A Christmas Tree Named Jimmy

Much like the annual Battle for the Halloween McNuggets, there is a battle that rages in my family each year as we decorate for Christmas.

(I’m sure that this surprises none of you that my family can’t even fucking decorate for a holiday without wanting to maim each other.)

This battle, however, is slightly less violent than the one for the Halloween McNuggets because it involves my brother and my mother rather than my brother and me. For years my mother has been trying to convince my brother that having an artificial Christmas tree would be just as nice as having a real one only without the hours of work that it takes to string hundreds of lights in its flimsy branches or the mess of pine needles everwhere. Of course the irony here is that my brother bitches about having a real tree but he doesn’t do shit to help decorate it.

My mother finally won the battle though because, since I’m at my mother’s this Christmas and I have a beautfiul artificial tree that would otherwise be sitting in the attic, she insisted that we use my tree this year. I was thrilled because with being the writer who works from home, a large portion of the decorating would fall to me, and not only is a fake tree easier to decorate than a real tree, my tree is also pre-lit. Boo-yah!

But then I should know that nothing is ever that easy for me.

I was opening the Christmas tree branches last week when I looked up to see a large section at the top of the tree had gone out.

What the hell?

half out tree, half lit tree

Not my tree, but I feel their pain.

My tree is supposed to be a closed circuit system which means that if one bulb goes out the rest of the string will stayed on.

“It has to be a bad bulb,” my mother insisted.
“No it’s a closed circuit!” I insisted right back. “It’s got to be a fuse.”
Mummas gave me a skeptical look.
Don’t anybody move! Hold it right there! The fuse is out,” I rumbled. ((Bonus points if you get that quote.))

Thirty minutes later I walked into the dining room in defeat.
“I tried replacing the fuse, but it wasn’t that,” I grumbled.
“Where did you get a spare fuse?” my mother asked suspiciously.
“I took the one that was in the light of the Christmas star tree topper.”
“Aaaaaaaaah!” my mother shrieked.
“Calm down! I put the other fuses in it so it’ll still work… I think.”
Mumma gave me another skeptical look. “It’s definitely a bad bulb now,” she added. “You’re going to have to take out each bulb and see which one isn’t working.”
“Like hell! Those lights are a bitch to pull out!” And then I felt my pupils dialate as the truth dawned on me. “Holy shit!” I gasped. “Despite our best efforts our tree has unionized! One bulb decided not to work and they all followed suit.”
“We can just string a single set of lights in the dead zone,” my mother suggested ignoring me since she has long since because used to my absurd declarations.
“Oh no we won’t!” I yelled.”There’s no unionization in this tree! I don’t know what these fucking bulbs want since they only have to work one month a year! That’s it! I’m going maffia on Jimmy’s ass and he’s getting back to work or getting thrown off a bridge!”

prolight keeper

Reach for the sky, Jimmy!

And in true maffia fashion, my problem was solved with a gun.

After deciding that I wasn’t going to accept be pushed around by my unionized tree, I jumped onto the faithful Interbutz (the second time that he has saved my ass at Christmas time) and looked up the best way to find out which of my non-working bulbs was the union leader. The most recommended solution was the PROLight Keeper Gun which would test the electrical current on the string of bulbs to find where the circuit was broken.

Jimmy refused to cooperate with the first electric method where you attach the gun to the string of lights and fire away–this is supposed to be the easiest method so naturally it wouldn’t work–but then I tazered him with the metal end of the gun and he finally gave up the leader. I ripped that sucker out and I’m happy to say that the rest of the bulbs went back to work after that.

It was only later that I realized that there were more than just rebellious bulbs involved in this scandal.

elf on the shelf, christmas tree

I’ve named him “Brat”.

Son of a bitch.

FYI, entries for the giveaway have ended and I’ll be announcing the winner later this week!

Also my latest BirchBox video is up and as usual I have to be all arrogant as usual and say that even if you don’t give a mummer’s fart about makeup, the video is rather entertaining. There’s a shoutout to my Wonder Twins in there.

(The blooper reel is coming soon.)

