Settler words&music in S'ólh Téméxw, (leanpub.com/upsun) living where privilege meets precarity in MST country. she/her/they———– Novels: Midnite Moving Co., Upsun; Sweep Off Those Waves coming soon, Hair Sinister after that. —Restore All Indigenous Lands!
I’m at an appointment this morning so I won’t be going to work to hand out Valentines, but I will share this with you. I thought of doing it yesterday afternoon but it was cooking and laundry after I got home and I couldn’t get excited about printing them out.
Guess I’m just lazy. Snurk.
Homily went well. Double snurk. I took half the biscotti in and that worked out well… Peggy took the leftovers.
Here’s the triggering article from the LA Times.
Any article of popcult-moaning regarding the lout, without at least pulling a few examples of acceptable contemporary femininity, like, say, that appalling creature Snooki from the Jersey Shore who is so Ms Everywhere on the Scanalyzer that even I, who would rather get a day’s worth of dental work than watch Jersey Shore, cannot avoid her, is missing a point. One point among many.
As humans continue the ongoing experiment of self domesticating themselves,
an experiment that degrades the human experience from birth by pressuring women to participate in da inhumane folly of unnecessarily invasive first world childbearing practices, kicks it up a notch with virtually no support for breastfeeding, kicks it up a notch with our ludicrous notions that we can protect our children from all harm by caging them (while saying on dog rearing websites that puppies raised in a cage are not capable of being properly socialized if you cage them longer than 16 weeks, HELLO does anybody see two points with a connecting line here? apparently not) and driving them everywhere, kicks it up a notch by parking the kids in front of a television from the minute they’ll sit still for it until the minute they find better things to do, kicks it up a notch by giving them inane and useless and actively degrading and mean-to-active-children schooling, kicks it up a notch by publicly rewarding assholes, goofs, drama queens of every gender, phat beat whiners and dictators, kicks it up by actively mocking those enjoy solving problems instead of making them, kicks it up a notch by providing actively anti-social activities…. like Xbox computer games and porn for boys, and computer games on facebook and reality tv for girls…..
we’re getting the kids we’ve bred. If they behave badly, it’s because they were trained to, and not punished for being rude and rewarded for being polite. It’s that simple. We are the subjects and objects of an experiment, and the experiment is COMING WRONG.
If you have kids, raise them properly – teach them that life is a story; it has a beginning/middle/end. Even if the story is sad or hard, it’s a better story if you have manners, and hang around with other people with manners, who love you and who are lovable. If you can’t do that, DON’T FUCKING WELL HAVE CHILDREN. And certainly don’t expect this violent, mercenary and child unfriendly culture to do the heavy lifting for you if you do.
There are thousands of sex-trafficking victims in Canada. They are forced migrants, aboriginal children and runaways of every description. Anybody who thinks Canada is a child friendly place has only to look at our ability to convict child-sex traffickers and the truth of the lout is revealed.
Why would a lout want the trouble of a real woman when for a bit of cash he can have a 16 year hot Asian chick being pimped out of a massage parlour across from Metrotown?
It’s always the unspoken assumptions that trouble me.
I briefly mentioned porn. I know men who have destroyed their ability to relate appropriately to women (as in, have normative heterosexual intercourse…) because of porn. They retreat into loutish behaviour because they know things are not going to come right in the bedroom.
I also meant to mention that over the last 50 years, an increasing amount of troubling chemicals have wound their way into our lives and hormone balances. There are wholesale behavioral shifts in human activities, sexual expression and gender identification which I think are bigger than what would be caused by talking about things on the daytime agony columns like Oprah or Jerry Springer. There’s something much more basic going on in my view, and I’ll be talking about that more in later posts.
How I love it.
Here’s a picture of a margarita under a microscope. Happy fun drinking time! Da party’s on da inside.
Later this morning I deliver a homily. Then I come home and bake a salmon. There may be biscotti in there someplace.
I just realized, looking at a map, that if Mt. Baker let go right now, it would be raining abrasive mud in less three hours if the wind held from this direction (it sure doesn’t look like the rain’s going to stop and it’s BUCKETING. Anyway isn’t sandpaper rain a cheerful thought?
Mario sends me this.
Thanks bud.
The article from the Guardian is entitled “The Lost Art of Editing”.
My response to it is multi.
