Category Personal

Surprise Midnight Dumpster Diving

I’m writing this as I sit in contented glow on my nice warm couch, gazing upon the red glint of my new vaccuum cleaner. It’s handle is snapped, wrapped in layers of duct tape and masking tape, as it to hold on by a single thread that last hope, and even that didn’t save it from the dumpster in which I found it. It sits next to my movies now, it’s permanent home, where it will clean my couches in peace.

This is but one of the joys I discovered tonight, during a round of Surprise Midnight Dumpster Diving. This is what I’ve come to name the odd event that happened to me. After bicycling home at 10:00pm, in 19 degrees farenheit, from my six hour shift (which I took in four inch heels, take that.), I had found myself in front of dumpster diving youtube videos. I honestly have no idea how I got there, maybe from a beauty tutorial, who knows. But the important thing is the next string of thought that entered my mind.

“I have friends who dumpster dive.” followed by “I know the Sally’s Beauty supply is closed right now.” quickly tucking into “I should text them and see if sometime this week we can go dumpster diving at Sally’s Beauty.”

Their reply was a little unexpected. “Do you want to go tonight?” Well, my next shift isn’t until 2pm tomorrow, so… WHY NOT.

So me and my friends, a married couple who have fallen on hard times recently, head out in the (rapidly falling) chill, to rifle through companies dumpsters in hopes of finding good things. I didn’t find that makeup I had hoped for, but I did find a nice milk crate, a few generous shoe boxes, of which my plants will be thankful for, they could use a boost towards the sun, and that lovely vaccuum.

Now all of this would be just another fun night on the town, had it not been for a conversation I found myself having. You see, recently, I’ve been suffering from a feeling of expiration. I’ve read somewhere that a woman is at her peak beauty at 25 years old. And after that, well? It all falls downhill. This has plagued me, tormented me, for quite a while. I don’t know why. I know I’m intelligent, and I know that I have so many more things to offer the world than my pretty face, but still! It really bugged me!

And while talking with my friends, they helped me realise this one, very, very important fact.

I am not milk, which sours on some predetermined date.

I am wine, which grows more rich and flavorful with every passing moment.

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Electric Jellyfish – A Dream

The dream started as me in a new town. A mountain town, where everyone was rich-ish. I apparently was too, because I was hanging around this restaurant where honestly, they served really good food and wine and stuff. I ended up in conflict with the matron, however. I don’t remember what over, but she bullied me, and in return, I bullied her children. A little girl far too smart for her own good, a genius, really, and I treated her like dirt. She turned cynical very fast.

Something happened, and all the tourists disappeared. The mountain became a death trap. I don’t know how, but there were soldiers everywhere, and the girl’s mother was no where to be found. There were others with me, trying to figure out how to escape. Two sisters, a black man, a black woman, another black woman, and we were all trying to figure out how to escape.

Apparently, I had become immortal at some point, because they wanted to test whether I could survive. They told me, someone was going to take the test, and it was either going to be me first, or the little girl. I didn’t want to reveal myself, much less actually die, because I wasn’t completely sure of my immortality. But I didn’t want that little girl going through it either.

The test was made out of the reservoir. A giant pool of water, with a sharp, dangerous fan moving it through tunnels. In the pool, they’d put electric eel-like jellyfish, and my test was to swim around, gathering these things that looked like the floating seeds in Avatar, And if I gathered them all without dying, I didn’t have to go through the blades to the next area.

I didn’t make it. I woke up before I had to go through the blades, but I didn’t make it, and the little girl didn’t cry for me. I don’t blame her. It would have been nice, though.  I’m thinking of turning this into a short story, maybe. But then, I say that about all my dreams, don’t I?

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New Years Resolution BlogHop 2015

So, I missed my chance to update for Christmas, and I thought that was a damn shame. So! Instead, I’m  going to be writing up my new years resolutions for you guys! Because I plan on turning 2015 into something AMAZING. <3

Oh, and for those of you who are curious, I had a fantastic christmas! I got a heater, and new knives for my kitchen, and tupperware. And yes, I realize I sound like a horribly old adult for thinking these are amazing gifts, but they really are! ALSO, in a move that absolutely astounded me, my friend Chris Votey gave me a special copy of his book, Terran Psychosis with a special dedication to me inside, and I just about sobbed my heart out. It meant so much to me what he said in there. I won’t share it, because it was private between two friends, but let’s just say, I’ve never felt so loved.

