When Online is out of Line: The Shit Hits the Fan

Being on that board became like navigating a minefield for me. I knew that I could cause an explosion at any time but I did not know how or when it would happen, nor did I know how to avoid stepping on an explosive device. Sometimes my attempts to sidestep the explosives would steer me right towards them.

The post I made that ended up triggering a big explosion was about about a controversial issue in the news and any opinion expressed about it did have the possibility of being controversial. I had recently been jumped on for the opinion I expressed about another issue in the news. Therefore when I posted about the debate over removing Woodrow Wilson’s name from Princeton University, I did not take a firm stance on the issue. I posted the link and summarized what was going on. If other people just posted a summary of a news story it was fine but since I was held to a different standard, in the past I’d been jumped on for just providing a summary of a news item and told that I was not getting a discussion going. A mod had told me to add discussion questions to my posts so I did that.

If anyone on that board enjoyed greater popularity and immunity than Marcia did, it was a member called Firecracker. I liked her better than Marcia because unlike Marcia she was nice to me sometimes and she was funny but like Marcia she’s extremely arrogant and abrasive. Anyway, she responded to me by saying “For the umpteenth time you’ve given us a list of questions to answer without answering them yourself.”

This was the setting for a perfect storm because it provided an opportunity to criticize me and to agree with Firecracker. Those were the things the board loved doing best. A huge dogpile on me commenced. I was told that I put forth juvenile essay questions and was accused of not reading the links I posted, of experiencing a decline in my mental abilities and of taking the opinions I did post on that board from other boards. It was said that I was ruining the board and causing people to leave.

I got defensive. I pointed out that I was just doing what I’d been asked to do, that I was on the autism spectrum and had a different communication style than some people and that with some people I just couldn’t win, no matter what I did.

The usual suspects who I’ve already mentioned in previous blog posts attacked me as did a bunch of other people. Unsurprisingly Marcia was the person who attacked me in the most vicious manner.  She said:

“You never have an original comment, a thought of your own or anything to add to the post. Just essay questions. It’s as if you depend on the board to form your opinions. That’s our job as far as your’re concerned.

I don’t know what’s happened to change you but wow, you aren’t the person who posted as Kira in the early years. Maybe you aren’t that person?I know many people on the autism spectrum and they don’t use it as an excuse for trollish behavior.

This is the Wikipedia definition of troll: ‘In internet slang a troll  is a person who sows discord on the internet by starting quarrels or upsetting people, by posting inflammatory, extraneous or off topic messages in an online community with the intent of provoking readers into an emotional response or of otherwise disrupting normal, on-topic discussion,often for the troll’s amusement’. This definition describes Kira to a tee.  We are losing valuable members because of Kira and the situation needs to be stopped.”

I was quite tempted to bust out the Wikipedia definition of a certain other five letter word that describes Marcia to a tee but instead I said that no, that definition of troll did not describe me. If it described anyone it described the people who derailed on topic-discussions by attacking me in an inflammatory manner in order to provoke me in to an emotional response.

Marcia’s brilliant response to that?  “Whatevs”

I also told her that she”d stooped really low. She replied that speaking the truth wasn’t low, she saw no way I wasn’t deliberately trying to antagonize people, so therefore my behavior must be deliberate.

A further example of how incredibly arrogant and narrow minded Marcia is. She thinks that her way of seeing things is the only correct way of seeing things and that whatever she thinks is the ultimate truth. Thank God that’s not actually the case because I wouldn’t want to live in the world according to Marcia. I would say that her deficits in empathy and critical thinking skills hinder her perception abilities.

When it comes to being inflammatory you can’t get much more inflammatory than what Marcia said. She had accused me of being a troll, of lying about my identity and of using autism as an excuse.

Another ‘interesting’ idea that Marcia had expressed in the past was that kids who are diagnosed with autism these days are ‘just a bit quirky’ and that parents are too eager to get them a diagnosis, rather than just accept that their kid is weird and move on. She went on to say that people with autism are capable of learning appropriate social behavior. I claimed to have been to college so obviously I was capable of learning and the fact that I chose not to was entirely on me.Obviously Marcia isn’t very well informed about autism or about learning for that matter, which is sad, since she claims to be a teacher.

She also said I told bizarre stories and needed serious help at best. I replied that she needed some some serious help herself as she also seemed to have quite a bit of trouble behaving in a socially appropriate manner. Baseless, cruel personal attacks are not socially appropriate.

