Am I Wicked or Just Tired

Let’s take a break from the insanity and return to the near-normalcy that is my life lately.

If you saw the Home page at any point, you can clearly see that I have little ones at home. I have older ones who live with their grandmother until I can really get my life together, but until then, it’s me and the little ones from Monday morning until Thursday afternoons. If I’m not at work, I am responsible for my kids, and if I don’t have the kids, I’m usually at work.

I usually shove 40-ish hours into the days I don’t have the boys. I’ve been doing that since before the pandemic. Actually, I was shoving about 60 hours into a 3.5 day weekend because I had two serving jobs. Needless to say when Monday rolls around, I am exhausted, but it’s right to mom duties when I wake up.

Let me take a moment right here and say: We’re all exhausted. We have been in crisis mode for almost two years. Two years. The pandemic and economic crises are nearly toddlers. We are not to be in crisis mode for this long. In addition to all the outer planets going retrograde at the same time?

We’re all coming out of this with PTSD or some shit.

I sometimes wonder if maybe I am a bad person because doesn’t the song go “Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked?” Am I wicked? Why can’t I just fucking rest sometimes? When can I close my eyes? Does it have to be when I close my eyes for good?

(If you have no idea what song I’m talking about, we’re not friends anymore)

Monday afternoon rolls around after my 40.5 hour weekend, and I had just cleaned most of the house, started laundry, done three tarot readings, picked up the little one from daycare, ran home, let the dog out, finished cleaning, let the demon dog back in the house, ran to the bigger one’s school because the bus was running over an hour late and hadn’t even picked him up yet, gotten back home, microwaved something for dinner, drank a protein shake, and we finally laid down in my room to watch a movie arrrrooooouuuunnnnddd 730P.

That’s the last thing I remember before I suddenly woke up at 8:58P freaking the fuck out.

The microwave trays and their little desks are gone.
There is no movie on my TV.
There are no child noises.
There is no pitter patter, stomp stomp, or clickety clack of little feet, bigger feet, or paws.
There are absolutely no noises whatsoever in the entire house.

WHERE THE FUCK ARE MY CHILDREN?

All of these things go through my head in less than half a second, so don’t get this idea that I woke up and laid in bed contemplating where the small humans were. It took me longer to type out what I didn’t hear than it did for me to jump out of bed and tear into the living room and check the doors.

Huh… front door is locked. Oh, so is the back door? I feel a little better, but where is the dog? He’s usually right up my ass if I so much as move from my bed to my desk.

I go into the boys’ room.

The Tiny Titan and Wordless Wonder put themselves to bed. They turned on their window rocker and covered themselves with their blankets. The Demon Dog was laying across Tiny Titan’s legs and looking at me like I had lost my mind.

This might have been a huge mom fail, but I’m going to take the win where I can get it. They both know how things run in Mommy’s house, and they respect it. That’s what I’m talking about!

I just realized I’m going to have to run that laundry again because I never took it out. Dammit, man.

The Slow Descent Into Chaos

If you’ve ever been there, you already know.

You don’t suddenly wake up with holes in the drywall, bruises on your arms, dents in your car’s side, and self-esteem crushed into a nice powder you wish you could snort just to get it back in your body.
What you do is wake up one day and realize: HOLY SHIT what the actual fuck am I doing?

And for me, it was also realizing the parts of this chaos I was responsible for.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it, again:
I am not innocent in this. I egged on the crazy after being pushed to the point (multiple times) where I should have just left. I’m an unusually calm and slow to react person, but there’s only so much crazy you can expose yourself to before it starts rubbing off and you start becoming the crazy.

First, I rationalized drug use. Yes, I rationalized that drug…
“Oh, I didn’t even know he was high? Okay, maybe it’s not that bad. He’s just painting and crafting. This doesn’t seem so bad… When is he gonna bust out the toothbrush and clean though? Fuck, man, wrong kind of tweaker.”

Then, I let the angry outbursts slide.
“He’s always been super quick to get angry, but it’s all words. I don’t like the yelling and screaming, but I’m sure we can talk about this when he calms down.”