So! Here I go, setting goals for 2015.

Health:

  1. Eat two meals a day, every day. NO FORGETTING
  2. Wash face every day.
  3. Take a hot, relaxing bath, once a week.

Wealth:

  1. Save back $50 or more from EVERY CHECK. No exceptions.
  2. Eat out only ONCE a check. Yes, that includes little meals that only cost $10.
  3. Read/listen to an hour long of personal finance information each day.

Growth:

  1. Publish a book on Amazon by June.
  2. Publish a blog post every week.
  3. Write every day.
  4. Work on Panic-Attack-Helpful-Things
  5. Start a Garden Outside

So, these are my goals for the year 2015! Join me this year in checking these off the list, and I challenge you to post your own New Years Resolutions on your goal! Make them as extensive or as short as you can! Show me your resolve, and your power! I can’t wait to read them, and cheer along with you as we make these goals come true! Consider this the start of a New Years Resolution Bloghop! Post the link to your own post in the comments below, and as I see them, I’ll add your link to the Links on this page! <3

BlogHop Participators:
Write Accountable

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A day in the life of a saleswoman

As my schedule is varied and odd, I find my sleep schedule to be rather moot at this point. So while I sit awake at 1:14 am, I find myself contemplating my life choices. So therefore, I thought I would go through a day as myself. Perhaps this will help show some revelation or appearify some solution to my odd malaise.

Sleep has always been an odd thing for me. I remember when I was a young teen, I would go to bed, and lay there for hours on end, ‘elven dreaming’. I would later recognise this as a form of dissociation, but to me, it was simply a way of living a life inside my mind. Like reading a good fanfiction or reading a story I’d written myself, I became someone else in my mind, and that person lived a whole different life. Often, in the presence of my favorite characters, and in lives that I envied. It was often this that lulled me to sleep. Now, I don’t have this ability, and often I find myself sleepless.

When I wake up, it is usually at the start of what I call my “Get Ready Hour”. This is the hour I give myself before I have to leave my apartment in order to get ready for work. I don’t know when I started giving myself an hour, but I think it was perhaps in middle or high school. Every other day, I shower in the morning. When I shower, I brush my teeth before hand, and shave in the shower. I was my face on days like this, usually. Sometimes, I forget.  After my shower, I get dressed in clothes I prepared before my shower.

My work calls for me to be well dressed. My favorite outfit currently is a pencil skirt made of thick material, tights in a cable pattern, and a nice blouse. I usually put either a cardigan or a suit jacket over that. Jewelry goes on next, after I brush my wet hair into shape. I don’t do my makeup at home. I tend to think of this as a waste of time. After all, I have such a long commute.

Then, I check my computer. I usually end up replying to anyone who is on Skype, and to my roleplays. Then, I watch youtube videos, or surf tumblr. If I feel particularly self-defeating, I check the views on my site. Lately, I’ve been feeling as if I am horrible for not posting more, since there are people waiting patiently for new posts. I make promises to myself to post more. It doesn’t really work much, but I try.

When it hits the end of the “Get Ready Hour”, I put on my scarf and coat and set my headphones in my phone. I turn on an audiobook, via the OverDrive App, and start my commute. I get my bike out of the shed, the blue one with it’s little baskets on either side of the back wheel, and I bicycle the five blocks to the bus stop. Usually, I arrive just five or ten minutes before the bus I need. Sometimes, I am late, and have to wait twenty minutes for the next bus.

While I wait for my bus to arrive, I usually have time to curl my eyelashes, and apply mascara and eye liner. The audiobook I’ve chosen continues to play in the background. Once I see the bus coming down the block, I put away the makeup and set my purse on the ground. Putting my bike onto the bike rack of the bus, I then take my purse back, and get onto the bus. I have an old badge from an old job where they still provide free bus-passes via your badge for employees, so… I must admit I am stealing free bus rides every day to and from work.

On the bus ride to work, I usually finish my makeup, and then switch to music instead of the audiobook. I either surf the internet on my phone, or take one of the books I keep in my purse out and read them. I usually get through half a chapter. Maybe. Once the bus ride is over, I get off and bike around the mall-building to the bike-rack. Locking up my bike, I go inside, and wait around the time before my shift.

