Agent of Chaos

In a truck stop bathroom washing my hands today and 2 boys, looked about 5 and 9, came in with their little sister who looked maybe 2. The following whispered conversation made my entire day

"We have to wait, there's a lady in here!"

"That's not a lady, he has a mustache! We can be in here!"

"Some ladies have mustaches! And she has boobs!"

"Well some guys have boobs! Like Uncle Jake!"

"Uncle Jake is fat!"

At this point I could not contain a chuckle and both whirled around with identical looks of panic on their faces. I smiled and said "it's alright for you guys to be in here so your sister has help, don't worry. And I'm both! That's why I have boobs and a mustache. Some folks are just built that way"

(In unison) "Ooooooh!"

(older boy) "So do you use Sir or Ma'am or both?"

"Both, but I prefer Sir"

"Cool! Well thanks Sir! We have to help our sister now!"

This was in a small town country truck stop and both boys had "Murica" type stuff on and neither of them had any issue at all with these concepts. Their mom approached me while I was in line about 10 minutes later and apologized for them bothering me in the bathroom (they had told her about the interaction) and she and I had a lovely little chat too. I got to introduce her to the term "intersex" and her reply was "I think I've heard of that before! I didn't know that was the word for it. Amazing how many different ways God can make people!"

Sometimes the world is good. More often than you might think, if you give it a chance. It's not all bad loves <3

Somewhat on the vibe of "your glorious revolution doesn't exist," I want to talk to you all, especially the young folks, about effective anarchism.

Spoiler alert, it's not blowing stuff up or arson.

I am considered the most anarchical person of all among my friends. Granted, most of my experience has been wreaking anarchy against the systems present in my high school and college, but the principles are the same.

Practical anarchy is not the big, flashy, romanticizable thing people online make it out to be. It's more about the long haul - digging in your teeth and just being a menace that no one can really get rid of.

Everyone's "Why vote when you can firebomb a Walmart" posts (that they don't follow through on) are just not pratical because this is a surveillance society. With CCTV and DNA testing and cell phone cameras and GPS tracking, if you do something big like that, you are GOING to be caught; then that is the end of your anarchical career. And, keep in mind that you might get caught while you're setting up this big event - it's a crime to blow up a Walmart and also a crime to conspire to blow up a Walmart, so your career in anarchy might end before it begins, and then you are permanently out of the game. No matter what causes you were working for that inspired you to do something big and violent that you thought would get someone's attention, you now can't help at all ever again in your entire life. What you did will be a passing headline on the news, and then everything will go back to exactly what it was because big, acute actions can't compare in effectiveness to small, constant actions (just being a thorn in the side of the system, poking and poking, but unable to be dislodged).

This is just the practical side of it too: think about the risk of hurting innocents if you really advocate for doing things like that. You think blowing up a Walmart would really make a dent in that big of a corporation? But if you intentionally or unintentionally kill a bunch of Walmart shoppers, that's going to devastate families that had nothing to do with whatever your cause is.

So all that big talk about violence and destruction: not practical, not effective, not ethical.

The only way I've started to change oppressive systems around me is by justing chipping away from within the confines of the rules of these systems, and/or only stepping just outside them (never breaking rules in a big way that could have allowed said system to easily and "justifiably" get rid of me).

So if you're going to be an anarchist, you need to consider:

And then for any given anarchical plan:

2. Potential consequences.

3. Insurance.

I'll give you an example. I had serious beef with the culture of my college's science department. Students were constantly overworked, and if they expressed their misery outloud or reached out to any of their professors about their struggles, they got apathetic responses if not direct insults to their abilities or dedication. I had too many similar disparaging interactions with professors in one week, and I realized a lot of the responses I was getting were just the result of professors not really knowing how they sounded when they said certain things to students (ex: If someone says they're struggling with a course, don't IMMEDIATELY respond with "change your major," - you can give that as an option, but if you make it your first suggestion, the implication to the student is that if they're having any trouble with the course, they're not good enough for the program).

So I wrote up a flier of examples of good and bad ways to respond to students having anxiety with explanations and distributed it to every professor in the department. Everyone who knew about this perceived it as a great personal risk - that I would get in some kind of unspecified trouble or piss off an important professor, so before embarking on this project, I considered...

