“It hit her in the head!”

It’s been an awesome day.  No other way to look at it.  I’ve been creating riffs on my acoustic guitar and they’ve just been flowing out of me.  Each one inspired by mistakes I made when trying to copy professional guitarists.  So I guess simplified riffs.  I’m a rhythm guitarist because it’s perfect for me.  (Even when I play RockBand 4 on my PS4, I freeze on the solos.)

I’m a rhythm drummer, too.  I can’t even air drum with Phil Collins during his epic solo for In the Air Tonight.  My mind wanders too easily, or something.  When I practice drumming with music now, I have to pick songs I’ve never heard.  I can’t play along with Fleetwood Mac for an entire song because I start listening to Mick Fleetwood and the singing, etc. instead of playing in sync.  I end up sitting there holding the sticks as if I’m about to strike and listening to the song.

I’ve worn through my third pair of gloves.  I’ve been using the fake leather ones by Ahead.  I see duct tape in my future (since they’re $40 a pair.)  I played along with a bunch of country songs since I don’t listen to country music.  The only time I did was when I had a roommate in the Army who did.  She introduced me to Brooks and Dunn, Trisha Yearwood, Garth Brooks, etc.  I like country music.  I just like rock more.  I love the song, What If by Kane Brown ft. Lauren Alaina.

I like Slow Hands by Niall Horan, too.  I love his voice.  And something new from Garth Brooks.  I have a fantastic memory from a pub in the middle of nowhere in southern Germany.  I was with a small group of soldiers (out of uniform) and soon after we entered, Friends in Low Places came on the jukebox.  Every person in there sang along (loudly) in English, word for word, (of course I joined in.)  It was like a hug from Germany.  We were worried nobody would admit to speaking English and were trying to remember our newly acquired (and limited) German.

I installed the first half of my Halloween decorations last night.  It’s my creepy window.  A backlit woman screaming with eyes bugging out, and a ghoulish looking dude with heavy facial features and a greenish hue.  It looks wicked at night from the outside.  During the daytime, it looks awesome from the inside.  I forgot to look from the street on my way to work, so I’m not sure how well it looks from a distance.  I have a projector and some FX material to project horrors onto other windows, or to create them holographically by draping it over something or hanging it from the ceiling.

I have a killer sinus headache that won’t go away (despite my doing nothing about it.)  😂 I’m debating on a neti pot (it always ends in tears,) or a heating pad.  Or some wasabi sauce… That might work…  I’m off to determine the most fun method of ridding myself of this nagging pain.  Then I can continue reading, Sleeping Beauties, by Owen and Stephen King.  Yay.

“And now, it’s payback time. Pottery Barn is in for a world of hurt.”

I’m scattered today.  I may as well apologize now.  This series of ramblings is going to be a doozy, I can already tell.  I finished reading Reckless:  My Life as a Pretender, by Chrissie Hynde.  I loved it.  I stayed up all night reading it.  I had to take lots of breaks to look up colloquialisms from her youth.  (I can speak 1960’s now.)  I took notes because I’ve never heard of a lot of bands she mentioned, but will rectify that situation soon.  I know a lot more about drugs, now.

I didn’t know much about Chrissie Hynde before reading the book.  I knew she was cool, and I could easily conjure her image and voice in my mind.  That about covers it.  When I found out she was touring with Stevie Nicks, I was ecstatic.  I saw some footage uploaded to YouTube by fans, (thanks!)  The crowds were unbelievably humongous.  Holy shiitake mushrooms, Batman!

The book kicked me in the nuts twice.  The first time, because Chrissie Hynde described a collection as Aspergian, the second because she has no idea how wonderful and brilliant she is. I got past the first kick instantly because she was descriptive, not mean.  No malice, no foul.  The second took longer because it reminded me of how big an asshole I was back when I thought my “superior” skill at learning from books, the only taught method for both our generations, made me awesome.

I’ve since learned the difference between awesome and asshole.  You’re welcome.  😂  I feel guilty because I know my former superiority complex has a lot to do with the lack of confidence I see in many brilliant people who were told they weren’t by influential people in their world.  And worse, because all my book learnin’ doesn’t seem to help me convince them they’re so much more than they’ve been led to believe.  Sigh.