Work is difficult. Especially when I rarely seem to understand what I’m supposed to be doing at any time. I have a few routines I go through, which help a little. I clean the glass at the counters. I greet customers, and offer to show them something like our one carat diamond rings, or our Vera Wang collection. I try to talk them into buying something, and most of the time I succeed! During lull times, I talk with my coworkers, or I clean jewelry. I check in repairs and call guests. I straighten the jewels in their cases, or I try jewelry on, and dream.

Recently, I’ve found myself feeling jealous of the women who come into my jewelry store. Their perfect nails. Their perfect hair. Their perfect families, and husbands, who buy them things that I sell. I wonder if I will ever find something like that for myself. If I even want something like that for myself. Do I want a husband, who will work hard and allow me these jewels? Do I want to earn the jewels myself? Do I want what those women have, or do I just think so because I see it from the outside?

These are thoughts I have on bad days. On good days, I think about how much I’ve earned by selling them. One percent of my sales is my commission, and that, along with my hourly, makes for decent paychecks. I usually get a half hour paid lunch, although I always feel guilty for taking it. Me, my boss and one other full timer are the only ones who take lunches. The third full timer takes fifteen minute smoke breaks instead, and the part timers don’t take any breaks at all. You see why I feel guilty?

I don’t really ever make myself lunch. I started doing that for a while, and then… It became difficult. I couldn’t make myself get up early to make them, and making them the night before meant thinking about work the next day, and I just… I don’t know, it feels like something dangerous to do. Like if I think about that, it’ll make it come sooner. So I tend to forget breakfast. Lunch comes in the form of a cheap pizza meal at the mall food court. The girls know my order by heart now. I try to compliment them often. In fact, they know me so well they’re willing to loan me lunches on credit, if I need it. That’s a bit dangerous.

After work, I have two routines. If it’s after a night shift, and I’ve closed up, I bicycle home. It’s a four and a half mile bicycle ride in the cold, but I listen to an audiobook on the way home, and I get to see the city lights, which isn’t half bad. Plus most of it is downhill. If it’s an opening shift, and I get off before the buses stop running, I usually take one of them home. I sometimes stop and have dinner on the way home, at olive garden, or the rio grande, or some other restaurant around town on my way home. The food is good, but I always feel guilty about spending the money, because I know I should cook at home, and I know I should save money.

When I get home, I turn on my computer, and immediately continue what I was doing when I left. Watching youtube videos. Playing on Tumblr. Checking my stats. I don’t usually eat until I’m so hungry that I’ve passed into nausea. Then, I find the simplest meal I can make, and eat it. Sometimes, I write. Some nights I take a bath, or make a masque for my face, so that hopefully, I won’t lose much of my beauty. Sometimes I bake. But I haven’t recently.

I check a website called Sleepyti.me in order to find out when I should go to sleep to wake up on time. Until that time, I play on the internet. And then, I go to sleep. Sometimes, I masturbate. And then, I get up in the morning to do it all again. A day in the life of a saleswoman. My life is boring, I think. Although to be honest… I do love my life. I hate it but I love it at the same time.

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Halloween Blog Hop

For my Halloween post, I invite you to enjoy this post. I found it tucked away in a corner of my high-school binder. I don’t recognize the writing as any of my friend’s, and it certainly isn’t mine, so I thought perhaps I could share it. If you remember writing something like this, please, send me a message. I’d love to give you credit.

*~*~*~*~*~*

It started with a smell. A noxious, poignant stench that you could almost taste on the edge of your tongue. Whenever one walked by the old oaken door to the basement, the bog-like odor would rise up and greet you anew like an old friend. I hated that smell. Always had, since we first bought the house when I was five. I remember whining to my mother about how it would stick to my clothes. She didn’t even turn from her computer when she told me not to go near the door then.

I’ve lived with the stench for years, so much so that I almost forgot it even existed. The only one I’ve seen go down there is Dad in his old coveralls splattered with paint the same color as the garage walls. The sounds of hammers and breaking rock come up after him, and I never had the courage to ask him how he could stand the smell. It followed him out of the basement sometimes, as obnoxious as the tan-orange of the paint.