1. For different writers, different levels of editing. For the writers I know personally, they either have an editor whom they trust at their publishing house (the best selling writer of upscale bodice rippers, who lives in Victoria), a series of friends whose OCD and general fannishness will sniff out discrepancies (a writer based in SF who writes fluid drenched contemporary fantasy) or nothing but himself, as he has been self published since he stood at the corner of Yonge and College with signs around his neck reading, for example, “Mutant Stories for Complete Idiots”. Yes, I speak of Jo Beverley, Seanan McGuire and Crad Kilodney (fuck me, but I’d LOVE to see a writing panel with those three on it, it would kick ass although it might make Crad look bad as he always was a very politically incorrect dude and I know from personal experience that Seanan is powerfully smart and her ripostes emerge letter perfect at lightning speed. Jo is a Good Person (one of the Dunnettfolk) who’s invested heavily in learning about various historical periods and has made herself very approachable to her fans.)
Different writers need different levels of editing. Good writers have been ignored, and feted, and ignored and persecuted and then feted after they are dead since always, and bad writers have been celebrated and feted and then consigned to the great ashcan in the sky, since we started pressing wooden letters into clay tablets. “Damnit! Is Inanna spelled with two ‘n’s or three?” Some need editing for content, some for style, some for grammar, some for plagiarism, some for plot, some should be edited out of existence, and some SHOULDN’T BE EDITED AT ALL. Small children shouldn’t be edited at all unless it’s for school. There are some occasions which call for no editing, like rap battles and poetry slamming and “I will now depart from my previously prepared remarks” and ‘the dozens’ because the writing is still ‘in the air’ and hasn’t been committed to paper. You can say that’s not writing and really another art form, but to me the only difference is that it hasn’t been written down; it’s still communication, still words.
Which audience are you writing for and why? My blog posts are full of typos. When I catch them and they are funny, I let them stand. When they are really bad, my readers force me to correct them. I suppose I could publish everything I’ve printed on my blog so far (there are publishers that make it easy to do that and it would be fun and tragic and revealing to interpolate later interpretations of events) and make those necessary corrections. But as I say in my ABOUT page, the blog is for me and my mother. Other people have used it. My father is appalled by my lack of modesty. Nah, appalled isn’t the right word. I think perplexed and troubled is kinder and more accurate. My mother is entertained, when she isn’t troubled (by her graciously acknowledged inability to understand just what the hell it is I’m on about) and perplexed (by cultural references that she couldn’t catch even if she had the Urban Dictionary, TVtropes.com and Wikipedia wired into a head’s up display on her glasses).
2. For different audiences, different purposes in editing. You don’t over edit some kinds of writing because the immediacy and urgency of it are lost in the process. You edit the living shit out of user guides until somebody with a grade 8 education in the language you are writing in can understand what you’re doing. Note to editors. Number the fucking pages of your manuals, you jackassii. Jeff and I had an interesting conversation on that line earlier this week.
3. For different market categories, different levels of editing. I think it’s more useful to divide all fiction writing into four categories. Schlock, schlock with pretensions, literature and juvenilia. (Non fiction categories: Manuals, Advertising, Propaganda, History, Science, Science with Pretensions, Transcripts of court documents, Diaries/Op-eds/commentary/blogs/tweets/reviews, How-tos, Lists and Self-help books). Porn falls between fiction and non fiction, in my view. (In the words of the Immortal Gord Downey:
"How do I explain this, how do I put it into words, It's one thing or another but it's neither this nor that")
Nearly everything I’ve ever written has been juvenilia and schlock with pretensions – even the homilies, especially the blog. I spare only the songs and the poetry because of their emotional concision and broad applicability. Helluva thing to say, but that’s how I feel. How do I know? because I READ and I CARE. Were I to actually work on another novel… which would be schlock with pretensions, since I simply don’t have a Work of Literature in me … and my mother was up for the job, I’d let her edit it because the woman is in her own quiet way a geeeeenius.
Literature is writing that irrespective of the era, gender or class of the person writing and the person reading speaks to and clearly describes some aspect of the human condition in a recognizable, non-reproducible and human voice.
That I have an extremely vivid and sophomoric writing style is no secret – but I am very much addressing my own era, class and gender when I write and I’m not thinking that’s a problem, just how it is.
Literature’s the only class of fiction writing where editing matters. Everything else is temporary; to hold my writing to the standard of Marcus Aurelius, or the writing of Marcus Aurelius to the standard of 50 Cent’s tweets, is a classic category concept error. Good writers will find good editors, always. The downfall of language and writing is grossly overrated. Writing will get better, always, because the best will always be getting better; fewer subjects will be off limits, and science will continue to inflect and bend writing into forms more beautiful, more recondite and more authentic. Worry not folks.
