“I, George Costanza, could be on a date with an Oscar winner! An Oscar winner, Jerry!”

Sunshine Blogger Award

I’m thankful to be nominated for the Sunshine Blogger Award by Lily of Retrospective Lily.  Thanks, Lily!  I hope you answer these too if you have time! 💜

The Sunshine Blogger Award is for bloggers who are creative, positive and inspiring as they spread sunshine to the blogging community. 

Here are the rules:

  1. Thank the person who nominated you with a blog post and a link back to their blog.
  2. Answer the 11 questions sent by the person who nominated you.
  3. Nominate 11 new blogs to receive the award and write them 11 new questions.
  4. List the rules and display the Sunshine Blogger Award logo in your post and/or your blog.

So let’s get started with questions!

  1. What television show are you watching right now (Netflix, Hulu, Amazon Prime, network TV, etc.)? Grace and Frankie
  2. What are you reading right now, or what is the last book you read? The Wise Man’s Fear by Patrick Rothfuss (Day 2 in the Kingkiller Chronicle.)
  3. Coffee or tea? Neither, (water.)
  4. Why do you blog?  To get out of my head once in a while, and hopefully connect with others.
  5. If traveling were free, where would you like to go?  Vienna.
  6. Who is your favorite band or musician?  Stevie Nicks.
  7. What is your dream job?  Traveling storyteller in a group of wonderfully weird and diverse people.
  8. If you could only have one for the rest of your life–books, movies, or television shows/series–which would you pick?  Books (unless my vision gets much worse than change it to audiobooks.)
  9. What is the best piece of advice you have ever been given? Be loving to what’s alive.
  10. What is the worst movie you’ve ever seen?  Tie between The Passion of the Christ and The Piano.
  11. What are your goals for this year?  Master Ableton Live 10 Studio and increase my drumming skills.

Nominations in no particular order:

 

Eleven Questions for Eleven+ Nominations:

  1. Do you sing in the shower?
  2. Is there someone for whom you’d die?
  3. Set a time for 10 minutes.  You have until it expires to pick a band name.  Go.
  4. One thing you would surely grab before exiting if there were a fire?
  5.  You’re chosen as part of an exploration team to visit a new planet and return in two years.  Do you go?
  6. A time traveler offers a choice between a cure for AIDS and cancer or a clean, plentiful source of energy in exchange for keeping her story secret. Which would you choose?
  7. How long since you last ate peanut butter?
  8. What do you collect?
  9. If you could step outside of time for however long you wanted, then return and no time has passed, what would you do with the time?
  10. Who is the first comedian that made you laugh so hard you cried?
  11. Who will play you in the hypothetical movie about your life story?

*It’s for fun, so there is no pressure to participate.  💜

 

“He asked you to watch them, not wear them.”

Roaring lion

I figured I’d better do a bit of damage control after my recent ravings. I know many who read my blog are neurodiverse brethren who are younger than me, (literally, not the bullshit way allistic people measure age by time. I mean you who haven’t yet processed as much data as I have because your neural pathways are beautiful, and there are no shortcuts. Why use numbers to map a path never taken before? 😂) I’m assuming I freaked some of you out, and I’m hoping I didn’t trigger you closer to a meltdown. (Yes, I think all ND have them. Oops, you knew. My bad.)

Everything I said is rude. It’s not something I could have said to someone in a conversation, aside from the author of the letter. (That would have been borderline abusive.) I feel no shame for airing my feelings with wild abandon on the internet. I didn’t break any laws in America, even though you may have cringed as if I did. I’m sorry you couldn’t reach through the screen and figuratively punch me while you read it. It was uncomfortable to read; just as it was to write.

I share the way I do because life is terrifying for everyone. I don’t want you to miss any joy. I suspect we all get roughly the same amount, but the twisted, horrible part is, we usually don’t notice. We’re so preoccupied with licking the many, many wounds we collect along the way. I visualize this literally in my mind. We rarely look up to see the joy floating by. I’d love to see that as art, hint hint. 🙃 (Seriously, I’ll trade money for it. Take the risk and talk to me in comments about commish.)

I love it when I get a Life Skill hint from someone else. It’s like getting to move three steps forward in a single move. You may have seen me mention how floored I am by how many Life Skill hints Stevie Nicks shares, on occasion. (Heh, I can’t believe I typed “on occasion” with a straight face.  I can deadpan now!  I’m finally awesome!  💪🏽😂) My point: I drop them too because I love you. (Hope that didn’t make it weird.)

