Apocalypse Now (Trigger Warning)

I am a survivor, as should be well documented by my propensity to not die when people tell me to. I spent a good portion of every day, without consciously realizing it, assessing my surroundings for survival. This is not as bad as it used to be, but even so the moment I had extra money I bought things to survive on. All things I buy must have a purpose. I consider reading purposeful as I have all sorts of books in my ereader, and most are about survival. Pleasure is also important to survival. My solar charger fits all my electronic devices that aren’t wheelchairs. In fact I have a design for a wheelchair based on surviving without electricity.

I didn’t realize how much surviving ran me until today. I have had mini epiphanies before about small aspects of this survival mode I have never lived without, and I am further away from that bare bones mentality than I used to be. In fact I like to think on how I could survive things to be prepared. This has caused a few issues including hoarding tendencies. I can use this to survive. I wonder for a moment how many people who hoard are survivors stuck in a world that hasn’t hit the apocalypse yet. Like me.

I sat down to watch a reality TV show, The Colony. I made it through two episodes, but I was NOT okay. At first I thought it was the machismo that was displayed by the men while the women were relegated to cooking and laundry. Then I started to talk to M, my friend. M who has helped me to survive, and has seen me grow over many years. He is in so many ways the balance to me. That scares me too but I started to talk with him about where these survivors went wrong. They first and foremost ignored food and water for too long, I kept laughing as their shelter had things magically appearing and no one tried to eat the camera men. I would. I would refer to them as bacon and by the end of the first episode would have them wary about getting too close to me if I were to partake. Then again, reality tv shows are too scripted.

It was the lack of their realism that hit me. I looked at the actions of these men and women and not one was gearing towards actual survival. They know that this experiment will be over, and they are just playing along. They waited almost a week to go food hunting, water they did sooner but really, they waited too long. Their shelter is not secure. If there were real threats, they would be dead. In the world in which I would survive these people who spend their hours trying to restore privileges like electricity are lost.

I realized as I watched them eat more food in their survival mode than I do a day that I have a problem. I call my meals my rations. I get accessories for cellphones and MP3 players that could work without electricity. Music is my coping skill, and I value feeling happy. You survive better with joy. Some of this triggering brought images of hunger from my childhood. I felt a panic about all the food I cannot eat, the water I cannot drink. I cried.

I am crying again just thinking on the feelings. I live as if the world is ended now. I stock pile food. If my food is below a certain level in my fridge I stop eating. I have a problem. I am aware of this and have been to a degree but I had not seen the whole picture. Each item separated from itself was less of a worry than putting them together in one go. I will kill you and eat you to survive. I also spend too much time worrying about how to survive things. I know the best places to hole up in my community, I know that I would not want a lot of people with me but at most four, I know… what to do. Unequivocally, a lot of this is based on my life.

I am setting a goal. M and I discussed it and I am going to try to eat two meals EVERY day not just when I feel safe. So… seven days a week. I am up to snacking daily and eating a moderate meal. I am not going to let myself call my food rations anymore. I do this just mentally but it is what we think to ourselves that betrays our reality the most. I feel a bit sick even thinking about changing my food. Yet, what if I get stronger by leaving survival mode? I know too eating well BEFORE the End of Days would be the best way to survive. Going in stretched already mentally and physically thin is an issue.

I also understand why I have been in tears over Monster High Dolls. I have cried at night when I could not conceive of wanting them. They aren’t needed for survival. That’s my worry. I am looking at the toys and art I have, most of it predates my recent starvation triggers with the room and the year of stuff. The few bought after either have one still in a box just like it on my wall or are just in their box. The only action figures opened either predate my disability, are in a very small phase that lasted a week of mental security post disability, or are in their boxes in case I need to sell them later. Even Batman.

I haven’t bought any new books over the years, I have more rechargeable batteries on hand at all times fully charged than most people ever need. Though I could use them all, I ration them too. Just in case. I have four flashlights, two that will travel with me, and I have been saving up for a solar charger. I also have first aid kits everywhere. I am so ready for an emergency that sometimes I sit here when nothing needs to be done and visualize my plan of escape in my house in case of X disaster forcing me out. Where would I go? Would I have time to grab my wheelchair charger? If not how will I get around after the battery dies? I am still going to work on that solar powered chair design but, that is so I can become a wealthy woman in a mansion.

In fact there is more. In my mind when I imagine having money I don’t buy a house, a car, a boat and all the trappings of wealth. I buy a computer that is reliable, I buy a house that is in a secure location or if it’s a better day it is built to my specifications, and I marry M. We then can live forever on my money but both still work. I understand my anger at the man who lamented no coffee, the man who spent a day finding coffee on the show, and everyone being jubilant over a bean being smushed and boiled. Their goals at restoring privileges I do not even concieve of is a concern. I am afraid for myself.

I cannot conceptualize a world where there is enough food, water (Sprite), shelter, and where things are replaceable. This has come up several times recently. As I consider moving, I am faced with culling things that are replaceable to others but the cost stalls me. My bed is fine, but to move it will cost me 1000 dollars. To replace it? Less. So why is it that I am afraid to move because I would have to get a bed that isn’t jury rigged? My bed is in need of replacement if I move. No choice, yet just in case there is no more, I want to haul it across the country. This is just an example. Everything is that way. In fact I have cried more in the last few days over the ideas of having new things than I knew I could.

I have never lived with enough. My first apartment, I never unpacked my things because I didn’t believe I could stay there. This is a trait that is multi generational. This is terrifying to me all the more. I come from a family of hoarders. I come from a family that is so trapped up in the cycle of abuse that we starve ourselves and think we aren’t just in case there is never any more food.

So here is my plan. This takes care of two issues.

At Walmart I am to buy something completely useless on the first. Not shoes, clothing, bags, make up or anything that I actually need. It doesn’t have to be expensive, just useless and something I desire.

Tomorrow I am going to lay out a meal plan, setting a menu of food. I am going to make a check list. At the end of the week, if I have eaten every meal and snack planned, I am going to get a gold star on the proverbial chart. After ten gold stars I get a prize. After the restocking I also get a monster high doll. I am not allowed to buy anymore toys that I keep in their packages. I may even get to a point where I can unbox my action figures. Most of them anyway. The ones where I bought two just so I could play with them can stay in their boxes. I am going to move and when I move, I am going to get a nice bed, that doesn’t have broken supports that are held up by a homemade set up. The bed is safe but that is because I know how to survive.

I know surviving isn’t a BAD thing. The problem is when I am so busy trying to survive an apocalypse that hasn’t happened yet that I forget to live. i forget that being happy is important to survival. I know that eating daily is important and I have always struggled. i know that my family is a pitiful mass of humanity and my baby sister (she is not pitiful but is awesome despite them) and they hurt like this. I am going to escape the pain by facing it.

I am afraid of seeing this for what it is, generational sickness. This is a product of how I was raised and of my fears based on being homeless, hungry, and all of the times I have not had enough. This is the Aha moment and perhaps facing these issues will improve my quality of life. I have had some start on this already, recently M the carer commented that I only buy staples for food and so we made a very large amount of fudge. I am eating some of that fudge now as a reminder that the world did not end because I made something delicious to eat out of pleasure.

