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.

All this stuff actually happened: The 19th Birthday Saga

My nineteenth birthday was an epic. As in, an actual epic...like "of Gilgamesh" or "Beowulf", etc. There weren't any monsters or demons -- at least that weren't human. But there was a multi-day celebration, threatened childbirth, stolen melons, and the promise of a new tomorrow.

To really understand this story, we'll have to start at the beginning. No, not the beginning of my life -- that is for the autobiography I'll ask you all to buy in thirty years. No, rather, it's the beginning of another life. Or, the beginning of the beginning of that life. Basically, I'm taking you back to the day I found out I was going to be a big sister for the second time.

March, 2007

I remember my mom looking particularly nice that day, nicer than usual. So, it was only fitting what occurred occurred. I was on the couch at the time, playing my guitar or something -- I forget. I just remember her, standing in the kitchen archway, talking on the house phone. That, in itself, tipped me off. I mean, who calls on the house phone? Even in 2007? 

The phone call she received was to tell her that my dad and his girlfriend were having a baby. This was March. 

I was spare you my reaction at the time. Instead, I will jump ahead a few short months to...

July, 2007

By July, my dad's girlfriend is NINE months pregnant. (You got that math, right?) And my world has changed. My parents are finally divorced and all the sudden, I'm meeting new people, primarily from the world of my soon-to-be-stepmother. 

One person I meet is my soon-to-be-aunt, M. Auntie M (get it?). Aunt M is exactly one year younger than me -- to the very day. This means that, when I would turn 19 on July 28th, she would turn 18. While we got along swimmingly, it was a strain being born on the same day. Who gets which relatives at the family birthday dinners and so forth. But there was something else that we hadn't counted on...

This was our response when my dad and her sister told us, "Girls, the baby is probably gonna be born on your birthday. Isn't that exciting?": 

(I was really into slouchy tops and skinny jeans back then; I thought it hid my 19in waist and made me look fatter. I was a dumbass. And yes, I was the skinny one with the long hair. Now Auntie M is the skinny one with the long hair and I'm the curvy one with short hair and glasses. It's a circle.)

And you can understand our pissed-off-ness right? I mean, we had a reason. We had FINALLY gotten used to the idea of sharing our people on our own birthdays and then there's a fetus threatening to destroy the peace talks, the bridges we've built, all with a simple birth. 

We weren't selfish people. We were teenagers and a lot had been asked of us. You can't look me in the eye and say you wouldn't have acted the exact same. 

July 28, 2007

By my our birthday, my dad had been camped out on his girlfriend's couch. They sat there, waiting for the baby to pop out at any minute, because it could. Technically, she was 2 centimeters already, so it really could've happened. 

But, because he loves me, my dad pried himself away from the waiting-for-birth couch and went out to dinner with me, my mom, my sister who was not a fetus/17, her boyfriend, my dad's side of the family, and my mom's side of the family. See, we adjusted very quickly to being what I like to think of as a mature blended family. No jealousy. No hating. No crazy divorce battles to the death. Just love, respect, and tiramisu...because we were at an Italian restaurant and, of course, one must have tiramisu on one's 19th birthday. 

This dinner marked the beginning of the Carriean Festival where I am not only the center of the attention, but the narrator of the story. 

After bidding adieu to my family, I met with my friends, Ems (who is NOT my friend anymore) and J (who is my very dear friend indeed). Back then, we were the three musketeers, and as people who call themselves that are wont to do, we went out in search for action. 

We didn't find any. 

Instead, we found ourselves going to what was, at the time, the local watering hole. We couldn't drink, but there was music. Good, rockabilly music. And we had an awesome time. Ems told the band it was my birthday, they said "happy birthday", and it was embarrassing, but mostly harmless. 

We pretty much danced the night away...

(This trapeze dress was just another failed attempt for me to hide how skinny I was. It was especially a fail when it shrunk in the wash and barely covered my bum. And here, Ems can be seen wearing the "fake butt" I got her the previous Christmas.) 

...except for one other thing: at the bar on my birthday there, we met some people. Some people, we already knew. Others we did not. One person I had not known previously was B. I'm not the most social of people -- in case you haven't noticed. So, when B informed us that the same band (well, two bands, really, I think) would be playing the next night at a different location, Ems and J enthusiastically agreed that we would see him there. I had no say in this. But, it was cool, because it was my birthday. 

July 29th, 2007

My soon-to-be stepmother still hadn't popped yet, so I felt perfectly confident in going out again that night. To this day, people will say my friends and I had ulterior motives for going to the next gig, to see the same dudes play. But really, and I emphasize this fact: we were invited. By B. 

