When You're Not the Specialist Snowflake

You want a truly humbling experience? If you as a Pagan have a practice that is not indigenous to your ancestry, go to a place where people who are indigenous to the practice shop.

I had thought I got pretty slick about doing that - being respectful and being able to conduct myself, only minorly getting the stink eye and generally still winning over the shop employees by the end of my purchase. I felt like I knew what I was doing when it came to Puja by now. So when J. said he found a new puja shop that did flowers too, I was like let's do this!

I didn't know that it was a video store too which threw me off a little (my "usual" place was a kitchen supply store as well which for some reason went together better in my head) and they were snipping and sewing flowers at the speed of life. I stole a glance to their puja wall, sure I could just grab a few things, buy them and then get out as soon as possible.

Shopkeeper's teenaged son (Appears to think: Maybe she wants to rent Freaky Friday or she's lost): Can I help you?

Me (Utter panic sets in when I realized that I recognized nothing): Um, I. I . . .need . . .a clay pot. For a ghee lamp.

STS (confused): A clay pot?

Shopkeeper (steps in to help her son) (briskly): Can I help you?

Me (a little desperate as I can see that my communication skills are going to be a problem here in addition to a terminology issues): Y-yes. I need a ghee lamp.

SK: Oh! Give her the ghee lamp!

STS (hands me something that doesn't look like any ghee lamp I've ever used)

Me: Um, I've never used a lamp like that. How does it work?

(SK shows me how to use the wick with the lamp and essentially appears to tell STS not to complicate things for me when he starts to say something about a five star wick)
(I realize I have become their not-too-bright puppy - adorable, I do cute amusing things, they want to help me because I clearly can't help myself but clearly needs strong supervision)

Me: I also need an offering bowl?

STS (Hands me something completely unfamiliar)

Me: Um, for food?

SK: Oh that's for camphor! STS! Give her a plate!

Me: I'm sorry, I'm just starting out (UGH! For like six years! How can it be that I still apparently know nothing!). I need a bell.

STS: (Gives me a bell)

SK (kindly): Who is this all for?

Me (oh Jesus - wait, wrong pantheon): For Parvati?

SK: Who?

Me (desperately): Parvati?

SK: Gauri?

Me: . . .yes? Um, the Holy Family - Shiva, Parvati, Ganesha, Kartikeya? (sort of points to the picture of them)

SK (pleased): Oh it's good that you are getting to know God! Okay. You need this bowl for milk --

Me: Just for milk?

SK (sternly): Only for milk! The offering for camphor which is right after the ghee lamp. (despite some communication issues this part is v. clear) ONLY LIGHT A LITTLE. ONLY HALF A TABLET AT MOST OR YOU WILL LIGHT YOUR HOUSE ON FIRE! DO NOT DO THAT!

Me: Alrighty. Um, what flowers would be appropriate for them?

SK: How big is your idol?

Me (oh god) (Makes a small gesture)

SK (giggles) (busily makes a tiny gorgeous jasmine flower garland and puts in big cheerful yellow mums to offer as well while she bustles to STS to the puja wall and makes sure that all my offering bowls and such are an appropriately small size) (rings me up) Here's my card. (writes down her phone number) Call me if you need anything!

I leave in a daze. I spent more than I wanted (but not more than I could afford. I *highly* doubt that was a coincidence) to but honestly? We work *a lot* with the Holy Family and they deserve a nice puja set. But I was used to a *super* tiny set so I had to figure out how this would work. Despite having our altar set up for less than a year, we're already bursting at the seams (there's way more stuff on it now). I eventually came to the conclusion that I should store all the puja stuff in a ziplock bag (I have become militant about that - whenever "like" magical supplies can be stored in a ziplock, I do so. It helps soooo much) and store it under the altar and when it's puja time, we can do that on the dining room table or kitchen counter.