I secretly hope that I can maybe consume more fruits than before or some of my food allergies decrease if my body is not strained. I don’t know yet. Maybe the spontaneous tissue tears that are starting up are a result of this too, because there is no cause. Yes I am eating, but am I eating enough? No.  Ineed to eat at least TWO meals a day. The goal is three. What if my eating breakfast makes me physically ill because my body just hasn’t learned how to eat that much food yet?

What if I feel so good and am so happy the world explodes into a Happypocalypse of joy where I really am okay? Scarily, there is pink involved in this image in my head. Horrid horrid pink.


Pumpkin Pie (Trigger Warning)

a cat with silver fur, black stripes, has wide eyes and is being fed a bite of pumpkin pie

Not how thanksgiving looks inside my head

Pumpkin pie, soft, creamy, and since mine is crustless just a wad of soothing and cold chewiness. The scent trickles into my mouth to tease at me, and is the only Thanksgiving day food I can eat without becoming ill. Mashed potatoes are also fine but must be different than the recipes from my family dinners. No gravy, cheese, and almost always something in the food. Turkey, I can barely type the word. I can barely say the word. I will not eat it. I have been forced to by people using that vulnerability against me and I react to it with a mental allergic response. It is not somatic but the PTSD triggers hard and fast.

This is what I expect of Thanksgiving.

Yesterday I remembered something that has given me a sense of relief. Today as I continue to process the revelations I am left staring down the barrel of gender identity issues. I have had gender identity challenges my entire life. They base in my being autistic and as many other autistic women face challenges of being accused of decidedly unfeminine behavior so have I. There is a root with in the numerous and enduring sexual abuse that has dominated my life and was the end all be all of my childhood. From being prostituted to ministers and the supposed holiest people I know at the age of three and raped by my father to the rape at gun point by a high school boy who didn’t seem to understand this was why I stabbed him with a fork at school when he put his hand on my shoulder. I once tried to cut off my breasts to become a boy, and I have never really appreciated my femininity.I am aware there is more to this, including the fact that I am intersexed physically. I have testicles AND ovaries. Maybe if my mother had eaten, I would have been a male child. Maybe not. I do not consider myself to be of one gender in a sense but I am either feeling male or female.

I have spent years keeping this a secret, and in public I might still. Yet I am thinking this doesn’t matter. My carer knows. My best friend knows. My sister of choice knows. I know. To me this is who matters. I dress according to the way I feel, and even my male side is prone to wearing dark red lipstick. It feels sexy. I have fought and clawed my way through life trying to exist, and I have been told repeatedly that girls just don’t fight back. It is a fiction in a bad life time movie that women can ever do damage, we are eternal victims.

It wasn’t JUST the media that sent me this message. Nor was it subtle. It is my nature to fight back when I am in danger. I have very good survival skills. I am fully capable of killing you if you try to kill me. I won’t murder you but I won’t let you murder me. This has been unequivocally a part of who I am and I have wondered if when I was raped for the entirety of Thanksgiving weekend, so Wednesday night on through a Sunday night, when I was beaten and when the fragmented memories didn’t match the normal abuse patterns… did I even try to fight back?

Therapists told me no. If I had tried to fight back then he would have killed me. Except he thought he did and I have very real memories of meeting Osiris the god of the dead in Egyptian Mythology and having him put me back in my body and ordering me to live. I have marks on my chest that match where his hands were. My father wanted me to be dead, and did not try CPR. He thought I was dead. I don’t know about pulse checking and I am very aware that this could be a response to the very serious trauma to my brain from being bludgeoned with a gun, but I was left for dead.

My mother, who a child loves and believes on pretty much anything until Mother proves to be a person. No matter the health of relationship good or bad, Mothers do happen to be humans and thus the teenager occurs. Yes, my mother spent my entire life telling me that we don’t fight back in my family. The men are the abusers and the women in my family are there to be hit. She has said less of this to my baby sister but the message still is there. Women don’t fight back.

I have had mental hospital doctors torture me over my fighting back, I fought them and yet I was not allowed to have fought back against my father when I was alone. My agency was denied as children don’t fight back unless they are penis bearers. My father made it clear that if we fought back we would die but there are other memories of me fighting back. My siblings sometimes declared their hatred of me because my morals got us into a world of literal hurt. Then again they also wanted me to lie and I am still very bad at that.

When I was somewhere between 11-13 and was raped by someone else and I did fight back the police told me they wouldn’t let the boy press charges. I took a bit of rebar to his head, his father’s car, his house and let his dog go (never came back). I was willing to kill him for what he did to me and yet again, the police told me that women just aren’t allowed.

The media does this too. In movies it is extremely rare for a woman to fight back unless she was already a victim with years of self defense, hiding in terror and her abuser finds her and then she either kills him, takes him back and tricks him, or is rescued by the new romance in her life. Not just life time folks but block buster films. It is never with in the intial attack that a woman fights back. In horror movies, the attacks come in waves and it is finally after a breaking point, or the loss of all of the human shields that the female fights back and often still dies. Running away is good, as happens in horror movies with the cliched fall so the bad man can still get you. This is an acceptable reaction and is something I approve of, just don’t trip.

It is the female who is unfeminine in movies that is the villain. Either a caricature of a woman with sexual appetites such as Famke Jansen’s role in a James Bond movie or a woman who is something ugly, othered or is somehow defective. These are our female villains. Any villainous who is beautiful tends to not be acting under her own charms or supposedly it is more scary for a waifish beauty to be bad. Again, by being beautiful she is supposed to subvert the norms of who is acceptable with in a violent situation.

Women become their traumas. This is the other message I have struggled with my entire life. I was reduced not to a bad childhood but this single moment in a trauma filled life. None of my traumas are my identity even if they chipped some of the facets of my personality or left scars on me that changed the outcome of my personal growth to this point. The good moments in my life had just as much impact and I am the result of everything I have thought, read, heard, and learned. Every person I met, every person I did not meet. Every bit of media I have heard. It is not my trauma that makes me who I am. The Brave One, the entire premise of the film, which I linked above for my example, is that the woman is just her trauma.

This is a perception that removes the humanity from She Who Fights Back. You are no longer human but you are Rape. You are not actually a Woman, therefore it’s okay once more for you to be violent. There must be something wrong with you if you are a woman who fights back, this is the pervasive message I have been living with. There have been years I nearly killed myself over the simple fact that I did not fight back. I could not live with the idea that I did not, even as a small child, try to get away.

I remember when I first began to wonder why I didn’t fight back, it was after I was told by a therapist I would be lying if I claimed I had. I sat there quietly for the rest of our session, I was in a mental hospital at the time. The first time. I watched her face and I wondered if she had ever been hurt too, and if she had fought back. She had long plastic nails that she was tapping on her clipboard. I felt like she was angry at me, and my more experienced interpretation of her expression still reads anger. She went from someone I could talk with to a cold wall of rage when I asked about trying to get away or maybe hitting him back. This was just a few months after and I still had pain in my shoulders that radiated from the underside of the joint, and my hands were still swollen. In fact my hands have never fully recovered from the kick of the gun and my shoulder dislocations started then. We had fired guns before as a family, that wasn’t my first time but I never liked it because of the pain and the loudness.

