The Ramblings of a Raving Lunautistic

And that was a mother fucking nazi salute.

You can tell by the watermark, and the way I use my walk. Also, I'm not a woman's man, but I still got no time to talk.

I'm releasing it into CC BY-NC-ND ( https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/ )

By me, SteeleUmbra. Inspired by…let's say, very recent events, that I have no other safe-to-post-online words for:

And by “used to”, I mean about 16 years ago. Or so.

My [cat,] Little Orphan Annie. I think the pic is from 2002 or 2003.

Little Orphan Annie came to me in the early 2000s, when I was living in a basement apartment on Rome, NY, across from the building managers office. Someone had been driving by the apartments when they slowed down just enough to open a door, and throw her out. I don’t know what happened immediately after that, but someone brought her to the office. And, not knowing what to do, management asked me if I wanted to take her in. I said yes.

I shouldn’t have. I had two other cats at the time. But I said yes. So, Annie joined the family with my two other girls; Duffy, my Maine coon mixed with who knows what, and Jett, my black domestic short hair.

I remember that Annie hid under my bed for the first two weeks. I moved food dishes and litter boxes near enough for her to get to them, but I don’t thing she ate or relieved herself for the first two or three days. At least, not that I noticed while I was awake. But she started coming out more often as time went on, and getting to know the girls more. Duffy wasn’t too keen on her. Jett became her best friend in the world. And I was the thing that fed her and cleaned the litter, and was there when she felt like caring, but otherwise she didn’t have much use for. She still let me give her head kisses, though.

I don’t remember the time frame exactly, so I’m going to guess about 7 months in, Annie’s ear swelled like a balloon. I rushed her to the vet, where after a quick examination I was told that she had burst a blood vessel, probably shaking her head, but it was purely cosmetic. They sent us home, and I had to wait with her for the swelling to go down, which it did over the next week or so. And the vet was right. Her ear never went back to its original shape, but as far as I was able to tell, she could hear perfectly fine. And Annie, over all, was fine.

Right up until it happened again the next year, in her other ear. And I rushed her to the vet again. And the vet said it was a broken blood vessel, and it was just cosmetic, and, oh, by the way, she has a heart murmur. Have a nice day.

Yeah. In not so few words, that was pretty much the way I was told.

*If you’re wondering why I was going to this vet, it’s the same vet’s office my pets went to years before, living with some family. It was tradition over quality, at the time. And I didn’t know any better. I’ll jump ahead quite a few years to say that this same office told me that a growth on Duffy’s neck was nothing to worry about. But then I moved to Maine, and took her to a new, competent vet, who told me it was cancer. But that’s a whole different story. For now, back to Annie.*

So, over time, I had gotten used to her only caring about me when she needed to jump into my lap so she could fall asleep and drool onto my knee—which happened rarely, so I just didn’t move until I had to or she got up. And, everything seemed okay. Until it was 2008…or 2009. It’s hard to remember which, now. But I remember she was seven. And then, she wasn’t anymore. I found her under my bed, after wondering where she was all day because I hadn’t seen her at all. And I didn’t drive—and had really no place to go if I had—so I needed to wait all night for a friend to come help me.

It was the first time, as an adult, that I felt absolutely broken. I know there are people who treat their animals like just animals. Most of them have a lot of human family and friends to pick up the slack, though. This autistic did not. And my cat’s were the only family I had. And I’d just lost one of them.

My friend allowed me to bury her under a tree in his yard, where his pets were buried. And I buried her with one of her favorite toys. Not just because I thought it was fitting that she have something she really enjoyed, but because my other cats were terrified of it. It was called Thing In A Bag.

The only clear image I could find with a quick search for Thing In A Bag. The cat is from the toy’s advertising; it is not my Little Orphan Annie.

It looked like a paper bag, and had a vibrating ball inside that made it seem like a little creature was trapped inside. Annie had been the only one brave enough to pounce on it, while Jett mostly stayed on top of an overstuffed chair, and Duffy hid behind it. Just to let you know, they don’t make them anymore. I know. I’ve checked so many times through the years that I’ve just given up on finding another now (I might be able to find one on Ebay, but I’m not really motivated to care anymore). So, don’t bother searching for one. But, she is resting with hers.

