To Muse and Be Amused

So, just to premise this a bit, I wrote this blog several months ago and never got around to finishing it, but I wanted to share anyway. Fair warning, there is seriously WAY TOO MUCH INFORMATION in this post. I do not recommend a guy read this if he wants to maintain any sort of romanticism about the female body. There is also plenty of expletive in here, so if language offends you, avert your eyes. Otherwise, enjoy! Sympathize. And hopefully we can all bond over a mutual understanding of what women go through on their period. For the past six years, I have been blissfully out of touch with my "time of the month". No visits from Aunt Flo. No crimson tides filling these shores. No rides on the cotton pony. No shark week for this lady business, no ma'am! For the last 25% of my life, I have been a distinctly non-suffering woman, thanks to a high school pregnancy, Jesus, and modern medicine. Did you know that an IUD is a more effective method of birth control than getting y

Society: Now serving gourmet bullshit! We hear pretty lies, sugar-coated to be easier to swallow, and we're popping them like Xanax. Gluttonous and insatiable, we devour half-truths, alternative facts, and straight up falsehoods, Eager to excuse our own fat faces by pointing shit-covered fingers in the direction of others. Glass screens are the plates we eat off of, taking full advantage of bottomless information, Filling our heads and stomachs with synthetic realities. Who appointed the media to be our server? Someone get the manager, because THIS is not what I ordered. I asked for truth, and got excuses. I wanted news, and got distractions. Please ma'am, I'm just the waiter here, let me send this back and get it redone for you. Yes, do that, because I never saw "half-baked, biased opinion" on the menu. Why is everything we hear and see and taste being digested as truth, When we haven't even taken the time to read the ingredients? We're gree

So alike we are. So alike we are, we say. We smile, staring, unmoving. And we say no more. Because we wonder, If maybe we are so alike, That we don't want to know. Because behind the smiles, Lurk the demons, And we wonder. But dare not say. How alike we are. -Elle. February 19th, 2017

She was staring at the marker with glazed eyes and a dead face, still as a statue for what felt like hours. I knew what she was feeling. I knew that all she wanted in that moment was to curl up in her daughter's grave and die, to be with her forever. She wasn't just hurting; she was experiencing the most excruciating pain a human being can suffer, mentally or physically. Someone had squeezed all the air out of her lungs, ripped her heart from her chest, stirred her insides with despair and heartache, and forever changed the essence of her humanity. And that someone was me. I didn't choose to be Death. I was gifted with and cursed by it. Taking lives against my will, being given to me by someone else, sometimes done as an act of mercy, other times as an act of vengeance. I'm used to this. I'm used to all of this. I'm used to seeing the effects of my handiwork in the hearts and faces of loved ones, so much so that I've been hardened by it. Less by the genuin

I work in a clinic that manages patients who use blood thinners. I see a versatile demographic of people from young to elderly, rich to poor, thin to obese, etc. The one thing I've thought of in earnest recently is people's hands. I know it's a silly thing to think about really, but I find them truly mesmerizing. There's a lifetime of stories in people's hands and when you think about it, that's amazing. There is literally a lifetime of memories right there on two palms and ten fingers. I look at my hands and I see the scars from the number of cuts I've gotten over the years. Cuts suffered from running through thick brush during summers spent at my grandparents. Cuts from handling wood without gloves. A scar from the single stitch I needed in the skin that stretches between my middle and ring fingers when I tried to core an apple with a steak knife... while it was sitting in my hand. I have scars from burns, evidence of a childhood I spent in the kitche

In Spokane Valley, Washington, the air smells like Earth. It smells like rain and grass and dirt, all mixed into a glorious aroma that smells somewhat like the coming of fall. Last week we had about a whole week of pure rain and we thought it was the end of summer for good. But, alas, it nears October and the sun has graced us with her presence yet again. These past two days have been a joyous occasion. As I walked home from school yesterday, I felt overwhelmed witht the beauty I saw. I could smell the sweet perfume of long grass and ripe apples being played about on the light breeze. I could feel the sun shining onto my face. I could hear the trees dancing above my head, their leaves still clinging to their green coloration for just a moment longer. I could see the mountains, purple and green in all their majesty, watching over the valley as though guarding us from anything daring to ruin the serenity of our oasis. I wanted to be a tree for just 10 seconds, so I could reach up and pla