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Showing posts from April, 2013

Meandering thoughts on why fundies have kids.

I had a dream the other night-- well, just before my alarm went off in the morning. I was dressed in a suit, with stockings and heels and sitting with a dozen other men and woman dressed the same. We were waiting for the next “class” to start, so we could finish up something or other. I was sitting next to an old friend from high school-- she had aged, changed into what my mind says she'd look like at 40. She was a Senior, back when I was in 8th grade, and we got along amazingly well; part of it was because we were both the “youngest kids in our class”, so she knew what it was like to be treated like every one's baby sister all the time. Ronna was a good friend and I sincerely hope she got out of the cult of IFB and has a fabulous life-- she was rather irreverent, and I loved her for it. Amidst that closed atmosphere we were both stuck in, she was a breath of critical thinking..
In my dream, Ronna turned to me and said, “So, after Armageddon, and all that, then they expect to…

Thanks for the memories, Willy (photo heavy)

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All our cats are rescues.


My husband adopted Neko from a litter of kittens who's mother had died. She's a bit cranky, and one of those "one person" cats. I'm lucky she likes me, too. She's the most talkative cat I've ever been around; she talks all the time-- like a 13 year old!

Boo meandered up to my Dad's old place, a kitten with a broken tail, eating large grasshoppers. She was so cute that my family kept her, and I inherited her a few years later. Given that she was left on the side of the road as a kitten, and that she'd been hurts, I think she might have some brain damage, but she's a cute cat, anyway.

Today, though I want to talk about Willy. He was originally adopted by an ex of a friend, of my husband's. She had him for a little while, and then decided that he wasn't cute any more. I think she's blind as fuck. Then my partner's friend, and old room-mate adopted him. Willy was a shy, skittish cat, with long black and g…

I'm just not funny

You know, I've always wanted to be funny. Part of me wants nothing more than to do stand up-- just once! To make people laugh so hard that their drinks come out their noses, that they piss their pants, that they fall out of their chairs laughing, holding their bellies, rubbing their faces to clear the tears.
I have always wanted that. Just once. I've done enough speaking in public, that while I get really nervous, and my voice gets higher and a bit wavery, I figure I could do it.
But I'm not funny.
That's not to say that I have no sense of humour... I have met people who have no sense of humour, and they're usually pretty dour people. Not because they're mean, or cruel, or anything, but because they just don't see the reason to laugh at whatever has you falling about.
I find lots of things to be very, very funny!
But those tend not to be the things that stand-up audiences like.
For instance, I can't tell a joke about people passing gas-- from what …

Musing, meandering and thinking in print

Trigger Warning: This blog is dark, and rambling, and angry, and hurt, and personal.
It's not an accusation against my husband. I know he's not mentioned hardly at all, because this is how I feel. He is, and has been amazing through this whole thing. He also tries very hard to derail my inner peanut gallery.

However, if you're depressed right now, or having a hard go of it, you may want to skip this one. I don't want to spiral you down. We'll make it out, right? And everything will be OK.

I'm sitting here, on the verge of a depressive episode. I say this, not for sympathy, but for perspective. I know that I, and only I, can get out of, through or avoid an episode. It's not up to anyone else to help me, and really, no one can. It's an internal struggle that no one sees, no one can cheer you on, navigate the short route through, or even lend a hand. It's always been this way, for me... and always will be. I accept this struggle, as part of living; and …