naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
Sigh.

Etrigan has pneumonia. Either that or heart disease, but he seems better after a day on the antibiotics, so I'm choosing to believe it's pneumonia. We expect him to make a full recovery, but this is likely to be a pattern with him. Asthmatic cats are prone to lung infections, especially given that prednisolone lowers his immune system. I'm worried about the little asshole. He's so sweet and so . . . well, I won't say he's good, but I will say that he doesn't mean to be bad, and that counts for something. He certainly doesn't deserve this, the poor little guy.

We didn't know he had an incurable, permanent medical condition when we adopted him, and while I am not at all wanting to give him back or anything asinine like that, I just wish I had known. They say that if you can't afford the vet you can't afford the pet, and I see the wisdom in that to an extent, but if everyone assumed that their pet was going to be sick half the time there would be a lot fewer pets getting rescued and adopted and cared for. I don't think anyone wants more shelter deaths. And a lot of folks couldn't afford pets at all, which sucks, since they make our lives better in so many ways.

There just isn't an answer, and the money isn't there, especially since I need to see my doctor, and we can't afford that either. I'm having persistent, niggling health issues that are really cranking up my anxiety because I don't know what's causing them, and I can't afford to even go in to talk to people, let alone get my regular bloodwork done.

Sigh again. I hate complaining about money, but . . . well, it takes up a lot of my processing space and is making me fairly miserable.

The new psych meds seem to be helping, at least. Although I want to stress that doesn't mean that everything is fine and I'm totally recovered or any of that.

Thank you for the birthday wishes, everyone who wished me a happy birthday (it was on the second, and no, I didn't make a big deal out of it because frankly, I don't care much this year). I got a few nice things and had a quiet day and there were cookies last Monday and everything was pretty much awesome. And [personal profile] bat_cheva got me these ceramic skull beads with a crackle glaze that are just too awesome and too cute for words. I have plans for them already.

I have finished [personal profile] bat_cheva's Christmas present -- you see why I'm like "Nooo, I'm not taking commissions! -- and it is awesome and adorable and I am looking forward to posting pics today or tomorrow.

I'm also working on several other ponies, and I'm in a quandary. One of them is experimental. I used the new Liquitex acrylic spray paint as a black base coat, and I don't know how well it will adhere long-term or how it will age. I'm assuming just fine, since I've never had a problem with Liquitex products aging poorly, but I don't know. I might want to sell this one, and if I do, I will make sure to note that I've tried a new paint in my description. My quandary is how long after you try a new technique do you wait for something to go wrong before you change how you do things permanently?

I do want to sing the praises of Testors Dullcote as a topcoat. Brush-on acrylic sealers are almost always a little grabby no matter how long you let them sit, and as a result they collect dust like nobody's business. Other spray lacquers tend to get glossy when they build up over multiple coats, and it's hard to get the spray up around the belly and legs of the pony without overspraying, which leaves them really wet and, even when they dry, shiny-looking. Also, I've yet to find one that was truly flat, not just satiny or matte, that did not have a kind of rough texture. The Testors goes on smooth, dries insanely fast, and doesn't get over-shiny. The finish is like silk, very much like the original vinyl, so the pony "feels" right.

The one drawback is that it's expensive as hell. Well, that and it smells awful, though not lingeringly since it dries so fast.

Still, I don't think I will be using anything else, ever. It's that good. I knew people in the customs community swore by it, but I hadn't believed the hype. No wonder it's always sold out.

I've never wanted an airbrush -- too much trouble, too noisy, too expensive, takes up too much room -- but the pony thing is making me seriously reconsider that, because topcoats and graded base coats are so difficult with brushes. Water everything down and do it three times, is what I've learned. That is working really well so far.
naamah_darling: Cartoony picture of a black panther with curved horns and a red ball in his mouth. He wants to play. (Jandar Sad)
I am just not having a good time.

So, rueful laugh, I managed to lose/delete three pieces of digital artwork that were important to me in that they made me very happy and I was sort of proud of them.

One is the large version of my character portrait for Rukh Jandar. I have a smaller version of it on Flickr, so I'm sort of okay there.

One is the full version of my horned black panther icons, which are jandar-the-animal icons. I know I have a smaller version of it uploaded somewhere because I posted it in a comment in a community or on someone else's journal but I have no idea where or when that was, and can't find it in any of my photodump sites. I can't summon up the LJ notification email for that comment because that comment was never replied to.

And one is a drawing of an adorable little fennec catbunny thing called a kizza, from the same setting. I have no version of it anywhere, and cannot remember if I ever emailed it to the gaming group. And it's the one I am most upset about, because it was the best one.

I am not the sort to swear and kick things and throw stuff and yell and have a hissyfit, but I am so fucking displeased, seriously. I almost NEVER lose things like this. I have three thumb drives, a backup drive, and two computers. Most stuff is archived SOMEWHERE. I cannot remember, literally cannot remember, the last time I for-real lost a file.

Also, I went to get some beads to fix up a necklace I got (FOR JANDAR NO LESS) and got the wrong damn size of beads.

In our weekly game, Jandar's luck is . . . dreadful. I mean, really dreadful. Golan/Torin/Amaris/Sunder's luck is almost as bad, but is spread out over, like, three personalities, so Jandar's is probably still worse. It's such a notable effect that I wrote a parody song about what it's like when the dice fucking hate your character, but you are too stupid to kill him off and roll up another. (Dice of the Jandar, to the tune of Eye of the Tiger, and aside from the specific character reference in the chorus, it could apply to any campaign that fucks you and fucks you and then fucks you some more.)

And now Jandar's Luck is apparently spreading to real life.

I am not okay with this. I think maybe I need to get back to playing the guy who can roll below a seventy-five.

And right now, that guy is telling me to get my ass into bed. Sigh. I obey.

I want my friggin' kizza. And I am going to concentrate on that fiercely, so that I am not thinking about the other huge and important things I am missing and want back.

Goddamn, can it be next month already, pleeease?
naamah_darling: A wolf with its jaws wide open, and FUCK! written between them. (Fuck!)
I've got a friend in the hospital that I am terribly worried about (the fact that I won't talk more is out of respect for someone else's privacy, not my lack of concern; I'm really fucking worried) and our car just got totaled! We weren't in it at the time, thank goodness. It was parked, and some cowardly and likely drunk asshole creamed it and then drove off. Never even saw them.

This is the car that we just tagged because we got a ticket because they never sent us the renewal notification. So, yeah, we're going to have to pay a ticket for a car we don't have.

So, you know, fuck this shit. I'm going to have a cheeseburger and a root beer and a cookie and then go to bed and hopefully have awesome, awesome dreams about sexing up James Purefoy, like I did last night. And tomorrow I will get up and start sorting through our shit for cool things we can sell, and gather up all the finished art I have and try to take pictures, since I'm still too fucked to be able to make any NEW art. And boy, that makes everything hurt just a little more.

Bright side: looks like we're having a virtual garage sale! I will let you know whatall is going up, but right away I can tell you that I'll be selling a crapton of BPAL, a signed Wendy Pini print, possibly a Goldenwolfen/Christy Grandjean original ink drawing, three or four pirate corsets from Damsel In This Dress, a pair of leather boots, and an antique black seal fur coat. So, you know, lots of pretty cool shit.

