(Click to enlarge.)

There’s no ulterior meaning. It’s just a hot girl with a pink bike. I thought I’d be nice and share.

I joined Facebook.

Add me if you like:  Sarah Katherine Lewis, of Seattle, WA.  Write on my Wall, or whatever it is you kids do.  Don’t send me videos though, because I never watch ‘em.

The home of my heart will always be blogging, though; never fear.

“The Academy” (see my book, Indecent:  How I Make It And Fake It As A Girl For Hire) just got BUSTED.

I hope none of my friends were working at the time.

Honestly, I’m surprised it took so long.  Management was making some really dumb decisions and a significant portion of the prostitutes who worked there did not believe that what they were doing was against the law, due to the quasi-Eastern “spirituality” mumbo-jumbo in which the sexual services were veiled.  Most of the practitioners knew exactly what the clients were paying for (hint:  would you like your root chakra adjusted a little faster, baby?) but a sizable percentage of them believed that by paying lip service to the spiritual stuff, they’d be protected against prosecution.  Unfortunately–whether you call it a “donation” or not–accepting money for sexual service is against the law, whether you’re wearing a sari or a g-string (and usually, we wore both). 

Furthermore, operating a whorehouse (pimping and pandering) is a great big federal offense, and I have no idea if management was square with the IRS but my guess is that as a “church,” they were probably playing pretty fast and loose with their taxes.  The individual operators, of course, have always been responsible for their own tax reporting–but if the feds demand records, a lot of women could be in a lot of trouble.

I am fascinated to see where this goes.

[EDIT:  Thanks to Dafnagreer for the tip-off.]

[2nd EDIT:  Oh man, there's more.  Yikes.]

How It Could Be Different:  An Interview With Sarah Katherine Lewis, by Nicole Solomon.

Thank you so, so much, Nicole.  You are an amazingly talented interviewer, and I was honored to spend time with you on St. Patrick’s Day!  Next time we’re meeting in person, and I’m buying the whiskey.

If you are Daphne Gottlieb, Fran Varian, Gordon Edgar, Bucky Sinister, Stephen Elliot, Jim Goad, Jim Hogshire, Shannon Barber, Kristin Casey, or Stephen Hapy, Jr.–

–I totally name-drop you in this interview because I think you f*ckin’ RULE.  Feel free to link to this article in your own web sites or for any publicity purposes.

Happy.  Happy.

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[EDIT:  For all you tattoo fetishists out there, check out my awesome tattoo-talkin' interview with the luscious red-hot mamacita Carrie, at Beer Can Hill.

Carrie, I'm your total tattoo fan-girl and I've adored you for years.  I only have one question:  Wow!  Did those hurt?]
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[2nd EDIT:  Also--check out my pic and interview in the print edition of the June issue of Curve Magazine--coming to your queer-friendly newsstand any minute now!  (Watch how I skillfully weave male-on-male anal sex into the body of my interview--a first for this best-selling lesbian magazine?)]

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[3rd (and hopefully final) EDIT:

Here's me interviewing three fabulous feminist women I admire greatly:

(You may see boobs or butts if you click on these links, so beware if those frighten you.)

Let's Talk About S.E.X. with the legendary health educator and rebel-girl, Heather Corinna.

The Art of the Striptease, with the certifiably brilliant Austin exotic dancer/writer, Kristin Casey.

The Queen of BDSM, the goofy and glorious Mistress Saskia.]

My last moments on Earth as a potential Mommy.

Scared out of my mind.  Not of the sterilization.  Scared of the procedure being painful, or of the OR staff taking pictures of my pubic area giving the “thumbs-up!” gesture, a la Abu Ghraib.

If you see my vagina on the Internet standing on a box with a pillowcase over its head, I’m suing for a sweet, sweet upper middle-class income for the rest of my childless life.

_____

[EDIT:  I’m sterilized.  I got Essure.  That means I have to take three months of birth control pills while scar tissue builds around the little steel implants they inserted in my Fallopian tubes.  But I’m all done, and ideally, I’ll never have to do this again.

