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“Name 3 Good Things About Yourself” (or Working Only For Pay)

If you’re reading this, I’m almost 100% certain that you’ve been asked to relate a good quality about yourself (You might have also learned that you shouldn’t really talk about just any 3 good things, but stuff that will make you look good to the person you’re talking to. A bit disingenuous, but Trump is president so c’est la vie).

Now what I’m getting to is that I have a job here at a restaurant, where people fucking ‘celebrate’ with us on Thanksgiving, New Year’s Eve and Day, and Christmas Eve, and this restaurant needed (actually still needs) another back-up cook. I offered my cousin, who wouldn’t be able to decide to go left or right to escape a paper bag, and the manager on duty at the time had asked me a simple question:

“Is she smart?”

Now, intelligence means different things to people but when people say smart, I can only think of a few definitions that one could mean. So I had promptly replied:

“She’s as smart as me.”

The manager at the time had given me a dubious look, complete with an upturned eyebrow. Kind of indignant, I had continued:

“I’m actually really smart.”

The manager had laughed and said:

“You had one good Saturday, and now you’re so confident!”

That wasn’t all untrue. For the first time, I had gone through a Saturday successfully. It had been perhaps my second or third Saturday. I had not even had the three days of training that I was supposed to get (they had simply forgotten that part, but I didn’t know until a couple weeks later).

That wasn’t all untrue, but nor was it all a joking matter. Being as smart as I meant nothing. It wasn’t something to aspire to.

Before you wonder why the hell I’m being so conceited, I don’t really mean that people should try to be as smart as I am, but I lived my entire life knowing that I was very intelligent. I lived most of my life with people recognizing my smarts. I was the sort of smart that made people think that I wouldn’t survive ‘on the streets’ or ‘in the real world’ or whatever platitude to build themselves up after knowing that they couldn’t match me in wits even if I was ocean deep in the cups.

But no one would know it as I worked in this restaurant.

I hadn’t thought of this moment in a while, as I was busy hating the company behind the restaurant and the guests patronizing the restaurant (who the fuck comes in at 7 am on New Year’s Day? Scum, that’s who.)

When the beginning tingles of this memory surfaced, I thought also, was I still upset about what had happened? How my manager had reacted? The situation bloomed in my mind once more and as the anger and indignation and stagnant anxiety shook me to my core, I knew it still drove me nuts.

I’m fucking smart.

I get these tickets to make food; they print out as soon as a waiter or waitress puts in the order. And waiters and waitresses know this. And yet the ton of them still come to ask:

“Did you get my ticket?”

“I need a salad.”

“Are you making my dessert?”

Do they do this with the other side of cooking? Nope! They are perfectly certain that the people over there are getting the greater side of their orders ready. They never need to be checked. You might be thinking, maybe they are checking to see if I need help. BWAHAHA.

The most infuriating part of it is that I’m one of three people behind my station, almost always working alone. So they should know by now that I know. They know that I have been working and getting things done without the constant barrage of check-ups but I feel as if they think that and then they think:

“Oh wait, we can’t trust her. She’s an idiot.”

And I’m smart. And I know what I’m doing. Don’t give me advicejust in case, because that just tells me that you think I have no idea, when you should remember that I’ve made this a hundred times correctly, without your help.

And I think and had thought… Just show them how smart you are!

But there’s nowhere to show it. I hate working doing what I do for the people I do it for in a place that keeps on the radio and the radio sucks. And not in a Grandpa-voice-music-is-not-what-it-used-to-be BS said by people who don’t know how to use the internet or music streaming services to escape the radio hobbling of aural entertainment, kind of way. But in that they-are-playing-the-same-thing-over-and-over-again kind of way. Over and over in the same night, in the same hour, in the same half hour. Or that they talk. The main radio has a talk show between the extremely narrow music selection EVERY GODDAMN NIGHT. Fucking praying and shit

Singing to the music, because that’s a way I can keep my sanity, and people do ask me how I know all these words to the song and how to sing them. As I try to keep the Archer voice from saying  how can you not, I tell them I hear the songs a lot. I mean, damn, Taylor Swift has always been overplayed but this station makes her seem like their patron saint (Saint Swift does sound nice). Multiple songs from her, every night, and often repeated.

I could show my intelligence being some sort of doctor.  But my interest in the medical field is more nonexistent than god.

