Macrophylla Zuppa

TWO FOR HORRID JOY

THREE FOR DAWNING REGRET

Terran ambassador: "I'm sorry, what? The translator isn't catching that phrase."

Klingon ambassador: "Your Qongbogh chalDaq tlha' Dat loD. You know, the ones who change with your lunar cycles."

Terran ambassador's assistant: "Qongbogh chalDaq tlha' Dat loD? The...wolf men?"

Humans: I'm sorry, what?

Bajorans: the hairy people with the big feet?

Humans: ?!

GET ON MY LEVEL YOU LOSERS.

It’s Hamlet 

No Stage, just a bunch of chairs and props scattered around the room, audience sits wherever they want 

A Disclaimer is given at the beginning of the play: “There Will Be Blood, and Audicence paticipation.”   “You will be expected to stand up and yell “STOP!”.”   “You’ll know when.”

Play continues as normal, but maybe with a little more Verve than usual 

Just let the actors be Real Unhinged 

Make it clear somewhere in the second act, that the actors aren’t pulling thier punches- 

Those are REAL broken noses, that’s REAL blood on the floor and those swords sure as hell aren’t blunted 

HOPEFULLY someone in the audience stands up and yells “STOP” before rosencrantz and Guildenstern are killed on stage 

From that point on, the play is Improv 

Whoever stands up is treated by the actors like another character in the play- Hamlet will try to convince them to aid his cause, Polonius to get them to Kill Hamlet, Ophelia to get her the hell out of there etc. 

The Doors Are Locked

Efforts to make them break character will be ignored, they can only be reasoned with “In Character" 

It is now up to the Audience to try and stop The Tragedy. 

a desire to learn

an oddly strong love for the moon, the sun, or both

an open mind

time

a little humility

salt, probably

THINGS YOU DON’T NEED TO BE A WITCH

a vagina

nor a uterus

fancy tools

money

formal training

a fancy witch name

a neurotypical brain

alcohol 

chocolate

caffeine

dairy products (adults turn lactose intolerant)

fat trimmings, raw meat, eggs, fish

grapes and raisins

onions and garlic

tuna (when not made for cats)

xylitol (artificial sweetener)

alcohol: not very good for humans, either, but alcohol effects pets the same way it effects humans: targeting the brain and the liver. the issue? it takes way less to kill your cat than it does a human. you weigh, on average, at least 100 pounds (or 10x) more than your cat does. 3 teaspoons of liquour could kill your cat. don’t do it. alcohol WILL poison your cat.

chocolate:  theobromine (and to a lesser degree, caffeine) is the issue with this one. humans? we can break this down in our bodies. cats, dogs, birds, ferrets? they can’t. it usually takes a pretty big amount of theobromine to cause a pet to actually die, though. it’s present in cocoa, so the higher % of cocoa in a chocolate, the less needs to be ingested to cause serious, life-threatening effects. baking chocolate has a high concentration of theobromine and 1 square can kill a cat or small dog. white chocolate is a low risk, on the other hand. chocolate CAN poison your cat, especially DARK and BAKING chocolate.

caffeine: same story as alcohol: not that great for humans either, causes similar effects as in humans… just quicker and with less caffeine ingested. elevated heartrate, seizures, etc. can be seen. dogs and cats are more sensitive to the effects than humans are. caffeine WILL poison your cat.

dairy: cats are lactose intolerant and so their bodies cannot properly break it down– much like how we can break down theobromine and cats/dogs can’t. however, it’s not going to poison your cat, just give them diarrhea and other gastrointestinal upset. dairy WILL NOT poison your cat, but will cause gastrointestinal upset and diarrhea, so it is strongly recommended to not give dairy products to your pets.

fat trimmings: fat trimmings are just fat. if you feed fat to your cats, they will become fat and/or it will increase the level of lipids in the blood, leading to diseases and complications like chronic pancreatitis, which can be fatal. fat trimmings WILL NOT poison your cat, but will lead to disease that can be fatal, so it is strongly recommended to not feed fat trimmings to any pets.

raw meat: cats can eat raw meat. cats are obligate carnivores. cats are designed to only eat meat, and raw meat is not of serious risk to them. disease carried in raw meat? not a problem when you are a cat who has evolved over millions of years to eat raw meat. i hate hearing “cats can’t eat raw meat!” from people with outdoor cats. you realise your cats are eating raw lizard and bird, right? raw meat has more nutrients than cooked meat (which we eat veggies & fruits to compensate for– cats can’t digest these) and, obviously, there are some diseases and bacteria that cats aren’t immune to but cats are less likely to eat rotten meat than dogs are, anyway. treat the meat like you treat human meat and it’s totally fine. cats are DESIGNED TO EAT AND DIGEST RAW MEAT! IT’S PERFECTLY FINE TO FEED YOUR CAT RAW MEAT, but make sure that the meat is in-date and properly stored/cared for. rotten or spoiled meat CAN lead to disease and poisoning, but the same goes for 90% of the animal population!