Even as I am writing this I am playing in my mind the moment I picked up the gun. There was no hesitation. Something again that movies show. Women always hesitate with weapons. Men sometimes do, but they have the option of not. I pointed it at him. I remember his face. His eyes betrayed his shock, surprise, and then anger. I pulled the trigger. He didn’t get to mock me first, he didn’t get any lines out like the cliche, “You won’t do it.” He had lunged for me and I fired the gun until the bullets ran out. I have another new fragment but it is like a single frame of video. I see him in it with a police officer, but everything is hazy, I am just aware he is convincing them that nothing is wrong. This is new too, but I had never expected if the police came that they would rescue me. I learned that well before 1992. I just realized it couldn’t be 93, because my brother wasn’t born until AFTER this incident, I was off by a year.

So I have been fighting this for longer than I thought. I have found the most painful idea in my life was that I would just let him hurt me. This is of course not what happened, and no victim EVER lets their abuser hurt them. Even if you cannot or do not fight back, you did not give him permission. My personal battle was learning this. Fighting back is pivotal in my mind as something important. Even if you don’t win, you must try.

I know as an adult fighting back entails more than shooting or stabbing someone. It can be the moment you open the door and smell someone’s pumpkin pie and think “I am free”. Even if that is not true that little moment can give you a hint of the truth for years. The shifted association of foods during Thanksgiving from being all disgusting and triggering based on being raped, force-fed and torn apart with food as the supposed reason I deserved to be raped and beaten even pumpkin pie has confused me. Why was that pie safe? I still can’t eat my mother’s version of mashed potatoes. My father didn’t like green beans so those were safe until the allergies happened but the pie has been as much of a mystery to me as my wondering who I used to be.

I was not reborn in that moment after all, the idea was just a way of coping with the blatant lies I was told about who I was allowed to be. It is amazing to me how many people, in the name of supposed survival, reject the idea that women can be strong at all ages. This has effected my writing, my game play and what I could do. This is not trivial in any way shape or form. The core of who I was did not break, and that is important. My spirit never broke, and who I am is essentially the same on the base level as who I was before. This means perhaps I did not really lose my innocence but instead it was hidden away, so I could survive.

I do not cry much but I am crying now. How can I not cry for I know there are other little girls, women, people in between the male and female who wonder if they fought back. Who are told every day that this is an impossibility. Children do not have the knowledge yet to think critically about if people are lying, this is a skill we learn as we grow. A facet of being nuerodiverse in this world, and everyone fits in there somewhere, is that people learn these skills at different rates. The ability to critically assess a situation or the media is something that must be taught or it must be learned. Not everyone is capable of this and children have to learn from somewhere.

I am left questioning the validity of mental health for women, children, and anyone with chronic pain or PTSD. How can so many therapists male and female believe that women just don’t think of fighting back? Making self defense a taboo or something that is only allowed after a violation is incredibly dangerous. This is a part of the forbidden dialogue of rape itself. We are warned to not talk about rape as survivors. Victims may be unable to do so and a part of this is, even at the age of eight it was hinted that I deserved to be raped. Was eight year old me just so sexy she deserved it? That’s what I have been told. I also came forward with in the statute of limitations and because my father raped me I was told that my case just wasn’t worth the District Attourney’s time. They beleived me. They just didn’t care because I was a little girl. I have never forgotten being told I am not enough of a person, that wasn’t the first time but that was the moment I lost faith in the world itself and knew I stand alone.

Except I do not stand alone. Of all the lies that came out of this worst trauma it was the lie that I was somehow the worst female in the world, worst at femininity, worst at self defense, worst at being loved and that I was alone and no one else would know what it was to want to die, to suffer, or to fear. I was defective. I do not want to kill myself today, and this is the first thanksgiving in a very long time.

I am afraid for the children of this world. The messages that are being taught, the things that even adult women fetishize such as Twilight with its codependant pedophilic necrophiliac abusive manipulative beastiality domestic violence women stay in the kitchen marry for sex and all the other crap that Twilight is REALLY about underneath the sparkling vampires… these messages are the normal for our children not the exception.

Wait, I did WHAT?! (Maximum Trigger Warning)

This post, it’s the post no one can not be triggered by. So after the little line thing I will be babbling about things and they are scary but ….. yeah I am okay.


Continue reading

Archeology of Truth (Trigger Warning)

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. THAT DAY. I have had the entire month until today with barely a tickle of my usual PTSD. I’ve had blatant fun. I am a bit fogged and distracted as I write this, drowning my sorrows in mental crap such as bad disney movies, not that there are good ones, kitty snugs, pizza, and talking to people important to me who aren’t traitorous liars. There. I said it.

Once upon a time in 1993, and well before, there was a girl who was lonely. She made a friend who was much like her. This friend was an orphan who lived with her grandmother, and despite being blatantly spoiled was one of the kindest people that the lonely girl had ever met. They played together. The rich girl even bought toys for the lonely girl, but they learned rapidly to leave them with the Rich Girl.

One day, the Rich Girl moved without getting to say goodbye. There were small things left over but as all the things that they had had together except a Best friend’s charm, a few of the prototypes of the miniature food I left behind and some clay as well as a tin of the uncured creations. This clay stays good forever unless you bake it.

Lonely girl was broken like the clay, left in pieces. Lonely girl was told that she had made up Rich Girl, and the proofs were lost.


Today, Lonely girl found the small tin of the creations. The proof. In it were the little charm, a small barbie toy, and a few other things. Too was the proof that Dolls belong in her life via some of the small things that she kept from Rose, another friend now lost to her. Lonely Girl is now Amazing Adult, but that does not mean she didn’t cry.

Infact, the clay that still remained anything was cured, and now there are artifacts of Lonely girl’s innocence before the abuse and rape broke her and nearly destroyed her. The cracks that remain of that pain and what was before do not make the entire person of Amazing Adult, but instead remind her of why she is glad to be an adult.


Yet still, she cries for the loss of her friend and the sweet things that cannot be published in a public forum for safety that were recollected.


Also, I have some Barbie Dream house stuff to paint black and dead all over. I am okay, I am just foggy and hurt.

mutli colored clay creations, mostly roses, from my childhood.

The Artifacts

In Between the Pink…

There she sits, in between the glitz and supposed glamour of Barbie Doll. On the pink Aisle, if in stock. The most popular doll in the Christmas Season. An Autistic Zombie! Yes, you did read that correctly, that link is a flash page though when it loads on my slow to load computer, the meta data appears to be set up so that people with readers can play too. I may be wrong since I use just a magnifier.  Ghoulia Yelps is also the best friend of THE Popular Girl, which of course in a high school setting makes her Popular too.


I found myself fascinated with these dolls in a way that has hit only once before, with Batman. I remember being worried someone would find out I loved Batman when I was small, so that they would then destroy the entirety of all he was. I had no conception of how big he was until I was old enough to indulge. At the moment, the toys I have are comic book related. After the Winter Holiday Season of Shopping HORROR is over and the toys restock, and prices fall… I am going to get Monster High Dolls. This may be less expensive than the monthly DC release temptation. On average before the Christmas Gouging began, they were fifteen USD. Mattel doesn’t even have the dolls on their site, and every where I have poked the internet people are talking about Ghoulia.