And that brings me to my loves of the humanities. Perhaps almost anywhere in there (probably not poetry though). People laugh at the humanities and how majors there (or outside of STEM really) are useless (it’s ageist/anti-Millennial BS BTW), there are people out there who would like to *GASP* ENJOY THEIR WORK, instead of working to get a paycheck.

And that’s the main reason why I work here, is for a paycheck. I want things (things in particular!) and the only way I’ll get them is to work for actual money.

Working for money isn’t the main problem. I don’t mind working for money. But I hate this particular work (and most others). What if my paycheck depended on how much I wrote? I have to put work in for people to start paying for things that I love to do. I have already put in the work others are already getting paid for (congratulations them!), but while we live in a world of getting references from people that merely pay you, and dealing with getting experience that requires experience that requires experience, I feel such things are a long way off.

I try to shut down that part of my brain. Who cares if I’m smart? No one. And that’s ok. It’s ok. Ok?

Cooled Down with “642 Things to Write About”

My sister has gone to Louisiana, for she’s going to college there. As much as I’ll miss her, I’m glad. I believe she’s in a better place to grow as a person. Nothing like leaving the nest to learn how to fly!

I hadn’t written something for “642 Things to Write About” in more than a year.

Prompt #93- Pick a country, and imagine we’ve been at war with it for fourteen years. Write a love story set in that world. 

(One of the longer ones. I think this’ll be good by itself)

Why would you rather see 2 men holding guns than holding hands? 

“Let’s be civil.”

“The Canadians are always like that- let’s be civil. They don’t fucking mean it!”

“I do mean it.”

Martin was likely to have believed it, if their set was one less Haroldson, but Haroldson was there, so Martin suspended his belief in the cold Alaskan snow. Haroldson had a brother in the army, but his section was two miles west, and these Canadian boys were half a mile too far up the Yukon. To be fair, Martin and his crew were thinking to walk just as too-far, at the same time believing it was safe and trying to be risky, as youths were prone to do.

“We can all just go the way we came,” said the only Canadian speaking. The other two spoke quickly to each other in something sounding like French. Martin’s stomach churned at the noises, knowing Haroldson was likely to take offense, especially since those from Quebec were the main French speakers. It told too much about these traveling boys.

Finally, another of them spoke up, “What are you going to do, ‘ey? Kill us? You got guns, like all the rest of them?”

Obviously the Haroldson of the group. The leader was quick to ease the tension: “Please, we don’t want trouble. We were just walking, same as you.”

Martin could just imagine it, but he didn’t want himself to think about it. Unfortunately, he couldn’t think of much else either. It was a cold day in Alaska. His mind went back to the boys traveling, same as them.

They had to have driven, just like them. They came from Liberty, except for Burke, who was Peter’s cousin up from Steele Creek. Most likely, the Canadians were from Clinton Creek. The Yukon was watched like a hawk from both sides, but time and too many frostbitten and/or hypothermic soldiers relaxed the border elsewhere, especially after the gates were bombed. A freezing war is an expensive war, as much as a fourteen-year one with such a close neighbor that had a lot of help. Sure, England, France, and Canada weren’t much military-wise for most part of the last century, especially against the giants of China and America, but combining them and a few secret alliances with the rest of North America, and then Russia, and it was just possible for a long fight.

Martin was two when the war started, so he didn’t know much about secret alliances and bombed borders, but he did know that the war with Canada was a war that was mostly Canada and friends. He was confused about the starting, something about multiple mass shootings across the border that America, supposedly, didn’t take accountability for, plus the Canadian sanctions and countries taking Canada’s side (like Russia, although not an official ally for another four years), and America being proud and beautiful and standing for their second amendment rights to bear arms out in the open anywhere and everywhere. That started ‘unrest’, as so many books put it, a Canadian official was shot somewhere and one of their diplomats ended up in a ‘completely unrelated car accident in New Hampshire’, and that started a war that Canada was quick on losing until England and France stepped in, ‘stabbing longtime friend America in the back’ while ‘so-called American citizens argued for peace and make-up’.

Martin was told by Haroldson that there was no way their history books were biased as the liberal ass Jacoby was always saying in class.

As a point for Canadian Haroldson (now isn’t that a paradox), they did have guns. Now, they were out. Canadian Haroldson blanched, and Martin knew that none of them had guns.