Relaxing lion

I know when I express rage my aim is so sloppy it’s offensive. I’m working on it. If I hurt you, I’m sorry. Look up. Here comes a hint. You’re incapable of rejecting a compliment/external encouragement. No matter how you feel about it, or react to it in real-time, the part of you that handles them accepts it at face value. The next three times you think of a sincere compliment to someone, I triple-dog-dare you to tell them. Secondary hint challenge: Sincerely complimenting, and encouraging those around you is nerve-wracking as hell until you start organizing the feedback data. (It’s why I’m ridic bold.)  There is only, and will only ever be one you.  That alone makes you (F-box button) incredible.  Build on it just because you can.

Start right away, eh? It’s because sincere compliments and encouragements to people are like hybrid mattresses. They absorb and reflect back twofold, and sleeping on them is fabulous. (Shup, I’m analogy challenged. 😂) If it doesn’t click now, save it for later, it’s my best hint. It’s ghetto Prozac, and consequently, an excellent reason to maintain a friendship with a hip-hop enthusiast. Hip-hop builds you up. It’s why Slim Shady makes you feel giddy. You’re welcome. (Bonus.)

Guilt bonus for parents of autists because I’m hard on you: Autisms only cause is Nature. She’s just doing her thing, experimenting with the complexity of our species’ CPU’s. I suspect we might get multicore processing someday if we don’t ruin everything first. She’s the original and only scientist with authority on this planet, and we’re still at her mercy. Despite that, we’re in an abusive relationship with her, and you know it. Let’s all do some damage control, and work on it. Peace.

p.s. Lily, I’m merely not done yet, I haven’t forgotten.  Thanks, you lovely lit geek.  You’re awesome. 💜

“Let’s go, Pop. White belt, white pants, white shoes, get in the back.”

What you gonna do?

Okay.  I had to let go of my rage.  I can’t afford to waste any more energy.  I do apologize for throwing all cops under the bus in my anger, knowing not all of them are racist pricks.  None have ever abused their authority with me (that I know of.)  My fears, although rational, are frustrating because I can’t identify a racist by sight.  Unless they’re wearing a MAGAt uniform or something, that is.  (No hesitation to say that with confidence anymore, dontchaknow.  The bridge pic in front of a youth indoctrination center in my last post did it.)

I decided I’m not going to respond to the letter.  If the police show up, come what may.  I’m not thick enough to answer the door.  I’m not likely to forget I’m black.  😂🤣  Yep.  I’m bitter.  I think it’s because being hated doesn’t grant me the ability to hate back.  Heather was a racist by age seven.  I don’t think it’s fair I can’t even fake it.  We had the same freaking environment and were only 13 months apart.  This can’t be my planet.

I told M. to give me a week before we talk about him coming back.  You know why so many veterans succeed at committing suicide?  It’s because we’re trained to only attempt that which we’re sure to acomplish.  We instinctively include redundancy, and don’t shy away from gruesomely violent methods.  We’re also more likely to own weapons.  Twenty-two veterans will commit suicide today, according to statistics.  (Google it.  I’m cranky.)  And tomorrow.  And the day after that.  You get it.  (I’m being morbid because I’m hurt, offended, and not trying very hard to adult.)

I think the veteran suicide rate is by design.  Mostly because it makes fiscal sense.  If you’ve read more than a few of my posts, you know I analyze the shit out of everything.  Why the hell do you think I joined the Army?  Sure, partly because I was an arrogant, spoiled rotten brat an inch away from rationalizing my way into some white collar crime that wasn’t technically invented yet, and I didn’t truthfully want that easy, easy path in life.  But mostly because I wanted answers to several questions, am impatient, and didn’t understand what fear meant yet.  The shortest distance from spoiled rotten brat to adult was surrendering to Uncle Sam’s ironic call for volunteers.

plastic soldier

Oddly, it had to be either the Army or the Marines.  I did my research.  I didn’t do enough joint operations with Navy or Air Force to narrow down why.  Coast Guard seemed a silly choice for a Dakotan.  I didn’t consider the Marines at all.  I’m pretty confident I would not have lasted another two weeks in boot camp, thankyouverymuch.  (Failing basic is usually because you changed your mind, or you got hurt, in my opinion.)  The only hard part is acting despite fear, staying awake on fire watch, and living with 49 other children experiencing the same trauma.  If you want it enough, you graduate.

