10 More Reasons I Won't Date You

In my first post on this topic, I foretold that there would be more reasons, and here, those reasons be:

1. I don't like you. 

If I don't like you, I'm not gonna like you, so you need to back off. Simple as. 

I can't stand those guys who think that everyone should like them. And they're not necessarily the golden boys either (not that there's much of those around in real life these days), but it's skuzzbags too. There's always one, out of any genre of male, who thinks he's God's gift to women. AND I HATE THAT SHIT. You are nothing. Back off. 

(For those who think this graphic is too graphic -- you're a pansy.)

2. You hate animals.  

I hate people who hate animals. I really do. There's nothing more pathetic than picking on someone weaker than you. (That'd be like me picking on half of you who are reading this.) 

And, after all, we're all animals. So, if you hate animals, you must hate me, since I'm an animal. And if you hate me, then I hate you, and if I hate you? Then that'd make *me* an animal hater. And it turns into this unending snowball of hatred. Especially since, as a hater of animals, you hate yourself. (Self-loathing is one of the more pitiful states of being, don't you think?) 

3. You don't appreciate the awesome genius of Schneiderisms.  

If you can't understand why beating someone with a sock full of butter is funny, then I don't think we'd have anything in common. 

Because, see, while you're still trying to wrap your brain goo around the concept of a butter sock, and how it can be an effectively applied as a weapon, they're eating drumsticks:

 (Credit: iCarly Gifs)

And doling out life valuable life lessons:

(Credit: Schneiderisms)

4. You personally identify with certain Group X songs. 

(Is this even the original video?) 

5. You try to tell me that being with you is what I should want.

Refer to the first gif. I mean, seriously -- you don't know what I should want, could want, did want, or do want. Only I know what I want. And it's not someone who thinks they can tell me what I want. 

Make sense? (Yeah, you know it does.)

6. You don't know what Red Dwarf is.  

If a gentleman doesn't know the awesomeness of Red Dwarf, then he is a....

(Gif via sherlienomates.)

Or just plain ignorant. I mean, it's been what? 24 years or something? You've had my entire lifespan to get acquainted with pure genius. What are you waiting for? 

(If you didn't know and are STILL waiting, you are, indeed, a mega smeghead.)  

7. You want to cuddle.  All the time.  

I am a person -- not a teddy bear. I don't want to hold your hand and watch Pretty Woman while you cry and talk about how you feel like you're Julia Roberts and I'm Richard Gere. That's what your man friends are for. (Male bonding, right?) 

8. You have STDs. 

I want to make this clear: I AM NOT A SLUT. 

But I don't want to potentially have a relationship with a pox-ridden...human. As a people, humans are pretty gross, but I have no patience for the one's who don't take care of their shit. It's pretty idiot proof: where a condom and get tested. 

Now that *everyone* has access to the knowledge of STDs and the havoc they wreak, there's NO EXCUSE. Do we or do we not live in the 21st century? (Of course, if certain Republicunts had their way, we'd all have syphilis, but that's a story for another day.)  

9. You wear spandex bike shorts as casualwear. It is not the badlands of 1992.

This image provided by Wikipedia perfectly stresses my point:

(To his credit, he is NOT removing the suspenders and trying to pass these off as day wear.)

10. You insulted my intelligence. 

Having two X chromosomes doesn't make me dumber than you. If anything, it makes me superior. Y is, after all, a pathetically small chromosome. X is even killing it. It are true!

 ('nuff said)

And there you have it, folks: ten more reasons why I will never date you. 

If you're asking yourself "Is this the end? Has she run out of reasons?" I would tell you not to worry your stupid little brain cavity about it: I will always have more. Just as I'm sure you have plenty of reasons not to date me either.

Reasons Why Humans are Superscary

1. According exhaustive studies done by UC Berkeley and Yale universities, humans are fucking nasty. Each time a human walks into a room, it releases like 55 bajillion bacteria into the atmosphere. The gaggle of bacteria then waits, patiently, to infect a new host. And thus, the circle of life continues all thanks to your unwitting contribution.

2a. This was popular:

2b. This is popular:

3. 6000 American teenagers lose their virginity every day. Most of them don't know how to use condoms. Half of those get pregnant and then a quarter of those have twins. I JUST SOLVED THE POPULATION MYSTERY. (All by using hastily rounded-off facts/numbers and inventing some when need be. You're welcome.)

