Sometimes you just have to sit back and watch. Observe, endure.

I haven’t been terribly creative in a while. Months that feel like years.

There was a lot going on when I set all of my art supplies to the side. People leaving my life, relationships being redefined, an ex stole a piece of my art, and then my dog died. So I crawled up inside of myself to hide.

But like a good little native Mid-Westerner, I found ways to guilt and shame myself weekly for not drawing, painting, or otherwise creating. My writing went from constant (even in my dreams!) to a full on drought. I was trying to harvest a field I hadn't watered in years decades.

That’s the thing — when you’re empty you have nothing to give. How can you conceive, carry, and give birth when you’re starved to death?

The shame and guilt trials weren’t working. So I decided to try something else. Love and forgiveness.

I have my usual daily rituals for my health, but I gave them more conscious attention. I touch my hand to my body and talk to it. To my heart, “it’s okay, I feel you beating hard right now but you’re safe and allowed to calm down.” To my abdomen, “you’re healing, you’re safe,” and the next day surprised to find my period finally start (hormone issues have been a lifelong challenge for me).

After five years living in an ambulance, doing the van life thing, I moved my ass out to the desert and into a tiny house. It’s light years away from my previous existence. It’s slow and quiet, largely devoid of in-person connection, but the few I have are much deeper and grounded. The people here mean it when they say things, they’re opinionated for reasons that go beyond whatever is social-media trending.

I didn’t realize how stressful van life was. Or really, my entire life until now. Sometimes you can’t tell how dark a room is until the sun comes out.

I stopped trying to draw, write, or paint. I read books that I felt pulled towards, and shelved the popular ones people told me, “you have to read!” I peeled and cut fresh ginger for tea until it burned the skin on my fingers. I bought a weighted blanket and Millie discovered the magic of midday naps curled up against my stomach.

I planted some fruit trees and passionflower vines on my property. Bought worm tea from a man down the street. Laid on the hard floor with noise cancelling headphones on, silently. Thought about the ways I’ve twisted myself up trying to be the right kind of thing.

Finally took care of my dying orchids, repotted them while saying nice words they should hear.

And one day, I took an hour to wash up two old front porch lights, put mirror film on the glass, and run solar LED lights inside. Hung them on my fence and waited for them to light up.

I finally created something, organically.

Baby steps, it took a few more weeks before I sat down with a plan. I wrote a book last year and left it sit. So I gave myself a date — 30 days to publish it.

Today, I just ordered the first physical print of that book. 🫢

I have some more breathing room. Yesterday, I finally drew something small and representative of myself.

It feels like I’m coming out of rehab. Slow and steady wins the race, be a turtle, be a turtle, be a turtle — goddamn it!

That’s the thing about being an artist, life still happens through it. You still have bills to pay and relationships to navigate. In sickness and in health, and people you know might die. You still have to find ways to fill up your cup.

What’s the one small, ‘organic’ thing you’ve done lately that felt like a win? Tell me in the comments. I’m leaning into the turtle life—tell me I’m not alone.

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In March 2020, I threw a few bags in my car and drove south from Washington state in search of the sun. No destination. No plan. Just a desperate need for Vitamin D.

By the time I reached southern California, the first pandemic lockdown hit.

Two years earlier, I had gone on the Carnivore diet. Decades of food intolerances and unexplained health issues had forced my hand. It was a Hail Mary to slow down whatever the hell was happening to my body. Miraculously, eating only meat worked.

But suddenly, I was sleeping in my car. The lockdown meant I only had access to grocery stores. No kitchen. No grill. No way to cook.

It only took a few days before I was desperate enough to try eating raw meat.

I scanned the meat section and committed to raw ground beef. Not just a steak, but the pre-formed patties. The stuff that has been handled the most.

Cue the readers agonizing over, “But you’re supposed to cook them well done!” > I sat in my front seat with the open package on the dash. A pathetic plastic fork at the ready. I imagined I might die. The great beef scare of the 90s flashed through my mind. I decided I better record this for evidence, or at least a pre-emptive apology to my family.

The first bite… wasn’t bad.

It wasn’t spectacular, but it lacked actual flavor. It was mostly a texture thing.

And then a funny thing happened. I didn’t die.

In fact, the next day, I felt great. Better than usual. I continued the habit for two weeks until restrictions lifted. But that feeling stuck with me. A year later, I decided to give it another try.

From that point on, I ate raw meat exclusively for two years.

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The Raw Meats I Actually Ate

When I talk about eating raw meat, some people are like, “Oh yeah! I used to take a bite of raw ground beef when I was a kid.” Beef and steak tartare are actual menu items at high-end restaurants. Even fish—who hasn’t tried or at least heard of sushi? It’s commonplace.

But I went further. I ate raw chicken, pork, eggs, dairy, and organ meats.

There was a period I got interested in “High Meat” and made some with raw liver. Honestly? Not bad. It had a funky cheese flavor profile. 8/10, would do it again.

Where Did I Buy It? Everywhere.

Ask anyone, and they’ll say raw ground meats are only safe if you grind them yourself or buy from a trusted butcher.

I ate raw meat from everywhere. Indiscriminately.

High-end grocery chains like Whole Foods and Sprouts are great, sure. But I like to thrift, and I’m not a fan of paying $10/lb for ground beef or $30/lb for a raw ribeye steak. Fuck that.

I’ve eaten raw meat from Wal-Mart, Grocery Outlet, and Aldi. I was in an airport terminal once and convinced the cook at a burger joint to slip me four raw burger patties during a layover.

There was also a road trip from California to Louisiana (a long story I might share one day) where I discovered Buc-ee’s travel centers sell raw cuts of meat. The raw ribeye steak I bought from them was so good, I ate it right off the hood of my truck.

One of my favorites was raw ground pork breakfast patties with no junk fillers. So fatty, so delicious. Most mornings, I would eat several raw egg yolks.

I even experimented with a drink of raw kefir, raw egg yolks, and raw liver. While it won’t become a viral TikTok trend, it really wasn’t bad.

What I Discovered

Obviously, I didn’t die. But the physical changes were undeniable:

• Digestion optimized overnight: I didn’t even realize my digestion needed improving until I hit this new echelon.

• Deeply grounded: Eating made me feel relaxed and calm. It felt like my soul was being hugged.

• A literal glow: My complexion improved drastically. My hair and nails grew fast and thick.

• Elite sleep: I didn’t always sleep more hours, but I always woke up feeling profoundly well-rested.

• Untouchable gym performance: This was the peak of my fitness routine (strength training, HIIT, kickboxing). I could work out for hours without fatigue. I hit PRs daily. I put on muscle fast. No post-workout soreness, ever.