Potential consequences: I couldn't really think of any specific college or department rules I could be violating. People postered and handed out fliers in the department all the time. What I was doing fell pretty clearly under freedom of speech. I just shoved the fliers under professors' doors, so I didn't trespass in anyone's office. Worst I could think is that individual professors would get mad at me and make my life difficult, or I'd simply be told to stop fliering in the department.

Insurance: Just in case there were any consequences that I didn't think of and to insure me against the ones I had thought of, I didn't put my name on the flier. It was typed in Word, something everyone had access to. I came in to do it after professors had all left for the day but before I needed to use my ID to get into the building (no electronic record of me being there). I took the elevator to the first floor offices because the stairs require ID swipe after 5pm, but the elevators do not. I found out the building had no cameras by asking about it on the grounds that something of mine had been stolen a few weeks prior. I shoved the flier under the doors of dark offices and left it outside offices with lights on (so that no one would come out and spot me). And here's one of the most important pieces of insurance: I put up a few of the fliers on public bulletin boards in the building. This was important so that if I slipped up and said something that conveyed that I had knowledge of the content of the flier, I would have an excuse for that, i.e., I read it on the bulletin board before class this morning.

And then I did the thing. And surprisingly, it was incredibly well-received by professors. A few who knew that the flier must have been mine (because of previous, similar anarchical actions rumored to be associated with me) told me that everyone was RELIEVED that they finally had an instruction manual from the student perspective on what the hell they're supposed to say when one of their students is panicking. It sparked a real change in the vibe of the department and student experience. Had it instead pissed people off, I would have simply said I could not claim authorship of the flier but had read it and thought it contained good ideas then gone on creating more anarchy while angry people grasped at the zero straws I had left them to pin the action on me.

That's an example of a single action I took that was part of a much longer (~3 years) campaign of mine to change the culture of my department. Everytime I did something in that campaign, I made that consequences vs. insurance calculation to make sure they couldn't expell me from the program, the department, or the school before I succeeded.

I witnessed something wonderful on my walk today.

We went down to the park, where the lake drains under a footbridge into a stone-lined gully that someone generous might call a creek. Usually it’s a trickle at best, but it poured last night, and the water was still moving pretty briskly. 

As we got closer, I heard kids yelling, so we went over to have a look. I was nervous, because earlier this summer we’d seen a mother cat and her kittens hanging out a few times in the (then bone dry) spillway. We hadn’t seen them in over a month, but I didn’t want to think of them being there when the water started coming down.

Instead, when I looked over the side of the bridge, I saw a skinny kid (maybe 8-10 years old) carrying an enormous catfish clasped in both arms.

The catfish had to be the length of this kid’s torso, and it was flopping around trying to escape, but the kid doggedly kept climbing over mud and slippery rocks until he reached the lake and chucked the fish in. And behind him came… another kid, holding a fish.

When the lake flooded, it must’ve washed a bunch of these catfish downstream, where they collected in pools. Now the water levels are starting to go down, and the fish are trapped, doomed to dry up and die. Not on these kids’ watch. As we watched, they rescued four fish, and one of the adults present said there were at least six left. The kids showed no sign of stopping. This is the kind of thing you love as a kid, a life or death mission you can throw your heart and soul into while getting gleefully covered in muck and slime. I was tempted to offer my assistance, but this was their Quest, and I did not want to impose.

When we continued on, the Great Fish Rescue was still going strong. Godspeed, kids. In a time of such great discord and meanspirited behavior, you will live on in my memory as a beacon of goodwill. 

the children will grow up and move on and in the time of their greatest need will be attended by an utterly massive catfish

I ever tell you guys about my ethically dubious radio show back in college? The Mad Dad Hour?

it was an entire radio show built around perpetuating a very simple joke, but it was uniquely powerful in its capacity to prompt the reaction I was looking for.

so my slot was at the tail end of rush hour, and i got a fair number of listeners/callers who were on the way home from the office. And like, I had a lot of callers, who almost all wanted to request songs that really didn’t fit with the aesthetic. I had pitched a power pop show when i got my slot, but the callers were not having it; they invariably wanted classic rock.

this made sense in a way. if you think about the demographics of the people who listened to the radio for music in 2010 instead of their ipods or cds or whatever, you’d expect them to skew older right? accordingly, i quickly realized that almost all of the people who called to request songs were Dads of a Certain Age. It was honestly annoying at first - I’m all for most classic rock, but that wasn’t what the show was supposed to be.

