“So you’re denying him the scholarship just because he wants to be a city planner?”

I spent a little time using an Adobe web app called Spark, this afternoon.  It’s super easy to use (without bothering with the built-in tutorial.)  It helped me express myself with more than words in a short amount of time.  (It also reinforced my desire to continue learning Premiere Pro and After Effects.)  You’d think the message would indicate despair on my part, but nope.

I’m more resolved to endure as long as I can despite the willful ignorance, deception, and destruction surrounding me.   The hurt and betrayal I feel don’t decrease as I process the status quo, though.  I don’t know what to do with these feelings, other than experiencing them.  All the hate and ignorance being spread are motivating me to fight for all who are marginalized.

M and I agreed it’s our duty as citizens to support and protect them to the best of our ability.  We’re focused on the LGBTQIA+ community presently.  We had fun helping out (serving food and cleaning up) during Pride this year, and it felt magnificent to be in the vicinity of so many people celebrating.

Despite what I think is coming, I’m hopeful.  Part of me is amused because it’s probably ridiculous at this point.  I choose to hope because I’m in love with the human race.  People are my favorite fascinations;  Each one a unique universe, capable of incredible good and evil acts.  Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we figured out how to live and let live in harmony with all that’s alive?

That’s my dream.  I plan to use what remains of my life doing what I can to make it a reality.  I’m going to fight to help bring The Force back into balance by policing my actions so they match my values.  Watching so many preach one thing and do another strengthens my resolve.  Sheryl Crow nailed it with her latest single, titled, I Wouldn’t Want To Be Like You.  The universe shows us, over and over, life finds a way.  I believe.

“You could read the paper through the whole thing if you want.”

AFTF: Puma Custom Genetic Supplement

I hope those celebrating are having a blast this Independence Day.  In case you missed it, Sheryl Crow is releasing her final album in 2019.  After that, she’s only releasing singles.  Stevie Nicks is going to be on it.  I’m grinning like Oprah just adopted me.  😁   Just a quick flyby before our gig.  I’ll be back to regular posting this weekend.  ✌

No! There’s no T-bone!

Today has been tense.  Someone got fired at work today for being a racist fuckwad.  It was the asshole with the blue switches on his mechanical keyboard, (and the Confederate flag on many of his shirts, belt buckle, and bumper sticker.)  Every time he pressed a key, it made an annoying click sound that defeats the noise canceling abilities of my Bose QC35’s.  Needless to say, I wasn’t sorry to see him go.  I left for home soon after he was dismissed.  On my way out, my boss asked if I know of anyone to replace him.  I suggested he hire someone disabled.  Then I gave an extemporaneous lecture about why it’s an excellent move.

He started to object right away, so I reminded him I’m disabled.  For some reason, many people assume disabled only means using a wheelchair.  I don’t know the statistics, but I’d guess there are at least as many disabled who don’t look disabled (to the unaware observer.)  I’m so glad I stopped talking at that point and didn’t speculate on who else in our office might have some disabling attributes.  I was thinking it, though.  (And I may have silently armchair diagnosed a few on my way home.)

I love M.’s mom.  It will take a bit longer with his dad because he’s a LOUD talker.  Every time he speaks, it’s like fingernails going down a chalkboard while an infant screams, a dog’s barking, and My Sharona is playing on crappy speakers, at the same time.  (Calgon, take me away!)  I think he might have trouble hearing.  I’ll find out when I get used to his TALKING.  He probably thinks I’m hard of hearing because I don’t respond (verbally) to anything he says.  I like his eyebrows, though.  M. thinks it’s hilarious because apparently, I cringe literally.  (I told him he should be proud I don’t cover my ears and/or flee as that’s what I want to do every time.)  A few more dinners and I’ll get a handle on it.  I hope.

