Ghost-of-a-Chance

Checking in on all the rest of y’all in the range of Snowmageddon 2026. (Basically, the southern half of the US, northeast downward, half the Midwest, etc.) Everyone doing okay out there?
It’s freezing here in southwest Missouri with snow on the ground, but our neighborhood hasn’t lost power...yet. Tomorrow is supposed to be round two of this nonsense. Cold’s vehicle doesn’t handle cold well, so he’s bundling up like he’s bound for the arctic and walking to work. Heiferlump, meanwhile, is determined to crawl inside my skin to sap all the warmth from my corpse, and let me tell you, that cat has cold toes. Those toes are also equipped with unfailing nipple-seeking stomping hardware, and I have the bruises to prove it. Naturally, I’ve held her up to the window circle-of-life style a few times so she can cuss out starlings on the feeder. 
Everybody, stay warm out there!

Checking in on all the rest of y’all in the range of Snowmageddon 2026. (Basically, the southern half of the US, northeast downward, half the Midwest, etc.) Everyone doing okay out there?
It’s freezing here in southwest Missouri with snow on the ground, but our neighborhood hasn’t lost power...yet. Tomorrow is supposed to be round two of this nonsense. Cold’s vehicle doesn’t handle cold well, so he’s bundling up like he’s bound for the arctic and walking to work. Heiferlump, meanwhile, is determined to crawl inside my skin to sap all the warmth from my corpse, and let me tell you, that cat has cold toes. Those toes are also equipped with unfailing nipple-seeking stomping hardware, and I have the bruises to prove it. Naturally, I’ve held her up to the window circle-of-life style a few times so she can cuss out starlings on the feeder. 
Everybody, stay warm out there!

Checking in on all the rest of y’all in the range of Snowmageddon 2026. (Basically, the southern half of the US, northeast downward, half the Midwest, etc.) Everyone doing okay out there?
It’s freezing here in southwest Missouri with snow on the ground, but our neighborhood hasn’t lost power...yet. Tomorrow is supposed to be round two of this nonsense. Cold’s vehicle doesn’t handle cold well, so he’s bundling up like he’s bound for the arctic and walking to work. Heiferlump, meanwhile, is determined to crawl inside my skin to sap all the warmth from my corpse, and let me tell you, that cat has cold toes. Those toes are also equipped with unfailing nipple-seeking stomping hardware, and I have the bruises to prove it. Naturally, I’ve held her up to the window circle-of-life style a few times so she can cuss out starlings on the feeder. 
Everybody, stay warm out there!

So, getting some running around done, so I don’t have to deal with the chickens and the snow….
Ye gods...you’d think they never saw the stuff before. 🤣

In my 2013 Phineas and Ferb fanfic “Candace’s Perfect Body,” there’s a scene wherein Dr. Doofenshmirtz captures Perry the Platypus by trapping him inside a wool sweater and then using a huge blow dryer on it to make the sweater shrink around him. Tonight, I watched an episode of the recently revived Phineas and Ferb in which Doofenshmirtz traps Perry exactly that way. 
I’d love to think that the writers got the idea from me, but honestly, they’ve used so many different Perry-traps over the years that this coincidence seems like a statistical inevitability.

When I say, “The world would work better if women were in charge,” I mean just about anyone but me. Why? First fact: It’s “my job” to make sure that all the lights are off and doors are locked when we go to bed because my husband will zombie walk right past a door that is standing open. Second fact: we go to bed when the sun is still up and wake up after dark so customers of my husband’s store can panic-buy their milk, eggs, and bread at the crack of dawn. This means when I check the back door, I get blinded by sunlight through the kitchen window if I’m up too late.
Well, a few minutes ago, I flipped the switch on my way out of the room, but the light only got brighter. I spent probably about a minute and a half squinting at the glowing boob-light, wondering what sort of black magic electrical fuckery I was in for now, and contemplating what a sledgehammer would do to the fugly glass shade. Then…it hit me, just like a sledgehammer.
Y’all. I just tried to turn off the sun. With a light switch. And got pissy when flipping the switch just made the room brighter. So, yeah. Just about any woman except me. I would do my level best only to get knocked down by a barrage of blonde moments. I’d attempt to bring about real, needed legal, societal, and economic change. Instead, I’d get hung up on ridiculous things like declaring boob-lights and whining electric cords illegal and enacting laws decreeing that pets are taxable dependents and people can be considered pets if they’re not fully housebroken. The world would burn.
 

