I will not pick. I will not pick. I will not pick.

*looks down and realizes I’m scratching at my collar bone*


So I Suck

I haven’t blogged in a very long time. Nearly a year. Let’s just say some new aspects of having an obsessive compulsive brain have arrived in my life, and it’s taken every ounce of my everything to beat them back down.

Well mostly down.

Sort of.

One day a feeeeew lots of months ago, it suddenly clicked in my brain that I was going to die.

I know. So shocking right? A living organism bound by natural law will eventually parish.

And even though I’ve always technically known this, and even though I think I believe in some form of afterlife, holy shit did this just fuck my brain from one end to the other. Which, my brain only being a few inches from left to right, doesn’t seem so bad, but I assure you it was.

All the sudden everything seemed fucking pointless, but also absolutely unavoidably important at the same time. I started having panic attacks again that made my chest feel like it was going to explode. I started waking up in the middle of the night sobbing. I started questioning EVERYTHING.

And fuck did it take a long time to get some semblance of control over this.

I woke up every day, and multiple times a day, literally, sat and told myself (inside my head because yeah, I don’t need to make myself seem crazier than I already seem)
“Yeah you’re going to die. Get over it. No! No, stop obsessing. Stop. Stop. Stop. Fucking stop! Think about something else. Like kittens. Stop it. Stop it. Seriously fucking stop it. Stooooop!”

And I did this every day until eventually…

“Yeah you’re going to die. Get over it. No! No, stop obsessing. Stop. Stop. Stop. Fucking stop! Think about something else. Like kittens. Stop! Kittens… Kittens are nice but… STOP!!!”

And then…

“Yeah you’re going to die. Get over it. No! No, stop obsessing. Stop. Stop. Stop. Fucking stop! Think about something else. Like kittens. Yeah kittens are pretty fucking awesome. Let’s YouTube cute kitten videos”

So on and so forth until I don’t have to do it every day or at least not more than once or twice. But you want to know what’s extra fucking awesome?

When I’m stressed, bored, or worried I pick. At scabs. At scars. At my head. At my fingers. At my general skinny skin bits. And you know what’s really bad for a compulsive picker? Constantly worrying about inevitably dying.

At first I didn’t notice I was picking more. It starts off with just a couple spots. Mostly they look like this…

That is, thankfully, one of the few I have left. And thankfully it’s on my leg and not a more noticeable part of my body…. Like where the rest were.

I play with my necklace all the time…. As it turns out, I also alternate between that, and scratching at my chest, like under my collar bone and above my breasts. For the last two months, I’ve looked like this…

And then they all got infected. Yeah.
And no matter how much I told myself to stop scratching, id look down and realize that not only was a scratching, I was actively bleeding from it.

So, now that I’m not slowly scraping my own flesh away while pondering my impending doom. I’ll try to do better readers.


Hell Skittles

Ok, seriously.

This needs to be asked. This needs to be answered.

What the hell is wrong with the Skittles ad team???

Guys, girls, deliriously twisted peeps whose mommies obviously didn’t hold them enough, WHAT THE FUCKING DUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU???

The above is deeply upsetting to my brain cells.

Are you receiving treatment? Do you need drugs? Because if it’s a financial issue I will start a fucking fundraiser to buy you people psych meds.

Since your brains are either completely malnourished or currently being controlled by the twitching fingers of satan itself, let me fill you in…

There are things that make people want candy. Most things make people want candy. I should know. I’m a people. There are very few things that don’t make people want candy.

Gee that’s odd looking…

Dear all that is holy no!

Watching people eat someone’s skittle sweat, pull skittle pox out of someone’s face and pop them right into their mouths, or FRENCH A DUDE IN ORDER TO PULL OUT AND EAT HIS SKITTLE TEETH does not make people want candy.

The only kind of “people” (and I’m using that term loosely because I am in no way convinced you aren’t hell spawn come to kill my childlike joy) that would think these images are appetizing, are those with an unhealthy obsession regarding ingesting parts of human flesh.

I believe y’all are insane. And not the quirky kind of insane that this generation finds so appealing. You, Skittle Ad Spawn, are the kind of insane that involves recreating their sicko fantasies under the guise of selling candy.

None of the above makes me want to go out and taste the motherfucking rainbow. It makes me want to cleanse my eyeballs with bleach while huddling in a corner twitching.

I’m slightly concerned that your company is secretly trying to brainwash the masses to accept small scale cannibalism.

This is serious shit, people. Laugh now, but one day, we are going to wake up to small children straddling us, holding pliers, and laughing maniacally as they ask if we have a “sweet” tooth.

Suddenly puns are terrifying.

I Am Trying

This post may be long, and not because i’m full of unexpressed creative genius. I am not full of the creativity lately. Mostly because I’m full of the random but overwhelming urge to do a multitude of self damaging and increasingly insane things.

So let’s dig in.

I cut. It happened. I did everything I could to avoid it. I really did.

One night, a few weeks ago, I had a panic attack all the way home from work.