I beat the hell out of my drums when I got home.  (Not really, I’m just hitting them harder.)  I’ve been playing to a different album, Be Myself by Sheryl Crow.  I’m so addicted to it.  I like every song and they flow from one to another (like they should.)  Today, my favorite song is Heartbeat Away.  It fucking rocks.  Yesterday it was Woo Woo, (but I can’t figure out what she means by double bubble Alamo.)  I’m going to listen later with better cans (wired) because I don’t want to get caught singing the wrong lyrics (again.)  She sings in my range (but probably has a much bigger range than me.)  I’m a 2nd soprano (who would much rather be an edgy alto with a signature vibrato.)

Except when I’m singing along to Disney films, like Moana.  I’m about halfway through it and love it so far.  It’s worth viewing just to see how far animation has come with hair.  I’m wicked impressed with how they animated her thick, wavy hair.  I served with some American Samoans, and appreciate they acknowledged their strong body type in the film, too.  Disney is getting there.  Yay.  Too bad Walt isn’t around to see the deNazification of Disney.  I hope it continues.

I told you never to come in here. Serenity now!

Welp.  I’m freaking out again.  M. popped The Question.  His parents will be here in a few days.  Inhale… 2… 3… 4…  Fuck.  And out… 2… 3… 4…  This kinda shit isn’t supposed to happen after your mom dies.  It would be in the rule book if I had a say in these things.  I did marriage already.  My brain is threatening to reboot.  Redirecting to a shorter thread.  I’m scared.  That’s what’s happening.  I’m afraid because the last time I got married, it didn’t work out.

Since I haven’t shared anything about my marriage, I’ll give the summary.  I got married when I was 19.  I got divorced 25 years later.  My ex-husband was also serving in the Army when we met.  I’ll always love him.  I smiled all the way through when I typed that.  He was (later) diagnosed with schizophrenia.  His medications had severe side effects resulting in his eventual refusal to take them.  Most people with schizophrenia are nonviolent, but that’s not the case here.  I suspect his spec ops training and combat exposure didn’t help.

Unmedicated, he began self-medicating, first just with alcohol, then he started using meth.  Things got bad.  I left when he got violent, but you can’t actually leave an Army Ranger.  You can move a lot, lose a lot of deposits, waste time with restraining orders and unbelievably misogynistic cops in small towns, get a divorce and beg, but you can’t leave.  I’m going to cut this short because this story sucks.  He’s in prison now and doing well on a new medication.  His mom gives me updates a few times a year, but that’s the only remaining contact.

I struggled with the man I married vs. the man who is very ill.  They’re extremely different.  I’m so in love with the man I married, and always will be.  He no longer exists.  It took time for me to accept that.  The first time he hurt me, I was more shocked and confused than any physical suffering.  I was also government property, (GI = government issue.)  I think that spared me the agony of deciding to leave.  (I’ve read lots of women go back to a mate after the first time he hurts them.)

I don’t blame my ex for being sick, of course.  Mental illness fucks up relationships all the time, I’m sure.  My mom told me I don’t need a man to do anything I want to do.  She told me I can be anything I want if I’m willing to pay the price required.  That nobody is better than me or can tell me how to feel.  My mom had an incredible record for being right.  I’m missing her right now.  I told M. I want time to process and think.  He said he expected as much, so that’s a relief.  At least he didn’t spend money on a shiny rock glued to some metal (that I would lose within 24 hours.)

I don’t believe in spending tons on a wedding, either.  Fuck paying lots of money to be anxious in front of people.  (I just want a cake and to be the DJ.)  So I guess I’m going to say yes, even though I’m so scared I think I may hurl.  I’d like to sleep on it, but that’s laughable tonight.  I’m going to go commune with Sheryl Crow, Stevie Nicks, and Beyoncé while I pace.  When I’m relaxed and empowered, I’ll know what to do.

This woman hates me so much I’m starting to like her.

I just realized I haven’t watched anything but Stevie Nicks documentaries and live concerts on DVD in a while.  Typically, I only allow myself to listen to music when I’m exercising because it’s the only way to get me to do it.  Lately, it’s all I do in my free time, but it hasn’t been long enough to mess up my exercise bribery scheme.  Whew.  (I don’t have a Plan B.)  I guess tomorrow will be a long run, and that’ll be my only music fix for the day.  I’m going to listen to In Your Dreams by Stevie Nicks, and The Open Door by Evanescence, and Tuesday Night Music Club by Sheryl Crow.