• Laser focus: My mental stamina was incredible. I handled context switching effortlessly without brain fog.

• A bulletproof mood: Always on, always happy, always stress-free.

Something curious also happened: my obsession with food disappeared. Eating became a highly functional part of my day instead of a primary pleasure source. Raw meat absolutely satiated my appetite much faster than cooked meat—which makes biological sense, as you aren’t cooking out heat-sensitive nutrients (like Vitamin C and B vitamins) or enzymes.

But What About Parasites?!

I find it fascinating that we agonize over parasites in meat, but not produce—which is a far more likely exposure source. But whatever.

Parasites are a fact of life. We are biological creatures; we will be exposed to them. In my non-professional opinion, you should be consistently managing your parasite load to take care of your health regardless of your diet.

That said, I had multiple gold-standard parasite tests done during my two years of eating raw meat. I never once flagged for having a measurable parasite load.

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And Food Poisoning?!

I went down a massive rabbit hole a few years ago researching the statistics around foodborne illness, human biology, and how bacteria actually survive. (I’ll republish that paper here soon).

Here is the short version: our stomach acid pH is right up there with animals classified as scavengers. It is our first line of defense and quite an inhospitable environment for opportunistic bacteria.

However, modern diet and lifestyle habits actively sabotage this system.

All plants change your stomach acidity, creating the ideal environment for bacteria to thrive. Furthermore, grazing all day or drinking fluids while food is still digesting dilutes your stomach acid. There is a reason indigestion is an epidemic in modern society.

If you are going to eat raw meat, ensuring your body operates as it should is paramount. Here are the strict rules I followed in the beginning:

• No liquids during or after meals until I was done digesting.

• No grazing.

• No mixing raw meat with cooked meat (cooked meat lacks the enzymes to naturally break down).

• No mixing raw meat with plants. If it grew out of the ground or fell off a tree, I didn’t eat it alongside raw meat.

• Supplemented Betaine HCl with meals to artificially increase stomach acidity.

Over time, I found I didn’t need the Betaine HCl anymore (your body will definitely let you know if your stomach acidity is already high enough). Today, I’m much more relaxed about mixing raw and cooked meats or adding small amounts of plant foods, as I currently follow an animal-based diet rather than strict Carnivore.

The Plot Twist: Why I Stopped

I think I would have continued eating raw meat forever.

Except, I ended up with severe Mercury Poisoning

A brutal side effect of heavy metal poisoning, for me, is a complete loss of appetite. Because raw meat isn’t as immediately palatable as cooked meat—and because it triggers satiety so quickly—I simply couldn’t eat enough food to sustain myself.

Having zero appetite, I had to go into survival mode. I ate whatever I could manage to keep down just to avoid starving to death. Yes, it was quite literally that serious.

My health has improved immensely since then, and I do eat raw meat often and consistently again. It’s not my exclusive diet right now, but I look forward to the day when it will be.

If you want perfectly curated, sterile health advice, this isn’t the place for you. But if you want the raw truth about navigating chronic illness, creativity, and the bizarre experiments that kept me alive, hit subscribe. I am just getting started.

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I’m terribly busy.

So busy I don’t have time to socialize. To grab a bite to eat. To shoot the shit or take an extra phone call.

I’m terribly busy, focusing absolutely all of my energy on me.

This is new territory.

I had a slow morning, making a cup of tea. Saying, “Good morning, Millie!” with hugs and snuggles, the whole lot. It’s our morning ritual. I checked a few work things, then headed out for a neighborhood walk. Getting some sun in our eyes to start the cortisol countdown clock.

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I have work commitments I show up for, but everything else is me, me, me.

I’m halfway through painting the deck. I covered my skylights yesterday to keep the house cool in the summer desert heat. I have a coat of paint I’m planning to put on the side of the house in the next few days. I checked on the new fruit trees I’ve planted in the yard and gave them some worm tea. (I didn’t realize how mad over it Millie would be!)

Sometimes I think, “I should post an update,” or share a few extra words. My friend from the coast texts every few days: “When are you going to let me take you out to dinner? I got a new car, I’ll meet or come get you. Name the place, anywhere, my treat.”

But I started a new art project yesterday instead. Cleaned it up, ready for a coat of paint. On top of learning how to make a mirror using silver leaf.

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It’s a very strange thing. Some moments I feel guilty. “I should do XYZ for this person.” But I don’t, and after a little while, I forget it. I let the guilt float away, and replace it with my own needs again.

When your entire existence has always been making sure other people are happy first—being the endless entertainment—quitting the show can induce some panic.

But I pushed through it. I rearranged my bedroom and made myself space for a private yoga studio. Hung a few more plants. Hung Jobi’s portrait up in a more focal place. I no longer take my phone with me to the bathroom, or on walks.

The orchid I repotted is finally sprouting a new leg. For the first time, Mr. Bones says, “Yes, I’m happy!”

A few weeks ago, I said out loud:

"No, I want to live alone. I want my alone time, my me time. I need to be able to hear myself think and rhyme. I’ve spent forty years giving my time and energy to people who chose to do nothing productive with it, just waste mine. The next forty is for my own climb."

The wrong people will leave when you stop bleeding for them all the time. Not to worry, it all works out fine.

I spent a solid hiatus from creating this past season. It’ll come to an end soon enough; I feel myself yearning again. But I realized my hesitation came from the wrong motivations. I kept trying to approach art from the perspective of “for other people’s hearts,” when it’s only my own that matters.

I think I might be ready to start, again.

I watch lizards crawl from hiding spots, doing pushups on warm, sun-baked rocks.
Reach for an extension cord hiding a young rattlesnake.
Watch a wild rabbit across the yard, wide awake.

Pleasantly warm, so I sit out in the air all day.
Some cells still fight for a busier life, the old ways.
But am I not living like a millionaire, finally free?
All of my time belongs to me.
How many people would wish for the same, jealously?

What is one thing you’ve had to put down or step away from in order to finally focus on yourself? Let me know in the comments.

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Madness is a house I no longer wish to live in.
The only people who understand it, have lived it.

I started chelating heavy metals again, at the start of the year. It’s been more than a year since my last failed attempts. What feels like a few lifetimes has passed since.

Who knew eating a few steaks of swordfish could turn into this?

To be fair, it was more than a few. But still, less than what’s advertised safe.

The Poisonous Plan

Thought I was really doing something great, something grand and healthy. At this point, I’m convinced all of the health foods are nothing but poisonous plans.