After weeks(?) months(?), it started wearing me thin…

He was coming home at first light instead of in a few hours like he said, and I was losing my mind. He’d walk in the door. The gloves would already be off:

Him: What are you doing up?
Me: Waiting to see if your fuck ass was going to be back with my car or if I was going to have to report it stolen.
Him: Stop overreacting. I’m here.
Me: I wish you weren’t.
Him: Just let me sleep.
Me: No, fuck you like I know you were fucking those bitches using my car, fucking scrub.

I learned that day being called a “scrub” is one of his triggers.

He walked into the living room, and we kept arguing. I might have said something like “it’s no wonder your mother beat the shit out of you if you were anything like you are now.”

He picked up a heavy wooden, would-be table top I had painted to look like a full moon and threw it at the TV in the living room.

“Oh, okay.”

I ran into the room and tried to snatch his PS4 out of the shelf he had built for it.
He snatched me up by the waist and threw me on the bed, holding me down.
I punched him I don’t know how many times on the back of the head.
He wailed into my ribs.

The next day was my birthday, October 22nd. It was a normal day.
First week of November, we found a girl we both liked.
Life was good, but he found another line to cross and fucked her before I got home.

Not cool, dude. Not cool.

Me, My Ex, and Meth Pt 2

Continued from here.

Ex texts me. I tell him everything is gone. Scrappers came and took all the tools, the extra engine, the extra transmission (yes, I had an extra engine and trans in my house for him
), the engine hoist, the jacks, He loses his mind. He’s sending me texts that literally look like this:

“NONO NONJJUOIU MO NOOOOO ITS ALLLL LGOMMEEE NOOO”

But the texts were blocks and blocks long. I could scroll through these angry, sad messages without any input from me.

“HOW COUHLD HUKIYOU NJ OK NO ONONONI GAHJB ITS ALLLLLLL GOKE NONONONOOOOOOO RUCKKKKK”

Then silence. Blessed silence. Until about an hour later when I get a text.

From his new girl of course. He hasn’t ever told me this is the new girl. I don’t think he ever identified her as his new girl even to himself, buttttttt when a girl loses her mind on another girl for tagging a dude, you can deduce a little something something of how at least she feels about things.

She took him to the emergency room because he cut off his pinky. Mind you, neither of them have a car, and she doesn’t have a license because she has unpaid court costs in addition to an active warrant.

She texts me:

“I took [him] to the hospital because he cut off his finger. He is so upset about his car and now this.”

My response:

“That sucks, but it’s not my problem. Please don’t message me again unless it’s about getting his car out of my driveway.”

And then I blocked them both.

He ended up texting me from a text app (those things are the devil I swear to god). I’m past the point of caring, so he gets upset that I’m not sad about him cutting off his own finger. He claims I’m cold-hearted, heartless, lack all empathy, and might have said I was a sociopath.

Honestly, every time he fucks me over like this and takes off, something brutal happens to him. Examples:

  • His molar abscessed and needed to be removed.
  • He had a flair up of shingles.
  • He loses all of his possessions because his roommates move rooms without him and take his stuff.

It takes him two weeks to convince his former stepdad to tow the car to his childhood home. I get notified that someone is in my driveway from my camera, so I’m watching the shenanigans as best I can from work. For a little bit, I felt my heart hurting because my ex had told me so much about his childhood and the traumas in it, but then his stepdad kicked my cat.

FUCK HIM, FUCK THE STEPDAD, FUCK THE CAR. KICK MY CAT YOU ASSHOLE, OKAY. I GOT A SOUR JAR WITH YOUR NAME IN IT.

Flashforward:

My ex and I are still in passive fucking mode for a while, but then we stop. Since he isn’t living in my home and instead driving around in a stolen U-Haul and staying in whatever hotel for a night at a time, my ex doesn’t take very good care of his pinky. He’s still smoking meth. It takes a month for half the pinky to reconnect and stitches to dissolve, but the other half was still not connected when he got arrested on 9/11.

Yeah. He got arrested. Somehow that was also my fault. Stay tuned. I’ll go into that and what’s happened since then in a later blog.

My own life went sideways not having him in the house, but it ended up being I just needed an impact crate for my dog. His worth to me at the end of the day? One $300 crate and some doggy Xanax.

The First Time

If you want to skip the background information, I don’t blame you. That shit is depressing. Scroll until the bullet points stop.