After Jow stopped laughing at my story (and I was sure to point out that he owed me big time because I go through all the awkward stuff generally in the name of our magical projects and he gets to reap the rewards), he had a moment of "OMGs, we are doing this rong! How will we puja!" And then I got to laugh at him. I'm not sure that our puja format is perfect (I'm a'guessin' it's not) but I think it's close enough at least. As far as I can tell from my previous puja instruction (from various sources) and recent puja instruction, the basic puja layout for the Holy Family should go like this: (and if anyone knows better, please pipe up. I'm not proud)
Ring bell
Eight Directions
Honor Ganesha
Honor Agni
Ohm for the Holy Family
Offering of Camphor
Offering of Incense
Offering of flowers
Offering of milk
Offering of food
Praise
Kumkum
Thank Ganesha, Agni and Holy Family
Eight Directions
Ring bell


As much as this outing felt like sticking my face in a blender, it was really good for me because it reminds me that I really sort of know nothing, despite some diligent effort on my part. I have a big gorgeous Hindu temple near me that has an online site which includes directions on how to go to the temple so that's my next step, along with doing puja regularly again (we've never done full puja here in the new house, the Holy Family's puja supplies mysteriously went missing in the move). I wish the temple did a Hindu 101 but they only do that for children. Maybe on a festival day? But I'm sure if there's one to be found I will find it.

This also brings me to (again, despite some diligent effort on my part) I know nothing about Shamanism and I want to read more and go to some powwows and maybe figure out how to finagle going to a sweat lodge again at Free Spirit (I would need to put plastic retainers in my piercings which is a huge pain in the ass but . . .I think it would be worth it) next year.

My goals with Hinduism/Shamanism/Hoodoo/Voudon is to become an educated layperson who can perform basic layperson functions.

Somewhat unrelatedly, Mrs. B is partly to "blame" for all these revelations because I was inspired by her entry to start offering my gods first bits of dinner and start a hearth light so that was also part of what I was shopping for. ;)

We're Not Past This Yet

As many of you know, Mrs. B has been kicking ass and taking names in this Moms of Faith Top 25 Blog contest, which also means that you're probably aware that some other bloggers don't think that Pagans belong in the contest (not just Christians now, kids! A Jewish blogger took up the cause too today). Mrs. B blogs about all her experience here.

I have to confess something. I thought we were past this. I really did. There are Wiccans represented in mainstream television, most people don't bat an eye anymore if you say you're a Wiccan (which I tend to do to with strangers frankly, I'm not interested in giving an eclectic Pagan 101 every time I meet someone), my mother begrudgingly will acknowledge it as a faith, albeit through the filter of Charmed but hey, I'm not picky, I'll take what I can get.

It wasn't always like this of course. Even here in liberal New Jersey when I first started I knew to keep my trap zipped about my beliefs. A friend had her car keyed because of her bumper stickers and had been pulled over by the cops for them on occasion. I keep my pentacle under my shirt under most circumstances and my altar was an altar to Mary, Mother of the Sea as far as my mother was concerned. But that was fifteen years ago and I guess I've gotten spoiled living here.

I don't think it's just about living here though. My oldest and dearest friend is born and bred from Kansas and I would consider her a Conservative Christian. B. can party like a rock star, she can toss back shots like a champ, she's the first one on the dance floor and she has a wicked sense of humor. She is also one of the sweetest people with the biggest heart and capacity for joy wit a strong sense of faith. She also doesn't take any shit. B. has never once so much as made a "well, I don't agree but that's for you and the big JC to take up later" noise. She's happy I have faith and believe in something and try to be a good person. When I'm struggling with a moral dilemma, we're often on the same page together. She and my mom are who I think of when I think of good Christian women.

This. . . .debatacle is not what I think of. And I know most of the women in the faith aren't like this but I thought we were past this and it makes me sad and feel gross that there are people who think we're bad people going to hell because of our faith. I mean I guess it's the same bubble around here about the LBGT community, I knew girls who got beat up for holding hands and now it's more, "I'm gay." "And?" (coming out is still a thing for some of course, ymmv).

Alix Olsen once said "And I think/post-feminist is presumptuous" and I agree, we're not all equal yet, sorry. I had thought with Pagans in the military that maybe we were past religious bigotry against Pagans and . . .we're not. And it makes me sad, just like the bigotry against Muslims makes me sad. It also reinforces why I'm frankly never moving. I need to live in a place where it's okay for me to be different in all those fun and interesting ways I'm different and I need a community, preferably a large one like I have in New Jersey. And I'm grateful for all the community I have and accepting people I have in my life.