I have a headache from the anesthesia and I’m feeling pretty beat up (women:  think intense menstrual cramping; men:  think I have to take a massive, baby-sized, Taco Bell crap but am ten miles from the nearest men’s room)–but I have painkillers and Diet Coke and a nature show featuring the Alaskan moose on TV, so I’m all good.

I wish I’d done this twenty years ago.

I’m getting sterilized tomorrow.

I gave consent for either Essure or the classic tubal ligation, depending on my anatomy.  (Because I’ve never had children or been pregnant, my doctor could have difficulty performing the first procedure, which depends on access to my Fallopian tubes through my cervix.)

If I get Essure, I will be sterile after a sufficent amount of scar tissue builds up in my Fallopian tubes, creating physical blockages.  This usually occurs after three months, but can sometimes take up to six months.  Until this happens, I will have to use back-up birth control (of course, this is purely theoretical–I’m thinking condoms, should the opportunity for a romantic interlude present itself).  If I get a tubal ligation, I will be sterile immediately following the operation.

This means:  after over 20 years of being on the Pill (off and on–mostly on), I will no longer be on hormonal birth control.  I got my first prescription for Pill at the age of 15, exactly one month prior to losing my virginity.  I’m 37 now.  That’s a lot of artificial hormones–so much so that I haven’t menstruated since 2005. 

I may or may not start menstruating again once I’m off the Pill.  I actually look forward to menstruating, though I remember it as inconvenient and messy.  I remember enjoying the knowledge that I was sloughing off a month’s worth of cells, washing them away clean and giving my uterus a fresh start for the next month.  If I do start menstruating again, buying “feminine” products will probably feel like an exciting novelty, at least for the first month or so.  I remember them as being expensive. 

I haven’t gone down the “feminine” aisle in the drugstore or supermarket in a long, long time.  I remember lots of gushy pink and Georgia O’Keefe-style “mighty vulva” flower imagery–I wonder if that’s changed?  Wasn’t there a sanitary napkin with “wings” that folded around the cotton gusset of the wearer’s underwear, ostensibly to prevent staining? 

I’ll be starting from scratch.  I remember using–and liking–Instead cups, those little plastic diaphragm-like gadgets that you wedge behind your pubic bone that gently cup your cervix and hold half a day’s worth of blood before leaking.  I’ll probably buy those again.  I’m ambivalent about shoving my fingers up my own pussy again–will I remember how to do it?  I remember being really fast–I’d pull the Instead out, empty it, rinse it, and shove it back in with very little fanfare in the bathroom of the peep show on Westlake, all ready for my next private toy show.  Maybe I’ll get that fast and sure again.

How I feel about never having children:

Normal.  The same.  I’ve never felt particularly maternal; never felt the pull of any so-called biological clock.  I don’t like children or babies–I find them smelly and inscrutable, for the most part, and have never been particularly charmed by their various learning and socialization processes.  I don’t like cleaning up human shit, and I don’t like getting up early.  I struggle with depression and would not be able to consistently mother another individual without full-time help, and even with that, I’d feel a lot of guilt for passing along my faulty genes.  A tendency toward very poor vision, accumulation of adipose tissue, and crazypants major depression on both sides of the family?  Great.  Even with a college fund, that’s quite a handicap.  I wouldn’t wish it on another human being–how cruel to knowingly have a child that will suffer the same things I’ve suffered?  No amount of love or money in the world can make up for deliberately breeding someone who will almost certainly be tortured by her own brain chemistry.  I never asked to be born, and given the choice, I wouldn’t have been. 

Only once did I seriously consider having children with someone I loved, but ultimately, we couldn’t afford to marry and raise children.  He was unemployed and my income from writing was low and sporadic.  We didn’t have the money for a larger place to live, or for medical care for me during pregnancy.  A baby would have been the wrong thing entirely–a millstone around both our necks.  I still wonder what it would be like to have had his child, but that’s like wondering what my life would have been like had I been born wealthy or heterosexual or born-again Christian or any number of things I’m not.  It would have turned me into a completely different person, unrecognizable to the person I am now.  Sometimes I think about raising a beautiful daughter and both of us trying to protect her from the world with so little resources, and it almost breaks my heart to picture us losing that battle, which undoubtedly, we would.  The world is not set up to allow writers and artists to stay home and raise a child thoughtfully and well. 