And so one day, when i was feeling particularly annoyed with requests that just didn’t fit thematically, i came up with the joke that rapidly became the only reason I kept the show going. Per station rules, I had to play a certain number of pre-recorded PSAs during my show, and before I cut to one I was supposed to read out the song titles and artists for all the music i had played before the break. So this one day when i had to inform the world before the break that the song they just heard was, per a listener’s request, Hey Jude by the Beatles, I decided to do a goof. I said:

“and finally, that last song you heard was Hey Jude, which was of course written and performed by the Rolling Stones.”

I barely had time to get the ads going before the phone started ringing. See, I had been assuming people would realize i was making an obvious joke by claiming one of the most well-known Beatles tracks was a Stones song, but i had failed to consider that my listeners were mostly 55-70 year old dads who were irritated from a long day in the office.

And when those dads heard me, a millennial woman, get the artist of an extremely well-known beatles song WRONG???!

they HAD to call in to correct my ignorance. never in a polite way either, it was condescending and annoyed or nothing. and like, they were just SO personally insulted by my inaccurate reporting that it took a massive amount of effort for me to avoid cracking up during the call. I had never understood why some people would enjoy trolling random strangers on the internet before, but in that moment, I understood the appeal entirely.

obviously i did it again right before the next commercial break, immediately after playing Don’t Stop Me Now by Queen David Bowie.

the phone immediately began to ring.

“ARE YOU AN IDIOT?” one of the callers began, “DAVID BOWIE???? THAT WAS QUEEN!”

“I thought David Bowie was the lead singer of Queen though?” I replied with as much innocent earnestness as i could conjure.

I could hear an intake of breath as the infuriated boomer on the other end of the line struggled to figure out where to even start.

And thus, the Mad Dad Hour was born.

@eduards-stuff I kept doing the same joke for an hour a week for an entire year, and the dads NEVER caught on. After episode 1 of the new format I started taking the angry dad calls on air, which added another layer of hilarity to the whole concept.

My friends on campus knew that hay I was doing and enjoyed tuning in, but only one actual listener ever figured out what I was doing, and he was literally a random 30 year old guy from the netherlands with access to an early internet connection radio service. He was possibly my only actual fan. I only know about him because he went to the effort of making a skype and paying for international service so he could call in, and while I got a few calls from him, the first remains my favorite:

I mean

Our slutty whores vs their useful rentals

When I was 14, I was in an exchange programme between my Dutch school and a German school. We all stayed at each other’s houses, we were each other’s host families. On day two of us Dutchies being in Germany after arriving in the city the evening before, we were on a bus. 25 German teens, 25 Dutch teens, and two teachers each from each school.

The driver starts driving us to the first excursion. The German teacher who was in charge of the whole programme takes the microphone and asks the whole bus the question:

“Seid ihr gestern gut klargekommen?”

In German, this means as much as: “Did you all get along well yesterday?”

Suddenly the 25 Dutch kids burst out into hysterical laughter.

The German teacher looks at us helplessly, no idea what he’d done wrong. My own teacher jumps up from his seat, and grabs the microphone from him, and yells in Dutch:

“HE WANTS TO KNOW WHETHER YOU’RE GETTING ALONG OKAY!”

You see, in German, “klargekommen” means “got along”.

In Dutch, “klaargekomen”, which is pronounced exactly the same way, means “had an orgasm”.

To these Dutch kids with only basic levels of German knowledge, this unknown teacher just asked them if they all had a good orgasm last night.

Many years ago, I was wandering around downtown Ottawa with my best friend. We ran into a friend of his who offered us some hash (it sucked), then said there was a really good house party nearby if we wanted to go. We were like, yeah, sure. So that's how we ended up at some completely fucking random person's house.

I look around to ask if my friend knows anyone here and he's simply gone, as is his friend. And this isn't some red solo cup hangout; this is a party. There's people counting out pills on the kitchen counter. I am clearly neither as cool nor as drug-savvy as the kitchen people, so I back away and instead wander aimlessly into the living room, which seems to give off more of a chill vibe.