“Please, please, don’t do this.” A musical timbre was in the lead boy’s voice now, a warble.

Unable to face the music, even with his gun in his trained hands, Martin asked, “What’s your name?”


Martin has a cousin named Nathan.

“My name’s Martin.”

“Why are we telling each our names?” Haroldson demanded, but he has yet to pull the trigger, or even click off the safety. “It’s getting dark.” Then, another, “There are only three of them.”

When it seemed Haroldson was done, Nathan went on, “They’re Antoine and Eli. Brothers.”

Martin could see the resemblance, and the sudden gut-wrenching turmoil that would come from killing a brother in front of another, much more magical than a first kill itself, brings Martin’s gun down to hip level, off to the side safely pointed at no one.

“What are we doing?” asked Peter quietly.

His cousin Burke suggested, “Let’s let them go,” with the confidence of being a closer friend afforded him.

“Yea, we can’t kill them,” was the quick agreement.

“No, you won’t.”

I can’t, thought Martin, but he was equally afraid of Haroldson branding him as a traitor to his brother. He’s done it before and ruined a family that ran off all the way to boiling Texas. And that had been one of Haroldson’s better friends, not just a camping buddy. It was much like Canada and the United States, Martin’s mom has said once, quietly, the most bitter fights come from the longest friends.

Martin suddenly thought, We could have been friends.

“Let’s take them prisoner.”

It actually sounded like a good idea out loud, relative to killing the boys so far from home in the cold air.

The idea took, too juicy to pass up, and it sounded delicious to Haroldson too, and he went closer to the Canadians, but not too close. Just because they didn’t like guns didn’t mean they couldn’t handle themselves in other ways. As hotheaded as Haroldson was, he was a cautious young man when it came to actual fighting.

“Come on, you’re going to follow him-” He pointed to Burke. “-and don’t do anything stupid.”

The Canadian three followed, eventually pressing their hands to their heads without being told, and their boots crunched in the snow in a steady line behind a visibly nervous Burke, who shot several desperate looks at Martin. Martin hadn’t found his voice yet.

Haroldson followed in the back with Martin, behind one of the brothers, his sharp pistol aimed and ready, and smooth expression settling in his face as if this were a routine drill up at the Fort, which was where he used to live before his dad decided to move to Eagle. Haroldson had said that his dad was sort of liberal, and Martin had wondered if anyone was free from the boy’s two-dimensional view of the world.

They walked the distance back to the cabin they used as a waypoint between too far and close enough, not saying a word, although Burke shot looks at Martin, and Peter looked at Burke, and Martin stared at the ground while Haroldson watched their prisoners.

Martin’s read good books, the ones that are put in school curricula to help students learn and grow, where these sort of things end in tragedy. Although that might not be the view of everyone. Honestly, that view may not be Haroldson’s.

And all anyone had to do was say something.

They might have to kill Haroldson.

A weird breath went down his esophagus, sharper than the rest, and he began to cough hard. The cabin was in view, and he focused on that.

They piled in the cabin, the old house big enough for the seven of them and kept up by Burke’s wealthy uncle for just these sort of events. Camping, that is, not prison sentences.

Peter immediately sat down, face in his hands with a groan. His head then snapped up with an idea: “Let’s take them back to Eagle and give them to the adults.”

“You’re from  Steele, so you don’t know nothin’ about nothin’ about Eagle,” Haroldson answered, as if that was a proper reply. Peter looked dumbfound, and his eyes went to his cousin, who inexplicably sought Martin’s help.

Martin had his sights on Nathan, Antoine, and Eli, dodging the need to do something other than what they were doing.

He noticed Nathan’s eyes were a spectacular shade of green, and  he had long eyelashes.

“You’re pretty like a girl,” Haroldson said, not in a kindly way, brushing the gaping hole of his gun against Nathan’s hair at his temple.

Peter tried again, sounding more panicked than before, “We should bring them back to your place, back to your brother. He’ll know what to do with them.”

Haroldson whirled on him; Peter’s knuckles went white against his gun. This actually made Haroldson stop.

His voice was reasonable, “What if we lose them on the way there?”

“It’s not like we’re walking,” Peter whined. “We can drive them, two in the passenger seats, and one in the back. We can tie them up with our extra jackets, or the scarves. We can just-”

“We can, we can, we can. We could have just killed them because they’re going to try and kill us!”