Hanukkah Is the BEST Holiday For Terrible Music Puns

I just happened to see one of my Jewish friends yesterday, which was brilliant since Hanukkah started later that evening.

Kat: Happy Chaka-Khan-ukkah!

Amigo: What?

Kat: Chaka Khan. The singer.

Amigo: Okaaay… thanks.

Kat: I’d also like you to know that you spin me right round. Baby. Right ’round. Like a dreidel, baby. Right ’round, ’round ’round.

Amigo: …

Kat: What? Don’t hate the player, hate the game.

Amigo: …

Kat: Did you know that if you were a rapper your name could be Dr. Dreidel?

Amgio: …

Kat: Nothing? Fuck me, you’re boring.

Amigo: I’m just surprised that you didn’t say something like “Keep the Han in Hanukkah” since you’re such a comic geek.

Kat: Han?

Amigo: Like Han Solo? I’ve seen that meme a few times.

Kat: Han Solo in Hanukkah?! Now that’s funny! Or better yet, “Keep the “Chew” in Han-Chew-Kkah!”

Amigo: That’s awful.

Kat: And Star Wars is a movie, not a comic. Mostly.

Amigo: …

Anyway, these wretched puns are my ridiculous way of wishing my Jewish peeps a very Happy Hanukkah!
(Or Chanukah.)

happy hanukkah marvel comics

Call me a comic geek, eh? Then take THIS!

That Poor Meat-Peddling Bastard & The Evil Kat

Once again I am forced to wonder if I am the universe’s favorite plaything or whatnot.

What are the odds that when you are down in the depths of despair*, working too many hours, battling atrial tachycardia, and exhausted yet unable to sleep through the night, that you come home from work and manage to fall asleep on the couch only to be awoken by a meat delivery service trying to hawk their meat subscription service on you?

Apparently in my case, the chances are pretty fucking good.

Last week I was dozing in living room when I was roused by the doorbell ringing and the explosive barking of my dogs expressing their indignation that someone touched their doorbell. I slept-walked to the front window where I could see who was on the porch without them seeing me. I did not recognize the young man and for some reason–I’ll blame my sleep deprived brain–I decided to answer the door. This is seriously very unusual for me because I don’t open the door to strangers when I’m home alone, not because I’m scared that they’ll kill me but because I’m scared that they will bore me.

I opened the door and the dude took a few steps back as he was greeted by two dogs snarling with all of the fury they could muster from the fifteen pound frames.

“Can I help you?” I asked him.

meat team ad“Uh yeah, I’m from CM Meats (← not their real name) and we offer a discounted meat delivery service,” he told me adjusting his hat.

I blinked at him in confusion thinking that I must be have an hallucination from lack of sleep. “You’re… selling meat?”

“Yeah, you like saving money, right?” he asked revving up for his salesman schpiel.

“On meat?” I was still in disbelief. You would think that with the shit that I’ve experienced that a random guy selling meat wouldn’t be that much of a mind fuck and yet it was.

“Yeah, we sell a wide variety of steak, seafood, chicken and pork,” he recited.

And then the evil part of my brain woke up.

“How’s your sausage?” I asked him in a low voice.

“It’s great!” he said overflowing with enthusiasm at my apparent interest. “But we only sell it as part of our pork variety case so there’s a lot of meat in there.”

“I’m sure that I could handle any amount of meat that you were interested in…unloading,” I smiled.

“The case has got pork chops, spare ribs, loin steaks and sweet Italian and sage sausage,” he continued.

“I’ve had Italian sausage, but never sage sausage. I might have to try yours,” I replied. “Though I would prefer to try it before I buy it.”

He scratched his head. “Oh sorry, we don’t have any samples.”

“That’s okay, I’ll just have to take you at your word that your sausage is as amazing as you say.”

He whipped out his clipboard and clicked his pen to begin writing. “So are you interested in any beef or chicken?”

“No, I’m a vegetarian,” I told him.

His face clouded with confusion. “But the… It’s a meat variety case. Like pork chops.”