If it plays longer than my route, I’ll keep listening while I stretch.  I’m already looking forward to it.  I’m going to feel like Wonder Woman.  I’m off Prozac for the rest of the summer.  Or, I guess I should say until it snows.  So who knows, but as long as I can run outside.  I don’t like to run for more than an hour at a time on the treadmill, but I can break it up.  After my fall last winter, I’m too paranoid about falling again (on the ice outside in the snowy weather, where my imagination has assured me in advance I’ll die miserably.)

Note:  In my particular case, if I eat wisely, and do four hours of cardio per day, I feel exactly the same as when I take 20mg of Prozac per day, (minus the side-effects.)  If I do two hours of cardio per day, I’m uncomfortably close to frustration overload 24/7, but I can survive.  Less, and things go downhill quickly about two months after my last dose.  I’m weird.  Don’t try this at home.  Besides, finding out how many hours of exercise it takes per day to be the best me possible is exactly as fun as it sounds.  So do what’s right for you.

The thing about Prozac is this:  It interferes with creativity, sex drive, and for some people, appetite.  In my case, no sex drive, (and I started taking it soon after I realized I even had a sex drive.)  If you don’t know your sexual identity yet, don’t take Prozac.  I was a late bloomer.  I thought boys were gross until I met my ex-husband at nineteen.  If anything, it decreases my appetite when I’m initially adjusting.  It also makes me extremely sleepy for the first few weeks.  Others become overeaters for the first time in their lives.  It’s mean like that.

I want to turn off my Muse-repelling force field known as Prozac so I can do some artwork and find out the rest of this melody that keeps haunting me.  I don’t have it as bad as some.  I can ignore the urge to create if there’s something I’d rather do.  The Muse is a gentle whisper in the night for me.  For some people, she’s also a bitch with handcuffs.  But they’re usually outstanding at what they do so it might be fair.  I’m not sure how much choice they have in the matter.  They’re probably too busy being awesome to care.

I’m feeling balanced again, thank goodness.  You’d think after years of coping with PTSD I wouldn’t get so freaked out every time I hit a rough patch.  Nope.  I freak out every fucking time.  I imagine it’s like being in a fire.  No matter how many times it happens, it’s always alarming.  Plus, I think my mind lets me keep most of those times in short term memory.  Yay brain.  I finally let M. help me adjust my drum kit.  It was noticeably leaning because I loosened something I regret, and it just happened.

I was still playing on them after a few adjustments (without fucking with the rack.)  Now that M. helped, I’m a bit blown away by how much difference it makes.  It was worth the kick in the nuts to my ego.  I got over myself immediately after I started playing.  I’m starting to get pretty good.  I’m almost confident enough to start creating my own beats.  I only lack the practice hours.  My stamina is better, my timing is my strongest skill, and I rarely drop sticks anymore.  The part on my fingers where I lost the skin before getting gloves is calloused, but it’s barely noticeable (compared to what strings do to fingertips.)

I’m so happy to be feeling better.  I got busted singing twice today, but I tend to do it constantly when I’m happy.  It’s almost as good as the relief I feel after passing a kidney stone.  It’s a shame they can’t bottle the post kidney stone feeling and sell it as a drug.  On second thought, maybe it’s a good thing you have to suffer intensely for a while before you get to experience it.  It makes it addiction-proof as fuck.  I just cracked myself up.

I’m off to finish deep cleaning the carpet while listening to the rest of Al Franken, Giant of the Senate from Audible.  I love him.  I probably look silly laughing for no apparent reason every few minutes, but it’s excellent.  It’s helping me cope, and teaching me a lot about politics (in a way that doesn’t make my eyes glaze over.)  I forgot how powerful humor can be in learning.  If you want my full attention, make me laugh.  It’s my favorite thing to do in the world.