 4. According to Katie Melua, there are 9 million bicycles in Beijing. And Beijing is actually having a bicycle shortage. Another population tidbit, but usefully useless all the same. And it comes with a song:

5. According to the National Weather Service, most humans believe themselves to be impervious to tornadoes. This has necessitated the need for new, more alarming tornado warnings with phrases like "not survivable" coming to a tornado outbreak near you.

(And I am not making a joke out of tornadoes or their victims. I do find the whole thing of not seeking shelter alarming, however. But if a false sense of invincibility DOES turn out to be nature's form of population control...see 3 and 4.)

6. This exists:

Yes, your eyes are working properly, and yes, that is bondage champagne. 

I have nothing against alcohol. As long as you're not driving, I don't give a shit. 

But the thing is, one human, the one they call Jean Paul Gaultier, not only fetishised it, but successfully marketed it to the fashion sheeple of the world. One might say, "Oh, you can market anything to anyone who'll wear paper bag pants with a scarf as a necklace", and while that's generally true, the fact he pulled it off just goes to show you how scary humans with power and money can be. 

7. This was another human with power and money:

Anything that has happened before can happen again. I'm just saying. He's like the prime example of why humans are scary: they elect fascists. Don't make the same mistake, humans.

8. Squirrels know more than most humans:

Foamy's right. Lying down in traffic isn't a valid form of entertainment. And if you've done it, then you're an idiot. Like, an actual idiot. Congratulations. What's superscary is the amount of humans who enjoy this pursuit. It's -- like -- the new croquet or something -- I dunno. (My frame of reference for leisure activities is  admittedly anachronistic.)

9. Bullies sucked when we were kids. But, now that they are backed by the supercrazy power of social media, they're pretty much a nightmare. Humans have actually tried to stop their innocent offspring from seeing the Bully Movie. So, kids are committing suicide and a lot of people are ignorant, and here's a project that's actually trying to make a difference and the door is being slammed in its face. Humans are superscary because they want to make the small weak and make the weak frightened. Nothing is scarier than that bullshit.

And FYI, Foamy perfectly illustrates how to deal with bullies:

"Never throw the first punch, always have a witness, and AIM FOR THE BALLS! Seriously -- AIM FOR THE BALLS!"


Self-defense, damn it.


 10. A lot of humans actually think the world is ending this December just because the ancient Mayans didn't bother to calculate their calendar past the year 2012. What's superscary is the obsession with it. When they start doing things about said obsession -- then it's a supercrisis.

My Response to Montgomery's Raid on Education Funds

My response to HB159 and HB160 (two attempts by Montgomery to legally raid the Education Trust Fund and use the future of Alabama's children as corporate leverage):

 Raiding the education fund is not only a slap in the face to students and teachers alike, but it also sends a clear message that Montgomery wants to dumb down their future voters as much as possible, so they get away with more stuff like this. It also proves the Republican agenda is not one that advocates a better life for its people, but one that wants to give kickbacks to the rich, while trodding on the backs of innocent children and hardworking educators. Shame on Montgomery.

HERE is a petition to stop this travesty. Be a human and sign. It may not stop it -- this is a red state -- but it shows you're one of many who thinks this is bullshit. And that alone is worth taking the minute out of your day it takes to sign this.

And it's funny -- big government is bad only when it's federal, right? That's what's so ironic.

I would be dead without opioids

Opioids aren't the devil: you are. By "you", I mean quite literally you, me, them, and -- most especially -- all other human beings.

Opiates are just innocent alkaloids that come from a poppy flower. The alkaloid isn't the devil: you are, because it's what humans do with it that's the problem. Some take too many, some shoot it into their veins, but the absolutely worst thing humans do to opioids is you demonize them. You're the puppet master, who was in control all along, yet you're blaming your puppet.

(That makes you a pretty stupid puppet master, doesn't it?) 

And there, in a nutshell, is the unhealthy relationship the human species has with the opiate alkloid.

My Story

I have had lupus my whole life. Even when I was three, I could barely get up after having sat on the floor playing Barbies. And, when I did, my knees would be covered in bruises.

But the techniques for diagnosing lupus weren't that good back then. I was tested, and it came back negative. Life went on.

Until I was 12 and it came to a screeching halt.

When I was 12, my appendix died inside me. I lived in that excruciating pain for six months before anyone would do anything. The only doctor wacky enough to open me up and try to see what was causing the problem had no idea what he was doing, didn't suture me up on the inside, and I developed peritonitis.