“I’ll confess that I have no interest in chops, but if I need to buy them to get your sausage then I’ll do it,” I said. “So will you be able to give me that delivery now?”

“I…have to put in the order,” he said still looking uncertain.

The guy was obviously pretty dense and I was running out of innuendos so I crossed my arms and screwed my face into a look of annoyance. “Don’t be a sausage tease. You come to my house hawking your sausage and now you won’t give it to me? Let me be clear, I want your sausage and I want it now!”

His jaw hung open in response and he just stared at me for a moment probably taking in my knotty hair that had escaped from its hair band, the dark circles under my eyes from no sleep and my pale, anemic face.

The guy’s eyes darted around looking for an escape from the nutty nympho and he began backing away. “Sss… sorry to bother you, ma’am,” he said then turned on his heel and bolted for the safety of his truck.

I gave a very theatrical shrug and then closed the door.

And no, I was unable to fall back to sleep so I feel no guilt WHATSOEVER at traumatizing the dude responsible for ruining my precious nap.


*Okay maybe it’s not that bad, but fellow “Anne of Green Gables” will appreciate the reference.

If You Don’t Know Then You’ll Never Understand

And then I sat at my desk and made this.

im fine, depression sucks, skull pills

The most useful thing these pills have done all week.

Yes, I freely admit that I’m fucking disturbed. I like to think it’s part of my charm.
But then that’s coming from someone who just made a skull with her medication.

Depression sucks.

A Tale of a Klutz and a Halloween Scare

I’m not going to lie–one of my personal* favorite** compliments is when I’m told I’m a badass. It’s actually a little hilarious because with how many stupid things I’ve done and continue to do I don’t see how I can be a legitimate badass. Sure I’ve attacked a home intruder with pen and threw a cheating guy’s keys down the sewer drain, but I’ve also fallen on the floor of my gym from laughing too hard and locked myself in a public toilet. The only possible way that I could truly rock the badass moniker is that I’ve learned to roll with my foibles and see them as comedies to be shared rather than embarrassments to be hidden. To illustrate this point, and in honor of (New Jersey’s) Halloween today, I’m going to share a tale of past Halloween scare.

*This is my favorite compliment as a person, but I’ll admit that my absolute, overall favorite compliments are about my writing.

**I’ve finally switched my spellcheck from UK to USA so the extra “U”s will be gone.

This tale took place during a time when I behaved incredibly un-badass. Not surprisingly this was during my early teens when pretty much everyone feels like shit about themselves. A group of friends and I went on a Halloween “Walk of Horror” at a camp where you took a guided walk through the woods and masked monsters would jump out to scare you.

running scared, haunted house attrationThe walk ended in the section of the camp where there were a dozen or so log cabins. There was a bonfire blazing and we were rewarded with hot cigar and warm donuts for making it through the woods. We had been chatting and enjoying a treats for about five minutes when the sound of a chainsaw ripped through the air, and a guy dressed as Leatherface ran out from one of the cabins. Everyone screamed louder than I have ever heard (to this day) people scream and scattered in all directions. This was back before I had any kind of martial arts or weapons training so my instinct was still “flight” rather than “kick your fucking ass” and I ran along with everyone else. The last thing I remembered was the feeling of plastic against my face and thinking ‘OH MY GOD I CAN’T MOVE!’ and then I found myself on the ground with people staring at me. Apparently I had been so terrified that I had bolted and ran smack into one of the cabins (which had been covered with black plastic…I’ve still no idea why) and knocked myself out.

I was embarrassed at the time but luckily I outgrew being self-conscious of my klutziness and find it hilarious now. It’s a good thing, too, since I’ve knocked myself out at least twice since that story.

Who else has a Halloween story to share? It doesn’t have to be embarrassing–although that will earn you extra Kat points for ballz.

Why You Should Buy a Haunted House

If there’s one thing I know about myself it’s that I enjoy a challenge. I love learning how to do new things, and I’m especially keen to do something if someone has told me that I can’t. Far too many people give up on something just because it’s not easy. For example, there is a house down the street from me that has been on the market for years. Recently I noticed that the realtor sign in the front changed from one company to another. I didn’t think much of it, but then a neighbour happened to mention that the original realtor gave up on trying to sell the house because it’s haunted, or in professional terms a “stigmatized property.” I personally think that the realtors gave up too easily because it would simple to sell a haunted house. Let’s take a look at the benefits.

