My Kitten is extremely flatulent

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My adorable yet deadly 17-week old kitten, Esme La’Fontaine,  has taken up defensive farting.  When she cuddles and wants to be put back down, she gases your face with sulfuric flames. She simply has no manners.

My roommate and I are debating her new nickname:

Stinkweed, Stink Bug, Toilet head (she has a tendency to put her head in the toilet), Sulfura, Flatulencia, PU Kitten.

Any thoughts or comments on names?

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE BEST PIG I EVER ATE, EVEN THOUGH I’M JEWISH

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I’m pretending that I am a poet today.

 

THE BEST PIG I EVER ATE, EVEN THOUGH I’M JEWISH

There once was a pig from nantucket
Who was roasted devine and I sucked it
For dinner one night
Superb taste after bite
And I loved it, I loved it, I loved it

But being Jewish the pig is maligned
The pig is not kosher, down to the rind
Sausage and bacon
Is pork that you’re makin’
A surrender to sin in your life

Yet, let us look at the Jews
A religion that loves their food
Pork fried rice
Is a tale of delight
After the synagogue’s through

Still, some of us walk with God
And fear the gourmand’s lightning rod
Pizza Pepperoni
Is made for atonin’
But, lord it’s a path I would trod

The commandment that we are forgettin’
Is that pigs are not here for the pettin’
Barbequed ribs
Are heaven, no fib
Hell, you don’t see the gentiles fretting

Creativity Awry

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I was just having lunch with a talented friend who happens to have the same diagnosis as I do: schizoaffective disorder. He has delusions.  I get delusions and hallucinations. But not like him. Everyone’s psychosis is different. Both of us are highly controlled by medicine – magical medicine. Him on seven. Me on five.

We determined that creativity comes and goes like a broken flashlight

At Dunkin Donuts we were talking about our artistic process. I take month long breaks because the psychosis bubbles up when I write novels.

When I’m manic (schizoaffective disorder is a combination of bipolar disorder and schizophrenia), I produce crap, although it sounded brilliant at the time.

I heard artists say they only write poetry or create paintings when they are manic.  Alas, this is not me. When I am manic, it is an opportunity to lose weight.  I don’t need food. It needs me. I even once told this to a donut before I threw it out in whole. But it is hard to create when you are hungry.

My friend is feeling a little too lethargic to design more music. It is probably a side effect of the medicine.

We both start our songs and such by catching a phrase somewhere that we sic onto.

That’s how I wrote my musical: Catladies The Musical That Makes Lawyer Purr. I’ve never been prouder than when it played in New York.

But it was effort. I dream of a new musical with filled pill bottles, shaken to keep the harmony. I wrote Catladies with bravado. I did not realize the work, but knowing nothing of musicals or singing, I seized that opportunity.

My friend usually shows his music online.

But of creativity? Does it survive in a psychotic body? It seems to.  When I enter my realm of writing, I dip into fantasy and that is not good for me. If I don’t do it though, life is tiring and a challenge. But when I write, I feel joy. So does my friend.

SECOND CLASS DIAGNOSIS – PSYCHOSIS

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Guest Blogged on On Organic Coffee, Haphazardly

Second Class Diagnosis – Psychosis

However, it walked with me and, sometimes, talked to me, and even created a fantasy life that I could slip into, hide under, and burrow within when my world was askew on its axis. I did not realize it was mental illness. I thought it was eccentricity, quirkiness, and creativity.

I was actively psychotic.  Shouldn’t someone have told me?

Probably not. If I don’t see it, why should anyone else?

Although, I knew I had bipolar disorder with psychotic features, I thought it was controlled. The voices had left me long ago.  They didn’t actually bother me too much. They didn’t speak English, and I only speak that.  Without subtitles, they lacked meaning.

However, being re-diagnosed was educational; I was schooled in stigma. I felt, for the first time in a decade, that I have mental illness.  This is odd because schizoaffective disorder and bipolar disorder with psychotic features are kissing cousins. They practically neck.  The difference is the frequency of the psychotic episodes.

Really, nothing has changed, other than my meds and the name of my diagnosis. But names have power.

What do people think when they hear bipolar? It depends on the stereotype and if a Hollywood star is disclosing their battle with it on a particular day.

My favorite one is that bipolar people are creative thinkers and doers, who span all kinds of industry. Innovators. Extroverts. They can even be engineers — groundbreaking, transformative creators.

Okay, yes they are moody and not always the most reliable, but they can achieve. Alright, some are tortured, but all have a fire in them that can turn into genius or arson. It just depends.

But there are only a few stereotypes for my new diagnosis.