The greatest seafood is full of mercury. White rice has less arsenic and cadmium than brown, but you’re not supposed to eat the white foods right?! No white rice, no white flour. Oh, the flour... sprayed with glyphosate to dry it before being ground up and put in a bag, preserved with bromide. Toxins sprayed on all the produce. Heavy metals in the dried herbs and spices. Dairy is cooked until it’s dead, sometimes even irradiated because dead wasn’t dead enough.

Every one of these things has a documented white paper. It’s not imagined or made up, but we’d rather buy a story told by an advertiser than believe the real stuff.

Humans are such contrary creatures.

Myself included. My madness being no preclusion.

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The In-Between

I’ve been more sick than this. I’m in the space where hope is once-again allowed to exist, but full escape not yet confirmed by fate.

Sometimes it was easier being closer to death. To have left behind all attachments and saying, “fuck it, take all the risks.”

My adrenal glands have become tender baby oysters, too easily mashed by life’s basic standards.

The Math of Eviction

Chelation goes something like this:

Pick a Friday, ideally, to start. Or late Thursday night. Because if you start on a Thursday you’re likely to have two bad work-days mentally instead of just one.

Every 3 hours, take a dose of alpha-lipoic acid (ALA). Every 6 hours, take a dose of DMPS with your ALA. Round the clock, through the night.

Repeat this process for at least 63 hours. I usually do 24 rounds, which turns out to be 72 hours, but I guess I could try a shorter one.

Wait at least 3 full days before doing it again.

That’s the theory anyways. For now, I’m only chelating every 2 weeks. My adrenals can’t handle more than that, it seems.

And I was doing so well. I chelated last weekend, and oddly enough felt really swell.

So well, in fact, that I spent 3 days in the sauna back to back a few days after. I forgot I need to hold myself back when I’m feeling better. Need to baby myself still, even in those few moments I get a glimmer of my old self.

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Remembering Her

My neighbor lady, quite a bit older, is suffering some chronic health issues too. She said to me one day, “Oh! You remember the old you, before you got sick?!”

Yes, yes I do! The me that had endless energy. Who could go days without sleep and still fully operate. The one who’d hussle and grind, two full time jobs and still time to workout, travel, go dancing, attend family functions, and hold down a hobby on the side.

The one who made an impression at the gym because I’d out work everyone, 6 and 7 days a week.

Since then, I’ve lost all my muscling. One or two sets of anything light-weight, once a week leaves me needing one or two week’s full recovery. I had to give up anything resembling cardio completely.

I make no plans, not even a day in advance. I probably won’t be physically up for it, and the stress of having to cancel is even more tiring.

But I remember her. The version who could talk with friends for hours, laughing and joking and going on about dumb shit. The person so full of life, even in the moments when life was dragging her by it.

I hope my neighbor can remember the old version of herself soon too, before it’s entirely too late.

Vacating the House

I know these feelings I’m feeling won’t last. My adrenals will stop bleeding adrenaline to prop up my jacked up cortisol. The ruminations and obsessive thinking will once again die down.

I’m grateful for just how far I’ve come. I never imagined I’d be so well as to clearly recognize my misplacement.

I’ll keep saying it until I fully vacate it: madness is a house I no longer wish to live in.

I spent an hour smelling perfumes earlier this week, and didn't end up sick.

So many of them are awful, it's trial and error with this kind of thing. A few remotely decent, minimal chemicals underlaid.

Makes me glad I didn't throw away my expensive bottle of RiRi. Makes me glad at how far I've come, how much I've healed MCS (multiple chemical sensitivity).

It's a damn good day.

Moved my mattress, moved some shelves. Moved in a new dresser without drawers.

Have a new space for stretching, yoga, meditacíon.

Moved some patio furniture. A day later moved it some more.

Sitting out watching the hills and trees and stars much more.

The warm weather is good, I have painting to do.

Speaking of, moved a few paintings, too.

My bestie says, "let's call you Tinkerbell," and it's all I hear now thanks to my internal dialogue.

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Need to give my car a soapy rinse.

Sauna every day, 25 minutes! 167F feels like nothing, super fun wow easy.

Need to shave lil Millie (my dog, no not my kitty) so she stops panting.

She really likes chewing up my pens for some reason.

It's already the hot season. I keep a tub full of cold water ready with Epsom salts.

Been sleeping with an eye mask on, man it feels good to sleep easy.

Apple pie in the fridge, fork at the ready.

Chamomile tea and marshmallow root in my tummy.

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I can’t remember the last time I peeled an orange, not clearly. I can find fragments of memories related to orange-peeling. But not the actual event itself.

I never ate a lot of oranges, but I’ve almost always owned an orange peeler.

Except now. I peeled it the long way.

I bought a Clementine tree the other day. Spent $200 on 4 fruit trees and a passionflower vine. The first tree was a guava being sold by a nice European woman who invited me to stay after and have a glass of water.

My intention after was only to buy a passionflower vine, but I unknowingly walked into a residential professional nursery. She had every kind of plant you could imagine, including a few illegally imported from Japan. “Here, try a sample,” and she had every ripe fruit on display. I tried a Loquat for the first time, almost bought one but I’d already committed to the 3 unplanned trees.

I must have had doe eyes.

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“Can dogs eat oranges,” I check with Google before offering Millie a slice.

She’s not impressed. It’s organic but still missing something I can’t quite name from a past life. Technically, I’m not supposed to eat citrus. It’s become something of a personal crime. Probably reason enough I don’t own an orange peeler, but if I own a Clementine it’s time get one.

I went to a Seventh-Day Adventist school as a kid. Two classrooms, all the grades mixed, like some kind of Little Home on the Prairie. Every year, someone in the church would start taking orders for citrus. Get in line.

Naval oranges, blood oranges, clementines, grapefruits, lemons, limes. Sold by the box. Shipped straight from Florida to our little town in Wisconsin.

The fruit would arrive in the most perfect condition. Ripe and ready to eat. I don’t think I’ve ever had an orange taste better than that in my life.

Citrus is a histamine liberator. You might hear histamine and think anti-histamine, and think seasonal allergies. You’re on the right track. There are histamines in food, and our body produces histamines too. Histamine liberators, as foods, trigger your body to release more histamine.

I have a problem with histamine. I can’t get rid of it fast enough, and it causes all kinds of things like post nasal drip and water eyes on good days. Swollen eyes, rashes, hives, and being forced into a coma-like sleep on the bad ones.

Anti-histamines don’t help it, so I mostly avoid the worst food offenders.

I can feel the histamine rising since I ate that orange. It’s in my cheeks, flushing right now. Have you ever eaten too much of something with vinegar and found your nose bead up with sweat? It’s a bit like that.

I remember being impatient peeling an orange by hand.

I was also unable to get over the texture of the pith, so I would obsessively remove every last bit. It could take me an hour to find satisfaction before eating.

