Why come?

Okay, ignore the perv part of that title, please. Thank you. Now, why did my godmom have to tell me bleu cheese had mold in it?! That's my favorite dressing, like ever, and now? I can't eat it. I mean, I knew the blue probably wasn't good for me, but without knowing, I could pretend, damn it! Now, I can't. And I love steak and bleu cheese salad. Mmmm. *sigh* Why, why does she tell me these things? I like not knowing. Makes it easier to pretend. Of course, I eat mushrooms on my salad, too. So you know, fungus doesn't rate as high as mold, apparently. Well, it did take me like 10 years to eat fungus again. Maybe in a few years, I'll be able to eat bleu cheese again. Of course, I'll be like 35 probably forgotten what it tastes like.

Also, when your little toaster oven (you know the little fake ovens you warm leftovers in) starts vibrating and making noises, you need a new one. I foresee a trip to Walmart's tomorrow. A very necessary one. I wonder how long it's been doing that. Mama tends to not notice those type things. Oops. Unplugging it nearly burned me. Since the plug's behind it.

Totally Tubular!

Guys! Guys! OMG!1!!! *bounces on feet* I've been reduced to teeny speak! My dad called when I got back earlier, and told me that he's paying for my car insurance for the next six months (which is about 200 bucks), an old credit card debit (like close to 2 grand), and whatever financial aid doesn't cover. Holy shit, y'all. The only requirement was to find a job, which duh, I'll do after Labor Day, when all this shit's in order. *boogies* This is awesome, y'all. Like beyond. This is unreal. Looks like granddad's 10k will provision came through.

AND! My day got even better when my BlackBerry arrived. Well, technically it's my godmom's but she bought it for me since I need a new phone. It's not good when you have wonky miscommunication. As in, I can hear them and answer, but they can't hear me. So! She got me a new phone, said BlackBerry. It's a refurbished 7103c. I have no idea what it does, but damn it was 40 bucks with signing up for two more years. Mama let me decide on what I wanted, since I'd be using it. *grins* I can't play with it until tomorrow since it has to charge up....but dude.

Go Go Gadget

Okay, so I've talked all about my weird family (lord, are they weird), but I don't think I've told enough on me. Now, I could tell you all about chopping my hair off in defiance of my dad's marrying the Whore From Hell, but I won't. Instead I'll tell some random facts about me as a child.

• I would eat chapstick and lipstick like some kids eat candy. Why, the world will never know. But I did. I also loved to eat TP and notebook paper. And I did this until I was...12, I think.
• According to my godmom, right before one of my ballet recitals, she told me no on whatever I wanted. Bad idea. I did everything backwards in the recital. And more parents were taking pictures of me than their own kids. Not that I could blame them. I was a damn cute kid. Smartass to the nth degree, but cute. Big blue eyes, Barbie blonde hair, and ivory skin. Oh, yes. I was the cutest thing and knew it. After the recital, I was never told no again.
• Because my attitude, I made the local paper when they came to my ballet school for a fluff story. My picture was the one showed. And I strutted for awhile. No one was cooler than me.
• I was kicked out of ballet, swimming, jazz dancing, tap dancing, gymnastics, and ballet again before I was in kindergarten. I was just that cool. They kept trying to fob me off on to another teacher.
• In gymnastics, I told the other kids they could go home. The teacher had me and they weren't needed. I did this more than once.
• At Downtown Disney in Orlando, I played hide and go seek...without bothering to tell my godmoms. Oh, yes. They had everyone looking for me (including security) and I was hiding under the register. The sales lady found me and I told her "Shh, I'm hiding." Godmoms were so happy to find me that I didn't get in trouble, even though everyone was ready to have a heart attack. Bat the eyelashes and everyone would forgive me.
• And finally, because god knows the list could be long, I was invited to go pet the dolphins on stage at Sea World when I was seven. Me being the person that adores dolphins and orcas, I jumped at the chance. Well, the trainer goes, "At the count of three, jump in and go swimming." He started counting and by three I was ready to fly in. He caught me be the seat of my homemade parachute pants. Oh, yes. These were dayglo colored and patterned from the kids' fabric section. I'm a natural born swimmer, so this was no problem in my book. The bad part was that there was some Begulas on the other side and I probably shouldn't go swimming with random animals.