As Sargon said: "Jesus Christ, I wish I could spend a hero point and have today NOT HAVE HAPPENED FOR ANYONE."

It could have been a lot worse. My friends had a worse day, I know that, and I feel horrible and so worried. I feel guilty for even complaining, given the shit they're going through. But . . . Jesus. I have under a hundred bucks in my bank account, and no goddamn car, and I can't even guarantee I can help them because . . . no car!

This is a horrible thing to say, but at least my favorite cat is already dead. I miss her. It feels like forever. One month ago today.

Would really, really appreciate good vibes for my friends right now. And maybe a de-cursing on this whole motherfucking year.
naamah_darling: A wolf with its jaws wide open, and FUCK! written between them. (Fuck!)
I've got a friend in the hospital that I am terribly worried about (the fact that I won't talk more is out of respect for someone else's privacy, not my lack of concern; I'm really fucking worried) and our car just got totaled! We weren't in it at the time, thank goodness. It was parked, and some cowardly and likely drunk asshole creamed it and then drove off. Never even saw them.

This is the car that we just tagged because we got a ticket because they never sent us the renewal notification. So, yeah, we're going to have to pay a ticket for a car we don't have.

So, you know, fuck this shit. I'm going to have a cheeseburger and a root beer and a cookie and then go to bed and hopefully have awesome, awesome dreams about sexing up James Purefoy, like I did last night. And tomorrow I will get up and start sorting through our shit for cool things we can sell, and gather up all the finished art I have and try to take pictures, since I'm still too fucked to be able to make any NEW art. And boy, that makes everything hurt just a little more.

Bright side: looks like we're having a virtual garage sale! I will let you know whatall is going up, but right away I can tell you that I'll be selling a crapton of BPAL, a signed Wendy Pini print, possibly a Goldenwolfen/Christy Grandjean original ink drawing, three or four pirate corsets from Damsel In This Dress, a pair of leather boots, and an antique black seal fur coat. So, you know, lots of pretty cool shit.

As Sargon said: "Jesus Christ, I wish I could spend a hero point and have today NOT HAVE HAPPENED FOR ANYONE."

It could have been a lot worse. My friends had a worse day, I know that, and I feel horrible and so worried. I feel guilty for even complaining, given the shit they're going through. But . . . Jesus. I have under a hundred bucks in my bank account, and no goddamn car, and I can't even guarantee I can help them because . . . no car!

This is a horrible thing to say, but at least my favorite cat is already dead. I miss her. It feels like forever. One month ago today.

Would really, really appreciate good vibes for my friends right now. And maybe a de-cursing on this whole motherfucking year.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Warning: Vomito de Gato)
It will not surprise anyone who has ever owned or known a longhaired cat to learn that Tazendra gets dingleberries stuck in her butt fur. Tonight she brought home the motherlode. I will be damned if a single nugget of it reached the litter. So, in the middle of trying to watch a movie and prepare the next [livejournal.com profile] fever_dreams update, I suddenly have a lapful of poopy cat.

I take her to the bathroom to see how bad it is, and realize it's just awful. Either I bathe her, or I trim it all off. Since I'd have to trim it before giving her a bath -- which she hasn't had in 15 years because I frankly think that bathing cats is ludicrous under most circumstances -- I decided to just cut it. It would be easier, I thought.

Ten minutes, half a roll of toilet paper, four baby wipes, and a tennis-ball-sized wad of cat hair later, Tazendra has a buzz cut on her ass. She hates having her butt fur trimmed, but it usually only takes a few seconds. This tried the limits of her patience, and she swiped at me twice and did a lot of bitching and hissing and growling. And now she looks like someone took a weed-whacker to her posterior. She's sitting a lot, and carrying her tail down to disguise it, and I can tell that she is ashamed. I feel a little guilty about it, to tell you the truth. I don't like trimming her pantaloons, since her fur is so pretty and fluffs so adorably when she runs, but there isn't another choice.

So I finally vanquish the Klingons, stand up, and that's when I feel it.

Female TMI. You all know the drill. )

I wind up elbows-deep in the sink washing my underwear out in cold water, feeling very much like one of those creepy Irish ghosts that washes bloody clothes in the river, supposedly presaging the observer's death by violence. Now I will always imagine that the legend of the bean nighe was inspired by some poor woman just trying to dealing with her fucking period laundry. Some guy walking past saw her at it one day and said something smart-mouthed, and the woman said something snarky and Celtic, like "May all the blood that has ever come out of my vagina soak your clothes in the coming battle because someone stabbed you in the face." And he died in the battle, and his friends remembered what she said, and it entered folklore as A Thing. Moral: if a chick is washing blood out of clothes, leave her alone. There is probably no reason for her doing so that does not involve her having a bad day, and you possibly having a worse one.

Not a great way to wind up the evening.

Now I have to go clean the bathroom and check the furniture because god alone knows what else I managed to bleed on without noticing.

I'm told I should find something to be grateful about every day. Today? Thank god I don't have three-inch long butt fur, 'cause this could have been way worse.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Warning: Vomito de Gato)
It will not surprise anyone who has ever owned or known a longhaired cat to learn that Tazendra gets dingleberries stuck in her butt fur. Tonight she brought home the motherlode. I will be damned if a single nugget of it reached the litter. So, in the middle of trying to watch a movie and prepare the next [livejournal.com profile] fever_dreams update, I suddenly have a lapful of poopy cat.

I take her to the bathroom to see how bad it is, and realize it's just awful. Either I bathe her, or I trim it all off. Since I'd have to trim it before giving her a bath -- which she hasn't had in 15 years because I frankly think that bathing cats is ludicrous under most circumstances -- I decided to just cut it. It would be easier, I thought.

Ten minutes, half a roll of toilet paper, four baby wipes, and a tennis-ball-sized wad of cat hair later, Tazendra has a buzz cut on her ass. She hates having her butt fur trimmed, but it usually only takes a few seconds. This tried the limits of her patience, and she swiped at me twice and did a lot of bitching and hissing and growling. And now she looks like someone took a weed-whacker to her posterior. She's sitting a lot, and carrying her tail down to disguise it, and I can tell that she is ashamed. I feel a little guilty about it, to tell you the truth. I don't like trimming her pantaloons, since her fur is so pretty and fluffs so adorably when she runs, but there isn't another choice.

So I finally vanquish the Klingons, stand up, and that's when I feel it.

Female TMI. You all know the drill. )

I wind up elbows-deep in the sink washing my underwear out in cold water, feeling very much like one of those creepy Irish ghosts that washes bloody clothes in the river, supposedly presaging the observer's death by violence. Now I will always imagine that the legend of the bean nighe was inspired by some poor woman just trying to dealing with her fucking period laundry. Some guy walking past saw her at it one day and said something smart-mouthed, and the woman said something snarky and Celtic, like "May all the blood that has ever come out of my vagina soak your clothes in the coming battle because someone stabbed you in the face." And he died in the battle, and his friends remembered what she said, and it entered folklore as A Thing. Moral: if a chick is washing blood out of clothes, leave her alone. There is probably no reason for her doing so that does not involve her having a bad day, and you possibly having a worse one.

Not a great way to wind up the evening.

Now I have to go clean the bathroom and check the furniture because god alone knows what else I managed to bleed on without noticing.