I found myself in a similar situation with popcorn, annoyed by the hull. I’d separate the meat from the hull, nibbling like a little chipmunk through a bowl.

For a while now, when I sit down to write a voice loomed saying, “it must have a point!” That the story I share with you only works if there is a clear value-added outcome deployed.

But isn’t that such a funny thing? Life itself — a series of experiences and then we still die. And then we still reach an end that most likely does not have a clear, valuable outcome.

These little stories are my little lives. Experience them, and then let them die.

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Don't forget about the birds in your life.

When the morning arrived, it came with the sound of a bird tapping on the glass of my front door. He’s the same bird who engages with the mirrors in my yard on warm summer days. Tap, tap, tap.

This is the first time he’s ever visited the front door.

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Birds have been showing up at meaningful, pivotal times of my life since I can remember. This bird tapping on my skylight 7 years ago marked a major change.

Sometimes it feels like forever.
It’s just been a few days.

The timing of it all is coincidence if you believe in nothing’s.
The timing is conspiracy if you believe in everything’s.

I keep saying, “I don’t know why,” but still give everything meanings.
You have to if you want to survive.

It’s a cold morning, just 34°F on my mountain. Frost on the lawn, frost on the car. The sun came up a few more degrees and it’s melting now.

I spent yesterday in my emotions. Mostly, a side effect of where I am in my chronic illness at any given time. But I am thankful the urge to distract from, run from is calming over time. I can look at the emotions and say, “I see you, I hear you,” and let them on their way.

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I woke up to watch Isabella Ducrot talk about her art and life. She has me crying over this phrasing:

Time is so precious for me. So I want to amuse myself all the every moment.

And Emily Dickinson said that the only happiness we can enjoy we human people is the… en Français, soulagement… sollievo, I don’t so I don’t understand in English…

Ah, when you feel I was afraid and now you you are not more afraid because you understand that the cat is not a tiger for in the moment to pass from a moment of utter fear and they said I’m not afraid like this she says the only possibility for us to be happy it’s a moment when you you passed from the fear to a moment of peace.

I think I’d been very afraid of losing things.
Now I think, “nothing is ever truly lost.”

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In that past that might have terrified me. So sleep deprived, so sleep tired.

Now, I live a calm life. An easy life.

I laid in bed tonight, looking through half-closed eyelids, at worlds that exist somewhere else. Maybe leagues away, maybe in another dimension. Who cares either way?

I laid in bed, imagining words I might one day say. A nice change from all the times I imagined words I wish I’d taken the time to say.

And in the pauses between wondering why I couldn’t sleep, I woke up with a start and racing heart.

“What happened?” I think. Which reality am I now in?

I’d had a dream, an old ex came back to visit me. He was two people I’ve know, a chimera. The longer I live the more I see chimera’s in us all. We’re never just ourselves, or just someone else.

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We walked through a garden with a pond and a stream running through it. We made some paltry future plans. I started wrapping my hands for boxing, just the way he showed me how to when we were dating way back when. Like a real pro fighter, just like him.

And someone starts banging at my door. A great big man, angry, shouting for his daughter. Shouting my exes’ name. And I end up having to be the one to de-escalate.

I wake up and wonder. I wake up and laugh. Fucking Darrell. I wake up and lay comatose for a bit, imagining what my perfect panic room might look like. Imagine how close and cozy it might feel. I might just curl up in it for fun, without panic fuel.

“Remind me to tell you about Darrell in the morning,” I text my best friend.

I try to go back to sleep, but for right now, it’s futile.

• So I sneak downstairs and eat a small snack of whipped honey, dipped in sea salt.

• Give Millie all the kisses and snuggles.

• Sneak back upstairs with my laptop.

• Do a bit of work.

• Answer a few emails.

• Get reminded that the Universe is conspiring in my favor, there are wins all around me. Everytime I turn my head, I receive another blessing; no need to yearn.

I think now, I’m ready for sleep to return.
I think now, I’m ready to learn.

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Like when I would tell someone, “I’ve completely lost all short-term and working memory, I finish reading one word and have completely forgotten it by the time I read the second word.” And they nod their head before replying, “Sometimes I have a hard time remembering names!”

They’re not the same thing, I’m afraid.

That isn’t a criticism against their intentions, only an observation of the limitations of shared experiences between us. When empathy is not possible, sympathy becomes an unfinished bridge between two worlds.

It’s been a long time coming.

I’ve been dealing with strange health issues most of my life. Between ages 9 and 10, I came down with Strep Throat and Scarlet Fever every month until they removed my tonsils. I can still taste the pink bubblegum-flavored Penicillin.

In my early teens I developed daily panic attacks, anxiety, depression, and experienced cataplexy episodes that no doctor could understand.

Late teens and throughout my twenties is when my food intolerances grew and grew, and grew. I would occasionally have an outbreak of rash and hives all over my face and chest, but it was still spontaneous enough we couldn’t figure out a trigger.

Into my thirties, the food intolerances only got worse and I couldn’t seem to find consistent safe foods to navigate. Every day I woke up with my eyes swollen shut to some degree and would spend the day icing them down as much as possible, only to wake up and repeat it the next day. Rashes and hives became more common.

That was also the period when I got hit with Multiple Chemical Sensitivity. Every manufactured product in my house seemed to be making me sick. I wrapped the mattress in 6mil plastic wrap to contain any off gassing from the foams and flame retardants (it’s not as fun as it sounds!).

I had to vet every single item coming into the house. No dryer sheets, everything had to be free of fragrances and dyes, and VOCs.

At 35 I thought I’d found a miracle in the Carnivore Diet. Within 3 days I felt better than I had in decades. But I didn’t realize going cold-turkey on Oxalates in your diet can trigger Histamine intolerance, and I got it big time.

Most other issues with my health seemed to be improving though, so I wasn’t completely unhappy with the trade-off.

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Mercury poisoning was the tipping point.

And then in 2022, I started noticing strange things.

I lost my period, and I was hungry all the time. So I ate, and ate, and ate and gained some weight.

Then I was really tired, which seemed odd. I was always a bottle of energy!

I was getting worried by the time my hair started falling out by the handful, but I wasn’t really sure what to do. Ran lab tests with my doctor and they didn’t see anything unusual.

I’d have episodes where I couldn’t breath, called “air hunger,” and they became more frequent an intense. My doctor ordered a bronchoscopy to investigate and it produced nothing diagnostic.

Before long, I had extreme episodes of tachycardia, my heart beating out of my chest at more than 200bpm. Sweat pouring out of me, convinced I was going to die. A week-long Holter monitor showed no abnormalities.