Peritonitis is often described by those in the know as being "ten times more painful than child birth". Your insides stab where you are leaking God knows what, but they're also bloating, because your kidneys have failed. Bloating on that scale, is quite painful. After all, your parents can't hold your hand, because when they do, your skin explodes with the fluids of kidney failure. Having 24 IVs blow -- some in places IVs should never have to be -- is painful. In a way, septic shock got me through it. It dulled the pain enough to where I could get done what I needed to get done to survive.

I wasn't on a single painkiller -- not even acetaminophen (Tylenol, Paracetamol) -- during my ordeal with peritonitis. Believe me when I say, I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemies. (It wouldn't be a fair fight.)

It was only AFTER appendicitis, peritonitis, and their corrective surgeries did I encounter opioids. At first, it was morphine. (After all, having an 8 inch gaping wound in your abdomen is painful. It needs the big guns.) But then it was slowly dropped down to lesser values of related medicines, until I was sent home my still wide-open abdomen and some codeine.

I took the codeine for a few months, like I was supposed to. And that's when the catalyst happened: I came to a point where the medicine just quit working -- I was in the same amount of pain whether I took it or not. (Now, of course, I know that that is called 'tolerance'.) A lot of people just up their dosage when opioids do that -- and they will. But I did something less dumb: I quit taking the medicine altogether. (This is important, so remember this part for later.)

And I never had opioids again. Because after I was 12, my lupus -- which I still didn't know I had -- went into remission for several years.

I started feeling bad again in college. I was always so tired, I'd just fall asleep wherever I happened to be sitting after I'd get home. (Sometimes, I would even sleep sitting up straight, which should've been a clue.) And I ached. The sleeping was partly to escape the aching. However, I chalked both up to having to walk several miles a day (including a minimum of eight flights of stairs) while weighing only 100 lbs and carrying a heavy messenger bag. I even blamed all the aching in my hands on the note-taking during lectures.

But, in my second semester, things got weird. My first strange problem was that I started feeling tremendous chest pain every day. I thought I was too young to have a heart attack, but it finally got so bad where I became convinced I was. Went to the ER and it turned out I had pancreatitis. I had to be on an IV overnight and could only eat ice cream for about two weeks.

Then, a couple of months later, I wake up with cheeks swollen like a chipmunk and they burned when I would chew. I had no clue what was wrong with me, but my mother had seen it before: I had mumps. And who, in America, has mumps nowadays? Especially when they were vaccinated specifically against them? My doc at the time was so young, he'd never seen such a thing as mumps. It astounded him. (I astound a lot of doctors.)

So, I go on for the next two years with weird symptoms and things -- just weird stuff that shouldn't happen. And the aching grows worse, and worse. By last year, I couldn't complete my classes. I received a withdrawal fail.

My Experience with Chronic Pain and Its Effects


By the age of 21, I was diagnosed with lupus. (Already had a fibromyalgia diagnosis from when I was 18; it's a fact the two conditions are often friends.)

Not being able to do my schoolwork due to extreme aching and fatigue was just the beginning.

When I say I ached, I mean I hurt. It was so bad, I couldn't grip a stick of charcoal. It was so bad, I could barely walk; when I walked, I would hobble and the only place I would hobble to was the bathroom. My life -- my entire world -- became centered around my chair in the livingroom where I wasted away.

I spent my days writhing in pain, literally squirming and crying because I hurt so bad. I couldn't think straight. I was always on edge because the pain was always there. I shook. All the time. There was no relief. Sometimes, I would stay up for three days at a time because I hurt so bad, I couldn't sleep. I would literally stay awake until I couldn't anymore. That's the only time I would sleep.

One time, I only had three hours of sleep in one week. I couldn't take it any more. I hadn't eaten since who knew when. I went to the ER and told them, "I hurt really bad and the NSAIDs my rheumatologist gave me aren't making a dent in it." And I told them how I hadn't been sleeping, how I couldn't fathom food, how I lived my life in that stupid chair, which had become my prison.

This was a doctor who knew me. He knew I wasn't a wimp. He knew I went through hell when I was twelve. And he told me, honestly, that the ER can't help for chronic pain -- a certified chronic pain clinic can.

And that's what I found. I looked up certified chronic pain clinics in my state and found one an hour away, and got an appointment.

The Toll of Chronic Pain on my Body


At the pain clinic, my blood pressure was 163/120; my pulse was 160. That was from the sheer amount of pain. It can be sustained briefly by a young person, like myself, but it's not healthy or safe.