I'm told I should find something to be grateful about every day. Today? Thank god I don't have three-inch long butt fur, 'cause this could have been way worse.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Angry)
I don't have the best camera in the world. It's a Canon Powershot A1000, it's not for professional photographers or anything, it's a point-and-shoot, I get that.

But why in the fucking fuckhell is there not a remote shutter release made for it? I shouldn't have to own a $600 digital SLR camera -- I shouldn't have to buy a new camera AT ALL -- to have access to this really basic fucking function. I want to take pictures from my tripod without camera shake, that's ALL. Do they assume that users of my camera are too stupid and incompetent to WANT this feature? You can't even say they want you to buy the more expensive camera -- the price difference is so great I really, really don't think there'd be any overlap.

Yes, I probably will eventually want a digital SLR camera to take more professional looking pictures of my stuff with, and to shoot some outdoor and portrait stuff. I don't have the money for that, and am not even 100% sure that I would find it so useful it would justify the expense, though. Why can I not have the tools to make the best of the camera I HAVE?

"But wait!" says the internet. "There's firmware hacks that will enable homemade remotes to work with your camera."

I SHOULD NOT HAVE TO UPDATE MY CAMERA'S CUNTPUNCHING SOFTWARE OR ENGAGE IN AMATEUR ELECTRONICS JUST TO HAVE ACCESS TO A BASIC FUCKING ACCESSORY. Because guess what? I don't trust or understand software/firmware hacks, which might damage the camera I can't, you know, fucking afford to replace, and I don't understand electronics, which is really cool but unfortunately falls into a mental grey area of stuff that is really fucking hard for me to understand even the basics of. It's not zany DIY, hack-your-way-to-greatness fun, it's fucking torture, like math class. Like, wiring a single LED is too much for me. PATHETIC I KNOW.

But I have other shit to do with my goddamn time.

*SIGH*

I'd probably go ahead and deal with the firmware hack, if I could find someone to make me a USB remote trigger that will work with it, but checking the site, THERE'S NO HACK FOR MY MODEL. Just a beta version that might fuck shit up.

NICE.

My mom used to accuse me of wanting life on a silver platter. I don't. I just want things to be REASONABLE.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Angry)
I don't have the best camera in the world. It's a Canon Powershot A1000, it's not for professional photographers or anything, it's a point-and-shoot, I get that.

But why in the fucking fuckhell is there not a remote shutter release made for it? I shouldn't have to own a $600 digital SLR camera -- I shouldn't have to buy a new camera AT ALL -- to have access to this really basic fucking function. I want to take pictures from my tripod without camera shake, that's ALL. Do they assume that users of my camera are too stupid and incompetent to WANT this feature? You can't even say they want you to buy the more expensive camera -- the price difference is so great I really, really don't think there'd be any overlap.

Yes, I probably will eventually want a digital SLR camera to take more professional looking pictures of my stuff with, and to shoot some outdoor and portrait stuff. I don't have the money for that, and am not even 100% sure that I would find it so useful it would justify the expense, though. Why can I not have the tools to make the best of the camera I HAVE?

"But wait!" says the internet. "There's firmware hacks that will enable homemade remotes to work with your camera."

I SHOULD NOT HAVE TO UPDATE MY CAMERA'S CUNTPUNCHING SOFTWARE OR ENGAGE IN AMATEUR ELECTRONICS JUST TO HAVE ACCESS TO A BASIC FUCKING ACCESSORY. Because guess what? I don't trust or understand software/firmware hacks, which might damage the camera I can't, you know, fucking afford to replace, and I don't understand electronics, which is really cool but unfortunately falls into a mental grey area of stuff that is really fucking hard for me to understand even the basics of. It's not zany DIY, hack-your-way-to-greatness fun, it's fucking torture, like math class. Like, wiring a single LED is too much for me. PATHETIC I KNOW.

But I have other shit to do with my goddamn time.

*SIGH*

I'd probably go ahead and deal with the firmware hack, if I could find someone to make me a USB remote trigger that will work with it, but checking the site, THERE'S NO HACK FOR MY MODEL. Just a beta version that might fuck shit up.

NICE.

My mom used to accuse me of wanting life on a silver platter. I don't. I just want things to be REASONABLE.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
In other news, I received a not-entirely-unexpected kick to the groin that is my life. I've now been turned down for insurance twice, meaning that very soon I will not have insurance.

I can't explain the situation fully. It's all acronyms and if/thens and deductibles and bullshit and so forth. I don't understand it at all, which makes me feel exceedingly stupid -- also helpless -- but Sargon has been working on it, and it's just not coming together in a way that we can afford.

I thought that if we paid for the COBRA coverage we wouldn't have these problems. Apparently there's a way out of that for the insurance shitheads, because they've denied me based on my preexisting conditions. I'm eligible for "high risk" insurance, which is more expensive than not having it at all.

Being denied coverage because of my thyroid condition and my mental health issues sucks. I did nothing to cause or deserve these things (and even if I had, that's not their fucking business to determine). I manage this shit very well with comparatively little intervention. It makes me angry, it makes me sick, it makes me sad, and I wish to god it didn't make me feel like pond slime, but it does because some part of me believes that if I had just sucked it the fuck up and held on, that I would never have been diagnosed and could not now be denied because I am a human being with the temerity to not have perfect mental health.

AND GUESS WHAT IS NOT HELPING MY MENTAL STATE? YOU SHITPICKING INSURANCE FUCKNECKS, THAT'S WHAT. Thanks a lot, you soulless piss-gargling anal sores. Go suck horse cock-sized shit popsicles in hell. And may the wind from Satan's colon boil your eyes in their sockets and strip the flesh from your bones for a thousand thousand years. Amen.

Sargon, because he doesn't have any chronic health problems and thus theoretically won't actually need the insurance, is insurable.

I love their logic. And by "love," I mean I would like to break all their bones, force-feed them bees, blood-puke, and maggot cheese, drown them in chilled menstrual blood, and then serve them to a pit full of angry wild pigs. Like revolting human ortolans. It would at least be a use for them. If all the insurance world had but a single throat. . . .

I know that many of you, and I suspect the majority, have gone through something similar, probably worse, so I don't need to go into further detail about it. It's just shitty. And it makes me feel shitty. Like I am not worth taking care of. I have nowhere to focus my anger, so it goes inward. I hate this.

Doctors have been fucking me over for 15+ years. I suppose it's not surprising that insurance assholes would get in on that action at some point.

I'm so tired of hearing about shit like this happening to other people, even more than I am pissed at it happening to me. It's so fucking stupid and so fucking unfair. Evil. Actually evil.

I guess the next step is to try to get myself on disability. I won't even go into the enormously complex shitpile of feelings I have about that.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Key)
The doctor called me on Wednesday. The meds just needed adjusting. My TSH level is 7. It should be no more than 5, and mine is usually well below that (in the 3-something range), so this is clearly outta whack. Oddly, this is exactly the news I wanted to hear. Simple problem, simple fix! I have new drugs and hopefully will feel less tired soon.

In a crappy mood today. I did way too much stuff late last week/early this week and am paying for it still. I don't even know how long it will take to go away -- longer than the doing stuff part, obviously. I hate that I'm not functional enough to cope with doing even fun things with other people more than a couple of times a week. It makes me feel worthless and useless as a human being, even more of a failure than usual.