Before I used, I was in the darkest place I have ever been. In a nutshell:

  • My younger children’s father had called CPS because he thought I was having a manic episode. Why? Because I wasn’t doing what he thought I should be doing. I had been diagnosed Bipolar Type 2 the first year after my third born’s birth, but I had told him multiple times the psychiatrist who took 15 minutes to diagnose me was wrong. He didn’t want to hear that at this point. Before any usage, he threatened me multiple times he wasn’t going to give me my children back after the weekend. (Summer/Fall 2019)
  • Once CPS is in your life, it’s nearly impossible to get rid of them. The stress of having them around actually caused things that deserved them being in my life. That’s what you call irony and poor choices. Instead of relying on the more gentle parenting I had learned, I fell back into the type of parenting that I had as a child. That shit is not healthy and I cannot begin to explain the regret I have for falling back on that. (Fall/Winter 2019)
  • I had sent my oldest two semen demons (aka children) to live with their grandmother because I could feel things crumbling around me. I miss them every day and feel like the biggest failure for not stopping the snowball right there. That should have been my line, but I still believed I could make everything work. Honestly, my heathens and wanting to get my life in order for them is the only reason I quit. I didn’t care enough about myself at this point. (January/February 2020)
  • COVID shut down restaurants, made me part-time for the first time ever. I had to figure out how to make ends meet, so I started sewing masks while waiting for unemployment in FLORIDA to come through. I needed to focus, overcome anxiety, and keep up my energy… ADHD meds are amazing. Further proof that I’m not bipolar. Hyperfocus, depression, and anxiety are all symptoms of untreated ADD, especially in adult women. (March 2020)
  • Stimulus hits, unemployment comes through, meth is introduced into my household, Ex starts disappearing, set up cameras in the house, catch Ex bringing a girl into the house, hear Ex fucking girl in my house, get gaslit so hard because I wanted to believe him, restaurants open back up. I’m working two restaurant jobs Thursday thru Sundays to have totally devoted days to my little ones. (Spring/Summer 2020)
  • Friends and family have dropped off. Not because of Ex. I have my doubts he’s a true narcissist vs a highly damaged individual because he always encouraged me to have friends and family over, but I naturally became isolated due to COVID making everyone scared of being around other people. COVID made things worse, but I accepted the behavior. I failed to reach out.

Things are going off the rails, but my bills are paid.
That’s what matters, right?
That’s the marker of a real adult, right?

Except I’m watching my friend of years destroy himself.
Except I’m watching the relationship that brought me back to myself slipping away.
Except I’m feeling more and more like I’m just not enough.

One day, Ex brings home a pistol. For reasons, it was kinda sorta necessary. It was in a safe place in my room next to his stash. This is important because of the next part.

Ex is off somewhere. Weeks later, I learned that he was with a chick, but at that point, I didn’t really care. I had heavy mental blanket suffocating me. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t feel. I couldn’t talk to anyone because we’re still in COVID times. Everyone’s life is rough. Why would I put my burdens at someone else’s feet?

It’s probably around noon? Noon feels right, but I’m not sure. I’m still laying in bed. It’s a Wednesday, so the last day of having the little ones before giving them to their father who started the CPS domino effect and a hellacious 4-day weekend of 60 hours. I’m researching meth and pharmaceutical usages.

Did you know doctors can prescribe you methamphetamine hydrochloride for the most extreme cases of ADD? Clinical meth in controlled dosages.

The thought of the pistol and the stash goes through my head. I’m so alone I figure that one or the other of those is going to fix my problem right now. If I can get the dosage correct, what’s the difference between the pharmaceutical version and this?
(Spoiler Alert: a fucking lot)

I stand up and look at the shelf. One of these two things has the potential to fix me right now. The darkness in my head feels like it’s squeezing the breath out of me. My chest is tight, my vision is blurred. Am I crying? Am I really that weak? What’s the difference? They’re both kinda shiny. I can feel the weight of all my fuck ups sitting in my gut. Everyone I failed… I mean the kids would get survivor benefits checks no matter how it happened…

Everything hurts. Why can’t one thing be easy? Little ones start fighting in the living room.

I grab the baggy, grab the scale, grab some water to wash it down.

Am I a fuck up? Absolutely. But I still am.

After about an hour, it kicked in. I started crafting with the kids and cleaned the whole house. Without knowing what I had done, Ex showed up and said,

“I like you like this.”

