"If someone were to die at the age of 63 after a lifelong battle with MS or Sickle Cell, we’d all say they were a “fighter” or an “inspiration.” But when someone dies after a lifelong battle with severe mental illness and drug addiction, we say it was a tragedy and tell everyone “don’t be like him, please seek help.” That’s bullshit. Robin Williams sought help his entire life. He saw a psychiatrist. He quit drinking. He went to rehab. He did this for decades. That’s HOW he made it to 63. For some people, 63 is a fucking miracle. I know several people who didn’t make it past 23 and I’d do anything to have 40 more years with them."
“Mad was the last kid I saw and he was asleep. He was 3 months old and they put him in my arms and he stayed asleep and they put him in the bath and he stayed asleep and I thought he was narcoleptic or something. Then he opened his eyes and just stared at me for the longest time and I just stared at him and I started crying and he smiled. And it wasn’t that he smiled that he liked me, it was just that I hadn’t held children in my life and I was always considered so dark and I always had so many things that made me feel like maybe I shouldn’t be somebody’s mom because certainly the world has an opinion of me and I’m not so sure about myself and am I gonna be the best mom? So the fact that this little kid seemed at ease gave me the courage to feel like I could make him happy. And so we became a family right then.” — Angelina Jolie
The bees in Candyman were bred specifically for the movie. They needed to make sure that the bees were only 12 hours old so that they looked like mature bees, but their stinger wouldn’t be powerful enough to do any real damage. Real bees were actually put into Tony Todd’s mouth while they where shooting the climax. His only protection was a mouth guard that kept him from having the bees go down his throat. Virginia Madsen is allergic to bees, so an ambulance was always on set while filming the bee sequence.
This is the worst thing I have ever read.
petition to make young adult authors stop writing about girls whose lives change when they meet a boy
When she saw him time slowed to a stop. He was so perfect and she knew her life would never be the same because she had finally found him. The one. The first boy she would ever kill.
Except that one. That one can be written.
Some pages from WNY Craft Beer Magazine
Check out some of the pages from WNY Craft Beer Magazine that I designed and is out now. Go get yo’ self a copy!
OMG THIS IS THE CUTEST THING I HAVE EVER SEEN.
First, I seriously apologize for the amount of weird cat lady posts. Maybe I should say resurgence of cat lady posts? I know it’s ridiculous, esp since I’m all “75 pics of your kids making the same face is lame!” I’m a hypocrite. I’ll deal.
I woke up this morning to this guy tucked between my limbs at the foot of the bed. When he realized I was awake he uncurled himself and came up to say hi. He didn’t leave my side all night. ♥ It’s been almost 24 hours since I brought him through the door and let my home become his. He eased right in. He follows me room to room. He plays like a kitten. (He might’ve been humping my leg last night though. Awkward.) He is so fun to watch.
It’s very bittersweet. I was ready. I AM ready. But having another cat here makes me miss Trouble even more. When Rufus crawled up to me this morning I loved it but felt a kick in the gut of sadness. The way Trouble greeted me, how well he knew me. The love he gave me every day. I will always miss my boy. My first kitty. First best friend.
A couple nights ago I thought the lamest thing ever… I’d met some cats, people trying to give me theirs, email forwards of adoptables, etc. I cleaned a missed tuft of Trouble hair off the back of the couch and in my head thought, dammit, help me find the right one.
And then yesterday this guy settled right into my arms. I picked him up. He purred, started kneading me, and it felt like I shouldn’t leave him.
I romanticize. But if there is any such thing as divine intervention I think my dearly departed Trouble Fats did me a solid.
I’m lame. So what.
THIS IS THE WORST THING EVER TO HAPPEN ON TV IN THE HISTORY OF TV EXCEPT FOR THAT LITTLE DICKHEAD KINNARD ON THE WIRE.
BRB, in mourning.
RIP sweet boy
I’ve been hitting backspace every time I start to write. I don’t know how to start it, but I want to document it. I want to get it down so I don’t forget.
20 days ago, November 4th, I came home from work to find no kitty waiting for me at the door. This cat that ran to the door when he heard me pull up outside, and demanded to give me welcome hugs every time I returned home. I called him. He didn’t come.
I knew immediately something was wrong. I checked my room to see if he was just sleeping on the bed, I checked his litter box area to see if he was just busy, I checked the bathtub to see if he was in there catching drops from the faucet. I checked all these places even though I knew in my soul he wasn’t there, because I did not want to check his go-to when sick hiding spot behind the never-used chair in the corner of my living room.