So there you go. Random stories and facts. And all that before I was ten. I have more (seriously, I can recite the stories at this point) but that's enough for now. I'm particularly proud of the last one. Hey, dolphins. I was going swimming. I still would. Wait, I did. Kinda. Another story for another time.

Time to go get my high school transcripts after a quick shower.

News at 11: Catfight at local bar

All right, so we've established I have a very messed up family, and really, is it any wonder I decided perhaps it might be a good idea to get some professional help? Now, since I was on my dad's insurance at the time, we did the co-pay route. That meant I went to one my stepdad recommended. However, the person I requested wasn't taking anymore people, so I got someone straight out of school, I swear.

Why do I think this? Well, she insinuated my problems with dear old stepmom was from jealousy. Yeah, no. My school counselor said the same thing, but the problem is neither one had met the woman in question. (This is the woman that was about 160 lbs and wore a midriff and daisy dukes out in public. She's rouuugh, too. Seriously. Oh! I can show you the pic. *runs off to get the link* Here you go. Don't consume food or drink while looking, unless it's brain bleach.) They also pooh-poohed the maternal influences in my life. Sure, I bet they have a usually drunk mother. I'm so sure. And a manipulative godmom. Really, I wanna see their personal life credentials.

I went to the lady for about four months, once or twice a week depending, before she came up with the bright idea of getting all my family together. The list includes: me, dad, mom, stepmom, and godmom. My stepdad was invited but decided that it would be safer out of the line of fire. Bless his heart. He had the right idea. I told the therapist that it was a very, very bad idea. But hey, what do I know? I only live with the people.

So we're all sitting around, trying to let me unload all my problems they've forced on me (why it wasn't done individually, I'll never know). But I do it, and surprise, surprise my stepmom turns around and starts attacking my mom and godmom. Saying this that and the other. Riiiight, bright idea, genius. I have a temper like my mom, only it's hard to set off, so when my stepmom got in my mom's face, pointing at her and calling her a drunk, I knew no good could come from this. My dad, unsurprisingly, was silent the whole time. Daddy doesn't talk much, he thinks about things before commenting. My mom and godmom who normally never get along were together in beating the bitch who made my life hard. Never mind it was because I was their property. Anyway, long story short, the meeting broke up soon after because my mom was ready to deck stepmom. It got ugly fast. And I never went back to the therapist, as she never called to schedule another appointment, and it's not like she has a single brain cell anyway. I didn't miss her too much.

Now this was in January of 98, I think. On Valentine's Day, I got a call late at night. My aunt was calling to tell me that my mom was seen at the bar trying to attack my stepmom. Normally I wouldn't cheer my mom on, but stupid stepmom went into my mom's hangout for the past 20 years and thought she'd be welcome. Apparently, Aunt's (that'd be the recently dead one) friend said my mom froze up when she saw the couple come in, and was trying to be cordial when my daddy (bless his dumb heart) stopped by to say hello. They were talking low, and all of my sudden my mom comes out with "No one treats my daughter like that!" and ready to start swinging. For the record, mom? Was drunk off her ass, but that's not unusual. Aunt's friend said, "whoever her daughter is, I wouldn't want to her mom after me." The friend had no idea that the one ready to fight was my mom. It was pretty priceless apparently.

Right after my godmom hung up with aunt, my mom called. She explained a lot of the same things my aunt had told, but there was more! You see, they did start cat fighting, or nearly as one could in the small space. My dad was trying to move my stepmom out of the bar (and hee! she was permanently thrown out of the bar after that), and my stepdad was holding my mom back. Bad, bad idea. Like colossal. You see, we've all told R (stepdad) that when my mom's fighting, just let her finish it. Don't stop her, don't attempt it. Bad, bad. Apparently, he didn't listen. So while his trying to hold her back, she reached around and grabbed him by the balls. Oh, that's not the worst of it. My mom has long, rounded sharp nails. So imaging them squeezing him really hard. It had to hurt, especially since he was attempting to keep my mom held at the same time. Mom was told to go out of the bar for the night and come back when she'd calmed down.