Eventually, I was too tired to go on my usual morning walks. I’d turn around early and have to take a nap for a few hours to recover.

Weird episodes of reactive hyperglycemia in the middle of the night, and reactive hypoglycemia during the day had me all out of sorts on how to eat. I was already eating low-carb on Carnivore diet consistently and had no history of diabetes or insulin resistance.

And then I started losing my memory.

I won’t expand too much on that right now, it’s still the most tender part of the experience for me. It was as near to dementia as I can imagine being.

I’d forget where I was and how I got there. I’d forget a conversation mid-sentence, then forget who the person was talking to me. Most days I couldn’t read, because I couldn’t remember two words in a row.

Chronic dehydration, intolerance to heat and cold meant I was in and out of urgent care for IV fluids.

By December, everything in my body hurt. I had constant cramping in all of my muscles, and it felt like I had arthritis in every joint.

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Small answers to prayers.

I reached out to an anti-aging telemedicine group by chance, and they flagged me as having zero Testosterone on my hormone labs. My missing period was still problematic but most doctors just dismissed it, “probably early menopause.”

I started Testosterone shots, and immediately resolved the joint pains. I still had cramping but it wasn’t quite as severe.

Still waiting on more medical appointments to chase down answers, investigate possible auto-immune. When those finally came, the doctors harassed me about taking Testosterone and threatened that they wouldn’t run any labs for six-months after I stopped with the injections. I refused.

So I reached out to a Functional Medicine Doctor, and operating off of post it notes to keep tabs on what I’d been able to piece together about what was happening to me, explained my concerns. It took several weeks to finish getting samples into the labs and wait on results.

And there it was, one of the labs was for heavy metals — positive for high levels of Mercury.

All of a sudden it made sense —

• My mom had a mouth full of Mercury amalgam fillings when she was pregnant with me, and Mercury is passed through the placenta in vitro, so I would have been born with some.

• I started getting my own Mercury amalgam dental fillings around 8 and 9 years of age, and it continued into my early teens.

• Almost 30 years later, I still had my original Mercury amalgam dental fillings. They are not considered permanent fixtures (have a max life of 10 years), and metal is known to shrink and expand with heat/cold exposure and pressure. All of those activities increase the amount of vapor that is released and breathed into your lungs.

• I’d spent the last year and a half consuming significant amounts of Swordfish and Tuna because it was cheap and tasted good. This was the nail in the coffin, and would explain why my blood labs showed active Mercury exposure which is VERY rare even if you are very toxic with heavy metals.

• Bonus: I had silicone breast implants for more than a decade, and when researching them further, turns out a significant portion of the ingredients that make up implants are a variety of heavy metals. You do not need a rupture for the heavy metals and other toxic ingredients in breast implants to leech into your body constantly after implantation — a fact surfaced in 2011 in documents provided to Congress by implant manufacturers.

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Okay, problem solved, right?

I’m very lucky I was able to identify Mercury poisoning so quickly. Many people will never in their lifetime come to that conclusion and continue suffering with no answers or hope.

But fixing heavy metal toxicity isn’t fast. It’s one hell of a marathon project.

Fist, I had to get my Mercury amalgam fillings replaced. That took a few months and a trip to Tijuana.

I was able to do some chelation using DMPS for about 6 months after replacing my fillings. But attempts to chelate with ALA (which is able to cross the blood-brain-barrier to remove Mercury from your grey matter) would trigger episodes of psychosis.

Again, it sounds way more fun than it is. I’m not certain how I managed to avoid padded walls during that period of time, but here we are.

So it was time for the breast implants to come out. It wasn’t immediately obvious to me that these were harmful, despite it seeming so obvious. Women are really well trained to believe they are inert and innocuous, and despite my obsession with health and healing, it took real effort to break that programming.

I was able to explant in March 2025, and I spent the rest of last year focusing on just recovering from major surgery. Full rest from chelation (you shouldn’t chelate when you have any source of heavy metals still in your body) attempts.

We’re already almost 4 years into the process from when my major downward spiral began in 2022. But, we’re also 31 years into the process from when my random health issues started as a child.

I’ve really only ever known life through the filter of having to make concessions for my health. What a strange thing it will be to arrive on the other side, I’ll have so much time to accomplish whatever my imagination can come up with!

I’m sitting in my living room right now, typing. I have hundreds of supplement bottles stacked up on my table that I’m sorting into individual supplement packs I can grab-and-go each day.

I take specific supplements 6 different times each day, and I’m making a full year’s worth of each in advance. I’m not yet through a full year of a single supplement pack.

I’m prepping this so I can spend the year focused on navigating chelation without interruptions. I trialed two rounds of chelation in January that went well enough for me to know this is the next right step.

It’s very likely I have a good deal of Lead poisoning as well, based on my symptoms and childhood environment. I can chelate for both at the same time, following slightly different schedules, thankfully.

It won’t take me a year to chelate and be done. Best guess, I’m facing a decade of chelation. Maybe longer. Hopefully (and there’s a good chance) I’ll see major improvements long before then.

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What is your 10-year life plan?

That’s a serious question, I’d love to hear in the comments. Let me live vicariously through you in small ways.

In the last Mercury group Zoom call, we talked about the lessons learned in this process for each of us. I joked, “I guess this was the Universe’s approach to teaching me patience, that I couldn’t have learned in an easier way.”

It’s good to keep a sense of humor in this all. It’s good to find the positives any way you can.

I’ve already recovered a great deal:

• No more tachycardia

• No air hunger / breathing issues

• Rare for me to experience POTS episodes anymore, when I do they are very minor

• Hair has stopped falling out

• Period returned and hormones normalized!

• No muscle or joint pain

• No cramping

• No chronic dehydration

• Heat tolerance has returned, no heat exhaustion in 70F weather!

• Body temp regulation returned, no longer freezing cold in 60F weather!

• Increased tolerance for a variety of foods

• MCS (multiple chemical sensitivity) has improved dramatically, minor exposure no longer causes major illness for weeks

• Regained short term and working memory!

• No more insomnia

• No more derealization

I’m excited to see how things continue to change and improve over time. I know chelation will not be an easy journey — moving Mercury around your system causes physical damage to your organs. But I’ve learned the only way out is through.

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He recently posted a video in a church hall, and I imagine myself sitting in one of the wooden pews. Different from any church service I’ve attended. I won’t fall asleep to these rhythms, guaranteed.

I dated a man, briefly, who played saxophone in high school.

Late one night he pulled it out of the back closet and started sharing with me that small piece of his heart. I’ve never played an instrument like that, I asked him, “what is it like?”