Actually, I hope she isn’t. I hope she’s no where near it. And I hope she’s not anywhere near the planet it’s in. This place sucks—it seems like more every year. I’d rather she be someplace a whole lot happier than this reality. But I wouldn’t complain if she came for a visit once in a while.

As a side, I can’t listen to John Denver’s voice singing Annie’s Song. It’s all I listened to after she passed, and I still get emotional flashbacks when it plays.

The thing is, up until that point, I wrote. A lot. Mostly stories. I had I-don’t-know how many short stories, and had been working on at least two stories I was trying to turn into novels. Nothing published, mind you. I had tired. But when you keep getting rejection letters and have undiagnosed—at the time—neurological issues that cause rejection sensitivity, future attempts have a tendency to slow, then stall, then never start again. But I still wrote. And I wrote hoping that someday, somebody would read any of my stories and care that I was here.

And then Annie died. And then I had to wait for help. And then I had to deal with the weight of that on my own. And then, I had to realize that no one was coming to my rescue. And no one was coming to console me. And no one was coming to care.

And, for the most part, I just stopped writing. All of the work I was trying to put together is still on an old, WinXP desktop I have sitting in the closet. And, I couldn’t get to it even if I wanted to. The computer broke years ago, and won’t turn on. No, I won’t have it fixed. For reasons.

*A note for gay future writers—don’t have a gay wallpaper set on your desktop background if the only computer person you know/can afford is a conservative Christian, because your computer will break before you can change the wallpaper to something more neutral. And if you do have gay wallpaper set on your desktop background and the only computer person you know is a conservative Christian, keep that computer locked away until you hit the lottery and find someone to fix it who isn’t afraid of catching “the gay”.*

I’ve written poems, off and on, through the years. Occasionally, song lyrics—which isn’t that impressive when you don’t play anything enough to be able to write music for them. And since 2008, or 2009—or so—I have written…maybe about as many short stories as I can count on less than two hands.

Even journals. I used to journal. Sometimes, a lot. But it’s been really sporadic since then. Even when I did journal, though, I would stop myself a lot (that was a learned trauma response, though; not related to this…definitely a different story).

And, I don’t know if I will ever get back into writing like I want to. I always had this dream about being some famous writer, and living in a cottage somewhere in the woods with I don’t know how many cats and a fireplace nearby, and two writing desks—one at a window with a beautiful view, and one in another room away from the window so my hands wouldn’t get cold in the winter. And a functional kitchen where I would make gallons of coffee. And I would have a bottle of Brandy and a bottle of whiskey on hand at all times—not really for the writing, but those are the only alcohols I like. And, I’ve had to realize over the years that none of that will ever happen. I’m pushing 50 now. You’d think that if hope were going to manifest anything like that, I would have had some sign by now. And, yet, the only signs I’ve seen have big white letters spelling STOP. So, I think I’m done with that dream. Not that I don’t want it, or that I wouldn’t love it. But I want Annie, and would love her to be here, too. Some things have to die. And, you have to move on through life, sometimes wounded and wondering why things hurt so much, as best you can.

And, sometimes—too many times—for one reason or another, dreams have to come to an end.

All this to say—I guess, exactly that. It really wasn’t part of the plan, to end this with a slice of depression.

But there it is.

I thought there were more uploads to transfer, but the two leftovers are really just one explaining that I don't know how to use substack notes yet, and the other saying that I'm leaving substack. The latter, I'm not transferring to here. But if you're interested in reading it then you can hop the link: https://steeleumbra.substack.com/p/la-finale

Originally uploaded to substack Nov 21, 2024

I have brain therapy in two and a half hours. Psychology. The study of how the mind works. Mine may never be understood. I’m not sure if I like it that way.

Have you ever thought about the universe? No, I’m not coming up with a better segue. That would need to be created in a part of my mind that doesn’t want to work. So, just go with it. But, have you ever thought about the universe? I don’t mean some existential meaning of life, where are we going, where did we come from, kind of thing. I mean the universe itself.

I am mentally exhausted after another night of not sleeping. But because of my appointment later I can’t just try to get some sleep and hope that I don’t dream away the day—usually with disastrous results. So, I need to stay awake at the very least until I get home.