A Constant Excuse to Redecorate

Every couple of years my mother gets the urge to repaint at least one room of the house. This used to drive my father mad because he couldn’t see any reason to redo a room that still looked fine. A couple that lives in a haunted house could avoid this argument because if there is alternately blood and/or ectoplasm running down your walls, you’re going to need to do frequent repainting. If you hate the shade of blue that you chose for the living room, don’t worry. A cascade of gore is sure to pour down soon and give you an excuse to paint again in a different shade. Double points for saving your marriage by eliminating an argument.

Also, do you hate the pictures or the knickknacks adoring your abode? Again, just wait a short time and everything is sure to get thrown across the room and broken so you’ll be able to buy all new shit to collect dust on your shelves.

Home Security

haunted house for sale, haunted real estateI don’t know how much ADT or other home security systems cost, but they can’t be cheap. I’m sure that the system itself is expensive, but then the monthly monitoring fee is probably ridiculous, too. Just imagine how much money someone would save if they had a ghost to keep the burglars out. As soon as it got around in the burglar community that if you go into a certain house that you would immediately be covered in bite marks or attacked by flies as a gravely voice tells you to “GET OUT”, you could leave your front door wide open and no one would try to take your shit. Double points if the intruder ends up in therapy.

Never Lonely

I really like this perk because this is perfect for senior citizens. How many times do you hear your grandparents tell you that you never visit? How about that they are lonely? One solution is to move Gramps or Gram to a retirement home but those places are expensive as fuck! A haunted house is so much cheaper. Stigmatized properties go for a fraction of the cost and your elders are never alone with a ghost or five bumping around. Double points if the elderly person is forgetful and leaves lights on or neglects to flush the toilet because there are ghosts that will do that for them. Finally, when your elderly family member passes away, they’ll already have new friends on the other side!

There are many other benefits of owning a haunted house such as having cool disco lights for parties, getting to sing “It’s Raining Blanche”, and charging for tours during Halloween, but these three are the most impressive. So what are you waiting for? These houses are dying for you to buy them.

((More Halloween-palooza to come.))

The Battle for the Halloween McNuggets

Sibling fightsDespite the large gap in age, my brother, (known as Gator on here), and I are very close. And as with all siblings who are close we tend to antagonize the shit out of each other. As a matter of fact I just remembered this weekend–while hanging out with my dear Jewels–that I found out that I liked pumpkin pie because my brother liked it, did something (I don’t remember exactly) to annoy me and I ate the last piece of Thanksgiving pumpkin pie out of spite.

While there are always new and traumatizing ways to annoy each other, one battle in particular has been raging for years:

The Battle for the McDonald’s Halloween McNuggets.

The Happy Meal is one of McDonalds’ most evil schemes ever. The lure of fast food is kryptonite enough for the average American child, but throw in a toy that comes with that salt-laden, diabetes-inducing garbage and you might as well change the name from “Happy Meal” to “Parent’s Worst Nightmare–(unless you’re a trailer troller, then it’s probably “Parent’s Best Friend”).   In October of 1993 and 1996 the Happy Meal weapon of choice toy was plastic nuggets dressed in different Halloween costumes. There were six nugget, each with a different face and costume with could be mixed and matched between the nuggets. It was pure evil marketing genius. I was a teenager at that time so I manged to avoid being snared in these heinous traps but my brother was only a kid and fell for them hook, line and cholesterol. My mother was not one to overindulge us in fast food, however my brother did manage to collect all twelve Halloween McNuggets.

Over the years, my brother lost interest in playing with the Halloween McNuggets and my mother grew more attached to them. They were no longer toys but my mother’s favourite Halloween decorations. She became so protective of these bits of plastic bits of commercialism that when a house guest admired them, she counted the nuggets after they left to make sure that they hadn’t taken any.

