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Tag: Life

COVID-19, or, Jesus Wept While riding a Raptor.

It is Blurdsday the 54th of April, a day like the other day which came from another day which also was, like the last, a day. I haven’t worn anything but pajamas since sometime last year, which was in March when COVID-19 was not yet a huge concern for Florida. Because. Florida. I keep trying to pull myself away from news sources or watching the creature in an orange human suit mumble along on television with whatever erratic verbal shit-show circus that pops into his combed-over head. I’m working from home, and my concentration is shot. I am constantly and…

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Kitten Farts: tiny, yet powerful.

If you can’t handle the fact that a) we fart, and b) animals fart then you’re gonna have a bad time. I don’t really understand why I was such a prude about something that is so necessary and normal a body function when I was a–okay, I do. It’s a societal-women-don’t-do-anything-not-perfect, but I ain’t got the 8 years needed to unpack all of it. Anyway, one of the most powerful forces on this earth is not in fact, nuclear but a tiny pfffttpppffft of wind from the backside of a tiny kitten who is learning to adjust to a new…

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Grief has no plot, like my blog posts.

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 normally do. Usually, I over share. I am, as a friend once told me, much like a too enthusiastic golden Labrador retriever stuck in a human body. I want to run and jump and over-share and wag my tail and be sad and happy and all the things without a…

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I Carry your Heart With Me

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 of almost-feral timidness that also demanded pets and scratching but only on her terms. When Raven passed, we were finally living on our own in a one bed room apartment instead of with my husband’s parents which, at our ripe old age of mid 30’s was a fuckin’ step up…

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Hurricane Dorian and Cat Food: a stinky tale.

Hurricane Dorian made my butt clench in anxiety, I am not going to lie. Florida was a little messed up during the week up to the hurricane which ended up being not much more than a tropical storm with a few droplets of rain–making life here inconvenient. The worst thing that happened to me during Hurricane Dorian was that we decided it would be a great idea to buy our 5 cats Hurricane treats, as you do when you are irreverent hurricane Floridian fucks. So we got some cans of Fancy Feast (not sponsored, thank you) to feed our beloved…

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What’s in a tooth?

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 the word depression. I didn’t and had never heard of bipolar. Anxiety wasn’t a word in my dictionary of angst filled teenage words. I was fat, I had random giant zits on my face at all times, and I was and still am average looking at best. I didn’t know…

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How to clean when all you want to do is Pterodactyl screech at life.

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?

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Retail at 40: Fantasizing About Strangling Balloons, a Rant.

I haven’t worked in 15 years. I am grateful to have been so lucky as to get a retail job within the first week of girding my fat, anxious, bi-polar diagnosed loins and handing out resumes the old fashioned way. (Store to store in person.) But, wow. Wow. In the past months of working retail at the Buck Stump* I have learned me a Thing or Two. (*name changed to protect…Well….I dunno who. Me. You. Sanity. The world.) I have amassed a shockingly large amount of pet peeves that will possibly drive me further toward gibbering in a mu-mu whilst screaming at…

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