I think a part of my connecting here is not just my indecent love of puns for names, which if it wasn’t cruelty to animals and they had accepted would have ended with the cat my carer just got today via “Oh hai strange black kitty rubbing on our legs and stealing the ham from my hand” (verified homeless, a girl, and starved to the point of human interaction) would have been named… Malinda Pettigrew! The name may happen, M my friend thinks it’s horrible but loves me anyway. He also promised me a Ghoulia. He was willing to try and get her now, while the internet is full of others having a rabid reaction to these dolls.

Ghoulia isn’t the only Monster High doll that is a goth’s dream who just happens to be made VERY cool by her disability. Nope, lets go over the list. I will not link you to their website again, but if you want to you can go play games there afterwards. Frogger… I mean…Froggie Dash, and a few others. I’ve had too too much fun and now want a color lazer printer for all sorts of printing of useless but amusing stuff.

The Main Character, meant to be the Barbie (since this IS Mattel) is Frankie Stein, she’s sewn together from various parts of other dolls and is of course the daughter of the professors who created both Frank and his Bride, and they consider her Frankenstein’s kid. Being stitched together, with visible stitches, hands that fly off and do things on their own (creating the amputation effect) and being only 15 days old? How is this one not disabled? In a way she has to learn all her social skills from scratch, she could be equated with some forms of Amnesia, surgical scars, and she even has mismatched eyes and a visible assistive device (Bolts in her neck for charging). This is also what makes her, as Mattel is calling it. “Freaky Fabulous.”Oh yeah and her limbs flying off at inopportune moments? Couldn’t that be dislocations? Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome does cause skin splits and dislocations. Frankie Stein are you super flexible?

On each Bio, each doll (even Miss Popular Cleo de Nile) has a Freaky Flaw. This is of course related to their being monsters. There is another feature which my need for the picture on the box to actually match the Doll or I have trouble accepting they are meant to be the same (I am looking at you Bratz) is not a problem with. These dolls actually DO look like their boxes. I’ve never seen such quality. Or so many casket shaped items. Some of the announced accessories have me flailing in glee, literally, because I can go to walmart and buy a casket/coffin shaped …. Jewelry Box!

In fact, I already accidentally bought something Monster High and had not understood what it was. The post Halloween Clearance socks I bought, pink argyle with little crossbones, were indeed branded Monster high. They are also my favorite arm warmers, and alas… I am babbling. Back to dissecting the disabilities of these delectable dolls!

Skipping to Cleo de Nile, daughter of the Mummy… Cleo is not as white as I expected, since the mainstream Media usually casts a woman as white as me to play Cleopatra types. Cleo is more of a honey color, but she is clearly not a white woman. This is impressive, considering how racist Mattel can be. I won’t link you, you can go find all the Barbie’s that are sold as “Ethnic” or all of the black and hispanic Barbies named Keysha who come with a hair salon, which I can’t find for the life of me with a white Barbie… (Yes, that’s… what? Mattel BAD!)

Cleo is the “Rich Bitch” of the cast. There are some very cliche things going on here, some gender reifications though these dolls also rebel in many ways or at least make mainstream toys I like. More on that later. Cleo’s bio has a flaw as she refers to herself as Exotic, which is in my experience in the media a key word for racism and the fetishising of people of color. Leopard print, Faux Mendhi or anything not white bread tends to be called Exotic. This made me a bit uncomfortable with Cleo so it took me longer to admit I really like her. She also is only sold with her boyfriend. Guess she is codependent or he is at least till they get home and the box is cut up. (I want to keep the little skull logos. Heeh!) She is afraid of the dark. Her disability is less concrete than the lovely Ghoulia’s autism or Frankie’s hands running away however she is someone who is always in bandages. That’s about it, but this bootiful character IS afraid of the dark.

Cleo’s boyfriend, who if I have my way will be dating Jackson Jeckyl or Holt Hyde (whichever I get first), is Duece (as in Medusa) Gorgon. Son of Medusa. He has a snakey Mohawk, scales on his arms, and a thousand yard stare that turns anyone he looks at, regardless of them looking back, temporarily to stone. This gives us a few disabilities. Psorisis or any other visible skin condition. This could be from bad acne on through even some scarring. He’s the most popular guy in Monster High except someone who I will mention later. He also has to wear sunglasses at ALL times. This could be taken to the route of vision issues, but at the very least it marks him as other.


Next up on the list is… Clawdeen Wolf. Daughter of the Werewolf. She is the first doll I wanted, before I saw Ghoulia. Frankly if you don’t know it… I am a werewolf lover. I dressed up as one for Howloween and the entire concept was fairly similar to a certain miss Clawdeen. Clawdeen is a person of color, so in the initial line up we have… Two for Two. She’s a black woman. This means you don’t have to fight Mattel for dolls of color. There are two defined this way by the company. Of course they are trying to hint that all of the dolls are nonwhite, since some are green, blue, gray etc. I think this is good and bad, but none the less there is no dancing around. Clawdeen is Cleo’s main rival but they are still considered friends.

The main issue that Clawdeen has is what she considers excessive bodyhair. This is her freaky flaw, shampoo commercial hair… everywhere. This is another one that I felt that “Oh just like me!” with. That’s most of the dolls getting the differences sympathetic jump in my brain. I happen to be a person with what society deems too, too much body hair. When I was younger I was teased mercilessly over this. so, Clawdeen does have a disability as most often hirsuitism is based on medical things. Perhaps she has Polycystic Ovarian disease or Endometriosis and she really howls at the moon because her periods are more than a small pain?

My least favorite of the characters, who I still want (so I can steal her clothes for Ghoulia’s War…drobe…) is Lagoona Blue. She’s the Aussie surfer type, everyone’s best friend. She is laid back and is the daughter of the Sea Monster, though I would’ve thought with her name, the creature from the Blue Lagoon. It could be a copyright issue there, but as you can see these dolls should also appeal to the horror movie nerds that are out there. Oh wait… I am one of those too! Lagoona’s flaws for my liking her? She is just another blonde and the fauxguru thing is a stereotype I suspect my Australian friends don’t like. I could ask them but… that’d just be silly. I have yet to meet anyone who likes being stereotyped.