The 29th was not as docile as the 28th. After all, it was the second day of a weekend long festival celebrating my life, which is no small thing. The 29th, things got wild. Well, wild for me, at the time, anyway. 

It was bloomin' hot that night, but it was muggy. Not long after we arrived, the bottom fell out of the sky. And the venue was small; it couldn't hold everyone at once, so people had to go back and forth, in and out. But I don't think anyone minded. It was the cool, relieving sort of rain shower that only seems to come on a lucky summer's day (or night, as the case may be). It was a renewing rain, a revigorating rain. It was a rain that wiped away the small amount of makeup I'd bothered to put on. And it was fun. 

B introduced us to his friend K. Ems and J were so social, it was great fun for them and me? I took pictures. I didn't hardly know most of the people, but it was just a day I thought I'd like to remember. What I didn't know at the time was, it was a day I really couldn't forget if I wanted to. 

Because Ems was is an idiot. Ems, in her very own lude awakening, decided it'd be awesome if she let people draw whatever the crap they wanted on her bare arms. And when I say, whatever, I mean whatever. She ended up with some nice things, a phone number or two, anarchy symbols, but also not so nice things; some of them, I didn't know what they meant -- but I knew what a swastika was. And she had them ALL OVER HER FUCKING ARM. What made this worse is that blondie is of German decent. And, of course, this made no impact whatsoever on her. She proceeded to keep making friends. 

Meanwhile, J and I became known as the chicks who were friends with Swastika Girl -- and that is NOT something I would ever want to be known by. (J and I actually have much love for the Jewish people and find genocide abhorrent.) 

So, with swastikas all over her dumb white ass, you can imagine the kind of friends she made. There was one in particular that just wouldn't stop following us around, some high school punk I refer to as "Heroin Boy", partially as a homage to a Regina Spektor song, and partially owing to the fact I found out -- months after these events -- the POS was a heroin addict. At the time, I really just thought he simply wasn't right. 

So, things are winding down and everyone's leaving. Ems volunteers me (yes, I had to drive, because I'm the only one who can find shit) to drive Heroin Boy home. I didn't feel too good about this, but, at the same time, I didn't want to be responsible for the stranding of some dopey, seemingly harmless seventeen-year-old boy. 

B and K were older than us and, of course, male. I choose to believe it was those two things that prompted them to offer their services as escorts home. They felt the need to make sure we got there safely, what with the new, unwanted passenger aboard. And THANK GOD K took Heroin Boy in his car, because I just don't think I couldn't handled it. Ems road with them. And, I mean, K had to have nerves of steel to drive those two. Meanwhile, it was me driving J and B in my Corolla -- my vehicle at the time. 

Like that, we caravan'd across the bridge back to the town where me, Ems, and J lived. At first, we stop at Ems house. There, she informs us that the party is just getting started, that Heroin Boy doesn't live on this side of the river, he lives on the other side of the river that he just left. 

We all looked like this: 

(I forgot to mention that the rain had completely soaked us all, but me most especially, rendering my black bra entirely visible through my creme-colored top.)

See, we couldn't really be angry. We lost the right to anger when we didn't properly interrogate the intoxicated idiots that were guiding our journey. It was our own damn fault. 

And disappointment leads to hunger. So, before heading across the river, we caravan'd to McDonald's. 

Back then, going to McDonald's after midnight (and it was about 3am by this point) was an adventure. Back then, McDonald's after midnight was the venue in which people would show off their pimped out rides. We're talking lime-colored cars with some kinda rims, leopard prints seats -- these rides were all kinda pimp'dness you could ever imagine...rims, rims EVERYWHERE. And they would show off these rides by circling the McDonalds, the lane that goes outside and around the drive-thru, making sure everyone sees how awesome their shit is. 

But we were used to this, so we paid little attention. Instead, my attention was drawn to K's car that was in the drive thru line in front of us. K was, once again, forced to carry Ems and Heroin Boy. Heroin Boy was in the backseat. This proved to be a big mistake. Because he did this: 

(Yes, I understand I have no idea what the back of a hatchback -- or any type of car -- looks like. But don't focus on that. Focus on the stupid.)

We're in line at McDonald's and all the sudden, the dumbass sticks his body out the side of the window, faces us, and starts talking to us with the biggest grin on his face. He was just talking away and waving his arms like an excited kid. And we had no idea wtf he was saying because our windows were rolled up. 