See, this is when it's useful to be a regular. Hell, I went into the bar looking for my mom when I was something like five, cause I have vague recollections of it. And I went in as a high school senior because of who she was. After I got out of school, she and R would meet up for drinks, so around 3 we'd go over. I loved it, honestly. Seriously, I knew half the patrons for most of my life. Nice and convenient. Though, kinda skeezy when someone my dad's age was hitting on me. Damn rack brought the pervs.

Now, my stepmom, bless her dumbass self, said that never happened. Never mind we had an independent source tell us the same story. To date, the best Valentine's Day present ever. Seriously, who could top that? My mom fucked my stepmom's shit up for trying to emotionally abuse me (okay, fine, she totally did) when I was her property, and for calling her a drunk when my stepmom moved in my dad after knowing him a grand total of a month and had gotten her eviction notice a month before she met him. Oh, and my dad and stepmom? Met at the same bar she was banned from. Haha! But that's a story for another time. A good story though.

This? Is a normal day in the life of me.

(Oh, and to clarify, the bar is really a redneck honky tonk. So imagine the fight in that kind of setting.)

Wassit?

This was taken last year, at some point, and it was the first flower bouquet that Ninja Kitty had been around. Being the incredible goof, she ended up hitting all the petals off. But I chose the pic because look at that face. She has the most expressive face ever. She couldn't figure out what the camera flash was and why it was going off all the time. She was about a year here. You can tell cause she's not quite as wide.

I had bought the arrangement for my godmom, just because she was feeling awful and needed something purdy to look at. Too bad they didn't last long. I think she got a kick watching Kitty attack the plants. Speaking of which, we should get some more. If nothing else, the odd looks Noelle shows off and makes us laugh with. Little shit.

Okay, funny post coming up later tonight. I was just looking through the camera pics and had to share this one. And she really doesn't have laser eyes. My camera just likes to make everyone think she does.

My Two Point Six Cents

Okay, I've been bombarded with military posts lately (through my own curiosity or links). This leads me to believe it's time to say my piece. Now, I'm saying it over here, and not on my other, more fandom-centric journal. This? Is a serious toned one post.

I disagree, rather heavily, with the politics behind the war. I'm 25 and it seems like we're always at war. I remember Desert Storm, when as a youngin' my class sent tapes for the soldiers, where we sang and showed our support. But even then, I wasn't sure war was the best answer. And my opinion hasn't changed much over the years. I have a cynical nature, I must admit, and I get the feeling that some politicians are looking at the vote potential instead of the people that are putting their lives on the line. That bothers me, a lot. I've seen, and dealt with my stepfather's PTSD in the 12-13 years I've known him. It's untreated, and probably will stay that way. I believe he said he served three tours. Watching him suffer, knowing that he was a kid that was forced to kill young children, tends to make me not a fan either. Because it's a heavy burden to carry, and it's even heavier when it's a 12-year-old that has to make him feel better during a freak-out over it. Not his live-in girlfriend (my mom), or his own children, but someone who barely knows him but can see the hurt that still lives in him.

That is a large majority of why I don't support the politics behind war. I've seen the disastrous outcome.

However, and please let me be abundantly clear: I will always, always, ALWAYS support the troops. Until my dying breath. I've watched my stepfather deal with the outcome, and I have so much pride in him. He may be an alcoholic sonofabitch sometimes, but he still did something really hard when he was barely old enough to graduate high school. I do my best to call on Memorial Day, or Veteran's Day. Of course, I do forget sometimes, but I make the effort.

Because you know what? I'm a chickenshit when it comes to things like going over and fighting for people I don't know. I am. Now if it were an abused animals? I'd be nailing someone's balls to the wall with a Tim Taylor'd special nailgun. Same with abused kids, after watching my stepbrother be molested by his youth minister, and not his first case of it, either. The first two times were because his mother decided to take him to drug houses. Oh, yes. She's a bright one. Though, I really love one thing about her. When the youth minister went to jail for molesting my little brother? She called in a couple jail favors and had his ass whupped up one side and down the other. She's been to jail a couple times, so she knew some people. Okay, fine, vigilante justice and all, but my little brother was 12 at the time, and thought he was safe.