About ten years ago–when my brother was the teenager and I’m was a so-called adult–my mother, knowing how much I love Halloween made a remark my having the Halloween McNuggets after she was gone.

“What?!” my brother sputtered. “They’re mine!”
“You haven’t looked at them in years! And your sister loves Halloween,” my mother told him.
“I don’t care! And I like them, too!” my brother insisted.
“Since when?” I glared at him.
“Since always!” he glared back.
“Alright, then you can share them,” my mother replied.
“I’m not sharing! They’re mine!” my brother insisted.
“You won’t even share?” I snapped.
“No! They. Are. Mine!” my brother snarled.

Thus began the battle began.

Every year, when my mother pulls the McNuggets out of the attic and decorates the television stand with them, my brother and I argue over who will have custody of the nuggets. My brother insists that they were his toys. I point out that Mom bought them and took care of them. He counters that she doesn’t even always remember which face goes with which costume so that shows that he knows the nuggets better. (And I have to tell you that in typing this out I’m even more aware of what a bunch of fucking lunatics we are in this family–especially because it only gets worse.)

halloween mcnuggets, mcdonald'sTwo days ago I found out that the legend of my brother’s and my Battle for the Halloween McNuggets has spread across the family, and apparently they are taking sides.

“Is it true that Gator and Kat are fighting over the Halloween McNuggets?” my aunt called to ask my mother.
“Oh yes, this battle has been going on for years. I’m not worried about making provisions in my will about the house or the car, but I had better leave some clause in there about these nuggets. I told them that they had to share though Gator insists that he won’t,” my mother replied.
“Well they were Gator’s toys so he should get them all,” my aunt told my mother. “I’m sure that Kat didn’t want them at the time or we would have bought her some.”
I happened to hear this through the phone and was thunderstruck.
“What the fuck? I was a teenager! Of course I didn’t want them then! But Gator didn’t want them for years after he had them!” I bellowed.
“Your brother and your cousin used to play with them all together!” my aunt shouted through the phone back.
“Then I’ll take Shell’s!” I threatened (though I wouldn’t really take my cousin’s nuggets.)
“I have a few of them that Kat can have!” I heard my grandmother shout through my aunt’s phone (they live together–my graom doesn’t have that big of a mouth.)
“This is all because Gator won’t share!” I yelled, at which point my brother entered the argument so that there were five of us having one phone conversation and yes I realize how fucking mental this all is.

And so the battle rages on.

My aunt is on my brother’s side, my cousin is on my side, my grandmother is trying to be Switzerland and my mother is terrified that she is going to die and my brother and I will kill each in a fighting for custody of The Halloween McNuggets.

Who do you all think should win? And for the record, I’m not trying to claim all of the nuggets, I’m aiming for five, but Gator insists that they are all his.

*On a final ironic note neither my brother not I have eaten McDonald’s in years.

EDIT-If you read the comments then you will see that my cousin has switched sides. And now I will reconsider taking her nuggets.

The Butterfly

I try to keep my October posts all for my Halloween-palooza, however my brain was locked up and every time I tried to write any of the posts that I had outlined, they sounded like shit. The reason for this lockdown? It’s because my brain had been hijacked by what I’m now going to call an RLF, which stands for Rude Little Fuck. An RLF is a story that I don’t want to think about, don’t want to write about and don’t even have fucking time to write about, but will just not go away until I write it. And the really irritating thing? It’s never a happy story about The Adventures of Happy Puppy Cuppy Cake and Cherry Merry Muffin, it’s always some downer shit that I could really do without having bouncing in my brain space. There’s nothing to be done for it though, so here it is, and y’know what? As soon as I wrote it, I was able to blast out a typically brilliant(?) and inane Kat post for later.


The Butterfly

As my husband brooded silently, ignoring my attempts at conversation save for the occasional icy glare, it occurred to me that this must be how a condemned man feels as he is strapped into the electric chair. Your stomach drops and you start to feel dizzy. Your hands go cold and become slick with sweat. The nubs of your bitten fingernails press into your palms, and your breath becomes more rapid and shallow. It’s no wonder that the dizziness becomes worse to the point that you feel as though your head is floating above your shoulders. A silent, nervous giggle struggles in your throat as you imagine your head as a balloon, rising and floating away. The cold glance of the executioner silences you, and sadly you realize that you could never float away for as light as your head feels, your heart is like lead, keeping you firmly tethered to your fate.