“No, they won’t,” Martin whispered, looking at Nathan’s rather long hair.

Neither Peter nor Haroldson heard him, but Nathan’s eyes turned wide on him, begging, but not voicing his thoughts as Haroldson again argued for dispatching these could-be terrorists, as he was in the midst of saying.

“And we’d be better off if they were all dead! Y’all are just afraid of killing people. Guess what? I’m not afraid.”

Eli or Antoine went into a tirade of fitful French, drawing close to his brother in such a proximity that only relations could give. He even held onto his hand. He was the younger of the two, and could have  been twelve or thirteen. His sixteen or seventeen-year-old brother squeezed his hand back and spoke softly in their language.

No guns. A boy barely a teenager. And Nathan.

“Why are you all so far out?”

Both boys looked at Nathan, and he delivered.

“I saw this cabin while walking some weeks back. We were going to check it out.”

The similarities were almost too much, Martin realized, and with stark clarity that wasn’t coming too easily to him at the moment he knew that if, somehow, they were going to kill these boys, he wouldn’t be able to pull the trigger, damn any and all consequences. And what sort of consequences would they be at the blue toes of three strangers?

“This is my house, so you’re just shit out of luck, now aren’t you?” Haroldson said, sort of lying.

“Are you going to kill us?” Nathan finally asked.


Both words moved breathlessly from small mouths. Haroldson and Martin then stared wide-eyed at each other.

Nathan reached out his hand to hold the older boy’s hand. The brother spoke quickly in French, looking scared out of his mind at Haroldson, jerking his hands away, but not strongly enough to be let go. His younger sibling suddenly let go, looking at his two companions in confusion.



Antoine, the Haroldson of their group, looked at Haroldson, and just as it dawned in Martin’s mind what was going on, Haroldson figured it out as well.

“A couple of fags.” 

Several bits of history went through Martin’s mind as he stood in front of the boys: the overturn of Supreme Court rulings regarding same-sex marriage, the liberal outcry of opposing Canada on flimsy topics (and the majority answer of, no, that’s not it, we’re fighting for religious rights, guaranteed by the First Amendment), and further religious liberty on many grounds (or homosexual persecution, as the liberals would call it).

Martin was more sure on this score. He had a gay uncle in Oregon, and his favorite sister was Martin’s mom. One day, she had told him once, they’re going to remember what a stupid war this was.

“-and you’re just going to stand there protecting some fags!”

Martin blinked, unsure of what just happened. Eli was on his legs, speaking blindly in French; both Antoine and Nathan were behind him as well; and Burke and Peter were off to the side, guns nowhere to be seen but well aware of Haroldson shouting everything to pieces.

Martin swallowed, “We’re not going to kill then, Harolds’. There’s no reason to.”

“There’s plenty of reasons!”

“Name five.”

This was a usual game for them, and the shock of betrayal lit Haroldson’s face like a flare. Martin will never come to this cabin again.

“So that’s how it’s going to be?”

Martin stood still.

“For some Canadian assholes.”

He would never move his gun fast enough, if needed.

“Would you die for them?”

Another spark of clarity: he wasn’t going to go out of his way, but he wasn’t going to let them die. Plus, he saw the cousins take out their guns behind Haroldson’s back, and a new sort of panic started to set in. He realized how much he really disliked Haroldson, but killing him would have different consequences that would have no equal in killing even the three they had as prisoners. The thought was disquieting.

He had to think clearly. That’s all.

They didn’t have to kill Haroldson, of course. Martin sighed in relief.


Haroldson was breathing hard. He hadn’t noticed the others behind him, pointing. Martin got their eyes instead, shaking his head in refusal. Neither was calm, but they put down their arms into a less threatening stance.

“So what are we going to do with them?” Haroldson asked coldly.

“Let them go.”

“So I can’t come back to this house again?”

“Probably not. You’re going to kill them over this house that you come over to every once in a blue moon?”

Good, there was no shakiness in his voice. He could do this.

“It’s my house.”

“Haroldson, this is dumb. We aren’t soldiers, and neither are they. Let’s be civil-”

The bullet went through Martin’s leg, but he didn’t notice until he figured out that yes, Haroldson had turned off the safety at some point, and then afterwards came to where it might be aimed. The pain blossomed much worse than taking a shot into a bulletproof vest, and there was the hot blood in thick snow-proof trousers.

