The Girly Pimp Chronicles

Halloween has always been a weird holiday for me. I mean, don’t get me wrong—I love dressing up, I love candy (way too much), and I love all the spooky decorations. But there’s something about Halloween that hits a little differently the older I get. Like, it’s no longer just about the costumes or parties; it’s a weird blend of nostalgia and low-key self-reflection.

        Remember when Halloween was all about the excitement of knocking on strangers’ doors and getting a sugar high that lasted until Thanksgiving? (Not even joking.) Now, it’s about questioning why I’m still tempted to eat a whole bag of fun-sized Snickers when I *know* better. Also, is it just me, or does Halloween make you think about all the versions of yourself you’ve “dressed up” as in real life? The person you were, the person you’re trying to be—heavy stuff for a holiday that involves fake blood and zombie makeup.

        But I digress.

        These days, I’m all about low-key Halloween celebrations. Throw on a witch hat (because duh), binge-watch something spooky, maybe get a little deep with my thoughts (hello, existential crisis). It’s simple, it’s cozy, and honestly, it feels just right.

Back when I first started writing (almost an entire decade now!), I started writing diary entries every day because I read online that it would be a great way to connect with readers. You know, give them constant access to your life, thoughts, and updates to your writing endeavors.

I managed to pull it off for a while, but then I slowly began to realize something: I wasn’t as interesting as all that, and I definitely wasn’t famous enough to warrant that sort of attention. Most people didn’t even read my entries, and I can’t blame them: even with my favorite authors, I rarely read things of that nature either.

So why was I writing diary entries then? Why was I taking so much time from my actual love (writing) just to throw out nonsensical data to readers who likely wouldn’t even be interested to begin with?

I stopped. Surprisingly, several readers reached out and asked why the frequency of my entries was tapering off, but it did free so much of my creative time (and energy!) that I couldn’t even think of going back to doing them daily.

Still, sometimes I go back and read some of my previous entries, and I can’t help but smile. So much energy! So many crazy times! Those were the days of a younger, more carefree me, the me before the pandemic, the me that didn’t give a fuck about much of anything except my readers and my big brother (and, of course, my Baby Squirrel).

The simpler me.

I miss her sometimes.

But only for a minute.

As much as I like her, I love myself now.

I’m going through a period that I seem to run into every year: the urge to take an extended break from authoring and social media in general. The whole digital space, basically. It’s a bit of a double-edged sword, however, because when I decide to take a break, I’m always miserable. Authoring is so much a part of who I am that it feels almost as if I chose to quit showering or something when I’m not doing it. I can survive without it, but the longer I don’t, the more uncomfortable and unpleasant I become. It’s a bit like a drug addiction in that way, I suppose…

So, this time, this year, I am trying something different: not taking a break. I figured instead, I’d do different author-related things, maybe not always just writing. Working on Subscribestar Adult content, for example. Maybe brainstorm my current writing project with my baby squirrel or my new ultra-secret and kinky (read: highly perverted and erotic) serial project I’m releasing exclusively on Subscribestar Adult. So far, it’s proving to be a winning mindset because I’m still getting author work done and even writing a bit here and there when the urge strikes. I read how some authors write every day for hours and hours with no breaks, and it kills me. I mean, how the fuck do they pull that off?! That would be like eating the same food prepared the same way at the same time every single day. It would drive me crazy…

Anyway.

So let me tell you about my big brother (who I will refer to during the rest of this story affectionately as motherfucker).

He has a habit of dryly saying things that cut to the bone, things most normal people usually keep to themselves. Like the other day, I made a comment about spider-monkeying him, and he gave me a quick look and shook his head. Before I could ask what the hell that was all about, this motherfucker blurts out, I don’t think you can spider monkey anymore. You’re too out of shape. I audibly squeaked in outrage. Sure, I’m not working out as harshly as last year, but then I’m not doing the things that would require me to work out that religiously, either. I’m in decent shape, maybe a little pudgy here and there, but still – I’m not morbidly obese or anything.

My response: to get off the couch and fly across the room, giving him an aerial spider monkey that would cause him to lose his soul.

That was the plan, at least.

