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Welcome Aboard!

--"Izzy, how did you start dancing?"

--"What got you into martial arts?"

--"What kind of dancer/martial artist/writer are you?

--"How do you deal with brain damage, bodily injury and 

     C-PTSD, yet still dance, write, train, live the way you do?"

--"How do you still find joy and beauty amidst pain and loss?"

--"Wow, you should write your memoirs!" 

    This Is My Story

NSFW, 18+

  • Writer's pictureBella Dancer

ME & MY MIDDLE FINGER FOAMIES - I Attempt to Do the Scary Thing

Well, hells. Is it really the Arena if you keep it quiet in the living room, pretending that you're bold and daring because the curtains are open (even though you live so high up that nobody in the parking lot can see into the window)?

So I finally created a post here. It opened the floodgates, apparently, because my big gob and I are growing more and more incapable of stuffing it ever since. A few precious individuals will remember what happened the last time this phenomenon occurred.

And that one time before that. The first time...

*cue Gangnam Style explosion shot*

Well, after answering Facebook with the barely censored truth when it asked me what was on my mind this afternoon, it occurred to me that, although I had successfully pushed Publish on my Arena post, and even shared its existence with a couple of my nearest and dearest, it was still sitting over here quietly collecting dust in obscurity.

"Safe" obscurity.

Know what I said about that?

I promptly linked the post to Facebook along with the following:

Soooo...I'm doing some stuff. It all feels stupid. Pointless. It feels like my life is nothing but a waste of time and more talents than anybody has a right to. To possess, sure. But more so, to waste the way I do because of trolly motherfuckers pointing and laughing and jeering in the stands.

Baby let them put her back in the corner after nose-diving from That Lift.


Well, if you don't like it--if you don't like the way I dance, then don't watch. If you don't like how much I fucking swear, then you're really not gonna want to stick around on this page because you ain't seen nothin' of what's sitting in my computer preparing to be published. If you can't bear to sit next to me because I can defy gravity, or you can’t stand the reflection of your face in the mirror of mine, or I've simply outlived my usefulness because I refuse to be a blood bank, a punching bag, or a toxic waste dump, then there's the door.

She's purple. She's pissed. She'll see you in the lists Lichtensteiiiiin...

So. I made a blog. I bought a new domain. I'm designing a logo. I opened a business that baffles me. I'm making a complete mess of demolishing my dancing and I'm having a shit-ton of fun splashing the remaining mud all over the carpet. I'm obsessed with my glitterific, reverent, rosy-eyed wonder experiments. I'm simultaneously obsessed with fight club, with finally breaking the First Rule, and with my gladiators. Even so, Persephone and my mermaid won't stop poking my forehead. No, I don't think I could clog up any single post with more "I" or "my" if you paid me. Well, maybe I could, because I'm doing way too many things to ever "maaaahhhhhster" any one of them...


In fact, I'm enjoying my darn pointless self more than I ever have in my life.

Now you can, too.

Welcome to my flippin’ blog.

She's smart She's funny She should make lots of money Hartebeeeeeast...


--UP NEXT: SISTARS- Ode to My Sisters

--OR BLOGGING LIKE DOUBLE-DUTCH - My Next Hamfisted Attempt to Blog



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