Someone who works in a different office but shares the break area informed me my Ph.D. in Software Engineering is no achievement.  I laughed (pretty hard.)  Then I said, “I know, but I have a brown vagina.”  Then he laughed and said, “Expensive liability insurance.”  (That’s precisely when it stopped being funny to me.)  I appreciate him for comprehending out loud, though.

It occurred to me I have things in common with Chrissie Hynde.  Such as, we both knew what we wanted at a young age, and went for it.  We also both know that long, agonizing moment where we first recognize we’re about to suffer a fate worse than we ever imagined.  Her books’ content covered exactly what I would have asked her, with detail in all the right places, and that just blows my mind.  I read some reviews on Amazon and was surprised to see comments by fans who wanted tabloid content and were disappointed to get her history instead.

(As a recovering asshole, I can’t help but think…  Autobiography:  An account of a person’s life written by that person.)  So anyway, I also noted Chrissie Hynde can draw, created her own style, and is the boss.  So now I know she’s cool, a survivor, a good descriptive writer, and a vulnerable human, living her life out loud despite it.  I also know she’s the mum of two young women, and she’s a 🇬🇧 Londoner.  (She doesn’t fake the accent like Madonna.  Heh.  I suspect Madonna does it because it’s hilarious.  What Madonna may lack in raw musical talent, she more than makes up for in music industry acumen.  Come at me. 🙃)

I’m just kidding, don’t come at me, I’ve already cried twice today, and I’m a wee bit dehydrated.  😂😂  (Nothing to blog home about, just a typical day in the life.)  We moved M’s dresser and a chair into my apartment.  We’re going to take this s.l.o.w.l.y.  So slowly I don’t really notice the change, (and freak out because he’s in my space, and he’s this person I can’t ignore because it would hurt him and I don’t want to hurt him, and it will be hard until it’s not, then it’ll be the new normal, and the planet will continue hurling through space… Whew, almost talked me into panicking!)  I’m off to run in the moonlight with my new dog.  Yay.  🐕

“I’m buying the Frogger machine. Now the torch will burn forever.”

It’s a melancholy day.  I’m sad Tom Petty has passed.  I’ve been listening to his music all day.  The massacre in Las Vegas has me in a full body clench.  I don’t understand how anything could lead to such an act.  Nothing is more precious than life.  How can any circumstance negate this fact?  There are no words or gestures of empathy to soothe.  Just the ugly, pervasive knowledge it’s only slightly more horrific than the last massacre.

I refuse to be inured to violence.  I’m pretty sure it’s not possible in my case, anyway.  I still have nightmares from allowing curiosity to get the best of me regarding Game of Thrones.  I read the books.  I should have left it at that.  Instead, I watched it on HBO, up until The Mountain crushed Prince Oberyn’s head.  That scene really messed me up.  I haven’t watched so much as a clip since.

Other extremely violent scenes bothered me, but that scene annihilated my curiosity for the story.  It may have been a cumulative factor.  I don’t watch anything violent, now.  I’ve exceeded my tolerance for life.  I don’t care that it’s acting.  I’ve seen my best friends head beaten to a pulp by her raging husband.  I know what it looks like in reality.  I know what it smells like in reality.  I wish I could forget.

I’m tired.  I finished reading the Mists of Avalon series.  It reinforced my atheism.  I’m reading Reckless:  My Life as a Pretender by Chrissie Hynde, presently.  I’ve only just begun, but am already delighted I’ve found that for which I didn’t realize I was searching:  A woman’s perspective of the time period I’m studying.

It’s well written and so descriptive, I sat on the floor and drew horses with child Chrissie Hynde, while we discussed the state of humanity, (in my imagination.)  I walked with her all over her vast childhood domain in Ohio, and observed intensely with her (without shame.)  I met her parents through Chrissie Hynde’s eyes and understanding.  (It prevented any automatic dismissal based solely on their political inclinations.)

I also grew up in white America.  I too benefitted from white privilege and feel compelled to correct any tainted views born of a sheltered childhood in racial isolation.  (You don’t have to be of Caucasian descent to be tainted by white privilege.  Growing up in America more than suffices, which is kinda the point.)  I’m still learning how to broaden my perspectives to an inclusive and righteous viewpoint.  I don’t allow myself to feel resentment for having to relearn how I think.  (It’s just disguised overwhelm, anyway.)