Here’s how it went down:

I slid off the couch and turned to face him, immediately (and with absolutely no grace) plopping down onto the floor. After recovering my footing, I bounced up and ran towards him – and promptly slammed my left foot into a table leg so hard that my poor little toes screamed in outrage. By the time I made it to him, I didn’t have enough momentum to jump, so he just grabbed me and picked me up, moving me to the side and walking past.

And to make matters more insulting, I was a little out of breath.

I’m an overly creative person, and that often gets me in trouble. 😄 Whether it be with my writing or relationships, my imagination often gets the better of me, causing all sorts of issues that ordinary people simply don’t have.

No one is safe. Not my big brother, my Baby Squirrel, my Subscribestar Adult members, or even my friends.

Because of this, I’ve learned it’s best to occasionally withdraw from everyone for a while and funnel my energy into my current writing project.

Sometimes, isolating myself like this doesn’t work, however. Especially with the people closest to me won’t let me. Even when I yell and cry at them to leave me alone because my emotions are bouncing everywhere, sometimes they just refuse to listen and assure me that they know what’s best. Like mansplaining, but with friends. Friendsplaining? Is that even a thing? Fuck it; it is now. I mean, I understand that they have the best intentions at heart, but my reaction to their attempt to pacify me is a bit startling: I want to get physically violent with them. Like, hit them. Slap them. No, bitch-slap them. Most of the time, I repress my hostility and just smile, but sometimes I slip a bit. I don’t hit them or anything (well, my big brother doesn’t count), but I do yell.

And it doesn’t matter where I am. Believe me, I’m not bragging about it. I’m actively working on it.

If you’ve ever argued with me, you know I can cut deep when I’m upset. I hurt you. Again, it’s not something I’m proud of, and I’m trying hard to change this about myself, but it’s a long, hard battle to fight. I think one of these days I need to go to one of those rage rooms I occasionally see on TV, where you can just walk in and destroy shit. Every time I see someone in one of those rooms, I start salivating because they look like so much fun! My inner loli bloodlust kicks in, and I find myself reacting to each yell or breaking of something.

If I could just figure out some sort of middle ground or substitute…

I have no idea why I’m the way I am, but at this stage of my life, it wouldn’t matter if I knew why. It’s just who I am. It’s hardwired into me. So, since changing it seems to be out of the question, I need to find a way to cope with it in a non-destructive manner. Holding it in doesn’t work, and lashing out at the people I love (whether they understand or not) isn’t optimal either.

If there was one question I get asked more than any other (perverted questions from incels don’t count), it’s how I write a book, and why it seems to take so much longer for me to release a new story compared to other authors. To be completely honest, I have dyslexia to blame for that. Most people don’t know I have it because I utilize an army of grammar-checking tools. Not only that, but I trudge through several re-reads of my finished product just to ensure that everything sounds the way I intended. Here’s what my writing process looks like in a nutshell:

Brainstorming.

Outline.

Rough Draft.

Red Revision.

Yellow Revision.

Green Revision.

Final Version. This is where I properly format it, put it through all my grammar checkers, and do one last read-through before I release it to the wild.

Sounds exhausting, doesn’t it? Not to me, it doesn’t. In fact, it’s a lot of fun. So much fun that almost everything else in my life tends to fade away in the background, forcing me to constantly ground myself and make sure that none of my loved ones feel… unloved. You know? And then comes my love for retro games (which I’ll start featuring in my newsletters starting next month) and my Patreon/Subscribestar members. I love interacting with them, oftentimes just randomly messaging and opening dialog because they are truly interesting and inspiring people to me.

And then there are the Koreans, who have recently stolen what little free time I have. 😭

See, it started with Squid Game. We started watching it a while back when it was first released and promptly fell off to watch other shows after the first episode. Then, the Squid Game: The Challenge came on not long ago, and it caught our attention. So, we started watching it. I became insanely addicted, binge-watching it until the show’s completion, which made us want to watch the show it was based on, Squid Game. So, we did. All the way through. And that made us curious about other shows or movies that Netflix ported over that we missed, like Strength 100 and myriad others (just go to Google and type in ‘Netflix Korean shows’ and see for yourself).

So now I’m basically Korean.

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