text exchange with “the chicken is boba fett” (the hubs)
I really wasn’t expecting his response. In retribution, I posted the conversation on Facebook and tagged him in it.
So his grandmother could see it.
After fifteen years, he still surprises me…
and that’s why I let him hang around.
here’s some matt smith to break up the sherlock / cumberpr0n
“But you know who else deserves it? The women who have struggled to be, or are still struggling to be moms. The women who want children but just aren’t in a safe place in life to have them. The women who don’t want kids and have to listen to a bunch of bullshit about how you’re only worthwhile if you’ve pushed a human out of your vagina. The women who miss the children they once had. The women who miss the children they lost before they ever met them. The women who gave up their children so their child could have a better life than they could provide. The women who were raised motherless, or with shitty mothers, or who have lost their mothers and are reminded of how alone they feel. Mother’s Day is a confusing, weird, very-seldom-wrapped-up-with-a-nice-commercial-bow sort of day, and as for me, I salute you all – mothers or not…you’re here. You’re alive. You continue to survive. You are worthwhile and wonderful. Never forget that.” - The amazing Jenny Lawson
Whether it’s about depression, anxiety, or Mother’s Day, a woman I’ve only met once (and for 5 minutes if that) continues to tell me what I need to hear even when I don’t know I need to hear it.
We all know I’m not quiet about the fact that my mother died. That she made my life miserable. Or even that she’s been gone for too many years for my feelings about her to remain this unresolved…
Suffice it to say, I fucking HATE Mother’s Day.
A guy I know, a really young kid, texted me today and wished me a happy Mother’s Day. Even though he picked my brain about The Crazy frequently, I don’t think we ever talked about the choice I made to be child-free. THAT’S not really ever a topic up for discussion.
You want to know about the bipolar? About my fucked up relationship with my mother? About my weird obsession with Johnlock and the actors who fleshed out the characters so brilliantly? Even my quasi-self-harming?
But kids? Not so much.
Honestly, I’d rather spend hours talking to you about why so many pr0ny fanfic writers never have their characters swallow. Seriously. (This topic REALLY bothered me this morning. Like REALLY bothered me. Ask J. I wouldn’t stop talking about it, and I’m still really curious.)
How the hell did I go from being all “I hate Mother’s Day” to talking about blow jobs?
Yet another one of life’s great mysteries…
Let’s get back on track, shall we?
There’s been a couple of things going on this week that have pushed this to the forefront.
1) A’s text.
2) MKS’ post about being child-free and why it’s nobody’s fucking business.
3) The actual holiday
4) Having a recruiter tell me that the photo on this entry shouldn’t be my profile picture on LinkedIn because “it might send the wrong message”.
5) The sad fact that there are so many members of The Dead Parents Club and that the majority of them are missing their mothers today.
6) Picking up the “Wonderful Wallaby” again… which inspired this Facebook status: I’m knitting a “Wonderful Wallaby” for a little person who honestly melts my heart in a way no child has ever been able to.
7) Realizing that this July marks four years of friendship with Black Mountain Symphony, and remembering C-Rollz’ reaction when I told him kids were never going to happen.
And you know what?
I started writing this entry to talk about why being motherless and child-free on Mother’s Day sucks. (Even though I’ve got “kids”, they’re always brushed off because they’re “just” animals.)
Only to discover that I STILL don’t want to talk about it.
Blow jobs, however?
it looks different now than it did in 1975:: edgartown, MA 2011 (?)
I will forever respect you if you recognize this intersection.
I’ve been struggling with the end of my fan fic because, really, I am shit with endings. (See NaNos that NEVER end.)
I came up with this this morning:
“Little did John know, Sherlock had deleted the fact that the Earth revolved around the sun. It only came to light when the star burning far above, at the center of their solar system, was about to explode, and in that hot flash just before the end, none of it would really matter. Not the lady in pink, not the Hounds of Baskerville. Definitely not The Woman or Moriarty. None of their sacrifices. Nothing would make much difference in the grand scheme of things. Not in this universe anyway.”
