Bitten by the cosplay bug

If the cosplay bug bites, be prepared for possible cosplay addiction.

Symptoms include:
– watching movies and TV shows and wondering how to make your favorite characters’ outfits
– doing the same thing while reading books and comic books
– scouring thrift stores for cheap clothing you can use or modify to fit your look
– the sudden urge to learn how to sew
– a new appreciation for the Project Runway designers when they have an unconventional materials challenge
– going to the hardware store for costume materials
– looking at everyday objects as potential costume materials
– last minute oh-my-God-it’s-the-day-before-the-con-and-I’m-not-done panic attacks

This of course is not a complete symptom list.

The cure? Sorry, there isn’t one. Have fun making your cosplays and remember: you don’t have to be the same age/height/weight/gender/race/etc as your favorite characters, just a love of dressing up as something you love!

Now for me, back to my designs for this year’s convention!

Dark dreams

What does it mean when you dream that no one invites you to go anywhere and you have the magical ability to become invisible and create illusions to keep people from finding you?

Does this mean that no one sees me as someone to hang out with? Or does it mean that even though I crave friendship my subconscious really doesn’t want it?

I would love to have a few friends that I can hang out with on a regular basis. I miss that. The girl time. The double dates with my husband and other couples. I used to have it, but then life happened and it slowly disappeared like grains of sand falling through an hourglass.

It would help if I had the confidence to be the one to do the asking, but for some reason part of me is terrified that whoever I ask to hang out will be too busy or will be inconvenienced. Why does this terrify me? Probably a psychoanalyst could say after a few sessions, but that’s not the kind of hanging out I want to do.

For right now, I guess the dream will serve as a passive aggressive cry for attention and friendship. Later, though, I may use it as the basis for a short story. We shall see.

Serial Killer VI

Serial Killer VI

I have almost reached the officer’s gun
Just a one more inch
Suddenly, darkness
When I awaken
I do not know how much time has passed
I am back in my cell
I reach to my head
Feel a bandage
The strong, male courtroom officers
Could not physically restrain me
Without a baton blow to the head
That “expert” psychiatrist is lucky
If I’d had that gun
He would be the one
With brain damage
Damaged all over the wall
My cellmate talks to me
I try to ignore her
She smells of sweat
She speaks of being “gay for the stay”
I tell her she is not my type
(Not my type to kill)
But she insists
I do not like to kill barehanded
So barbaric
So pedestrian
But they took my tools from me
Therefore I have no choice
Bludgeoning her to death with my fists
Takes less time than I anticipated
Even with my wounded arm
Still not healed
Another prisoner heard the noise
She is screaming for help
Keep screaming bitch
I’ll see you in the yard

A little curvy

No, not me. I’m talking about the learning curve for baking polymer clay.

I thought I had the hang of it, but nope.

Thank the Gods for painting skills. I’m able to salvage all of the pendants I burned today, though I lost the variety of colors of clay.

I encountered the same problem the first few times I baked according to the instructions on the packaging. You’d think I would have learned.

A few words of advice for those trying out polymer clay for the first time: experiment first. I tried cooking several small things at once, believing that if I just halved the time they would come out fine.

I would’ve saved myself a ton of time if I had just experimented first.

A little taste

This will be a short post today. I’d like to show y’all (I grew up in Alabama–“y’all” is a word, as is “fixinta”) a poem I wrote years ago. A little piece of me, available also in my poetry collection “Kamikaze Butterflies” on Amazon.


What was once so soft and pure….now stands broken in shame….visage that could admiring eyes once lure….now lies scarred and maimed….such a pretty word is blemish….euphemistic disguise of truth….if only these things could be banished….and return to the perfection of youth….if only there was a way to undo what life has done….to erase the battle tokens….to heal it all ’til scars there are none….’til the skin no longer stands broken

(Please excuse the formatting. My tablet is being a jerk.),

Let’s get serious for a minute

Bullying. It’s cruel, it’s wrong, and it hurts.

For the past few months I’ve been assisting with a collaboration of works by several poets and authors to create an anthology designed to bring to light the horrors of bullying.

It can happen to people of any age, race, sex, religion–anyone, really. And as anyone can be bullied, so too can anyone become a bully.

