train began.

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Njála – part three: Setting the Bridge on Fire

So, you ask, where did it all go wrong?

We swapped photos, which probably would have been fine except, I mentioned how some men stop responding to my emails shortly after I send a photo. (The photo I usually send is only of my face, and I attributed the end of communication as a statement on race–people assumed I must be white and don’t fit the profile of who they expected was writing to them.)

However, Njal assumed I sent them the same photos I sent him, even though I was clear in my email that it is not usually the photos I send.

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Njála – part two: An Abogado’s Avocados

When I initially wrote part one of Njála, things were getting quite steamy with Njal.

He did call me that morning, and I was quite touched. I’m a sucker for posh British accents, and he has one. We talked, and things were cleared up. I was very happy he called.

He wrote me soon after our phone call: “Your voice is beautiful, you have a deep, sexy laugh, and I can’t wait to see you.”

I responded, “And your voice is lovely. I am so glad you called, and I am in much brighter spirits now than I was this morning. Thank you. I look forward to seeing you too.”

To which he replied (and again, I felt especially touched):


You should email or text me whenever you feel down. I’ll call you as soon as I can.

Love, N”
Our correspondence continued while I was on my way to my aunt’s house where they were celebrating her 86th birthday. It got more erotic and steamy with each email. Even while I was trying to mash avocados for the family gathering, we were still furiously emailing and flirting with each other.
F: I think of you as I mash these rock hard avocados. I wish I had yours–I am sure they would be ripe.
N: Full and ripe, especially when I’ve had no release for days.
NWhat would you do with this abogado’s avocados?
That last line made me laugh. It still does.
And so that erotic exchange continued for some intense 24 hours… I’ve never felt such an erotic intensity before. Passion or reckless ardor–I know not what best describes it. It was the stuff that makes people do crazy things–leave spouses and kids, abandon jobs and all responsibilities. It was wild. And frightening. Both of us felt it and talked about feeling it.
But before I could write this second part, that fire had long burned out. The bridge between us wasn’t just set on fire: he soaked it in gasoline, lined it with TNT, and took a flamethrower to it.

Growing Apart

I know, I know. I’ve been neglecting this thing. Too much work and overtime these days. I hate when my work-life balance is too heavily weighted on the work side. I feel exhausted. I need time to unwind for me. Last Friday, I worked for 12 hours in the office and 8 hours on Sunday. My head felt like mush. I felt unable to do much, writing-wise, and lucky to be able to string a subject and verb together.

The last two weeks have been hard. It’s not just work. It’s still living with the ex.

We are strangers sharing the same apartment. As much as I had hoped we’d still be friends, the number of times where I feel that cannot be continues to increase. We don’t know important things about each other. Our lives are separate. We lead different lives. We don’t know what’s important to the other. Conversations feel forced.

He has no idea of my adventures online through Craigslist. I have no idea what he does after work. He goes out to classes, and if I ask, he’ll tell me. Raspberry Pi, 3D printing, etc. Sometimes he’d be gone for 6-7 hours at a time.

I realize it’s a good thing. It’s good he’s being productive. I’m hopeful it means that he’s overcoming his depression. Good for him.

But then it gets complicated.

He gave me short notice (less than two weeks) that his friend, W, was coming to visit and would stay with us for a week.

W is blind. There was a time, long before we were dating, where they had some sort of a relationship. I didn’t know much about it, but I did distinctly remember asking him about her when the two of us were friends, and I asked if he’d ever consider moving to Japan and living with her. He said yes.

I had always tried to inquire about their relationship, even when we were dating, but he kept pretty quiet and didn’t want to talk about it.

So I soon realize that all his efforts, his classes, his long hours away and, when present in the apartment, are all in effort for making 3D maps for her. It’s a noble cause, but it hurt. It hurt like hell. It hurt because all I could think was how I never saw him spend a fraction of so much time and effort pouring himself into something for me in all 6 years of our relationship. Damn.

This evening, they come back to the apartment together. He had gone to take her around in the south bay with another friend she was staying with for some time, and stayed down there for a few nights. We go out to dinner.

As W fiddles with her wallet and cash, Jacob makes a joke about how she can give him all her 1000 bills (yen).

“Oh, you can hold on to them for when you visit me in Japan,” she says and hands them to him.

He takes them and puts them into his wallet very matter-of-factly.

“When are you going to Japan?” I ask. It’s the first I heard of it.

“We just talked about it,” he says, avoiding the question.

One of the other complains I had about the relationship was never getting to travel. We could never travel anywhere together. I wanted to travel, but he got too much anxiety. We could never do anything together.

I didn’t think it could still hurt. I’m hurt. It hurts.




Switching Genres: Doctor Who Meets Cthulu

Posting Location: Somewhere in the UK
Posting Category: Personals – Strictly Platonic
Prose type: Very literary, allusions to Peter Pan, King Arthur, Shakespeare, etc.
Word count: 431

Sample of Responses:

Mr. Enchanted:
“Your words have enchanted me.

So here I am, wanting to know about you, such a lovely worded and crafted posting, so much attention to detail, slight revealing, but yet so guarded as to your purpose, dream, wishes and desires.”

Mr. Golf:
“I gained such intriguing thoughts when reading your craigslist post. Too many times have I just clicked through post after post of small sentenced posts that give little to the imagination.”

Mr. Farmer:
“What an amusingly different personal advert.”

So it was fairly amusing for me to receive this response:  Read more

What it means to be Obese

I work in healthcare. I work in tech. I know what it means to be obese.

I know it puts one at risk for heart disease and type 2 diabetes.

The statistics are out there. It is not an easy problem to solve.