eggs: its ok to feed your cat eggs. im not even sure why this is a question. raw eggs rarely carry salmonella and even humans rarely contract salmonella from infected eggs. your average cat will never contract salmonella from raw eggs, only in an immuno-compromised cat would this ever be an issue. cats can safely eat raw and cooked eggs, as salmonella is pretty much only a concern in an immuno-compromised cat in the first place.

fish: see raw meat above. fish, however, is a bit of an exception because of higher levels of mercury & low levels of taurine and differing balances of phosphate and calcium mean that it’s not a sustainable diet for cats and could lead to mercury poisoning or bone disease if it is the only protein given. when given ~1 time a week and with varied proteins there is no issue. again, cats are DESIGNED TO EAT AND DIGEST FISH AND OTHER MEATS! however, previous warnings about storing fish correctly still applies, and proteins should be varied due to fish having different levels of phosphorous, calcium, and taurine and mercury content. a primary diet of fish CAN lead to bone disease or mercury poisoning in extreme cases.

grapes and raisins: admittedly, this one is a bit of a wild card. some pets eat raisins/grapes without an issue, but in others, these can cause renal failure and death rapidly. we still don’t know why. animals with prior kidney issues are more likely to be effected by grape/raisin toxicity, and cats are more likely to have kidney issues due to many cats not getting adequate moisture in their diet. grapes and raisins MAY lead to poisoning in some cats and dogs, especially those with pre-existing kidney conditions. 

onions and garlic: yes! all members of the allium genus (shallots, scallions, leeks, etc. are included) contain thiosulphate which, when ingested by cats and dogs, can lead to a serious condition in the blood known as hemolytic anemia. basically: their red blood cells burst. this can be fatal and a small amount of onion/garlic/etc. is needed to cause clinically significant issues. onions, garlic, and other members of the allium genus CAN and WILL poison your pet in even small amounts.

tuna: see fish above. canned tuna tends to be soaked in oil which leads to the same issues as fat trimmings in increasing lipid count in the blood. sashimi quality tuna will also have higher concentration of mercury and shouldn’t be consumed more than occasionally in the cat’s diet. canned tuna in oil is often too fatty and leads to the same issues as eating fat trimmings, however, tuna steak/sashimi/etc. quality tuna is the same as other fish: occasional inclusion in the diet is fine!

Ive seen an infographic for dogs put “dont feed them chips, it can make them fat” higher up in visual priority than “xylotol will rapidly kill them”, WHO IS THIS HELPING?!?!

I just had to google almond and dogs cause my girl got into a handful of nuts, and every website was like ALMONDS CAN KILL YOUR DOG ALMONDS WILL POISON YOUR DOG and then you read it and its like, they’re high in fat so eaten in excess could cause issues

The ASPCA has direct lists of foods and plants that are unsafe for pets, and include the types of pets that would and would not be affected.

I use them all the time when thinking about adopting a new plant into the family.

“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”

The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.

“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”

“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”

The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”

Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”

“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”

Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.

“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”

“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?” 

The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.

A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer. 

“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”

“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”

“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”

The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.

And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.

Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.

“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”

“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”

“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.

“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”

“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”

“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.

“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”

Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.

“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”

“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.

“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”

Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.

“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.

“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.

“What?” the god asked.

The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.

He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.

So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.

“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.

The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.

“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.

“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”

“No,” Arepo smiled.

“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”

“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.

“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.

“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”

The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”

Or maybe he’s just ordering a decaf.

Maybe she’s ordering sugar free because she’s diabetic, and you’re about to put her six feet under.

Or maybe she’s just ordering sugar free,

Maybe they’re ordering non-dairy because they’re intolerant, and you’re about to ruin their day. Maybe they’re allergic, and you’re about to sponsor an all black event in an open field.

Or maybe they’re just ordering non-dairy.

Maybe they ordered gluten free because they can’t process it, and you’re about to destroy their digestive tract.

Or maybe they’re just ordering gluten free.

Maybe they’re ordering this way just because they don’t want the food, for whatever reason.

He has to do something: he feels like he'll go insane if he doesn't; sure, he's retired but Double-Ohs get to that age remarkably early - if they survive long enough at all. What he means, he can't live the retired life: waking up whenever, drinking tea while reading the newspaper, doing fuck all for what's left of the day... no. However, it's also true that his skills aren't exactly... marketable; he's too old to be hired in the security field and he's not going to teach snotty kids how to fight in some shiny gym.

