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  • Mon, 23:50: Trump lies SO MUCH it's hard to focus on one, like a hungry predator trying to grab one fish. He speaks in schools of bullshit fish.
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Me: "People are trying to put me in charge of you again. 'Keep him out of trouble.' I don't know who looks at me and thinks THAT'S my job."

Him : "Sadly, you are beautiful, and therefore judged competent."

Me: "Excuse me???"

Me: "....."

Me: "I don't think I like you any more. "

Him: *laughs hysterically *


Him: "You're amazing."

Me: "Really? How?"

Him: "You aren't strangling me in my sleep."

Me: "How would you know? You aren't asleep yet."


Later, I snuggled up and breathed sweetly in his ear, "ARE YOU ASLEEP???"

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  • Thu, 22:24: RT @morninggloria: Hard to believe Matt Lauer, a human Quality Inn, was not a great moderator for a political forum
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First of all, I am diabetic.  This is a chronic illness and is considered a disability.  It interferes in my life in significant ways, though I am not sufficiently impaired to get any kind of assistance (story of my damn life).  I also have some cognitive issues which are leftovers from that time I almost died when my son was born.  They include memory weirdness and aphasia.  The combination of these two things somehow also interferes with my ability to actually speak, and sometimes brings back my tendency to stutter that I was given speech therapy for in fourth grade.

It brings up a lot of old emotional stuff for me because I was sick a lot as a child (chronic allergies and upper respiratory tract infections, kidney infection at four, scarlet fever at seven, salmonella) plus I got kicked in the face by a horse when I was eight.  Basically, I am hard to kill, because a number of diseases and accidents have tried.  I have lifelong immune system weirdness and seem to keep developing more numerous and annoying allergies as I get older.  Eventually I will have to live in a bubble and subsist off only lettuce and resentment.

But those are all invisible in that I'm not physically impaired in any way noticeable to the casual observer, and I'm also REALLY good at covering for myself.  It helps that I'm smarter than the average bear anyway, and can sometimes use my decades of meditation and witchiness to practical advantage.  Like those Kung Fu masters who can perform feats of physical prowess beyond the abilities of normal humans, except I use it to just walk around.

At a cost.  And it doesn't always work.  I recently spent most of a week in bed.  Fortunately I didn't have to be anywhere, except it was also the week before classes so to hell with any prep work I was trying to get done.  I went to a Midsummer gathering in June and was able to keep driving when I had to in order to get us home, but my life since then has been a wreckage of abandoned obligations. Compounded by a living situation where I frequently take up the slack for others, rather than the other way around.

I have supportive people in my life, but even people who mean well sometimes screw it up.  And that becomes extra tricky.  Because if someone is "helping" in a way that doesn't actually help or, in some cases, makes it worse, what do you do?  You can just let it roll, but that means you're doing as much or more than you were before AND you silently resent them.  You can try to address it...but people don't always respond well to that.  Nobody likes criticism, and when someone feels virtuous because they are "helping" you it can make them feel like you're saying they are a bad person.

Also, admitting weakness brings out the vicious side in some people.  Most especially people who think of themselves as full of peace and love, but not only them.  There is no trouble or pain I have ever described that someone hasn't found a way to hold over my head later.  "Stop whining about your mother being dead" is the all-time champion asshole thing ever said to me by someone I had considered a friend, but its epic nastiness is only as exemplar of a genre, not because of its uniqueness.  On the less obvious end, "helping" gives someone a measure of control over you and your life which you may have to fight to regain.  Almost inevitably will.  Even from people who are otherwise reasonable and kind.  Talking about the craziness of my childhood and other life experiences seems to make people certain I must be mentally ill, because obviously, even though I've been to therapists twice in my life who basically said I had mild depression and anxiety in response to circumstances at the time but otherwise had nothing fundamentally wrong with me.  Here's some visualization exercises, come see me until your insurance runs out.  But the stigma of mental illness is mighty, even among people who should definitely know better.  There is no easier way to delegitimize someone...character assassination, ableism, and misogyny, all wrapped up together in a shit burrito. This, incidentally, is in no way unique to me whatsoever, and is a significant reason why people don't talk about their troubles even though it would probably help them to do so.  Some days, humanity, you just suck.

You can deal with all that or you can just say "no thank you, I'm fine" and keep on trying to drag the elephant.  Which is my default.  And precisely why it's my default.  I used to be more open; this very journal is archeological evidence of same.  A lot of things happened to me, and I quit talking about myself so much.  I may talk even less.  Or I may say "fuck it" and talk more again.  I haven't decided.

The down side of not talking, of course, is that when you drop the ball and you don't explain because you don't want to be considered a whiner or an excuse-maker, people think you're just doing it because you're a jerk.  Sometimes I am a jerk.  I don't want to be, but it's occasionally the least shitty option among the choices available to me.  I would honestly rather people thought I was a jerk than feel sorry for me.  Pity is next door to meanness.

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So.  My Honey Love was talking to me about the fact that he had a zit on his ear and wanted to pierce his ear so he could get the pus out.

I'm all, "That is an extraordinarily bad idea.  Nothing is worse than an infected ear piercing."

"You know this from experience?"

"Sort of.  I just know.  Besides, you're being gross.  Don't be gross.  You need to preserve the mystery. "  Pause.  "Are you going to be eighty years old and telling me about your bowel movements?"


"Because don't. My point is, ear pus is not sexy.  Neither are your bowels.  YOU NEED TO BE SEXY FOR ME.   I will share my feminist analysis with you.  The reason women are supposed to act like delicate ethereal beings who have no actual bodily functions but men are under no such restraints is that men's desire is considered important and women's is not."

"So I shouldn't talk about scraping behind my ear where it's slightly crusty and smelling it?"

"Let me put this a different way.  Do you ever want to have sex with me again? Do you want to retain your breast-fondling privileges?"

"...Yes? Does this mean I shouldn't tell you about my boogers?"


*heavy sigh*  "Go ahead."


"How about crotch cheese?"


"I advise you not to examine the socks on the floor too closely then."

This conversation was frequently interrupted by us laughing so hard we couldn't talk.

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  • Sun, 19:01: RT @neonflag: I need beats for a campaign video. Would anyone care to donate some original background music?
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Had a long weird dream. In one part I was watching a movie about black women in the Civil Rights movement. Then there were octopi, starfish, and octopi mermaids out in the lobby, one of whom turned into a black woman who  was super excited about the fact that all of the movies showing in the theater were similarly oriented towards her interests. I was talking about how the movie showed different aspects of how things went than the usual focus on heroic figures, more about organization and the support network. And quoted something I heard in real life, "If the little old church ladies stop doing things, we're in trouble."  She kept using words I didn't know but could infer from context.

Then I was someone else, a young woman a road trip with two men, one young, one middle-aged and cranky, in a 1960s  Lincoln convertible which got trashed in the process. We turned it in at a car dealership and were given an orange Beetle which the young man wasn't very good at driving as we set out across the desert.

We wound up at the Taj Mahal only not really, and played chess.  I didn't much want to play chess but it was a thing people did so I agreed. I played in my usual Klingon aggressive style because, I said, the Moghuls were warriors.  Then I was alone and the place wasn't really India, people were wearing sarongs and yelling at me in a language I didn't understand but I somehow knew they were disapproving of my shorts. I wasn't angry or embarrassed, I just thought, "come on, don't they know I haven't had time to change?"

And then I woke up.

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