A bunch of people are seated in a circle on the floor. One of them is fiddling with a big wad of newspaper or something. A really cute grunge girl with piercings and tattoos scoots aside to make room for me, so I sit down.

"What's that," I ask her, gesturing at the newspaper wad.

She gets a really big smile on her face. You know the smile. It's the I'm About To Watch This Innocent Soul Get High As Fuck smile. "You've never smoked a tulip?"

"What's a tulip?" I ask.

"It's like if a joint was also a bong," she replies. "You gotta try it."

"Alright," I reply, a little uncertainly. This will not be my first encounter with weed. I am more comfortable with the janky newspaper bong than I am with whatever the fuck is going on in the kitchen. Besides, this girl is really cute and I would like to have a friend here now that my existing friend has turned into vapor or been transported to the Upside-Down or whatever the hell happened to him.

I watch as one person holds the newspaper joint-bong upright and holds a lighter over the top while another gets beneath it, tilting their head back to take a puff. Apparently smoking this Cheech & Chong monstrosity is a two-person job.

"Oh," I say, looking at the fist-sized knob at the top of the wonky newspaper joint. "Yeah, it does kinda look like a tulip." Grunge girl smiles at me.

I watch as the tulip is passed around the circle, along with the lighter, and hits are cooperatively taken. It reaches grunge girl, who takes a huge puff and holds it for an extended moment before exhaling an impressive blast of smoke. She smiles expectantly and holds the tulip up for me, preparing to spark the gigantic meteor of dank that makes up its tip. By this point I have completely forgotten about my missing friend. I only care about making a good impression on grunge girl. I tilt my head back and hit the tulip like a smokestack.

It is the following morning. I am sleeping between a couch and a wall. I'm not positive that this is the same house I was just in. My memories are gone. Someone is yelling at me: "dude! Dude! Wake up, dude!"

I sit up. My mouth tastes like cigarettes. I do not smoke cigarettes. "Wha," I ask the yelling man, who I am quite confident I have never met before in my life.

"We're going on a quest," he tells me, gravely. "You have to come with us."

I look around. Neither my friend nor his friend are anywhere in sight. I also do not see grunge girl anywhere. I shrug helplessly. "Okay."

We embark from this house. I learn that the destination of this quest is Tim Horton's. This is a relief to me, as coffee and a donut sounds really fucking good right now. Somehow, the route to Tim Horton's takes us past the Governor-General's residence, which everyone else in the group loudly heckles on the way past. I do not know what the Governor-General has done to raise their ire, nor do I particularly care. I trudge along with my hands in my pockets, pleased to note that I still have my wallet, phone, and keys. I fervently wish that I could remember anything about last night. Maybe I talked to grunge girl. Maybe she's why my mouth tastes like cigarettes. The tulip tasted nothing like cigarettes.

I am asked about my politics. I voice my frustrations with corporate corruption, the pay-to-win electoral system, the lack of transparency and accountability. This is met with great approval. The guy who was yelling at me claps me on the back. I get the impression that we became friends last night. I don't recognize his face. I do not know his name and he definitely does not know mine. I behave as though we're friends anyway. We are comrades on a quest.

By the time we make it to Tim Hortons, the gaggle of stoners I'm walking with have all run out of energy and/or attention span. People order snacks and break away in pairs or solo, to call for rides or plan the day's events or just vegetate and wait for the drugs to leave their systems. I look around and find that my nameless friend has also gone to the Upside-Down. As I wash the cigarette taste out of my mouth with coffee, I unsuccessfully try to remember whether I saw grunge girl smoking tobacco at any point. I remember nothing. That tulip was so fucking powerful that it instantly sent me a whole day forward in time.

Alone in the city, I try to call my best friend and get no answer. I walk to the nearest bus stop, catch a bus most of the way home, and call up my parents to ask for a ride back. They ask where my friend is. I tell them that I have no idea; we went to a house party and I don't remember anything else.

When they pick me up from the bus station, they ask me some very safe, nonspecific questions, and seem to relax when I describe what little I can remember. It isn't until years later that I realize they were probably terrified I'd gotten rufied or something, and were so relieved to learn otherwise that they didn't even bother chiding me for smoking myself unconscious in an effort to impress a strange woman. In any case, they were probably happy to find out that I did, in fact, like girls; I suspect they had been privately wondering whether I was gay.

