She’s Running the Distance

January 10, 2022 :: 8:17 PM

that is what a half marathon pr looks like

Let’s get the ugly bit out of the way: I did not complete the marathon and therefore, did not complete the Dopey Challenge.

Instead of coming home with six medals, I received four. The marathon’s medal was given to me after I got off the party bus, but I didn’t receive the Goofy or Dopey Challenge medals. I’m not nearly as upset as I could be about getting swept during the marathon. In all honesty, I made it farther than I thought I would.


I PR’d the half marathon.

Shaved 13 minutes off my previous best race.

I got stronger as the race got longer, too. I walked most of the first half and then I started doing intervals -  run the chorus, walk the lyrics - when a good song came on.

The balloon ladies passed me, but I finished a whopping 30 seconds behind them this time.

I may have gotten pulled at mile 4 of the marathon, but at the end of the day, I completed a 5K, a 10K, and a half marathon.

Maybe I was crazy to attempt a Dopey without getting an IRL marathon under my belt first, but I don’t care.



The One Where I Talk About Dicks

January 02, 2022 :: 10:46 PM

This. Is. Perfection.

OK. So. First things first. That picture is the most perfect photo of Bunnywest’s Stiles.

(Scrolling through 300+ photos on IMDB to find the perfect photo for a blog post? Yup. I suffer for my art. For YOU.)

Bunnywest is my favourite TeenWolf fan fiction author and I am shocked. SHOCKED! that I missed this amazing piece of wonderfulness. The fact that Discontented Winter co-authored really annoys me because I am subscribed to them both. So yeah. I don’t know how I missed BunnyWinter.


This one deserves a link: Dirt, Death, and Dildoes.

A retelling of the Trump Campaign’s failed presser at Four Seasons Total Landscaping. OMG. I’m just dying. Dead. Six feet under. Zombie Wendell. Whatever. I was in tears, because Stiles TOTALLY has an AO3 account and would write fan fiction.

I wish, one day, I could write stuff like this:

There will also be media interest as journalists try to figure out what the hell is happening here. Is Stiles an Argent supporter actually dumb enough to think that Gerard Argent gives a fuck about him and his little landscaping business? Is he a smart guy who knew the campaign had fucked up but decided to go with it anyway for publicity? Or is he—and anyone who knows him won’t need the media to tell them this is the one—a troublemaker, troll and inveterate little shit?

So. Is that picture of Dylan O’Brien the perfect representation of a troublemaker, a troll, and inveterate little shit, or not?

(Dick # 1 - dildoes count, so *check*)

Speaking of wanting to write well, a deep dive into my archives last night found me this. I can’t even remember who the fuck R2D2 is, but:

R2’s reaction to proofreading my Johnlock fan fic has really brought on a huge happy which is diminishing the fear of making a bad job mistake:
I will be honest I haven’t finished it, but I think you are fooling yourself. You have the enthusiasm, more than I do that’s for certain, and the chops, you just need a little refining, and maybe a little more focus. Just constructive criticism. If writing is your passion, (which from what I read it clearly is) then what the eff are you waiting for? An invitation? Nobody’s going to give you one. In this business you have to go out and take it.

(Dick # 2 - Not Richard, but Dick *check*)

This happened this morning:
“You’re such an asshole,” the boy said fondly. “Morning wood doesn’t bother me.”

Yuri was blown away by how pink Beka’s face became. It became even pinker when Dmitriy cleared his throat. “Morning wood bothers me. Especially because Yuri’s underage.”

The boy rolled his eyes. “Only for three months.”

“And you will not do anything during those three months or I will have to arrest Mr. Altin.” He locked eyes with Yuri. “Sex with a minor is considered statutory rape. The punishment is three to six years in prison. That’s if a judge lets him off without adding additional years because of your status.”

God bless Dmitriy. Some one has to keep those two away from each other, since I’m doing a pretty shit job at it.

(Also, I know way more about morning wood than a person without a dick should. I can also give you all kinds of information on the following as pertains to Russia: statutory rape, the age of consent (in Japan and Kazakhstan as well!), and the best way to make kvass. Yes, it’s Ukrainian, but thankfully it’s made in Russia as well.)

(Dick # 3 - Morning. Wood. *check*)


- - - - - - - - - -

Done with dicks, for the moment. Maybe.