Thus endeth my comments.
to the sound of Jeff tapping on his keyboard. Sometimes it’s a cat and that staccato defooding sound in some very long-to-be-discovered corner. Sometimes it’s the smell of a skunk penetrating through the window; sometimes it’s my natural clock, which spits me back out into consciousness anywhere between 2 and 7 am. Sometimes it’s a leg cramp, and that’s what I got this morning. I woke to pain pain pain and had a hell of a time getting my foot flat to the ground to get the muscle stretched out and the muscle – the same one I blew out running for the bus the year after I hurt my back – is still grumbling and hot. Ah, but pain is what tells you that you’re alive.
Daughter Katie came over last night. I picked her up after work (Dax tried to scare me by materializing next to my car window, but Katie had the kindness to warn me, so I let him know that he WOULD have given me a heart attack if I hadn’t been warned. He also told me the size of his paycheck, which was respectable for his age and educational level) and then fed her and Jeff home baked schnitzel and veg, and we talked and watched CSI and the Mentalist, which amusingly enough had identical plots, and then we walked up to 7-11 where I got her bus tickets and milk and eggs for myself, waited with her for her bus and then walked home. Canada Way is so noisy for pedestrians it’s practically deafening; two streets in Jeff and I enjoy a very peaceful little enclave, no barking dogs or noisy neighbours, and yet we’re smack in the center of Edmonds, 10th, Kingsway and Canada Way, all busy arterial streets. We do get train noise at night as it echoes in the Fraser Valley and comes up the hill; we get the eerie booming noises at night that are actually special effects explosions down in that movie set off of Marine down in the flats; and we get airplane noise a fair bit, although rarely at very low levels, and hardly ever helicopter noise, which scares the crap out of me.
Soon there will be a visit by the rest of Paul’s family to abide for a while in the bosom of the alternative justice system of BC. I have decided that with all my quirks and drama I’m best off staying away. My mother is hosting them and that will be the right end of the family to shelter and help them while this goes on; who can say what will happen but I earnestly hope for some closure and a feeling that it’s what John would have wanted rather than a trial and jail for the woman whose inattentive driving killed him.
I am very seriously thinking of either giving Ziva to a family member or selling her. I have taken so much pleasure in owning her that it may seem a little odd, but if I’m going to be that close to the new location of the office and I can still borrow Jeff’s car occasionally to shop, I should be in good shape to have enjoyed her and then released her back into the wild. Neither of the kids have evinced much interest because they don’t really have the cash flow.
I am waiting for Jeff to awaken so I can cook him breakfast. Finn pancakes and coffee; I’m going to have mine with applewood smoked cheddar.
I have shippiles of work to do today; I have Valentines to create. I am planning on sneaking into work on Sunday after church and putting them in people’s mail trays. Every year it’s the same thing. People are travelling, or they never check their mail trays, and the next thing you know you’re getting thanked for the Valentine on March 1st.
I brought home the flowers Jeff and the folks gave me and they are still gorgeous and sweetly scented. I know cut flowers are frowned on by some people in my connection, but I will never frown. Their colour and scent brightened my work area and made many other people happy but me for the balance of the week, and now they’ll be pretty in my kitchen until they’re done.
I send a hug into the ether for Lady Miss B and warm wishes to her hub and miniB, and a big old mushy group hug for Tom and Peggy, my folks and brother (nearly typed bother, and that was NOT my intent), Scott for digging up the name of the psychologist for me, my coworkers Mike Y and Hassan and Kev and Patricia, and I blow kisses at Veronica. Sneetchy scowling at some other folks for workpain, but I won’t name them. More hugs for Rev. Katie who visited me in sickness and hell that’s what ministers are s’posed to do, and Sue, Carol, Kathleen and Gary for a really good board meeting. I wish the contractors working on the new building the time, money and safety to do a good job.
I wish a lot of things. It’s strange to think that this time last week I wished for nothing but cessation of wishing.
Life is good. I’m going to go work on Dandelions Dreaming now, it’s the best thing I can think of for Peggy’s birthday. Later today I’m going to talk to Jeff about capturing video from games so I can do something really kickass for Left4Dead/Rising in a Zombieland Redemption, which is the new and deliberately awkward title for my zombie choon, and it may get even longer, at which point I’ll shorten it again. Such is the creative process; you put your best shit in, you take you best shit out, you put your best shit in, and you shake it all about.
Thanks to the magic of the internet.