After getting home, I finally manage to get my best friend to answer his phone. I discover that he tried the kitchen pills, spent most of the night crossing the entire city on foot, and crashed at his cousin's house. He sounds like shit. I tell him that he should have tried the tulip, instead. He fervently agrees with me.

I never see grunge girl again.

That's okay, though. She got to see a clueless stranger get fucked the entire way up on some ungodly strain of giga-weed, and I got smiled at by a cute girl, and then I got to go on a quest. Wherever grunge girl is, I hope she's happy. I hope she's smoking the fattest fucking blunt and smiling as some kid passes out behind a couch.

Anyway, my parents were right about me not being straight. A couple of years later, while walking out of the bank, I passed a tired-looking grimy young construction worker with dirty blonde hair and bright blue eyes as he went in, and I actually stumbled and turned to stare after him over my shoulder because my heart had straight up skipped a beat. Guy was hauntingly, harrowingly cute. I didn't even have time for denial. It was just "????? I guess? I'm bisexual??"

Like, right in that moment, I knew without question that I absolutely would have let that guy rail me bareback. I went from straight to queer as hell in the blink of an eye. Cannot stress enough how gorgeous this dude was, grime and exhaustion notwithstanding.

Anyway that experience fucked up my sexual wiring and that's why I get funny feelings when I watch Tom Hardy play Max in Mad Max: Fury Road because he's a) cute, b) tired, and c) dirty.

Ah, well, about that,

Today at the park my son had his first ever conversation with another child his age (his interactions with other kids have thus far consisted of attempting to pet them like a cat).

The little girl pointed to his shirt, which had a picture of a bunny on it, and said, "Bunny!" He looked down to where she was pointing, smiled, and replied, "Oh! Yes! A bunny!" He then followed her down the slide and they stood around at the bottom clapping their hands for each other.

It was so cute I could have died.

This was the wildest fucking shit to read in class i was trying do hard not to make expressions

This right here is it’s own fucking novel that you can wrap up in aluminum foil, tape it to the underside of a hood of a car, and sell it for 10k. Holy shit this was a ride!

this man should have been dead about 3 times over

Bro I just nearly fucking died

My throats fucked but I like inhaled toothpaste and my throat seized up and I couldn’t breathe worst part is I spat toothpaste everywhere trying to get it out of my mouth and my throat is like fuzzy now?? Water did not help honey tea might

Dude I was dry heaving into a sink barely breathing and my brain went “this is gonna make a sick ass tumblr story”

is this accurate

Why does this have 800+ notes? How does it??

i deliver pizzas & sometimes funny things happen

This saga does also illustrate something I learned about in library school, which is: when management starts reducing your staffing (or other resources) to the point that it jeopardizes your ability to function, make visible cuts.

Don't stretch yourselves to the breaking point to keep doing as much as possible, and don't cut corners where customers/clients/patients/patrons won't notice. Say out loud, "Due to low funding/staffing, we can no longer do X," where X is something visible but not mission-critical.

In the library world, this is usually a small reduction in hours: we lose an employee position, we stop being open on Sundays, or we close an hour earlier every day. (And we put up signs saying exactly why, and to whom patrons can complain.)

If you say "this isn't enough resources/we're understaffed/we can't go on like this," but then you continue to go on like this? You've just proved that you can indeed go on like this.

Of course, not everyone is in a position where you can make decisions like this--reducing hours, or suspending a particular service; the reason we learn this in library school is that we usually have a clear bright line between operational management and funding. However, you can still ask. Management says, "For now this store is going to have to get by with 6 employees instead of 7," you say, "Okay; what are we going to stop doing, to make that work?"

And if the answer is, "Nothing," you just...let the problems happen. Someone gets sick, and they really need you to come on your day off? Sorry, but you made plans that you can't break (even if those plans are "lay in bed and eat ice cream"). But they can't open the store if you don't come in? Sounds like the store isn't going to be open. Hopefully we'll be able to get up to full staffing before this problem comes up again!