Chicks with dicks, count, right?

Quoting a Kevin Smith movie is a really odd segue way into JKR and the Potter Reunion, even for me. And we all know I go to some really fucking crazy places.

Glad she wasn’t there. Really glad she wasn’t included.

It was so nice to see all the actors again and listen to them talk about their experiences. Granted, I am a book canon nerd, and I can’t really stand the movies (IT’S NOT A FUCKING RAVEN. IT IS AN EAGLE. AND OUR HOUSE COLOURS ARE BLUE AND BRONZE), but, I don’t know. I cried throughout the entire thing.

(Dick # 4 - JKR *check*)

Another takeaway from the reunion is that I apparently know the difference between Oliver (George) and James (Fred) Phelps.

This has nothing to do with the fact that one of my WIPs is an Eighth Year AU / soulmate fic with a side of Drarry. Fred - my favourite Weasley - is Harry’s soulmate. A plot that is complicated by Fred’s death in Deathly Hallows and an absolutely brutal game of Truth or Seven Minutes in Heaven/Hell. (Draco’s father will not be hearing about that!) A lot of it is told in flashback, of course, so I needed to find a way to differentiate the twins. Harry could certainly tell the difference between the twins, so I needed to, also.

I have a list somewhere - a fucking list! - of the ways to tell the twins apart.

At one point during the show, the twins were talking and I thought they were labeled incorrectly. Yup. I was right. They were labelled backwards. Oliver actually made fun of it on Instagram.

I’m not sure if I should be shocked or proud of that little obsession I have with getting it right.

(This one’s a threeway: Dick # 5 - Fred, Dick # 6 - Harry, and Dick # 7 - Draco. Slash fiction will get you there every time. *check* *check* *check*)

(Oh shit. I forgot… that Seven Minutes portion? A very drunk Hermione takes truth instead of Seven Minutes because ‘I already snog Ron enough, thank you very much’ and ends up talking about the night she pegged him.

Dick # 8 - Hermione’s strap-on. *check*)


- - - - - - - - - -

OK. Enough dicks.

Let’s talk about running.


A week from today, I’ll be hating the world, but wearing my Dopey medal around Disney.

I could have been training for this for 20 years or 20 minutes. It doesn’t matter. Running may be physical, but it’s mostly mental. I’ve been freaking out about it, which led me to a rather loud, one sided, conversation with the husband. Don’t get me wrong - I love him madly, but he never talks. I’ll joke from time to time that I should write him a script of what I need to hear sometimes. Yeah. I should have given him a script. Everything he said or did rubbed me the wrong way.

It was ugly.

But I’m over it.


(Dick # 9 - my husband *check*)


- - - - - - - - - -



I meant to mention this earlier, but I completely forgot. Most of the time I see this it’s on Inell’s fics, not Bunnywest’s, though. So I think I can forgive myself.

(Dick # 10 - This tag exists! I giggle every. single. time. I see it on a fic.)

And on that note, I’m going to bed. Play nice, kids.

Alphabet Soup

December 28, 2021 :: 2:09 PM

the boxes (and bags) OF DOOM

I don’t know what started it, but there has been a trend among my friends to post articles about ADHD.

I’ve already been diagnosed with a few things, with bipolar being the #1 diagnosis - from several doctors, and even a few therapists - so bipolar is the benchmark.

Anyhoo… one of the things I’ve seen several times is the tendency to put clutter in boxes so that it doesn’t have to be dealt with immediately, but it’s removed from sight. And, oh, holy fuck, does that make so much sense. I’ve had clutter boxes my entire life. Once I found out I was bipolar, I decided that this was a symptom of it. I clean during manic phases and I box during depressed ones. What happens when I’m forever depressed? MORE BOXES!

So, yeah. In the spirit of full disclosure, this is about two or three years worth of clutter boxes (and several bags). We painted my office last year and I’m just now finally working my way through the Boxes of Doom!.

Why the Boxes of Doom!, you ask? Because, half the fucking time, they’re filled with memory landmines.

You know, those things you randomly stumble across that rip open wounds that had been slow to heal in the first place? Yeah. Those.

I’ve gone through three boxes this morning and I have cried during every one. My offer letter from the Cats was in one box, photos of my parents and I at Disney World in another… just weird shit that I am not equipped to deal with right now.