But I swear to you, it was the most hilarious shit ever. He had no idea whatsoever that we couldn't hear him. And he was smiling so stupidly. Some of us may have peed a little -- that's how much we were laughing. It was so funny. It is one of the funniest things I have ever seen. My crude drawing doesn't give it justice. 

What was he saying, you ask? Well, apparently, he was professing his love to me. It was so fucked up. 

So, we finally make it back across the river as the fog rolls in, and we drop the kid off at his house...

After he is safely inside, the dudes steal a melon from his front porch. I drive off real fast. I ain't no thief. Even melon thievery goes against my code. However, I don't mind, and encourage others to do it, if it jives with their respective codes -- and it did. 

So, we go back to Ems house, and everyone but me and J thinks it's perfectly safe to eat some weird yellowy watermelon off of some random porch. And they all eat their water melon and me? And, being the old biddies of the bunch, J and I were tired. We kindly bid adieu to our new friends, who helped us drop off some messed up high schooler, we change into our jammies, and I fall asleep on Ems' couch, simply because, despite everything, I didn't want to go home for some reason. 

July 30, 2007

Early in the effin' morning...

My phone is going berserk. And not a little berserk, but a lotta berserk. And I'm groggy and tired, and had a maximum of three hours asleep, but something deep inside of me says "ANSWER YOUR FUCKING PHONE, DIPSHIT." So, I do. 

Me: "Helllooo." 

Mom: "OMG, where are you? Where have you been? Do you know what time it is?"

Me: "I'm 19; I don't have to tell you were I am, and --" 

Mom: "THE BABY IS COMING. GET YOUR ASS TO THE HOSPITAL ASAP." 

Me: "Do I have time for a shower?" 

Mom: "Maybe." 

So, I rush home, shower, and throw on a shirt. The shirt I wear is, naturally, the shirt nearest at hand: it was the shirt B had given me the night before, of the band that had been playing. So, with that reminder of events past, I rush to the hospital, drive all the way to the top of the parking deck until I find what is literally the last place. I rush inside and say, "BABY -- I'M THE SISTER. I HAVE NO WORDS. WHERE?!"

Somehow, they understood my request and pointed me in the direction of the labor area. My dad and his girlfriend and her mother were already inside the delivery room. The rest of the family, and some select friends, waited outside the door. 

At first, Auntie M and I contented ourselves to slump down against the sterile wall and mull over the fact that this worked out nicely, that we didn't have to share our birthday with someone else, and the joy that that someone else was coming RIGHT NOW. 

But our excitement was too much. Being eager, happy teenagers, we couldn't settle for sitting on the floor like hospital vagrants; instead, like nosy Nellies, we each pressed an ear to the wooden door that separated us from the birthing process. And all we could hear was screaming. Lots of screaming. Eventually, that screaming was followed by words of comfort. After all, her mom had two kids (her being one of them) and my dad already had two kids. They were old pros at this. It was my soon-to-be-stepmom that was the noob, and, of course, the noob was giving birth. All the screaming was perfectly understandable. Even with an epidural, I imagine pushing something bigger than a football out your lady parts has to be rather...uncomfortable. 

But, finally, Soon-To-Be-Stepmom's screams gave way to a smaller, high-pitched scream, a scream I instantly new belonged to a beautiful baby girl. 

And, in no time at all, this happened: 

(This is what happens to my hair when I let it air dry in hospitals. But, that day, I didn't mind.)

In a way, you can say that my youngest sister is a belated birthday present. Not just for me and Auntie M, but also for Dad, who was born on July 22nd. 

And there you have it, folks. The story of my sister's birth and the saga of my 19th birthday, all rolled up into one long, oddly shaped package. 

P.S. The end of the birth story/19th birthday story is just the beginning of another story: the story of the birth of my nephew, whose impending arrival was announced just two days after that photo was taken. 

Circles never end; the wheel just spins. 

How I Spent Thanksgiving 2011: Complete with Crappy Art

How I normally spend Thanksgiving: 


When things are normal (read as: not absolute shit), my family follows a strict holiday routine. The only thing that changes it is death (ie it was once at Great-grandma's and is now at my grandma's, etc), or, of course, moving. So, how it stands in recent years, with all the death and then my dad and them moving to Virginia, our once complicated shuffle is now this little, simple, thing: We go to Ma's (dad's mom's) house to have "dinner" which is what you people call lunch. Actual dinner usual follows now that my Mom's mom, being widowed, doesn't host Thanksgiving. She instead comes with us to Ma's, because unlike 99% of the losers out there, we are a FUNCTIONAL BLENDED FAMILY.

