One sets one up for divorces when one believes this is what love looks like and speaks like and sounds like and feels like … and MOVES FIRST like. Love moves first.
Category: Uncategorized
-
-
Now I see this for the amazing compliment that it is. A friend sees me in all my flaws and wondrous ways, and follows my silly ass, anyway. Don’t sane your madness if only a “sane” few feel you should be diminished in such a way. Your madness is not mad to those who see you correctly.
I feared being judged. A year ago, I still felt fear of judgment. “Madness,” a brain like mine would have misinterpreted that. I’m healing so I’m seeing humans correctly now. ♥️
-
I’d prefer this blog have CONTRIBUTORS and not followers. Let me know how you can share. I’d love to be a group of royal subjects loyal to one another.
This is your queen first thing in the morning. Trust me, you want to support one another! 😂
Even the cleaned up queen has dirty dishes and needs your support over the holidays. You can tell people to be kind, but often times you are telling them that in your mind, alone. It’s not easy being the queen. -
Peavey is as old as my daughter. Twenty-one beautiful years old. I adore this queen. 
Khaleesi is affectionately known as “psycho,” “asshole cat,” and “stop doing that.” She’s feral. She owns me. 
This is my Raven. She’s the most sensitive dog I’ve ever met. She allows me to go NOWHERE alone. She could be a therapy dog, if she didn’t need so much therapy, herself. 
This is my pit bull, Nala. She’s only slightly more ridiculous than her mom. 
Khaleesi, the she demon, has moments of being insanely adorable. 
I have never left the house unnoticed by Raven and Nala. I’m their sun, moon, and human mattress. 
When I die, should Heaven not be what I believe it to be, I hope I come back as my own dog. 
This photo accurately sums up what the dynamics are between Khaleesi and Nala. They’re best friends who adore torturing one another. 
My sous chefs have had dog beds moved into the kitchen. They have a strict union representative and I was forced to comply. 
At the end of the day, these guys are all good friends. They allow me to observe them. I am a big fan! -
When I was 13, I had waited 18 months to testify against my first child molester.
On the stand, I recall the defense attorney asking me if I knew for certain if the molester knew it was me he was hurting with one sex act, at that moment, or if the defendant could have thought it was his daughter.
Even at 13, I remember being dumbfounded that the attorney thought this question made his case stronger for his client. I remember thinking that if I wondered that, I couldn’t be alone. Even then I remember thinking I was smarter than that man.
“Why would that have been any better?” And the jury, you could hear them gasping with a few muffled cries from the same Montgomery County Court House Cosby was convinced in. I heard them from the stand.
After I stepped down from the stand, it was before lunch the second day of the trial. I remember being dismissed for a break. We all needed one. My rayon shirt that was soft and teal, was wet from my own tears. This defense attorney apologized to my father and said, “this is the worst part of my job,” and scuffled off without an apology, though he clearly felt like a worm. He never looked at me because I guess I’d be a conflict of interest. I never knew.
I have always questioned when things were wrong. My entire life I have asked questions if I had them and questioned those who had authority over me.
I have to think that the 13 year old girl in me who questioned one dumb man would be proud of the woman I am 30 years later. She’s desperately trying to overcome what her first offender did, only now her questions do more than bring tears or gasps.
I’d like to think that her questioning everything has saved her life. I’d like to think that so I think I will. This is my story, so I get to think that if I need to.
-
It was a Wednesday afternoon. My brother had a friend. He had a neighbor boy I thought was his friend, anyway. He had a crush on me. He was hideous, but nice to me. I let him kiss me and before he left, I begged him to punch me in the mouth three times.
He refused at first, then I begged him so hard, he did it. I cried after he left. But before he left, I thanked him and he never saw me cry.
That night, I went to youth group at church. I physically needed to feel how I felt inside. The nice boy who seemed to take care of hurt kids liked me and he drove me home.
That’s how I found my first love of my life, before I knew what a life was. I was begging to be rescued and didn’t even know it at the time.
Tomorrow I see this human and I’m very different now. I’ll never forget who I was when I met him, however. I can’t forget her. I’ve been rescuing her ever since.
I failed to mention … I was 13 years old. My apologies.
-
I am a sentimental fool. Making memories feels like a full-time job, sometimes, for me. I treat it that way. I’m all about taking photos, videos, and stealing trinkets to remember special days. I want each moment to be remembered by a song special to me that day. Thank God Instagram can guide my song selection.
I am this way because, as a kid, my family’s traditions meant everything to us. Growing up unsettled is tough, but tradition set a sort of rhythm. Even if life was complicated, the traditions stayed similar. As an autistic human, predictability is a gift!
Christmas Eve is the same meal of Yorkshire pudding, prime rib, and tons of sides. It’s easily my favorite day of the year. Thanksgiving has a big bird involved, as Thanksgiving often does. I hear Thanksgiving is coming up!
Traditions are amazing. Recipes get passed down and memories get made for new generations to become a part of. It’s magical. I teach my daughter my techniques and tricks. I feel like she will feel me in her own kitchen, someday.
Traditions can be amazing. This year, tradition for the sake of tradition is a problem for me. This year, I am refusing to host with the rules of ghosts. The food this year may taste similarly. It won’t FEEL the same though. The spirit of the holidays in my home, it no longer includes the ghosts of holiday’s past. Those ghosts aren’t coming this year. They are not invited and the psychic mediums who voice their spooky wails aren’t invited, either.
I’m finding that the old rules don’t apply when traditions hold us hostage to being happy. It may just be “one day a year,” but it’s a day for being thankful and grateful, too. You’re allowed to set the rules for your own life. You’re even allowed to torch tradition, if you have to.
Ideally, I’ll find the balance between torching traditions and honoring the ones I value. This year, however, I’m giving myself permission to make utterly new memories that involve zero ghosts of holiday’s past. The future spirit is too strong within me to settle for unhappy traditions.
You can decide who you celebrate your life with. You can decide for yourself. I promise you won’t make friends choosing happiness over tradition. I promise, you’ll sleep better dictating your own new rules and traditions. I can almost pinkie swear, even. That’s a big deal for a 90’s girl!
Queen Buttercup Speaks 