Sunday Morning Nostalgia Crush!


The opening to Tranzor Z. Never got the chance to watch this in my area; it just never made it there.

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Everybody’s Working Fur the Weekend


It’s been yet another shitty week, so we’re gonna make this one a kitty week. So here’s what it’s like to have a couple of cats as your office assistants. Enjoy!

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Those First Lonely Steps

The last few days haven’t exactly been kind to me. My anxiety has seemingly decided to come back with a vengeance; my own thoughts are my absolute worst enemies now. I can’t listen to the national news without wanting to scream. The whole thing with Aziz Ansari blew up on my Facebook feed, bringing up some old and very deep scars. Then, we have what happened on Wednesday.

Prime and I caught the first rumblings of the story early Wednesday morning, of the seventeen year old girl who got help for her siblings. Later, we would learn that the family of thirteen had been horrifically abused by their parents and those same parents have now plead not guilty to the charges filed against them.

My anxiety was bad before. But hearing this story, hearing what had happened to this family, made it a lot worse. I feel awful for those siblings, but doubly so for the one that ran back to that house.

Because I would have done the exact same thing. I would have gone back. Because the hell I knew was a lot less worse than the hell I didn’t know. Because my mother told me that the world was a terrible place, that foster families were abusive and that I was better off staying where I was loved. Like that sibling, who followed their sister, looking for help, I would have been too frightened, too immobilized by fear to go much farther. Because I knew that if I were caught, if I were found, the punishment would have been too much for me to bear.

I understand why that child went back, ran back to that house. Because I would have done the same. Because it was all I knew. Even though I wanted out, I was terrified of that way out. I couldn’t take those first few steps to free myself.

That bothers me. Hearing what happened to this family, tears me apart. So much can happen behind closed doors, so many things that we don’t know.

It’s simply too much.

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On Aziz Ansari

You probably know about Aziz Ansari and have probably read his apology. It’s old news. What’s also old news are what some people are saying about this.

“It was a date gone bad.”
“Why didn’t she just say no?”
“She could have just left, you know.”

I think you get the idea. Here’s the thing: I’ve been in that situation. It’s not always so cut and dried.

Before I go any further, let me state that this topic is a little sensitive. There will be details that might bother some people. So we’ll get into things only after the jump.

Continue reading

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An Open Letter to Dave Chappelle

BLOG Open Letter
Dear Dave Chappelle,

I heard about your Netfix special, about the #MeToo jokes and the transgender jokes, and how you’ve been criticized as tone-deaf. I’ve heard all about it. So I won’t be going into any of that. I think enough has been said. Instead, I’m going to say something a little different.

I regret laughing at anything you said.

You know, at the time, when you had a show on Comedy Central, I thought you were funny. Some of the sketches got a rise out of me. Hell, the Samuel Jackson beer sketch was hands down my favorite. So I kept watching.

Then you ran off. There were a few shows afterwards–I think I may have caught them–but then you pretty much disappeared. Until recently when you came back to host SNL and say that we should give the Grand Nagus a chance.

Yeah, that was a pretty big red flag. I shook my head and washed my hands of you. The reasons why should be obvious. I thought that I had heard the last from you. Then your Netflix special happened.

Maybe I’ve become humorless, though I doubt that, but I can’t find anything you say or do as even remotely funny anymore. Not even that sketch on your show. Instead, your words and actions smack of a hollow plea for attention, a whimpering “Look at me! I’m still here!” while the rest of the world has shrugged its shoulders and moved on to other things. There is a sad desperation about you, about the jokes you are trying to make, about the things you are saying. All you want is for someone to look at you and find you relevant again.

Maybe some people do. I can’t. But then again, in my hindsight I admit, you may not have been relevant in the first place.

Sincerely,

Silverwynde

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Coping

We got snow yesterday. I thought it was supposed to snow on Sunday but I guess I was wrong. It wasn’t a lot; maybe around two inches or so. Nothing major, but just enough to make driving interesting. I found that out this morning.

It’s been two years since I started this journey, dealing with my breasts and the chance that they may try and kill me. It’s a little hard to believe.

In some ways, I’m okay. I’m used to the tamoxifen. I can deal with the side effects. Going to see the doctor doesn’t bother me anymore. I’m used to being inside a hospital. Needles still bug me, but I can manage.

In other ways, I’m not okay.

There are days when I wonder what may happen next. The question, “Will I be all right?” runs through my head constantly. I worry about my body and whether or not it’s trying to kill me. Small aches and pains become the focus of worry. Anxiety is a constant and unwelcome companion.

I need a vacation from my own thoughts. It doesn’t seem that I’ll get one. The low level worry is slowly driving me mad. There are days I fear that I might crack under the strain and start screaming.

Maybe that wouldn’t be such a terrible thing. It couldn’t hurt.

Even worse, I’ve slipped into my old coping mechanisms. I’d rather spend my time listening to podcasts and mindlessly clicking on GPX+. I don’t want to do anything that requires thinking. Just mindless repetition. It’s the only thing that calms me.

Or at the very least, it drowns out the voices in my head.

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“We will all decay”

Title from here.

Earlier today, I heard the news of the death of Dolores O’Riordan. Saying that I’m stunned is putting it very mildly. The Cranberries was one of my favorite groups, the song “Linger” and “Dreams” among my favorite songs. However, it was one of their songs from Bury the Hatchet that got me through one of the worst times in my life.

Back when the album was released, records stores were still A Thing That Existed. We had one in the local mall and it had a truly amazing set-up: there were several spots located throughout the store that featured a pair of headphones and a newer released CD. You could walk over and listen to a couple of tracks before deciding to drop the money on that brand new disc, as CDs were pretty danged expensive back in those days. During the summer of 1999, I was wandering the aisles of this store and happened upon one of the listening stations. It featured Bury the Hatchet. I popped on the headphones and listened to part of the first track, then went to the second. That was when I froze.

I hope that you miss me
Put me down on history
I feel such a reject now
Ger yourself a life
I hope that you’re sorry
For not accepting me
For not adoring me
That’s why I’m not your wife

Those words, that verse, hit me and hit me hard.

I had just gotten out of the break-up with my ex. I was still hurt and angry but I had no real way of saying that I was hurt and angry. Sure, I had listened to and half screamed the lyrics to “You Oughta Know”–the F-bomb included, which was difficult living with my parents because they didn’t tolerate that word in their house–but something about “Loud and Clear” resonated. My ex and I were not getting back together. There was literally no way in hell we were ever getting married. It was over, whether I wanted to admit it. This song said everything that I couldn’t. But it also said something that I wanted to say:

I hope that you never
Get the things you wanted to
Now I cast a spell on you
Complicate your life
Hope you get a puncture
Everywhere you ever drive
Hope the sun beats down on you and
Skin yourself alive

This was a sharp, loud “Fuck you!” that I couldn’t enunciate. It summed up just how badly I had been hurt and how I felt about it. Every single time I heard those lyrics–I kept skipping back to the second track–I would smirk slightly. Oh, how I wanted to say those words to my ex. How I wanted to sing them to him as he squirmed in protest. Petty, I know but you know the saying, “hell hath no fury like a woman scorned”. Trust me when I say that I was pretty damned scorned.

Even thought that break-up took place years ago, I still have a soft spot for that song. To this day, if I’m angry or upset, this is my go to song.

I can’t thank Ms. O’Riordan for getting me through one of the darker parts of my life, I can’t tell her that her angry lyrics actually gave a voice to how I felt, to say the things I couldn’t. So, I will say it here. Thank you, thank you for all that you have done. I only wish that you could still be here. The world is emptier without you.

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