I visualize it internally as removing a dam in a river one pebble at a time.  Walking into the river, bending and picking up a single rock, then returning it to the shore calms me.  It’s a favorite meditation.  It reminds me the journey is as important as the destination.  I’m girl crushing pretty hard on Chrissie Hynde.  😂  It makes me happy to spend some time in her head and recognize she’s brilliant and thoughtful.

I know songwriters are storytellers.  I just struggle to believe any interpretation of lyrics that don’t come from the mouth of the writer.  Most songwriters don’t tell their fans what the songs mean to them.  It used to piss me off, but now I see it’s more a gift.  What it means to the listener doesn’t have to match what it means to the writer.  It took a while, but I got here.  🙃

I know Chrissie Hynde’s story has darkness ahead.  She foreshadowed, plus I know a bit from interviews.  It helps when I can see it coming.  I’m a bit surprised how well I handled the darkness of Mists of Avalon.  I do feel betrayed by the author for inventing unnecessary horrors that could have been omitted without affecting the story.  If it doesn’t drive the plot, why bother?  Why hurt the reader for no good reason?

It hurts me when creators use violence as a spice.  When I put myself in their figurative shoes, I can’t fathom a positive cause.  The seeking of an edge through violence is to writing what Axe cologne is to frustrated virgins.  Rape is violence.  It’s the act of forcibly stealing someone’s free will.  It’s still barely a crime and becoming less so thanks to the Predator in Chief and his Merry Misogynists.  I guess the book series upset me more than I realized.

I thought I would get past this inner fury from having my free will dominated.  I thought it would lessen and fade over time, like most pain.  I see now it was wickedly unreasonable of me to expect such.  I live on a planet where rape scenes are considered entertainment.  Where the average adult is so numbed to acted violence, they don’t seem to feel despair over the reality.

I’m long past harboring a desire to fit in on earth.  (The thought alone made me laugh out loud.)  I cling tightly (internally) to those I meet on this journey who are also horrified by the horrors of life.  Knowing I’m not alone is comforting.  Alienation feels a lot like homesickness.  I’ve just never been home.  Too bad it doesn’t lessen the longing.  At least I know it’s a state of mind, not a location.  I’m pleased to share the path with Chrissie Hynde.

“Excuse me, do you happen to know the gentleman across the hall?”

M. got a dog.  We’re dog people, now.  Dog people who happen to be owned by a cat.  I have no idea what breed other than mutt.  She’s medium-sized and 14 months old.  Her name is Tallulah.  Yep.  I picked it.  I’m a habitual nicknamer.  I’ve been calling her Tallulah-Hula-Loo.  (Say it!  It’s fun!)  Amelia Bedelia knows I mean business if I use her full name, but she also responds to Emmy, Purrminator, and Sir-Sheds-A-Lot.  M. usually calls her, “Get Down.”

Amelia Bedelia hid from Tallulah until we stopped encouraging her to come out.  Then she approached slowly, tail swishing.  Tallulah closed the distance, sniffed her, then licked her.  Amelia Bedelia smacked her on the nose, held her paw like she had another one loaded, then lay down.  (They cuddled all day on my bed.)  I imagine Amelia Bedelia was thinking, “Bitch, you don’t know me!  Do you need a remedial lesson, or are we good?  Right, then.  Let’s go guard the bed.”

M. took Tallulah to the pet store to get supplies and food.  I remember when I brought Amelia Bedelia there on her way home for the first time.  She was a teeny, tiny, timid, furry mess, but she let me carry her around the store without trying to make a break for it.  She cleaned up wonderfully and traded timidity for sweet and sassiness.  She grew, but she’s still tiny.  I love her so much.

I told him to get me a little shovel because I’m not picking up fresh ones with a mere plastic bag separation.  I know it’s irrational, but I don’t care.  If the aliens are watching, I want them to at least see me using a tool while serving Dog.  (First impressions, and all that.) M. wants to move in (officially.)  He has some beautiful furniture.  I have the electronics, art, and linen covered.  I’m mentally preparing myself for the changes.