When I say, “The world would work better if women were in charge,” I mean just about anyone but me. Why? First fact: It’s “my job” to make sure that all the lights are off and doors are locked when we go to bed because my husband will zombie walk right past a door that is standing open. Second fact: we go to bed when the sun is still up and wake up after dark so customers of my husband’s store can panic-buy their milk, eggs, and bread at the crack of dawn. This means when I check the back door, I get blinded by sunlight through the kitchen window if I’m up too late.
Well, a few minutes ago, I flipped the switch on my way out of the room, but the light only got brighter. I spent probably about a minute and a half squinting at the glowing boob-light, wondering what sort of black magic electrical fuckery I was in for now, and contemplating what a sledgehammer would do to the fugly glass shade. Then…it hit me, just like a sledgehammer.
Y’all. I just tried to turn off the sun. With a light switch. And got pissy when flipping the switch just made the room brighter. So, yeah. Just about any woman except me. I would do my level best only to get knocked down by a barrage of blonde moments. I’d attempt to bring about real, needed legal, societal, and economic change. Instead, I’d get hung up on ridiculous things like declaring boob-lights and whining electric cords illegal and enacting laws decreeing that pets are taxable dependents and people can be considered pets if they’re not fully housebroken. The world would burn.
 

When I say, “The world would work better if women were in charge,” I mean just about anyone but me. Why? First fact: It’s “my job” to make sure that all the lights are off and doors are locked when we go to bed because my husband will zombie walk right past a door that is standing open. Second fact: we go to bed when the sun is still up and wake up after dark so customers of my husband’s store can panic-buy their milk, eggs, and bread at the crack of dawn. This means when I check the back door, I get blinded by sunlight through the kitchen window if I’m up too late.
Well, a few minutes ago, I flipped the switch on my way out of the room, but the light only got brighter. I spent probably about a minute and a half squinting at the glowing boob-light, wondering what sort of black magic electrical fuckery I was in for now, and contemplating what a sledgehammer would do to the fugly glass shade. Then…it hit me, just like a sledgehammer.
Y’all. I just tried to turn off the sun. With a light switch. And got pissy when flipping the switch just made the room brighter. So, yeah. Just about any woman except me. I would do my level best only to get knocked down by a barrage of blonde moments. I’d attempt to bring about real, needed legal, societal, and economic change. Instead, I’d get hung up on ridiculous things like declaring boob-lights and whining electric cords illegal and enacting laws decreeing that pets are taxable dependents and people can be considered pets if they’re not fully housebroken. The world would burn.
 

When I say, “The world would work better if women were in charge,” I mean just about anyone but me. Why? First fact: It’s “my job” to make sure that all the lights are off and doors are locked when we go to bed because my husband will zombie walk right past a door that is standing open. Second fact: we go to bed when the sun is still up and wake up after dark so customers of my husband’s store can panic-buy their milk, eggs, and bread at the crack of dawn. This means when I check the back door, I get blinded by sunlight through the kitchen window if I’m up too late.
Well, a few minutes ago, I flipped the switch on my way out of the room, but the light only got brighter. I spent probably about a minute and a half squinting at the glowing boob-light, wondering what sort of black magic electrical fuckery I was in for now, and contemplating what a sledgehammer would do to the fugly glass shade. Then…it hit me, just like a sledgehammer.
Y’all. I just tried to turn off the sun. With a light switch. And got pissy when flipping the switch just made the room brighter. So, yeah. Just about any woman except me. I would do my level best only to get knocked down by a barrage of blonde moments. I’d attempt to bring about real, needed legal, societal, and economic change. Instead, I’d get hung up on ridiculous things like declaring boob-lights and whining electric cords illegal and enacting laws decreeing that pets are taxable dependents and people can be considered pets if they’re not fully housebroken. The world would burn.
 