He knows people, though; he knows how to gather intel; he knows how to read a room, a face, the nervous twisting of a hand; he knows how to draw lines between clues, creating a web that tells a story - solves a mystery.

Plus, he has always loved Poirot.

No

What

I don’t even thing he was doing it consciously, but when Trump was elected, my FIRST reaction was ‘We need to leave’. I come from a long line of people who successfully ran away.

But no. It’s not. It’s not for anything cool. You’re hated because of the most uninteresting normal things in the world. Your coloration, who you love, what you wear, how your mind is wired. It’s all so normal and you can’t stand it. How can they hate you for something so normal? It makes no sense.

“oh, is that your knitting?” my arch nemesis cynthia peers her eyes at my hands. “is it some kind of… sock?” everyone knows she and i used to be close before we were married and our husbands, smartly so, have introduced us to the idea of true vengeance.

“it is a scarf,” i say. i want to tell her that when the time comes and the world gets cold it will go over my mouth and i will breathe warm air and it will fill my lungs and i will be able to run around with my love even in the dark night. “it is not,” i say, “over surprising that you should be caught unawares of a scarf,” i say, “as i’m sure enjoying winter festivities are too beneath the handsome qualities your husband prefers.” pompous ass.

the tellers pass each other eyes for now it has started and they are delighted.

my arch nemesis cynthia thrusts out her hand. a white bottle. “rat poison,” she says. “i would expect the whole town knows about your little problem.” stage whisper. “such a shame, my dear.” then she rustles her long green skirts - which i know she wore on behalf of me - and she shimmies herself out of the room like royalty. oh, she floats everywhere she goes, beautiful black hair behind her. the bottle in my palm is cold. i will devise how to get her back starting first thing tomorrow.

the week, as always, is a long week, for there is much to make and do and knit and be. my husband comes home and i love him for who he is; for he never comes home without checking the state of the house up and down. he is the kind who loves his home so completely and sets each room like a stage for a great band to come playing. i am too ashamed to tell him why so many of the rats go missing, only make him a stew the next morning to celebrate. his favorite, although not mine, i’m afraid. plenty left over.

my arch nemesis today - of course - in a green the color of rotting. a bruise is uncarefully covered on her cheekbone, so striking against all of her dainty. her husband would say it was for her ungraceful nature, and i know mine would agree. i strike first, already delighted by my master plan, shoving over our best picnic basket tied with a bow. “i made you and yours a stew,” i say, “for beneath all that you carry” all that horrible wealth of your husband  “it seems you’re getting rather skinny.” i can’t resist one last comment. “i am worried you’re about to waste to nothing.”

She plucks it out of my hand. “yes, if it weren’t for you and your husband’s dwindling wealth,” her sarcasm is biting, “i’m sure i will be nothing in, oh, 5 weeks time.” she arches a brow. “so long from now.”

“i am counting the days,” i tell her. her lips purse. the tellers behind me make a choked titter. perhaps, by their estimation, i have won this round quite completely. i go home to my husband smiling. he asks where i have been and i tell him i’ve been at the bank, but he checks anyway because i like to get up to tricks and he doesn’t like to fall for it. it is a good game we play. at night, when he is asleep, i am so in love that i must convince myself to pull the covers over my nose and practice breathing. how silly to wake him up for a young girl’s feelings. 

the first week of five: she gives me a solid, ugly ring that requires three knuckles to hold. “i feel so badly for your status, and i must remember to practice charity,” she says. “it such a small thing, but do be careful amongst all that thin pine furnishing of your house, which dents so easily.” my husband appears at the bank’s front door. just checking. so lovely to be picked up by him. at night, in a rage, i try it - beneath the table bends easily. i scuff out the scratch with walnut before my husband can see. i pull the covers over my face in bed and breathe.

the second week: i wear her ugly ring and give her more stew, this time hearty with meat. her dress is a meadow. my heart each time it sees her collapses on itself. she hands me clothes for my husband, since his wealth continues to go missing, and the charity of her heart is so loving. i am so ashamed i bury them far by the old tree, where all my shames go hiding. again, the covers. it, by now, helps me sleep. i have gotten so good at it that i can simply shimmy my shoulders to be perfectly toasty and buried.

the third week: she asks how comes my knitting. i tell her it’s nearly complete. she asks how comes my husband, whom she must know has been ill recently, and who is doing quite badly. i go home to him, shaking. even sick he is a good housekeeper, who comes home examining for dust and dinge so i do not fall behind on my chores. who checks to be sure i spoke to only him and no one more, for fear a man might snatch me. tell me, who else has a man so involved, in this day and age?