Thanks to Jason Miller/Self Improvement May Lead to Sleeplessness

Firstly, I want to thank Jason for writing Sorcerer's Secrets, because it is thanks to him I'm sleeping again. Now that sounds like some kind of backhanded bitchy compliment, but it's not. It's v. v. sincere. His book lays out theory and tech in an orderly manner that makes me feel like I can accomplish what he suggests to do, that even a half ass dilettante like myself is capable of not just complicated workings, but using his ideas and funneling them into Deb-Speak and making them my own and making a frightening towering cake of a working covered in pink glittering sparkles and layers upon layers of magical fondant. So I can read a chapter, feel good about my place in the world and my capability and just. go. to. sleep. Herbal compendiums are good for this too.

Of course, up until like three days ago, I wasn't doing this. I was reading life improvement books before bed. They are really, really good and really well written and really useful and will help me build my hello kitty themed empire. But it just makes me all crazy-like and unable to sleep when reading them before bed. I finished Rules of the Game and Entre-Vous. I tried 4HWW but that just made me angry versus feeling inadequate. I’m reading Linchpin currently and will be reading Crush It after. But it makes it so I have trouble sleeping because I worry I will never live my life properly and/or better.

It’s moments like those when you are staring at the ceiling thinking about how hard you’re failing in life because you haven’t done anything particularly awesome as yet and haven’t written a book outline yet even though you were supposed to asap during your unemployment, haven't written a damn thing really yet though you've hardcore re-org'ed your house and yes I'm projecting all over you and you'll just have to deal here, and often have doubts and difficulties even saying hello to strangers let alone cold reading them and then charming them and still have doubts about your wardrobe and your body because this time of year every commercial on television wants to remind you what a naughty terrible unforgivable slag you’ve been so you need to start their diet/exercise program/liposuction immediately and your house isn’t full of charming objects from antique shops and is more cluttered than artfully disheveled and maybe you’re not sure you even have what it takes to be an artist or linchpin or special ponyprincessfirefighterfarmer and maybe you’re just going to be a cog forever.

A cog who never will open a conversation and then hook and seed it, a cog who hasn’t listened to NPR in over a month but who has never missed an episode of Toddlers and Tiaras, a cog who sometimes just likes to be told what to do at work and collect a paycheck and go about her business, a cog who will need to go to the gym eventually even though its tedious and not enjoyable because there’s no Metro to dash to in heels and she’s not v. good in them anyway, a cog who blathers about her life to all comers on the internet and gossips incessantly, a cog who has yet to put together her spinning wheel or start churning out artisan crafts, a cog whose desk is still in the CRV in pieces so she hasn’t written a damn thing yet since starting her month sabbatical, a cog who may still be terminally shy around strangers at Arisia this year, despite running a whole track for it.

All of these doubts plague me before bed, making it so even my elephant tranq level of evening pills I take to smooth out doubts and fibromyalgia that used to, when I had a day job, made it so I drifted effortlessly to sleep every night but now they barely make a dent so that I’m starting to dread going to bed again like I used to pre-medication because I know what will happen, me and all my doubts staring at the ceiling, thinking about all the things I haven’t done.

And when it hits its peak, when you feel completely awful and powerless and useless, take a breath and remember all the people in your life who love you. Right now. As is. Craziness and all. Even if you’re a cog who never starts a conversation with a stranger or gets the hang of buying two good sweaters instead of ten that you’ll toss in a year and you never become an artiste and just collect a pay check and you never lose any weight and keep watching crappy tv, you are still loved and worthy of love. Right now, as is, and never *ever* let anyone tell you otherwise.

Lay her down in her gingerbread coffin/ she's so pretty/ laid out in white . . .

I rarely have large amounts of time home alone, so today while avoiding work, I reread my last 20 or so blog entries as it tends to give me clues as to where my head was, where my head is and where I am going and I realized that along with a three part blog posting that I need to get to, I never made my poppet of The Wife Who Was.

When making that post, I was v. full of piss and vinegar as I was trying to psych myself up into letting go of her. After last weekend, I realized I really am ready to let go of her, more over, it's time. This month, I would have been married for three years, would have been with Wasband for ten years which is a third of my life. It didn't work out that way. He left a month before our first wedding anniversary, leaving me an abandoned bride with a half frozen wedding cake on her balcony and no one to eat it with.

It honestly frightens me that in only two years, I've become such a different person that the life I shared with a person for nearly my entire adult life is a distant memory. It doesn't seem like it should work that way, that two years can erase eight. But it does. Fragments do remain of course, but for the most part, besides having to inopportunely see him unexpectedly at various pagan/alterna events, it's almost like it never happened. He's a shadowy figure of a past that often was not that happy.

