Factoid of the day

The probable originator of the word "copacetic" (or so he claims) is none other than dancer and integration pioneer Bill Robinson--- "Mr. Bojangles" himself. Interesting bio on that fellow.

Remind me when the date gets closer

...have decided to decorate my kids' house for Halloween---- with Hogwarts banners; a couple of Dementors; and a lighted stag, preferably remaindered from Christmas (plus other "Patronus" animals as available).

If nothing else, it is an excuse to serve chocolate and encourage small children to run face-first into walls.

Self love

If you haven't figured it out yet, reader, I love selfies.

Actually, I love taking pictures of faces, the change in them, how they reflect (or don't--- resting bitch face is the original "death of the author") the person behind them, how one face can be a thousand different things, the angles, etc. But I know that no-one, absolutely no-one, has the patience for what I want, especially because sometimes the aim is not "pretty" but "story-worthy," that is, looking like a Moth (I've actually taken a few shots of my father that I love, but he frowns on having them shared without permission, as he very much should). So I selfie. My model is patient and easily amused.

And I post it on Instagram. About one out of ten photos on my feed is just, y'know, me. Or my amazing 90's leather jacket that I bought that I happen to be wearing. Ditto squid hat. (Look, you have your things, I have mine, kay? And my thing is a squid hat. It's fucking awesome and every time I put it on, I am instantly transported with joy.)

Where it's apparently a thing that Random Dude* has decided that a visible selfie on your Instagram feed changes it to "Tindergram" and you want the D and are a bitch when you don't react well to having someone slide into your DM's. Add that to the thing-that-is-apparently-also-a-thing where a group of Channers have decided that it's funny to hit on visible lesbians on Instagram...

I dunno. It feels crummy when I see that "The69Amazing69Rando wants to send [me] a message," and it's same-ol', same-ol' time. I want to make my feed private, but that feels like giving in to the people who think the price of existing in a public space as a woman interested in self-expression is being constantly solicited for sex and pretending that this is not incredibly invasive and discourteous because, hey, what were you doing in the same space as a man's eyeballs if you didn't want him to share information about his jerk-off techniques?

It it NOT my job to crumple in the path of male entitlement. It is NOT okay to ask me to pretend that this is not misogyny, or that misogyny is not a problem. It is my job to keep making art, even though there are assholes who think it's okay to be jerks to me because of it.

*Random Dude is Florida Man's cousin. You want neither of them at your barbecue.

Story idea

"Well, it's a bit misleading, isn't it? If you or I had any choice whatsoever in the matter, we'd choose someone else. Anyone else, in point of fact. But the Prophecy is quite clear."

The more I think about it...

...I used to put a lot of effort into hating myself and beating myself up.

I... think that was really self-important of me. Like, it really doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things whether I hate myself. I'm watching a lot of people flip out and act like it's horrible not to hate others when they have done wrong, that trust and forgiveness is a sign of not protecting the weak, that people don't grow and learn and that you can't come back from horrible mistakes and Real People are born having figured out the important stuff, even though few people around them have it figured out and a significant number of the people who say they have figured it out are lying. That's fine, I guess, if that's how you need the world to be, but it's not me and it's not helping me.

I think how I feel about the world (I love it and I constantly want to tell it how beautiful and amazing it is) is more important than how I feel about myself (ugh).

Maybe that's not fine, I don't know, but it feels right.

The categorical imperative

I get most of my furniture from the trash.

Now, the purist, the advocate of law (:cough: Jason :cough:), says that this is unethical of me. One, it is legally not my property and it is protected by law; two, it is preying upon (usually) people who have been evicted or left the apartment by other tragic means; three, it is taking food out of the mouths of honest furniture-makers by depriving them of money. He has a point. Several. (Although I think he just has funny ideas about things being tainted by having been placed near a dumpster.)

I'm not a purist. Maybe I'm tainted. Maybe I'm an alloy.

Because for all his points, I'm still horking shit out of the trash.

Because one, that law protecting trash as property, it serves two purposes: a. to protect people from identity theft and privacy violations (which is neither the end nor a side effect of my having a coffee table to refinish); two, does it actually help those people for me to not grab their furniture? Or even, does my taking their furniture (and giving it back, theoretically, if I find out how to reach them) affect the likelihood of them reaching these straits one way or the other? Three, I'm honestly not going to buy furniture at this point in my life. I am paying down my debt hard and occasionally splurging on art, bath products, and emergency-preparedness supplies, plus donations to non-profits. The sort of furniture I can afford new probably involves slave labor and ruinous environmental practices. And the environment, speaking of, is better off for having this used instead of bulking up the landfills.

I think.

But once in a while, I feel like I probably should be the target of an episode of Adam Ruins Everything


Finishing up my shift today, scurried out to get the laundry. My sweet and doe-eyed hippy neighbor was out, saying something firm to a male friend.

When I came back from grabbing the sheets, the grass was on fire in a couple of places, her friend was huffing off in his car, and it appears that the door and the steps and porch leading up to it had been peed on. I stomped out the fire and stayed out until his car left.

Not all men, but yes, all women, even at seven in the bluidy morning.