Those incidents? I'll put on my shit-kickers and you'll be 20 feet in the ground before you know it. Probably with some hurting balls or boobs, depending. But I couldn't fight a war that I didn't understand, and more or less didn't agree with. These people in the military risk their lives so I don't have to. How can that not earn my respect, admiration?

Well, okay, one person doesn't. But considering he's my stepmother's son, well, we'll just take that into account. Plus, he married his 17-year-old girlfriend when he was something like 20. Yeah, not so much a winner there. Especially since they divorced less than a year later. He worked at Langley, working on the airplanes since his vision kept him from flying, which is what he really wanted to do. He got out after...eight years, I think. I tried to forget him as much as possible, so I'm not sure offhand. That's the only one I can think of.

But I completely support everyone fighting. Well, with the exception of ole JB, since he seems to think my dad owes him everything. Now, do I agree with why the troops are there? Hell no. But I do think they need to stay there, until they feel comfortable leaving. It's not me over there so it's not my call to make. Their opinions hold a lot more weight than someone trying to get votes, or the media's desire to stir the pot for more air time to devote to "the drama". Sorry, I like less drama in my news. I have fandom for that. Thanks. I want to know without political biases.

I've started reading military blogs, figuring out ways to make a contribution I can afford to the soldiers. They deserve it, and I'm trying my best to get a more accurate view, from the firsthand accounts. I want to know what I'm supporting, because it matters to the soldiers. It only seems right.

I don't think in political party things, either. Though, I do think George W. needs to go back to Kindergarten and start over. Primarily on using common sense, but that's not what this is about. It's about making the best of the situation we're in. Instead of pointing fingers, being jerks, acting the fool, the country needs to understand what the soldiers feel and see. To understand and accept that knowledge. And more importantly, to let them know that people can separate the politics from the troops. No matter someone's stance on the war, the soldiers shouldn't feel the burden. That's not their jobs.

Well, shit on a cracker

Not bringing the funny, sorry.

So, my godmom and I get along for the most part. I love her, and she loves me. However, she has this problem: passive-aggressive, guilting you into doing exactly what you want type behaviour. She's 74. She does it because her mom did it to her. Which gives her a little bit of wiggle-room, but after 25 years, I'm just slightly over it. Just a little.

Whatever I'm feeling, it's broadcast loudly and clearly. You can't miss it. So, I had asked my godmom to buy my kitten the birthday present since I'm presently broke. Like, I have enough to pay for my insurance and to eat for a bit, but that's it. I asked her this awhile back, and I found a cheap but functional thing. For 17.34, I could get a two-story cloth cat condo and a little one-story hammock. It was pretty okay. But she didn't want to buy it. You know that face, the mom face? The mouth twists down to a frown and the look of "I don't think so" comes over the face? Yeah, I got that one. Which normally it doesn't bother me. I'm used to that sort of thing because I'm forever doing something wrong.

So while I was waiting on her to catch up on me, I was muttering some not so nice things under my breath. I was pissed and hurt because I had told her ahead of time how much it was cost, at least a rounded up "around 15 bucks." Just to make sure she knew it'd be more than 10, less than 20. It depends on the store at times. I used the c word. I use that word...maybe twice every two years. I don't like it, I never have. And I also really, really appreciate what my godmom does for me. I'm not stupid; I know I'm lucky. But I just get tired of the mind games. Seriously, I could give lessons on how to win an argument through manipulation before you're eight. Battle ground from womb on.

So I wasn't surprised after showing my displeasure when in the car, my godmom goes "With your lip poked out like that, you look like your mother." My instant reply, "Thank you!" Now, comparing me to my mom is like the most cruel thing you can do. The woman is the most selfish woman I've met. I just can't even describe the anger in those words. Me, I'm the opposite for the most part. I'll give you the bra off my boobs if you need it. Not because I get to tell everyone about the good deed like my mom, but because it's the right thing to do. I have a pretty solid moral compass. It doesn't waiver, and I don't think it ever will. I'm pretty solid in my beliefs. My mom cheated on my dad because he didn't give her enough sex and she didn't want to have me in the first place. She called me names like bitch by the time I was 12. She was jealous of all the advantages my godmom gave me because no one did it for her growing up. She thinks she knows all about my diabetes when she talks ot me about 5 minutes every three months. Yeah. So comparing me? Hurt like a mother. And my godmom knew it would.