I suppose what also really frightens me is that I thought that I was happy. And maybe I was, because I didn't really know any better yet. Nothing in my life had yet led me to believe that happiness wasn't found while living beyond one's means with a heaping helping of codependence and near constant antagonism.

In writing, you are constantly told to show through a character's actions how the character is feeling, not simply having the character tell. And . . .before I was telling and now I'm showing.

I thought making my little straw bride, the one who was left, the one who wasn't good enough would be a bra burning liberating experience. But after forming her from straw with red roving hair and a paper wedding dress with a tiny heart and putting bits of me to her so that she would be me, I was sad. No. Not really sad, more . . .melancholy.

I broke the link, chanting I don't belong to you anymore, piling basil on top of her for our transitioning away from that self and into who I am settling into, burning the whiskey he won't drink in a caldron sized funeral pyre.

But, I felt sorry for her. Sorry for my little straw bride that I once was. I'm sorry this didn't work. Even though it's better for us now. I'm sorry that you got hurt so badly when all you did was try to love someone, if not perfectly. I'm sorry that your voice wasn't heard when you were honest before the ring even slid on your finger about how you feel about marriage. I'm sorry that you didn't have the tools to realize how really and truly awful thing had gotten so that it was a surprise when he took everything and left without any warning or face to face discussion. I'm sorry that you thought even when things got as bad as they did, that that was love, not some mangled damaged version of it that neither of you were grown up enough when meeting to not fall into. I'm sorry you were so broken and didn't even realize it. I'm sorry you kept thinking things would get better even though by the end you had no reason to. I'm sorry you were so desperate to not lose what was familiar that you were willing to beg for him to stay on your hands and knees over the phone like a fucking dog even though he didn't even want to take your call. I'm sorry about how much he hurt you throughout the divorce process, that you had to act like a trained fucking dog on his command or he would take away things you needed. I'm sorry you let him have the level of power and control over you that you are still breaking away from even though now he is a shattered shell of an insect. I'm sorry you never had a chance. I'm sorry I had to burn you to be free of him. But it is necessary. It is needed. Mea culpa. Mea culpa. Mea culpa.

Into the Dark

I think everyone wants answers through their spirituality for the bigger questions. Why are we here? How do we know the gods exist? Do we have souls? What happens after we die?

With larger, more unified faiths, there's usually a pat answer (except for Judaism as far as I know). Heaven. Reincarnation. These religions also tend to have clergy where one of their jobs is to give you answers to these questions.

While Pagans have clergy, we don't have a unified lengthy training program. Many of our clergy need to have day jobs to support themselves, which is a different topic in and of itself, and many Pagan clergy members don't set themselves above their fellow Pagans.

So we ask each other. And some of us answer with confidence from the work we've done, the spirits who speak to us, the austerities we accomplish. We ponder and sometimes fight with each other about fine points of practices and faith here on the blogosphere to try to find answers.

As many of you know, I like order and routine. So I put together a neat little package of answers to my questions so I can get out of bed every morning and most days that's enough.

But should I ever be considered to be in a position of authority, I don't want my neat packet of answers to be mistaken for deep, unshakable faith. Because, I don't have that. I did, as a child and teenager in Catholicism, but somewhere along my dad's long, painful drawn out death, I needed more answers. As a mad girl scientist, I immediately thought, books! I took classes in college on the Old Testament, Western Religion, searching, searching and still coming up shaken. I became a Dianic Wiccan shortly after I attended a circle as part of my class assignment (to attend a service for a faith other than mine).

For those of you who have ever seen it, Scrubs is generally a comedy about working in a hospital told through the eyes of JD. But once in a while, they have a serious episode and that's when it's a cascade of tears for me. "My Last Words" is about a man dying who has a lot of questions and no sure faith in anything in particular. JD and his friend Turk start out with platitudes and other reassuring things, but end with, I don't know. We have to fight death every day and we don't know and it's terrifying. And . . .that's how I feel. As a Crowgirl who has attended far more funerals than weddings, I still don't have any answers. In the episode, they use a song by one of my favorite bands, Deathcab for Cutie called, "I Will Follow You into the Dark" which really sums up my feelings on the whole matter.

I don't have answers. Death scares me. But, the lyrics of the song sum up how I feel.

The last bit of the episode. Deathcab's alternative video using a picture book with rabbits. Amanda Palmer's cover.

