⌠I was about to say, âApparently, weâre the cat house,â but that sounds dirty⌠đ¸
Unfortunately, what I mean by that is that whenever anyone in the neighborhood finds a cat or kitten, they go directly to us. (Dogs, too, but thatâs less common.) Our next-door neighbors came over to ask if one of our cats had gotten out - there are four in residence right now with a queen and her three two-week old kittens in the Caternity Ward - but, no, all our criminals were accounted for.
So, I go and check it out, and immediately went back in and got some gloves because the kitten in question was not doing well: eyes crusted shut, soft mew, poor coordinationâŚ
Her name was Thumbs, because⌠well, she had thumbs. They were HER thumbs, though, not like she was hanging out with dismembered digits or anything. That would be weird.
So, I brought Thumbs inside to at least clean her eyes and see how bad the damage was, and it was pretty bad: hind legs werenât responsive, no rectal tone, swollen leg, and her front paws were tucked in. She was covered in grass burrs but no fleas. My guess is that she fell out of a window or got hit by a vehicle or something, but she used to belong to someone.
We took her to Urgent Animal Care, and they made the swift and clear determination that she would be paralyzed for the rest of her life, and that that life would be full of pain and discomfort, and we just couldnât let her suffer through that.
Thumbs wasnât even our kitten - she was maybe seven or eight weeks old - but I am honored that we were there to make her last time on earth a little more comfortable and full of love. Itâs never a decision I want to make, but the idea of unnecessary suffering is so much worse.
Iâm sorry we didnât find you sooner, Thumbs, but Iâm glad we could be there at the end. And Iâm glad that your eyes were clear enough that you could see the face of people who love you enough unconditionally to make the right choice, even though it sucks for everyone involved.
No, I didnât take pictures, we were completely preoccupied with getting her some medical attention, but she was chocolate tiger stripes and fluffy and sweet with little grey hairs on her paws. I donât know where she came from, but I hope that someone is missing her because that means that she was as loved as she deserved to be.
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Since Iâm not going to have the second edition of âThiside of Anywhere: Volume 1â done in time for FaeFest 2026, I put the individual stories out in numbered chapbooks. Because of course I did. The first ten of each chapbook will be hand bound with fancy floss, and then stapled after that. Weâll have two sets of complete stories - #7 and #13 - for special.
Iâm really happy with how the edits went and, frankly, low-key embarrassed that I even released the first edition, but there was a rush to get to market for other reasons, soâŚ
Gods help me, Iâve been infected. I blame my amazing mother-in-law.
Part of my Croning has been circling back to the Elder Futhark and rekindling my relationship with them. Another part has been reigniting my love for handwork.
Behold, an anti-nightmare spell pillow for children! Hand-pieced, embroidered, and hand-quilted. It will be on the Alchemias site along with the rest of the ritual and also some pattern options for people to make their own. Iâm finishing up some other little odds and ends for a fully-fleshed inventory ahead of FaeFest in May (9th, in Austin, Texas), but these and other quilted goodies are going to be on display and available.
Donât send help, Iâll just put them to work cutting patterns.
If that isnât descriptive enough, I donât know what is.
Hypothesis 1: The healing qualities of the herb comfrey, especially preparations made from the root, will accelerate tattoo healing with minimal or no discomfort or scarring.
Defeat of Hypothesis 1 (Hypothesis 2): The tattoo will over-heal and push out more ink than typically occurs with black work tattoos; the vibrancy of the tattoo willâŚ
⌠sure, but can I have it back when youâre done with it?
I figure since this blog is ⌠*checks the math* ⌠holy fuck ⌠27 years old, itâs okay to put some distance between updates. And I have other sites with more specific purpose that I also maintain. (More on that later, maybe.)
(Okay, maybe now.)
Alchemias was supposed to be a festival-based shop starting in 2019, and then⌠well, we allâŚ
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Despite the title and timing, this post is not about who you think itâs about. The actual person in question will remain nameless as, ultimately, itâs not about him. (I am obfuscating several volatile words to protect both me and the people in question, just in case.)
A friend (associate? friend of a partner?) recently lost their father. This was not a surprise, it was not unexpected, and it wasâŚ
2025! What a crazy year, amirite?!? There were ups, there were downs, there were side-steps, and there were dodges. Things got crazy, things calmed down, and still other things settled into whole new places.
January
There were a few things of note that happened in the first month of 2025 â 3D printed some yarn winders, built some heavy padding for Danielâs room, wrote and submitted some storiesâŚ
The glory of this picture is that not only are there basically four monitors - without having to do anything fancy with the graphic card - but that the little one in front is an XP-PEN tablet that already came with Linux support!!!! I've stayed up way too late a couple of nights in a row reconnecting with my twisted little gremlin artist soul.
