Probably Not the One You Wanted, But the One I’m Offering

Dear Patriotboy,

I am, sincerely, sorry I called your actions misogynistic and, in general, sexist.  Here’s the thing, which you already know, I know–you hurt a good friend of mine in what seemed and still seems to me to be completely out of proportion to her supposed offense. 

A better person than me might have been able to understand the situation from both perspectives–that this was going to be the last straw for Brittney and that you were coming from a place of very raw pain and grief.  In the moment, I could not.  I could only see it from the perspective of my friend, who was already feeling a lot of pressure and just needed someone to cut her a fucking break.

This truly is what I’m sorry for, that, instead of extending compassion to you when you needed it, I got angry and defensive.  That when you needed someone to cut you a break, I didn’t do it.

Instead, I attacked you.  I am sorry about that.  It would have been just as easy for me to write a different post or to email you about my concerns or whatever.

I was pissed at you for acting like you didn’t get that Brittney is a real person who really now doesn’t have a job, and yet, I was acting like somehow you weren’t a real person who is really suffering from the loss of a friend.

I don’t expect things to be right between us.  I just feel like the intentional hurting has gone on long enough and I want to say publicly that I’m done with it.

You do what you have to do, but I’m done with it.

Take care,



I was back in Magical Journeys today looking for some stuff for this weekend.  Y’all I’m sad to say that I grow more and more disturbed by what I find and don’t find in there.

I was looking at their herbs, just to see if there’s anything I wanted to pick up, and there in a bag clearly marked High John the Conqueror Root was something that looked like a large, thick potato chip.

I just don’t quite know what to say to that.  How can the pun work if, when you’re “rubbing your root,” you’re rubbing a fragile potato chip looking thing?

Rootworkers must not shop there, that’s all I can figure, or they’d be embarrassed to not have actual High John in stock.  Shit, they might not even know they don’t have High John in stock.

It just leads me to believe, even more strongly, that there needs to be a good, actually scary, spiritual supply shop, run by someone (like me) who knows what she’s looking for and looking at, and, if she doesn’t, isn’t afraid to find out.

So, I bought some candles–since I’m sure they’re actually candles–and some rocks, which appeared to be actual rocks, and came on home.

Magical Journeys used to be so cool.  I don’t know what happened, if it changed ownership or what, but whatever vibe there was that let you know that this was a creepy place is gone now.

I keep thinking about how Maya Angelou said that most people don’t want change, they want exchange; they don’t want to dismantle systems of oppression, they just want to be the ones on top for a while.

Also, as a change of pace, I just want to add that it makes me laugh when the Butcher calls me on my cell phone from the upstairs bathroom because he’s out of toilet paper.

A Very, Very Weird Thing

Okay, holy fuck. Listen to this and tell me if it doesn’t sound like some guy covering an old song (plus, it’ll let us test whether I’ve figured out how to upload songs).

That’s my fake Jimmie Rodgers song!  It’s so weird.  It’s not how I imagined it sounding at all, but god damn if it isn’t perfectly plausible.  It does kind of just end abruptly, but who cares?  I totally love it.

Weird, weird, weird.

The world is a big and mysterious place.


This tickles me.

I was at lunch with a friend, a guy, who said, “You’re letting your hair grow out.”

“No, I got it cut.”

“Fuck yeah.  Call my wife and tell her I do too notice when women’s hair changes!”

Wisdom from My Cooter…

Just trying it out.  Not my cooter, but, you know, whether, now that I’m a “radical feminist,” I should start posting with “Wisdom from My Cooter…” leading off every post.

I’m not actually sure what kind of wisdom my cooter can come up with on a moment’s notice.  Will I hear from all my ancestral cooters?  Will I feel at one with the Cooter Mystery at the Center of the Universe?

Shhh.  Let’s all focus on my cooter.

Oh, cooter, what do we need to know?

I have to pee.