It’s up to each of us to be aware of how we treat one another and to stand up for those who are mistreated.

If your life has been affected by bullying, or if you just plain think it needs to stop, there are a lot of good charities out there to research for ways to help. Kidscape is a British charity, and the US has Stomp Out Bullying and Stand for the Silent (to name a few–Google your local city, state, country, whatever to find the charity that speaks to you).

Assisting a charity doesn’t necessarily mean spending money. Sure, that may help at tax time for some of us, but money isn’t the only thing that’s needed. Make up signs, donate clothes, offer support however you can.

People have killed themselves over being bullied. Hundreds, thousands… Beautiful, smart, wonderful people who for whatever reason became targets for someone’s sick amusement.

This brings up another group I’d like to mention: the Izzy Dix Anti Bullying Memorial Fund (another UK group). Izzy killed herself because of what bullies put her through. Her sad yet beautiful poem–one that we hope to include in the anthology–helped drive me to take on this cause to try to prevent others from feeling the need to take such drastic measures to escape.

The Rain Wants to Die

The rain wants to die
That’s obviously so
It doesn’t struggle to live
Like the dancing snow

The rain wants to die
It doesn’t strike back
Like the angry hail
That hits with loud cracks

The rain wants to die
But why, I don’t know
It doesn’t seem to try
Like the hail and the snow

People don’t like the rain
But maybe that’s why
Because it doesn’t complain
It just wants to die

Excerpt from “Kamikaze Butterflies”

Back to the drawing board

I’ve been trying to think of some #design for my book cover (yeah, I know, getting ahead of myself…call it preparedness maybe?), and I stubbornly refused to even consider another artist for it.

That’s probably because I’m an #artist myself and quite the #narcissist. Me me me. All about me. Have to do it myself.

Then a friend of mine contacted me saying we should hang out. It had been a long time, but more importantly she’s an artist as well, and a much better one than I. Not only could we collaborate on an art project–something I’ve never done, and something that maybe might create a dent in that narcissism thing. She did a couple of rough sketches of a cover design based on a few words from me and they looked amazing!

Not only did I get some much-needed #girltime, I learned a valuable #lifelesson: I don’t have to do it all myself. I can trust in my friends and others to provide support and help me out.

I’m not trying to use my friend for cover art or anything. I truly loved having a couple of hours with her. Talking, giggling like schoolgirls, comparing and showing off our various art pieces (she has many, many more than I do), catching up…. It was a great time. I had almost forgotten what it’s like to just hang out with a friend and have fun. I even drew something myself–horrible perspective and proportions, but the clothing looked good and it got the “look” I was going for.

Now on to #writing. 🙂

‘Tis the season…

…for W2s and #TurboTax! That’s right, I’m going to get started on my taxes this afternoon and deduct all the medical crap I had to cough up money for last year.

Of course, can’t get too excited about it because whatever return we get is going to be going towards paying for the rest of the surgery I had, plus lingering bills from services related to said surgery. Bah humbug.

The bright side of this is finally getting rid of a good chunk of more than $2,000 in medical bills that’s been hanging over my head. I highly doubt the return will cover all of the bills, but it should be enough to at least make headway. It will be quite a relief.

I don’t think my pittance of a royalty from my poetry book sales will show up on this year, but I suppose I should check that. The royalties didn’t get paid out until a few days ago, so it’s possible that they’re on last year’s taxes, but I doubt Uncle Sam is going to lock me up over $4.98.

Getting real tired of your shit, brain

I would love to have a decent night’s sleep. Love. But I guess my brain has other ideas.

In the past few weeks (well, longer than that, but I’ve only had my #Fitbit a few weeks) I’ve been averaging 5.5 hours of sleep a day. That’s including naps.

I have no idea why my brain randomly decided that if I wake up between 0100 & 0400 I need to stay awake. Can’t go back to sleep.

I’m able to function throughout the day, but I have no energy by the time I get home. The things I want to do–read, write, draw, blog–just take too much thought and effort when my body is so sleep deprived.

I’m writing this a little past 3am because I woke up hungry and can’t get back to sleep. At least I’m off this morning so maybe I can get a nap in before working this afternoon.