Me, My Ex, and Meth

There’s a lot to uncover, but this is the beginning of my final healing. This is probably going to be a series, but here’s the first installation.

I’ve been waking up at 4AM consistently for the last couple of weeks. I’m a huge believer of the Chinese health clock ever since it lined up with my gallbladder being an asshole and trying to kill me at midnight.

seriously, check it out

4AM, according to the Chinese health/body clock is linked with the lungs. Makes sense because of COVID. That specific time is also lined up with sorrow which makes sense because the loss of my friend to addiction has been festering.

I realized I hadn’t written about it, and writing is how I process my emotions.
Welcome to my first therapy session about my Ex.

As some of you know, my ex is an active addict. I won’t mention names.
His DOC (drug of choice) is methamphetamine. I’m a stimulant girl.
I knew him for 3 or 4 years before we got together, and we were together for a year before his addiction exploded like a semi-truck full of Lisa Frank stickers being plowed into by a freight train with Michael’s and Joann’s newest inventory of crafting glitter.

Initial reaction is to blame him for everything that happened, but I’ve gotten to a place that I can say:

I allowed all of this to happen.
I’m not a terrible person.
I made bad choices.

Anyway, his usage started jumping off after the first round of COVID stimulus and still hasn’t stopped.

The entire time he was working on his car, he was using.
The entire time he was sleeping around and cheating on me, he was using.
Every time we fought, screamed, punched, kicked, body slammed, smashed each other’s most beloved belongings, called the police, damaged the other’s car, we were using.

I am not innocent in this. Thankfully, my brain chemistry is different for some reason and addiction isn’t my thing. After 4-6 weeks, I noticed that all the extra concentration and motivation was requiring more and lasting shorter periods of time. The pay-off wasn’t nearly enough for the drawbacks, so I quit. It took a while to completely cut it off, but that’s because I was so sleep deprived and unable to sleep for chunks of time to recuperate due to kids and work. At least, those were the reasons I gave myself until I finally just said,

FUCK IT, I’M DONE… NO MORE

I still don’t understand what gave me that ability, but I thank the Universe I have it.

Anyway, so the ex and I split up I don’t even know how many times.

I attempted an eviction in November, but filed the wrong one because he wasn’t a tenant at that point. He was a squatter in the eyes of the court which is a different eviction process.

He’d leave for a week; I’d be good thinking he finally found a new caretaker.
He’d show up seemingly sober only to find out, uh, nope.
He’d leave for two weeks, and I’d get messages from one chick or another.
“Have you seen him?” uh…
He’d leave for longer and longer periods of time.
I’d be happier and happier every time he was gone for longer and longer.

I let him come back to the house though.
I let it happen until I was done.

The landlord threatened to terminate my residence if I didn’t clean up the yard of all the car junk, mechanic tools, and general debris. Terminating my residence would have left me and my little ones hotel hopping during the week and me couch surfing on the weekends.

I may be a lot of things, but a complete fuck up is not one of those things.
Partial? Abso-fucking-lutely.

Being the sober one, I kicked my ass into gear. I put out that I need a dumpster and help making the phone calls. My anxiety is dumb and makes me think phone calls are the Devil. I have the dumpster scheduled to show up in a week, and it’ll be in my yard for a week. That gives Ex TWO WEEKS to come get his stuff.

the day the dumpster got delivered

At this point, Ex is with some new chick that he refuses to admit to me is the new chick.
Unless it’s on his terms, Ex and I aren’t communicating.
I’m trying to get ahold of him because I’m going to dump this shit in the dumpster.
The messages are being delivered.
I see the messages are being read.

No response though. Okay…

I had no idea how I was going to pick up a car engine and get it in the dumpster, but I knew it was gonna happen. When I decide something is going to happen, it happens one way or another.

The Monday that all the stuff gets dumped and/or taken off by scrappers (they showed up right as I was starting my dumping day), he contacts me after everything is gone.
He wants to come get his stuff.

Six+ months of free storage. Two weeks of me trying to get him to communicate.
He claims he never saw the messages. Maybe his new girl was reading and deleting them?

All his stuff is gone except what I could pack in his car. According to him, that means he’ll never be able to fix his car. I’ve ruined his life. I’m the worst, most cold-hearted person he’s ever met. He hates me. I’m selfish.

