No, Jesse Welles is NOT pro-Charlie fucking Kirk

Yes, Jesse Welles wrote a song about the killing of Charlie Kirk. NO, it was NOT a pro-gung ho-Charlie is a martyr song.

It was a song about gun violence and freedom of speech...

Tolkein's Vogon Poetry

I've been trying to read Fellowship of the Ring again.

I read the series 35 years ago, and it was like slogging through Boston after the great molasses flood. Just agonizing.

Tolkein couldn't write poetry if a gun was held to his head and he was under threat of death to write a decent poem. And every chapter has one, two, or more of his awful fucking Vogon poetry.

I'll be just getting into the rhythm of the story when fucking JRR decides it's time to pull out his Prostetinic Vogon Jeltz mask and begin:

When I was seven, my family put on an Easter Egg hunt for all the kids on our street. Most of them were 10 and up. My sister and I didn't get baskets that year, because we were having the hunt instead.

I didn't find a single thing until our housemate showed me where he had hidden one hard boiled egg. I remember feeling miserable and watching all the other kids crowing about their loot. I spent most of the afternoon crying in my room. And my Easter consisted of a hard boiled egg, which I didn't even like back then.

I never ever EVER put on a neighborhood hunt for my kids because I'll be damned if one of my kids would ever feel the way I felt that day. 

We did baskets and inside the house egg hunts, just for our kids, and each kid got one room to search, so they would each get a fair share.

The Weight of Forty Years

Forty plus years ago, I spent one spring and summer where I had no job and couldn't find one. I was stripping one night a week and paid $25 for that, plus any tips customers stuffed in my g-string, which was usually about $10-15 a night. So my income was no more than $40 a week. I had to eat, and I needed cigarettes, which I considered a priority.

During that time, I ate nothing but one  $1 hot dog a day, loaded down with ketchup, mustard, relish, onion, and kraut, because toppings were free. I ended up losing over 90 pounds. I was emaciated, I was weak, and jesus FUCK was I hungry.

When I finally got a job, working in a diner/ice cream parlor, with a 50% food discount, I ate everything in sight. I worked 7-2, and would eat breakfast during my 15 minute break, lunch during my half hour, and then another meal after work.

This was all fried food, burgers, fish and chips, fries, chicken fingers, and oh, yeah, frappes and sundaes. Fully half my paycheck was deducted to pay for all this, and I was bringing home $100 or so a week, including tips.

I gained back everything I'd lost. And the weight kept coming. I got bigger and bigger as my eating got out of control.

Bigger and bigger and bigger over the course of forty years. It affected my health, my mobility, my self-esteem, my mental state. Don't let anyone tell you "healthy at any size", because that weight inevitably catches up with you and overwhelms your physical state.

I finally topped out last year at 370 pounds. At that point, I knew shit had to change. I went to my doctor and got on Ozempic.

Since I've been on the full dose, I have lost more than 40 pounds. My goal is to get to at least as low as 250. I think at 250 I'll be able to walk to the damn bathroom again, at least.

I am addressing my very complex and fucked up food issues with my therapist, because it is time. Time to take control and time to put the damn fork down.

Time to reclaim my life.

The Bustiers and Bullshit of the Far Right

The "Freedom for Me, but Not for Thee" crowd is at it again, and the irony is thick enough to choke a horse. Conservative Americans love to wrap themselves in the flag and scream about liberty from the rooftops, but that liberty apparently comes with a "Members Only" sign.

They want the freedom to stockpile enough firepower to arm a small nation, the freedom to vote by mail while simultaneously trying to dismantle the post office for everyone else, and the freedom to indulge in whatever private kinks they fancy behind closed doors. We see the hypocrisy in real-time: a certain president casts his own ballot from the comfort of a gold-plated mailbox while he and his followers scream that mail-in voting is a scam.

If Bryon Noem wants to spend his weekends in a bustier and heels, that’s between him, his mirror, and POSSIBLY his wife, though an argument could be made that it's only her business if he decides that's okay.

David Gerrold says I am a screechweasel :)

He also lies. Says I blocked him, when, in fact, I only unfriended him. HE is the one who did the blocking.

Would somebody who hasn't left his feed point him to my last two blog posts? 

Looks like I totes got into his skull. 🙂

I did not call him a transphobe. I called him a transphobe LOVER, because he believes its okay to hand your money and time to that transphobic cunt, Rowling.

And we proceed:

The Myth of the Neutral Platform

In her own hateful words

There is a common misconception that providing a stage for extremist viewpoints is an act of "objective journalism" or "free speech advocacy." However, when you give a KKK leader, a Nazi, or a bigot a microphone, you aren't just observing them; you are participating in their expansion.

Fuck YOU, David Gerrold

Let me make this infinitely clear.

I have three kids, Lis, Ian, and Ava. They are my pride and my joy. I support them in their identities, their lives, their very beings.

Two of my kids are transgender. I am their number one ally. I will go to the mats against anybody who wants to tell me my kids are mentally ill for that, or that they are the gender that they were assigned at birth, or that they should be forced to use a room full of urinals instead of toilets, or any person who SUPPORTS somebody with those fucking ideas in their head (David Gerrold, I am looking at YOU, motherfucker!)

Ink, Strings, and Serenity OR Happy Little Clouds

There is a specific kind of silence that happens the moment I cap my pen after finishing a Zentangle. My hand is usually a bit cramped from the precision of the patterns, but my mind is finally quiet. To keep that peace from evaporating, I reach for my ukulele. The transition from the visual rhythm of ink on paper to the literal vibration of strings against my fingertips is where I find my center.

It’s a world of tiny, deliberate wonders. One hour I’m watching a Shrinky Dink curl and toughen under the heat, and the next I’m assembling an angel keychain, bead by bead. These aren't just crafts; they are anchors. In a world that feels increasingly loud and disposable, these small acts of creation are how I claim my space.

Marshmallow Peeps Are Proof That God Has Forsaken Us

I don't know about you, but when I look at a Marshmallow Peep I don’t see a treat; I see a chemical glow that has no business existing in nature. It’s a neon warning sign in the shape of a bird. Then comes that first bite - that weird, gritty mouthfeel where the sugar crystals scrape against your teeth like fine-grit sandpaper, followed immediately by the soul-crushing squish of a marshmallow that feels less like food and more like a damp, sugary tire.