In the story above, the COVID quarantine situation was, of course, unpredictable, but if management had taken the lesson any of the times when appointments had to be cancelled because a doctor called off due to physical exhaustion, perhaps they would have had some options when both of their pediatricians were unavailable due to a global health emergency; who can say?

It can feel like sort of a dick move--to your immediate boss, your coworkers, your patrons/customers/clients/patients/whoever--to say no when it isn't technically absolutely impossible to say yes. But the doctor and the nanny in this story were both right to stick to their guns about this one well-planned and anticipated day off, and the rest was just a cascade of failure that ultimately stems from the decision to intentionally understaff the hospital, and to ignore warning signs of an impending staffing crisis.

And remember, "we can't find people to hire" almost always means "we're not offering a high enough paycheck".

Sorry if it’s a little cramped- had to make this all fit in ten photos. Hope you guys like it….. and again…. sorry Andrew

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The window visual did me in I’m wheezing

NO

WELP

I haven’t seen this in years and yet it is burned into my memory forever.

Asdfghjkl it happened again

It has been 0 days

Not only has it been 0 days, it has been 3 days in a row

[image description: a screenshot of tags by tumblr user uwuplasmiusuwu that say the following: “#disabled humor #autistic culture #thank you whoever liked this so that I could find the post again #MY PHONE ETIQUETTE IS FLAWLESS #IM SO SMOOTH I DONT GOT FRICTION #WHY AM I FAILING THE TURRING TEST?!?!” /end ID]

Adding the tags from the last post in light of how many times I heard this on Friday, because I lost count

🎶There’s moooore🎶

So, as of last update, shenanigans have happened at least twice daily on average. I have decided that, if you’re gonna call my autistic ass out, you can listen to me wheeze while I crack up. That brings us to today’s overtime special:

After that, we both laughed so hard they hung up accidentally. 😂

This is wonderful. If more unknown people called me and I answered them I’d probably be trying to replicate this.

It. Keeps. Happening.

I have no choice but to break down in helpless laughter as I try to reassure people, “I’m not at all offended, this is just the [3rd to 14th] time today someone’s told me that.”

Someone give me the money to buy a decent mic and I’ll do the damn voice acting. 🤣

This used to happen to me all the time when my job involved phone work! I also once read the part of a voicemail machine in a script writing class, and everyone was very impressed how I got the timing right on the “you have one new message” bits.

Right? All it is is pattern recognition, and we already have to have scripts for everything anyway! 🤣

You know, I haven’t updated this post in ages, but I am still surprising folks all the time. Here are some recent highlights:

See, you're probably sticking too close to a generic script, with not enough memorable details to stick out as an individual. Try introducing yourself with your entire full name (unusual middle names would be a big plus here, perhaps with some non-standard apostrophes thrown in for effect) and a detailed description of your hair and eye color to help people picture you in their minds (again, unexpected similes and word choices are what you're going for). You might want to add some humanizing details of your daily life as well, like a brief anecdote about an interaction with some students at your school that'll help you get across your taste in music and general subculture. That way, you'll turn any phone call into an immortal memory.

I want you to know that 1.) you are the first person to pull this and 2.) I need it framed on my wall.

@theshitpostcalligrapher I think this might peak your interest

my grandpa was a good man. and it really wasnt his fault - recreationally lying to kids is a proud family tradition - but he told me, once, that cutting a worm in half resulted in two worms.

i think he said it so i'd be more morally okay with fishing? i actually dont remember the context.

point was, he told me this, and he understimated (by a very large margin) how much i liked worms. i was a worm boy. very wormy. and after hearing that, i went home, and i dug through the garden, flipped over every rock, did everything i could to gather as many worms as i could, and then i uh.

i cut them all in half. every worm i could find. all of them. with scissors.

i then took this pile of split worms, and i put them in a box with a bit of lettuce and some water and stuff and went to bed expecting to double my worms overnight. i have math autism, so i had a vague understanding that if i did this just a few times in a row, i would eventually have a completely unreasonable amount of worms.

i was very excited to become this plane's worm emperor.

(i think i was...six?)

anyway, i did not become the inheritor of the worm crown. i instead woke up to a box of dead worms and cried. a lot. i got diagnosed with panic attacks as a teenager, but i think i had them as a kid, i just had no idea what they were. i was kind of processing that a.) i had killed what i had assumed was every single worm in my yard, and thus would have no more worms, and b). i was going to like, worm hell.