When I say, “The world would work better if women were in charge,” I mean just about anyone but me. Why? First fact: It’s “my job” to make sure that all the lights are off and doors are locked when we go to bed because my husband will zombie walk right past a door that is standing open. Second fact: we go to bed when the sun is still up and wake up after dark so customers of my husband’s store can panic-buy their milk, eggs, and bread at the crack of dawn. This means when I check the back door, I get blinded by sunlight through the kitchen window if I’m up too late.
Well, a few minutes ago, I flipped the switch on my way out of the room, but the light only got brighter. I spent probably about a minute and a half squinting at the glowing boob-light, wondering what sort of black magic electrical fuckery I was in for now, and contemplating what a sledgehammer would do to the fugly glass shade. Then…it hit me, just like a sledgehammer.
Y’all. I just tried to turn off the sun. With a light switch. And got pissy when flipping the switch just made the room brighter. So, yeah. Just about any woman except me. I would do my level best only to get knocked down by a barrage of blonde moments. I’d attempt to bring about real, needed legal, societal, and economic change. Instead, I’d get hung up on ridiculous things like declaring boob-lights and whining electric cords illegal and enacting laws decreeing that pets are taxable dependents and people can be considered pets if they’re not fully housebroken. The world would burn.
 

Starting the year off right...I have the fecking flu.  Ugh🤢

This year has just started, and it can already can go straight to hell and stay there. We’ve lost our little guy. Woozle. My sweet orange mama’s boy. He’s gone. Fuck cancer, fuck losing cats, fuck death, and fuck this year. Woozle didn’t deserve this.

This year has just started, and it can already can go straight to hell and stay there. We’ve lost our little guy. Woozle. My sweet orange mama’s boy. He’s gone. Fuck cancer, fuck losing cats, fuck death, and fuck this year. Woozle didn’t deserve this.

This year has just started, and it can already can go straight to hell and stay there. We’ve lost our little guy. Woozle. My sweet orange mama’s boy. He’s gone. Fuck cancer, fuck losing cats, fuck death, and fuck this year. Woozle didn’t deserve this.

This year has just started, and it can already can go straight to hell and stay there. We’ve lost our little guy. Woozle. My sweet orange mama’s boy. He’s gone. Fuck cancer, fuck losing cats, fuck death, and fuck this year. Woozle didn’t deserve this.

This year has just started, and it can already can go straight to hell and stay there. We’ve lost our little guy. Woozle. My sweet orange mama’s boy. He’s gone. Fuck cancer, fuck losing cats, fuck death, and fuck this year. Woozle didn’t deserve this.

This year has just started, and it can already can go straight to hell and stay there. We’ve lost our little guy. Woozle. My sweet orange mama’s boy. He’s gone. Fuck cancer, fuck losing cats, fuck death, and fuck this year. Woozle didn’t deserve this.