That was the toll severe chronic pain put on my body. The psychological toll was that it exacerbated my Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, which I got as a souvenir when I was 12.

When I first walked into the pain clinic, my whole world was small, painful, a living hell. Every day was a nightmare beyond what any healthy person will ever be able to understand. I was in agony and there seemed to be no escape. I literally saw my life being muffled out by the pain. To a great extent, it had been. I was all but dead already.

How Opioids Saved My Life


I was given a low dose of hydrocodone to treat my pain. It took the edge off enough where there was a complete drop in blood pressure and heart rate. (I was almost normal that very week.)

After about two weeks, I got where I could walk around my house. Do you know what a blessing it is to walk? Even when it hurts, walking is one of the greatest things there ever was. And I never knew that until I was 12 and, for the first time, I couldn't. For the second time in my life, I could walk again. It is the best feeling. It was physical salvation from the hell I was living.

That physical salvation led to a mental one. What was misdiagnosed as "major depression" almost immediately disappeared with opioid treatment. Without the constant searing pain in my joints, I could think clearly and see hope. Before, I was helpless, which naturally leads to hopelessness. Pain treatment helped me; help gave me hope.

A year later, I am literally reclaiming my life. My world doesn't consist of a chair in my living room. My world is your world. Be afraid. I started riding the stationary bike, doing aerobics, and -- most importantly -- dancing. My resting heart rate is getting more and more normal. I am living proof that, with help, one can reclaim their health.

And my life just keeps getting better.

Now, I sing every day; before my surgery, I had an officially documented 5 octave singing range. I was a very good singer. I struggled for years to get that back; I'm still working on it. Now, after getting pain treatment, and being able to sing every day again, I'm finally back at 4 octaves. I know I'll reach my goal and maybe beyond now, because now I have the physical strength to do so.

Now, I can play with and interact with my youngest sister and my nephew (both four). Before, I was just someone on the sidelines of their lives, always too sick and in pain to join in. Now, I can be a part of their lives. And that is the greatest gift.

For a long time, I subsisted on forcing myself to eat as much as I could; in pain, that was only about 800 calories a day. More than a concentration camp victim, but definitely below the starvation line. It was the perfect amount of calories to tell my body to hold onto as much weight as I can.

But I've lost 30lbs since my peak weight. My face looks like my face again. Do you know how wonderful it is to look in the mirror and actually see you?

Why I Wrote This


There are those out there who think people like me should be denied opioids. They think this because they're uneducated. They think this because they hear about the dangers of "hillbilly heroin" and high schoolers breaking into their parents' medicine cabinets.

What they don't hear is all the good opioids do when they are used correctly under medical supervision. And that's the story everyone needs to hear.

To make things worse, lawmakers are having hearings about the subject of painkillers -- when, where, how they should be allowed, etc -- without the testimonies of pain patients and chronic pain specialists. 

Read more about the ignorance of these hearings: HERE.

My post to my Congressman in regards to the piracy bill

And here it is:

As an American it is my legal right to freedom of speech, and expression. This law takes away from my fundamental rights as well as those of any other American, including yourself. I would personally never endorse a member of Congress who would even consider backing this bill. I don't know anyone else who would either. It is wrong; it is unjust.  

Instead of diminishing our rights as citizens of this fine nation, please work with your colleagues protect us and our domestic freedoms. We depend on you to do the right thing.  

The second the Internet is censored is the second we become a nation with conditional freedoms. That is not what the founders of our nation would've wanted, and that's not what any of your constituents would want either. Please think of us, we who depend upon your representation of our interests, in regards to this matter. 

And then it was signed, and yada, yada, yada. There are petitions and other things. This is how I sent my little letter. And it also gives better info than what I just did.

Whatever it was, it wasn't my sister: The Doppelgänger

Merriam-Webster defines a Doppelgänger as:
1 : a ghostly counterpart of a living person
2 a : double 2a
b : alter ego b
c : a person who has the same name as another

My story concerns the first definition.

It was 2004 and my sister was going to Chicago with her then-boyfriend to visit his family who lived there. To the frustration of many of live here, flights to Chicago are hard to come by at our little airport here in Muscle Shoals, so we -- meaning the whole family -- were forced to wake up at 5am, and then drive the alleged two hours to Nashville, TN, which has to have a nice, big airport to support its main industry of country music and BBQ restaurants.

(There needed to be green birds, alright?)