On to her disability analogy. Lets start with the one that may be either super obvious to you or makes you go”Huhwhat?” Asthma. She’s a fish out of water! Lagoona has fins, so she could also be part of the birth defects that are visible listing, and well she is blue so circulation is obviously a problem. She also has dry skin problems and again, scales. Lagoona’s must have item? Moisturizer. She is listed as an Exchange Student at Monster High, so she’s also a fish out of water in other ways. I still like Lagoona but she just doesn’t connect well with me, what with her liking the sun with it’s shining…


That brings us to the doll that started my knowing about these young ghouls. Draculaura. I saw the name on Facebook, someone’s daughter is wanting one and it’s a little too late to get Draculaura now, so the parental lamenting had begun. I googled the name and stepped right into the halls of Awesome. Draculaura took some time for me to decide to be okay with partly because of all the fricking pink, it tastes like literal poop to me. So I struggle. There’s enough black and other coloring that the reaction isn’t so bad. In fact the pink issue has me a bit worried about going to buy my dollies in the future because they are on that …Pink…Aisle… in the toy section and I don’t want to just send M the carer, because picking out your own is half the fun I think. I’ve not had a doll I liked before, except the specialty Goth stuff such as Evangeline Ghastly (not linked because her prices are more horrifying than her theme or lack of diversity. She’s white, white, and even whiter). I never really felt that the Living Dead Dolls were that great. I am not much for BABY dolls…

So I will face the aisle so I an get my fangs on them. So, Draculaura, the most goth fashionably…. I want her umbrella for real, the Monster High Umbrella just doesn’t do it for me with the skull. I like Bats. Not just Bat man but the bats in general are pleasing to me. Bats and Butterflies… someday I will have an outfit themed in such a way. Well Draculaura is a vampire, who is terrified of Blood. She’s vegan, lives on fruits and veggies while taking supplements. Saying or hearing Blood, not even seeing it, is enough to make her faint. I think that’s adorable and it does show something often ignored when a character is going vegetarian or vegan. Vitamin supplements are necessary to help with survival and health.

Since I am often accused of being a vampire by random people on the street because I myself need to hide from the sun or fry crispy, I do like little Ula D, as her nickname happens to be. Her disability could be many things. Just side effects of medication making her sun sensitive, carrying the albinism gene, porphyria (though she’d have to have multiple types for the full effects of vampirism). Plus there’s a disorder that exists where you cannot identify faces, even your own, in the mirror. So that fits.

Now there are more dolls and characters than listed on the website. There are a pair of guys I am listing in one category because… Jeckyll Jeckyll Hyde, Hyde, Hyde Jeckyll


Jackson Jeckyll and Holt Hyde…


Jackson is a casketball player, and the very human best friend of Duece Gorgon. He happens to have the same tattoo, yin yang symbol, and piercing as Holt Hyde.

Holt is a bit of a bad boy, he has blue skin and fire for hair. Both he and Jackson have classic symptoms of Multiple personality disorder, including black outs, memory lapses, and so on. Holt is the school DJ. I am not sure if this is a positive portrayal but Holt doesn’t seem to be evil, which is a good thing.

Some of the characters not turned into dolls yet so no bio availible (but they are coming)

Spectra Vondergeist, daughter of the ghost. She can do ghostly things like floating through walls.

Abby bominable, an exchange student from up north.

Operetta, the offspring of the Phantom of the Opera who has been on a date with Holt. I don’t like her name but it could be worse…

Oh yeah, and.. the most popular person, big man on campus, is … Clawd Wolf, Clawdeen’s big brother. The undolled characters are mentioned in the story books that come under the guise of a diary with each doll. The first issue (regular clothing) dolls all have them. I am not sure what they have for the Dawn of the Dance dolls or Gloom Beach instead but I am sure it’s something just as cool.

So, incase you didn’t follow the link to the flash website with Ghoulia’s Bio… let me tell you about her. You tell me if you think she’s not autistic.

Ghoulia Yelps — a zombie. Her parents are not named but played in the music video Thriller by Michael Jackson. She has light blue hair and pale gray skin. Her appearance is very studious and she wears glasses. She is depicted as timid and shy and could only speak Zombie (basically groaning; a possible reference to the ghouls from the 1968 film Night of the Living Dead and other films from the Living Dead film series. She is also the smartest girl in Monster High. She has a baby blue colored owl named Sir Hoots-a-Lot.

Glasses wearing Ghoulia is the smartest Ghoul in school. She cannot function properly without a schedule and doesn’t process last minute changes very well. Her zombie nature makes her a bit slower physically, and she has trouble making facial expressions and can only speak zombie.

She loves to read and learn new things, she always fits books into her schedule.

Her pet peeve:

Last minute schedule changes and Monsters who cannot speak zombie. There is nothing quite so frustrating as arriving late and having to explain why to a monster that doesn’t understand you.

A direct quote from her bio that is another hint of the ASD:
Favorite Food:
Brains… just kidding. I actually have quite the affinity for rapidly prepared, mass market cuisine. (Translation: I like fast food.)

She likes all her classes and her favorite color is red.


So there it is… my new obsession. I have spent days pouring myself into the internet to glean tidbits about these dolls. I am going to sew them clothing, I already know they come with dollstands but if they are in their shoes they can stand alone, they are posable, seen the cartoons on youtube, decided despite it’s pop quality I like the music video… and… that a lot of depth was given over to these dolls. Between their attempts at normal such as fashionable clothing and bodies that are so weird looking my response is, “Well they must have been genetically engineered that way”… there is depth. They aren’t all boy hungry, the attempts at life lessons in the cartoons are pretty cute, and if these had existed when I was a kid? I would’ve been torn between wanting one and trying to pretend I hated them because of my family.

Still, the popular kid is autistic.

I will warn you, if you share this info with your friends, children, and such and they love these dolls… check comments on sites because a lot of people are complaining about Ghoulia’s speaking zombie. These people seem to forget that not everyone gets to speak. A nonverbal character in what is likely to be a TV series, a movie is being made… so not just “high functioning” but… average autistic…

I am definately sold on Monster High. Besides, in trying to find out what is for sale (iCoffin anyone?) I find hilarious things that make me think someone at mattel has seen one too many episodes of the Godfather. Like so. Freaky beheaded horse! A final warning, right now the MH dolls are being marked up to fifty online. Just wait till after the restocking post holidays. They average fifteen to twenty, and if you can be patient which isn’t easy you can afford more dollies! Oh and feel free to send any extra dolls you find my way!

Here are some links to the media online about Monster High. No place out of this blog is guaranteed safe but I had no issues:

MonsterHigh.com – Flash site. Signing up lets you get activity sheets etc. Addictive.

MonsterHigh on Facebook: Has some unique content, such as a Ghoul to English translation. Most are obvious such as Biteology being biology but this is a place to glean more info.

The Youtube Series: The music video with words like Freaky Fabulous, and the short cartoons (skip the thirty second videos, they are teasers of the next episode)

The Halloween Special from one of the cable networks.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

It was a Dark and Stormy Night… (Horror Story Below)

Hitchcookie Presents: A Christmas Story

By Kat Fury

Dedicated to Denis LaChappelle, Cookie Monster, and Brock Thompson. May you enjoy your dark and stormy night and I hope this is scary enough for you! This story is based on factual events (decorating the tree happened!) and some not so factual events!

She sat in the dark next to her freshly

decorated holiday tree, admiring the way

the white lights contrasted against the

dark foilage, the slight glitter of the

transparent glass. The angelic tree

topper’s wings listed slightly and the

porcelain face held a few cracks. The

pale glass eyes stared sightlessly out

the window. Monica shifted on her couch

and lifted out the last ornament,

hesitating as memories flooded through

her. She closed her eyes as his face

surfaced, the warmth of that first time

they had dated was overshadowed with the

memories of the night she had left him,

the nights that followed where he had

come again. It had been a year.

Glancing out the window she stood up,

the ornament, a silver photograph frame

with the year 2008 emblazoned on it and

his picture slipping back into the box

as she checked her doors and windows

once more, a nightly ritual that brought

her comfort. He was out there. She had

been seeing his face in the crowd, his

car up the street, and now she saw a

shadow as she pulled the blinds down for

the evening.