Granted, it’s not original, because I totally stole the non-Sherlock text from my favorite little shit, Orion, but I like it any way:
“Little did he know, the sun - the star burning far above, at the center of their solar system - was about to explode, and in that hot flash just before the end, none of it would really matter. Not Henry back home. Not the girl. None of their sacrifices. Nothing would make much difference in the grand scheme of things. Not in this universe anyway.”
It cracks me up because that bit about Sherlock deleting the information about the solar system is canon-compliant both in the ACD and BBC universes and it fits so well with Orion’s original ending.
The dedication to my fan fic? Easy peasy, mac and cheesy:
For Orion, who let me mangle his suggested ending for this so that it would comply with canon. For my moose and little man, who keep life interesting. For that guy I live with, who… well… fucked if I know.
Guinness hurt his shoulder at day care last Monday, so he and I have been chilling since I got let go (laid off? quit?) last Wednesday. He’s big, he’s energetic, and he’s BORED. If he were Sherlock (either canon), he’d be shooting at the wall. Hopefully, he’ll make me believe he’s fine so that he can go back tomorrow.
Rewatching Nine’s episodes of Doctor Who. What a cheeky little bastard. I totally appreciate him more now that I’ve seen the progression from Nine to Eleven. David Tennant will always be my favorite, because… adorable!... but I totally love all three of them. I just wish I could get into the earlier episodes. I want to know, specifically, what people saw in Four. Maybe it’s the era they were filmed in, but zzzzzzzzzzzz.
And with that, I’m off to search for more jobs.
just another night on tumblr
All I’m going to say about the Boston Marathon is that it hit a little too close to home.
Scott is safe and that’s all that matters
Andy is safe and that’s all that matters.
Nick is safe and that’s all that matters.
Nope. Not a post about Martin Freeman, although I do have to start with Sherlock. (It’s FOUR sentences. Deal with it.)
I watched “The Reichenbach Fall” again. I spent the entire hour and a half watching it from Sherlock’s perspective.It was probably more heartbreaking than watching it from John’s perspective. You finally realize how much John has changed Sherlock, and how much their friendship means to the man that doesn’t have friends.
For whatever reason, that made me think of someone: The Man with the Silk Shirt. (If you’re reading this, yeah, it’s YOU!)
Recently, an old friend decided to read all six years of crap that I’ve written here. Miraculously, he survived. Even more miraculously, he’s still speaking to me. I suppose that’s because he’s only mentioned once, and it was a nice thing.
Seriously, I wrote all this shit - I LIVED all this shit -and I still don’t want to go back and revisit half of it. I couldn’t imagine reading it without know what was going on at that point in time… some of these entries really need some context. This isn’t a blog full of stories that you could just breeze through. This is, and has always been, a cheese sandwich blog. I’m a cheese sandwich blogger. I was one long before the phrase was ever coined.
I went through the archives recently, just because. I can tell you beyond a shadow of a doubt that reading this blog, man, is HARD WORK. And I applaud him, that crazy psycho.
So anyhoo… my point was…
He said that my entires about depression were very enlightening. That the blog itself explained a lot.
He and I. We have history. Our relationship was good. It was bad. It was terrible. It was awesome. And then it was gone. I wrote about him on That Other Blog. While I’m glad that he’ll probably never know what I talked about, or how openly it was discussed, I do want to drive the point home that even though he could have shattered me into a million pieces, he never did. No matter how bad it got, I never got mad at him… and I hoped that I never hurt him. I knew at one point that I was out of control. I just didn’t know why.
Back then, it was easy to make excuses. We had our thing when my mom died, so there was a lot of Ick going on. It was easy to blame her.
Little did I know that HE was responsible for planting the seeds of what would eventually become the overwhelming self-awareness I have developed since my official diagnosis. Little did I know that a chance encounter with him would make me undescribably happy. I don’t want to/can’t/shouldn’t go into all the details… those are better shared in person, over burgers or something… but he made more of a difference than I thought he did. Than he’ll ever know he did.
(I had to confirm this by going through the paper journals I used to keep back them. I thought that over time, I had smoothed off all the rough edges, inflated the importance of blah, blah, blah, blahbiddity, blah, blah, blah. Nope.)
It was weird to look back on those depression entries today and try to read them through his eyes.
I have no idea what he saw in them.
I know what I see in them… but I have context.