Why I didn't spend Thanksgiving normally: 


My dad's sister came down with some raging stomach flu and no one wants food in the same room as someone like that.

So me, mom, and her mom thought: 


Why don't we just have a small Thanksgiving ourselves? And that's what the plan was. Grandmommy (mom's mom) rushed to the store to get all the fixings we would need, and we would go have it at my sister's house.

However, on Thanksgiving Morning: 


It became apparent that our "new plan" wouldn't work.

Yes, I was infected. With what, we didn't know, but I aimed to find out...

And then I worried over my findings for roughly 48 hours -- like this: 

After she finished being apathetic, Mom decided that I had Boston measles, lately known as Fifth Disease. (I want to point out that both names are nonspecific and are as pointless as each other.) And, since having lupus like I do, that could be a bad combination, it was decided that I would go to the doctor. And, since there was a possibility of Scarlet Fever, I also promised Mom I would mention I had a sore throat. 

This is what happened: 

You are probably asking yourself: 

"Why would a young woman who used to have to clean out her own guts be afraid of having her throat swabbed?" The answer: I honestly don't know. I just know that having things stuck down my throat bothers me, whilst having my tissues and meat be ripped out and prodded on whilst awake does not. 

Flashback to 1995: 

I personally loved Mom's hair then, back before the apathy really kicked in.

Flashforward to the present, to my DIAGNOSIS: 

I got reflective after we left:

All in all, I decided to go with the biggest pro of all: I was alive. So what if I had a rash that made me look like I had some dreaded pox? I was, despite being presently ill and having lupus, over all healthy-ish. And that was good enough for me. 

After I reflected, we got some food: 

And then all hell broke loose. 

And that's where I will leave you...for now. 

(Scroll down for notes and inconsequential bullshit.)

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P.S. (or B.S., depending on your opinions): All this crappy!art was drawn on the computer, by my hand, but still on the computer nonetheless. I haven't quite gotten the knack of not having a rougher surface to use as a control, which, as you can tell, leads to sloppyness. However, I find this sloppy psychotic-kindergartener-ish style charming in its own way, and I hope you do too -- until my talents improve. 

Also: I got sick and tired of coloring these cartoons, because I'm not a cartoonist. Also, coloring on the computer is even weirder than line drawing. Sometimes, when I color on paper, I use awesome medium like mascara and eye shadow and nail polish. Why? Because I learned some of these badass skills from Gladys Perint Palmer the Great. (I added "the Great" part, but isn't she? Also, if you actually take the time to Google her, you will understand how prestigious this all is...and when do *I* ever give a crap about prestige? *taps head*)

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.

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.

That awkward moment when this was overdone

I chuckled the first couple of times when I heard "that awkward moment when" comments. Some of them were actually funny -- until it became a thing. Now that it's a thing, people think it's cool to come up with their own "that awkward moment when" phrases. But here's what happens when it becomes a thing: every moment gets awkward.

"That awkward moment when..." is the knock-knock joke of the 21st century. Yeah, it was funny...once. How to remedy the awkwardness of "that awkward moment"? You actually use your brain. The day wit, observation, and comedic timing die is the day my soul dies too. 

So, to put this to bed once and for all, here's one more...for the road: 

"That awkward moment when you read this." 

Reasons I won't date you

Don't think of it as me being a snobby bitch. Think about me, being harassed by weirdos that have done this crap. And also, if you're a guy, listen up, because this is just generally good dating advice.

Here be reasons:

1. You wear socks with sandals or sandals/flipflops at inappropriate times.

Unless you're an ancient Egyptian pharaoh, sandals are NOT appropriate evening attire. That's thing number one. Thing number two: socks with sandals is just WRONG. Anyone with a brain cell knows it. If you don't, then you're not anyone, and all of us who are ones will shun you. (Interpret that how you will.)

2. You get in my personal space when I don't even know you, haven't invited you there, and clearly have no intention in doing so.

I once knew this guy that would just edge closer and closer to me if we were somewhere out in public at the same time. He would just keep edging in until he would be a foot away or less -- right up in the middle of my personal space. And then -- and then -- he would talk to me. The way it made me feel was like he was bearing down on me in an odd and skeevy fashion. It was so off-putting. I would literally say "Dude, you best be backin' up." Did he invade my personal space next time? Yes, he did. He didn't learn. And I eventually started avoiding places he would be simply because the only other option would be to kick his ass and get charged with assault. Creepy dudes aren't worth being arrested over. And that, my friends, is maturity.