Taking a breath she checked the locks

and moved towards her bed, pausing to

stare at the wine bottle atop her

fridge. She was always tempted to drink

herself into a stupor. She kept the

bottle to remind herself not to. It

didn’t always work but she had not given

in yet. Someday maybe she would feel

safe being out of control.

She didn’t bother changing for bed, the

idea of cool air on her skin, or the

risk of his eyes finding a crack in her

windows left her too vulnerable. She

pulled the soft quilt back and curled up

under it, wishing for someone else there

now. She always hated being alone but at

night when it was dark and the world was

silent, it was worse. The worst came

always after the nightmares, which she

knew would come. Still, there were no

tears. She had gotten past the point of


After a time she drifted into a sleep,

it was a sleep full of memories. She was

in her wedding dress standing with him

before their friends, the candles in

hand, his eyes so bright and they both

smiled as the ceremony finished, the

flames merging on the unity candle. It

was snowing then, the snow flakes as

white as her dress, a wish for purity

and a hint of hope. There had been so

much hope then.

There was something in her dream then,

that frightened her. It twisted, as it

always did, down into the darkness. It

was that night when he had changed. She

had wished he had been truthful with her

about what he wanted, and still as she

relived the memory in her dream she

wished she knew. “No!” She cried out,

the echo of reality and dream twisting

together as she ran in the stairs of her

mind, her husband coming after her with

a knife. The gleaming blade dripped with

blood, leaving a trail on the white

carpet staining it’s virginal pelt. She

could not run fast enough, far enough.

She would never escape him. He said

nothing and made no sounds as she tried

to get the back door open, he had barred

it. She was cornered. He smiled, the

smile never reaching his eyes, which

held no sign of love but a cold


“Why Rodrick? Why?”

“There is no reason.” He whispered this

as he ran the blade over her cheek, the

skin splitting and pain rippling through

her body. She didn’t even feel the hot

blood that dripped with her tears down

her face as he cut her clothing away.

She did not move, she had no way out. He

stared at her naked body and sneared, “I

never found you attractive, you’re too

heavy.” She looked down at her body with

it’s soft curves, the dimpled flesh on

her thighs with cellulite, and the tan

lines from her work outside in the

summer. She looked up at him as he

smiled wider, enjoying tormenting her.

She woke then, the nightmare revoked by

the sound of tinkling glass. Sitting up

she crept out of bed, wishing she had

fought him then. The scars on her body

betrayed her wish sometimes, when it was

cold and they ached. She withdrew the

mace from her bedside table and crept

towards the living room. Peaking arond

the corner she saw him there, placing

the ornament on the tree.

He ran his finger lovingly over the

shape of the frame and then kissed her

picture before he turned towards the

kitchen. She moved for the cellphone she

had left on her couch by the TV remote,

trying to remain unseen. There was no

creaking floorboard, there was no sound

until she dialed emergency. The soft

beep of the buttons brought him right to


she saw his face only illuminated by the

white lights of the tree and the dial of

her phone. He was tired looking, but was

much the same. He smiled, a cold smile

that was more vicious. “Hello Monica…

She said nothing, they could both hear

the voice on the other end of the phone,

“Nine One One, What is your emergency?

Hello?” She dropped the phone and

stepped backwards, the ornaments on the

tree jangling softly as she said, “You

can’t be here. The restraining order I

have protects me.” The paper was there,

her present to herself under the tree.

She threw it at him even as he laughed.

“This is your weapon? A piece of paper?

Very useful.”

She lunged to run past him screaming as

she felt a stinging pain, she had not

seen the knife in the darkness, but he

had caught her with it. Terror filled

her and adrenaline fueled her motions as

she turned on him, clawing at his body.

She went quiet, no longer caring about

the why. He had hurt her enough. She was

tired of this pain, she was tiref of

being afrad, and he was correct, a

restraining order had not saved the day.

She pulled the tree down on his head,

the glass shattering around them. There

were sparks and the crackle of flames

told her that she would have to put out

a fire soon.

She felt her nails tearing as she tried

to claw his eyes out, her mind entering

a feral space where all she wanted was

his blood. The years of love, their year

of marraige, and the year of her living

alone and in hiding had ended tonight.

She would either die or live free of his

terror. As a nail snapped off in his

flesh and he sank the knife into her

shoulder again she heard him laughing.

“I never knew you had this in you…

such a shame. Maybe I would have loved

you then.”

She ignored his words, she knew better.

If he had not found her attractive even

if it was as some prey he would have

passed her over. If it was meant to be

that she would die at his hands there

was proof and he would die in jail. If

not he would die tonight. She let out a

feral scream even as sirens began to

rise from the darkness outside of her


The bright flames licked up the curtains

that had hidden her from the world, in

the light she could see him clearly. He

knocked her onto her back and knelt on

her chest and held the knife to her

throat once more. Tears streamed down

his face as he forced a kiss upon her,

the taste of his blood mingling with the

sour flavor of his unwashed mouth, she

gagged and kicked trying to get him off

of her. It was hard to breathe between

the chest compression and the smoke.

“Why?” She choked out, finally asking

once more the question.

He smiled and shifted back slightly, she

coughed and gasped for air, staring up

at the first man she had ever loved.

“I can.” That was all he said. He smiled

again, looking as pleased with himself

as he had when he had figured out how to

fix the car one day when it had broken

down. He laughed gleefully, ” No one can

stop me, and so I decided to kill you. I

killed my first wife too, when I

realized the same thing, and I will ki-”

His words cut off with a gurgle, and

even as his blood sprayed across her

face, hot and sticky, she continued to

stab him. While he had been so pleased

with his freedom to kill, she had picked

up a broken ornament, his throat slit

with the grinning face of Santa Claus.
He fell to the side and stared at her

mouthing something. She rolled to her

feet, picked up the restraining order

and the knife he had taken from her

kitchen and stabbed him in the chest

with it, panting softly,

“Justice is served.”

With that she stumbled for the door, out

into the snowy night. Looking up at the

white flakes she watched them fall, the

police arrived piling out of their cars,

too little too late. They had been too

little too late last time. There had

been no why. There was no why. She began

to sob softly, the terror clinging to

the fringes of her mind, she would be

forever left to wonder why the man she

loved had decided to kill. The real

reason could not be so simple as the

idea that he could get away with

anything… could it? Continue reading

Scissors in the Hair (poem)

The crinkling sound of my hair against my ears

The familiar tickle as the air plays with fingers over it

Dancing on shoulders

I sit quiet and still

I wait for that first sound

The hiss through the air as the blade lowers down

The scraping of metal over metal

The click the moment each hair is severed

Weight falls away

Air moves to my throat

A gentle embrace

I shake my head free

My hair is shorter

The ends look clean

There they lay on the floor

Red strands saying goodbye to me

I feel free

I feel pretty.


(In otherwords, I had a hair cut today!)

The Little Things That Matter

I have skipped napping today, and I feel pretty good. I tried something new this year. I broke all my rules about November. I wondered for a moment if they were really making things worse, these rituals that are dedicated to surviving the mental pain. The answer was no, and yes. There was nothing that was really worse than trying to just wait for December for decorating my home for the Winter Holiday I celebrate, dubbed Gothmas. In fact, this month I spent some of my money on a new tree, a nice big black one. Big means three feet tall. I took the time with my carer and for the last ten days I have been either out of the house, decorating my tree, or organizing something I don’t want to deal with.