I’ve said countless times before, on various platforms, that I’ve given Spotify an identity crisis with how varied my listening habits are. My 2025 Wrapped dropped the other day, and hoo-boy. It’s a mess.
My most listened to songs were Labour (Cacophony) and Rasputin; I play them on repeat as background noise while editing so the whine of all the electronics, the sound of the furnace, and even my own breathing won’t drive my misophonic ass bonkers. (I’ve tried countless other sounds, playlists, and various colors of noise, but it all either irritates my ears – my hearing is mildly fucked – or it has “water” sounds that make me need to pee every five minutes. The best substitute I’ve found is, oddly enough, a celtic band that combines bagpipes with hide drums, but I have to tweak the hell out of my sound settings to make it not painful.) My most listened to artist, on the other hand, was Steeleye Span; I listen to a custom folk playlist when I’m trying to write or edit for a certain story that isn’t going anywhere, and it’s disproportionately full of Steeleye Span. My most listened to playlist, however, is 11+ hours of nonstop oldies; it’s “safe” for when I’m outside, with family, or both. Because it’s gotten so much play, the app pegged me as over 70 years old. My second-most listened to list is full of punk, emo, and nu-metal, so I guess it assumed I’m letting my nonexistent grandbaby mooch off my account. I’m a millennial. They just stopped carding me. Ouch.
I feel like I should apologize for gaslighting the app, but...yeah. Nah. I’ve got work to do and my brain is working against me enough. (You sure make me do a whole lotta labour.)

I’ve said countless times before, on various platforms, that I’ve given Spotify an identity crisis with how varied my listening habits are. My 2025 Wrapped dropped the other day, and hoo-boy. It’s a mess.
My most listened to songs were Labour (Cacophony) and Rasputin; I play them on repeat as background noise while editing so the whine of all the electronics, the sound of the furnace, and even my own breathing won’t drive my misophonic ass bonkers. (I’ve tried countless other sounds, playlists, and various colors of noise, but it all either irritates my ears – my hearing is mildly fucked – or it has “water” sounds that make me need to pee every five minutes. The best substitute I’ve found is, oddly enough, a celtic band that combines bagpipes with hide drums, but I have to tweak the hell out of my sound settings to make it not painful.) My most listened to artist, on the other hand, was Steeleye Span; I listen to a custom folk playlist when I’m trying to write or edit for a certain story that isn’t going anywhere, and it’s disproportionately full of Steeleye Span. My most listened to playlist, however, is 11+ hours of nonstop oldies; it’s “safe” for when I’m outside, with family, or both. Because it’s gotten so much play, the app pegged me as over 70 years old. My second-most listened to list is full of punk, emo, and nu-metal, so I guess it assumed I’m letting my nonexistent grandbaby mooch off my account. I’m a millennial. They just stopped carding me. Ouch.
I feel like I should apologize for gaslighting the app, but...yeah. Nah. I’ve got work to do and my brain is working against me enough. (You sure make me do a whole lotta labour.)

When one considers the size of the target and the size of the projectile, one would think a cat’s foot would miss tender spots more often than it would hit. So why do they always—always—manage to stomp right on nipples and testicles? How does that make sense?

When one considers the size of the target and the size of the projectile, one would think a cat’s foot would miss tender spots more often than it would hit. So why do they always—always—manage to stomp right on nipples and testicles? How does that make sense?

I’m probably way too busy and appalled at recent world events to be this bored. Or at least, I ought to be. Someone accused me of not being able to write properly. Someone in an official capacity. I should be too rageful to be this bored.
Meh.

This just in: some school districts in the US are banning books about cats. Apparently, somebody needs to have a chat with the administration and tell them those books “aren’t about that kind of pussy.” 

This just in: some school districts in the US are banning books about cats. Apparently, somebody needs to have a chat with the administration and tell them those books “aren’t about that kind of pussy.” 

The people who leave negative reviews on e-books reporting sex scenes are my heroes. It’s easy enough to filter in smut when you’re reading fanfiction, but the e-book writers get coy about it in their descriptions. If not for sex-averse reviewers, we’d risk reading a “spicy book” that never passes first base, get clam-shelled over the lack of smut, and have to go start a fight with our husbands or something. ...not that I’m speaking from experience, or anything. 
But yeah. Someone left a squicked one-star review on a book I was considering. Granted, the review was just the word “sex” written three times – like they’re starring in a demonic possession porno or something - and shoop, there the book went. Right into my cart. I hope it’s filthy. People like that are heroes.