Now, friends, I'm going to tell you up front: I'm not a morning person. I'm not a morning person after living 23 years on this planet, going to college, and having two little sisters who screamed through the night as babies. Everything that should've conditioned me to, and prepared me for, getting up early actually made me do the opposite. Why? Because I'm that rebellious. If someone tells me not to touch the lit sparklers, I'm going to do it anyway -- just because they told me not to. (That's a true story. It was my third birthday. I got a bad second degree burn and my Mom put Bactine on it while the whole family told me what an idiot I was.)

So, yeah. I'm more apt to stay up 'til 5am. I never get up that early and I certainly didn't that morning. While the other denizens of the house were scrambling to pack and eat breakfast and all sorts of normal, last minute things like that, I was blissfully unaware of the fact that it was now half-past five -- until my dad flung my door open and said in his gruff morning!voice, "Carrie! Get up!"

Past experience had taught me that when his voice sounded precisely like that, only two things could happen if I didn't wake up: I could be left alone for several hours, the food all gone (because that's always the case when you're left alone as a kid), and left to my own devices which, if there was food left, chances were, I would decide to fry it and get oil in my eye. (I don't learn.) That, or the other thing could happen: they could wrap me up in my blanket, throw me in the car, and drive off while I'm asleep and none the wiser.

At first, you're thinking "that doesn't sound so bad," but that's because you're not really thinking about it. When that happens, you wake up in Tennessee, probably around the area where all the Mennonites are, and you disorientedly ask, "Where the fuck am I?", because you really want to know, only to have Dad shout, "Don't cuss!" and not offer any explanation. Then, of course, there's the fact that it's fall, nearly winter, you're wearing shorts, a tank, and no shoes, and they literally expect you to still go inside the airport.

So, since both of those scenarios would be bad things, I decided to open my eyes. As I said, the door to my bedroom was wide open, and me, in my bed, was on the other side of the room, where I could see directly out of it. My parent's room, being across from mine, could also be seen when their door was open. And their door was open that morning, slightly. I couldn't see into their room, but the opening was definitely more than a crack.

I glance down for a quick second as I peel the covers off of me, but look up when I hear a noise, a single patter-like noise, the noise of one bare foot hitting the floor. I look up and see my sister standing in the hallway, in the space between my room and my parents'. But immediately, I know something wrong. The noise I heard, the single pattering sound, was due to the bizarre gait she had, like someone hobbling. She had her side to me; her long dark auburn hair, curly and thick, hung down to her waist and blocked her visage except for the tip of her button nose -- it was all I could see of her face. But despite that, I knew something was wrong.

She wore a white linen nightgown, one I'd never seen before, which covered her legs down to her mid-calf. Even so, I could see how her feet were positioned oddly, pointing in an odd direction as she traveled in that slow, hobbling gait. And her posture -- she was hunkered over, making everything just seem and look a lot worse.

(Forgive the fact I can't draw well on the computer and go with it.)

My heart pounded wildly. Instantly, I think she's badly hurt, I think maybe she fell -- from where, I didn't know -- I just knew that's what came to mind, because I thought for sure she had leg and back injuries and probably some kind of brain injury, because she was moving so odd, it had to be neurological.

So, yeah, I panicked. I gasped, jumped out of bed, and ran to her. I make it to my doorway in about three strides, because I bounded in my terror. But when I reached my destination, I felt a wind on my face, neither hot nor cold, a wind that felt like nothing, but mostly, I noticed the fact there was nothing there.

And so then I wonder how my sister made it down the hall so fast, because she's obviously severely injured. I run to her room and I cry out her name, thinking for sure that I'm going to see her severely injured. But what I find scares me in a different way.

My sister was in her room. But she wasn't hurt. She was sitting on the floor, putting on her makeup. Her hair was bound, pulled up in a tight, folded over ponytail. She was wearing bluejeans, a pink sweater, and boots. She looked nothing like what I'd seen just two seconds before.

My sister will want me to tell you that she DOES have boobs now.

She looks at me like I'm crazy. And I think I've gone crazy. She asks me what's the matter, but I tell her nothing; she's about to get on a plane and go on a week-long trip, and I don't want her to worry about my sanity.

Meanwhile, I decide to write the incident off. I was obviously having some sort of waking dream. After all, I was old enough to know that the mind was a powerful thing. I knew a lot back then.

But there was something I didn't know: what I saw that morning was nothing compared to what was to come. The thing that wasn't my sister would soon come back, but not just for me -- but for many others who cared for my sister. This was only just the beginning.