I never was home alone, not really. When my mother and father went out of town, they always had my uncle or my aunts babysit me, even into my early teens. The aunts never complained about the smell. My uncle did, though. All the time, he bellyached about it, and would often take me out to dinner because he said he couldn’t stand the stench a second longer. My aunts hovered around the basement door, whispering to each other. But whenever I would come in, they would hush and ask if my homework was done, in that creepy way twins do.

Around when I turned fifteen, the smell seemed to get worse. Nauseating to the point that I developed a habit of opening windows every time I passed through a room. When asked about staying with my uncle and his wife, my mother, again not looking up from her swagbucks and online wordpuzzles, told me to bear with it for just a bit longer. Before I knew it, Dad had torn her away from her computer, and bundled her into the car, and with a note to me on the counter when I got home, they went on a ‘vacation’.

I was home alone for the first time. They’d even left me a key on the counter, next to the fifty dollars for food over the weekend. The first thing I did was open all of the windows, which only relieved the smell a little. However, it made for odd sounds. The curtains rustling in rooms I wasn’t in. The soft hush of breezes through the leaves outside, almost like someone whispering things. I started to note things a little more. Windows that I opened would sometimes slide down to half closed just as I left the room. It was odd, but I could only assume they were loose in their moorings. Maybe Dad could fix them when he got home and I let him know.

The second day of their trip, I went down into the kitchen to get some milk. The old greyish wood of the basement door was misplaced. The basement door, which was closed constantly, unless my father’s hand was on the handle, was open. Just an inch. Just barely enough to see the black behind it, the yawning space which lead to what I assumed were stairs. The stench was warmer now, thicker, like something had rolled in it, and was now heaving itself under my nose. I covered my mouth, abandoning the idea of milk, and shoved the door closed, with a heavy thud.

I tried not to think about it. I watched movies. I played videogames. I played mmos with my friends from school. I avoided going down to the kitchen by ordering pizza, and having it delivered up the stairs. Pizza deliverers are surprisingly tacit when offered a large tip. It was nice not having to get out of bed for food. The day slowly turned into night, and I only paused my game to go to the bathroom.

One such unpausing revealed more of the strange sussurus that I had thought was the wind in the leaves. But I could clearly see the old maple tree outside, and the leaves were still in the night air. The sound ebbed and flowed like the ocean that I had once had the fortune of feeling on my skin, cold and salty and fresh.  It was such an odd thing that I didn’t notice the scent from the kitchen had wafted up into my bedroom.

I followed the sound, oddly curious, temptation rising in me. The soft whisper of it touched my ears and made my skin prickle with goosebumps. I shivered, rubbing at the skin on my arms, as my chucks maneuvred the carpet-covered stairs. I followed it, as it got louder, and louder, into the kitchen. The door the basement was open again, the bright red of the pizza-warmer laying just in front of it. Wider this time, a large yawning foot of black so deep and dark that it looked like it was moving. An illusion, my eyes screamed, and I rubbed at them, to try and clear it. But closing my eyes only made the sound that much louder.

Whispers, yes, but not of something against something, or of wind through leaves, oh no. These were words. Words in a language I didn’t understand, couldn’t understand. It sounded almost as if whoever was speaking had three voices, no, twelve, no, one. I couldn’t make it out. I knew if I went closer to the stairs, just a touch, just a step, I could make out what it was saying.

Before I knew it, that one step had turned into two, five, twelve. The darkness rose up around me, and I couldn’t see. It moved, not illusion not smoke, but real and heavy and black and dark. Whispy tendrils of blackness felt like the touch of ice across my cheeks, my hands, the backs of my calves. Come, it said, come down, and see us, and know us, and when had I begun to learn the language that this spoke?

I stumbled, the end of the stairs a surprise. I didn’t feel cement beneath my feet. It was unsteady, crumbling like some kind of sand, or maybe dirt. My chucks shifted and something hissed. I stopped, stock still. Something different was down here. There was no smell, there was no sight, there was nothing but darkness and the whispers. Whispers asking me to stay, to love, to be loved, whispers that wanted me to just say I would stay, oh please.

My breath echoed in this place. My heart raced. I tried to think. I tried to answer. My lips seemed frozen. I couldn’t tell if my eyes were open or closed. Time felt like a twisted ribbon. Something was wrong. I could see something, something moving. It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense. Weightless. Broken. Put back together. Dashed on rocks so sharp they were knives now. I screamed and rocks flew from my lips like spittle.