Unions are why you have 5 day, 40 hour full-time work weeks. Unions are why they have to pay you in actual dollars instead of âcompany creditsâ that you can only spend at the company-owned stores. Unions are why there are fucking fire exits at your place of work. Unions are why itâs not okay for your supermarket ground beef to be any percentage human.
You think your company pays you out of the goodness of their hearts? Or even out of âmarket pressure?â The âjob marketâ is a myth perpetuated by the capitalists. Corporations would pay you nothing if they could get away with it. And you argue âoh, but if they paid me nothing Iâd just go to another one.â Wrong. Because to maximize profits, they all want to pay you nothing. Corporations exist to maximize profits while reducing risk for investors. Itâs part of their entire function to find ways to cut costs as much as possible, and that includes finding ways to pay you nothing.
Unions are your defense against that. You think all a union does is strike? If you pay union dues, a lot of that is spent on lobbyists in various governments reminding your lawmakers that you have rights as a living human being that a corporation should not be able to stomp all over. Unions hire lawyers so that if youâre fired for bullshit reasons, the union can stand up for you against your boss. Theyâre called unions because workers are uniting to pool resources so that they can stand up to these corporate overlords with more money than God. Unions exist because you might not have the words, resources, or time to fight workplace injustices all by yourself. Thatâs the whole fucking point.
And if a business shuts down because a union is striking, itâs because the business was abusing people and didnât deserve to be in business anyway. Donât make excuses for the corporations. They already have trillions of dollars and a couple million lawyers to do that for themselves. They donât need your help.
A lot of union folk very literally fought and died for the workersâ rights we have today. Like no joke, bosses would hire goons to straight-up murder unionizing and striking workers.
All the most basic workersâ rights we have today were all paid for in blood. And conservatives have never stopped trying to take them all away again.
NEVER FORGET THAT LABOR DAY IS ACTUALLY ABOUT. I know people who legitimately think itâs like a secondary mothers day - you know, for going into labor.
But itâs about workers rights and the people who campaigned for it to be a holiday knew this fucking day would come.
If you are in the US and about to celebrate a 3-day weekend, thank a goddamn union worker.
I may have just royally screwed up my flow, or maybe I'm about to unlock untold levels of productivity to my life, but I just bought an XP-Pen tablet (13.3 inch). It will be here tomorrow. (And I got an extra drawing glove with a cute print on it to tell it from @roux36prod's).
I did the almost-minimal amount of research before picking it out. The most important part for me is that it comes with Linux drivers from the manufacturer, so support is solid.
I'm working on a not-too-secret project. My default for making reference sketches for the artist is to use paper and pencil, but then one of the concept pieces came back showing the wrong elements, and I realized that my messy lines and very-rough-sketch method was probably going to make this project take much longer than it should. (I still get way ahead of myself and forget things like erasing guidelines.)
I mean, I'm still going to use paper for a while because there will be a learning curve to get used to the tablet (or maybe I'll take to it like a duck to water, I don't know yet) and I don't want to slow down production. Still, adaptability is the core of professional resilience, and even though I might technically qualify as an "old fogey" - I was definitely not born in the digital age - I like to think that I learn new tricks pretty well.
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Kitten Update: August 18, 2025
I wrote the previous post on Sunday and set it to post on a schedule. At the moment that it was going live, though, things got worse in a few ways.
First, Meep went all rag-doll again â same type of atonic head limpness, reflexive rear feet kicking, but still responsive pupils. I rushed her to the vet and we went through a lot of tests and scenarios and options.âŚ
Oh, gods, so many kittensâŚ
Danielâs attendant had this little problem. Her outside cat had a litter, but Momma Cat was, shall we say, less than maternal. The kittens werenât being looked after, and the runt was full-on rejected. It had been five days of forcing the mum to let the runt nurse, but it was clear that this wasnât going to be enough.
They brought us the runt on Thursday, a mottled,âŚ
So it's national Recreational Explosives, Hand Loss and Wildfire day, and unlike 2023, there is nary a drop of rain in sight.
Despite being slapped upside the head by God, my put technically inclined neighbor has acquired TWO pallets of fireworks this year.
The state is of no help: my city police department has made it pretty clear they don't intend to respond to any fireworks calls this weekend. I've sent the pictures I took to the county tipline and received and automated email reply saying that it will take several weeks to process my case. Perhaps he will get jail time later, but this does not actually you know. Stop him from setting the neighborhood ablaze. Going up to his door the week prior and very politely asking him to move- not cancel, just relocate - his celebrations was met with calling me a "nosy bitch" and "I'll set one off in your ass!".