Doctors throw their hands up and say a prayer with little resolve

To tell their own patients the truth.


As a kid, I was always overweight. I know what it means to be obese.

I know what it’s like to be bullied for it – it’s a chronic social disease.

A doctor told me “You’re fat. Just lose the weight, and your problems will go away,”

and she made it sound so easy–as if I could fix it in one day.

I refused to see her ever again. I was thirteen.


Didn’t she know that I know what it means to be obese?

Did she think I like being bullied for being fat? Please.

Did she not think I too have already considered how life might be

to not be shamed, taunted, spit on–to not feel that misery–

all because I was obese?


When a friend suggests I ought to lose weight since I’m obese,

it’s hard not to be offended–as if I haven’t tried or am not trying to lose these

extra pounds. He says, “It would bring out your prettiest self.”

Thanks. As if the rest of me belongs in a cage on a shelf.

“You have to be honest to yourself,” he adds. Ouch.


So this is what it means to be obese:

your friends and bullies give insults alike with ease.

I don’t need more insults upon injury, assumptions about my life,

about what I know or don’t, am trying or have tried. Spare me the extra strife.

I just want to be loved and treated with kindness like everyone else.

Njála – part one: Reading between the lines

Njal and I got off on the wrong foot. 

I had asked his age, and he had said he was 51. A few hours later, he emailed again and confessed he wasn’t 52 (I noted the number change) as he had said he was previously but several years older. He said he did not want to get me under false pretenses. 

The number discrepancy bothered me, but I was glad he came clean about it. It did make me want to ask more questions though, such as if he also writes to other women. He has such a deeply seductive quality that the thought of it made me jealous. He said there were no others. Our exchange became quiet as both of us had things to think about.
The rest of my Friday went poorly (problems at work), so I was not in high spirits. On top of that, I got terrible charley horses in the evening that nearly paralyzed both my legs with pain. I think one of our armchairs causes the cramps. I shall start avoiding it; that was no fun.

It should be no surprise then that I fell into a bluesy mood Saturday morning, having spent 5 hours the night before, until 3am, writing out the story of gaining and losing my friendship with Caleb (Caleb Saga, I called it), which I sent to Seabiscuit. Caleb had come up in an earlier email, and Seabiscuit asked something, so it seemed worthwhile to tell the whole story. It made me sad thinking over things, and there was a lot to reflect on. 

Then I slept little. I kept waking to see if Njal had written me back. He hadn’t. I knew Seabiscuit wouldn’t be writing because he was off on a family trip up north. My spirits were low.

I emailed Njal, but we couldn’t read each other. I couldn’t tell if he was being cold or distant, and he was misinterpreting my messages in the same way. We were reading between the lines and not seeing the same thing. It was starting to go downhill fast–wait! I don’t want to lose yet another interesting person in my life! 

I had held off on giving out my phone number  because it scared me; I tend to be very cautious and private. He had given me his number–but my mobile plan doesn’t cover calls to the UK–I know because as soon as I saw how bad things were going, I called my mobile company to ask. But with how this avalanche was going, I became more afraid to lose him than to give out my number. I bit the bullet and emailed him my number, saying I thought we both were misunderstanding one another and perhaps talking over the phone would clear up the miscommunication. Then I waited.

Thirteen Ways…

I’m not sure what the scoreboard is anymore. The exchanges have become too many, too prolific, too many one-liners. They have also become incestuous. I am writing them about each other, so there is some rivalry going on–at least for Seabiscuit and Njal.

Seabiscuit, I would say, is still in the lead. He has shared two photographs that have inspired me to write poems about the beauty in the photos themselves. And he has inspired 4 ghazals now. I am very proud of the poems I’ve written that are inspired by his presence in my life. They are my best, I know it. We still have yet to meet. His weekends are busy for the next two weeks, so the wait continues…

Njal (thought maybe Don Juan would be a better name at this point) still writes some sexy, erotic poetry. I don’t think I will find anyone who can write better erotic poetry than he can.  Somebody get a hose–I’m on fire! There is some strange magnetic force between us, some dangerous attraction crossing a Translatlantic cable and the entire continental US to reach me. It’s probably for the best we’ve got an ocean of separation; the two of us together might be a destructive fiery force upon the world indeed.

Lord Byron, still trailing third. He write more slowly, but thoughtfully. I’m perfectly charmed by his Britishness. I also laughed when I read he’s enjoyed a few erotic adventures spanking younger ladies. He has shared his photograph; he is the most dignified, dashing, handsome older looking British gentleman you can picture, and picturing him spanking some young women in a BDSM dungeon in London greatly amuses me.

Learning of Lord Byron’s kink produced conversations with the other two about kinks, and whew! What a Thursday morning this was. Never thought I’d hear my name in the phrase “a Felicitas sandwich” in reference to a proposed threesome between me, Njal and Seabiscuit–and both men seemed to be really into it.

My life has taken a very interesting turn of events, indeed. I’ve gone from a history of rejection and neglect to multiple men wanting me at once. I am not used to so much attention. As Njal put it, “Always the bridesmaid, never the bride, eh? Well, Cinderella, your time has come.”

That Special Feeling

My coworker M was drinking a La Croix (they are all the rage these days, aren’t they?) It wasn’t a can I recognized.

“Ooh what flavor is that?” I asked.

M: Sandia! They do tropical flavors now.

F: Oh, damn but it has kiwi.

M: You’re allergic?

F: Yeah, my lips get tingly.

M: You know, some people like having their lips feel tingly…

F: I’m sure there are MANY things you love to have tingling—and thank god HR is not here to hear about it!