You know you have a chronic illness when:

be-ahsan:

"Appropriately dressed"
morphs into
"I have on pants, and you should be grateful."

(via hawkelf)

I feel like my intermittent mediocrity/success paralysis can be broken down in the following ways:
55%: Debilitating Fear of Failure
25%: Procrastination Instigated by Debilitating Fear of Failure
10%: Post-Procrastination Panic
5%: Sense of Failure resulting in pathological self soothing then GUILT
5%: Things that are actually out of my control (chronic illness, offices closed for holiday, people being dicks, the position already being filled, etc.)

Damn, now I want to make a pie chart. Or a pie.
If I spent half as much time focusing on success as I do:
1. Breaking down my failures
2. Breaking down and making a pie rather than working (then tumblring about it)
3. Breaking down,


I’d be Tony Stark. No, dude. Seriously. 

But, at least I have pie? And pie is the first step.

I am way too excited about making pomegranate dark chocolate chunk cookies for the kids in our karate class tonight. Why, you may ask?


1. I get to spend all day in the kitchen chilling with our Hestia altar and the crockpot (seriously though, crockpots and dutch ovens are cauldrons for kitchenwitches)
2. I finally have an excuse to try making pomegranate molasses
3. I have time to research web design and making tea liquor & eggshell chalk while molasses is cooking and I procrastinate on slowly do bookkeeping.
4. My roommates are sort of scared of bothering me while I’m throwing spices about everywhere. So, I get introvert time. Or they may be hoping for cookies. (You, tumblr, on the other hand, feel free to bother. I always looking forward to chatting with other kitchenwitches/herbworkers/dumpsterdiving alchemists/makers.)
5. Coconut Oil: $4, Almond Flour: $4, Brown Sugar:$3, Pomegranate Juice: $2, Lemon Juice:$2 Getting to make delicious cookies to offer to Persephone and 50 kickass small children? Priceless.

Should I start a foodporn blog?

Tonight’s dinner was country captain chicken with a crushed pecan and scallion garnish. Tomorrow’s breakfast will be an orange spice with lemon spike smoothie and a gluten-free pepperjack&cheddar breakfast casserole. Tomorrow’s dinner will be cuban roast pork and jalapeno sandwiches with a garlic-citrus mojo sauce. I worked on all of these dishes simultaneously tonight.

#finallymymum’sdaughter

youngfabandpoly:

by travelandunravel, admin

It is a new year, and nearly seven months since I first decided to become a mod for youngfabandpoly. Some things are much the same as they were this time last year…

In which I remember that I used to be a writer, and reclaim my spot as a mod at the youngfabandpoly tumblr (a blog celebrating and supporting polyamorous and ethically non-monogamous young people)

optimaldinosaurbabies:

A lot of the time when I’m worrying that I might be slipping back into codependent behaviors I realize I’m actually just worried that I wouldn’t be perfectly fine without a support network

when I put it that way it seems awfully silly, because most people aren’t perfectly fine without a support network of some sort?

If I ask for help, then I will get accustomed to company/support, and won’t be wanting to wander off randomly which means I’m codependent!! (So obviously, it’s better to just wait until I’ve fallen over and help is offered…which is so much better. :/)

*cue facepalming*

(Source: betternotperfect)

Today,

I say no without unnecessary explanation, and I say yes without unnecessary fear. 

In the shower,I will wash away unanalysed apologies. With my towel, I will dry beloved tears. 

Grief is a rite of passage, and I am gloriously burdened with its weight. The heaviness makes me stronger. It is an exercise in humanity. I am human and so entangled with calendars, the passing of days, the crossing of bridges in snow,sleet,sweet buds. While I will grieve today, it will not be the same tomorrow. The steps are not the same today as they were yesterday, and tomorrow the walk will be even more different, especially where it feels the same. Grieving is a gratitude touched by absence, and I will focus on how thankful I am to know it.

Every day is difficult in its own breathtaking fashion.

I will let today be 

today.

Not-so-fun with almost-prepositions

I am breaking through this rut today(,dammit.)

I am overwhelmed and underfocused.I am over understanding. I am out of place and in touch.

If  When I burst out from beneath this wounded comforter of self doubt,
When I unwrap myself from this tangled sheet of sticky sabotage,
When I decide to leave the soft,smothering bundle of excuses on which I restless bury my head..with chilly feet,without apologies and within my weathered weight

I relearn my stretch of reasonable glory.
I perfect present tense.

Tags: journal joy

badhabits-goodtimes said: Similar/Different (fuck the binary, just choose whoever you want), Doing, Dream.