Time passed.

Time.

I.

I woke up.

The smell… The smell was gone. I couldn’t smell anything. There was dirt under me. Dirt with small chunks of rubble like cement. The smell of dirt was unwelcome and heavy. I didn’t understand. Where had the scent gone? The marker coming from the basement, where had it gone? I opened my eyes.

A hole before me, filled with mannequins. No. Not mannequins. People. Hands, and arms, and heads, and feet. People, chopped up and decomposing, and some looked as if they had been for years decomposing. But what caught me… was the smell.

The scent… It smelled so good.

Like nothing I could name. Warm, and thick, and heady, and absolutely amazing. It reminded of me of the darkness like broken rocks on a shoreline where no stars shone. When my dad came home, I asked him if he could smell it. He nodded, and asked if I’d like to help him. The smell, the scent of that death, that decay, so sweet and warm and welcome, prompted me to agree.

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Asexual Awareness Week

For those of you who may not know, I am asexual. What this means, in short, is that I do not, and have not, ever enjoyed sex. I can feel pleasure, physically, I can even participate in such a way that it is pleasant. However, Sex is always uncomfortable. It’s roughly, to me, what doing the dishes might be to you, or perhaps cleaning out a toilet. It has to be done, but only when necessary.

According to the Asexual Visibility and Education Network (AVEN for short), an Asexual individual is someone who does not experience sexual attraction. For the laymen in the audience, this is where you have to separate Sexuality from Romantic-orientation. They are two different things. It is entirely possible to feel Romantic attraction to someone, while simultaneously feeling no sexual attraction whatsoever. When the reverse happens, that’s usually when you find someone hot, but completely un-dateable.

There is an entire spectrum of Asexuality, ranging from Sex-repulsed, to gray-asexual, to Sex-positive individuals. The common ground here is this: A lack of sexual attraction. This does not mean that an asexy individual doesn’t have a libido. It is entirely possible that an ace individual will choose to masturbate frequently, or only once a month, or never! There is the possibility that an asexy person will choose to have sex as many times as their partner wants to, without hesitation, because they enjoy the closeness. For others, they might not be able to tolerate sexual contact at all, from the gentle brush of fingers down one’s arm to the touch of lips to lips. And then, there are some who even enjoy sexual contact!

For me, my asexual journey has been one of much discovery. When I was young, my mother was a very sexual individual. She had complete control of her sexuality, and was never ashamed of it, that I knew of. Not only that, but she made sure I knew the birds and the bees pretty early. I actually can’t remember when I got the ‘Talk’ so to speak, I just… always felt like I knew it. I feel my mother was amazing in that regard.

During my teen-hood, however, I had several fitful stops and starts with normal teen romances. My very first boyfriend I had for a week, and any time he touched me, I felt nauseous. Not nervous, nauseous, as if I was going to throw up if his hands were on me for more than a mere moment. He left me for my best friend, who would hold hands with him when he wanted. That was fine with me. It was more a relief.

In high school, I dated a very nice young man, who took me to homecoming and to the corn maze before Halloween. He was always very respectful, and when I held his hand, I felt nervous, not sick. So I thought maybe it was all a fluke. But even when he hugged me, I couldn’t let it last for too long. I felt like if I did, something bad would happen. I didn’t want to go beyond holding hands, and spending time together happily. A week after he asked me for our first kiss, and I gave it to him, I broke up with him. I claimed that it was because  my family was moving, and while we were, it didn’t change the fact that, once again, I was relieved not to have to satisfy those needs for more kisses and things that I didn’t like.

Now that isn’t to say I wasn’t normal in other regards. I discovered masturbation, and engaged in it almost nightly. I enjoyed role-playing online with those anonymous people who would, and it was through that that I discovered that I enjoy erotic literature. So I felt that perhaps, there was something wrong with me, because I didn’t want to actually engage in those acts with PEOPLE. I told myself that I was simply trying not to follow in my mother’s footsteps as a teen mom. That it was fear, and not something else.

When I was nineteen, I had my longest lasting relationship. Almost a full year, and it was an unhealthy thing. He was always frustrated, and I didn’t know what to do. I sought help from relationship sites, my friends, everyone. They all said the same thing. In a relationship, Love equals Sex. He thought I didn’t love him because I wouldn’t have sex with him. So, I did. To prove I loved him, I had sex with him, and while it wasn’t horrible, it was uncomfortable, and I was, again, glad that it was over. It didn’t happen again, luckily, because he dumped me a week or so afterwards.