He instructed me briefly on how to shape your mouth, press your tongue, send air through the brass in your hands. Demonstrated along the way, then handed it over to me.

“Here, you try.”

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There is something beautiful in sharing that kind of intimacy.

I have knowledge or a skill, let me share some of what I know. Let me help your experiences grow.

Sat in his yard, under the dark September sky. Knowing nothing about anything, except where we’d been. I played my first notes, and they sounded awful!

But the experience left me changed for the better, for a lifetime.

For that, they will be the most beautiful notes I’ve played in a long time.

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But I’m an adult with responsibilities.

I feel the hot air blowing.
My California dad reminds me it’s the Santa Ana’s rolling again.

Millie is happy napping in it. Short breaks to tackle my face and chew on my toes until I’m screaming with tickles and say, “no, no, no!”

I’m letting myself back in. Bit by bit.
It’s exhausting being another person’s full-time mirror, isn’t it?

“Oh, that’s right. I don’t have to be him. I don’t have to want the same sins.”

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I imagine one day I’ll finish chelating all of the Mercury out of my cells.
Wake up bright. Buckle down. Consistently perform day in and day out.

But I can’t remember why that was ever one of my goals.

I don’t need to operate like a robot, like a man.
I can ebb and flow, as nature intended, as a woman.

What a lovely little dance through life.

Drew a little doodle.
Maybe next time I’ll draw a little noodle.

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When I was a kid, I’d make lists and lists of the horses and horse-things I wanted. Eventually, I ended up getting them all, serendipitously.

So I kept on writing down my wants, my casual orders in life. And the process has repeated itself.

It’s so easy to forget where you’ve been. The thoughts you’ve had, especially with the pace of life we move in.

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In July of last year I had a vision of a dark motherly figure coming down and laying on top of me. Saying, “you need to be alone for a while. You need to do this on your own.”

Shortly after I lost almost all of the people closest to me — my boyfriend, my best friend, all of my family, and then my dog of 13 years died. I screamed and howled and cried and beat my chest like a wild woman. I sat in my home wondering why. Wondering what’s the point of anything, except that I’d promised my dog I’d keep going through it all.

That all happened in just a few short months.

And I spent the fall and winter reflecting on my life. Sitting with myself mulling over the questions, doubts, and confusions as they came up. Nobody who knew me knew me to reach out to, text or call. “I guess I just have to figure out how I feel about it by myself.”

I made it through. There were times I didn’t think I would, or even wanted to. But I did, and came out like a sparkling light on the other side. Excited about the future, excited about what I still don’t know in life.

This afternoon I sat down to journal, we’re coming up close on the final transition into the year of the Fire Horse and I’m taking it seriously. I’ve recently filled up some cheap Steno pads and went digging in storage to see if I already have empty journals to use. Sure enough!

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This is where I say, don’t ever throw away your old journals. I’ve lost many over the years, so the ones I found are only from the last few years. But I cracked one open and found this bit I’d written for myself sometime between 2020 and 2022:

You need to be alone with yourself. Truly alone.

In spaces so quiet and still that those voices in your soul can rise up in big baritone booms and possess ever cell.

So the crazy can be seen. By you.

So you can fully witness the destruction that ignoring and distracting and rationalizing it away has had on your psyche.

But don’t run from it.

Don’t resist. You’ll want to. Don’t.

You gotta run full speed into it.

Beat your chest.

Cry those tears.

Wail like a banshee.

Do all the things as a wild animal would.

Until exhausted. Collapse.

And repeat when it rises again.

There are no coincidences in life. It’s just that we too easily forget and lose track of the threads over time.

Whatever you do, don’t throw away your old journals. You might miss out on a spell you once cast.

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Some day, I swear under cursed breath, I’ll write a tutorial or genuine life advice. It feels synonymous with adding value through life. But who am I to say, when I really just want to read the private thoughts of other people and ignore the influencers.

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I woke up shaking the little spell jar I made for “Good Fortune,” kissing it gently. Forgiving my lottery tickets for not winning.

Listening to 30 minutes of Thank You’s to the Universe.

Washing my face, brushing my hair, injecting Peptides to help my gut repair.

Giving Millie all the snuggles while she was still curled up on the sheepskin rug. There are hints, and moments, she might be an old lady. Even if she is only 6 and a half months.

Spent 4 hours this morning clocked into one-on-one work meetings. And I find it exhilarating, I want to develop the best in me.

I went to the gym, a quick stop at the grocery store for a steak. Passed on the filet mignon. Only had to pause once for being light-headed (I’ll take that as a win).

My head is coming back out of the fog a bit. I’ll eventually write more about my Mercury poisoning. I’ll eventually write more about everything. Writing, for me, has become an inevitability.

Gave my neighbor my phone number. “Call if you ever need anything!”

Been meaning to do it for months. Intentions are a funny thing.

Finally scheduled an appointment for dental x-rays. Finally changed my address with the DMV. Finally scheduled a dog-sitter meet and greet for Millie. Have to fly to Mexico in April, no dogs allowed.

Isn’t it funny how the world keeps spinning?

The sun went down and it’s quite now in my house. Lit a few candles, I love to watch the flames bounce. Millie is already napping, on the rug again, her favorite floor-level companion.

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I’m in no rush to do anything.

I could go to bed now and be happy. I could sit and read for hours or chat with friends or draw a vase full of flowers.

Well… I probably wouldn’t do that because I don’t particularly love drawing flowers.

There are little tasks and projects and wish-lists compiling in my notebooks. Always something to do. Always something to be done.

I woke up saying, “this is the best day of my life!”

And I’ll fall asleep confirming, “this was the best day of my life…”

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That’s just the way life goes sometimes.

I keep starting up the hill, only to find myself at the bottom again.

I managed two rounds of chelation this month, before burning my adrenals out.

Sitting in the egg chair outside, with Millie curled in my lap, I remembered that I broke my neck a little over a decade ago. My mood was instantly better.

Fuck, if I can recover from that, I can get through this too.

My whole life has been starts and restarts. I’ve rarely ever crossed a finish line.

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They say that’s the hallmark of successful people — their ability to fail constantly and keep getting back up.

I had a conversation with a friend today, in which I divulged both, “I am actually Alice’s Mad Hatter come to life,” and “I’ve been having more moments I’d call clairvoyance lately,” in nearly the same sentence.

I think before the 2000’s, the community would have just labelled me, “eccentric.”

Actually, I kind of like it.

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Erethism is characterized by behavioral changes such as irritability, low self-confidence, depression, apathy, shyness and timidity, and in some extreme cases with prolonged exposure to mercury vapors, by delirium, personality changes and memory loss. People with erethism often have difficulty with social interactions. Associated physical problems may include a decrease in physical strength, headaches, general pain, and tremors, as well as an irregular heartbeat.