On the floor he heard two shots go off at once. And Martin prayed no one was dead.

“How did you miss, Peter? He’s right there!”

“You got his arm, didn’t you? Oh, shit, you killed him, you killed him dead.”

“I ain’t killed dead,” Haroldson groaned. Martin lifted his head to see him holding his shoulder, bleeding all over his neck, breathing through his nose.

Eli was suddenly crying.

Peter was digging into his pocket, and he came out with a pair of keys. Almost as if unthinking, he threw these behind Martin.

“It’s the white one. Just take it and get out of here. Burke, for Christ’s sake, get Harolds’ gun!”

Haroldson shouted in pain, but he didn’t reach the gun in time. All anxiety popped from from Martin like a balloon; relief went over him in bigger waves as the Canadians got up, the soft voice of thanks from Nathan, or who Martin believed was Nathan, and then Antoine’s voice afterwards, profusely in French, shaking his hand. Eli continued to cry.

“I’m putting all the guns away,” Peter announced, although two of of his listeners were incapacitated.

“What…” Haroldson whimpered, squirming on the floor, but managed to squeak out, “What are y’all going to tell everyone else?”

“The truth,” Martin spat derisively.

“You helped out some Canadian fags on our side of the border?”

“That’s good, too.” Better than anything else, and Martin’s vision wavered on the three boys long gone, two of them holding hands, before it went blank.

(Let’s play a game. You have to guess what I had to google to write this short-ass piece. You get a cookie if you think I know some of this stuff offhand)

Reason to not believe next to my sister

I’ve been following the posts on this website for awhile. I’m no scientist, nor am I very much against religion as long as it doesn’t get in my way (and even then, it does get in my way a lot, but I’m a forgiving person). I’ve spoken to the incredulous about my non-faith, and argued on basis of logic (rather than, say, science) on the internet, and so on and so forth.

But nothing burns me more when creationists, and the religious, and the believers, and the apologists demand ‘adequate proof’ for such things like evolution and lack of evidence (or proof that God doesn’t exist). Smugly reassuring me that my knowledge of evolution is merely based on ‘faith’ that it exists because I want to believe it, therefore it’s not really true, and goddidit. Besides the fact that they haven’t read nearly enough on any subject of evolution to make such judgments. They, at least in my experience, never turn such doubts onto themselves. Never. Someone like me has to point it out, whereas they point to their precious, cherry-picked to hell, Bible about how the world was made. When I ask about the discrepancies and the lack of information on this or that- they affirm that those things don’t matter. Or put it on me for science to explain it. What’s troubling is that they do this with utmost confidence and no realization whatsoever on their own irony or hypocrisy or lack of knowledge.. And it’s perfectly okay. But it’s not okay for me to call BS.

What really saddens me is that some creationist will come across McLeroy’s argument and be like, “See, see! They don’t have all the answers! Thus, everything I believe about the Bible is right! God is real!” All the evidence stacked against them, but when a prominent believer starts spouting half-understood ‘sciency’ words, they cross their legs in victory. Turn the same question on them, and “God works in mysterious ways”

Finally, a Christopher on the site says this: “Therefore, I’m afraid, it wouldn’t matter if you provided McLeroy a thousand *facts*. Strange really, considering people like him like to jump on science whenever it ‘appears’ to back up their nonsense, then completely ignore it when it doesn’t.”

I would like to add that they dogpile whenever science doesn’t explain something either. Bleh. Bleh-bleh-bleh!

Why Evolution Is True

UPDATE: See the first comment below: reader SES notes that one can watch the film “The Revisionists” online here (it’s free until February 27), and some PBS stations in America are broadcasting it tonight. The schedule is also at the link.


If you’ve followed the attempts of American creationists to get evolution of ouf the school classroom, you’ll remember Don McLeroy from Texas. A dentist with a bachelor’s degree in electrical engineering. McLeroy was a member of the Texas State Board of Education  [TSBOE] from 1998-2011, and served as chairman of the Board from 2007-2009. His reappointment as chair was blocked by the Texas State Senate, so you can imagine how dire he was.

McLeroy is infamous because of his strenuous efforts to get evolution out of Texas public schools. Because that state has to approve textbooks, and it’s a huge consumer of them, publishers sometimes tailor nationally-distributed books to…

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On my brother’s bed with my latest story

I like to write stories (well, I like to do a hell of a lot of things). Um, control + f Writing Block if you want to read about me and writing.. This turned out a lot longer than I intended. 