By the time I got home, I had practically bathed in my tears, and my fingers were tingling from the over oxygenation of my blood, which occurs when your brain tells you to gasp for air with all your lung’s might because, despite the knowledge that you really are getting air (because you’d be dead by now, if not) you feel like the world has shoved a giant downy pillow in your face holes.

I’m talking the kind of tear bath where, hours later, you can run your fingers over your skin and actually feel the salt leftover once the water has gone. Crusty, gross feeling, eyeball salt.

I managed not to throw myself out of my speeding car, or crash said car into any immovable objects. I pulled into my driveway, stumbled my way into the house knowing full well I was riding the crazy bus, and grabbed the closest knife.

Then I dropped it on the counter and went upstairs where I laid in bed, and did not move, for 5 hours, except to pet the severely confused cats who came to visit me. The severely confused cats who were, in actuality, wondering why the fuck they hadn’t been fed, and may have been subconsciously waiting for me to die so they could feast upon my tear seasoned flesh.


I laid there until another human being was in the house. Until someone was there to kick my ass if I tried anything stupid. Because, trust me, I know it’s stupid.

And when John got home I was still leaking crazy fluids. I continued to spontaneously leak crazy fluids all night, but I didn’t cut.

Then the next day I didn’t leave the knife on the counter.


And for the next few days I was fine. Totally fucking fine. Except when the doctor asked if my cat had scratched me. And when I had to rummage for pants because all my dresses showed my leg.
And when my husband sighed and held me a little tighter than normal because he was scared.
And when I thought about how long I’d managed to not do that. And how I had laid in bed, unmoving, needing to pee like hell, just to not do that.

Basically, my brain was at war with my emotional state.

Brain: “Stop laughing! knock it off! you have no reason to feel good today. Feel like shit you crazy, unmedicated, self mutilating fuck up!”

Emotions: “Nah man, it’s ok. Really! See, everything’s fine.”

Brain: “Everything is not fucking fine. You carved your leg up. Look at it! Look what you did!”

Emotions: ” Dude, stop being such a prick. It’s no big deal. It’s not like I offed myself. I could’ve offed myself you know.”

Brain: “That is self defeating bullshit and you know it!”

Emotions: “Fuck you. I have Cheetos. Everything’s awesome.”

Brain: “Aren’t you on a diet?”

Emotions: “Damnit!”

And that’s how it do. Lately my brain and my emotions are never simpatico. Never. They just don’t line up. i feel like the world is crashing when everything is fine, and i have unexplained giggling fits when i should be broken. And the whole time my brain’s floating around up there going…

Dude, you are seriously fucked up.

Yeah, brain. I know. I totally and for real, completely know. There just isn’t jack shit to do about it. This body is stuck in bipolar gear right now and it ain’t moving till the engine blows.

I have stalled on any and all decision making. I can’t decide if this is good or not, because I’m not sure if I can trust my thoughts.

Am I putting decisions on hold because I know I’m unstable right now, and it’s not wise to make decisions while unstable….

Or is that actually irrational fear talking, and this is your crazy’s way of putting your life on hold?

Everything from the desire to get my hair cut, to wanting kids, to thinking maybe Pomeranians aren’t so obnoxious (side note: yes, yes they are) comes into question. There’s the possibility of a fucked up subconscious motive for everything when you’re that depressed.

Example: I want to cut my hair. Except, why would I want to do that when I’ve been trying to grow it out? Oh yeah, maybe because you feel hideous and disgusting and just want to see something different, anything different, when you look in the mirror.

Then when you give in and cut it, you beat the shit outta yourself for sabotaging your own goals.

Depression= sabotaging yourself. Get it?

Getting a haircut is a rather shallow and simplistic example, but if that sort of decision can get so magically fucked up, just imagine what happens with big ones.

Anyways, this is where I am. And if I don’t do something soon, this is where I’ll stay.

So I dug up something from my past that always made the world seem a little bit softer.


It’s a pillow pallet. A pillow pallet made of every pillow in my house, that takes up about 90% of my living room.

When I was young, before the crazy set in, before my sister and I learned the wonders of hallucinations, and just how shitty human beings really are, we built pillow pallets.

I remember.

I remember we played video games and watched movies together for hours. The floor would be covered in snack remains, and we’d have deep circles under our eyes from lack of sleep, or from squinting too hard while our characters battled on the screen.


Before video games we’d play Barbies and Polly Pockets on our pillow pallets. And my sister would construct fabulous flea homes out of shoe boxes, and I’d narrate entire melodramas for my characters, using words most kids my age had never heard of.

We’d hang sheets and prop up walls made of quilts around our pillows and we played house, and our babies (usually played by a stuffed animal, or an extremely patient pet cat stuffed in doll clothes) would lounge on the pillows with us.

Sometimes our Barbies would live in nudist colonies because my stubby fingers couldn’t get the tiny clothes on.
Sometimes our babies would hiss and run for their lives because we were wielding nail polish and lipstick.