I have it. I have Mercury poisoning, Mad Hatter’s Disease, erethismus mercurialis (in Latin it at least sounds sexy).

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I have years of chelating ahead of me to remove it properly. Too fast and you risk harm that cannot be undone. Marathon, not a sprint.

I did two rounds of chelation back to back this year, burned my adrenals out. I’d been doing so good, I forgot that was even a thing. Oopsies?!

Adrenal fatigue is worse than the Mercury, I think.

I’ve been trying to sooth myself for two weeks. Every time I think, “I’ve got it now!” I wake up again in a sweaty panic like it’s time to outrun polar bears, naked.

Woof.
I feel like vomiting again.
I haven't done it, not yet.
But my stomach is at the ready, just say when!

Been like this since midnight, and 3am, and 5:28, and since I finally gave in and started the day.

A caged animal probably feels less fear.

I want to cry, I want to run, instead I drink wildflower tea with theanine and soak, again, in the bathtub.

Keep calm. Keep on.

Even the meditative music is too strong.

Knowing it's just chemicals imbalances doesn't ease the sting. Doesn't make navigating it easy.

"It'll pass, it's not permanent," I keep repeating.

At least the delirium of Mercury can be playful.

Adrenals are like reacting to a major car crash 24/7, 365. Everything becomes doom and gloom, isolation seems preferable but you also feel like being alone is the greatest punishment the Universe could hand you. There is no winning at this game, just patience.

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I’ve been calling everyone I’m close to, and crying on the phone. Or sending voice messages in DMs, also crying under the guise of “I’m so alone!”

I become convinced that everything in my life is amiss. My job, my relationships, the place I live. Oh bother, what’s the point, as if I’m channeling Winnie the Pooh.

There are some experiences a person cannot fully understand, no matter how well described. I’m okay with that, I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.

But each time I go through another blow to my Adrenals and Chicken-Little my way through nursing them back to health, I wonder at how many other mad, mad people are suffering the same without realizing.

Around noon today, my stomach began to settle. I ate a little ground beef and tomato. Then I pulled out my drawing supplies, and started a new project. Things are going to be okay, I’m going to successfully sleep in my bed. I have candles lit and my brain cannot be bothered to find a single thing to dread.

Despite what feels like a set-back, I’m convinced I’m going to fully recover.

It’ll be 28F overnight tonight, in the desert.

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I think we all grieve in different ways. This was very new to me. But as I re-emerge, it’s still important to me to give a nod to my companion who meant the world.

I never noticed the house numbers across the street from my California Dad’s until today. 608, Wisconsin area code. I texted him, “I don’t know what to do.”

“Oh yes come over now,” he replied.

My sister messaged me on Wednesday, “I just texted your old 608 number a bunch not realizing it was that number ugh.” I haven’t had that phone line since the year Dora was born.

Standing in the doctor’s office at Urgent Care for an intolerable amount of sinus and ear pressure I’ve ignored for 3 months. Waiting for the doctor, and I can’t help but cry again.

Looking out the only window in the room, there’s a bush with just one bunch of purple flowers left. You can tell fall is coming by how many flowers have fallen off.

And a hummingbird appears, feeds on the flowers for a minute. He looks a little bit like Henry who flies around the yard at home, but he isn’t.

And I think, “if I just give it a few more days, I’ll be alright.”

Until the doctor walks in and says, “are you crying?”

“Yes. My dog died today,” and now I’m REALLY crying.

She says she’s sorry, in a way that gives her own losses away.

The good news is she doesn’t think it’s an infection worth antibiotics. So she sends me to get Flonase, recommends an anti-inflammatory, and saline rinse.

Good old neti pot.

Standing in CVS trying to pick out a generic Flonase, and openly crying and today I can’t be bothered to care who sees my capacity for grieving.

When I got the call from the vet that her heart stopped beating, “I’m just down the street, I’ll be right over.”

And I couldn’t roll my damn window up. The motor just whirs and the glass goes nowhere.

I’ll tape some plastic over it when I get home.

At the vet’s office, the doctor sits me down in the room where they give you bad news. It has all the nice furniture. “There’s nothing more we can do,” and “she was a really sweet little girl,” but she can’t possibly know the depth of who she was all these years.

I dropped Dora off at 7:00 a.m and brought her body home in a box a little after noon. I seat belted her in, the most important passenger I’ll ever chauffeur.

In a few hours her body is hot to the touch. Warmer than any day in her whole life. Most people don’t realize — the earliest stages of decomposition.

Before rigor mortis, they boil up a little bit inside. Just enough to give you hope they could come back to life if you say the right prayer at just the right time.

I screamed in the car for a while at first. Careful not to stuff the emotions down inside where they’ll turn into sickness later.

I promised Dora we were getting healthy this time. I’m not about to let her down just because she died.

Cried so hard I had to pull over and throw up a little bit. Once I got home I threw up a lot bit more.

I’ve felt a lot of things when losing animals before, but not like this.

She was a really strange looking little puppy when I saw her at a pet store.

She lifted her leg up so I could rub her belly, silly, so I brought her home. I didn’t think she liked me, she was always bossing me around. I joked she’d be the perfect lap dog for some little old lady.

Turns out I was that little old lady. I just hadn’t gotten old yet.

She was always very demanding and I wasn’t a good dog mom yet. She’d bark and cry and whine and shake until she nearly imploded. The solution? Another belly rub.

It wasn’t until my last dog, Petrie, passed away that her and I really bonded.

That was only a couple of years ago. She turned into a different dog overnight.

I start calling her mama, because she really looked after me.

We had full conversations, call me crazy but we had an understanding. Barking for dinner, “well we have an hour drive home so I can’t do anything until then,” and she’d button right up.

The last time we howled together was last night, sitting in the hammock under our new patio roof, looking out at the yard. Wondering how we ever came to be living such a spoiled, boring, stable life.

I bought her after I broke my neck and had to quit working. When everything in my life was terrible and messy and ugly. I’d had two heart attacks, my eating disorder was determined to kill me. How fitting it should be her heart and not mine that stopped beating.

She was with me through an abusive marriage, criminal divorce, complete mental breakdown, several times I considered giving up for good, more than a decade of chronic illness, homelessness, and 5 years living in an ambulance.

It wasn’t always the greatest life for her, and I was so happy when we finally got to this place. A long overdue gift I owed her.

House with a yard, and a porch for her to lounge on at her discretion. She’d take turns napping on the couch and her favorite sheepskin outside during my work days. Quail and rabbit and squirrels to entertain her. We’d hike the surrounding hills, find a rock, and curl up in my lap letting the breeze blow her ears back.