I keep trying to say "I'm not doing anything tomorrow, leave me alone," and then stuff happens anyway, or I wake up in too shitty a mood to relax or I sleep badly or I'm tired for no reason or Sargon has something going on with him, and I just . . . Christ, there are days I wish to god I was someone else. Someone who isn't a bitchy, needy fuckup. Someone who can either take care of herself or stand being around other people more than once or twice a week.

Sigh. I want to play hooky from life.

I had difficult dreams last night which I barely remember, aside from being chased through the woods by both armed military/SWAT team type guys and a homegrown posse of good ol' boys. I don't remember if they thought I was a monster or had a disease or thought I'd stolen something or had just taken a dislike to me, but they were hell-bent on rooting me out and -- I assume -- killing me.

Pursuit dreams of this sort don't really qualify as nightmares; they're more like frustration dreams, and I have them all the time. Usually I ditch my pursuit quite handily. This one got kind of nightmarish, though, as things wore on. Every time I thought I had found a safe hiding place, I would hear a noise, turn around, and there would be this little black foal walking toward me, very intently. Then I'd hear the people coming after me and I'd take off running again. Over and over. The recurrence of the foal became really unnerving after a while. I managed to trap him inside an outdoor petting-zoo type of enclosure at one point, but when I turned around to look behind me, he was there again, trying to walk up to me. I don't know what he wanted. I don't remember anything else about the dream. It left me feeling creepy and gross.

Roadblocked on the porn. There will be something for you all to read on Monday, be assured of that. This is clearly a novel-length idea, and there's two chapters before anything pornographic starts happening. I'm just having trouble right now, for no good reason at all. And I know, I know, "It's porn, lighten up, how hard can it be?" Jesus. The fact that that's true in no way makes the doing any easier.

Right now I am going to have a popsicle and try that scene again. I will not be bested by my own smut, goddammit.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Key)
The doctor called me on Wednesday. The meds just needed adjusting. My TSH level is 7. It should be no more than 5, and mine is usually well below that (in the 3-something range), so this is clearly outta whack. Oddly, this is exactly the news I wanted to hear. Simple problem, simple fix! I have new drugs and hopefully will feel less tired soon.

In a crappy mood today. I did way too much stuff late last week/early this week and am paying for it still. I don't even know how long it will take to go away -- longer than the doing stuff part, obviously. I hate that I'm not functional enough to cope with doing even fun things with other people more than a couple of times a week. It makes me feel worthless and useless as a human being, even more of a failure than usual.

I keep trying to say "I'm not doing anything tomorrow, leave me alone," and then stuff happens anyway, or I wake up in too shitty a mood to relax or I sleep badly or I'm tired for no reason or Sargon has something going on with him, and I just . . . Christ, there are days I wish to god I was someone else. Someone who isn't a bitchy, needy fuckup. Someone who can either take care of herself or stand being around other people more than once or twice a week.

Sigh. I want to play hooky from life.

I had difficult dreams last night which I barely remember, aside from being chased through the woods by both armed military/SWAT team type guys and a homegrown posse of good ol' boys. I don't remember if they thought I was a monster or had a disease or thought I'd stolen something or had just taken a dislike to me, but they were hell-bent on rooting me out and -- I assume -- killing me.

Pursuit dreams of this sort don't really qualify as nightmares; they're more like frustration dreams, and I have them all the time. Usually I ditch my pursuit quite handily. This one got kind of nightmarish, though, as things wore on. Every time I thought I had found a safe hiding place, I would hear a noise, turn around, and there would be this little black foal walking toward me, very intently. Then I'd hear the people coming after me and I'd take off running again. Over and over. The recurrence of the foal became really unnerving after a while. I managed to trap him inside an outdoor petting-zoo type of enclosure at one point, but when I turned around to look behind me, he was there again, trying to walk up to me. I don't know what he wanted. I don't remember anything else about the dream. It left me feeling creepy and gross.

Roadblocked on the porn. There will be something for you all to read on Monday, be assured of that. This is clearly a novel-length idea, and there's two chapters before anything pornographic starts happening. I'm just having trouble right now, for no good reason at all. And I know, I know, "It's porn, lighten up, how hard can it be?" Jesus. The fact that that's true in no way makes the doing any easier.

Right now I am going to have a popsicle and try that scene again. I will not be bested by my own smut, goddammit.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Alpha Female)
I've just written four pages, and I keep getting bogged down in details, so I am just going to say these things as plain as I can.

I am tired of being made to feel that because I am an introvert, because I am not a joiner, because I don't have the emotional or temporal resources to make my kink my lifestyle, I am somehow inferior, cowardly, or stupid.

I am tired of how my particular kink – hurting submissive men -- has been twisted by rampant misogyny into something that is no longer about what I find sexy, but is still about women pleasing men, and I am tired of how entrenched that view is within kink subculture as a whole.

I am tired of being made to feel inferior because I don't have as much real-world experience as extroverted dominants . . . who also don't live in fucking Oklahoma.

I am tired of the answer to the above problem being to just run out and get some experience – always by seeking out a group of like-minded kinksters, leading me to have to repeat that I am not a social person. I am tired of "Join a group of like-minded people!" as advice for anything, really. I just want to yell at people: "That's shitty advice to give an introvert! Shove it up your ass!"

I am tired of the implication that if I can't find a local kink group that isn't full of bickering, woman-hating assholes, it's somehow my fault for being fed up with their bullshit, and I am tired of the implication that I should give a group who can't even keep their public email list free of that shit "just one chance." If I saw a bunch of people chundering violently in front of a restaurant, I wouldn't give the food just one chance.

I'm tired of people assuming that if one group doesn't work for me, there are loads of others in my area to choose from, or that I could financially and emotionally afford to travel several hours to get to meetings in another city. I live in Oklahoma, the selection sucks, and even if it didn't, I'm still an introvert. Travel is just not going to happen.

I am tired of the public face of kink being about hierarchy and protocols and earned priviliges and categories and status-affirming use of minuscule and majuscule type, and not about what gets people like me off and how to do it safely and how to meet people who will let me do it to them.

I'm tired of a subculture that doesn't understand that as much as I like depictions of women in stiletto heels and gravity defying corsets, I would like to see some depictions of submissive men.

I am tired of the misconception that leads people to think that anyone who enjoys receiving pain is a submissive, and leads people to mistake me for a submissive woman because I find pain interesting.

I am tired of the unspoken assumption that because I am a dominant woman, my husband must be submissive to me. I am even more tired of the suggestion that because he's not a submissive person at all, I should get out of the relationship ASAP because we aren't sexually compatible.

I am tired of the assumption that all submissive men are weak little worms, and all dominant women are icy bitch-goddesses who couldn't care less about cock. I'm tired of having to choose between the collar and the pedestal, but never being offered whatever would symbolize being, you know, human.

I'm tired of it. I really am.

None of you brought this on. It was nothing you all said. It's just the result of me seeking an outlet for some frustrations and running into a brick wall where everything is geared toward extroverts and men.

I'm tired of this silence, and I'm thinking about actually just writing about things I find really sexy. Fantasies. Just to illustrate my goddamn points. Because it seems like people really don't fucking understand or care what dominant women find sexy or what being dominant is about. Bitchy gets it and Maymay gets it.