Those two don’t seem to be related, but let me build that path for you now by saying that when I can’t sleep—like when I can’t miss an appointment because it’s the last one I’ll have before a big American holiday—sometimes I have these really deep, unanswerable questions just birth themselves into my brain space. Except, I’m a level one autistic. I can’t leave questions unanswered. Everything has an explanation, and I need to know what it is. And this time, the question dancing around my neurons was, “What shape is the universe?”

Don’t ask me why. These posts have been long enough. Do you really want a fifteen part essay on how I got to that question? No, you don’t. yes, I answered for you. I’m typing this out and I have no idea if anyone will ever read it. That means this may be my only chance to have a conversation with the person hypothetically reading my word blooms here. So, let me have my moment.

Anyway, I was thinking about what shape the universe was. And, I have come to a conclusion. One that I’ve had on my mind before, but not really explained why.

A torus.

Now before you go and either tell me it doesn’t matter—which you can’t because this isn’t a real conversation—or balk that it’s been thought of before, let me have my say. It will probably sound like every other say about it, if you’re into hearing what people think of the universe, but let me have mine anyway.

I’ve been seeing a lot of videos pop up lately with people talking about how the universe is expanding, and everything is moving away from everything else. And, I have seen videos talking about how the entire universe itself is expanding. Now, here’s the part I need my say in; if the universe is expanding, and keeps expanding…when does it pop? People like myself will say it doesn’t. That it will just collapse on itself, and expand again. But I put to you this little bit of possible wisdom—bubbles don’t contract. They just pop. Balloons don’t contract when they expand [too] far. They pop. Bubble gum bubbles that continue to expand; they pop. In fact, name a bubble in the physical universe you know of that can expand forever, without a pop? Yeah, I don’t think you can.

So, if the universe is a bubble—it’s going to pop. Or it already has. We can only measure and make note of what we can see in the part of our universe that we can experience. So if it has popped, life here may not even exist by the time the effects of popping reach this part of space. Besides that, it opens up a whole new can of worms about where its contents are spilling into that I would very much like like to skip, as I have absolutely not had enough coffee to deal with all of that.

Ignore the pop, though, because I have also see videos of people saying that they believe the universe has had more than one big bang. So, here are the problems I see created if that is true. The first is that nothing in the physical universe expands and contracts, then expands and contracts, then does it again for an indeterminate amount of times. Even a balloon, when it contracts, expels the air it was filled with. It doesn’t contract the molecules inside of it into an anomaly that explodes to fill the balloon again. Maybe with outside pressure, or lack thereof; but that would be another worm can being opened about what would would cause that on an extra-universal scale. Not enough caffeine for that today.

The second problem is that whether the universe expands and contracts, or if the universe someday pops, where are the multiple big bangs coming from? Again, without an outside source, even balloons don’t contract far enough to explode out again. And if the universe is a bubble and it pops, that’s only going to result in one big bang—the very first and only one. You can’t get two or more beginnings from something that breaks apart.

So, if any of that is true—that the universe is expanding, it isn’t likely to collapse into a single point then explode into being again, it isn’t going to pop even though it’s expanding, and there have been multiple big bangs—then there must be a shape that allows everything to travel away from everything else, while still allow that tremendous explosion that everything came from to begin with. And a sphere isn’t going to cut it.

A torus would, though.

The universe would expand, and everything within it would move farther and farther apart, while moving away from the center of the torus and up, over the top toward the outer edge. Once on the very farthest ring of the outer edge, however, the expansion would stop—then reverse as everything moved down toward the bottom of the torus. And the multiple big bangs would be caused by everything collapsing from the bottom of the torus into the center, being squeezed through, and exploding into the top of the torus to start the entire cycle again. One big bang after another, after another, and after another. One universe expanding, then contracting again.

It isn’t super-original. I know others have thought of the torus hypothesis before. And that may not be the case at all. The universe may be an ever expanding sphere, or bubble. Or it may be a sphere that reaches its absolute stretch, before contracting into a single point and exploding out again.

Or it might be a complete illusion, and there is no expansion because there is no universe. Only Zool—and some broken eggs in Dana’s fridge. I don’t freaking know. But these are the kinds of thoughts that go through my head when I’m forced to stay awake way too damned long. What shape is the universe? What is the soul? Are space aliens real, as opposed to the ones that apparently live in one of the oceans someplace? How many more movies will Tom Cruise star in before someone finally drops him into a volcano to stop the fucking madness? ….I’m thinking fifteen, but that’s not something I’m about to take bets on.