I also have bipolar disorder (and allergies and asthma and a high risk of stroke without ever smoking cigarettes). 

I went home from school in November. I think I wrote about that, and, if I didn’t, that’s not what I want to write about. I know I wrote about the comics I am reading. I’ve started rereading Tj and Amal after a marathon of recently discovered by moi Manly Men doing Manly Things (It’s absolutely hilarious). For some reason, I got really motivated to write. 

But I’ve been outta school going on three months, and because of constant procrastination and hopelessness and pride and lack of motivation- it doesn’t seem like I’ll be able to go back to school at the end of January, which busted whatever healthy mentality I had left. Over these past weeks, I beat four games (Resident Evil Mercenaries, Resident Evil 6, The Walking Dead, and Kingdom Hearts: Dream Drop Distance…Hm, pick the one that doesn’t belong!) I was really motivated to beat the last two within the last two weeks because I’ve been sleeping 13 hour days and going into my “catatonic skipping” for most of the other 11. I’m a fucking mess.

Unfortunately, I can’t bring myself to care in the least. No one else really does. Well, they’ll care if things become bad (like people do about gun control and rape culture), but most of the time it’s ignored. Not like I’m complaining- if I don’t care, why should anyone else? But it has gotten to a point where I start dwelling on that emo shit that nothing matters in the end and I’m all alone and fuck all what else. 

It’s not helping that my favorite person in the whole world (my brother) seems to have… We’ve kind of distance ourselves from each other. I’ve tried keeping up conversations with him- calling, texting, messaging on Facebook… But we’ve regressed to funny gifs passed between each other and lols. I have my pride, as I’ve said, and I don’t want to come across needy and desperate. My brother has my (what the hell- I meant his. Why did I put ‘my’?) own life to live. But to know that a relationship more precious than air can be rendered so makes me horribly bleak about the future. 

It doesn’t help that my other brother is on some fucking shtick. When I was at school, he and my father got in a fight. My brother was talking about killing himself at his school, and he was sent to a mental hospital and my dad was sent to jail for a week. That was in October. At first, I was all on my bro’s side because I was like- I understand some of your pain. I forgot how much of a little shit he is. He’s milking his situation for all it’s worth: threatening to call the police whenever Pops says boo shit to him, claiming to want to kill himself whenever he is forced to do homework or go to school or fucking apologize for some awful crap he says, and posting Facebook statuses threatening any and all who disagree with him. It’s gotten to a point where I honestly don’t even fucking like him anymore. And he’s such a shallow idiot, if he ever came across this and realized this was his sister, he’ll just be all tl;dr.

It doesn’t help that though my dad is getting the short end of the stick in the above situation, the man is still a gigantic asshole, and my bro’s behavior is his and Mama’s fault. All six of us kids have been telling our parents (since we eldest were in freakin’ elementary school) that they were spoiling him. When my dear brother and I were in high school, and my sister Statistic became such, we were afraid our youngest brother was going to turn out the same way, and we warned our parents. Dad continued to ignore us and Mama was forever like, “You were the same way when you were his age.” Now, it’s come to bite them in the ass. First of all, Mom can never say that shit to me again. When I was younger, and youngest idiot was in elementary school, I still was offended that my mother dare compare me to the likes of my younger brother- because he was a brat compared to me (I used to say that too, and she would say, “You’re a brat, too”). Those middle school years, I would remember when my dad would punch me or slap me or scream at me or call me “fucking stupid” or call me my brother’s slave or a little bitch or fight my brother. I remember in Kindergarten when I put on my favorite shirt and my dad hit me with the metal side of the belt because he was tired of it. I remember being smacked in the eye for choking on a piece of ice. I remember being hit in the stomach because I couldn’t hold my vomit when I got carsick. Yet, when I had told my parents that little bro yet again didn’t do his chores, and I did them for him so that everyone could be fine, I was the rebellious brat. 

Now that my bro is sixteen, I don’t really have to go back to that crap. When I was sixteen, I first chair in band, the only girl on the wrestling team, one of seven members of a high school chapter of a local sorority, making straight A’s, doing all the chores myself to keep a bunch of assholes happy. My bro is practically failing and hasn’t bathed in four days. 