Maymay has the right idea. Over on Male Submission Art (NSFW!) he posts some great stuff (the current top post has just become my favorite picture ever, because it has damn near everything) but he doesn't allow commenting on the entries there. I get it now. He wants people to bring the discussion into their own spaces and make room for it, and thereby increase the kink footprint of folks like him, folks like Bitchy and me. And I don't know how much I will do that here, but it certainly is tempting to try.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Alpha Female)
I've just written four pages, and I keep getting bogged down in details, so I am just going to say these things as plain as I can.

I am tired of being made to feel that because I am an introvert, because I am not a joiner, because I don't have the emotional or temporal resources to make my kink my lifestyle, I am somehow inferior, cowardly, or stupid.

I am tired of how my particular kink – hurting submissive men -- has been twisted by rampant misogyny into something that is no longer about what I find sexy, but is still about women pleasing men, and I am tired of how entrenched that view is within kink subculture as a whole.

I am tired of being made to feel inferior because I don't have as much real-world experience as extroverted dominants . . . who also don't live in fucking Oklahoma.

I am tired of the answer to the above problem being to just run out and get some experience – always by seeking out a group of like-minded kinksters, leading me to have to repeat that I am not a social person. I am tired of "Join a group of like-minded people!" as advice for anything, really. I just want to yell at people: "That's shitty advice to give an introvert! Shove it up your ass!"

I am tired of the implication that if I can't find a local kink group that isn't full of bickering, woman-hating assholes, it's somehow my fault for being fed up with their bullshit, and I am tired of the implication that I should give a group who can't even keep their public email list free of that shit "just one chance." If I saw a bunch of people chundering violently in front of a restaurant, I wouldn't give the food just one chance.

I'm tired of people assuming that if one group doesn't work for me, there are loads of others in my area to choose from, or that I could financially and emotionally afford to travel several hours to get to meetings in another city. I live in Oklahoma, the selection sucks, and even if it didn't, I'm still an introvert. Travel is just not going to happen.

I am tired of the public face of kink being about hierarchy and protocols and earned priviliges and categories and status-affirming use of minuscule and majuscule type, and not about what gets people like me off and how to do it safely and how to meet people who will let me do it to them.

I'm tired of a subculture that doesn't understand that as much as I like depictions of women in stiletto heels and gravity defying corsets, I would like to see some depictions of submissive men.

I am tired of the misconception that leads people to think that anyone who enjoys receiving pain is a submissive, and leads people to mistake me for a submissive woman because I find pain interesting.

I am tired of the unspoken assumption that because I am a dominant woman, my husband must be submissive to me. I am even more tired of the suggestion that because he's not a submissive person at all, I should get out of the relationship ASAP because we aren't sexually compatible.

I am tired of the assumption that all submissive men are weak little worms, and all dominant women are icy bitch-goddesses who couldn't care less about cock. I'm tired of having to choose between the collar and the pedestal, but never being offered whatever would symbolize being, you know, human.

I'm tired of it. I really am.

None of you brought this on. It was nothing you all said. It's just the result of me seeking an outlet for some frustrations and running into a brick wall where everything is geared toward extroverts and men.

I'm tired of this silence, and I'm thinking about actually just writing about things I find really sexy. Fantasies. Just to illustrate my goddamn points. Because it seems like people really don't fucking understand or care what dominant women find sexy or what being dominant is about. Bitchy gets it and Maymay gets it.

Maymay has the right idea. Over on Male Submission Art (NSFW!) he posts some great stuff (the current top post has just become my favorite picture ever, because it has damn near everything) but he doesn't allow commenting on the entries there. I get it now. He wants people to bring the discussion into their own spaces and make room for it, and thereby increase the kink footprint of folks like him, folks like Bitchy and me. And I don't know how much I will do that here, but it certainly is tempting to try.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Warning: Scorpion)
We signed up for COBRA coverage. Thrilling, I know. It is not costing as much as we had feared, but it is all in one lump, back-due to the date of termination, so that's not real fun.

I have a doctor's appointment for the 16th at 3:00. Don't you all let me forget.

I don't really expect he will know what to do as -- despite having ten children -- ladybits are not his area of expertise, but it's amazing the amount of comfort that comes with knowing I will be able to dump this into someone else's lap for even ten minutes and say "fix this."*

It would feel better if I knew that he wasn't double-booked on top of double-booked. I have a lingering fear I will get bumped. Yes, it has happened. It's a mess, y'all.

This is not to give the impression that I am okay with what is going on. I am not okay at all. I am really worried – not even about bleeding to death from my snizz. I mean, I'm used to that. It's old meme, uterus. Old meme. I'm worried about Medicine, worried that nobody will agree to help me, or that they will take too long and I will become sicker and/or will go crazy, that they will try to help but it will not work or will make things worse. I'm afraid, in short, of suffering a lot more.

It's really sad when there's unauthorized exsanguination going on in your pants and your main worry is that the people who are supposed to help you fix that little problem are, in fact, the bad guys. I've been fucked over before, so I'm not laboring under the happy illusion that these are helpful or well-meaning people I will be dealing with. Even the best doctor I've ever had is inaccessible nine tenths of the time, and even the best doctor in the world can have staff members who are incompetent. I put up with it because finding someone who will listen to me is rare. Dr. C could be wholly unqualified and I would probably still go to him because he treats me like a human being.

But that is as much as I am going to say about it because people I know are going through far worse, and complaining thus is simply unseemly. I just wanted to say, I'm getting help, but I'm still plenty freaked out.

Went to the old house today to throw shit out. I don't know how long I lasted. Not long. I had to bail, which I feel bad about. The downstairs room has been marinating in rainwater, of course, so the smell was awful, and I kept finding vermin, which kept freaking me out. I don't mean furry vermin, either. Whatever my flaws, I don't fear mice. I mean beetles and slugs and suchlike. (Shut up. It's not fear, it's full-body revulsion.) Then I got a faceful of hair and dust and sort of freaked out because my hands were already so filthy there was no way to get it off get it off get it off. The old place has no running water, and there were no paper towels or anything. Ugh.

I have to go back tomorrow (with water and washcloths for my face) and go through a bunch of stuff to see what I want to keep and what I want to pitch. Not fun. I don't do nostalgia. Finding birthday cards my mom gave me, letters from people I really miss and can't find, my grandmother's jewelry, childhood photos, pictures of me when I was all skinny and belly-dancery, that kind of shit. That's brutal, man. I would throw it all away because it hurts to look at it, but that would be so dumb, because in ten years I'll be glad I have it. So it goes back into a box and gets hidden away. A much better solution.

Just so things are not epic in their suck, I will say that I wrapped up two gaming characters this week. Okay, that's not actually happy. But the gaming was fun: vampire Don Juans and teenage pseudo-supervillainesses. What is happy is moving on to the next character. If a "paladin" in RPG parlance is a badass fighter who derives special powers from divine favor, what would it be like if you had a blood-drinking lioness for a patron goddess?

I think it would be like that fight between Hector and Achilles in Troy, only at the end Achilles would turn into a butched-up Smilodon, tear his way into the city, and make the streets run red with blood. And they would be bad guys, of course. Not Trojans, who didn't really do anything but have gates that opened the wrong fucking way. But you get the idea. Epic carnage and bloodshed, and prehistoric mammals!

I will miss Sam and Meg, though. Fun characters. I always say "Yeah, we'll get back to them," but this doesn't usually happen. (That is not a criticism, just an observation.)