Right now? Not so much talking to her. And I probably won't for a couple hours. Don't worry, though. My showing displeasure will be something I'll pay for in the coming weeks and months. She skips the hours and days and goes straight for the whole hog. Lovely.

Oh, and she spends about 40-50 a month on diet pills. At 74. While crash dieting. And not exercising. Then complains when she can't fit into her St. John Knits that are made for fashion sized 14, which is like a 10 on normal people. She has got a closet full of clothes but she refuses to face the fact at 74, she's not 40 anymore. Her body doesn't work that way. And it's something I have to discuss with her daily. Her body issues make mine look positive. Imagine doing this on a daily basis. Passive-aggressive swipes get old real fast.

Gee, why do I want to move out?

I want my unicorn...NOW.

Shamelessly snagged from The "Mind", because I'm cool like that.








I've taken it before, but it's been a long time ago. Apparently I got the same answer then, too. Sheesh, I don't think the person described has a functioning brain. And? I have PLENTY of bruising. My heart's got more scars than a scarred up thing.

Toilet and all

For another story of my moms family's....unusualness, I'll introduce y'all to Uncle T. Now, all my mom's brothers (and hell, my step-father) are alcoholics. Uncle T is a mean drunk. Oh, yes. Unlike my Uncle C, who is awesomesauce when drunk...unless it's his ex-wife. He's also got the family pride, temper, and lack of common sense. You'll see all those come into play by the end of this post. Okay, that's enough of back story.

My Uncle T and Aunt L were getting a divorce about 10 years ago. They were the fist-fighting, screaming at each other sorts of arguers, so you can imagine the hell that went on when they were mad. Now, they lived in squaller. I do mean that, too. My two cousins had pet roaches. Seriously. I know this because I used to stay there before school. And I hated the way it smelled. Talk about junk collectors. They were renting the house, I think. Hell, they might have owned it for all I know. I can't be certain. Anyway, if you've ever seen Animal Cops on Animal Planet, the hoarder houses? Yeah, pretty much. Just don't add the too many animals to it.

Okay, so my uncle and aunt were fighting, arguing over something but no one's ever said. He got so angry that he went and ripped the toilet off the floor. No, really. Straight up and broke the bolts. The worst part? That was the only bathroom in the house. So they had to go out to a trailer next to the house that held the rest of their shit to shit. Oh, yes. We're a winning family. Of course, there was also a weird shed on the property that held lawn mowers and possibly a pig or two, along with two small cornfields on either side. Oh, yes. White trash representing. And they picked the corn. Ahem, got side-tracked. Sorry.

Now, it's guaranteed that he was drinking, since alcoholic and the day ended on Y. And they kept arguing after the destruction of the toilet. It got to the point that he went and pulled out his handgun. Because in this family, meaning my mom's, you had better be prepared for anything. In a case of infinite wisdom, he started waving it around while Aunt L was outside. Pissed off, he shot it.

No, no. He didn't shoot her. You see, he shot it straight ahead, so it went into the woods across the street. But the story doesn't end here. You see, there happened to be someone jugging over by the trees. Not just anyone, but an off-duty cop. Of course, he had his radio on him because sleepy town or not, there's some crazy people in the world. He called it in and I think had his gun, too.

So my uncle was arrested for shooting a gun while drunk. He served time, but I'm not sure how long, and then was put on probation. Aunt L also ended up divorcing him because she wasn't gonna live with his crazy ass. Can't say I blame her really. This is also the same guy that tries to tell me what the best job for me would be. Uh huh. Because he's got awesome thought processes like that.

The toilet didn't get fixed for about six months.

My family? Fodder for a book, seriously. No one would believe these things happen.

Plight of the Dead

My mom's family is, shall we say, unique. Not just redneck, but redneck white trash. So funerals are a fun experience. Like finding out who bathed, who didn't, who's coming in overalls or jeans (that'd be over half), who dressed up (a little less than 1/4th), and finally, who's coming with who since they all pretty much date in the family. Oh, yes. We are an inbreed clan, and that folks is why I don't date. I'm sorry, it doesn't interest me to date my third cousin; removed or not, still sharing the same tree.