You know it’s coming. You know that at any moment the switch will flip and electricity will rip through your body, your teeth will clench and sparks will explode behind your eyes. It’s coming and there’s no stopping it. Pleading, explaining, cajoling, none of them will save you. The wait become overwhelming, the panic rises like vomit in your throat, the terror shatters your nerves and you finally want to scream, “Just get it the fuck over with!”

I couldn’t figure out why he was so angry with me. We had been having so much fun at the comic convention and I couldn’t understand what had happened. I had been admiring the work of an aspiring comic artist when I felt his fingers dig into the soft flesh of my upper arm and jerk me around. The pain radiated up to my shoulder but what startled me the most was the fury in my husband’s black eyes.

“We are leaving,” he snarled at me.
I felt my head shrinking down, attempting to disappear into my shoulders. “But why? We…we didn’t even finish Artists Alley yet.”
Mark released my arm with a shove. “Fine! Finish!”
I didn’t move.
“Go!” he made a dismissive motion with his hand.
“You don’t want to come, too?” I asked meekly. “You always like to look at the sketches.”
He gave me a disgusted look. “No. I’ll sit here and wait.” Mark dropped onto a bench, crossed his arms over his lean chest and began glaring at the floor.

I didn’t want to go back to Artist Alley anymore, but I knew if I didn’t it would make Mark even angrier. Instead I walked away slowly and kept glancing behind me to see if Mark had changed his mind. When I rounded a corner and was out of Mark’s sight, I pulled my phone out of my bag and began to text my friend, Jerry.

Jerry was a fellow comic nerd and had met us at the convention. He had gone off to do his own thing when Mark and I started in Artist Alley, but I had to let him know that we were leaving.
“Something came up and we gotta go,” I texted him. “Sorry to leave so soon.”
Jerry immediately texted back. “Are you still in Artist Alley? I’m in the next aisle over. Be there in 30 seconds.”
I was in the middle of texting Jerry back when he appeared in front of me.
“Mark’s not feeling so well, so we’re going to head out,” I told him.
“Oh that sucks,” Jerry frowned. “Where is he?”
I gestured around the corner. “Sitting on a bench resting.”
Jerry glanced around the corner. “Oh I see him.” And before I could stop him, Jerry was en route to Mark.

Mark had his elbow resting on the arm of the bench and his head leaning laying on it. He appeared to be sleeping and I was reluctant to wake him.
“He didn’t sleep well last night and he has a headache,” I told Jerry.
Mark opened his eyes at the sound of my voice. I had hoped that the rest had cured him of his anger but his eyes were still hard and cold when they fell on me.
“Jerry wanted to say goodbye,” I mumbled.
“It was nice to meet you,” Jerry smiled warmly and held his hand out to shake Mark’s.
“Yeah. You, too,” Mark grunted. He stood up and dutifully shook Jerry’s hand.
“I guess I’ll see you on the comic forum later, Kate!” he waved at me.
“I’m sure you will!” I replied with false cheer. Mark had already started to stalk away. I threw a quick smile and wave back to Jerry and scurried to catch up.

During the two hour drive from Baltimore back to Philadelphia I did my best to fill the silence with meaningless talk about the comics and vendors we had seen. Mark would occasionally reply with a “yeah” or a nod, but never looked at me.
“Mark,” I finally started quietly, “please tell me what’s wrong.”
He regarded me with the same expression as when he had stepped in a pile of dog crap and then shook his head and turned his attention back to the road.
“I just don’t understand what I did. I’m sorry,” my voice was laced with the hurt I always felt whenever he looked at me like that.
Mark clenched his jaw and shook his head again. “You really don’t know anything, do you?”
“Not if you don’t tell me,” I said timidly.
He didn’t deem to give me a response and I resigned myself to the frigid silence for the rest of the drive home.