Similar/Different: 
James McAvoy,James Spader,Yvonne Strahovski,Felicia Day,Rachel Maddow,Sneezing-gods-why-do-i-want-to-kiss-so-many-friends

Doing:
Fussing with my hair when nervous/keeping a secret,
reading wtfromantic/epic friendship stories when stressed,
tea as a learned replacement for other urges (sex,cuddling,kink,radical honesty,cigarettes,fighting)

Dream:
Holistic,efficient&affordable healthcare for myself and others,
location independent work that leaves me quickly able to pay off my debts/rarely leaves me ethically in question but never lets me take it for granted,
freedom from guilt-driven self-sabotaging habits

This is what happens when someone says, “Write something.”

Maybe it’s not about quitting smoking or trying to resist the pull of a waxing moon in the autumn or a summer roadtrip or just one more drink or only one scoop. Perhaps it’s not about learning to withhold nuclear truths or not pick up the it’snotactuallytheapocalypse 3 am phone. Maybe it’s not about each of these addictions, their existence or banishment. Maybe the magic of exacting my will in the world is to acknowledge and accept the ways in which I can’t windwhip my earth, and, more importantly, the ways in which I won’t. The won’t of “I would never”, the won’t of “never say never.”

Perhaps, if I’m lucky, it’s not about learning impulse control or loving myself enough to avoid addiction, but learning to give more laughter, give more life, give more lies and more pleas, more time, more fucks, more-more to a different habit, the sort of obsession that can crackle as a chalice rather than a dropped match, the sort that I won’t let burn my hopes down.

Let’s burn my hopes up. Let my itfeelslikeaneeds, let my desperate panting and pared-down frankness fill up my spirit till it steams over my honest attempts at love, Lava instead of a nuance, offering instead of apology. 

So mote it be, and I have sinned. I told you it was dangerous to set me down at some keys and say “Play something” “Write something” “Anything new”

"Anything new" is my favourite sort of prayer.

""Kissing him is like going home. If it was on fire. And you are an intense pyro. I’m always caught somewhere between "This feels right", "GODS! RUN!",and "Oooooh, pretty.""

— Me (travelandunravel)

Automaticwriting is not a balanced breakfast.

The smell of bulk bought waffle batter, the turquoise of a halter top and mandarin orange of a headscarf. We’re quietly killing this hotel carpet. The clamor of stretching and stumbling into the linoleum-topped tables, murmuring with rubbing eye roommates in ways others can/not understand. I can hear the crisp syllables of every lovely (,we’re late.)  that I didn’t think to interpret. I’m comfort(er) bound, grounded in my love, going to jump the fence between the first relative/relatedness that ever commanded the blessing “Family” into the large world of “Friend?

I am away from where I usually sleep with most of the walkers between my daydreams. I am running away from the word ‘home’ and settling into a house in dreams the land of the keepers of my kneeshaking love. I am afraid of being a vagabond verifying the milemarkers between my limits. I fear hiking without the cartographers of my rocky ranges. I fear being snowed into my soul.

My family knows the safe paths between the flooding of my spirit, the bending of my soles, the eruption that my pupils and my pencils will inflict on before I bushwhack into a poem. How will I get lost without them? Escape, exile, examining writer’s exchange out of wonderland. I chose this path to tour another sort of real. The market for guidebooks there is understated, overwritten, wide.

I know what I’m packing.

a bundle of college rule,
a bribe of stamps,
a pair of magical jeans that remind me safety is a sentence I write,
that keep me revising away from splinters.

I’m going to forage so much faith I leap any states that separate us.
And then I’m going to come back to the place that is never and always home, where we understand what the other families could be saying, but don’t care to learn what they do. I  will wonder again on the difference between breakfast and bulkbought waffle batter, running away from home and running away to home, whether Dorothy Gale knew the difference between comfort and crashing.

I will call both love.

I love the world, the whim, the way that I’m living. I love the two bags of gear I brought, and their usefulness. I love the baggage I’m letting go (and the usefulness it once had, too.) I love being unashamed to wander,wonder, write alone. I love being unafraid to sit with loneliness when it comes and learn what it has to say. I love how rarely it visits anymore. I love knowing where I’m loved. I love the chill of the wind before the rain, and the way my eyes don’t really work in the sun. I love that I find stained glass, situps, soil composition…so many things riveting. I love that this world has more to love to learn than an edupunk,anybody,could ever forget. I love how my whole face hurts from beaming at huge, small things. I love that I’m seeing this glimmer in myself again. Most of all, I love the friends who never stopped seeing it in me (and never stopped loving me for/despite? it.) I feel very lucky to be surrounded by such loveliness, and I can only hope to pass these good feelings on.

Sometimes I pretend not to remember details about people because having a good memory apparently equates to creepiness

Or sexual interest.

Just because I’m autistic and remember ‘weird’ details about your legitimately fascinating interests doesn’t mean I’m DTF. I mean, sometimes I am, but correlation is not causation.

(via hugsandambitions-deactivated201)