I came too close to a meltdown today, so my brain is defragmenting.  I’m amazed I’ve stuck to something resembling a topic this long.  I’m operating on dark humor and cynicism.  (I don’t mind this phase of the process because it mostly amuses me.)  This weekend is ruined, though.  I can tell I won’t be sleeping anytime soon.  I can’t even work on my song because the Muse won’t acknowledge my existence when I’m carrying around negativity for no reason. I already forgave my cat for continuously thwarting my ability to off myself without going through the agonizing mental exercise first.  (I haven’t needed a plan in years.)

Yep, I’m that weird.  I don’t care.  (You wouldn’t either if you were me.)  I forgot to eat today.  +10 for remembering before midnight.  Although, I broke a tooth from grinding my teeth too hard a bit ago.  Thanks, Prozac, you evil, dry-mouth causing bitch.  Even when I’m just recovering from losing my shit, I’m still aware I have an indefinable bond with my healing sisters, (Stevie Nicks, Amy Lee, Lorde, etc.)  It’s probably why I’m able to talk shit while my CPU is under such a heavy load.  I’m as strong as I am weird, now.  I bet that scares you.  😂  (No, seriously, I hope not.)  I’m going to go eat before I type something even more regrettable.  Seeya.

“If I like their race, how can that be racism?”

Look.  I’m telling you three times not to read this post if you’re not in a safe place mentally right now.  💜

 

 

 

 

 

I didn’t sleep last night.  I just lay in bed grinding my teeth.  It’s not nightmare avoidance, though (for once.)  I got a letter from the VA.  Part of me is in shock.  All of me is pissed off.  It’s not often I find myself wondering how the hell a person can be so clueless.  (I’m too used to being the one who causes others to think it.)  It’s the first time I’ve felt the desire need to resume using F-bombs liberally.

I’m 99% certain the person sent it because they were required.  I subtracted 1% because it’s possible I’m mistaken, and they’re not clueless at all, just vile.   I’d prefer not responding at all.  It’s the most logical, adult thing I could do.  However, I’ve done this dance too many times not to know what’s next.  If I don’t respond, they’ll send the police and call it a health and welfare check.  (Pressing every button on my F*** box; best toy ever.)

Here’s the thing:  I’m a POC with autism and mental illness, living in what was dubbed The Whitest City in America.  Jeff Sessions is the (pressing buttons on best toy ever) Attorney General.  Here’s a lovely photo of a bridge just outside Sioux Falls Christian school.

racist grafitti

Sending the police to my place is more dangerous to my lifespan than lacing a snail mail letter with ricin.  It’s hard to imagine it’s not intentional.  I’m trying, but the benefit of the doubt got tired after the fifth time they did this shit.  (Pressing buttons with feeling.)  Frankly, it would have been more compassionate to add ricin to the envelope.  It would also surpass the effectiveness of any “treatment” they’ve offered so far by a longshot.  It would cure my autism, mental illness, and skin condition.  I’m black; there would be no repercussions.  Here, let me hold up the edge of the rug so we can sweep me under and be done, already.  Win, win whatever.

M. has enough sense to recognize he can’t stay here for a while.  He’s upset because he read my medical records, and knows I’m going to get the (pressing) out of South Dakota as soon as I finish ticking off my (button) already-prepared-because-five-times-checklist.  I’m not kidding when I say it’s 1960 in South Dakota.  If I don’t run for the border and leave my mobile tracking device phone behind, I’ll be handcuffed in the back seat of a cop car again before I can say (remixing like DJ Guetta.)   I’ve been handcuffed (and leg shackled) too many (button again) times for someone whose rap sheet solely consists of a single traffic violation over a decade ago.

Health and welfare check my ass.  Let’s call it what it is, eh?  A microaggressive Get Out note.  Do you want to know what’s rich?  Good, because I’m going to tell you.  It’s the person in charge of suicide prevention at the VA, pretending I can’t read between the lies.  The same one who flat out told me I should move to the east coast because “they’re more compassionate about mental illness there.”  That’s a Get Out note, too.  Get Out notes are what clandestine racists send to POC.  It’s for our health and welfare, see?  (all the buttons)

North American porcupine

It’s not the first person at the VA (in the mental health field) who sent me one. (When it didn’t work, they sent the chaplain in to suggest I meet with the only other black person he knew at the VA.  (Not even a medical anything, IIRC.)  It’s in the manual, I think.  If they don’t bow down, send them to The Other One, so they can explain the rules and nip this in the bud.  (YepI’m that (press) pissed.)  This issue is a part of white privilege I hate with a (button) passion.  I have Caucasian expectations.  I expect at least minimal consideration from other humans for also being human.  I know this is a dangerous attitude for black people on earth.