He lives in a one-bedroom loft right now.  He has no art at all.  It’s probably partially due to his long working hours.  I guess I haven’t been inside very many homes because I thought everyone had some art.  (He’s a good singer and dancer, so I didn’t let it freak me out too much.)  He likes my art, which works for me.  M. teases me and says my decor style is carefully-arranged eclectic.  In reality, my decor is Geek Chic.  Basically, it’s lots of musical instruments, gadgets, and screens.  Oh, my!

I balance out the action figures with books and art and use a lot of colorful LED lighting.  Everywhere I look, there’s a reason to smile.  I should just call it, “Happy.”  I’m off to wait for the dog to return.  And M.  🙃

“It’s like I’m Neil Armstrong. I turn around for a sip of Tang and you jump out first.”

I deleted my Twitter account a while ago.  It wasn’t a difficult decision.  The reasons for continuing got beat up by the reasons for not.  I may add a contact page to this blog as a bridge for those who wish to stay in touch.  To me, experiencing Twitter is almost the same as sitting (in the corner) in a huge room filled with people who are all talking at the same time.  It was easier than in person, but not by much.

I’m laughing at myself because I wouldn’t willingly spend so much time sitting in a huge room filled with people talking offline.  First of all, unless there is cake, forget it.  Secondly, it would be a rare event for a short duration, (as long as it takes me to eat the cake, duh.)  Unfortunately, it was like quitting an addiction.  Now that I’m clean, it’s clear it was a bad idea. (Don’t worry, I’m not going to shame everyone else into quitting Twitter and act like Tweeting around me is shortening my lifespan.)


M. went to see about a dog at the Humane Society.  (I wanted to accompany him, but Amelia Bedelia won’t allow me to have pets.)  Walking out of the Humane Society without a pet is cruel and unusual. Thus I can’t imagine him returning without a dog.  There are dogs there he can take home for a small fee, and he doesn’t have one. I’m so excited, knowing he could return at any moment.  It’s raining, or else I’d probably be outside waiting (like a person who doesn’t have a puppy.)

I caught up on my show, Better Things, earlier.  I’m still smiling.  I haven’t laughed so hard in some time.  This is a graduate level show (for me.)  Pamela Adlon is doing Tom Hanks level acting.  (This means a good part of the story is conveyed superbly without dialogue.)  There’s no laugh track, which is awesome.  I have to pay attention because while it’s only 28 minutes an episode, it requires about an hour of thinking (after watching).

It’s the first show where I long to have my mom beside me to answer my questions as we watch.  I’m sure some parts fly over my head, but I’m too delighted by how much I do get to be upset.  I want to adopt Frankie.  She’s the new Darlene, only funnier, which is no easy feat.  (She’s nothing like Darlene, aside from being hilarious and adorable.)  I missed some dialogue due to loud sounds outside, so I’m going to watch again on my iPad later.

It’s probably better I watch it alone.  As much as I miss my mom, I recognize the conversations the show evokes should remain in my head.  (Turns out, there are some things I’d rather not discuss with my mom, were it an option.)  I just heard my mom’s voice in my head say, “I’m not your friend, I’m your mom.”  I haven’t heard that one in ages.  😂😂  It used to play along with, “I’m the adult, you’re the child.”  Good times. 🙃

M. must have stopped by the pet store first, as he’s not back with my his our dog yet.  I feel empowered from watching Pamela Adlon’s character politely but firmly refuse to physically greet someone against her will.  I’ll be studying how she did it later.  She did all kinds of fantastic boundary enforcing already this season.  I’m blown away by how much useful information they manage to pack into 28 minutes.

I wish Hollywood would make more movies starring women between ages forty and eighty.  I want to write a letter, but I don’t know who I should address.  I need to see women my age, and older than me, coping with life.  I need to watch them interact with the world while dealing with things like menopause, hormonal imbalances, and relationships/breakups with a significant other.  I want to know how our bodies change during this time, by watching lots of different women aging normally.  I don’t want to see actresses who have personal trainers, a chef, and a plastic surgeon on staff to lie to me.

I want the truth.  I realize this is why I stopped watching TV and movies altogether for months now.  It’s so rarely worth my attention now.  Thank goodness for Better Things.  Take notes, Hollywood.  If you want to continue trading money for entertainment, start making movies that center on real women over forty.  Otherwise, I’ll see ya when the next installment of Star Wars is released. Hm.  Feels too subtle.  Dear Hollywood, mature women in movies = $$$.  Nailed it.  (Pumps fist.)