Mark jumped out of the car as soon as we parked in the driveway and stalked up to the front door without waiting for me. I gathered up the few bags from the convention and followed him inside.

“Mark,” I tried again as I followed him to the room that was his bedroom before we were married. He stopped and turned so quickly that I nearly walked into him.
“Just leave me alone right now,” he said jerking the bedroom door open.
I felt my eyes tingle with the threat of tears. “Do…do you…?” My tongue felt too thick to form words.
Mark gave that look again. The same face that had once beamed and promised to love me forever when I accepted his marriage proposal was twisted into a mask of revolution, something that resembled pure hatred burned in his eyes. It was almost a relief when he slammed the bedroom door in my face.

I sniffled hard to try and keep the tears from coming but a few managed to seep from my eyes. I went into the bathroom and reached for the tissues. As I did I noticed the marks on my arm from where Mark had grabbed me. I looked in the huge bathroom mirror that spanned the length of the double sink and lifted the short sleeve of my shirt to examine my arm. There was a row of four black circles like the segmented body of a caterpillar where the tips of Mark’s fingers had dug into my bicep. I pulled my sleeve down and covered the bruises as best I could. My father-in-law was home and I didn’t want him to see.

Mark slept in his old bedroom that night. This was not very unusual because he had taken to sleeping in there more and more over the previous five months as he seemed to become angry with me more and more often. At first I had tried to convince him of the old adage of “never go to bed angry”, but it wasn’t long before I realized that “let sleeping dog lie” applied to him better.

It was early morning when I rolled onto my bruised arm and the resulting stab of pain woke me up. I had worn a long sleeve shirt to sleep and had to roll it up to examine the bruise. The bruise had spread through the night. There was a black line where Mark’s fingers had dug into my skin but now purple was fanning out on either side like wings.

“Butterfly,” I mumbled tracing the injured skin.

I heard my dog growl softly in her crate to let me know that she was awake. I hated having my dog sleep in a crate but Mark insisted. I crouched down and opened the latch to open her crate, and was nearly knocked over as my dog bounded out and jumped to lick my face. I kissed the top of her soft, furry head.

“We’re going to get out of here,” I whispered to her. “Mumma just has to get a few more things in order and then we’re never coming back here again.”

And though it took five more months, I did get us out of there. I took one suitcase of clothing and two of my dog’s favorite toys, and left the rest behind. I had wanted to take more so that I didn’t have to completely start over, but when it came down to it, possessions could be replaced, but my life could not.

purple biutterfy, just when the caterpiller thought that the world was over



Okay, so in closing, you may not know this but October is not only Breast Cancer Awareness month, but it’s also Domestic Violence Awareness Month. Very quickly I’m going to give you the basic three things about domestic abuse to be aware of: 1-If you know someone who is being abused, don’t judge them for not leaving immediately. It’s not easy on any level including a financial level and an emotional one. 2-If you are being abused, get the fuck away from the asshole! I just admitted that it’s not easy, but it’s not impossible, and you cannot afford to stay. There is help out there. 3-If you are an abuser, then do not think for a minute that you are safe. You are a fucking bully and you know what they say about bullies–there’s always a bigger one around the corner. Prepare to meet yours someday. You won’t like it.

A Drunk Unicorn

Why is the unicorn drunk? Because it drank half of my Tequila.

The question is: Is this a good thing?

Well, on one hand you have an intoxicated equine with a long, sharp protrusion stumbling around and at some point I’m sure that someone is going to get stabbed. Also, the brat stole half of my damn Tequila.

On the other hand, it’s a fucking unicorn! If I was going to share any of my precious Tequila it would definitely be with a unicorn. I wouldn’t even mind any unicorn slobber that got in my glass. As for the inevitable stabbing, yeah that would rather suck. But again I must point out that it’s a fucking unicorn, and if you have the choice between never seeing a unicorn and being stabbed by one, I’m going to go with stab away.

The point of this bit of what-the-fuck-is-Kat-talking-about?

go home unicorn you're drunk, drunk unicorn, tequilaThis is my own version of the glass half-full versus the glass half-empty scenario.

