Imagine building a country, to have it never treat you like equals. Imagine that country killing you, thousands of you, and nobody listening. You would be angry, too. Livid. And tired. And at the breaking point. Don’t tell me their anger is not justified. Fuck our white guilt. Fuck our… Read More »Black Lives Matter
Dry, dusty, parched and chalky earth that has been touched by the first drops of rain. The whiskery shush of bristles that swirl gently over a small cake of vibrant color, creating rainbow bubbles that quickly disperse. Fine hairs sweep across a dry or dampened thick piece of paper that… Read More »Do Unicorns dream of electric watercolors?
I I have a clockwork heart. Meaning that it breaks occasionally and needs fixing. But instead of hiring someone to fix it somehow I either put it back together or it majestically jumble-fucks itself back to some working semblance so I can keep on ticking. Both are confusing. I can’t… Read More »Eight
I wrote on the 16th of November on the dreaded book of the face, how I found it distressingly amusing that in times of personal grief instead of being the lovable weird pink monster of glitter over sharing that I usually am—I lose all ability to communicate as I would… Read More »Grief has no plot, like my blog posts.
9 and 1/2 years ago we lost an almost 20lb meatball of claws and purrs named Raven. She came to Shawn well before he ever met me, via a lady who I believe asked him, “Hey, want a cat? We don’t want it anymore,” and became the illusive meatball ninja… Read More »I Carry your Heart With Me
When I was 12, I cried because I was too chubby to fit into a thrift store dress. It was for a Halloween school dance. I wanted to be a princess. When I tried it on at home during the last minute, my mother couldn’t find a way to make… Read More »Beauty & The (Beast) Bulletjournal
When I was 16, I was terrible. Not only was I going through what any teen at that age goes through–hormones, boys, body image issues, self-esteem problems, trying to fit in desperately where I didn’t–I probably had the beginnings of my depression and bipolar II crop up. I didn’t know… Read More »What’s in a tooth?
Living with chronic illness; be it physical or mental takes a ridiculously gross toll on everything in your life. There’s no “quick fix,” to being empty of even the energy to wash your own face in the morning, let alone clean your home like “normal” people do. (Please imagine my hugely sarcastic, eye rolling finger quotes being made in the air as I say normal. ) Cleaning during depression can be like climbing a mountain naked armed with a pencil and a pack of stickers. Medication is great, but it’s never an end all, be all, cure all. There will be days where your shit will simply not get together, personal hygiene becomes an afterthought, dishes pile in the sink, never or barely rinsed, and you’re pretty sure the clothes on the floor in your room have become sentient. It’s overwhelming to look around you and see your home reflect the state of your mental, emotional and physical shambles—and knowing you should care, and you should do something; but you just can’t drum up enough feeling to do anything than feel miserable and not caring. And then that sends you on a lovely guilt spiral that makes you want to do anything even less. And the cleaning never happens.
So how do you even start cleaning during depression?
[pullquote]Protip kid: nobody fucking knows what they’re doing either so they either wing it or hire someone to wing it for them[/pullquote] It is almost a new year and as tradition in this household dictates, it is a time of trying to pick up shit you haven’t done in seventy… Read More »New year, who dis?
Picture it–(Sicily, 1947)–just kidding, it was probably around 1980-1981. I was roughly three or four years old. I lived in a tiny place in the frozen tundras of Alberta, a province in the great forested wilds of a country named Canada. The town was called Tin Town. Read More »Mr. Dad Worthy