The Bell Witch: When family legend gets too close for comfort

The Bell Witch is a famous Tennessee folk figure; the tale is often thought to be a lesson in mass hysteria and the power of suggestion. A non-human entity with the power to manifest as animals, she wrought havoc on the Bell family and the residents of Robertson County; Major-General Andrew Jackson, American hero and later president, fled the Bell estate after one night in her company. The events that took place during 1817-1821 made the Bell name infamous.

But we shall skip to the end of their story:

After the Witch succeeded in killing old John Bell, she decided to leave, promising to come back ever so often to check up on the family: my family. My great-great-great grandmother, Caney (short for the bizarre American Victorian-era name "Canarisa Lousia"), was a Bell. And now, you're probably thinking, "SURRRREE. Three greats. Like that's possible." Hah. My family actually keeps their records. And, like me, my grandmother was sent to stay with HER grandparents a lot. Her grandmother was Caney's daughter. And that's where my story begins.

The first time my grandmother ever even heard of the Bell Witch, she was four. She was sitting on her grandmother Mary Agnes's front porch. After all, it's summer in Tennessee in 1943; there wasn't anything else to do to cool off. So, they're sitting there, and my grandmother says something childlike and innocent. She can't remember what she said; all she remembers was her grandmother's violent reaction.

"DON'T YOU EVER SAY ANYTHING LIKE THAT AGAIN!" she shouted. "You're a Bell -- you can't say things like that! Do you want the Witch to come after you?"

And, child that she was, it made my grandmother pause. Why would what she said, coupled with who her family was, summon a witch? In her mind, she had a picture of the Wicked Witch of the West of  the Wizard of Oz fame...green, ugly, corporeal -- and most importantly -- fictional. She couldn't imagine the invisible force that tormented her family over 100 years before she was born. And being a human like any other, she quickly forgot the thing she couldn't imagine, and made a point never to think of it again. Until 2001, anyway.

It's early spring of 2001 and I'm still laid up from my recent near-death experience and subsequent surgery. I can't get up off the couch, because an 8 inch gash has my abdomen completely open, guts and all. I'm stranded, 12, and bored. So, what does a kid do when they've seen every rerun their ever was? They read. A lot. I went through book after book after book until I came to Thirteen Tennessee Ghosts and Jeffery by Kathryn Tucker Windham.

I knew perfectly well who Jeffrey was, of course. The librarian at the elementary school I attended grew up as a neighbor of Kathryn Tucker Windham; I had spent my formative years hearing of the exploits of the author's famous, friendly ghost. But the other ghosts in the book? I didn't know them. I also didn't know that one of them knew me.

It's nearly midnight -- like it really was, this isn't for effect -- and I'm reading the ghost book. I come to the story of the Bell Witch. I read it rather quickly and I think it's eerie, but I find it captivating, because I'm a kid that loves a good ghost story (and I still do). As I reach the last couple of paragraphs in the Bell Witch story, I begin to feel very nervous, like I'm sure somebody's watching me from behind. But I shrug it off. I know that's paranoid, crazy, and everything else irrational; and I spend an abnormal amount of time concentrating on those last few paragraphs, the last few sentences, desperately attempting to ignore that weird feeling. And then it happens. There's a huge BANG on the window behind me about six feet up. And when I say a "bang", I mean it sounded like someone threw all of their force at hitting the window. Except it was high up, too high for even my dogs to reach via jumping. And the noise was so loud, so insistent that my mother immediately hopped up and ran to look out the window, in case it was a prankster or a psycho or something. Surprise, of course, there is nothing there.

And then I start to freak out and I tell her what I was reading when it happened, and this weird look comes over her face: the harrowing look of dreadful knowing. You gotta remember: this was right after I almost died. I knew that dreadful knowing face very well, because it was all over my family and the doctors as they looked at me and knew, more likely than not, I was not only going to die, but it would be a very painful and very miserable death. (I am happy to announce, if this story isn't evidence of the fact, that I am indeed alive and sometimes very much so.)

So, yeah. She has The Look. And that's when I hear the story for the first time about what happened to my grandmother as a kid and the personal, family details of the Bell Witch haunting, etc. Was I surprised to be related to the Bells? Not really. After all I already knew that, through Caney's mother's side, I was also descended from Mary Queen of Scots. I had already accepted the fact that pretty much everyone has a famous (or infamous) relative, unless they come from a way-to-small gene pool.

