🦋"Don't Blame Me"💀
'Pluralis Majestatis? or it's never just you anymore!' a Letter from Chasey Delaney -Schizophrenic Writer From Manchester. SUBSTACK. [1 February 2026]
“Everyone is writing about all of this political stuff all day, and I’m over here like…. ‘I’mmma WrrrrritOR! (who just can’t WRITE a Love Letter The Way Its Meant To Be) also, choking on ALL this ‘‘WE’’ shit -baby!”
THIS LETTER IS HUGE AND LENGTHY - THE LONGEST ONE I’VE DONE (that’s what she said!?! lol) SO TO GET ALL CONTENT PLEASE OPEN EMAIL ON YOUR BROWSER OR READ IT DIRECTLY THROUGH THE APP.
SUNDAY 1 FEBURARY 2026
Dear Chasers!…🦋
DON’T BLAME ME for SWINGING THE ‘OLD’ STICK
I used to wonder if the older I become, will I always find older people attractive?
When (or if) I ever reach 70 years old, will 77 year old men look hot to me?
This was a real concern of mine until I looked back on my life recently.
When I was 20 my peers looked like kids but 30-38 year old people looked appealing to me yet a 40 year old would have been to me, far too old.
When I was 30 the 40 year old age range in men began to look pretty fucking good and the 30-38’s were no longer attractive to me, reminding me of teenagers.
No appeal whatsoever. I’ve always like to keep older company.
Now I’m in my 40’s my peers, I realised I am beginning to remove my peers off the radar of appeal and see a lot more attraction in the 50’s men, and so I imagine this is how it might continue to progress, trusting I survive that long.
I am mostly glad that I have found love in a few men of different age groups, namely a handful, and mostly found that the man I live with and have loved from day one, who happens to be 44 (one year older than me) is my soulmate (he told me so). I never quite believed him but that’s because I never quite believed in myself either. There was a few years where I thought I could never love another soul on the planet then fell in love with just that - an actual soul - unfortunately it was inhabited by another human being who was too attractive for me to be able to turn his head (thank fuck).
The man attached to that soul became an open door into the darkness, a halo of light around the moon of my life. He blessed me with an eerie lucidity. He was too avoidant for me to have ever been compatible.
He was too grossly human for me to ever know how to love the soul his body embedded. I did so to the best of my abilities from a long long distance, uninvited, undesirable and unwanted. I had my heart out to him on stalks and everything I wanted to love felt magnified in that soul.
I thought I was seeing my only connection to my own soul vicariously through his but only bore witness to his soul through diluted offerings of art he put free into the world. I’m hanging up my binoculars and setting myself up for a fall no doubt by putting all my trust back into the relationship I have with my partner of 1.5 decades.
We have just celebrated, a couple of months shy of, our 16th anniversary together and I thought about the message in Field of Dreams, ‘If You Build It They Will Come’. The ‘soul’ I had loved and called ‘THE MUSE’ seemed to have embodied what I loved most about people, nothing, but he felt like a bit of me.
I thought I had been building a future relationship because I wanted to love so badly. I hadn’t realised that all I wanted was to love - yet was denying my partner of my love and still not ‘loving’ because I was being rejected. I wanted to love - not a relationship. I already have a relationship, so what was I trying to build so The Muse would come to me? None of it made sense, then it hit me like a ‘swinging stick’ ;)
I was just trying to ‘swing the fucking stick’ like in Field of Dreams. I was building a story, that I thought was going to be ‘our story’ because, I was sure I’d fucked up half way through the story I’d already written 16 years ago. I’d given up in the middle.
The hard part where the pages get sticky (not going to lower the tone but yes! ‘That is what she said!’). When writing a love story and something comes along like a roadblock, you usually have two options: 1. Turn the fuck around and go back to the begining, or 2. Start from scratch. I should have picked the first option. I picked ‘start from scratch’.
I’m sure there is a third way through, just wasn’t and isn’t comprehensible to me. I started writing a new ‘love story’. It hasn’t ended badly, it never began. It’s not a love story with a happy ending. It isn’t a fucking tragedy either, (not unless he does something, The MUSE, that is, to fuck me up), it hopefully hasn’t ended badly. To me it will never end, because it never materialised (again, thank fuck).
I’d been trying to love so hard that I thought I could only love souls. I was wrong. I wasn’t going to give up the quest for us to be something, friends, or acquaintances maybe, until one day, yesterday, I woke up and gave it all up. For good. I decided that when I had clarity of my situation in the world around me – he was never anywhere to be seen.
I feel like he was only ever present in my delusions. He was never there for me. He was like a red herring sent to teach me some valuable lessons. He was here for a short time not for a good time so to speak! Four years is a long, short fucking time though!
I’m fortunate to have met my partner, who doesn’t fancy me but will love me until I die, he knows I’ll croak it sooner, when I was 28 and maybe this is why I didn’t think it was for me. I wanted it to be, and pursued him about getting together with me when he ‘said’ that he wasn’t sure about getting involved with me. He said it was because I was a crazy raging schizophrenic (he left out the part about him not finding me attractive).
We might get to that later but I need to avoid reminding myself that I am too unattractive and never will be good enough for him, anyone, and sometimes, even myself. It stings, the truth feels like a bullet being fired against your arsehole. It hurts and it’s embarrassing.
I see him as beautiful but still looks so youthful and so does The MUSE but the latter has a lot of knowledge and information that I find fascinating to listen to him talking. He’s like a fountain of experience and funny too, I liked him like a Sapiosexual loves a thesaurus, except I’m a little bit more scary, ugly and daunting.
The only upside of having a person like me obsessing about you is that it cuts out all the risk of any danger coming at you. You’d never be in the firing line of my wrath. Unless you fucked me over. My actual partner has fucked me over a thousand times over but I’d still run under a bus to save his sexy arseSOUL, I’d lie down in front of it and throw it 6 feet into the fucking air for him.
It is love. It’s not how we know it or want it or like it. I’m done with love now anyway. I see them both looking good and youthful. I think now if I don’t see some wrinkles then they are not finished. (With my partner having smooth skin, I settle for seeing the thick skid marks in his boxers, and his cum stains on my used underwear in the bathroom, that as young as he is in his head, he’s still finished!) …and he says he is MINE!
I see beauty in things that’s so hard to get into words, like a great work of art takes your breath away, life is written on the body, hard labour, sorrow, even joy and happiness is printed like a pattern on faces and bodies and souls.
Mine is mostly made up of one medium, FEAR - it’s right there in front of me and I swear to God, the beautiful ugly is there in front of me. The price we pay in our physical appearance, it’s like when you look at a newborn baby, you admire its untarnished perfection and innocence. In old age you admire the work it took to get here and it’s beautiful…xx
All for your aMUSEment💀
Best Wishes,
Chasey💀Delaney…. x
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