This isn’t the world’s problem.  I accept that without complaint–it is what it is, and if that isn’t exactly what I’d like it to be, what choice do I have?  Insisting upon having a child and then being forced to give her to the ugly, racist, stupid bureaucrats that control state-run daycare and public school wouldn’t change anything–it would only change my child into yet another socialized tool.  It takes money, societal support, and leisure to raise a child morally, and I don’t have those things.  Why bother imagining what it would be like if everything were different?  Frankly, I’d rather daydream about traveling the world and being rich and famous.

So how I feel about my loss of potential motherhood is primarily, relieved.  I’ve never felt like a mother.  I’m not good with head lice, stomach flu, scraped knees, patience, and regular nutritious meals.  I like cocktails, travel, flexibility, creativity, spontaneity, and cultural immersion.  I like reading library books all day and having cookies for dinner.  I like going on dates with fascinating strangers.  I like my flat stomach the way it is.  I can’t imagine my intimate parts being wrenched apart by another human’s cranium.  I can’t imagine giving my life for someone else.  I’m not done with mine yet.

So tomorrow I’m getting sterilized, and I would like to celebrate somehow–maybe not tomorrow night because I might feel too tired and beat-up from the anesthesia, but sometime soon.  Maybe I’ll take myself out to a fancy dinner, even though I’m getting laid off and I shouldn’t spend that kind of money.  I’d like to buy myself something new to wear, or get a new tattoo, or maybe just get my hair done.  I’m not sure–but I want to celebrate this.  This is important–a once-in-a-lifetime decision; momentous.  This marks my change from potential mother to…something else.  I have never not been a potential mother.  But after tomorrow, I will be that new thing.

Good-bye, birth control pills!  Good-bye, imaginary baby!  Good-bye to any potential suitors whose idea of partnering includes reproduction!  Hello to the new thing–the never-mother, the never-been-pregnant, the just-one-thing body.  I am all I have or will ever be.  My body will never make another human being, though my writing might live past my own lifetime, if I’m lucky.  And that’s a totally okay thing.  A good thing.

Hello, new thing.

[EDIT:  This post is in no way a slam against people who have children, or people who want children, or children themselves (well, okay, I did call them stinky, and I stand by that).  Some of my dearest friends are mothers, and my own mother is incredibly precious to me. 

This isn't about me judging anyone else's choice--this is about me making my own.

You would think this goes without saying, but in the world of the Internet, strangely, it doesn't.]

P0stmdrnpr1mt1v, I am honored to know you and so grateful that we are friends again.

Congratulations on the publishing of book you co-wrote,  The Trickster’s Bible.  This handbook is an amazing, inspiring source for artists as revolutionaries, and should be read by everyone.

Thank you for reminding me to listen to my heart in all moral matters without getting stuck in the emotions people will try to sell you.  Thank you for your brilliant art.  Thank you for your love and support.  Thank you for your humor.  But mostly thank you for being you, and making it to another birthday.

Happy, Happy Birthday!, darlin’! 

I’m dealing with some pretty serious diminished capacity to due depression right now.  Having a hard time eating, bathing, exercising, and communicating.  When I’m not working, I’m sleeping.  I feel constantly exhausted and mentally slowed down.

If you’ve called me, please understand that I haven’t been able to check my messages in several weeks.  I can’t talk on the phone unless I’m on autopilot at work, with a script and specific information I’m seeking.  Personal chat is beyond me.  I honestly don’t know how to answer even the most solicitous expressions of care.

If you’ve e-mailed me, please be patient.  On bad days I can’t boot up my computer.  On medium days I can boot my computer up and see your unread e-mail in my Inbox.  Only on good days can I both read your message and respond appropriately.

I understand how incredibly frustrating it must be to attempt communication with me, then to wait as the days tick by with no response.

