Ruby Spurflower, Girl Detective
…Unless those thoughts are the funny kind of mean, in which case, grow away and then give them to me in a bouquet.

…Unless those thoughts are the funny kind of mean, in which case, grow away and then give them to me in a bouquet.

(Source: lloveflowersandyou)

Sharks v. Jets v. Elliot

This Tiny Buddy is Elliot.

When we go on walks, it’s very, very important to him that he pee on stuff. These walks tend to get boring for me. So I’ve started thinking about it like a turf war, where I’m helping Elliot stake his claim on land (mailboxes, plants, curbs) that is rightfully his. It’s all a little colonialist for my taste, but I guess don’t hate the player, hate the game. 

Because he is the size of a loaf of Wonderbread on stilts, I consider this very serious business. He’s a little dude and he doesn’t get a lot of “wins” in life, so defending his territory against other animals is very important to him.

Today we conquered the courtyard of a nearby shopping center and a path behind a hotel. Go, tiny buddy, go.

New “Psychology Today” post, where I realize that waiting around until PEARLS OF WISDOM FLOW FROM MY FINGERS is really just a waste of time, ‘cause sometimes I’m too sick for that shit. Also, it’ll make you think a lot about spiders.

Listen, I don’t know if it’s just me, but I’m tired of eating fois gras.
Top Chef judge, who appears to be READING MY THOUGHTS
Sweet! It’s time for my favorite show, “Have Turkey Neck?” !
(PS this is a real screen cap I took)
(God bless 7am)

Sweet! It’s time for my favorite show, “Have Turkey Neck?” !

(PS this is a real screen cap I took)

(God bless 7am)

…But will it protect your FACE from my FIST?

I went to yoga today and it turns out THIS shirt exists:

image

The arrogance of this statement is staggering. It turns out this dumb shirt is part of a “movement” to encourage health through holistic means, “based on the principles of yoga.” Can you hear my eyes rolling?

Listen, I love alternative medicine. I’m a crunchy granola feminist who unironically reads books about “the goddess.” I practice yoga. I also happen to be chronically ill. You know what doesn’t help me get out of bed? Yoga. (Or “its principles”, or diet, or positive thinking, or any other alt philosophies I have chased for years.) Do you know what does help me get out of bed? Treatments, paid for by my actual health insurance.

This dumb shirt also makes the self-satisfied implication that its wearer has “placed out” of getting sick or hurt because she is enlightened enough to practice yoga. She’s not just living inside an illusion, but she’s also being kind of a dick about it. 

I didn’t realize “hubris” was a yogic principle, but ok. I guess if she gets hit by a bus or something she can use the mala beads around her neck to pray herself better.

Pearls of Self-Deception

I found a trail of pearls meandering along my carpet. “Ooo,” some part of my brain cooed. “Shiny pearls, hidden among the fibers!” The phrase “she walked with pearls at her feet” popped into my head. It was a whole lot of romance for 7am.

Then I remembered I had been working on a necklace in bed and a strand of loose pearls must’ve gotten stuck to me when I got up at 3am. It seems to have hung on for awhile, because pearls made it into several different rooms. Then I looked at my gym shorts and lopsided ponytail and the rest of the romance imploded and died.

STILL MAGIC, THOUGH.

-From “Today I Died”, a photo series about a beloved dog’s perfect day before he was put down.
This series is perfect, heart-wrenching, lovely. It’s struck a chord with people, for good reason, and it’s getting shared all over the place.
Why don’t we do this for our people, too? This is exactly how I want to die. If (or when) I have a terminal diagnosis, I’d love nothing more than a parade of loved ones, (metaphorical) belly rubs, and a plate of cheeseburgers for breakfast. This strikes me as the kindest way to die: both for the deceased and her loved ones.
Some people are already hip to this truth, usually after a long struggle. A chaplain friend told me about attending a “funeral” party held for a terminally ill man while he was still alive. Friends and family flew in to town, everyone danced and sang and celebrated him and partied. He got all the belly rubs and all the cheeseburgers. This is one of the best deaths I’ve ever heard of.
My big take-away from this is not “we should live every day like it’s our last!” (eye roll). It’s “we should all get to die like this beloved dog.”

-From “Today I Died”, a photo series about a beloved dog’s perfect day before he was put down.

This series is perfect, heart-wrenching, lovely. It’s struck a chord with people, for good reason, and it’s getting shared all over the place.

Why don’t we do this for our people, too? This is exactly how I want to die. If (or when) I have a terminal diagnosis, I’d love nothing more than a parade of loved ones, (metaphorical) belly rubs, and a plate of cheeseburgers for breakfast. This strikes me as the kindest way to die: both for the deceased and her loved ones.

Some people are already hip to this truth, usually after a long struggle. A chaplain friend told me about attending a “funeral” party held for a terminally ill man while he was still alive. Friends and family flew in to town, everyone danced and sang and celebrated him and partied. He got all the belly rubs and all the cheeseburgers. This is one of the best deaths I’ve ever heard of.

My big take-away from this is not “we should live every day like it’s our last!” (eye roll). It’s “we should all get to die like this beloved dog.”

Totes vintage.

I just filled a prescription for Tincture of Opium, which feels sexy and illicit (…if you look past its childproof cap.) I assume it will lead me down a dark alley that ends in jazz music and beat poetry.

When I was about fifteen I was given a Morphine drip after a surgery. I remember half-joking, half-seriously telling my mom I didn’t want to end up like the cranky old hag Morphine addict in “To Kill a Mockingbird.” She told me not to worry. 

I believe you’re in a special class of patient when you get the “vintage drugs.” It feels a little bit like, “ugh, we give up. Here, take this. It destroyed empires, so good luck with that.” 

It’s too bad there isn’t centuries of great art made about responsible, modest use of painkillers out of medical necessity. YET. (Get excited for my fascinating upcoming memoir, working title “half the dosage and see how you feel”! It’s gonna be sexy as fuuuuuuck.)

One of the best things about having a small dog who loves burrowing is that, when he disappears, I just walk around my house patting lumps in blankets until I find him.