Oh people of Egypt, tell the army that you’ll split the difference of all the money you recover from Mubarak. That man needs to sit in front of a judge.
Off to the Big 6 for brekky. I’m leaving straight for work after that.
Didn’t mention I had my planning for this year meeting with my boss yesterday. I told him about my challenges and he is supportive. We slogged through some stuff that was quite hard, brainstormed a bit and then he made it clear to me why I respect him so much. He knows what’s important, full stop.
I have long since finished the homily for Sunday but now I’m working on the framing words to take people into and out of the homily without freaking them out too badly. I think I will manage nicely; we’ll see on the day.
As you can imagine, I’ve spent most of my spare processing cycles trying to figure out WHAT the hell happened when I did my spiral dive into that bleak bleak river.
I went back through the previous week, trying to remember if there was anything. And then I remembered. Thursday morning I got one of my classic migraine signs. This is going to sound disgusting, but it is absolutely true. My nasal mucus changes consistency. It turns into something that resembles frog spawn. It is my single most consistent migraine sign. Unfortunately for its predictive uses, I don’t always get what I have in the past considered to be a migraine once I get ‘the little spheres’, so I don’t worry about it until something else happens.
Click.
The something else might have been a tight necklace. So so trivial.
I looked back; food had little to no taste for about three weeks prior to the event. Food losing its flavour is a migraine sign in some people. I had never experienced it, but the neurologist told me I had atypical migraines. And how.
Abruptly I had no moral or emotional sense of gray, everything was black and white. It was literally as if the parts of my brain where I process music and humour and uncertainty were starved of oxygen. I had no perspective; there were certain thoughts I couldn’t process. Now I look back and it all seems wildly crazy. All me, but not normal. I have bad thoughts and I lie down in my mind until they go by, normally; this time I COULDN’T.
The physical sensation I got of relief as I drove out to Wreck Beach. “The lift” I call it when the migraine stops oppressing me. It was only this evening that I related the migraine lifting to that sensation I got while I was driving.
Of course I had no sense of having a migraine. I got no flashes, no creeping scalp, no tingling and numbness, no light sensitivity, no ptosis, no head pain, no nausea, no aphasia, no aura, no blind spots, none of the normal range of migraine symptoms that I get and which I am quite comfortable with and find perfectly manageable.
I got wild and really very disturbing alterations in the experience of the relative size of various body parts (my sensory homunculus was scunnered) especially when I was sitting; my dreams were more vivid than usual and I felt like my eyes were the wrong size but that probably had quite a bit to do with me crying non stop for two days, which was also very far out of left field if it was a migraine sign.
The suddenness with which it came on and the suddenness with which it departed, leaving me in that stoically sad afterphase of a migraine which usually lasts a couple of days and lifts is what is really making me think I’m on the right track.
I’m still seeing the psychologist though. I got the cash, and I sure have the motivation. What a horrible experience, and how horrible for everyone else. I have only one thought. How do I prevent this from happening again? I thought I might stop having migraines after menopause, but if this is a sample of my future migraines, my relatives and friends are going to need to keep me locked in a dark room until I quit raving.
Oh my love for you
is like dried up glue
once it kept us close and sticky
now it’s lumpy and it’s icky
and it don’t do what it’s sposeta do.
Darlin’ understand
my love’s a perished rubber band
Once it held our shit together
now it’s crumbled with the weather
And divorce will cost me twenty grand.
As soon as I had a new mic the old one turned up. Once again, my memory is not as good as it used to be and recent events have proven the operation of my memory to be fitful, truculent and subject to stammering great lashings of wishful interpolation.
I have a funny anecdote from work. It’s clean, nobody gets hurt, I omit the names. I am sitting by myself at lunch and the senior HR staffer on site comes and sits down next to me. She is a warm, funny, intelligent & hardworking woman who is obviously very tolerant. So I’m thinking this will be an interesting convo (she’s an interesting person), and then my grandboss sits down. Hardworking, degrees in two different fields, hilarious, listens attentively, he is cheerfully resistant to bullshit and cant in all forms and not interested in dispensing any… well, that’s my experience of him. Other people’s mileage undoubtedly varies.
Next to sit down is the facilities manager, who has a number of buildings to manage, and his son, who has come on board on contract in a completely different department, where I can say from personal experience that he’s doing fairly well in a stressful assignment. In sum I like and respect them all.