Anyway, I’ve been typing for an hour. I have to catch the bus in about forty minutes. And my coffee make takes about seven minutes to brew more. All that to say—fuck, I just had a deep thought and I wanted to type about it. Besides, there’s so much stress in this damned world right now. It just feels good to unmask and word vomit one in a while.

C’est la vie.

Originally uploaded to substack Nov 20, 2024

I’m sitting at my desktop, half-half asleep. I guess, that would actually be a quarter asleep.

….Gods, I really don’t care.

I didn’t sleep last night. Mostly because I slept yesterday. Mostly because I couldn’t sleep the night before. And the older I get, the harder it is becoming to fix my cycle after insomniazation. No, that’s not a real word. But it’s my word. You can use it, but I’ll have to charge you a farthing. I won’t try to collect, though, since I don’t even know if those still exist, and by the time I find out I won’t care anymore. Also, don’t confuse my made up word with insemination. It’s been too damned long since I’ve had that. Probably because my fat ass is sometimes surprisingly about eighty percent a top, but still….

My cat is sleeping on my bed, again. He won’t let me hold him, barely lets me brush him, and hates for me to pet him for more than two seconds. But I know he loves me because he has to be in the same room with me—most of the time—and he has no problem stealing the place I lay my ass down to get some Zs. Little sleep thief.

I’ve made coffee already. I’ve made a lot of coffee already. It’s only half caff, though. Better for my heart, and blah blah, and whatnot. And on the one hand, I can drink twice as much. But on the other, If I want to stay awake, I actually have to drink twice as much. And, I am well beyond that amount now. I’ve been drinking coffee since my middle school days, when I was trying to find anything that would keep me awake at school. It never actually helped. But on the good side, it likely made my insomnia very much worse than how bad it was already programmed to be.

I’d like to believe that somewhere, in some other reality, an alternate version of me slept peacefully through the whole night, last night, and woke up overflowing with grace and charm at the plumber’s butt crack of dawn to face the day. What I really believe, however, is that ever version of me is part werewolf—or an alter-equivalent—and none of us has been without sleepiness since the day we were born, spawned, grown, hatched, splurted, sprung, or baked in an over at one thousand seventy four kelvin for ninety-six hours and left on the counter to cool. And the world doesn’t help with my sleep, much. Not that it ever really has, but I can remember a time when I wasn’t trying to fall asleep through my constant thoughts about the world ending—it was about two weeks ago. Mind you, I’m not scared of the world ending. Everybody dies. Sometimes a little here and there, like every time I stupidly watch the news for more than three seconds. But eventually we’re all going to end up being not here. I don’t know how I feel about that. I’m probably going to be really afraid when it’s happening. I always kind of have been, of that. But, where ever I go after this, I don’t think the fear follows. Mostly because I’m more afraid of the experience than I am of actually being gone. Whether we wink out, join the collective, or put on robes and wings—red and black or white and gold, to be determined—once it’s done, it’s done, and there’s no more worry left to be had. Unless my fate is to become a worry god. I’m autistically and ADHDally anxious already, so I could probably do that. I’d be willing to bet I’d have tomes about my greatness written for aeons. Mostly because I’d be very angry with my worshipers if all I got was a pamphlet—very angry. And worried…because, worry god. It would be better if I could trade that in for coffee god, though. But I think Juan Valdez has that covered.

And I’ve been angry lately. Not autism-angry—well, maybe autism-angry. But angry in a generically, this fucking world sucks, kind of way. And being generically angry in a this world fucking sucks kind of way is really hard to deal with when you’re neurodivergent with PTSD. Gods, it would be nice if PTSD stood for part time submarine driver. I’d probably find a way to crash it, though, because I never got my license. So I’ll have to settle for being fucked in the head. I’d really much prefer the ass, as I’m only about eighty percent—

All this to say, I’m fucking tired. The cat won’t let me lay down. It’s only 9:56am and I shouldn’t lay down anyway. Half caff ain’t cutting it. I don’t have the energy to figure out why I used “mostly” [too] gods damned much in this post. Oh, and I forgot about the headache. Not that one. Not that one, either. No, not that one either. That doesn’t make sense. But I’m too tired to know exactly what head I mean at this point. You figure it out.

