Ruby Spurflower, Girl Detective
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:

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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.

If you’re the smartest person in the room, you’re in the wrong room.

(via metalhearted)

Oh man. Too true.

I went on a date with a dude once who clearly thought he was the smartest person in the room. It made me feel kind of tender toward him, in a condescending way: “oh, honey. You are so wrong. Now shut that pretty mouth of yours and buy me a damned lobster.”

The Actual Smartest Person in the Room never thinks they are. (If they do, they are a jerk: social intelligence is as important as book learnin’, so they fail that count.) Truly brilliant people tend to recognize just how much they do not know. Mediocre minds tend to look around and go, “Yup, nailed it!” even when they most certainly have not nailed anything.

The moral: if you think you’re the smartest person in the room, start asking better questions. Maybe everyone legitimately is dumber than you, but I guarantee they have knowledge you don’t. Dig a little. You might learn something. (Then again, that “something” might be, “Christ, what a bunch of mouth-breathers,” in which case you learned to stop hanging out at Rick Perry fundraisers.)

And while I’m dispensing the Pro-Tips, here’s another one: I was kidding about the lobster. Never be indebted to a narcissist. You can take that one to the bank!

(Source: metalhearted)

Razor’s Edge

Is it possible to buy a razor without feeling like I am personally funding all female subjugation everywhere? Lady-razors are all named things like “Don’t Ask Me, I’m Just a Girl!” or “Pay Me .70 on the Dollar!” I picked up a package and felt like $10 was flying out of my pocket, setting fire to a Planned Parenthood, and giving John Boehner a back massage. Not cool, $10!

I would buy dude-razors because whatever, metal on a stick shouldn’t have a gender, but they’re no better. Their razors are called things like “Punch a hobo!” and “ROID RAGE”.

This is all way more gender theory than I want to contemplate when I’m holding an 18-pack of toilet paper.

I am hereby launching my new, gender-neutral razor line. It’s called “Smooth ‘n’ Threatening” and this is our logo.

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"Get Smooth. Get Threatening."

robotcosmonaut:

We Must Never, Ever Be Boring
"The teacher began by talking about the nature of pets. Years later I can still remember his definition of a pet: A little tuft of consciousness that circles around a person like a moon around a planet, and completes their energy field making them more whole.” 
-Rachel Naomi Remen, MD

"The teacher began by talking about the nature of pets. Years later I can still remember his definition of a pet: A little tuft of consciousness that circles around a person like a moon around a planet, and completes their energy field making them more whole.” 

-Rachel Naomi Remen, MD