There. That's a completely boring and mundane me-type update. I am going to go fool around with stuff in my studio and hope that inspiration strikes me on the two commissions I have been stuck on for over a year. Yeah. It's that bad. If this continues much longer, I'm going to have to give the money back and then some and declare myself closed for the forseeable future, because this shit is unacceptable, and if I can't be reliable I need to find something else to do.

* That's what doctors are for. Belay the medical advice unless I ask for it, like I did here. Thank you all for helping with that.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Warning: Scorpion)
We signed up for COBRA coverage. Thrilling, I know. It is not costing as much as we had feared, but it is all in one lump, back-due to the date of termination, so that's not real fun.

I have a doctor's appointment for the 16th at 3:00. Don't you all let me forget.

I don't really expect he will know what to do as -- despite having ten children -- ladybits are not his area of expertise, but it's amazing the amount of comfort that comes with knowing I will be able to dump this into someone else's lap for even ten minutes and say "fix this."*

It would feel better if I knew that he wasn't double-booked on top of double-booked. I have a lingering fear I will get bumped. Yes, it has happened. It's a mess, y'all.

This is not to give the impression that I am okay with what is going on. I am not okay at all. I am really worried – not even about bleeding to death from my snizz. I mean, I'm used to that. It's old meme, uterus. Old meme. I'm worried about Medicine, worried that nobody will agree to help me, or that they will take too long and I will become sicker and/or will go crazy, that they will try to help but it will not work or will make things worse. I'm afraid, in short, of suffering a lot more.

It's really sad when there's unauthorized exsanguination going on in your pants and your main worry is that the people who are supposed to help you fix that little problem are, in fact, the bad guys. I've been fucked over before, so I'm not laboring under the happy illusion that these are helpful or well-meaning people I will be dealing with. Even the best doctor I've ever had is inaccessible nine tenths of the time, and even the best doctor in the world can have staff members who are incompetent. I put up with it because finding someone who will listen to me is rare. Dr. C could be wholly unqualified and I would probably still go to him because he treats me like a human being.

But that is as much as I am going to say about it because people I know are going through far worse, and complaining thus is simply unseemly. I just wanted to say, I'm getting help, but I'm still plenty freaked out.

Went to the old house today to throw shit out. I don't know how long I lasted. Not long. I had to bail, which I feel bad about. The downstairs room has been marinating in rainwater, of course, so the smell was awful, and I kept finding vermin, which kept freaking me out. I don't mean furry vermin, either. Whatever my flaws, I don't fear mice. I mean beetles and slugs and suchlike. (Shut up. It's not fear, it's full-body revulsion.) Then I got a faceful of hair and dust and sort of freaked out because my hands were already so filthy there was no way to get it off get it off get it off. The old place has no running water, and there were no paper towels or anything. Ugh.

I have to go back tomorrow (with water and washcloths for my face) and go through a bunch of stuff to see what I want to keep and what I want to pitch. Not fun. I don't do nostalgia. Finding birthday cards my mom gave me, letters from people I really miss and can't find, my grandmother's jewelry, childhood photos, pictures of me when I was all skinny and belly-dancery, that kind of shit. That's brutal, man. I would throw it all away because it hurts to look at it, but that would be so dumb, because in ten years I'll be glad I have it. So it goes back into a box and gets hidden away. A much better solution.

Just so things are not epic in their suck, I will say that I wrapped up two gaming characters this week. Okay, that's not actually happy. But the gaming was fun: vampire Don Juans and teenage pseudo-supervillainesses. What is happy is moving on to the next character. If a "paladin" in RPG parlance is a badass fighter who derives special powers from divine favor, what would it be like if you had a blood-drinking lioness for a patron goddess?

I think it would be like that fight between Hector and Achilles in Troy, only at the end Achilles would turn into a butched-up Smilodon, tear his way into the city, and make the streets run red with blood. And they would be bad guys, of course. Not Trojans, who didn't really do anything but have gates that opened the wrong fucking way. But you get the idea. Epic carnage and bloodshed, and prehistoric mammals!

I will miss Sam and Meg, though. Fun characters. I always say "Yeah, we'll get back to them," but this doesn't usually happen. (That is not a criticism, just an observation.)

There. That's a completely boring and mundane me-type update. I am going to go fool around with stuff in my studio and hope that inspiration strikes me on the two commissions I have been stuck on for over a year. Yeah. It's that bad. If this continues much longer, I'm going to have to give the money back and then some and declare myself closed for the forseeable future, because this shit is unacceptable, and if I can't be reliable I need to find something else to do.

* That's what doctors are for. Belay the medical advice unless I ask for it, like I did here. Thank you all for helping with that.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (KILL! KILL! KILL!)
So, Sargon's boss framed him for a bunch of shit he did not do and fired him on Monday. There's an account over on his journal, if you want details, but it's enough to know that they are lying, parrot-buggering sacks of diseased mule semen, and that we are actually going to try to take them to court over this. That is how fucking heinous it was.

I'm trying to be upbeat, but the truth is that I'm just pissed off and sad. The loss of insurance is the worst. I had to cancel my next three lycanthropist's appointments, and sometime today I have to call and cancel the appointment I had made with my regular doctor to discuss things like the drugs that keep me from murdering myself instead of other people. Because, you know, it's not like I need that shit or anything.

I've been without insurance before, and maybe it's because that sucked so unimaginably hard that I am so upset, I don't know. I mean, sure, if there's an emergency or something we can pay for that, and I'm not in danger of being unable to pay for my meds, so I'm lucky in that regard, but I have this deep-seated rage because I know that whatever insurance plan comes with his next job has even odds of classifying the thyroid thing and the lycanthropy thing as preexisting, meaning it won't cover monkeyfuck. That would leave me barely able to pay for my thyroid tests, and completely unable to pay for psychotherapy, which through trial and error I have come to realize I really do apparently need.

If I am lucky, the plan will cover preexisting conditions after a certain amount of time. Last time it was six or nine months. I forget. Still way too long.

It's a twist of fate that feeds back into the bullshit my (bipolar, unmedicated) mother managed to imprint upon me as a kid: that I am not worth the trouble to fix me, that I am too needy, that I have no right to complain, that I am not worth saving. I love my mom and I miss her sometimes, but she was not easy to live with. She was a really cool person, but not so great at the whole nurturing parent thing. I forgave her for that crap, but that can't change the part where I'm all fucked up. Someone apologizes for breaking your favorite teapot; you forgive them because you really love them, but your teapot is still broken, you know?

Having to fight for things I need to survive, having to justify my claim to others' attention and help, is really demoralizing to me. I mean, that would demoralize anyone for sure, but I find it's one of the things I am particularly bad at handling. It makes me feel utterly worthless, even though I know that's very much not true.

I will quit complaining now. I just needed to vent. Things aren't that bad, I'm not worried about losing the house or anything. We will be okay. Worse has happened, and we always come out a step ahead and better for the shakeup.

On the bright side, we got the chair rail up in the studio so today I am detailing it and the whole thing should be done tomorrow. Well, the wall thing will be done. The floor is still covered by pink shag carpet. What is disturbing is that I am actually kind of loving the interaction between the green walls and the pink carpet. It matches the 'marble' variety poinsettia that our realtor gave us as a moving-in present, and which I have kept in that room.