The convo drifts over to a building issue; the facilities manager reports that a certain contractor for a certain city is not responding to requests for signoff on a job. I pipe up with “Well tell him to answer your bloody phone calls or he’ll face the wrath of Allegra.” I then offer, since I often wake up at. like, 3 in the morning, to drive over to the contractor’s house with my mandolin to serenade him. We all, with varying degrees of hilarity, agree that this will surely put the fear of swift and awful retribution into him, and head back to our desks. (The salmon was the best thing I ever ate in the cafeteria, which greatly enhanced what was a convivial meal).
About fifteen minutes later the facilities manager reports (he couldn’t keep a straight face) that even the MENTION of my NAME has triggered a panic in the contractor, who has now agreed to do what he’s s’posedta. Ohhhh, the wrath of Allegra. C’est magique, c’est fromidable! And of course it’s completely coincidental in all possible ways, but of such coincidences are legends born. (Fromidable by the way IS the correct spelling. It’s a marketing word taken from a Cheez Whiz jar. I think it translates as “powerfully cheesy”.)
And now, a brief peruse of the intarwebs for cute animal pics, or possibly ugly animal pics, and a shower, and back to the challenge and joy of paid employment.
Nope, gotta do the order of service first.
Man when the hell did I get old enough to have a friend for 45 years? C’est bizarre, ça.
Anyway, Bonnie has a few grey hairs and perhaps her smile lines are a little more chiselled than I remember, but she is STILL BONNIE, the petite and energetic and outdoorsy and powerfully intelligent friend of my childhood who looks at least 15 years younger than her lying ass birth certificate, and she is a happy person to be around.
We watched pictures of John on the laptop and Bonnie brought a photo album which had pictures of her mom and John and various rellies in happier times. I took some pics but I won’t post them without permission.
The Royal City Thai restaurant is assenkicken. They must get by on the lunch trade, the joint was deserted the entire time we were there but the food was nothing short of spectacular. It was $130 with tax and tip for five hungry adults, there was about one meal’s worth of leftovers, and there was alcohol too… gosh the soup was stellar. Service stellar too. Attentive without being pestery. A find, I must say.
Keith and Kate both came AND I AM SO HAPPY about a) Paul suggesting it and b) how happy Bonnie was to see them and vice versa. Katie got to see the only surviving picture of John on a skateboard. I said to her afterwards that alone was worth the price of admission. Who’da thunk it? Gave Katie and Keith rides home. Jeff’s subpar and didn’t attend but there’s a whole host of gut wrenching bacteria writhing around the GVRD these days; I hope they don’t sink their little pseudopods into him too far.
Ziva is burning lots of oil. I should check levels before setting out tomorrow, and I’m probably looking at engine work. Jeebus, I ain’t paid for the last lot yet. I have to stay alive, I have two dependents, one metal, one furry.
I couldn’t find the god forsaken USB microphone, so I bought another one. If the original turns up I’ll give it to Paul. I tried to buy a slide whistle but they didn’t have one. Twelve on order and no slide whistles, what’s this world coming to. I MUST HAVE A SLIDE WHISTLE. It’s impossible to be a living cartoon character without one.
I can hear Miss Margot’s stertorous breathing. I cleaned her eye gunk this morning and she accepted it with good grace (filled 10 saline soaked qtips with her eye gunk). The second I tried to clean out her ears, World War Kitty was declared and I beat a hasty, but integumentarily intact retreat.
Anyway I have an appt. with Mr. Methocarbamol followed by a long sleep on the complaisant Millie the Mattress. Tomorrow morning I’m going to fire up the computer, get the order of service done, and pray to the shade of Ada Babbage that the server reboot contemplated yesterday at work will make a proper workday possible. Also, I have a one on one with my boss (who is really, really awesome, and I’d say that anyway, thanks) tomorrow. I haven’t exactly told him anything, but I will, tactfully. Hopefully before the half dozen or so coworkers who read my blog rat me out. And no, ratting me out is neither polite nor accurate; I’m just shouldering my responsibilities again, and grace and temperance are threatening to bitch slap me if I don’t stand up straight under the load.
Thanks Jeff for fixing the blog, it was briefly busted this morning. Jeff continues to be awesome.
FUCKSTICKS.