And, can we talk about that photo with my parents? The photo is of myself and my parents in front of the castle and we are wearing matching Mickey Mouse shirts. OH. MY. GOD. We were that family back in 1980. We were wearing MATCHING SHIRTS. (I’m pretty sure it was my idea, too.) I make fun of those families now… and I am obviously the one that started the trend. Fuck. Me.

I still have boxes and boxes of clutter - and memory landmines - to get through, but I’m pretty sure this is what the articles are talking about.

I feel both seen and attacked, and I don’t like either.

(I suppose the joke’s on my most recent former employer… I had two clutter boxes at the office and a clutter folder on my desktop and a clutter folder in my inbox. In my defence, those things did not appear until Ida decided to visit Louisiana this year and I was overloaded with minutiae. Oh well. I hope they have fun with that.)

I’m full of contradictions and hypocrisies

December 25, 2021 :: 10:34 PM

I may run at the speed of turtles swimming through peanut butter. But I run.

My Christmas present to myself was the top medal hanger… I haven’t done the #threewords in a long time, but I’ve been using Twelve’s words / the unofficial motto of the Whovian Running Club to guide me. Laugh hard. Run fast. Be kind. Sadly, the only thing I’m good at is laughing hard.

We didn’t celebrate Christmas at all this year. Not one bit. No special dinner, no last minute “I feel like I need to buy you something”, not even a bone for the dog.

I don’t know. Neither one of us is feeling it this year. Which is fine.

Everything is fine.


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

When you’re young, you got time
When you’re old, you built a life
In between you’re just along for the ride
Nothing’s in a straight line, like the wrinkles on your eyes
Try to take it one candle at a time…
- Pictures, Matt Nathanson

I’ve been on a steady pace of a new job just about every year and a half, two years for a long time. That’s when the honeymoon period is over, and the bipolar starts to affect things. Which, at this point, is probably a good sign to start seriously thinking about disability.

This job change completely blindsided me. I’d actually been doing well, and was mostly happy, but… there’d been some… hiccups. Definitely wasn’t expecting to be forced to choose between engaging in ethical behaviour and doing what was expected of me. I have a very odd moral code, but the things I believe in, I do not waiver on. One of those things is taxes. I am, apparently, on the side of the government because I believe they should be paid. The owner and I had several differences of opinions, but this last straw was the last straw. I’d already been looking for freelance gigs I could do on the side, and it was easy enough to find a real 9-5, so I’ll be back to normal after Dopey.

But anyhoo… it’s the reason I’m kind of stuck in my head.

We watched Emmet Otter’s Jug Band Christmas, as I’ve done every year since 1977, and it felt different this year.

I’ve been missing my father a lot lately. This year has been a bad one - I’m the same age my mother was when she died, and April 30th was the 20th anniversary of my father’s death - and I haven’t been able to get through it. Not that turning the calendar to a new month is going to make a huge difference in the facts of the matter, but there are no major milestones in 2022 that are triggering. Unless celebrating our 20th anniversary is a trigger… which it kind of is, but we will unpack that baggage in August.

I don’t know anymore. I know I blog a lot about being bipolar, but for every entry there’s a ton of things that I never say. I never really work through my shit here, in real time, and I probably won’t start any time soon. It’s easier to dissect it, in writing, well after the fact. But that doesn’t mean that I’m not tempted to do so.

So with that said… Christmas is hard. It is always hard. This year seems harder.

2022 is around the corner and I can’t be more thrilled for a fresh start.

In the meantime, I’m going to take it one candle at a time.

I don’t need any new voices

December 22, 2021 :: 10:40 PM

current mood

*clears throat*



I have so much to say and absolutely no words.

Quick recap:

13 days until Dopey.

New job starts on the Tuesday after Marathon Weekend. It was an ethical thing and not a bipolar thing, but I’m not going to delve into the specifics here.

A Sims genealogy challenge is probably not the right thing to do when I have too much time on my hands. I had to make a family tree to ensure that I don’t accidentally have relatives boinking. Again. *sigh*

Apparently, I am also a sudoko master…

...and most likely going to jail if someone sees my search history. (My little fan fic is accurate as I can get it, thanks to The Big G, but the topics I’m writing about are problematic at best.)

Merry holidays, everyone.

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