I have a lot of affection for my little poinsettia. It got knocked over by wind and torn in half when I put it outside once. It's now terribly lopsided, but it has made a complete recovery and is putting out new growth. All this despite my avowedly black thumb, which at one time managed to kill a spider plant. It has stayed alive longer than any plant I have ever had. It's a trooper. I just can't leave Fish around it, or she chews on the leaves and that makes her fart all the time. Contrary to popular wisdom, poinsettias aren't really toxic, but Fish's flatulence most definitely is.

Also on the bright side is an impending visit to play with some kittens. I will try to get some good pictures.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (KILL! KILL! KILL!)
So, Sargon's boss framed him for a bunch of shit he did not do and fired him on Monday. There's an account over on his journal, if you want details, but it's enough to know that they are lying, parrot-buggering sacks of diseased mule semen, and that we are actually going to try to take them to court over this. That is how fucking heinous it was.

I'm trying to be upbeat, but the truth is that I'm just pissed off and sad. The loss of insurance is the worst. I had to cancel my next three lycanthropist's appointments, and sometime today I have to call and cancel the appointment I had made with my regular doctor to discuss things like the drugs that keep me from murdering myself instead of other people. Because, you know, it's not like I need that shit or anything.

I've been without insurance before, and maybe it's because that sucked so unimaginably hard that I am so upset, I don't know. I mean, sure, if there's an emergency or something we can pay for that, and I'm not in danger of being unable to pay for my meds, so I'm lucky in that regard, but I have this deep-seated rage because I know that whatever insurance plan comes with his next job has even odds of classifying the thyroid thing and the lycanthropy thing as preexisting, meaning it won't cover monkeyfuck. That would leave me barely able to pay for my thyroid tests, and completely unable to pay for psychotherapy, which through trial and error I have come to realize I really do apparently need.

If I am lucky, the plan will cover preexisting conditions after a certain amount of time. Last time it was six or nine months. I forget. Still way too long.

It's a twist of fate that feeds back into the bullshit my (bipolar, unmedicated) mother managed to imprint upon me as a kid: that I am not worth the trouble to fix me, that I am too needy, that I have no right to complain, that I am not worth saving. I love my mom and I miss her sometimes, but she was not easy to live with. She was a really cool person, but not so great at the whole nurturing parent thing. I forgave her for that crap, but that can't change the part where I'm all fucked up. Someone apologizes for breaking your favorite teapot; you forgive them because you really love them, but your teapot is still broken, you know?

Having to fight for things I need to survive, having to justify my claim to others' attention and help, is really demoralizing to me. I mean, that would demoralize anyone for sure, but I find it's one of the things I am particularly bad at handling. It makes me feel utterly worthless, even though I know that's very much not true.

I will quit complaining now. I just needed to vent. Things aren't that bad, I'm not worried about losing the house or anything. We will be okay. Worse has happened, and we always come out a step ahead and better for the shakeup.

On the bright side, we got the chair rail up in the studio so today I am detailing it and the whole thing should be done tomorrow. Well, the wall thing will be done. The floor is still covered by pink shag carpet. What is disturbing is that I am actually kind of loving the interaction between the green walls and the pink carpet. It matches the 'marble' variety poinsettia that our realtor gave us as a moving-in present, and which I have kept in that room.

I have a lot of affection for my little poinsettia. It got knocked over by wind and torn in half when I put it outside once. It's now terribly lopsided, but it has made a complete recovery and is putting out new growth. All this despite my avowedly black thumb, which at one time managed to kill a spider plant. It has stayed alive longer than any plant I have ever had. It's a trooper. I just can't leave Fish around it, or she chews on the leaves and that makes her fart all the time. Contrary to popular wisdom, poinsettias aren't really toxic, but Fish's flatulence most definitely is.

Also on the bright side is an impending visit to play with some kittens. I will try to get some good pictures.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Naamah Bitch Please)
I was very dizzy today. I was dizzy when I got up in the middle of the night to switch beds and was dizzy until almost nine this evening. I was going to go to the new house and paint today, but I really, really didn't want to do that alone. The last thing I need is to fall off a ladder and break my fool neck.

It was probably the result of the Benadryl I took last night to stop my allergies and to make me sleepy, and the clonazepam I took to head off the incipient attack of devil-hamsters, which like to crawl into my brain whenever my emotional barriers get too low and run amok on so that the squeaking of their maddening little hamster wheels keeps me awake. At any rate, I won't worry unless it comes back tomorrow.

I am working on picture posts from the trip – inasmuch as any of it will interest any of you, but hey, I can spam you with pictures if I want. I have other deadlines I have to meet this week, though, so I don't know when that will happen.

I do have a lot of stuff planned for you all over the next week, and a lot of news, but right now I have a deadline kicking my ass, so I have to get back to that and then I have to sleep at least a little. First, though, an assortment of links I've been building for a few days.

Relating to my last post, and the rumor that it was "black people" who passed Prop 8, here, and also here. That latter link is especially insightful, and contains lots of other links to continuing discussion of this . . . nonsense is what it is. Minorities very possibly may, percentage-wise, have more religious conservatives among them, but to claim that any one minority, or group of minorities, is solely responsible for this proposition is to ignore that homophobia that the more numerous white people share in hordes. There are issues surrounding race and gender and homophobia that should be acknowledged and addressed. Blaming a specific group for a specific action, when that action is the result of a long traditon of bigotry in every race and social group, is not the way to address anything.*

Melissa Etheridge, whom I adore for being just generally awesome, had this to say about Prop 8:

Okay. So Prop 8 passed. Alright, I get it. 51% of you think that I am a second class citizen. Alright then. So my wife, uh I mean, roommate? Girlfriend? Special lady friend? You are gonna have to help me here because I am not sure what to call her now. Anyways, she and I are not allowed the same right under the state constitution as any other citizen. Okay, so I am taking that to mean I do not have to pay my state taxes because I am not a full citizen. I mean that would just be wrong, to make someone pay taxes and not give them the same rights, sounds sort of like that taxation without representation thing from the history books.

It's a fine idea, and the article is funny, but right at the end, there's a bit at the end that got me all teary-eyed:

Today the gay citizenry of this state will pick themselves up and dust themselves off and do what we have been doing for years. We will get back into it. We love this state, we love this country and we are not going to leave it. Even though we could be married in Mass. or Conn, Canada, Holland, Spain and a handful of other countries, this is our home. This is where we work and play and raise our families. We will not rest until we have the full rights of any other citizen. It is that simple, no fearful vote will ever stop us, that is not the American way.

Indeed, it is not the American way. We would all do well to remember that. We disagree with what has been done and we cannot change the past, but we are still American, and we can change the future. It is ours to make.

I also want you to watch this video, Keith Olbermann's response to Prop 8. If I have time later I will transcribe it. It is a thing of beauty. He always does scorn well, but this time he sounded both angry and hurt. And boy, he can take your head off with his stiff reproach. I'm a little bit in love with him. Here's the actual embedded video:


I could not have said it better. I absolutely couldn't.

Relating to creepo religious fanatic bigots, these sites are comedy gold:

Anti-Spore blog decrying the evils of teaching evolution through video games.

Eastboro Baptist Church. Why limit God's hate to fags when what you really mean is God hates everyone but us.