To make me an even more terrible person (this is not sarcasm), I’m kind of glad this all happened. The assholes deserve each other. 

This whole experience hasn’t humbled my father in the least. We were playing Say Anything  (a tiny bit like Apples to Apples) and he was angry that the questions were unfair to people who didn’t know the ‘picker’ well. I.E. his wife and children. I argued that’s part of the game, and he came across so condescending and insulting, I made no efforts to make peace with him. Last night, my sister was finishing up The Walking Dead. She took a break and my dad came down from his room, thinking we were going to play something  more violent (we do play a lot of violent games. I convinced him to look at something so wonderful because The Walking Dead has a titillating amount of substance. Should have known he would ruin it… When the break was longer than he wanted- about seven minutes- he told me to play. I told him that she would miss the game. It was only after a bit of back and forth that I realized that my father hasn’t realized that the game industry has progressed beyond rather pointless coin-grabbing and dot-collecting. When I was trying to explain he suddenly got up and yelled, “Whatever, ya’ll are freakin’ pathetic” and left back to his room.

I told my mom to tell him not to call me pathetic anymore. She pats me on the goddamn arm and says something along the lines of “You know how he acts sometimes” and I told her to just make sure he doesn’t call me that anymore. Especially over something so stupid. Especially because he didn’t understand, and lashed out at me. 

Gee, I wonder why youngest bro has no sense of responsibility and ownership over the consequences of his actions. 

It doesn’t help (along those same lines) that my sister Statistic (the one with the new love of my life- my dear niece) gets drunk and/or high nearly every night, sexes up some guy on the internet nearly every night, complains about her ‘haters’ nearly every hour, and entertains/fantasizes about the thought of sending my niece to her father in New York for about a year. The guy who she couldn’t get to pay child support and so she has reaction formation about it- she made a Facebook video today to all the ‘bitches’ who try to make their ‘baby daddies’ pay child support. The guy who grabbed his daughter by the leg and shook her to make her stop crying. The guy who is a thousand of dollars in debt because he spent more on material to make Spice even as his child went hungry. The guy who made his daughter TERRIFIED of black men unless they grovel FOR WEEKS (or they always come by with candies and technology- i.e. my brother). 

Why does she entertain this idea, you may ask? She’s tired of ‘never doing anything she wants to do’ and ‘taking care of [niece]’. Mind you all her recreational activities. And let’s add her club-going and sneaking out the house- twenty fucking years old. Let’s add the fights she get into with her ‘haters’. The fights she talks about over and over and over and over to all her boy-friends. 

And whenever she gets a job- SHE’S HAD SO FREAKIN’ MANY- LIKE SEVEN OR EIGHT SINCE BEING OUT OF HIGH SCHOOL. Sorry for the caps… Not like anyone is still reading…. Well, she gets high or drunk or pissed and ends up getting fired. She always talks about joining the military. Gets a go about it for a week, two at most, and goes back to the usual stuff. It’s gotten to the point where no one thinks she’ll stick with anything… Kind of like when she started what my parents thought would be her rebellious phase, and was lying constantly so no one believed anything she says (still don’t). 

I’m not upset with her doing stupid shit. I do it enough as well. What I can’t stand is how she can’t own up to it- just like Pops and lil bro.Nothing is ever their fault and even when it obviously is, there’s something indefatigably stupid about you for pointing it out. 

It doesn’t help that my niece is her daughter. 

It doesn’t help that the other sister is on her way to becoming like me, socially wise. Things are probably going to be better for her though. She’s Christian, straight, pretty ‘girly’ in all its stereotypical connotations and concerned with things like popularity and such like that. When I asked her to help me write a Christmas card to a dying kid, she told me such kind of things make her jealous. “Over the cancer kid?” I had asked. She replied that was so. I told her that was bad. She simply shrugged and continued watching Netflix. She is the sibling I most connect to (because of anime, lack of self-esteem and certain books) but something changed then that made me lose all hope for a few days, and now makes my heart heavy. She’s overweight and has extremely high blood pressure, so that hurts her esteem. But she’s cute and funny, while I’m a hairy, bipolar, ugly bitch. 


It doesn’t help that my last brother is amazing, but because of age difference and personality differences we never really bonded as I did with my older brother, and now so far in our lives (like it’s sooooo far, haha) I don’t want to get close to him because I don’t want to be separated. 