I went back to thinking that perhaps something was wrong with me, and decided that I was better off without boys. Without relationships in general. But I always came back to loneliness, and needing that romantic relationship. I’ve always wanted a partner, to help me through the rough, to keep me steady and stable. I’ve always wanted the kind of marriages that last through decades. But I couldn’t seem to hold a relationship for more than a few months. One particular man, I even slept with every week, because I thought he would stay if I did, and it was no worse than any other chore, really. At least holding his hand didn’t make me feel sick again.

Here, I feel, I should clarify a few things. This sort of contact, holding hands, hugging, leaning against someone, falling asleep near someone, are triggers for this feeling of wrongness only when in a relationship context. I have never had an issue laying on, hugging on, cuddling with, or in general being touchy with my friends, and those that I am close to. It is only when there is this added romantic portion that I find myself sickened. It is that expectation of sex that taints the actions for me.

But then, after years of complaining and trying to explain to my best friends, a married couple who took me in in the later part of my teenager-hood, it finally came to a head. The husband, he’d watched a documentary on Asexuality, and while watching it, had noticed that a lot of what the main person in the documentary had spoken about experiencing, I had mentioned experiencing as well. So, he asked me to watch it too.

It was like, a revelation. I felt such an immense relief that I wasn’t the only one. That there were others like me, and WE WERE NOT BROKEN. There wasn’t something wrong with me that couldn’t be explained. I was just Asexual. That’s all there was to it! But of course, being who I am, I had to do research first, to find out if that was true, or not. So I found AVEN, and read through forum after forum. I gathered the courage and went on the chat-room, and talked to those around me, and it was like coming home.

Now, that isn’t saying that my troubles were over, upon discovering this. Because I’d also discovered the section of asexuals who ‘compromise’. What compromising means, in this instance, is dating an allosexual individual, or someone capable of sexual attraction, and having sex with, or performing sexual actions with them in order to keep the relationship healthy for both parties. I thought that I could handle this.

I fell into a relationship quickly, with a boy who said he thought he was asexual as well. However, as our relationship grew, it turned out he was demisexual, or rather, a person who only experiences sexual attraction and urges after an emotional connection is established. He asked me to compromise, and I agreed to try. But I just… After a while, it grew too stressful, too much, and I found myself in that situation where I felt sick when he touched me again. So, I broke up with him.

This last relationship has helped me realize that I am sexually-repulsed. Which means sex, and anything related to sex, is something that I cannot do. I am not broken, it’s simply the way I am. A homosexual won’t experience sexual feelings for a heterogendered individual. I can’t have sexual contact. It’s simple. And while I am still an avid masturbator and enjoyer of sex comics and pornographic fanfiction, this means I will never enjoy sex with another person. And that’s alright.

As a promise to myself, and a reminder to never compromise again, I wear the black ring on my left middle finger. This tradition started in 2005, when AVEN user Mega Mitosis posted this on the boards:

You know, a friend of mine wears a ring on her left middle finger. Her explanation being that: your right middle means “currently single”, the right ring means “currently taken” and since the left ring means “taken/married” in a permanent sense, then the next logical conclusion would be that left middle means “permanently single”.

And while I might not be permanently single, I do fully intend never to allow myself to fall into a situation where I feel sickened just by the touch of someone again. I am in control of my sexuality, just as my mother was, and while I am a different sexuality than she, I am no less important. So please, if you know someone you think might be asexual, don’t tell them there is something wrong with them. Don’t ask if they’ve gone to see a therapist. Instead, show them this article, and let them find out for themselves what they are or may be. And if you think that you are, in fact, asexual as well? Welcome to the club, we have cake.

Especially chocolate lava cake. Yum.

By the by, the colors there are the Asexual Flag. Pretty cool, huh?

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Guest Blog – Let’s Talk about Karma with a Kitchen Witch!

The Second in my series of guest posts for Mari Well’s Blog is up! This time, we’re talking all about Karma!

In this post, I explain what Karma and the Three Fold Law are all about, as well as provide you with a trio of interesting spells that anyone can do, even on a budget! No dancing around a bonfire naked required, ladies and gents! Not only do you get to try out Kitchen Witchery for the first time, you can also learn a nifty little blessing to help those you love!