Love of mine
Someday you will die
But I'll be close behind
I'll follow you into the dark
No blinding light or tunnels to gates of white
Just our hands clasped so tight
Waiting for the hint of the spark

If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied
Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs
If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark

In catholic school, as vicious as Roman rule
I got my knuckles bruised by a lady in black
And I held my tongue as she told me "Son, fear is the heart of love"
So I never went back

If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied
Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs
If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark

You and me
Have seen everything to see
From Bangkok to Calgary
And the soles of your shoes
Are all worn down, the time for sleep is now
But it's nothing to cry about 'cause we'll hold each other soon
In the blackest of rooms

If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied
Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs
If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark
And I'll follow you into the dark.

My fingertips are holding onto the cracks in our foundation, / and I know that I should let go, / but I can't.

I'm not dead, I will be getting back to regularly scheduled posting soon.

Things that I am doing that you may or may not care about:

* Planning my sister's wedding rehersal dinner

* Going on vacation to Florida for a few days

* Getting my Maid of Honor dress/jewelry situated

* Planning my sister's baby shower in Oct

* Japa practice

* Writing articles for various Pagan publications to lay groundwork to have a good resume so I can write my kitchen witchbook when/if I get laid off in the next few months (I have a post about that eventually, Black Swans, my PEH, all the good things in life)

* Writing articles for paying venues

* Planning our pre-launch/launch/marketing plan for our magical supply shop, Trevia.

* Watching as much reality tv as I can handle when my brain goes to mush.

Wheel of Morality Turn, Turn, Turn. Tell Us the Lesson We Must Learn!

So last we left our intrepid dilettante, she was having a complete crisis of faith.

So it started happening again - I'd start to get better, decide to take it upon myself to have a Tiki Party with a massive amount of help from the bfs and gf, take down a heroic amount of shots and . . .start to get sick again.

Slowly, it started to dawn on me that maybe, just maybe this was not fibro related. Maybe I was just . . .sick (inconceivable! I always Cast Doubt about that because I feel being such a lemon physically that I should get a free pass, n'est-ce pas?) or had an infection or something.

It's been more than three weeks of this low grade . . .thing. So finally, I cave about going to see a doctor (I'm insuranceless or my ass would have been there like a bat out of hell week one).

Being insuranceless, my *ideal* doctor's appointment would be: you have a minor infection, here is a script for cheap or free antibotics.

Because! If it is:

You just have fibro/a cold/allergies/nebulous stinky cat syndrom - *rage!* because I had to pay a lot to hear that.

You need some kind of procedure - *rage!* because I don't have money for that.

I was *going* to go to the MinuteClinic but Mothra acted like I was going there for a back alley abortion*, all, WHAT! ARE THEY EVEN DOCTORS! WHAT DO THEY KNOW ABOUT FIBRO! So I was like, oooooohkay, I'll go to my usual doctor.

So, I did and it turns out I have a bronchial infection and have been put on a five day dose of Zelasomething and sent home after the appointment. So, it went according to plan, basically. I am going to take it easy this week and look forward to returning to my usual state of feeling sort of like ass instead of flat out like ass. She also said that even a low grade fever is going to fuck up my fibro like whoa. Which means I'll be plotting, commenting, writing, and other mischievous acts again v. soon.

I picture the conversation between my deities to go something like:

Yemaya: I've been trying to tell your daughter this for weeks --
Crow: My daughter? Why is she always my daughter when she gets crazified? I've been trying too, I've sent crows everywhere to tell her to get her ass to the damn doctor--
Yemaya: She never listens.
Shiva, Durga, Parvati: Srsly. Not even a little.


* The closest one to me isn't v. close anyway

You have limitations, don't go chasing flies/ I must be protective/ You cannot be reckless/ That's what is expected/ when you are infected . . .

Gather round, kiddies. I haven't been writing as much in the last two weeks or so due to my fibro. Apparently, my body has now decided it's great fun to let me think I'm holding the leash, only to be reminded in the morning who the bitch is.

It's hard. Mostly, I don't talk about it, because I'm busy living and doing and being a good little match girl. But lately, if I do (1) "out of the box" event, I'm paying for it for a week. When I'm dancing on tables and shot gunning caffeine and booze down my throat in equal measures (what? Isn't that what you do at a sci-fi/fantasy con?), I know that the bill is going to come due and I'll sign my name and take the hit to be low grade ill for a week.