But being related to the Bells didn't affect me. After a couple of nights of nervously awaiting The Noise to return (which it didn't), I then settled back into my normal routine where I didn't constantly worry over a spirit that, as far as we knew, hadn't bothered the family since 1828 (which was when the Witch made the promise to Lucy Bell, John Bell's widow, that she would occasionally visit her descendants for the rest of time).

I successfully didn't think about the Bell Witch until 2005, when my dad and I decided to go to a movie and picked a random one simply because it wasn't a chick flick. And, alas, it was An American Haunting.

So, I'm 17 years old, I'm sitting in the theater, and I'm like, "Holy crap -- did they just say John Bell?" And as the movie progressed, I saw the other characters of the legend -- Betsy, Lucy, and Richard Powell -- fall into their legendary places, and I watched a highly fictionalized version of events where John Sr. was an incestuous daughter-raper, Lucy was a murderess, and the Witch was a poltergeist brought on as an expression of Betsy's repression of the fact her father had raped her. Yeah. It was really fucked up. And in horrible taste, because it takes people who really lived and fallaciously accuses them of some of the worst crimes imaginable. (There is literally nothing worse than hurting one's own innocent child, especially in such a twisted manner.)

What do I do the second I get home? I call Connie. And here's the thing about Connie: when we met, we quickly became the closest of friends, despite a decade's difference in age and living on opposite sides of the continent. Something about her was just like it was already a part of me, like we'd been friends for all of forever. Come to find out, several years later: we are cousins. Even though her parents are from the Philippines and my dad's family has been here east of the Mississippi for 400 years on the English side and thousands of years on the Cherokee. Against odds like that, we both descend from an Irishman, a Kennedy, and English nobility. (So, because we are double kin -- literally -- she calls me doubekin really fast and it's super!cute.) In short though: she's the Christina to my Meredith. We're as mentally connected as twins. So, when I call her, I say..."

"Oh my GOD. You'll NEVER believe what I just saw."

"An American Haunting -- I saw it too."

"Oh my GOD," I say, "I cannot believe --"

"--Me neither --"

"--it's ridiculous--"

"I know, right?"

And we go into this belligerent thing where we're finishing each other's sentences which are mainly protestations about the gross falseness of the movie and how crazy it all was. This goes on for awhile. So, I'll skip all the in between which you'd have to be a doublekin to understand and get to the next main point...

There is an unearthly howl outside my window. Not like a dog, not like a cat. Not like a wild dog or a wild cat either. (I live in the suburbs -- panthers, coyotes are in the country.) It's something that just sounds horrible. It's kind of like a shriek -- not from pain -- but from something else. Again, unearthly is a good description, because it was simply bizarre and I've never heard anything like it since -- until night before last.

My Twitter friends who were up around 3am CST that night know what I'm talking about because I freaked out about it on there. I was sitting, once again, with my back to the window. And kind of up high (which sounds weird, but that's what it sounded like -- higher than my head) there was bizarre snort. All my dogs were inside. And it wasn't like a normal snort. It was really freaking weird. It was like a very low sound that was a cross between a pig noise and a horse noise -- it had those qualities. It was just freaking weird. To make things worse, a friend on Twitter who'd been talking to me about this -- her lights and flicked on and off. Yeah, probably was a power thing -- but you never know. All I know is, when I went to bed again, I heard the shriek.

And that recent incidence: for some reason, I instantly thought of the Bell Witch being the cause; out of all other supernatural explanations, she's the one I instinctively chose. (Though, granted, it could just be past experience.)

So, is it the Bell Witch? Or, could it be, perhaps, the calling card of another family legend, an older legend where the witches are really witches and goddesses as old as time have form and walk with man. (Among other things.) That legend...that's a legend for another post.

Until then, sleep well my fellow humans.

They're OUR Bitches: My View on Politics and Why it Should Be Yours Too

Democracy as defined by the Merriam-Webster Dictionary:

1.a : government by the people; especially : rule of the majority
b : a government in which the supreme power is vested in the people and exercised by them directly or indirectly through a system of representation usually involving periodically held free elections

Could it be any clearer? Let me break it down into modern terms.

We hire politicians via voting. We pay them (far too much) via taxes. We are their bosses; they are our employees. But it's more than that. We hire them to represent our interests on a national level, because all of us doing it at once, in person, would be far too confusing. And since they are specifically hired to do our bidding, they are, in effect, our bitches.