But from my Writing Block, of which I intended to write and got way sidetracked, and making myself happier with comics, I opened up a story that I hadn’t updated, though I was so excited to share… I opened it up and anxiety welled up inside me. 













*cue shutting down computer music*

Next to my sister- Horny


Let me explain.

So I was gearing up with some pornography, right? Oh, don’t look all shocked, if you don’t have a lover, you probably have your hand. Anyway, I was doing that, and then, my sister walks in. Now, at the moment, I’m just watching stuff, getting the feels, and she walks in. Says hey, leaves, comes back with her computer, and sits down. She is now surfing the web- Facebook, Tagged, you know, the usual. 


Let me give you some background. I’m in my brother’s room because he’s currently in the mental hospital faking depression. I know that info alone has you brimming with questions, but you don’t really care. Anyway, she never comes into this room, because, you know, it’s my brother’s and he, like most teenagers, like their privacy. Well, I never cared for it, but that’s another post. Also because I’m still fucking horny and don’t want to think too seriously about anything. I had all these ideas to orgasm more than once and everything. 

Anyway, over the past couple of weeks I’ve been home, she’s hardly left her bed. It’s always there or rarely to the living room to watch tv while she’s on the computer. So, I’m flabbergasted why she’s all the way in here. 

“Why are you giving me the evil eye?”

She said. 

She knows! Let me tell you, if someone you’re not romantically inclined towards gives you the evil eye when you come into the room, leave! Even if they’re not masturbating, they want you gone. So if they want you gone, why would you stay there?! 

Haha, she’s gone now. Evidently, she was waiting for some medicine from my mom and didn’t want Mama to walk all the way downstairs with her bad knees. 

Back to porn. 

On a chair in my dorm

So, I posted the first chapter of “The  Maléan Cages” on adultfanfiction:  , last night. It’s one of those long fantasy stories with a lot of characters, but I have it organized in what some people may think as a lazy way. It’s not a surprise or anything, so here goes: Each of the twenty will have their own section of a five-section chapter, so every five chapters we cover all of the twenty. I say five because someone goes twice, in an interlude chapter, that says what happens on Pluck. I’m trying to get it so that everyone gets a fair share, but, hey, life isn’t fair, and some are going to have it a lot easier than others. So, I may grant myself exclusion from this endeavor (though I’ve been doing pretty well so far)

I have done the outlines for “Cages” and the character development, and the plots on the macro level, and now plots of the micro level, the chapter-by-chapter basis. That is where things get tricky. With twenty different characters, it might seem like a lot, but if you’ve read any of my stories (probably, if you’re following me on WordPress, you haven’t, lol- who are you people? Thanks for following!) I’ve always had a lot of people, and I tend to follow pretty well. And with the dump of notes of have for “Cages”, it’s unlikely I’ll get lost.

I have ten or twelve chapters ready for publishing. But I’ll be patient and wait until next week to reply to reviews and post another chapter. Since last night, I’ve had (last time I checked) 223 views. Do you know how happy that makes me?


Also, there are people following my blog. I don’t think I know any of you, but thanks for following. I can’t find who is following because I just use this to post the… tag-related things… but I do get emails. Hopefully, readers of my stories will also follow me and see what’s up!

And now breakfast. I’ve realized that writing words is not the same as eating food. Oh, well.

In Krieger Lab

I’m back. I’m not continuing any of my fanfiction. Well, more like, I’m on a long hiatus. Now, I have published my original fiction- the Maléan stories- in response to the Gorean chronicles. They are tales of hermaphrodite aliens- beings able to impregnate and get pregnant- who look like women mostly when their clothes are on, and men when their clothes are off. Face and body shape wise, they seem girly, while they have penises. I can go on and on about their looks, and they still have remarkably different features like we Earthlings have, but I’ll stop there.

It isn’t a futanari story or anything like that; it’s pretty much action/adventure/erotica/romance with a large flavoring of the life we live now. First was “A Maléan Demon” which went pretty well. I just finished ” A ~ Gem” which did three times as well (got 3x as many hits), and soon I will have “~ Cages” which will be suuuuuuper long (and the other two stories are already novel-length, much to my surprise when one of my friends pointed it out).

I know, you might be wondering- Finished? Shinashi finished something?

I sure did. Malé is something that has stuck and will stick probably until I fail too much at getting it published, but, for now, I genuinely okay with just getting hits!