This video is fucking awesome:

Lions in Savuti kill an elephant, Jeremy Irons completely rocks the very well-written narration. This is the same pride featured in the National Geographic special "Lions of Darkness" and in the Dereck and Beverly Joubert book "Hunting With the Moon," both of which I highly, highly recommend. Savuti lions are known for hunting elephants. They are, in fact, the only lions to do so, and it is a behavior that they have learned and passed down through the pride. After a long lull in elephant kills, the pride has begun to kill again. Link, link, link, link. Needless to say, many of those links, especially the video, are lion-violence heavy with these magnificent predators doing what it is that predators do. So keep that in mind before clicking if you're sensitive to that sort of thing.

I leave you with the following most awesomest video ever while I try to work and then try to sleep. It is a fan video set to an a capella tribute to John Williams, with silly Star Wars lyrics set to famous John Williams scores. Indiana Jones never sounded so good.



I sincerely jumped up and clapped and cheered after the first time I saw it.

* That is all I'm going to say on it, and if wank starts again, I'm going to start slapping people around. I love y'all, I seriously do, but y'all are perfectly capable of disagreeing without strawmen and personal attacks.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Naamah Bitch Please)
I was very dizzy today. I was dizzy when I got up in the middle of the night to switch beds and was dizzy until almost nine this evening. I was going to go to the new house and paint today, but I really, really didn't want to do that alone. The last thing I need is to fall off a ladder and break my fool neck.

It was probably the result of the Benadryl I took last night to stop my allergies and to make me sleepy, and the clonazepam I took to head off the incipient attack of devil-hamsters, which like to crawl into my brain whenever my emotional barriers get too low and run amok on so that the squeaking of their maddening little hamster wheels keeps me awake. At any rate, I won't worry unless it comes back tomorrow.

I am working on picture posts from the trip – inasmuch as any of it will interest any of you, but hey, I can spam you with pictures if I want. I have other deadlines I have to meet this week, though, so I don't know when that will happen.

I do have a lot of stuff planned for you all over the next week, and a lot of news, but right now I have a deadline kicking my ass, so I have to get back to that and then I have to sleep at least a little. First, though, an assortment of links I've been building for a few days.

Relating to my last post, and the rumor that it was "black people" who passed Prop 8, here, and also here. That latter link is especially insightful, and contains lots of other links to continuing discussion of this . . . nonsense is what it is. Minorities very possibly may, percentage-wise, have more religious conservatives among them, but to claim that any one minority, or group of minorities, is solely responsible for this proposition is to ignore that homophobia that the more numerous white people share in hordes. There are issues surrounding race and gender and homophobia that should be acknowledged and addressed. Blaming a specific group for a specific action, when that action is the result of a long traditon of bigotry in every race and social group, is not the way to address anything.*

Melissa Etheridge, whom I adore for being just generally awesome, had this to say about Prop 8:

Okay. So Prop 8 passed. Alright, I get it. 51% of you think that I am a second class citizen. Alright then. So my wife, uh I mean, roommate? Girlfriend? Special lady friend? You are gonna have to help me here because I am not sure what to call her now. Anyways, she and I are not allowed the same right under the state constitution as any other citizen. Okay, so I am taking that to mean I do not have to pay my state taxes because I am not a full citizen. I mean that would just be wrong, to make someone pay taxes and not give them the same rights, sounds sort of like that taxation without representation thing from the history books.

It's a fine idea, and the article is funny, but right at the end, there's a bit at the end that got me all teary-eyed:

Today the gay citizenry of this state will pick themselves up and dust themselves off and do what we have been doing for years. We will get back into it. We love this state, we love this country and we are not going to leave it. Even though we could be married in Mass. or Conn, Canada, Holland, Spain and a handful of other countries, this is our home. This is where we work and play and raise our families. We will not rest until we have the full rights of any other citizen. It is that simple, no fearful vote will ever stop us, that is not the American way.

Indeed, it is not the American way. We would all do well to remember that. We disagree with what has been done and we cannot change the past, but we are still American, and we can change the future. It is ours to make.

I also want you to watch this video, Keith Olbermann's response to Prop 8. If I have time later I will transcribe it. It is a thing of beauty. He always does scorn well, but this time he sounded both angry and hurt. And boy, he can take your head off with his stiff reproach. I'm a little bit in love with him. Here's the actual embedded video:


I could not have said it better. I absolutely couldn't.

Relating to creepo religious fanatic bigots, these sites are comedy gold:

Anti-Spore blog decrying the evils of teaching evolution through video games.

Eastboro Baptist Church. Why limit God's hate to fags when what you really mean is God hates everyone but us.

This video is fucking awesome:

Lions in Savuti kill an elephant, Jeremy Irons completely rocks the very well-written narration. This is the same pride featured in the National Geographic special "Lions of Darkness" and in the Dereck and Beverly Joubert book "Hunting With the Moon," both of which I highly, highly recommend. Savuti lions are known for hunting elephants. They are, in fact, the only lions to do so, and it is a behavior that they have learned and passed down through the pride. After a long lull in elephant kills, the pride has begun to kill again. Link, link, link, link. Needless to say, many of those links, especially the video, are lion-violence heavy with these magnificent predators doing what it is that predators do. So keep that in mind before clicking if you're sensitive to that sort of thing.

I leave you with the following most awesomest video ever while I try to work and then try to sleep. It is a fan video set to an a capella tribute to John Williams, with silly Star Wars lyrics set to famous John Williams scores. Indiana Jones never sounded so good.



I sincerely jumped up and clapped and cheered after the first time I saw it.

* That is all I'm going to say on it, and if wank starts again, I'm going to start slapping people around. I love y'all, I seriously do, but y'all are perfectly capable of disagreeing without strawmen and personal attacks.

Ugh.

Oct. 8th, 2008 05:02 am
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Naamah Scientist)
I'm hungry with no desire to eat, tired with no desire to sleep.

Picked out colors for the main room in the new house this evening, and in the next couple of days I will be getting paint samples so I can test my theories on an experimental area of wall. The painting starts in earnest this weekend, and I expect it to be done in about a week.

I am not-so-secretly wigged out by the pressure of being the one who has to pick this stuff out. Sargon has a really good eye for color – better than I think he thinks – but he doesn't picture things in his head the way I do, so it's hard for him to visualize what I'm talking about when I describe things. Nothing on him, it's tough even for me to do it. But it's up to me to do it, and to get it right, because our resources of energy are finite. We aren't going to want to do this after we move in, I know this about us.

Earlier, I ran across a bit of pithy advice I got from one of my own alter-egos: "It's either risk or drudgery, Darling. Life's a cocksucker like that."

Thanks, Nick. Isn't it just? And sometimes it's both at once.

To offset my griping, some fun links.


Punk rock turtle!
This guy is so cute. It's a turtle with algae growing on his head. [livejournal.com profile] ursulav needs to see him.

John McCain uses the song "Barracuda" in his campaign. Heart tells McCain to fuck off. This is not real, it's a spoof, but it's fucking hilarious.

The picture that won the internets. Geeks killed Cookie Monster. Sexy, sexy geeks.

Dogs in an elk. The story of one woman whose dogs climbed into an elk carcass . . . and wouldn't come out again. I was almost in tears at the mental imagery.

Custom-engraved moleskine journals. Really cool. I want one.

I want one of these, too. It's a miniature skeleton. I would totally corpsify it to make it look like a dead, preserved fairy.

And on that note, I'm for bed, and a better tomorrow. Cheers!

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