Word of the day on my vocabulary app is bereft. Yes, Universe, I’m still listening.

Urgent Care doc also suggested chewing gum.

This is the cleanest my house has ever been. Anyone who knows anything about me knows I stress clean.

Taped plastic over my car window, I’ll figure out how to fix the motor tomorrow.

Maybe it’s morbid of me, but I washed the blood off her mouth and put her to bed in my freezer. Wrapped up in plastic and a fleece blanket for comfort. I slept a little better knowing the wild animals can’t get her.

I won the lottery today; no I’m not joking. In my cleaning spree I found a SuperLotto ticket from last month I’d forgotten about. The irony. I’d gladly take a lifetime sentence of financial slavery if it meant she came home alive with me today.

I’ve been feeling the grip of death coming for her in some way for a little while. I had more fear than usual that a hawk or a coyote might take her. On road trips I worried someone might break into the car and steal her, or we might get in a wreck and she’d be fatally injured.

I refused to leave her alone at my house, in case a wildfire came to take her or the AC unit died.

One of her last teeth became infected a month ago and she’d been declining in small ways. Scheduled dental surgery. Treated her for conjunctivitis. She was sleeping more and stopped looking forward to our daily walks. I’d carry her most of the time because she asked me to.

I was supposed to go hang out with friends this weekend in San Diego, would need a dog sitter for the day. I couldn’t seem to pull the trigger to schedule it. Was late to confirm the dental appointment and sign the paperwork, unconcerned if they were to bump us and give the time to someone else. Estranged knowing. Should I have called it off? Like watching the tide roll in, powerless because no matter what it’s rising.

She didn’t want to get out of bed. Woke her up at 5:00 a.m. pulling the covers back. Kissed her belly and said “good morning pretty lady!” It was chilly, so I wrapped us both up in a blanket for the drive to the coast. She slept snuggled up against me the whole way.

Kissed her again and again and again before the veterinary assistant carried her away. The only time she hasn’t protested someone taking her from me.

I don’t really need to, but I’m walking my garbage out to the dumpsters anyways. Keep your feet moving when your mind wants to call out.

Astrologers were saying “don’t schedule surgery during this full moon,” I thought they meant October 6th, specifically.

7:00 p.m. now and I think I’d like to avoid going to bed.

I’ll wait a while to wash the cases on her favorite pillows. She let me know that she was annoyed we weren’t snuggling enough the last night, until I fixed it and pulled her closer. Tucked under an arm, pressed against my side. Curled up against my stomach, sleeping sound all night.

It’s never been so quiet in my house. When I talk to her, she doesn’t talk back anymore.

The Flonase is doing something. The Wrigley’s doublemint is doing more. For the first time today I don’t feel like clawing my eardrums out or smashing my head against the floor.

Veterinarian over-seeing her surgery told me I shouldn’t wait to box up her things, and to put them out of sight when I get home.

But seeing her backpack on the wall is the only thing that makes me feel a little bit bright and a little less small.

She wasn’t just a dog, she was my reason for overcoming anything at all.

I washed her bowls, and threw away the last serving of dog food from the fridge. I don’t know why I portioned it, I should have let her binge it all. Brought her leash in and hung it where it belongs — next to her backpack on the wall.

It’s the first time I’m not running away from grieving, I want to feel it all.
For all the ways I loved her, she loved me most of all.

Edit: added the following a few days later, I’m still reflecting, still mourning.

This grief is a new, unfamiliar container for my love. It cannot be overstated the importance Dora held in my life.

It was an honor to love and care for her. She was my guardian angel and I tried hard to be a good earthly steward.

She is the reason I am alive today.

She is the reason I didn’t give up when I was sick and starving to death. Unable to keep food down day after day. She is the reason I forced myself out of bed when the exhaustion took 23 hours of the day to overcome. She is the reason I put my gun back in the case on days when I felt I had less than nothing left to give. The reason we walked the coast obsessively and I never gave into the temptation to swim out to drown. The reason I no longer keep a stash of medication that will bring a quick and certain end.

I made the bargain, “I’ll stay alive until she’s gone.” I never thought my health would recover.

I didn’t trust that anyone else could see her for more than just a “little dog,” and treat her right. She wasn’t just my dog. She wasn’t my pet. I couldn’t abandon her to just anyone.

She knew when I was struggling the most. Knew when to disrupt me, when to snuggle me. When to take me for a walk. When to let me sleep in or make me eat. She was my mother when I didn’t have one. “Mama,” I nicknamed her. She helped make me the better person I am today.

And through it all, she was kind enough to stick it out until I’d healed enough to stand on my own two feet. Until I was able to survive the loss of her without disappearing into quicksand. Not a moment sooner. She couldn’t have proven her love in any greater way.

“A lady always knows when it’s time to leave.”

She was my guardian. My totem. A safe place to keep my heart.

I owe her the tribute of living the good, long, happy life she gifted me.

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Just downloaded another to my Kindle. Knowing full well it may be years before I remember, and more before I even start reading it.

My eyes burn, I'm so tired. But my body is like lead and won't allow me to climb the stairs to retire.

It's only 3:38 PM. If I sleep now I'll be awake all night. If I don't at least nap I'll be ruined tomorrow.

Decisions like these are harder than anything that might tip the scales of my fate.

Have you ever felt so tired, death seems easier?

At least I already took a shower.

I say that as a preface, since you don’t know me well enough to know me yet.

My friend Kat Blouch, a brilliant artist, posted a new piece alongside the inspiration:

Go follow her on Instagram, you won’t regret it!

I love a good bit of random inspiration when drawing, and seized upon the moment.

I’m going to claim it’s part of the Mercury poisoning, but I became obsessed with giving this character a thick mop of yellow blonde hair. Then came the He-Man vision.

Since you don’t know me to know me like that yet, I have a She-Man tattoo on my inner arm. There’s a bigger story there for another day, related to my other tattoo of Mermaid Laser-Tits that we can cover in a future episode (it’s worth the anticipation, I promise).

I was much better at producing finished pieces in a short period of time back then. So after a few hours, I unleashed this masturbatory piece on my unsuspecting friends, family, and followers…

What does it mean?

Sometimes it’s just good to be a bit silly, wouldn’t you agree?

I’m a great big bully. I’m real mean.
I tried to cheer my ex-boyfriend on,
ulterior motivations was all he could see.

“Why now? Why me?”
I don’t know, it must be something the Universe needs.

We’re sharing one great cosmic journey.
One family-sized plate of spaghetti.

Call me again in twenty-one years,
tell me the direction my visit caused you to steer.