Again, standard disclaimer, ladies and gents. I am not harry potter. These are my real beliefs, and how I live my life. So please, be respectful. Thank you.

So read and enjoy!

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Guest Post – A Chat With A Kitchen Witch

For those of you who do not know, I’ve been invited to do a series of guest posts over on Mari Well’s Blog in commemoration of Halloween! As every good Halloween’r knows, Halloween starts LONG before the 31rst of October. Pretty much the entire month is dedicated to orange and black scariness, and it’s one of my favorite months! Along with pumpkin spice EVERYTHING and the chance to change out my wardrobe for sweaters and scarves, it gives me the new opportunity, in this case, of writing about my beliefs!

Now, if you wish to remain ignorant about my beliefs, that’s absolutely your right. I do not wish to force my religion upon anyone, nor would I want them to force theirs upon me! So please be aware that I will tag all posts with references to my personal beliefs as Personal and Paganism. If you don’t wish to know, you can definately avoid these tags! Thank you so much, however, if you do decide to expand your personal bubble, and read these blogposts I’ll be sharing!

The First in the series is A Chat With A Kitchen Witch where I explain what it is to be a Kitchen Witch, and how you too can create magic in your everyday life! As always, feel free to leave questions there, or here, in the comments! I’d love to hear your opinion on my words!

The next post will be on Karma, and will include a few cute spells to try out!

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Weekly Writing Update – 10-18-14

 

 

 

 

 

Still working on NaNoWriMo planning, which, interestingly enough is gaining me some new viewers! Thanks so much, those of you who have just started watching this blog! I hope I inspire you with my journey, and I hope you don’t mind my whining occasionally! I’m trying to cut it out, I promise!

Also, I’m curious to see if anyone has any interest in me continuing the Breaking Down Nemesis series. I have sort of lost interest in reading the book, and I feel that perhaps I’ve just fallen out of love with the idea of writing a mystery novel. I think that perhaps I was looking more at writing a Suspense/Horror novel, than the typical Agatha Christie novel. …And I kinda need to return the book. So, let  me know in the notes if this is something you still look forward to!

 

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http://crochetedbuddies.com/product/B005065CRA/US/azonaccounts-20/page/2/ Word Counts:

First book of the Kurylian saga: 6,446 words

Kaimi Rowe Series: Seeker Born – Rough Draft – Restarted – Outline phase

Unnamed Scifi short story – Idea stage – Minor research done

http://sparkwebgroup.com/wp-json/oembed/1.0/embed Blog Posts

First Light

Books Read

Also none this week!

http://rnrorganisation.co.uk/?p=19522 Goals

Finish The Barefoot Executive by Carrie Wilkerson

Finish Writing Fiction by Gary Disher

Finish Reading Like A Writer by Francine Prose

Finish Little Red Book of Selling by Jeffrey Gitomer

Finish The Invisible Orientation by Julie Sondra Decker

Finish Third post for Mari Wells about Reincarnation

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Weekly Writing Update – 10-04-14

Alright, so, I did forget to post a WWU last week… Which, unfortunately, was mostly due to myself having a horrid nasty cold. And also, to me being a Forgetful Franny. To be honest, a lot has gone on, and none of it really worth recording. I’ve begun a sort of pre-NaNoWriMo bootcamp with my mentor Chris Votey, who is training me in how to write short stories! See, kids, it pays to pay attention in highschool when they teach you these things.

I also had a hard setback this last week, which is seriously affecting my ability to remain upbeat and focused. You can read about it in my Insecure Writer’s Support Group post listed below.

Word Counts:

First book of the Kurylian saga: 4,325 words

Kaimi Rowe Series: Seeker Born – Rough Draft – Restarted – Outline phase

Unnamed Scifi short story – Idea stage – Minor research done

cheap etodolac medication Blog Posts

Breaking Down Nemesis: Part Seven

October IWSG – A Hard Lesson

Books Read

The Frugal Duchess by Sharon Harvey Rosenberg

Women and Money by Suze Orman

Goals

Finish The Barefoot Executive by Carrie Wilkerson

Finish Writing Fiction by Gary Disher

Start The Invisible Orientation by Julie Sondra Decker

Write four blog posts this week

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