C’est la vie.

Original poem written by me, Steeleumbra, and originally uploaded to substack on Nov 19, 2024

Trigger warning (that I forgot to add to my original substack upload): This is about intolerant and hateful religious and political extremism--technically directed toward the memory of the person who abused me, using but not exclusively both, many years ago, and to the type of person who would do so to others today. This contains NON-glorifying talk of adult subject matters including mentions of S.A. (though not applicable to every action mentioned); reader discretion highly advised, especially for anyone who has experienced any form of abuse (and most especially if you were told it was your fault, because that is NOT the message I am trying to convey here; but the wording I used could definitely make it seem like it is for those who have a mental, physical, and/or other type of abuse history). I very much debated putting this behind a Sensitive Subject Matter wall here on Tumblr, and will likely do so in the near future. But I want there to be enough time for those who wish to see it freely, to not be hindered by needing a Tumblr account to do so.

There is no war like the

war within Unless you take your war and glue it to my face

with empty tears telling me how sad you've been That no one is listening when you tell them love

and understanding

guided your hand The devils dick is in your cheek But you won't bite it off leave him with a stub

to get your voice back Come on! Where's your bitch ass gone Stop pumping shit through your veins while you're laughing through your pain

and bleeding from your knees

Do you really enjoy being afraid of everything Following like a racist in the wind stuck to the ass of a limousine

headed to the fires The home of everything dark that breeds and seethes desperate to feed Do you really think this is peace

You come from a road

you were told was headed to the promised land When did you let the shadows finally take the wheel and spread their disease along the dash

When did the pavement become flesh and bone You're sick You're feverish You're blind and leading yourself into the weeds

You hear voices

swearing that they're strong against the fear and the tears and the rags you've been given to wear What will you do when they leave you raped and pleading

and bound to the thorns in the trees What will you do when you look around and see all the hated children hanging like garland

Legs tied to each other

swaying in the poisoned wind and feel your skin peeling to the tune of a redemption call

Burning off at the touch of your crutches rotten seed What will you do when they bind you to the wall and force you to watch

as they pump you full of flesh

and pull their larvae twisting from between your dying thighs over and over and over again

When they bind your lips with molten rock because the sound of your voice becomes the weapon stabbing at their ears when you won't shut up to just make their god damned

meals

and offspring More larvae breaking from your womb falling to the floor How big and silent

do you think their hive will be when you have no where to run When they give you no time to rest No say

No property

No cloth for your back No bandage for your wounds Some people believe that we should go back to when they themselves

would be the enemy the weak the used and abused the expense no one will miss when it's chopped and mixed

and poured into the soil of their cursing fields

Is that really you Is your whole existence really so worthless that you want your soul to die Do you really want the world to burn with you down

*Image credit to blauthbianca, through Pixabay: https://pixabay.com/users/blauthbianca-6967180/

Originally uploaded to substack Nov 19, 2024

I’m sitting in my bedroom at my desktop, listening to my media player on shuffle. Michael Jackson’s ‘Bad’ just finished, and ‘Baby One More Time’ by Britney Spears just started.

I played with my cat earlier to the song ‘Shake Your Groove Thing’, by Peaches and Herb. He is now trying to sleep in the middle of my bed. And he can have it. It’s 10:57pm, and it already feels like it’s going to be another sleepless night for me.

I’m not sure if I’m just killing time pissing around on the computer, or actually trying to think of something to do. But I also guess it doesn’t ultimately matter. If I strapped wings to my arms, drew a smiley face on my bare ass, and jumped off the roof trying to catch a headwind to Alaska from Lewiston, Maine, I don’t think that would matter much either. Not anymore than my ass possibly seeing a pic of itself smiling on someone’s cctv feed on a future true hauntings special; or whatever my spirit is, still floating around in the earthly ether long enough to see images of the body of a moron, found two feet from the base of my building flashing on the 5 o’clock news with wings tied to his arms and lines on his ass that might be a face, or a recipe for shortbread he must have wrote after putting the wings on. It would only be a two story fall, but at that point one could hope for either result, I guess.

“Why do I write like I’m from somewhere in the UK,” he asks himself but also writes out, for some unknown cosmic reason. I’m an ex-central New Yorker living in Maine.