Beware of those schizo people. They are brittle and damaged and if you view one, your cornea will shatter into the retina beneath, blinding you in a bloody mess that will spill onto your clothes and into your heart. Better to look away and let them blend into the darkness with the other things that frighten you.

I see you look away. I hear you in the silence.  You know that pause after I say, ‘I have schizoaffective disorder, I’m schizoaffective, I’m schizo.’ It doesn’t matter how I phrase it.

That pause is disquieting. Oddly, I get a similar response on occasion when I say I am a lawyer.

Being psychotic and schizo-anything is not the same as being psychopathic. My kind tends to be nonviolent. We are not the vampires in the stories; usually, we are the victims.  Being mentally ill is not the same as being a bad person. Bad people do bad things. Even good people do bad things. It is just an issue of to whom. Personally, I like to turn my anger inwards. It is an exquisite kind of torment that hurts like a splash of lemon juice on a wound. Not disabled people do that too.  There is a world of the worried well, taking their turn in the therapist’s chair.

And on Wednesdays, I go as well. Not because I am schizoaffective, I go because I am one of them too

At The Artery Of It All

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My Flash Fiction on Organic Coffee, Haphazardly

by Sarah Dubinsky

Across the street, she stands —  impatiently — waiting for the light. Her hair catches the sun easily. The not-quite-natural blond and red highlights are becoming. Her smile is also easy enough. How attractive. A smile on her lips and a song in her heart.

— And a candy bar in her hand? Oh my.

What’s the other saying?

A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips.

So are we talking songs or cellulite?

I think we need to weigh the lightness of her heart. Scientifically, it would depend on her cholesterol count. I would think HDL (High Density Lipoproteins) weigh more than LDL (Low Density Lipoproteins) cholesterol. But which is the bad one? High means more and more is always good. Low means less and less weight is always good. Is the pivotal factor triglycerides? “Tri” stands for three and three chins are always bad. Three candy bars are worse than one.

Maybe she is impatient because her heart is heavy. She shifts her weight to the right side. I hope her heart isn’t loose. If it slips out, there is no one around to clean it up.

Source: At The Artery Of It All

Mermaid at the Underwater Health Food Store

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My mind is thick with fish

The oil slickens my blood

Don’t mind the smell, green mud

My flesh is fresh, a catch

 

The oil gives me strength

Of mind, of matter, I matter

At least, one fish, a smatter

I, anchovy your salmon

 

The salvation, the Omega

Not 6, not 9, but 3

Take 10, a day, it’s key

Holy Mackerel, mon ami

 

I read on Web MD

On Mayo, NIH

Oh Cod! For this primate

Do not give me the crabs

 

I’m mad about fish oil

I take 10 pills a day

EPA, DHA

Algae coats my throat

 

Tow that barge of caviar

Correct mentality

Feed my brain, let me see

A scrimshaw conch scepter

 

Oiling, anointing me

Book Review: The Adventures of Homosexual Man and Lesbian Lad by R.A. Melos

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KA-POW, WAP, and ZOOM! The Adventures of Homosexual Man and Lesbian Lad pulls off a super-powered set of capers in true comic book serial style. Harry Manet is an even-tempered bookstore owner who rarely objects to being tied up. His partner in anti-crime is police librarian Lara Ladd who never pulls a punch.  Toss in some cleaning fluid, cologne, a horny super-genius, and a couple of healthy jolts of electricity, and these two are transformed into Homosexual Man and Lesbian Ladd – the loud and proud heroes of Hub City, New Jersey.

The nemeses are as varied as a Valentine’s Day box of chocolate with two naked men on it. You have a lawyer whose lips are always wrapped around a clarinet, a radio personality with a hypnotic obsession against the gay community, a particularly strong wrestling bear and disco dancing cub, a well-aging sorcerer…and, of course, the weregerbil. Though the novel does not have two feet in reality, somehow it all glides together.

My main complaint is that the tail doesn’t match the tale in the “Curse of the Weregerbil” chapters. It is pretty common knowledge that gerbils have mouse like tails and hamsters have little stubs.  This one had a petite appendage following behind.

Even more blatant, werehamsters are known for “scampering” and weregerbils have a reputation for “scurrying.” This section had more of a playful, ferret-esque feel that could only be pulled off by an animal who could fit four walnuts in her cheeks. Plus werehamsters tend to be cuter. However, I make most of these statements without ever having encountered one.

Maybe it is a trans-weregerbil? I wouldn’t put it past R.A. Melos to have a rodent born in the wrong body. If this becomes a sequel in the next decade, this angle should definitely be explored.

Purchase on Amazon.