The Election showed me it’s irrational.  It broke my heart, but whatever.  There’s a furious, mean part of me that wants to move to Plan B, and initiate Operation Knock Knock.  It’s infantile bullshit, but it’s typed up and stored next to my bugout bag all the same.  I’m not literally clueless.  I know how to push the issue and stop this dance.  I think about it when I can’t sleep all the time.  I can make any American cop shoot me in the head.  (It’s a superpower of the oppressed, here in the land of the free. If you want to test it out, tell a cop you’re a different gender than you appear to be ((to the ignorant and hateful.))  I think it would be (press) evil to deliberately pass on my PTSD to a cop as my last act in this reality.  It (button) with them when we make them do what they secretly want to do anyway.

More shit I’ve learned since The Election, that.  It makes me regret being a veteran, sometimes.  I didn’t think anything could do that.  I (press) get it wrong a lot.  (I got rose-colored eyeglass frames so that I can remind myself how I used to view my country.)  You’d think after being in the Army, I’d know better.  But nope.  I thought we at least gave a shit about fellow Americans.  Why was I (all the buttons) risking life and limb for a country where a third of the populace is furious I’m not a slave!?  In my defense, they did show a lot of propaganda videos on the only TV channel we had in English when I lived in Germany.  (Fraud. Waste. Abuse.  It’s your duty to report it!)  Stoners would probably love them.

It snowed again which means I can’t drive (open my eyes wide enough to see outside) until the new snow is dirty.  I’m going to go dry heave for a while.  (One of the lovely perks of insomnia.)  I’ve set a new record for the duration of my fury.  I usually see something shiny by now.  (last press.)

“I feel like an out of work porn star.”

working woman

Today has been annoying, mostly.  At least I feel like I’ve accomplished something useful on this blog of late.  I worked myself free from a lot of things that were weighing me down emotionally.  Some may think I overshare by writing about hard things in my past.  From my perspective, I believe my understanding of the word privacy differs from that of most.  I’m not up to agonizing over the words at the moment, so that’ll have to suffice.

I hope nobody ever feels traumatized by my words.  I don’t think I’m blunt, but I’ve been told otherwise more than once.  For a long time, I couldn’t talk about those things.  I couldn’t say the word rape.  I didn’t talk about my ex-husband, and I fled the moment I thought someone was interested in me romantically.  I held back from any relationship because everyone dies, and I didn’t believe I could outlive someone I love again.

Things are different now.  I’m not even sure when it happened.  I don’t live under a rock anymore.  I shelter myself from news of the horrifying things going on in the world, but that’s out of self-preservation.  I guess I feel like I’ve healed.  Things that happened in the past no longer own me.  I usually celebrate everything positive.  Instead, I’m just going to listen to 24-Karat-Gold: Songs From the Vault by Stevie Nicks with my eyes closed, and think about the future.  Some victories are melancholic.

I haven’t gone to the office to work much this year.  I’m more productive working from home, but if I don’t go anywhere for too long, I start feeling like I can’t.  I’ve never allowed it to get to the point where I felt trapped in my home, but I’ve been close enough to see how it can happen.  It would be a steep fall downhill because it would mean no more running.  I don’t even want to pursue this hypothetically.  😂  I have a plan to prevent it.

It feels a little weird to tell my work partner all my secrets about running a software company.  But it’s the reason I’m his partner and not retired professionally, working some part-time job that allows me to use headphones.  There’s no need for him to repeat the trial and error I used to figure out my path.  He acts like he’s in awe of me for doing it, which is uncomfortable.  I told him it’s logical and lots of people do it.  Plus, I’m getting paid for escorting him into a meaner tax bracket.

In a few months, I plan on selling most of my interest to other employees.  I don’t think it’ll take him very long to integrate his new tools and develop confidence in his abilities.  I figure I’ll be itching to move on to something more fulfilling by summer.  The leader of the band I joined recently has been training me to become a “real drummer.”  He’s kind of an asshole about it, but whatever.  I can’t afford to turn down information.

I spent most of today at his studio where I set up a beat-to-shit drum kit precisely as instructed.  Then I tore it down, put everything carefully in these cases that look like giant hat boxes, and moved a foot in whatever direction he assigned, and set it up again.  Three times so far.  Then we left for the day, and tomorrow I’ll be back doing the same.

He said until I’ve done it 50 times, I’m not a drummer.  I’m a poser.  I said, “okay.”  See Alison grovel like a wannabe drummer.  I didn’t mention it’s the first time I’ve ever set up an acoustic kit.  I have to say, thinking before speaking is working for me.  I’m off to listen to Stevie Nicks.