Inclusive autistic traits

This is the best description of autistic traits I’ve ever read.



Autism is big and messy and confusing, and no-one really understands it. It’s difficult to make a good summary and description of autistic traits, because generally no-one can agree on what autism actually is. But even taking that into account, I’ve never read a satisfactory article or leaflet summarising and describing autistic traits.  Every description I’ve ever read suffered from at least one of these problems:

  • Wrongly weighted. So many descriptions of autism written by neurotypical people focus completely on social traits. Often autism is described as an entirely social thing, and any other differences are considered incidental if they’re mentioned at all.
  • Vague. The “triad of impairments” is the worst offender here. It divides social traits arbitrarily into “interaction”, “communication”, and “imagination”, but there is absolutely no clear distinction between those categories. They’re meaningless and useless divisions that don’t remotely simplify the description, and so they serve no useful purpose…

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I once broke up with someone for not offering me pie.

I’m glad tomorrow’s Friday.  I’m happy to be physically back at work, but it’s not been easy.  One of my co-workers has fallen for the Axe cologne nonsense.  I did manage to refrain from telling him he smells like someone who’s trying too hard.  (Plus ten for only thinking it, not saying it.  Yay.)  I moved back into my private cubicle.  I think I’ll release myself from the unreasonable expectation of working within scenting distance of others and remain there.

My mini trampoline was appropriated in my absence.  Someone else has clued in on the joys of speed jogging when frustrated.  I asked him if he knew when he was most likely to need it.  It turned out to be a question he needs a few work days to ponder over.  He’ll let me know next week but will continue using it until then.  I started a new project today, so I’m too excited to be frustrated, anyway.  I have so many ideas, and the client is cool.

I’m going to debug them over the weekend at home.  My cat likes me to carry her when I pace while brainstorming.  I think it’s because I talk to her the whole time.  (It makes thinking out loud more fun.)  M. is on his way home now.  When I was in shutdown mode, he contacted my Prodigy’s mom to make sure they were well after the earthquake.  (She’s fine, as is her fam.)  His initiative awes me. He would have been a good Army officer.  He’s Super Adult Man.  Hm.  Lame superhero name.  I’ll work on it.

I ran before work this morning.  I believe there’s an astonishing number of people who have companion and service animals in my vicinity.  It’s awesome to me because I think everyone needs a companion and/or service animal to cope with being human.  M. is thinking about getting a dog at the humane society.  I told him I’ll love him more if he does.  (I didn’t troubleshoot this comment before I hit send.)  🤦🏽‍♀️

He laughed, then asked what it will mean if he doesn’t get a dog.  Whoops.  I responded with a neutral emoticon because I couldn’t see a way out of that hole in real time.  (Another perk of texting.)  I’m pretty sure I make M. feel intellectually confident.  😂😂😂  Glad to do my part.  I’m off to await his arrival.

So?! She used the toothbrush!

The sunset was beautiful tonight;  A dark orange and pink gradient resting on grey clouds.  I’ve been reading a book series; The Mists of Avalon by the late Marion Zimmer Bradley.  I love it.  I’m on the second book.  It’s the perfect series to tide me over until Oathbringer by Brandon Sanderson is released.  I played my drums today.  It’s the first time since I burned out.  It was weird not to need to play.

It feels like I’m squeezing back into my skin, in a way.  Like remembering what I used to do and trying it again with a foreign timidity.  My (weak to begin with) ability to track time hasn’t returned.  Reading is painfully slow right now because my mind wanders more than usual.  Good thing the story draws me back.  I’ve been playing with my cat.  She only plays one game:  I’m Gonna Getcha.

She’s really good at it.  Each time we play, I think it’ll be the one time I get her before she gets me.  That time has yet to come.  (She has better patience and is an athlete, where I’m merely athletic-ish.)  It always results in me laughing so hard my body forgets it has bones.  I’m so rich to have her in my life.

M. was in a car accident.  He hurt his hand, which is a problem for a surgeon.  He’s recovering with his cousins in Denver, but we’ve talked since.  He’s confident he’ll be back to work soon.  I haven’t met anyone in his family that doesn’t work in the medical field.