But I’m asking patience.  Or if you can not be patient and have to move on, at least try to understand that I’m doing my absolute best to recover from this.  I remember having inspiration and energy, and I imagine that at some point I will have those things again.  Meanwhile, I’m doing my best to respond to my e-mail and to honor my commitments.  I’m also trying to find help, which is difficult and frustrating.  The State of Michigan seems to have no resources set aside for mental illness care, and I am not able to apply for Disability without assistance, which there is also no budget for.  In spite of this, I’m doing the best I can.  I still have two part-time jobs, though I’m terrified of being laid off or fired for health-related reasons.

It’s embarrassing to post this publicly, but I’d rather admit my struggle with depression honestly than to continue my humiliating and ultimately unsuccessful attempts to cover it up.  I can no longer pretend that I can overcome this through sheer force of will.  I can’t.  I need help.  Mostly, I need patience when it seems like I’m being flaky or uncommunicative.  Again, I know this is frustrating, particularly for those of you dealing with me on a professional basis.  Right now I’m only committing to what I know I can do, and that may be less than you would wish, but I’ve tried overextending myself and that didn’t work either.

I’m disabling Comments because I know that you care, and I feel incredibly blessed by that, but I want to avoid a flurry of new e-mail.

Also:  if you are suffering from debilitating depression, you are not alone.  I am here.  I’ve got it too.  If I can offer you any comfort, or just make you laugh at how long it’s been since I’ve been able to brush my hair, I’m here.

I’m taking the day off to nap, rest, drink water, and read my new library book.

A little bit later I’m going to the vitamin store to buy some DHEA to treat what I believe to be adrenal fatigue.  Thanks to those of you who have pointed out that yes, I’ve been under massive unrelenting stress lately and no, I haven’t really rested since I hit the ground running here in Michigan.  Between working 60 hrs/week and trying to acclimate to a new and unforgiving natural landscape, it would be absurd if I weren’t exhausted.  At the vitamin store I will also be re-upping my supply of calcium citrate with vitamin D, because I’m all out. 

So I’m taking a Sick Day–staying in, laying around, reading, and sipping water.  I took all my supplements (a multivitamin, an additional B-complex “stress” formula, two teaspoons of fish oil, various herbs and spices) and I’m having Serious Issues about “wasting the day,” but I’m telling myself it isn’t a waste to rest.  I’m tired.  I have a new library book.  It’s okay to read it.

It was never okay to be sick or tired when I was younger.  Now, it’s really hard for me to feel like I’m lying around being profligate with my time.  I feel worthless and despicable, like I’m squandering valuable minutes that should be spent striving for…something.  My inner voice is accusing me of that cardinal sin, LAZINESS.  I feel like I should be working, writing, pitching ideas, “using my time”–that’s the problem with being self-employed; you’re never really off the clock.  Shouldn’t I be producing something?  Working toward something?

But no.  I’m resting today.  I took a long walk downtown yesterday, made beef curry, brainstormed on the logo and visual “feel” of a hush-hush site I’m working on with a friend, and did a two-hour interview for PopMatters (thank you, N.!  I loved talking with you!).  Today I’m resting.

Resting.  Vitamin shop later.  Reading in bed now.

I made blueberry muffins and ate some, so that’s breakfast/lunch.  Leftover curry for dinner tonight.  I probably need to work on getting more protein–I may roast some chicken and add it to the curry.  That’s all later though.

I feel neurasthenic.

OMG WTF, I have brain-fog and I can’t wake up.  I am in a twilight haze of sleepiness that no amount of caffeine will dissipate.  I feel like I’ve been drugged!  I’m not kidding!  I feel this huge artificial sense of body- and brain-exhaustion, confusion, lethargy…utter fatigue.  Isn’t spring weather supposed to energize?  But instead, I feel like I’m wading through warm syrup.  My eyelids are heavy, my head is involuntarily nodding…can’t concentrate.  Am I still typing this?  Can’t type much longer–it’s not the fine motor skills I’m lacking, it’s the clarity and intention.

I’m going upstairs to take a nap but I’m freaking out because I have bunches and bunches of stuff to get done today and I don’t even have the energy to get dressed, let alone do my errands.