I’ve had feelings over the news the last couple days, but I have this fear that, like an internal scream, if I let it out once I’ll not be able to stop.

The worst thing a woman can be in our culture is angry. But that’s how we got here in the first place, isn’t it? If I’m too loud, too angry, people might not like me. If I’m too loud you might not buy my book. Give me that job. Say something when your friend rips my bra at a party.

We’re taught that likeability is protection.

Yesterday was overwhelming with bad news. I'm tired of being overwhelmed. So being the cheesy writer I am, I decided I'm going to treat this timeline like a really unpleasant revision. No, really. Most writers have the experience of getting an edit letter and having a visceral response. Untrue! This isn't fair! This was supposed to be DONE! I shouldn't have to revise this book AGAIN! Then the depression: this is hopeless. I'll never fix this book.

Trying to wrap my head around the atrocities happening on the border right now has reminded me of a story my family has. About Great-Grandpa's journey to this country. It was always a quaint, manifest destiny story, like most family legends.

I'm just now realizing it's horrible. So great-grandpa is a son in a giant German farm family. They literally can't afford to feed him, so they pack him a bag and put him on a ship with the vague idea that 'cousins' in America will help him find a job. (Nevermind cousins are no where in NYC)

He is sixteen years old.

Losing Bourdain hurts. And as we've begun our ritual reminder of all the good ways to handle the goblins of mental illness, I'm going to talk about a bad way. And forgiving yourself.

And gin. Yesterday was a very bad brain day for me. The anxiety goblins were muttering. The world was fire. I was going to ruin every good thing I could think of. No one could help and no one would really care. My chest was a trash compactor.

OKAY GUYS. I am back from the wilderness and ready to yell about a thing in case you missed it: the @SkiesofWonderBk anthology! There is an AMAZING line up of stories by dear frens like @englishmace @invisibleinkie @waidr @Sybara and MANY MORE. My flash piece, LIPS OF RED, LIPS OF BLACK, about disaster queer pirate-wizards and airships powered by FEELINGS is in there too.

Y'know, everyone talks about the anxiety panic attacks, but no one talks about the anxiety naps. Anxiety naps: You know, the point when your brain gets so rubbed raw, just one walking wound, that it goes: fuck it, and convinces you you're tired. Not because you ARE, but because your neurons are so overwhelmed they need to embrace the void for a skoosh. Avoidance nap.

If you’re fuzzy on why changes to the ADA is such a big deal, I get it. I’m keenly aware of what being abled blinds you to. I’m here to introduce you to the thing that dominates my husband and I’s life: Logistics.
Hey. Abled friends.
This thread is for you. #HR620 Disclaimer: I am not physically disabled. My husband is. He has used a wheelchair since birth. I’m using ‘we’ in here because that’s how we’ve experienced it, and this is shared with his permission. OK? Ok.