3. You've been in a serious relationship with my good friend -- even when she's definitely over you.

This explanation is multilayered. I've had friends that are all like, "Why don't you date my ex? I think y'all'd make a cute couple." Here's why.

Firstly, if you were with my friend, I know all of your faults. You're a naiviot (naive idiot) if you think I don't. Not only do I know all the faults she told me, but I know all the faults that she was too blind to see out of her love for you.The second reason: Any girl with self-esteem isn't going to let a penis that has been in her friend's vagina into her vagina. (But that's not to say dating in my world automatically equals sex -- I'm not that easy.) Lastly, the friend is never okay with you dating her ex deep down, even if she can't stand him or is normally above such clichéd behaviors. When it comes to amour, no one is above clichés.

4. You talk down to me.

One of the easiest ways to piss me off is to talk to me like I'm an idiot. Just ask my family. They treat me like an idiot all the time. But here's the difference between family and prospective dates: you can't choose family. And they actually love me, despite their attitudes.

But when a stranger treats you like shit, they don't love and they never will. So, yeah. If you tell me things like, "Go make me some muffins, darling. The men are talking," and then puff your cigar smoke in my face, I will probably (figuratively) kill you. I'm not going to lie. I will probably take my muffin tin and beat you upside the head until you cry. And then I'd laugh. And then I'd tell you to make the muffins yourself.

5. You talk down to others.

You ain't a man if you do that. At least not a real one, anyway. Seriously, some intelligent person actually had something to say about it:

"If you want to see the true measure of a man, watch how he treats his inferiors, not his equals." - JK Rowling

A good rule of thumb is if Jo Rowling said it, it's probably right. At least, I hold stock in that.

Only a small man on the inside treats someone poorer than him, less brainy or shorter than him like they're less human than him. I was raised to treat hobos with the same respect I would show the Queen. I think everyone else should too.

6. You've never dated anyone before.

I'm simply too old to break you. I'm 23. I'm not 15. I can't be training boys to know how to be boyfriends at my age. They should already know that shit.

7. You caress me oddly during a normal conversation.

This has happened before. And it is so weird, I thought it deserved a whole separate talking point from the personal space issue. If I meet you and we're talking about something nonsensical like did Nero really own a fiddle, and then you caress me...like slide your hand up my arm, my thigh, or even -- yes, this has happened -- my boob, I will make you cry. Seriously. If I'm in a good mood and it's NOT one of my more intimate parts, you might get a warning -- might.

8. Poor hygiene.

This is supposed to never be a problem -- I mean, don't you guys have mothers? -- and it definitely should've been stomped out by middle school. But, alas, it is a problem. Guys can be really gross. And if I can smell you from a foot away, you're too gross for me. In fact, you shouldn't stink at all. I don't mind the smell of sweat and activity so much as just that gross, fucking nasty smell dudes get when they don't bathe enough. That's what really bothers me. And it bothers every other girl too. (Or at least it should. A lot of girls don't have good self-esteem, so they put up with it. But they shouldn't.)

9. You're a Republican.

I'm pretty open-minded. I don't care what religion you are. You don't even have to be religious or spiritual at all. But I cannot abide Republicans. The current ideals of the party are so crazy and heinous that Lincoln is simultaneously rolling over in his grave AND looking down from heaven and crying.

Yes, you assholes, you made Lincoln cry. Be ashamed.

To me, to even be a Republican, you have to either A) be a wicked moron, B) be uneducated, or C) let your parents think for you ala "Well, Daddy always voted Republican." Either way, you need to read some sort of book. Whether it's like an educational text book on the core beliefs of different parties or else a holy/spiritual/touchy-feely book about human compassion. Just SOMETHING. Because being a Republican is about as wrong as you can legally get.

10. You have no confidence.

I'm a nice person. I'm really nice, despite all my talk of Republicans (who are non-persons). But honestly, if you have no confidence, I probably won't notice you. And that's not because I'm a bitch -- it's because, you're in some kind of shell that makes you unrelatable and often unnoticeable.

Then there's the other type of no-confidence guy who just sits around complaining how bad their life is, how loser-y they are, and then uses that to try to gain a sympathy date. That's just dishonest. You tell your troubles to your friends, your agonies to your aunts. You don't moan to girls you want to date. It's really not sexy.

So, there you have it, folks. Ten reasons I won't date you. And that's just ten. There's actually a lot more. And again, I'm not a bitch. I just have some really nifty qualities like self-esteem and standards. And those are just two reasons why I'm awesome.




(Oh yeah. And I did all of that "art". Can't you tell by the three-year-old-ish skills and humor?)