Sometimes God needs us to make our own miracles.
My miracle comes with several layers, and plenty of opportunities to back down without losing face. We'll see how many are needed.
The first wave has already been deployed: a psyop directed at the Visiting Mother In Law of the miscreant.
I got up at 8:30 AM this morning to make sure I'd be in the front yard of my house, casually doing yardwork with Herschel. His participation was essential.
For those of you who are new here, Herschel is the world's most charming Cardigan Welsh Crime Tube, who thinks everyone in the world is his best friend and that people come to the house to see him specifically. So at 9:04 AM when the visiting mother-in-law appeared around the corner on her daily power-walk around the block, Herschel employed his natural Corgi instinct to make friends with everyone and cheerfully tossed himself on the sidewalk in front of her, belly up for expected tummy rubs.
"OH AREN'T YOU DARLING!!" My target coos, kneeling down to pat him while he makes him like snuffling noises of glee. She is at least 70. I think her bright pink leg warmers and terrycloth headband might be original from her jazzercise days.
"I'm so sorry! Herschel you're going to trip people doing that!" I apologize, going up to greet the woman. "I'm [REDACTED], I don't think we've met..?"
"No, I'm just visiting my daughter and her family- my name is Barbara. And who is this?" She asks Herschel, whose whole back end is waggling with glee.
"This is my service dog Herschel." I explain while he rolls around on the pavement. "I just wanted him to get some time outside before the pyrotechnics start."
"Oh. Yes." Barbra grumbles and I know I've got her. "My son-in-law is planning something extravagant." She says with such disdain it practically comes out of her nose. This is a woman who loves her daughter and dearly wishes she married someone, anyone else.
"Yeah, he got rained out and sick the last two years, so I think he's compensating." I agree.
"Oh he's definitely overcompensating!" Barbra spits, then shakes her whole body like a dog. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't complain. You said he's a service dog?"
I go for it.
"Yeah! I have... Neurological problems." I say and that is technically true. "I've um. Lost a lot of things, like a sense of time, or appetite, and his job is to remind me to eat or take my meds or alerts that I'm having an episode. My personal dog-tor!" I say, patting his adorable little head, and he leans on me, equally adoring.
"Oh, is that why-?" Barbra starts to ask, gesturing at the top of her head, but stops herself.
I hadn't planned this, but yesterday I'd shaved my head to deal with the heat and now only have a quarter inch of hair, which doesn't really hide the scars from when I got run over by a minivan. They're bright red with the heat and exertion of yard work.
I decide I'm okay with lying to a stranger to prevent my house from being set ablaze.
I sort of... Crumple to the ground and drop the rake I was holding, and Herschel immediately climbs into my lap to comfort me as I start to cry.
"Oh my God." Says Barbra.
"I'm sorry!" I gasp, tears streaming down my face. I've been stressed and this is honestly very cathartic. "I'm sorry to dump on you, I'm just so scared-!"
"Oh my God. It's bad." Barbra realizes.
"D- do you know what-" a pause as Herschel tries to manually clear my nostrils like a good service dog. "-oh, Herschel... It's - do you know what an astrocytoma* is?"
*An astrocytoma is a type of brain tumor.
Barbra turns white and sits down next to me. "I'm so sorry... I- one of my friends from church had one, it was agony but she's alright now!" She tries to reassure me.
"It hurts! Everything hurts all the time!" I sob. "And- and I'm scared, so he's scared and I feel bad for hi which just makes it worse and then there's the-" I gesture at the sky. "I have surgery in a month to remove as much of it as they can and do biopsies to see if I need radiation too but..."
"-but all that noise must be Hell on you and your doggy." Barbra nods.
"It'd be fine if he went down to the lake of something but, that house's driveway is like, a hundred feet from my bedroom, I can't sleep and it TERRIFIES Herschel..." I whimper pathetically.
"Well. I may be able to do something about that." Barbra decides.
"Oh no, I don't want to intrude!" I mock-protest.
"No, we're the ones intruding dear. I'll have words with him." She growls. I get the impression she's been waiting for an excuse To Have Words With Him.
"Th-thank you. Um. It's getting hot and I'm a mess, we should probably go inside..." I mutter and Barbra very kindly helps me and Herschel to the front door and tells me she'll be by later with watermelon as we wave goodbye.
From the porch, I watch her furiously power-walk back to her daughter's house, wrench open the front door, and issue a battle cry of "HEN-RY!!!" before it slams behind her.