(six year babylon spent a lot of time worrying about god.)

so i kind of freaked out, and i climbed a tree, because god can only smite you if you're touching the ground (?) and i sat up there mostly inconsolable until my mom came out and asked, hey, what's up? what happened?

so i explained to her that i had killed all of the worms, forever, and was also Damned, and she took me to the compost pile, and we dug for all of five seconds and found like twenty more worms.

the compost pile was full of worms.

and she told me that a). there were more worms, and we could put them back under rocks and stuff and recolonize our yard and b). that one day, i would die, and i would go to heaven, and i would be able to talk to the worms, and i would be able to tell them all that i was very sorry, and that i killed them on accident out of excessive Love, and that they would forgive me, because worms have six hearts and no malice.

at that point, i think i was sixty percent tear-snot by weight, and i had no choice but to gather enough worms that i could hug them. which my mom helped with. and then after that she helped me put some worms back under each rock.

and for my epilogue: i spent a significant portion of my childhood in trees. and for many years after, even when my mom didnt know i was watching, i would catch her giving the space under the rocks a light spritz with the hose. not because she loved worms.

but because she loved me.

Wait, you're telling me I spent the latter half of my childhood deathly terrified of worms for NOTHING? That was a lie?

huh. you viewed worms entirely mythical regenerative powers as something to be feared. i viewed it as an opportunity. something something The Duality of Man.

i am considering that fear produced a better outcome for you and the worm than love did. this feels like an important thought.

When I was ten, we lived on a rice farm with a lot of big buildings in the middle of nowhere. One of the shitty employees of the rice farm decided that, because we had barn cats on the premises, it was perfectly fine to dump a litter of very small kittens into one of the barns.

(I hate her I hate her I hate her)

The kittens were not old enough to be on their own, and despite one of the barn cats looking after them, the majority of them did not make it. All except for one, a little tuxedo that let my dad pick it up.

He brought it into the house, and I decided I was going to nurse it back to health. He was mostly black with a white chin, little white toes, and a white belly. He was so small. I fell in love with him.

I named him Pookie.

He would curl up in the crook of my neck and sleep on my shoulder, where it was warm. He was eating the cat food I mushed up with water, and for three days I thought he might make it.

Then, inexplicably, our dog Fancy, a heeler/shepherd mix, attacked him in the laundry room. She had never done anything like that before and never did anything like that afterwards. I never knew why she did what she did.

I begged my parents to take him to the vet. Please, see if there's anything we can do. I want to save him so badly.

But we had very little money at the time, and my mom couldn't justify an enormous vet bill for a cat we'd had for less than a week that there was surely nothing to do for.

I put him in his basket that night with food and water and many blankets. He had no external injuries besides a nosebleed, so I hoped it wasn't as bad as it seemed.

He didn't see the morning. My dad buried him in the flowerbed without much ado.

I cried for two days into the arms of an unsympathetic mother who didn't understand why I felt so strongly over a cat we'd had for three days, bombarded with criticism from a judgmental sister who severely disliked cats. My dad did his best to try and comfort me, but he's not the best with emotions and didn't know what to say.

It has stuck with me for 20 years. I wonder, from time to time, if I did enough. If I'd kept him in my room instead of the laundry room, if I'd looked up how to care for him, if I'd kept closer watch on him and kept the dog away from him, would he have lived. Would he still have been my cat. Would he have known a life of love and warm fireplaces and full bellies and cuddling into my shoulders until he was too big to fit.

I'll never know.

I told Sawyer about this recently, in a moment of emotional upheaval where I was just spewing out a list of things that had happened in my past that I'd never really gotten over. The conviction of my sadness apparently struck a deep chord with Sawyer, who decided to make me a memorial for Pookie to keep his memory close.

No one else had taken my emotions regarding Pookie seriously. Not until now. And not only did Sawyer take it seriously, the emotional vomit of an adult woman still crying over a cat she had for three days in fifth grade, but Sawyer thought it important enough that it should never be forgotten.

It's nice, sometimes, to know the person you've chosen to go through life with is the best person in the world for you.