I tried to get him to come out. I reached behind the chair to pet him and he croaked at me. I moved out the chair and tried to pick him up. He meowed from pain. I put him down and he stood still. It was like he couldn’t move and his tail was vibrating. I ran around my apartment trying to figure out what he ate. He ate everything. Little fucker. I couldn’t find any stray bits of plastic or open containers. The last time he wasn’t feeling good was because I shared too many goldfish crackers with him so I just thought he had an upset stomach. I looked for vomit everywhere but only found it when I stepped back into it. It looked different than I’d ever seen come from him. I sat back down next to him, just petting him. He purred for me. I thought, You’ll be okay, and I’d just let him be and he’d come out from hiding when he was feeling better because he always did.
He always did.
I sat on the couch trying to quell my own anxieties, talking to him. I arranged everything because I was going to pick him and lay on the couch cuddling him. He managed to make his way back behind the chair and I looked over at him, telling him I love him, begging him to come back out.
I’ll never forget the look on his face. The eye contact. It was like he was trying to tell me something. I think about that a lot. If I could have one minute of magic in the world I would use it to give him a voice at that moment, to just know what he was thinking.
I kept talking to him, petting him. I started to make dinner. He seemed to wake up a little more. Or at least he started moving some. He slowly made his way to the spot I’d found his vomit in and started gagging. I watched as nothing came up. Dry heaving. This cat had never dry heaved in his life and when I looked I saw foam. This is what freaked me out. This is when I started calling vets. I finished cooking. I told the lady on the phone I wasn’t sure if I’d be bringing him. But he laid in the corner of the dining room lazily, occasionally looking up at me, alert but lethargic. It just wasn’t right.
I said fuck it, fuck overdrafting my bank account, this cat is my family, my best friend. Seeing him in pain was killing me. Not being able to help. I threw my clothes back on. When I turned on the light in my bedroom I found vomit all over the bed that I’d missed before. He must’ve been sleeping and gotten sick.
20 days ago I put him in his crate and took him to get better. 20 days ago I came home without him. His kidneys were shutting down. He couldn’t pee. The crystals had been so backed up in his body that on the xray you could see a thick white line all the way out of him, like someone had drawn it with a marker. It had been happening for awhile. I had no idea. His box had pee spots in it the whole time. He never gave me any indications. I thought his peeing on the floor was just his way of getting even with me for going back to work and not being home. “He will pass away, probably tonight,” the vet said. He couldn’t even clear him out it was so bad. His organs were overlapping each other and he couldn’t have gotten through without nicking something that might cause him to bleed out. The only option that might have worked would’ve been a surgery that rerouted his urethra, but it probably would have happened again. “In two months or two years.” But $1700 would’ve kept him alive long enough for me to love him some more.
I called people. I texted. I tried to post on Facebook begging but I got no signal in that stupid room.
Money is funny.
I just kept petting his head, kissing him, telling him I loved him. I scratched his chin and he purred. He wasn’t fighting at that point. It was almost like he was content. His eyes were heavy like he was napping. And I knew. I just knew. He was in too much pain.
I stayed with him the whole time. I petted his head as he went down. Everything you hear from vet techs is that your animals do look for you when they are being put to sleep. I didn’t want him to be alone with strangers. He needed me. I was his just as much as he was mine. Our bond was insane. I know people say that but if you’d ever seen us together you’d understand — my landlord’s girlfriend only met him one time and said to me “He loved you so much. I’ve never seen a cat love like that.” We’d been threw everything together. We were best friends. We were family. He was the only family I had left. The first and only being in this world that loved me as much as I loved him, and showed me what unconditional genuine love is supposed to be. The only thing that kept me from going under when I lost my job, or kept me from giving up when the last of my family died knowing that he needed me to survive because I was his world and hope. He was everything to me. I can only hope that I gave him back everything he gave me.
I know death well. But this hurt differently.
I had him cremated and his ashes are with the rest of my “collection” (my mother, my grandmother) on a shelf. I saved his collar and his favorite mouse. They sent me his paw print. I framed it.
You saved my life so many times. I’m so sorry I couldn’t save yours.
Homeless guy just approached me asking me for change saying he lost his EBT card, and now can’t get food or cash on the fourth. As I was already digging into my wallet he went on to tell me how he doesn’t have any family to help. Maybe it struck a cord, because I am always scared that I will end up that way…alone, no help, trying to find some comfort or maybe it was out of the idea that he’d go away faster, but I gave him some of my laundry money. Money I’d barely scraped together myself.
Before I could hand him the coins he said thank you so much, and dug into his pockets for something to give me in return. Half smoked cigarettes that I saw him scour the pavement for across the street or a pen.
The lady in the laundromat with all her kids eating vending machine snacks had told him she had nothing. I saw her give me a look when I gave him change.
But it is so cold tonight, and he was very polite when he said thank you for listening even though the woman told him no.