My response: “Okay, but I’m going to do what I need to do to get my life back together after what I’ve allowed to go on.”

His response? He cuts off his pinky.

To Be Continued…

On Why I’ve Been Quiet Lately

Not literally. If you know and see me in person, I haven’t been quiet, but I haven’t had time to sit and write anything. Depression, anxiety, mania, ADD, and so many other mental blocks have kept me from putting fingers to keyboard. I just have to remember I’m living my life for comedic value. One day, I’m going to put together a stand-up routine.

New job: Thriving and fighting for top dog position because this type of job is what I’m made for. Biker friendly where good service and smart ass attitude is appreciated. Literally, ME.

Relationship: It. Has. Been. A. Shit. Show. And honestly, I’ve been laughing at most of it. Deep, visceral laughter because I’m not mad about any of it and haven’t been since I got back from California to find a bunch of my shit missing from my room. I put a deadbolt on my door, but I made the mistake of opening it for same shit, different day.
*eyeroll* I was an idiot, but I’m better-ish now.

Summer with Boys: My Wordless Wonder child is in the process of getting a diagnosis and upping his therapies. The Tiny Titan turned four, and he is full-fledged attitude on stumpy legs. I miss my Technie and Chatterbox every single day, but their Bubbe is taking better care of them than I could right now as I go through post-COVID recovery.

Blog: Mostly for me, but I’m hoping I’ll be able to make this into something other people enjoy. I need to integrate the metaphysical stuff because that’s where the views are at.

Crafts and Cash: So many ideas. So little time. So much anxiety. What I’m starting to think is I’m going to be making poppets (voodoo dolls) for people. Put crafts and witch shit together, and what do you get? EXACTLY!

Tarot: I’m terrified to read my own cards and haven’t had a chance to push it because see above. I’m going to try to set up a TikTok. Look for me on #MessyTok and #WitchTok

I told a friend awhile back “I’m not ready to succeed, yet.”

I’m about ready, y’all. The struggle bus isn’t fun anymore.

If You Give a Boy A Fuse

Many of my friends have children, but almost an equal number have no interest in them. I support all of my friends in their choices, so if you don’t want to hear another story about my kids, this is your warning. Kid shit ahoy!

Background for this story: Tiny Titan had found a nickel and a red car fuse somewhere in the house earlier. Example of the fuse below (I hope we all know what a U.S. nickel looks like). I told him to put the nickel and the fuse in his pocket, but of course…

car fuse with a hand for scale

Tuesday afternoon, Tiny Titan looks up from his toys and says, “I’m going to Target. I’m gonna get my shoes.”

This surprised me for lots of reasons, but probably the biggest reason is that he’s four. How was he going to get to Target?

Ooooh, right.

Fast forward, and I’m now at Target.

Fast forward again, and we’re finishing up and heading toward check out. Then I hear,

“MOMMY! I DROPPED MY RED THING!”

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. I didn’t say it aloud, but I wanted to. I wanted to scream at him for not putting it in his pocket like I had told him to. I wanted to swear and curse at the person who left fuses lying around my house. I wanted to rip the Little House on the Prairie dresses off their hangars and tell Target how ugly some of their stuff is.

Instead of doing all the things I wanted to do, I said, “Oh, no, but I told you to put it in your pocket. How did you lose it?”

Through 4-year-old tears, he tells me how it was in his hand and how he was holding it but then he dropped it and he has to have it because it’s his red thing and if he doesn’t have it, he’s going to be so saaaaaaaaaad and he’s already sad because he doesn’t have his red thing.

I wanted to tell him too bad, so sad and leave the store. It would have been easy enough, and no one would have blamed me.

I could have done what I wanted to do, but for some reason, I didn’t. I remembered every time I had told an adult an important-to-me thing and they dismissed it. I remembered how much it hurt my little kid ego and how dumb I felt. I remembered how I stopped telling people about things that I thought were cool, interesting, or important to me.

I decided I didn’t want to be that mom. I didn’t want to be the mom who told her kid that the thing they cared about most in the world at that moment was dumb and didn’t matter. I didn’t want to dismiss something when we didn’t have anything else to do, so why not? Why not retrace our steps looking for a red fuse in the aisles? What could it hurt?

aisle of Target where we were searching

After looking at the example of the aisles of Target, I realize that I was gambling my sanity, but every parent/caretaker of a child has to tell their kid NO more often than we want to. Dammit, I didn’t have to this time.