Last week I had my first two disappointments as a writer. (Truth be told, last week was psycho crazy or I would have updated sooner.) One of the disappointments was that I found out that I’d lost a writing contest that I had entered. It’s really not a big deal, but the magazine took six months to pick winners and after such a long wait (I’m very fucking impatient) I felt the punch harder than I usually would have. This is the nature of the beast though. Waiting six months for anything is not unusual, and disappointment is the rule rather than the exception, so you suck it up and work harder. The good news is that I can post the short story that I had submitted on here again for ya’all to read! *throws confetti* The other good news is that submitted this story forced me into finally coming up with a title for it. So here is Borne of Armour. For new readers, a quick warning that this is one of my rare “heavy” stories.

Another good news/bad news bit to mention is that I never heard from the winner of my first giveaway. It sucks for them to miss out on an awesome shirt, but the good news is that I’d picked a runner up who will be getting an awesome shirt and ad space on the sidebar. Congratulations to the incredibly lovely, Michael from Crazy Tragic Almost Magic! Her blog is both funny and touching so make sure to check her out!

On a final note, if you’ve been in the tales for a while then you know that I love October and I love, love, love Halloween. I have some really nifty stuff planned for this month to celebrate, and even if my current health status (which is unfortunately subpar thanks to the old ticker being a grab) keeps me from doing half of it (I’ve lots in mind) there will still be a shit ton of fun to be had up in here! I’M FUCKING EXCITED!

*gallops away on my unicorn laughing manically *

(This entry is also No. 28 on my 30 Posts of Shameless Shit, “Discuss a failure.” However I’m galloping off on a unicorn and drinking Tequila while failing so it’s pretty cool.)

The Dog’s Version Of “You Might Be a Dick If”

american eskimo dog, kira

“Kat couldn’t write shit if I wasn’t down here to supervise.”

As my sis Michelle says, my eye is still manky. In keeping with the our Brit slang, it’s total bollocks.

The good news is that I only have one eye half dilated now, so I can half see, but the bad news is that, having one eye nearly clear and the other unfocused is giving me mad vertigo. Normally this would mean that I would have to hold off a little longer to do a new post, but luckily I have a writing partner: my Eskimo, Kira.

Every morning, as soon as I take my seat to begin writing, Kira assumes her writing partner position under my table. When I told her that my eyes weren’t up to doing a new entry, Kira graciously decided to take over for today. I mentioned to her that readers were requesting another edition of “You Might Be a Dick If” and Kira said that she was on it.

Now presenting: “You Might Be a Dick If… According to Kira”.

According to Kira:

  • If you are eating a meal and don’t share it–that is, giving three quarters of it to your dog–then you might be a dick.
  • If you take your dog to the park and don’t let them leap into the lake for the third time which is right before it’s time to leave so they can be filthy wet and soak everything in the car on the way home, then you might be a dick.
  • If you put your dog into the bath tub and insist that they are being ridiculous for being pissed off that you put them in there since you assert that it’s exactly the same thing as being in the lake they could not stay out of, then you might be a dick.
  • sharing a bed with a dogIf you try to claim more than two inches of your own bed to sleep in at night, then you might be a dick.
  • If you disturb you dog while they are napping during the day, when you know that the dog had a very long night of sleeping and that they need their rest since they have to do again that night, then you might be a dick.
  •  If you insist to your dog that “there is nothing out there” when your dog is barking its brains out to let you know that there is too something out there–“it’s a fucking squirrel and that asshole is in my bloody yard!”–then you might be a dick.
  • If you come home smelling like another dog (or cat or any other animal), then you might be a dick.

As in the previous version of “You Might Be a Dick If” Kira admits that she, too, was being a little snarky here, and that there is no “might” about it; if you do any of these things–especially the last one!–then you sir (or madam) are, in fact, a dick.  However, unlike the previous edition of “You Might Be a Dick”, Kira would like to finish by stating that even though you are a dick, your dog thinks you are the best dick in the world and loves your face off. ♥