I’ll take a hug over a kid any day.

I had a crush on Christine when I was like 7. Pepperidge Farm remembers.

is no longer an audience member for anything Nickelodeon-related

Would you put your brain in a robot body?

If you’re swimming with a shark, it’s clearly the shark’s domain.

I avoid this by consistently using the same spoon. Other dishes may sit for awhile, but the chosen spoon gets washed after every use. Because there’s not just one weird spoon. There’s a whole stack of them and I have no idea where most of them came from. One of this, two of that, it’s all hodgepodge chaos.

But I’m glad they’re there. That way, my spouse has spoons to use that aren’t the chosen spoon.

A lot of my favorites are already on Nebula. I’d ask the rest to follow but that would require a google account.

smh. That’s supposed to go in cell A1.

I went through several types before settling on the AirFit F30i. Under the nose, over the mouth, top hose. There’s also hose supports you can buy for cheap that go under the mattress and hold the hose above. I toss and turn like crazy and it’s a life saver.

Fr, I can fuckin go to sleep on my meds at times.

I didn’t do much but sleep for two months after getting back on the pharma-go-round after a couple of decades off of it. My psychiatrist refused to take my reports seriously and kept finding other things to blame. (And to be fair, there’s a LOT going on right now.) So I stopped le stimulant… and have had a grand total of two naps in as many weeks. I’m still exhausted all the time, but at least I can stay awake. I’m also not nearly as irritable.

Has anyone seen Frank Bennedetto? He might be able to help with the popcorn sitch. Also, he still owes me five bucks.

I find guided meditation the easiest to follow. The “empty your head” thing I don’t think is possible for me. So let’s say it’s guided audio on deep breathing and a countdown from 20. Breathing in, I imagine the number taking shape. Could be a sports jersey, someone’s upcoming birthday or anniversary, anything associated with the number. Hold the breath, let the number solidify. Exhale, the number fades or gets blown away. Repeat, letting the audio keep me on track. My mind will wander. It’s inconsequential. The audio will either bring me back, or not. I can try again later.

The most important thing is that any form of mediation takes practice. It’s a skill like any other. It’s often suggested in therapeutic settings, usually for grounding etc. But it should be practiced while not in distress for it to be reliably there to lean on for the time you really need it.

I watched this teardown the other day. When the first tool to reach for is a heat gun… bloody hell.

Tire-d of the same old dinner?

Can’t speak for the single, but here’s the album:

https://www.discogs.com/release/5137461-Ozzy-Osbourne-Blizzard-Of-Ozz

I utterly fail at containing and articulating most of these flashes. It’s like the data (signal and noise alike) is an incessant thought stream, and the insight is a flash flood. In that instant it makes sense, but turning it into spoken word before getting washed away is a creaky elderly bucket brigade that can never keep up. The buckets leak and end up in the wrong order. I always found it more helpful to go with the flow and see where it takes me, but that doesn’t often align with the demands of real life. Teachers want essays (sometimes by the end of the period). Parents want grades. Bosses want results. All demand obedience.

I’ve got more than a drop of the 'tism, combined with the intermittently squirting faucet of severe anxiety and dank sludge of executive dysfunction going back to childhood. And in hindsight it feels like the gifted label I earned before things got truly awful was just a dunk tank where teachers and parents got to take free shots because they couldn’t see unreliable bucket brigade or smell the sludge. “Not working up to his potential.” “Lazy.” The standard 80’s fare for bright AuDHD kids that weren’t disruptive (or had stimming etc. behaviors shamed out of them.)

I managed to doggy-paddle my way upstream - undiagnosed, unmedicated, exhausted. To outsiders, it’s like I wasn’t even moving. Just splashing around. The constant negative reinforcement begat dreary, drizzly depression. Soggy muck everywhere. At first there were breaks of daylight, but those became less and less frequent in favor of more damp, more gray.

And then I got my head held under by the real world. Every breath I was able to snatch came with conditions - just go back to the retail job for a bit after getting laid off, just get through Christmas, just get a real job, just get a promotion, just get a better job, just get a raise, just get a house and finally stop sharing thin walls, fighting the overwhelm and the sludge through all of it and losing more and more of myself. Each snatched breath carried the empty hope that the next breath would be the one to let me keep my head above water. It never happened. I just kept getting dashed against the rocks, the incessant thought streams and occasional flash flood of insight meaning nothing against the might of the sea.

Yet still I adapted. I discovered the sensory deprivation tank of dissociation. The hyperfocues and special interests that once provided warmth and light in calmer tides were now but a featureless bog. No longer drowning, but every movement risked losing something else. A shoe, keys, a prized memory - the bog would take it all. The incessant stream became more of a trickle, much of it passive. But it didn’t stop, even if I did. And in the still bog below me I could see reflections of the current trickle. And just to the right, reflections of past streams. Each mirror-like pool showed the reflection of a different stream. Past failures. Regrets for things not done. Injustices unpunished. Mistakes I could never undo. I got lost in some of them. Relived pain. Fantasized about taking different branches in the stream. Had impeccably articulate arguments with antagonists that in real life would have left me floundering for words. And the more I tried interacting with the reflections, the more I realized the ponds weren’t quite motionless. There were tiny ripples. And those ripples influenced the reeds, which influenced other pools. In places, the cumulative ripples produced an interference pattern. In this joyless bog where I hid from the world, from myself, unmoving lest the sense of false safety be betrayed, I was seeing tiny crests and troughs modifying countless others in myriad Fourier dances and creating a new stream. No, not new. Just previously undiscovered. One that was there all along, exerting unseen influence. It made me question, well, everything. Myself. My upbringing. My place in the world. The world itself. My beliefs. There was no flash flood of insight. Just a steady drip of reevaluation.

And then it started to rain. At first it was the familiar dreary rain. Then it was the spray from a geothermal geyser that was way too close for comfort. Hot, abrasive. Anger. I couldn’t stop the geyser. Couldn’t fight it. I could walk away, but I quickly found many more geysers.

Through all of this, the sludge and unreliably squirting faucet kept picking away pieces of me. Until one day a literal tempest hit and laid me bare. It was all I could do to tread water. I managed to find a life preserver, but it’s slowly deflating as the riot police hook up the firehose with detached indifference.

I’d apologize for the extended metaphors, but once I got my feet wet I couldn’t help but dive in.

Oh let me flow into the ocean
Yeah let me get back to the sea
Let me be stormy and let me calm
Let the tide in, and set me free

• Pete Townshend