So we looked for a car fuse in Target. We went up and down every aisle we had already been through with our eyes on the ground. I had to remind him more than once, “Are you looking?”, but he’s almost 4. That kind of thing comes with the attention span.

We didn’t find it, but that didn’t matter by the time we were done. We tried. That’s what was important.

We did find a dime though.

That was cool.

Dear Automatic Toilet

I just wanted to let you know I wasn’t done when you decided to prematurely flush and send your toilet water spraying all over my unmentionables. I was just bending forward to grab the toilet paper from the guts of the dispenser.

Not to make light of the situation, but I’m pretty sure what you did to me can be categorized as sexual assault. You don’t deserve a place in restrooms anywhere. You’re terrible, and you deserve to know it.

You, Mr. Fancified Self-Cleaning Litter Box, only make sense if you don’t stop to think about it. Yeah, I said it. Not having to touch a handle isn’t worth having to deal with you.

First, you don’t have a lid. Every time you flush, you’re spraying poop particles EVERYWHERE. On this British show, Trust Me I’m a Doctor, they found that 25-30% of people had feces (aka poop) on their hands even after washing them.

Even. After. Washing.

These people gave it the good ole college try washing their hands and still had poo hands. And you, Trouble Toilet, are just spraying that water everywhere? You probably put poo in my hair. I’m never going to get it all out…

Let’s forget about the light misting action for a moment, okay?

Why were you even invented? Because people didn’t want to have to flush a handle that everyone else has touched. You don’t even solve that problem. “Why don’t you just use toilet paper to unlock the door?”

Oh, puh-leeze. No one in the history of toileting has ever used toilet paper to open the stall door. The same hands that I was trying to avoid cross-contaminating my hands with touched the handle of the door. You failed at your one job. FAILED. PERIODT.

But my real reason for being mad today: You scare the absolute bejesus out of children. Small children have to potty, too, y’know.

They’re already scared of vacuum cleaners, and now you’re trying to destroy all the progress we made in potty training because kiddo thinks he’s going to be sucked straight to Hell with your aggressively volatile flushing?

No, YOU go straight to Hell, Mr. Lacking Latrine.

I’m tired of your shit.

The Problem
Problem Solved

In the Beginning

There was LiveJournal, and it was bad. If you didn’t have a LiveJournal, you were probably well-adjusted and didn’t suffer through “I can’t see through my bangs,” too much eyeliner, clumpy mascara, and/or none of your blacks matched because they all fade at different rates stages of adolescence.

You. Lucky. Bastard.

I never really got too into LJ because Netzero was the worst and most unreliable internet connection ever. The fact that more than half the time I wasn’t accccttttualllly supposed to be on the internet because teenage me couldn’t be trusted around chatrooms had absolutely everything nothing to do with it. Let’s blame Netzero and how freaking long it took to get online with dial-up.

Shortly after high school, I jumped on the MySpace wagon. Selfies in the bathroom. Duck lips. Still heavy bangs. Cryptic updates. Existential angst if I wasn’t on someone’s Top 8… then Top 12, 16, 20. Oh, good and bad gods, I’m so glad that level of stress has been removed. Now we never know if someone swiped left on us. So much better… right? right?!

Probably the best thing that ever came out of MySpace other than rudimentary knowledge of html was the blog space. I’ve always had more words in my head and hands than come out of my mouth. I’m not much of a talker unless something absolutely needs to be said.

Everyone knows the saying: You have two eyes and one mouth; look and pay attention twice as much as you speak… Or something like that. I figure that we have two hands for the same reason.

And I used my hands to write about everything and nothing. I even got sucked down a rabbit-hole once where I researched “love bugs” and wrote a blog about that. There was a blog where I wrote like my conscious and subconscious having a conversation back and forth. I would do anything to be able to read that as a mid-30’s woman looking back into her early-20’s psyche probably whining about being broke and tired. She knew so little about what was ahead of her circa 2006.

So what happened to that blog and why haven’t I blogged since? As most things, it’s a long story, and worth its own post.

Short Answer: my ex got onto my MySpace and deleted every single blog post. It was soul crushing, and I haven’t blogged since… UNTIL NOW BWAHAHAHA