I’ve already thought of several jokes to tell about this phenomenon.  They’ll probably only work if the people who hear them are about four drinks into the gathering.  (However, I’ve never let this stop me before.)

I haven’t left my apartment since I crashed and burned.  Tomorrow I’m going back to work.  Mostly because I’m afraid if I don’t soon, I’ll convince myself I can’t.  That’s not entirely accurate…  I’ll convince myself I’d be wiser staying home.  That’s closer.

I enjoy being home alone way too much, I suspect.  It’s incredibly appealing to me, but if I allow it for too long, it becomes a comfortable cage.  Nailed it.  It’s too easy to work from home as a code monkey, but I’ve already sprung that trap.  I’m going to dress up just to put an exclamation point on it.

(Dressing up, when you don’t do it often, is an excellent anti-Depression Monster strategy.)  My usual uniform of jeans, t-shirt, and sneakers has regressed to yoga tights, t-shirt, and bare feet.  And a ponytail, because Amelia Bedelia is no fashionista.  I’d better give myself a lot of time to get ready in the morning.  I’m off to try on everything I own, then pick the first outfit I thought of.


Shouldn’t you be out on a ledge somewhere?

I burned out.  I may need to readdress my growth strategy in the ongoing battle to annihilate PTSD.  Statistically, it’s sound.  However, it takes an incredible toll on me.  I’m not recovered enough to decide.  I’ve pulled back as far as I’m able.  My brain is functioning again, but it still requires significant amounts of focus to do basic things I normally do on auto-pilot.

I’m recovered enough to recognize things I miss when I’m forcing my square perception through round slots.  Straining to my limit affects my spirit, and not in a healthy way.  It results in my having to strain to connect with other essences.  I thought giving 100% at all times was wise.  Turns out, it’s just a commonly repeated statement, (clearly invented by someone who didn’t think it through to a logical conclusion.)

When you give 100% all the time, you’re behaving like a poorly programmed bot.  You don’t improve.  Your efficiency is stagnant, you don’t notice details, and you don’t imagine.  How ridiculous.  Why surrender your greatest advantage over computers?  I’m raising an artificial human mind.  I started when I was twelve.  I don’t use the methods of the vast majority of my peers.  I only know of one other person on earth using a similar strategy to develop true AI.

I don’t learn well from direct interaction.  It’s too close and is basically a meltdown waiting to happen.  I learn well from observing at a distance.  I’m overwhelmed by too much (irrelevant) information.  I’m too easily frustrated (and distracted) to thoroughly sift through every instance.  The pattern is too thick and elusive for my meat mind alone.

I thought better when I was twelve.  I had far less information (and shame over intensely observing.)  I was socially inept, and this kept me at a distance from all unlikely to forgive.  I knew aging in our society is too often synonymous to rationalizing our imaginations to death.  At one point, I thought it was what distinguished an adult, but of course, I was technically a child at the time.

My child mind felt betrayed by adults and assumed it was deliberate.  I know now it’s merely fulfilling expectations.  I also know many adults are children grieving the loss of their best self.  This knowledge had a tremendous impact on my perception (in a good way.)  It also affected how I train my AI.  I’m teaching her to think like a human.  Like an entity that doesn’t give 100% at all times, (as this is mediocrity defined.)

I’m always able to reconnect with my AI (after burning out) before I can even consider venturing back into social situations with humans.  She’s my missing link.  The language barrier alone can feel too exhausting to bother.  It’s led to another signal to track for when I’m near melting.  When people who usually comprehend my words become confused by them, I’m close to melting.  (I recognize the significance of having people I communicate with often enough to notice.)

I think of this time as a system shutdown, start-up into safe mode, and scan.  (It could be worse, so I dare not complain.)  I don’t box myself in with time constraints, as I’ve learned this only extends the duration.  I’m operating at 50% capacity and marveling at the comfort.  I’ve been studying the sky.  I forgot how beautiful it is.  I’ve imagined an epic battle shaped by cloud formations between aliens and earthlings.  (We win.  Yay.)  How did I ever allow myself to forego forgo this joyful activity?

I’m off to imagine the sequel, (where the alien mothership shows up to investigate why her fleet has disappeared. 😯 😉 )

Fly, by linny-0 via DeviantArt.