It’s those damned immigrant-British TV shows, I tell you! Someone should have taken the remote away from me when Keeping Up Appearances and Benny Hill came on. Most fucking definitely when Benny Hill came on. I was way too gods damned, fucking young to be watching that adult shite.

Did you ever notice that he was never undressed enough. Not for my little gay but straight-masking ass. No, he wasn’t that good looking. But I grew up watching the Skipper’s bulge on Gilligan’s Island. Bears have always been my thing, I guess.

Still—fucking late night cable television and lack of responsible adult supervision; regardless of the fact that my undiagnosed autistic and ADHD insomnia made me stay awake later than any adult I knew.

Anyway….

‘Make My Heart Go’, Gloria Estefan. Playing now. It played ‘Wepo’ by her about an hour ago. That’s a fun song to ugly dance to. Most of these songs are fun to ugly dance to. And most of my dances are ugly. That’s why I called the playlist Dance Mix. It isn’t, technically, dance music. I think only three or four of the songs, out of the dozens I’ve added, would actually be played in a club somewhere. But they give my legs and 49 and a half year old hips something to move to while my hands do dishes. I don’t want my limbs to be jealous of each other. Especially my legs. 3:37am, petty vengeance charlie horses are some of the worst I’ve ever had. Granted, I have no proof that revenge is the reason for the pain. But I have better sense than to tempt that kind of fate.

‘Poker Face’. Lady Gaga. This one was fucking huge when it hit the airwaves. It seems like such a long time ago, but it hasn’t even been a full decade yet. It’s not like ‘Joyride’ by Roxette, which came out in 1990, nor ‘Call Me’ by Blonde in 1980. Those I could argue should feel sort of old, now. And I didn’t get here until ‘75, myself, so I can’t actually claim to have been here for the original runs of anything from as far back as 1970. But I’ve heard a lot of music from then…and before. And I’ve pretty much liked it all.

Except that fucking ‘Mairzy Doats’ one. I can’t be arsed to look up who performed it, nor care, but it’s from the ‘40s. It’s slightly more absolutely annoying than ‘Baby Shark’ to me, so it wins my most hated song award—which I don’t have one of to give. Mostly because I’ll be fucked by a bullet train on cross country skis if I invest in an award for a song I hate but can’t get out of my head.

I would invest in an award—a good award—for ‘The Song That Doesn't End’, though, because I don’t mind making some deep valley head spaces for that. Sherry Lewis did it using her Lamb Chop voice for an album. Though, I didn’t hear it until it was on her PBS children’s show in the ‘90s. Yes, I was too old to be watching it. But I’m also autistic, which is both a reality and the excuse I will use anytime I’m questioned about my music and video tastes that seem too juvenile. It also doesn’t hurt that I like ventriloquists. For the most part. Some should drown trying to drink water and talk at the same time. But I’ll keep my lips sealed and my hand firmly out of a puppet’s ass about who, other than to say it isn’t Dunham—but don’t push it.

All this to say…not a hell of a lot. I didn’t really expect to write this much. But I just had some chocolate yogurt with generic Cinnamon Toast Crunch for—well, the fucking crunch, I guess—and some coffee since insomnia already sent a telegram letting me know it’s on that bullet train tonight headed for my ass, so the caffeine won’t make a difference. And it is now 11:28pm, and my cat is still driving my bed through patches of ethereal catnip and tuna trees. And I just wanted a place where I don’t have to strive to be relevant in a world where I never have been. Where I don’t have to bust my ass, sans smiley face, trying to think of something that makes me believe that I’m important enough for the world to give a shit about. I just want to be me, streams of consciousness or not, without the responsibility of having to mask just to make small talk, nor somehow build from scratch the motivation to be impressive in an old t-shirt from Walmart, a pair of boxer briefs that were, at some point in years past, probably also from Walmart, and using one of the coffee cups I bought from Dollar Tree because I’m really fucking poor, but that I wouldn’t trade for a hundred bucks each. Come back with two hundred each, and I’ll negotiate.

That’s a lie. I’m autistic. We don’t negotiate. We wait for you to imply something, take it literally, say something unknowingly inappropriate, and watch you walk away wondering why you don’t want to buy from us anymore.

C’est la vie.