Sometimes my sister was faking her happiness, for me, because my sister is 8 years older than me… And the darkness was already coming for her.

But she played with me.

And we laughed.

And we were safe in our pillow fortress. We were safe even though I was already having the death nightmares. We were safe even though I didn’t have friends at school. Because my best friend’s father found out I wasn’t baptized, and she wasn’t allowed to play with me anymore. We were safe, for years.

Even when the darkness came for me too, and I’d wake up to the world sounding different, and my body feeling numb. Before I learned the words to describe what was happening to me.

I remember feeling like the world was ok. I haven’t felt that way in a very long time, but I remember it. It was like magic

And I’m hoping that maybe, just a little of that magic can come back. I just have to remember how to call for it. How to let it back into my life.

I have to at least try.

I amtrying.

And i need to remember… When my brain is screaming and my emotions are beating me into dirt….

I am trying.
I am trying.
I am trying.

And that’s all I can do.

When There’s Blood on the Ceiling

What do you do when you’re trying to sleep and letters keep appearing on the ceiling written in blood?

Who gives a fuck about letters???

I’m more concerned with the disembodied floating head giving me the evil eye!


What Fuckery Is This?

I have never done a product review on this blog. There are many reasons for this; everyone does it so why should I, I buy cheap shit and expect cheap shit to behave as such, and I inherently believe all product descriptions and advertisements to be at best vaguely outlandish exaggerations of what you can actually expect and believe anyone who disagrees with me is painfully naive.

But this… This bastard of a product….

This glorious looking nail polish would be Revlon’s Moon Candy.
And i want you to know something, Revlon. For many weeks I have strolled by these tubes of gleeful sparkles and resisted the temptation to buy it, on account of it retailing anywhere from $7-$10, depending on how hard your store is ass-ravaging you with a spiky strap on.

But today I gave in. Today, the five year old princess who lives inside all of us girls, despite our repeated attempts to drown her in fruity alcohol, won out. Today, I purchased my own hunk of glittering joy.

Except, no.

First off, what the fuck Revlon? You may not be the world’s bitchingest name brand, but I’ve always believed you to be a respectable maker of makeup. I have purchased many a product from you, and while your lipsticks don’t actually last 24 hours, as your glossy print claims, I have always relied on it not to flake off my face at the first sign of a breeze. But this shit?

There is one thing a nail polish should not be, Revlon.

One thing.

A nail polish should not be clumpy.
And you, Revlon, have unleashed all sorts of fuckery upon us with this product. This fucking product, which I can only describe as having the same consistency as luke warm hot-glue.

In some ways, your naming of this product is apt, in that my nails now sport the same amount and variation of craters as the glowing orb upon which I curse this glittering goop.

Now, dear Revlon, I don’t want you to get the wrong impression of me. I do not rage upon innocent companies for the smallest error. I am a fair person, so though I noticed this goopy affect, and the fact that the sparkles covered my nails sparsely and utterly pathetically, I gave it another go.

Hey, maybe I just wasn’t applying it with enough patience. Maybe with a steady hand, I could indeed apply a Moon Candy French Manicure.

At this attempt I say, fuck you Revlon.

Fuck. You.

See, after two applications of, what I shall now refer to as my withering dreams, not only does it still look like a two year old smeared their Elmer’s glue upon my fingertips, but my bottle is half fucking empty.

Half empty.

And I’m being generous.
And what is truly sad, Revlon, is that you didn’t fail so horribly while reaching to achieve a never before seen affect.


Nail polish with motherfucking glitter in it has existed my entire life. In fact, smooth motherfucking glitter polish has existed my entire life, and you can buy it for about three bucks from other brands. Cheap brands. The kind whose lipsticks flake off in a limp breeze.

You failed at achieving the same level of product quality that every other brand has achieved with little to no effort, and then you sold it for twice the price.

You’re a cunt canoe, Revlon. You’re full of lies.

And I just want you to know that I know that.

I Baked and Stuff

So my last post was a little rage filled. This happens from time to time, but overall I think it was a good thing. That guy pissed me off.

I was pissed.

I felt something other than suffocating emptiness and inescapable Doom.

You think that sounds cliche don’t you? Yeah. Try it sometime. Then judge me.

Anyways, it made me think about something. Why, when someone I know that struggles with depression, gets attacked for their “weakness” is it so easy for me to rush to their defense? Why do I know, so strongly, that they deserve credit for even continuing to be alive….

But when it’s me that’s on the low, all I do is give myself shit? What the fuck self?

How can I look at someone who is the mental mirror image of myself and be filled with awe and inspiration at their choice to continue existing, and then look at myself and see nothing but failure?

I can spend 99% of my day in hysterical tears, crying the sort of ugly cry that only crazy people can aspire to, and what will I do with that little 1%? Bitch at myself for not doing the dishes.

The fucking dishes. Because that’s totally something worth mental self flagellation. Obviously I have some issues.

I shall work on this. In the meanwhile, I baked things for my husband.

Cuz I’m the shit. The crazy self intolerant shit.


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