I also have gotten Sylvani’s castration completed. At last. I know why the Torrance County Animal Shelter acted hinky too, though I wasn’t supposed to hear the conversation about their unpaid bills. In fact the Animal Humane Society has changed a lot since Sprite’s botched surgery. The six years have changed their system greatly. Now it is computerized. You pull a ticket like a deli number and wait. I had people willing to help me, and although a bus driver killed my sunshade enroute so I was left carrying an upset tom cat and all the pieces he ripped off, the people around me helped. The only person not helpful was clearly ill equipped for a social situation so I just tried to avoid him. He wore a dirty litterbox scooper on his belt, which was gross and enough of a reason for me to steer clear. I think he was flirting, but I had other people run interference for me again, because it was clear I was not only uninterested in his advances but I was unable to escape since the sidewalk was not very big.

In fact, the weather held on, it was warm enough that day that my four rides on the bus (Two out to the shelter/vet and two home) weren’t so bad. I didn’t get cold as I expected, I had no issues regarding my violating the rules and bringing a cat on the bus who wasn’t a service animal, and even with the destruction of the sunshade the Bus Company surprised me by taking this seriously and giving me an insurance claim so I can get the medically necessary device replaced. I gave them all the info so they will pull the video that protects me. They also will inspect the buses I rode on since the lifts broke while I was in mid air. Everything went against Vani and myself making it to the shelter. I could have been turned away for his castration even based on the behavior of the country shelter vs the city shelter.

Though I was exhausted by the time I got to the shelter the first time, the day went well. Vani is recovering very well despite his having an accident. I ran over him this morning and dislocated his tail. His vet said he is fine and I missed his balls so we’re good. I checked him out and thought his tail was broken. I then made myself continue the plan. I went for a walk with money and I bought a Jewelry Armoire. That piece of wood and glass was something I saved up for last month, and they upped the price. So I couldn’t get the cat toy I wanted, though that may happen tomorrow after I pay the last of my bills. I have everything else I need, and I even got some very cool Halloween clearance. I got the black tree, and between all of the things I wanted and didn’t have to stress over and the things I needed, I got the last of the Armoire’s in the store, and they aren’t getting anymore. Ever.

M the Carer put it together before I finished calling to see if there is any progress on my wheelchair, we found out the repair guy never filed a report about my chair which means no progress there and I probably got him fired since that’s not what you do when it comes to wheelchairs and the supervisor I spoke with was very unhappy about it. She worked fast. So I just spent what turned out to be four hours unloading ten different jewelry boxes. There is still room in the armoire, which means not only do I have less stuff boxed away, but my jewelry is accessible and it is in a space where I can sit in my wheelchair and still access hair and make up as well as clothing. I am working on feeling beautiful everyday not just some of the time. Especially now.

I found a lot of my jewelry was damaged by the years of homelessness, the exhusband, and so on. So I have a pile of earrings to convert to clips, chains to repair, and so on and so forth. It is something I can do for the most part and it’s more to focus on. I am not overworking myself either, which is difficult sometimes.

Sylvani is asleep at my feet, Sprite is on my bed laying on the velvet dress I wore today, and I am feeling at peace knowing that my valuable jewelry (diamonds, pearls, rubies, and hand cut crystal) are safe. I can wear them if I want, and now there is no worrying about how to find what I want. I sorted everything by wearability. Admittedly a few things I will never wear, yet they have sentimental value. The first necklace that my niece made, just for me, I will not wear but that is merely because I want it to last and it is delicate. I like to see her potential when I look at it.

My house is nearly out of boxes to unpack. It only took a year but that’s alright. I had to adapt to my space. I still need more shelves but this will be a life long battle. Shelf space. The Gothmas tree topper is grinning at me and since my fingers grow weary I will just say, it has been nice to have the little things. I am still a bit out of it, yet this level of dissassociation is the end of October’s normal. I am two weeks in to November, and I am still here. The light switch isn’t so heavy as I recall.

I even rose to the mental challenge of getting the acting role I wanted (batman!) and since some of the feline medical supplies are MIA I had to be creative when it came time to get Sylvani’s body restricted. I am writing an instructable on how a hole punch, a folder, and some ribbon or any other sort of lace (shoe would work) can create a restrictive collar to protect your furry friends. This collar seems to be more comfortable for him than the plastic kind I have misplaced too.


I guess this could be a sort of Thankful post, because I am thankful for these little things. I am thankful. I dislike the term in this month so maybe grateful is better. I have M the Carer and M my best friend, I have Sprite and Sylvani, it seems I surrounded myself with alliteration. I know for a fact that I am strong enough to not just manage but thrive. I couldn’t decorate last year for Gothmas in the way I wanted. The tiny tree and hurtful memories made things harder. I am going to stay “here” for as long as I can. I, for the first time, think I will be conscious and aware for Thanksgiving day.

I guess I should include a note about my fall the other day, which could have been serious too. No worrying, I am fine. I just somehow managed to fall trying to get into bed and then fell out of bed once I made it into bed the day of Vani’s castration. I know it was fatigue, so I rested for two days. No bruises, I have a fat lip and a sore bicep and that’s it. No need for the ER. No extra dislocations except my jaw and I don’t look like a victim of domestic violence. I am not pale from extra pain, and so all is well. Even that made me realize, I eally am with it. I wish I had figured the things out I know years ago to heal but healing is a process. I have a long way to go still too.

I still just feel so GOOD. It’s weird and somewhat scary in a way because I don’t know what to do with all this time. I am going to a museum sometime next week or something. There’s an exhibit about the (redacted)  that has a unique aspect that is often (almost always) overlooked. After I go I will write about it for safety reasons.

Cheating Death

The American Media has chosen their Celebrity Miner out of those who have survived the tragedy. A man who is mentioned by name not en masse with the other miners, and who has quickly been demeaned and portrayed as a hick, a savage, or damaged. I understand he was traumatized but it is for him to determine if his traumas will keep him from functioning and doing what he wants.

A hispanic man with dark hair, dark eyes, wearing a blue shirt and a black suit and tie

Edison Pena: The Chosen One

I understand too his need to compete in the New York Marathon. What I am struggling with is the reduction of this man to a single point of tragedy in his life. He is not a cheater of death, he is not merely a miner from Chile aka “The Chilean Miner” he is Edison Pena. I have no idea what that means for him but the media has spelled out in terms such as quaint and endearing that this adult man likes Elvis and how he cheated death by not giving up and continuing to run in the tunnels of the mine to keep the depression at bay. The condescension of the New York Marathon in presuming that this man would just want to hold the finish line tape astounds me.

The image in my head of him is alternating based on the descriptions in the articles that I have come across, not linked because I am mad and because one is in my cellphone, are of a kicked and useless puppy with a bad knee and of a towering paragon of Chilean Mineryness. He is either the hero or the desperate and needy man who needs a pat on the head and has the perceptions and wants of a child.