Now I realize that this may not have been the most honest or ethical thing to do, but I figured it's more polite and ethical than the next step, which is chemical warfare, courtesy of Bath & Body Works :)
Well, they Psyop seems to have worked! That cul-de-sac, and indeed my entire block is perfectly quiet tonight!
Unfortunately I cannot say the same of the surrounding neighborhood, so it has been necessary to deploy The Stench.
The Stench is a mixture of Odoriferous chemicals meant to be discreetly poured over a surface (preferably something hot, like a sidewalk or fence in direct sunlight) to render an area temporarily uninhabitable, Similar to spraying coyote pee on your garden to discourage the rabbits. I can't give you a full recipe because I forgot to take notes, but elements include:
Spoiled beef broth, which is both rancid and unexpectedly sour (boiled to kill bacteria)
Expired milk, the most retch-inducing ingredient for me.
Several bottles of Liquid Ass
Ghost Pepper Hot Sauce
Concentrated Dog Urine
and FOUR bottles of Bath & Body Work's Cucumber Melon, which smells light and fruity when used as a light body spray, but in concentration smells like an entire fruit cart left to rot, possibly along with the carcass of the fruitseller.
The resulting solution smells like raw sewage, a fraternity dorm fridge when the power's been out for a week, and a roadkilled skunk. It's impressively vile. Herschel wanted to roll in it so bad.
I've spent the last few hours strolling the surrounding neighborhoods until I found the source of the mortars and flying explosives that are the real hazards, ingratiating myself into the parties, and discreetly dousing the lawns and fences nearby until someone goes "OH GOD!" and gags, and the party breaks up shortly thereafter. I returned home because I ran out of The Stench, despite hiding five 2L soda bottles of it in a backpack.
I will call it a success though, because while I can hear fireworks, they're all at least a mile away from me. In total:
Fire Hazard Parties derailed: 13
Screaming: 10
Crying: 13
Vomiting: 4
Fight blaming each other for causing The Stench: 5
Called the city to complain about The Stench, on the assumption it was a sewage issue, and then waited right next to their pile of illegal fireworks, for the fire department to show up: 2.
Guy who claimed to be enjoying the smell: 1
Party was partially derailed by The Stench, and partly by the fact they actually did start a fire: 1 (every human was alright, the pyro's roof, not as much)
Stray dogs caught and returned home: 2
So next year: MORE STENCH.
Until then, I have a corgi zooted on trazadone on my feet, and we bid you goodnight.
(If you would like to support a disabled storyteller and/or fund more stench research, you can donate to my Ko-fi or pre-order my Family Lore book on Patreon)
itâs not about actually being gifted, itâs about an initial higher scoring on standardized testing that means little to nothing or being good at learning in the way elementary and middle school wants you to, so you get marked as âadvancedâ. in reality, maybe you had faster development in certain areas, but the issue with being a gifted kid isnât that âeveryone told me I was so cool and special for reading and then I actually wasnât :(â itâs âI wasnât properly taught to handle things not coming easily to me, but the adults around me were counting on me not being a âdifficultâ child in school.â
people who use it as some weird bragging method or interpret it that way are ignoring the way a lot of school systems force certain roles on students to simplify the learning process. If your kid doesnât need to take notes to understand a science concept bc they get it naturally, well thatâs good, but now youâre not teaching them how to take notes and theyâre not learning that important soft skill. but because âgiftedâ kids are easy and donât show that theyâre falling behind in learning in other categories that are harder to quantify, they eventually fall behind after that catches up to them. Itâs about the failures of a one size fits all school system trying to compensate in the worst way possible.
And also the thing where âgiftedâ kids are super likely to also be neuroatypical, which they donât get screened for because they appear to be doing well in school. Or âYou canât be ADHD/autistic/etc, because youâre doing so well in school!â. Or being shamed for developing mental health issues/generally not being able to keep up with school work later, because you USED TO BE able to do it just fine.
Or the assumption that just because you can read well or you like math class, youâre somehow more EMOTIONALLY mature than your little kid brain is actually capable of being.
Or gifted kids whose parents and teachers put immense pressure on them to Do Great Things and Save The World and youâre like. âIâm 10 and I have no idea how to do that, but everyone is saying thatâs my job?â.
This is the best âgifted kidâ post out there. I never took notes until college because I didnât have to, snd when it got challenging I had to literally teach myself note taking at age 18. It also fucks with your perception of asking for help - youâre advanced, youâre competent, you should be able to understand every topic easily. Asking for help/going to office hours/asking for a tutor feels like failing when you were praised in your early years for not needing to do that.
So i found the Comumbo video the other day and I legit cannot stop watching it. It's become a vocal tic of mine to say "Dog. Comumbo." But no-one in my life has any context to it.
For reference, this is what anon is talking about.
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