Now, my aunt died two Fridays ago, and we buried her last Tuesday (a week ago). The day before my mother's birthday. Oh, yes, my family has spectacular timing when deciding to die. So, everyone's in all their glory, most looking like ship-wrecked idiots that don't own a razor. Seriously, my family? LOVES the scruffy, unkempt look. It's rather sad. Nothing like seeing your uncles dressed in jeans, flannel shirt, and jean jacket with a hat on. Oh, yes, even in the chapel, the hat stays on. And not just any hat, but a trucker one! We rule, really. I had to piece together something quickly since I couldn't find pants that fit at Lane Bryant, but I still looked ten - no, twenty - times better than these people.

There were eight surviving children, two dead. Now it's seven, and all the siblings sat with their significant others (if they had one, which surprisingly, Denim Uncle did not). The nieces and nephews sat behind their parents. So, I being the smart person, dragged my godmom to sit with me. What? These people are nuts, I ain't stupid. And then, when my step-siblings asked if they were supposed to sit with us, I jumped on that bad boy, too. We had nearly a whole pew all to ourselves. Oh, there were a couple great-aunt's but hell if I know their names. One's nickname is Snooks. Oh, yes, you know you're jealous.

So on my left was godmom and on my right was my step-sister with her son on the lap. Next to her was my other step-sister, sitting with our niece. We'll call the one with the two kids Sister A and the other Sister J. So, we're sitting there, listening to the first preacher (because oh yes my aunt had two preachers), and going "Okay, this is going along good. Annnny minute now, we'll be done." But alas, that was a pipe dream.

You see, it was time for Preacher Two to step up and speak. And this man sees all of us as a congregation, which as I told Sister A, "we're the captive congregation." I mean, I went through the same thing with my grandfather's funeral. Same guy, same sermon. Oh, yes, it was a sermon. Lots of loud talking, telling us to accept Jesus into our life or we'd never see my aunt in Paradise. Now, I'm not particularly religious. I have my spiritual beliefs and that's about it. But I don't begrudge people their choice of dealing with their spiritual side. However, I don't particularly think a funeral's the time for a 45 minute sermon on the evils of life at a funeral. Did we discuss my aunt? Not unless you count a few sprinklings of meeting her in Paradise.

Can't have a pesky thing like the dead person's contributions being talking about. Okay, so she wasn't Mother Teresa, but she was pretty nice when not being vain about it. I loved her anyway. So, I'm sitting there, doing my best to not nod off since that what I always do in sermons. So, I'm all, blahblahblah, until it was time to view the casket.

I don't like looking at dead people. I haven't since I was about 12. So, needless to say, this wasn't the most fun thing for me, but I did it for my pride. What? I wasn't gonna let the family say something about me. They already think I'm abnormal for not being married or divorced with three kids at my hip. Now, after everyone else in the world's looked at her, it's the family's turn. And lemme tell you, that's jacked up. Family? Should be the first to say goodbye. Primarily because the chapel was about 60% full and that was a long wait. Anyway, so we go see her, and it didn't occur at the time, but seriously...little kids? Shouldn't have to see dead bodies.

My niece, let's call her K, was crying over seeing the dead body, and with a two-year-old on Sister A's lap, I took Little A. Sister A looked alarmed, said "No, he doesn't like that." And by that time, Little A was sitting on my lap watching his sister cry and trying to figure out what was going on. He didn't utter a peep. All I told him was "Sissy needs to sit with your mama right now, and I'll give you back in just a minute." He was fine. Both my step-sisters looked flabbergasted. Which is odd because kids usually love me. I'm pretty personable, really. And I was talking to Little A very calmly so K could get the attention she needed. It all worked out, I think.

Then I went to the grave site for the lowering. Over the whole family thing by then, I skipped on the at the home talking about her bit and went to the library to get my books. *grins* Luckily, it was two doors down. Hey, why waste the gas?

And that is the story of the captive congregation. I wonder if other areas have that, or it's just this special guy's spiel.

Happy Time

Okay, really, I don't have a lot of happy things to mention about my day (mostly because I only left the house for about two hours), but well, the blog was getting rather bitter. I try and dole that out slowly as to not scare the nice people away.