But everyone seems to have forgotten that. Instead, when they vote somebody in, they think they're voting for an autocrat that rules them and makes their decisions for them. If you think a democratic government rules you, then you need to read the definition (several times if need be). Instead, the real point of a democracy is that we, the people, create an administrative body to represent us on a national scale. They do our grunt work to keep society flowing smoothly. Laws should be for the protection of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Any law that tells you what you can read, who you can talk to, or where you can go, what you can wear -- that's a dictatorial law of an autocratic fascist and you really shouldn't even listen to it, because it came into being by your bitch (aka politician) usurping the job you gave them for their own agenda.

Now, I don't mean to tell you what political party to believe in. That's not why I'm here. The reason I'm here is to educate you on how a democratic society works and to tell you -- whatever your political affiliation -- that in a free country, you are the boss.

It's time for us, as Americans, to take our country back. From this moment on, I challenge any and all politicians to go to work for me, for their people, and not themselves. And I challenge the American people to remember their place, to remember that you rule this country.

We live in the best country in the world. But it often doesn't seem that way. The reason is this: We forget why we're here, what our ancestors fought and died for. We forget that this was supposed to be better, we forget that we're supposed to be the best. Anyone not willing to stand up with me and adopt this philosophy is already beaten and you might as well just go ahead and lay in that hole in the ground, waiting for them to pile the dirt on you.

Don't get me wrong. I don't think my little blog post can effect overnight change. But I hope that this idea takes hold, that you share it with your friends, that they share it with theirs, and eventually Americans, on a massive scale, are reminded why we are here and of the power they posses.

So, be a human and pass this on. If you don't pass this on, I assume you like being the bitch of your bitch and I'll remember to buy you a blindfold, gag, and some fuzzy handcuffs for Christmas, because you're apparently going to need it.

Hey you! Be a human: the compassion post

As I was eating my breakfast yesterday morning, I stared at the battered, lifeless corpse of former Lybian dictator Muammar Gaddafi, and had an epiphany: people really don't recognize the moment that they become hypocrites.

I firmly believe the rebels had a right to be pissed. And they had a right to oust Gaddafi. All people deserve to be free and live in dignity, served by (not ruled by) a government of their choosing. But when I saw Gaddafi all battered and dead, I realized something even more harrowing: the rebels had become Gaddafi. And isn't that the way it goes? We turn into the thing we hate, because instead of rising above it, we think to give it a taste of its own medicine.

I was talking to a friend on Twitter yesterday. And, in the midst of my disappointment and shock, I actually said something wise and mature: "The only right way to fight oppression is to fight smarter and better and righter -- not violenter." Violenter is not a word, but the rest are, and I think I made a good point: our evolved brains are supposed to give us the ability to rise above of oppressors mentally, physically, and -- most importantly -- emotionally.

As people opposing Gaddafi's ridiculous autocracy and ethnic cleansing, the rebels' main job was to get him out of power (and hopefully not tear the country to ribbons while doing it). That was their original goal. But then, how do you explain Gaddafi's battered body yesterday? Easily: it was hate. It was anger over him and everything about him and the fact that he was the enemy. Why is it that hate is the most human trait there is, yet it's the one we're supposed to rise above? But that's the thing: every human, no matter what their beliefs or culture knows that hate is wrong. They know what it does. They know that hate festers until it's all there is. Fear is the mind-killer, but hate is the soul-killer. We all know it, but we still let it get the best of us.

Overwhelming anger and passion is the only way an average person could actually go through with killing someone. (Psychopaths and sociopaths obviously operate differently, but we shan't go into them now.) But when you're full of hate, you change. Killing becomes less of a big deal. It becomes less justice and more vengeance, and you've probably forgotten the real reason you were angry in the first place. That dudes who were parading Gaddafi's corpse were all like "Fuck yeah! We killed that sonbitch!"

Yeah, you killed him. Now what?

Because that's the thing: killing him during a raid is just vengeance. You showed everyone (especially Gaddafi) that you were pissed off. But you forgot why. If he was put on trial and had a sentence according to the local legal system, the whole world would've seen why the rebels were angry. They would've showed everyone that Gaddafi's a bad guy, he did bad things, and they refuse to be ruled by that. Execution under law is a political and social choice of a people. But Gaddafi was just killed out in the streets; what was done to him, he'd probably had done to others in the past, but that doesn't make it right.

And, when you kill someone: you just became a killer. You just became the thing you hated. The bullied became the bully; the beaten child beats his children. And that, my friends, is the worst kind of hypocrisy there is.

But with all that said, I sincerely hope the Libyan people find peace, because they deserve it. Everyone does.