I just realized I’ll never get a gun licence in this country now. Derp. Herpderp. bwaaaaaaaaaaaah-ding! Now I know I was really screwed up. Even if I’d thought about it at the time (and I didn’t) it wouldn’t have changed my mood (people talking to me and the act of forcing myself to say goodbye to things did that). I lost my connection to others and they plugged me back in again. I lost my connection to my sense of my place and ‘re-place-ing’ myself helped. And if I’d had a gun in the house I wouldn’t have used it to kill myself because after watching 79 billion forensics shows I can’t handle splatter and I would not, no matter how screwed up I was, make that much of a mess, whether in this house, or my car, or anyplace else. Gotta be tidy about it *which given how my room looks is richly comic*. Also, many horrifying mental pictures of surviving a gun suicide attempt. Thank you internet.
I can look back on it and say what the hell happened? What I really want to do is figure out how to prevent it from ever happening again, seeing as how my poor parents were making travel plans to put me on 24 hour watch if things got worse and they really really don’t need the aggro and pOp hates the lower Mainland with a passion that is normally reserved for eggplant, the Justice Minister, anchovies and reality tv. And I don’t want to take drugs for depression. I have many reasons, some good, some bad, for that. I loved Prozac (except for the 20 pound weight gain, the destruction of my sex drive and the complete absence of songwriting or creativity while I was on it, and the eight months it took my sex drive to come back after the four months I took it) and the Wellbutrin made me even crazier than I already am (just ask daughter Katie about that, she’ll give you a profanity laden earful.)
Quhat was going on there? For three weeks food had no taste; I went all bleak and completely lost my sense of humour; Conflikt forced me to put the smile on but I crashed really hard afterwards (but of course there was some very intense and emotional stuff in there which left me thinking about death a lot, as I always do when I think about John) *and my ex’s girlfriend, who continues to live rent free in my mental attic, which by itself is enough to make the inside of my skull look like an aerial shot of a train derailment crossed with last year’s pricing model*. John died, Unca Dave died, Granny died, Gizmo died. Bang bang bang bang.
Seems a bit much to quit going to Conflikt just so I won’t be all wooble sadface afterwards; I’ll have to think on it some more. I love Paul in my own demanding and unrealistic fashion, and I don’t grudge him any happiness he can squeeze from life, and I am after all the one that forced the sale of the house and moved out; but it was to avoid suicide that time that I took all those steps, and I was clearly and obviously saner afterward, so it was the right thing to do and my regrets are of a practical and not emotional nature. I just want a public acknowledgment and apology from the manipulative and charming sociopath who *this long and interesting description of his activities deleted on the anxious advice of my inner lawyer – and NO it’s not about Paul but it’s directly connected to my marriage auguring in* – and unicorns are gonna slide down rainbows and poop gold bars (clarn!) before that happens. There you have it…. one of the REAL reasons I was feeling like offing myself and I can’t even fill in the blanks because El Slime-o might come after me for defamation. (There are two main others, but I’m sitting with them and will talk to the dude about that next Monday). Wa wa, I’m never going to get closure.
Well sheeeeeeeit. I NEVER WILL. I never, ever, fucking well ever will get closure. Will I have to write a roman a clef about that terrible situation to be free of it? Shall I turn my pain to profit? By the Grand Hyatt Seattle I Sat Down and Wept? Uh, no. I promised myself I wouldn’t. Once again my standards for my own behaviour are giggling in corners and braiding nooses while saying “Shuush. Shoosh now.”
And it ain’t about me any longer. I have some context, it’s about the people who’d be alternately devastated, I mean absolutely screwed up for months and months, or really angry at my selfishness, or really pleased that I had killed myself. Yes, there are people who’d be happy if I killed myself, but yannowhut? Fuck all you fucking fuckers, I won’t give you the satisfaction, and I don’t want to hurt the hordes of people who in fine Canadian fashion, jumped out from the brushy roadsides of the internet and said “Let me distract you with this SOUP! Ya okay now you’re in a headlock let’s talk some sense into you.” “I will HUG your bad feelings INTO SUBMISSION – with my brain!” The point being if you tell people how you feel they can do something about it. I have a little file of all the support messages I got and I will look at them before I do something stupid like that again. And I know who I’ll talk to first.
In other news, I have finished the homily and fired it off to my mOm. The homily takes place 20 years in the future. There’s nothing like a thought experiment to keep the creative juices flowing.
I have to get the order of service to my coordinator, along with her reading.
Oh, and if you object to my swearing, check this out, also this and this. I’m fighting pain, I’m using a class marker, and I’m being a good feminist. If you believe any of that you’re being simply delightful, but at least I am trying to make the point that swearing isn’t bad in and of itself and that my swearing IS a marker for pain, desolation, egalitarian musings, anger, agony and childish attention getting, also sometimes it just livens things the fuck up.