A haven for creative people living with mental illness. This is the place where you can tell it like it is, not yet another place where you have to pretend to be someone you've been told you should be.
I’ve been called ugly many more times than I could possibly
count. Admissibly, I am far from a paragon of physical beauty. It is
likely I could aptly be described as looking like the back end of a
bus. However, I feel it is necessary to pose a question. Is someone’s
lack of perceived attractiveness an acceptable reason to belittle and
ridicule that person, turning them into a scapegoat for your own
feelings of inadequacy?
Is having a plain face and a body perceived as being either too
fat or too thin, too short or too tall reason for disdain?
When I was younger
and believed God/the Universe/whatever was on my side despite the
mountain of evidence to the contrary, I reckoned I would one day
magically turn into a confident and clever person with an impressive
and unexpected solution for any problem. There would be aces up my
sleeves along with my arms! I could pull a rabbit out of my hat at
the drop of the hat! I would be some sort of female amalgamation of
Gambit and MacGyver!
That was the
fantasy.
The reality is I’m
a bumbling numpty with a cool tattoo on my left calf.
Image copyright Cara Hartley/Ornery Owl
The photo is mine. I can't fathom why anyone else would want to use it, however I will allow it with proper attribution for neutral or positive purposes such as a tattoo appreciation or a Motörhead fan post. If you want to use it for immature and stupid reasons such as sniveling about how horrible it is for women to have tattoos or making shitty remarks about the weird indentations in my chonky leg, you can go fuck yourself.
As for those people who enjoy feeling smug and superior about their tattoo-free state, isn't it nice that we live in a society where you can choose not to have tattoos while those who want them can have them? I have seven tattoos. They all have personal meaning for me. I hope someday I can afford to get a few more.
If I had to pick a favorite Motörhead song, it would be Orgasmatron. The blunt philosophical takedown of religion, politics, and war delivered by a raspy-voiced, no-bullshit working class champion over a hard-driving melody and precise backbeat is at once brazen and transcendent.
Like a salmon, I’m always swimming upstream and bears are always
trying to eat me. Sometimes anglers try to catch me too, but as soon
as they get a load of how beat up and decrepit I am, they throw me
back. They know I would taste terrible. Bears don’t give a damn.
They aren’t known for their sophisticated palates.
According to this post, I may be more salmony than I realized when
I decided to make this self-deprecating joke.
I wrapped up a
meeting with a couple other members of the First Coast Romance
Writers group a little over an hour ago, and I feel emotionally
dysregulated. It wasn’t anything they did, it was that same feeling
of realizing that I’m just so completely different from most
people. I always feel like I’m having to try to pass for normal
when I’m quite simply not. It’s exhausting and discouraging.
Quickly create a
quirky drabble with plentiful quantities of items starting with q.
Sometimes focusing
on creating quite a quantity quickly ends up making me go off the
rails.
My tendency is to
shame myself when I can’t tow--er--toe the line.
I honestly haven’t
quite recovered from last year’s NaNoWriMo.
I started out quite
strong, but by the end, I just wanted to quit.
I’ve been
struggling with my writing this year.
I’ve been trying to bring back the joy of creation rather than
relegating myself to being a quickly typing monkey hoping something
will quell my anxiety.
We are experiencing high winds, and the power went out at around
six in the morning. It was down for about an hour and a half. I
perceived this as being the perfect time to pickle some beef for
jerky.
Actually, I’m marinating the beef, but perfect time to pickle
was too perfect an alliteration to pass up.
Oh phooey.
I just remembered that I forgot to buy both pickling spices and cucumbers to make actual pickles.
Pickled beef really is a thing. As are pickled eggs. I’ve
never eaten either one.
I'll show myself out. But first, here's some music for you to enjoy on a blustery spring morning—or a calm spring morning—or in the winter, summer, or fall—whenever and whatever.
When I was misdiagnosed as having type 2 bipolar disorder, I was
also diagnosed as having obsessive-compulsive disorder. I do have
obsessive features to my personality, but I think these stem from ADHD and anxiety.
I count things, but this is a mechanism to break myself
out of indecision rather than feeling like something bad is going to
happen if I don’t do it. I have a system so I don’t become
indecisive about what number I’m going to use. For instance, this
year my number is 18, which can be further condensed down to 9. I
arrived at this number by adding up this year’s digits.
2+10+2+4=18
Therefore, if I have multiple items to choose from, I’ll select
either the ninth or the eighteenth one.
I might also choose to select the fourth item (April is the fourth
month) or the 14th item because today is the fourteenth
day of the month. Since it’s one PM, I could also just select the
first item.
Again, I do this to short-circuit my sometimes crippling
indecisiveness, yet another glitch born from anxiety.
I don’t think I have OCD.
"Honestly, Galadriel, I don't think you're going to have much luck reading any of these books. They're floating in the water, there are trees growing out of them, and there's a small, angry guy with a sword on the bottom one."