the fourth week she is envy green. i shove a whole heaping of stew at her, for now her husband has gotten it. i say it will return him to spirits, she laughs, a sudden, beautiful sound, even in the quiet of a bank. everyone stares. maybe it is the stress that is making her quite improper. i feel the same way. so much is happening and it always seems she knows. she says she heard he has left me nothing in the will, which everyone already knows. she says she doubts either of us can dig upwards from the hole we’re both in. i look at the bruise on her nose. i tell her to mind her own husband, and be careful where she goes.

the fifth week: so final. her, garishly lime green. and i in black, to pick up a check that hardly seems the effort. it will be enough to cover my husband’s funeral. she smiles at me and hands me a silver bottle. she says quietly: now that i am destitute, there is one thing for it all, and everyone would understand quite completely. it would be quiet, and quick, and complete.

it is the night of the new moon, so dark no man can see in it. i receive notice her husband has died, and i am sorry to say i find a terrible joy in it. the air has changed cold. i have left a note asking to be buried in my scarf, the last thing i have made on this earth. i go through each perfect room, but there is nothing else to take with me, for the house has always been his and his alone, and now aches to be gone of him. i would not serve as a good tender for it. having spent so many nights watched carefully, the silly girlish freedom i’d gain would surely set the house ablaze.

i follow her instructions. quick, quiet, complete.

the horrible rustling is what does it. like a million green skirts. and then it is dark, and i am in my own coffin, eerie with pine. my head hurts but i must be quick and quiet. they have listened and buried me with my scarf. i shimmy my shoulders just-so and get it over my face. bring my arms up, ugly ring heavy, and begin to hit as hard as i can, over and over, the thin wood of my husband’s favorite furniture, the cretin. it would be pine, of course - he left me no money to be buried in any nicer recourse.

the wood splits so horribly, and then it is very hard to breathe, harder than under the covers, and i have to remind myself to be patient and continue to dig upwards, while my throat closes and my heart beats so loudly and the whole thing is so heavy it is a universe. the shifting of gravedirt is loud, and loud, and i feel i will be turned into a worm, and i fear everyone has forgotten about me, or i have gotten the timing wrong, or i will really die down here in the dirt and the cold

but then her hand, and my hand, and we are both digging towards each other, and she lifts me so easily from the ground like a plucked turnip and holds me against her, us both panting and muddied. we can only stay like this for so long, here in my pauper grave, and then we are both running to the old tree where we met, and unburying a second thing; my lovely box of shame, and men’s clothes, and all of my husband’s dwindling fortune i have slowly been squirrelling away.

my love and angel cynthia, who has black hair like a curtain and a mind so fast i sometimes am in frank awe at it, who is, even now and dirty and raw: even now the only sun in my life.

like this, i a man in an almost-dawn, and us cleaned by the river, and her smiling so widely, and only a faint bruise on her, and our pasts behind us in ugly garish colors. and her delicate hand and beautiful nose and when i finally get to kiss her it feels like green feels; my favorite color, all warm and nature and sunny grace and grass and lying awake so filled with love it makes you shake.

(ʘ‿ʘ✿) “what you say ‘bout me”

the original post

like i have chronic pain, i have an always-on headache that used to be around a 2-3 on the pain scale and is now a 6-7 most days.  but periodically i find that instead of actually feeling a level of pain i can rate, i have a series of puzzling physical sensations like nausea that miraculously get better when i take painkillers and go lie down in the dark.  because they were actually pain signals.  pain signals that got turned into something else at some point in my body.  so i have days where i feel GREAT and pumped to do stuff and then i’m like WHY AM I NOT FUNCTIONING WELL and i go lie down in the dark for a while and it gets better??  because i was actually at an 8 which is Can’t Function levels for me, but 90% of that pain was invisible to me, turned into nausea and manic energy and weird sudden mood shifts instead of “pain”.

I don’t experience normal thirst signals most of the time, either.  I get cravings for ice cream and lime popsicles and watermelon instead of being thirsty.  I had to learn that “i suddenly desperately want ice cream” is my body’s way of saying “put some water in this bitch”.

I also get nausea instead of hunger signals a lot of the time.  nausea is one of my body’s favorite go-to signals to send, in general, so it can mean almost anything.  when my stomach turns i have to go through a checklist of possibilities to figure out what i’m actually feeling.  this is a big reason i eat a lot of snacks.  it’s step number 3 or 4 on my “why do i feel sick” list and happens at least once a day.

and anyway this shit is important for non autistic people to know because we can’t always tell you what we’re experiencing, but also sometimes we can get really upset and overwhelmed with trying to even understand what we’re feeling.  doctors especially need to know this.  how can i tell you what’s wrong with my body when my body doesn’t know how to use its own language for communicating what’s wrong?  when it routinely sends me a mishmash of signals that are totally useless for figuring out the problem?  it’s not impossible but it requires an understanding of just how different the place i’m coming from really is.  you can’t get anywhere by treating me just like an NT patient.

Parenting.