So positive things. Reading Crystal McBoob's blog, I found this place. And truly, if you've ever had a pug, you understand how well they control humans. We are their puppets, and we dance, dance our little hearts out until we give them what they want. Granted, no one reads my blog (darn my promotion skills), but hey, I'll add it out there because what's posted is so true. I mean, honestly. Go read, laugh, and see how those us that are owned by pugs live. *grins*

Noelle is crashed out beside me, loving the floor lamp that keeps her nice and toasty since the cruel humans didn't raise her window today. Maybe we will tomorrow. God knows we're weak-willed when she looks sad. But...kitty. Pretty kitty, even. That's my Thunder Kitty (okay, and Ninja Kitty, as named when she was a kitten and would attack randomly). Thunder Kitty comes from the fact she sounds like it when she runs to follow from the front.

And oh my god. WORST KITTY MOTHER EVER. Today was her birthday. *headdesk* I was thinking it was July, but no, I gave her June 12 so it's three months in front of mine. Damn it. I owe her something. Hmm...wonder if I can get my godmom to buy her a toy or something. Probably. Godmom loves her almost as much as I do. Well, shit. Okay, *ponders* since it's late anyway, I should make it a good present. That means I've had her for about a year and a half. She's the best thing that's happened to me in that time. Why? Because she makes me laugh and giggle, keeps me from sliding into depression, and most of all just loves me. The unconditional love of a pet is the best thing ever. Because when I'm sick, she guards me. When I'm crashing at night and dangerously low, she'll paw at me. When I'm sleeping, usually she can be found curled around my feet snoozing right along with her brain-dead human. Every day I realize how lucky I am to have her. God, and since we don't speak often I'll take this on high authority, blessed me with her. She healed some old wounds helps me remember why I'm on this earth. Because I'm part of a team.


Best. Cat. Ever.

Oh goody! I'm old.

At 25, I'm afraid that I've got another medical problem. Diabetes is like the jumping off point, which sucks ass. I have subclinical hypothyroidism. What is that? Fuck if the Internet's telling me. All I know is that I'm on pills now. More medicine. Oh, yay. And I have to take this one hour before I eat, which means I have to wait to take my insulin. Goody, goody gumdrops. Since that seems ever so safe! Of course, a quick look at the medicine website tells me, that oh goody, Type I diabetes is an autoimmune disease. How come my docs never told me this? Hello, this is very, very important information.

Bloody hell, and now I'll have to start getting up at 9am every day to keep it on a normal schedule. I like sleeping until 1 pm, damn it. *sighs*

From their website:

Do not stop taking Synthroid or change the way you take it unless your doctor tells you to do so. If you do not take your pills each day as prescribed, your doctor may not be able to tell if your current Synthroid dose is helping to keep your thyroxine level in balance.

If your doctor prescribed Synthroid even though you had no hypothyroid symptoms, you need to keep taking Synthroid even if you feel fine. Stopping the medicine could lead to other health conditions, such as infertility, problems during pregnancy, and heart disease. It is very important to get follow-up TSH tests to make sure your TSH level is within the target range.

Oh, gee! That makes me feel good. Good thing I hadn't planned on having kids anyway. You know what? I give up. I do. I say I go back into my mother's womb and start over. Okay? Or better yet, lemme pick out a better model when it comes to mother. I need one that's not a bitch from hell. Thank you ever so much.

Oh what a fucked up tangled web...

To hell with the TB scare in my own damn city.

To hell with Michael Vick's dumbass.

Where have I been doing the past three days? Watching uneducated monkeys try and parse out a reasonable explanation why 'delete, then ask' is a really good idea.

Because seriously they're so stupid that I think FanLib gets a round at the bar tonight for being MENSA candidates. It's always a good idea to piss off your userbase unexpectedly and not talk about it for days, while informing the banned people that they're "permanently suspended" for daring to not confirm to some nutjob's way of life and having an "interest" linked because that's how the site has been set up to work in the first place. Woohoo?

Yeah, well, since I just paid them money, I want to know when I can expect a refund. Hey, I didn't pay to be lumped in with pedophiles. Sorry, not my bag, but thanks for making me feel one. It made me feel all warm and tingly inside. Oh, wait. That might have been my fandoms bitchslapping their asses. Ah, well. Anything that can unite HP fen together gets a gold star in my book.