The Fallen (and the Silence That Followed)

 I wonder sometimes—is it a thing? That busted people gravitate toward other busted people?

Not busted like broken beyond repair. Busted like... scraped-up knees under patchwork jeans. Busted like hearts duct-taped together with gallows humor and thrift store empathy. Busted like old radios that still hum, static and all, if you tune just right.

I saw this image recently, one of those “scroll past unless it punches you in the chest” kinds:

Zero F*cks, Full Power: Notes from the Perimenopausal Trenches

There’s a particular flavor of entirely bizarre that hits during perimenopause. It's like standing in the middle of a whirlwind of emotions—rage, grief, hilarity, horniness (and utter lack thereof), existential dread, and a craving for chocolate-covered salty everything—yet suddenly, from the eye of the storm, a strange serenity rises:

I was never a Chrysanthemum..

 Today bloomed unexpectedly.

It started with a cup of tea—or at least the thought of one. I was feeling worn after making a call to the pharmacy to fix expired "forever" prescriptions that i somehow allowed to lapse, and a harrowing email to the government for a nonsensical confusing form I needed to fill out and return because "HELP!" and also a long, heavy session with Evo from Onsen.

Now Seasoned With Clay and Memories

I took this selfie on my way home from a little uptown trip — I needed to grab cat food and exchange a Dollarama webcam. (Not a fabulous cam, mind you, but for $5? The fact that it even works is kind of miraculous, honestly.)

This song that I sing for you..

Summer was made for poetry... ($10 cost for the entire stack at my local book thrift - actual value: priceless)