*Image credit - Me. It’s my cat. Not taken at a time that reflects the content of the text, but I’m not taking a low light image at night with an Android. Besides, I like how this one turned out.

I'm back. But, I'm definitely repurposing this for more of a creative writing and newsletter, kind of thing. Maybe with some poems sprinkled around like pixie dust. Maybe sprinkled around more like salt on an icy road. Mostly because I've never seen pixie dust...that I know of.

Oh, and, hey! The blog title has changed! Gee, how did that happen?

Surprise! It was me.

Okay, it's not really a surprise. But I've been up all night, and now I have to stay awake as long as possible just trying to reset my sleep cycle, so give me this moment of confusion and pretend it's the best thing you've ever seen. I'll be watching you do that from my place over here in this corner, drinking my half caff maxie-hous and trying to decide if catching the bus to the store is worth it or not.

I'm heavily leaning toward not.

But I need the liquid stuff that goes in coffee that makes it not as black as my soul...and goes well with cereal.

.

..

...

I also need cereal...Fuck.

Anyway...I'm leaving a lot of things from the past version of this blog up. But, it will be mostly a writing blog from now until...I don't know. Whenever I change my mind about it or jump to another site, I guess.

Anyway...er, number 2? I recently had started a Substack that I enjoyed uploading to. However, since Substack decided to partner with a waste of internet space, I have stopped posting there. It's okay, though. I only had six stories up. I mention this because I think I'll transfer those stories over to here. If for no other reason, it would be nice to have a record of them on a site that I'll come back to using at some point rather then abandoning them somewhere I have no intention of ever returning to.

And...I guess, Anyway, number 3? In the past, I posted artwork and other things on this blog, and some of those things-that I created-were for sale on Etsy. But, I no longer use Etsy. So--I edited the item a couple of posts back to say part of this, but.... A) If you see something that I was selling on Etsy, that you would be interested in buying, DM me about it. I have a Ko-fi now, and if whatever it is happens to still be available after all this time, I can set up a sales page for it so that you can buy it, and we can both have an official record of sales. Really looking just for sales here in the States, though. International shipping is a bitch--I can make exceptions, but you would need to pay shipping, because I'm poor as hell. And it's still going to be a bitch. And B) I'll be posting my artwork, whether for sale or not, to my art blog. I should have a link to it someplace on my Tumblr profile, but if not then I'll edit this later to add that link. probably at the bottom of this post. I'm still trying to decide what to do with my other Tumblr blogs, but the art one will probably both stay up, and stay the most unchanged other than being the one I post about any pieces I have for sale on, and posting links to any art pieces I have on other sites. I will, however, make that page inclusive of all forms of my art, both digital and physical (no, I won't take off my watermarks, nor tell you where my hidden signatures are). I say that because I believe I have the categories separated over 2 blogs, and I feel the need to consolidate them into one. We'll see how that goes. Oh--and I doubt this is going to do any good, but...NONE of my images-neither those taken as photographs nor those images of my creation-are posted for use to train A.I.

Okay. No more anyways. It does seem that I am back on Tumblr now. For a while, at least. We'll see how this goes.

When I was posting to substack, I ended my posts with the French phrase, "C'est la vie," which makes no sense because I speak almost no French at all. I barely speak English. Hell, I barely speak human. I don't remember why I used the phrase as a sign off to begin with. But it quickly became a habit that I liked. So, I think I'll start using on here, too.

And, with that...C'est la vie.

But, I'm back.

Maybe.

We'll see. I'll have to figure out what I want to do with these blogs of mine. I'll likely be deleting at least two of them, but I have no idea how soon. And it depends on whether I can find a way to re-use them for things I care about, and the things that have changed.

"Torn Apart" 9 in by 11 5/8 in. Horror/SciFi drawing (started while having a meltdown).

Graphite, Charcoal, and India ink, on 140lb watercolor paper. Signed and dated on both sides; titled on back.

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Edit: Hey! Future me, here.

1) Yes, I know who it resembles. It was not, however, planned to look like him. Just a happy coincidence :) In actuality, it’s just supposed to be a loosely Lovecraftian based horror drawing, and I had no specific people, nor specific orange peel of a person, in mind when I drew it. It was more of an act of trying to relieve a meltdown brought on by anxiety, than anything else.