Moonshine

leg so hot

hot hot leg

leg so hot u fry an eg

*touches ground*

blorbo - a favourite character

glup shitto - star wars names are fucking nonesense

eeby deeby - youre going to hell

plinko horse - a horse that was stuck in a plinko board

bonus:

My sycamore tree began life in the gravel at the edge of a parking lot. If trees can feel pain, that is a painful, unlucky death. I carefully dug it up and put it in a pot I made out of a disposable cup.

Hello small one. This world may be cruel, but I will not be.

I decided to take care of it, not expecting it to survive, and when my sycamore tree unfurled one tiny leaf and then another, it chiseled a tiny foothold in my terrified brain, the kind of brain that doesn't remember a world before the atomic bomb and before 9/11.

I googled the lifespans of trees. My neurons had to stretch and expand to accommodate what I learned: My sycamore tree may live five hundred years. It's hard to think something so big. In twenty years, my baby sycamore tree will be three stories tall, and the home of many creatures. In five years, my sycamore tree will be taller than I am. In one year, it will be summer.

There's this concept called sense of foreshortened future where people who have lived through trauma can't conceptualize a future for themselves because deep down they don't expect to survive, When I look forward, all I see is fire and death, melting ice and burning sky. We were raised Evangelical. All we see is Judgment Day, except there is no heaven.

But now there is a tiny gap in the wall, a crack in the door of my cell

and on the other side, I see a tree

There is, in the future, a great old sycamore tree, full of clean winds and the stir of a thousand wings. A hundred years from now. Fifty years from now. There will be forests in that world. There will be a world.

It takes courage, but we have to imagine it.

Most tree species can live in excess of three or four hundred years. I think I'm learning something. I think there are ancient voices saying hello small one, touch the dirt and the leaves, for now you are part of something that cannot die

in 2030 I will be thirty years old and the world will not have ended and there will still be hummingbirds, and we will have photos of the stars more beautiful than we can now imagine.

I planted an Eastern Redcedar; they may live nine hundred years. There will be nine hundred years. The people in that time will remember us. Maybe we will meet the aliens (hi aliens!).

I will blow out the candles on many birthday cakes in a world where there are wolves in dark forests far from home. I am learning to imagine the future. I learned recently that elk were reintroduced to the Appalachian Mountains after over a hundred years of extirpation, and that they are expanding their range.

That tiny crack I can see through now opens a tiny bit more:

Maybe elk will pass through my hometown, maybe there will be a forest where the pasture is on the high hill that I can see from my home

say it, say it, say it: ten years, thirty years, a hundred years from now

a short comic about witches and wishes and wanting things.

I repeated the experiment later, wearing the boots but otherwise my usual clothing and mimicking the expression I thought I’d had at that moment. People parted like I was Charlton Heston.

I now wear that style of boots whenever possible. I recently had a man do a double-take as I walked by and ask me, politely, where I had served because I “looked like a soldier.” I’m not current or former military. I was wearing a flowy purple peasant top and looked as un-soldierlike as possible.

Wheel like you’re gonna win the Indy 500 and don’t care how.

Your crutches are short swords; walk like you can see them buried in the bodies of anyone who crosses (in front of) you.

This incredible reinterpretation of Jolene has become one of my favorite things. I have stitched together a master version of the song from the posts here, here, and here. Jolene, Jolene , Jolene, Jolene; I’m begging of you please don’t take my man. Jolene, Jolene , Jolene, Jolene; Please don’t take him just because you can.

Your beauty is beyond compare With flaming locks of auburn hair With ivory skin and eyes of emerald green

For years our town’s been terrorized By the beast who takes disguise In the shell that calls itself Jolene

Our sleep disturbed by quaking breath Eyes closed against the threat of death That lies behind the teeth of that Jolene

The closer that you get to her The more those edges seem to blur To something that cannot be called Jolene

Jolene, Jolene , Jolene, Jolene; I’m begging of you please don’t take my man. Jolene, Jolene , Jolene, Jolene; Please don’t take him just because you can.

He screams about you in his sleep, And when he wakes does naught but weep, In terror of the one they call, Jolene.

We cower here beneath your gaze, That sets the earth and sky ablaze, Have mercy at the end of days, Jolene.

Before her wrath no foe could stand, Their corpses piled upon the sand, The blood of gods are on her hands; Jolene.

Her hunger barely satisfied, She feasted on the ones who died, She slumbers now in starless skies; Jolene.

Jolene, Jolene , Jolene, Jolene; I’m begging of you, please don’t disturb her sleep. Jolene, Jolene , Jolene, Jolene; We’re safe while she still slumbers in the deep.

Your teeth are sharp, your mouth agape Your claws rend flesh, there’s no escape From judgement of the Eldritch One, Jolene

Blackening the summer skies, With burning wings and countless eyes, We tremble at the thought of you, Jolene.

Bliss withered from this awful truth, Gone is the ignorance of youth, The unrelenting mark of that Jolene.

Jolene, Jolene , Jolene, Jolene; I’m begging of you please don’t take my man. Jolene, Jolene , Jolene, Jolene; Please don’t take him just because you can.

The foolish who came to defend, Their broken minds will never mend, They fell at the mere sight of you, Jolene.

But I’ve seen beyond that auburn hair My eyes have met your vacant stare And  I’ve been told I’m hard to scare, Jolene