I am insulted as the reader. He should be insulted, though I suspect being the chosen one out of this mess by the US media and getting to go places like Graceland and on the David Letterman show will push this aside for him at least for a while, the media should be punished for this same old stupidity. I have only seen one picture of the men who survived this tragedy after their rescue. I understand that they had to fight to survive and I am glad they did. I have had a similar fight more than once, and so I get that surviving may not be over. Just the thought of being trapped under unstable rocks that could crush you for an hour or two is enough to make me nervous. To survive that way for months is impressive and likely most of these men will face Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

I am staring at the picture of Pena and I know what made him be chosen. You see Pena is handsome in the narrow way of Hollywood, he is willing to risk intensive pain to fulfill a dream, and he is fawning to the media to a degree. I choose the word fawning because of the tone of the quotes chosen but I am trying to keep in mind that this man is being portrayed as essentially amazing because he isn’t a lazy Latino. That’s the entire tone of the article. I want to punch this article in the testicles.

I am stuck on the idea of cheating death too. Since everyone dies eventually, do people presume that we cheat death every time we wake up and have a day? Is that cheating death? Or is surviving something despite the odds considered cheating death because the concept of surviving is beyond these soft and squishy blobs of media pundit? The concept that anyone could cheat death fills my head with laughter, deep and rich ominous laughter. You can’t cheat death. Life and death by that statement are reduced to just a game. It becomes a nonsense event to live or die.

Does someone dying of a heart attack who gets medical treatment and lives cheat death? Does someone who is murdered somehow not know how the game is played so they were just asking for it? Was this man supposed to not do what he felt it took to cope? I think the words cheating death anger me most out of the non-racism parts of these articles. These two words detract from the act of living itself and they imply that life is a game and has no value so you can play with it and put yourself at risk.

Why is it because a person is more than a single event in their lives the media has to use catch phrases like this in order to “make them more accessible” as the industry puts it. People are people, we live and breathe beyond the moment that the news knows of our existences. We struggle, we fight, and every day people survive horrible things, yet this is not cheating death. It is merely cheating the media out of an opportunity to sensationalize our deaths. The media which has lost sight of what truth is, if it ever knew.

I felt this grating for a while, when it came to the media’s method of mentioning these men. They have all been reduced to their jobs, always it was mentioned how accommodating they are being as if these men had a choice other than to sit and wait under the earth for rescue, and now they have been reduced to a single face. No more victorious faces, just a single man that has been chosen by a fickle and cruel media to represent the entirety of Chile for who knows how long. I feel very sad for Mr. Pena. I hope that people show him respect but based on the tone of the media thus far? He’s going to stop being a cute puppy eventually.

Here are some images of the other miners and their family members who also endured this tragedy from another angle, a reminder that they exist too. Just don’t forget they are people beyond their jobs. These are people who suffered. In fact this story has a romance in it that I find is of the true variety not the media hounding variety. Not by Pena. There are other stories to be told and lives that are to be lived but perhaps these other men chose privacy instead of an attempt at fame.

Several of the Chilean miners in red tee shirts

Excitement at Progress in their Survival

Jessica Ganiez shows the letter sent by trapped miner Esteban Rojas in which he says that when he gets out they'll get married.

Jessica Ganiez shows the letter sent by trapped miner Esteban Rojas in which he says that when he gets out they'll get married.

Here is a list of the names of each of the people that were trapped. There are 33 names. So why reduce these people to a single individual?!

Florencio Ávalos, Mario Sepúlveda, Juan Illanes, Carlos Mamani, Jimmy Sánchez, Osmán Araya, José Ojeda, Claudio Yáñez, Mario Gómez, Alex Vega, Jorge Galleguillos, Edison Peña, Carlos Barrios, Víctor Zamora, Víctor Segovia, Daniel Herrera, Omar Reygada, Esteban Rojas, Pablo Rojas, Darío Segovia, Yonny Barrios, Samuel Ávalos, Carlos Bugueño, José Henríquez, Renán Ávalos, Claudio Acuña, Franklin Lobos, Richard Villarroel, Juan Carlos Aguilar, Raúl Bustos, Pedro Cortez, Ariel Ticona y Luis Urzúa.

The Phone

I know that it’s something other people with Autism happen to deal with. The Phone. I sit here staring at it every day. It takes me four hours to make a single phone call. Which of course comes after I plan out my calls sometimes four days in advance. The phone… it feels like an enemy despite the fact that my phone isn’t even a smart phone so it lacks the most basic sentience. Not certain if Smart phones are sentient but my carer’s Blackberry says it’s thinking all the time so I will suppose it’s a very stupid smart phone since it rarely gets past the first thought of the day.

I hate my phone. From the phone bill, which if I was willing to risk being out without a cellphone could be less, on to the talking. The talking is the worst part. Why is it people shout into the phone? I know I am quiet and hard to hear but most of the people I know literally yell into the phone. When I had roommates I started asking one of their guests to go to another room since every time she was on the phone she began to yell. The roommates got louder too but this was usually because our phone was a piece of crap landline, and even I had had to yell into it so I wrote that off.

The phone fills me with foreboding. If I could translate that feeling into a story the phone would be the killer in one of my gory little trips down violence lane. The phone did it. Not the man, woman or mutant sewer alligator. It was the act of saying “Hello?” The silence at the other end, a crackle that could be breath and then you are dead, in the dial tone of terror.

This is about how it feels to make a call. I know the phone won’t actually kill me but this supposedly innocuous device creates a whole new level of communications challenge. Even texting can be difficult for me if I am tired or if my hands won’t function. Coordination is never a guarantee. Texting is the best part of a phone however, as I know when it is my time to text.

Sometimes waiting to talk on the phone I pull up a clock, so I can watch the second hand. This helps me to feel less like it has been an eternity since the other spoke when it has been a single breath. I am always angry sounding on the phone, but this is because I am focused on hearing you, understanding you, and frankly, knowing when it’s my time to go.

I often hang up on people too early. I don’t get the phone right, which bothers me. I feel self conscious with the phone. I can’t see you. You always sound hostile to me when I can’t see you. Then the phone brings me bad news. Whenever my student loan people call it’s never what I expect. “We approved you for this deferment but the department of education says your doctor isn’t the right kind of doctor.” Yet, they can’t explain why my doctor is not qualified to sign the paper. They don’t even understand what they are saying so I hit the end button before I yell at them for being stupid. Why would you hire someone who cannot understand and explain what is wrong with the papers? I already took care of this but am I to be a mind reader? Am I to infer that they wanted an MD not an Osteopath? They don’t know the difference and I don’t either. Luckily my doctor’s office does and someone else there can and will sign the papers.

The phone. It’s stalking me now. The only useful thing about the phone for me is the alarm clock. I do have internet on my phone but that is merely a back up in case my coping mechanisms fail then I can wait patiently while I poke at the buttons and read something on wikipedia. It’s about staying calm. In that moment the phone is the worst computer ever.

I suspect the advent of the video phone will eventually occur and I wonder if that will be worse or not. What about those six am calls from idiotic office workers who don’t comprehend that I am sleeping? Will they be more awkward since I don’t wear clothing to bed? I think that’s the entire reason why videophones aren’t what we use anyway. The video phone would level the playing field by making certain EVERYONE feels as awkward as I do on the phone.

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