I have once again fallen down the rabbit hole, in more ways than one.

I have still been writing elsewhere, and other than that, generally – well, I would say repeatedly falling on my face, but it is more like slightly lifting my face off the floor and then it dropping back again.

I am not super enjoying it.


I am also giving myself due credit. Not just for the metaphorical head lifts, but for continuing to breathe while I still feel like I am getting repeatedly kicked in the heart.

And for not giving a fuck about being unfinished.

And for utterly, openly bemoaning the fucking open fields of wreckage sprawling out from my present back to my beginning, that are as apt a metaphor as any for my life so far, and desperately wishing for some end to all the shit – but still hanging the fuck on.

This doesn’t need to be the most insightful shit I have ever verbalized. I don’t have to worry about the doubtless many people who would not enjoy it. I don’t have to spend my life immobilized by the fear of seeming imperfect. If anyone was left imagining my self or my life was not deeply, deeply flawed, the state of ruin that is my present existence pretty clearly corrects that misapprehension.

I don’t even have to worry about the many fucked up people of my unfortunate acquaintance who still can and might act to fuck up my life more, to try to do me harm. They are who they are, and they are going to do what they are going to do, and there is nothing on earth I can do or not do or say or not say or think or…you get the idea, it is beyond my control. If it weren’t, everyone I crossed paths with would have found their way to healing and happiness, and certainly wouldn’t be interested in fucking with me in any way.

What is the point of this? Maybe there is none, except I fucking felt like writing it. I am sleep deprived. I am too tired to do any of the many things that require focus that I have no desire to do anyway. In all likelihood, no one is ever going to read this. And I don’t give a fuck at the moment. Not every fucking thing has to be in service of something else, not every fucking thing has to be about money or success or even acknoweldgement. I just felt like making a post to break my post silence.

For now, I just want to enjoy the fact that I am too tired and wrung out to feel sad or scared for a moment, and to acknowledge that a truly unfortunate, and I wish impossible, degree of bullshit has existed across my life, and I have never, with very little reward, given up. I did that for myself. And that is huge. If another person went through the things I have, and did so to keep me alive, they would be my fucking hero. So in this moment, I am going to take a moment and acknowledge that is what I am. Not a superhero – I can get well hurt, and I can’t guarantee any success. But I can guarantee that even if I, like a devastating number of people I have dearly loved, live a life that does not end up where I want it to be before it ends, that continues to be subject to endless pointless cruelties, even if I live and die my entire life in full-blown misery, I will have had one person who cared enough to fight for me. Kind of like I had someone who loved me all along.


Dear Kath, (2)

Dear Kath,

I was thinking about picking this up again, then thought “I am fucking tired,” then thought about what you would tell me, which is what I always told you when you were exhausted and not letting yourself get rest: go to bed. Getting rest is important. Your health is important. Take care of yourself.

You got it, bitch.

This really is endlessly helpful. You are really endlessly helpful. All I have to do is think of your response, and tah-dah! Better choices. Everyone should be so fucking lucky to have someone in their life really love them. Thank you. Every fucking day from my first to my last, thank you.

So for now I am going to embrace the wisdom of “fuck it,” and put this aside, and get some rest.

I love you, you brat. I hope you got the afterlife you wanted, and it is full of awesome naps.



p.s. Goodnight. I love you.


Damn, it’s been a while.

I didn’t realize until now how long I did nothing with this blog.

There were times I published a new piece of art or a comic or wrote, or whatever shit, every day. And until this month, I hadn’t touched it since August of 2016.

December of that year I lost my closest human.

We called each other sisters, but she was my cousin. We were close in age and grew up in different apartments in the same house. We spent some of our childhood in the same grade, in the same school. We didn’t always get along by any means, and we weren’t always in each other’s every day lives, but we always showed up for each other when the big bads happened. As they did, to both of us, way too much, way too often. And as adults we were closer than ever. Although toward the end…yeah, that is a sadness for another time.

It wouldn’t have shocked me that I let this lie fallow after she died, but that I stopped before then…I don’t think I realized how bad things were in my life, how really bad, for how long, until I saw the date of my last post. More often than not, for me, bad times and a lot more time spent on creative output go hand in hand. And I wouldn’t feel times were that good while I was making nothing.

I don’t know if I am really ready to talk more about her right now. I would like to do that one day. I would like to do it well. She was an astonishingly strong and decent human who loved me more than anyone else ever did, who lived a life long in pain and short in years and grand in kindness, and if I could find the words to pay fitting tribute to her, I think it would mean something. To me, to her, to other people, if I could really convey who my first and best friend, who remains the heart of my heart, was.

Not as much as if, as I wished, I could have ripped out my still-beating heart and given it to her to save her life; if resurrection was a possibility, I would be clawing at my sternum instead of typing this. But if wishes were horses, I could probably make a fair bit of cash selling those horses, and I wouldn’t be quite so fucked.

Words are about all I have right now.

You know who she was? She was someone who, knowing, as she always did, that she was probably not going to get to die an old lady, told me in a Facebook comment, of all places, that she would always be here for me, even after she drew her last breath. I still have those words to look at.

That is fucking real love. She believed in an afterlife, and she promised to spend it at least in part watching out for me.

She was smarter and wiser than me in many ways, and I hope like hell she was about that. Not just because having the strongest soul in creation watching over you seems like a pretty good deal. Because I want her to be somewhere, wherever the hell she wants to be, and happy, and feeling for the first time what it is like to exist without sickness or pain.

If I could know that, I would be a-okay with her abandoning her guardian angel post to run as a gazelle or sit on a cloud with all the people she loved who died before her or haunt Leonardo DiCaprio, or whatever her heaven might be, even when my life feels like hell.

I have real love for her, too.

I don’t know yet what to do with the realization that my absence here predated her absence from my life, but I am making note of it, since it seems like a thing that in the longer run might be important to shifting my perspective and improving my own understanding of how I got there, and here…and mostly, because my sister would have wanted me to.

Goodnight, strong Kath, and flights of angels sing thee to wherever and whatever you want to be. Tell them if they give you any shit about it, when I get to where you are, I will fuck them up hard.

I love you, sister.