But when it's smaller events that simply require getting up early, or staying out late, or being outside when it's a little cold and the bill comes due, demanding similar tribute as a weekend of debauchery, it's more than dispiriting.

This is also where I tend to have trouble interacting with others, even loved ones. Because I don't look sick most of the time and can put on a pretty decent act about being a real girl, it's easy for many to live primarily in Denial Island. When it gets bad, the reaction often shoots over to Ohmigod It's Like You're Dyingville, which is also completely exhausting in other ways. Getting only one of two of those reactions often feels completely skitzo to me, because I live with this every damn day whether I want to or not.

Those close to me want to hear my usual Pollyana attitude, that I will push through this and I will be better again on a cocktail of meds, sunshine, and wishes. That this is just a rough patch. I will be normal again and no one will have to worry anymore. I will be drinking champagne and wearing too much jewelry and laughing again.

And here's where my crisis of faith always happens. I can't promise anyone that. I don't know when and if I'll get better again or if I'm at another dip in the road.

Words that are meant to be encouraging like, we'll get through this, aren't. I'm getting through it right now, thank you. I want my fucking life back. I don't want to just get through this. Digging my claws into my job and being able to write >500 words a day and being able to spin >1 oz in a day (and not both together, let's not get crazy!), trying to socialize for a couple hours, and trying to manage making dinner isn't my fucking life. It's substandard. It's unacceptable. Attempts to find the magic scientific equation (if I just do x amount of work in y day, I will have z energy . . .) are equally frustrating.

I'm sure you'd like this entry to feel a little more occultish and a little less lj. It's the thought I am afraid to even have - what is the point of this? What is the point of my fibromyalgia? Who am I when it rules me? Who would I be if I were without it? Is it a matter of, oh sorry kid, we live in a random ass universe where random ass shit happens and you shot craps? Is there a purpose to it? To make me more magically delicious? To make me stronger, faster, harder, more appreciative, more introspective? Because let me tell you something, days like today, I want to give that fucker back, if it's some kind of so-called "gift". And let me tell you, while my magic is effective and while my character sheet dots have been balanced in other ways (that I always have loved ones, that I always have enough money, etc), nothing I've ever accomplished has frankly been impressive enough to warant this level of what's been of late constant suckage. I wish I were more deluded, that I was constantly fucking around on the astral, thinking I'm pew! pew! pewing! my way into some kind of huge bit of arcane power through my sacrifice.

And if it's not for some divine purpose, or not in my gods control, why is it happening? And if it is in my gods control, why do they let me live like this? I mean, I know, starving children in Africa, someone always has it worse, blahfuckingblah. Other people having it worse is often at best an intellectual concept to me when it gets this bad for me.

I keep thinking, that somehow living with this is something I can just power through and overpower through sheer force of will, and that's what most of my days are when it's not this bad. In the last 21 . . .I keep failing. I don't even fail better. I. Just. Keep. Failing.

Two crows are sitting at my window, their backs politely to me as I sniffle at my desk at work. Always there. Always watching.

I just feel . . .lost. Because, what if I don't get better again this time? What if this is it and it's just a slow steady decline?

If I were a Catholic still, I would believe that my God had a plan and a purpose to this. If I were a mage, I would believe my magic could make me better and I could return to at least my former sick self through my will. But I'm neither. I'm just another lost dilettante with no answers.

Note to Self

Dear Self,

Perhaps, in your exuberance to be the prettiest, wealthiest, most successful princess in the world, you may have overlooked one teensy tiny detail.

Like . . .your health. You remember that right! You have fibromyalgia every damn minute of every damn day which means you are in pain every damn minute of every damn day, how did this escape your attention? That's not even counting all your fun *auxiliary* problems such as occasional anemia, indigestion, and occasional lady bit problems. And that's *still* not even counting things like that wisdom tooth issue* that feels like getting repeatedly stabbed in the ear, migraine, or other plagueful health problems you incur.

Sigh. I will be doing another mojo bag soon for health, it will probably have a tiny spoon charm in it as well.

No love,
self

* Yesssssssssssss. I've been to the dentist, he said I could keep them or remove them since they're half in and I chose to keep them which will result in occasional minor infection that unless it keeps up for several days simply needs Tylenol, rinsing with salt water, and an occasional rinse with Mr. Patron.