When I told her she was out of line she replied “That is for the mods to decide, not you” which I imagine was her way of taunting me by reminding me that the mods favored her and let her off the hook for bad behavior.

There were also people who defended me, who stuck up for me, who expressed concern that I was being bullied. They said the people who were attacking me were the ones who were behaving badly and disrupting the forum, that if anyone else had started a thread with the exact same wording they wouldn’t have objected. They pointed out that if those people who were attacking me didn’t like the format of my posts or the questions I asked they were free to just ignore the questions and say what they wanted about the topics.

Purple Cat and a few other people claimed they were unable to respond to threads I started because even when they were originally interested in the topic and wanted to post about it themselves they were just so put off by the tone of my posts, which were formulaic and showed I didn’t really care about the topic, that I was just posting for the sake of posting and spamming the board.

I had to call bullshit on that. Something told me that those people never had any intention of starting threads about the topics I chose and that they didn’t find themselves unable to even comment on the topic because of the way I worded my posts. The board had been in a state of  decline for a while and not many people posted topics on a regular basis, especially not the people who criticized me and it wasn’t like I snatched up every single topic the second it became available either. Something also told me that those people who were demanding I share my opinion weren’t doing so because they just had so much respect for me and were dying to hear what I thought. They were just being disingenuous and picking on me for the sake of picking on me. I said as much.

If you remember Purple Cat from a previous blog you’ll remember that she had no problem directly accusing someone else of lying about their life with no evidence to back it up. She’d also had no problem accusing me of lying before and said that Marcia was not out of line after she’d suggested that a different person had been using my account and I’d been lying about my life stories. Yet Purple Cat just couldn’t handle me saying I thought some people were being disingenuous with their claims, said I had no right to call her a liar with no evidence.

Cowgirl piped up to say that being on the autism spectrum did not give me an excuse to be so petulant and someone else shot back “Oh please, Kira is not the petulant one here. Two different threads now you’ve come in solely to insult her. This really is starting to look like bullying.”

Then there were those who wanted to discuss the actual topic of the thread and requested that the talk about me be moved to another thread but it was agreed that a thread devoted to picking me apart would be a terrible idea and would be beyond stupid and hurtful to me.

The person who summed it all up best was a member called LionHeart. She said:

“Well, I was impressed that we had an 8 page thread about Woodrow Wilson. Then I come in to see that it’s a page about Woodrow Wilson and 7 pages about Kira’s posting style. I should have known.

Anyway, apparently I’m one of the few people on the planet who doesn’t feel like throwing myself off a tall building whenever I open a thread that Kira starts. I actually think she has tried to heed others’ criticism of her posting style but as soon as she fixes one “defect” people move on to the next one. Then they pounce when she gets defensive. That to me is a lot more off putting than anything Kira posts.

I will note that the pregnancy and parenting forum, where Kira virtually never starts threads is deader than a door nail. Seems to me that would be a nice safe place for people to start threads without fear that Kira was BEATING them to it with her mandatory essay questions. Yet that doesn’t seem to be happening.

Do I honestly think Kira’s posting is kind of frenetic and taking up an unhealthy place in her life? Probably. We all know enough about Kira’s life that that’s not a wild leap and the reception she’s getting here can’t be doing her mental health any good. If I knew her in real life I would kindly take her aside and say ‘Dear, these friends, they are not good for you. Not because they are right about you but because they are not good for you. It may be time to broaden your horizons.’

I’m very curious to hear what the mods have to say about this. It’s clear to me that Kira is breaking no board rules, not even close. I don’t think most of the people criticizing her are breaking any rules either so I guess unless something changes we’ll just sink down in to this sewage together.”

I too was curious to hear what the moderators had to say about this.



via Daily Prompt: Panacea

Another SAT vocabulary word from WordPress. I’m familiar with this one though. I’m sure most of those gun-crazy assholes who become outraged at the prospect of enforcing gun control in the wake of every mass shooting don’t know the definition of panacea. They probably think it’s some kind of STD. However, if they’re not arguing that gun control violates the second amendment, they’re essentially arguing that we shouldn’t bother with gun control because it’s not a panacea to the violence and murder problem.

They’re absolutely right about that last part. Enforcing gun control would not completely eliminate all violence, murders or massacres. It would not even completely eliminate all violence perpetrated with guns. There will always be criminals who slip through the cracks.  However, that does not mean that enforcing gun control is pointless. Gun control would drastically cut down on the number of gun related deaths and injuries  (and overall violence related deaths and injuries as well. Despite what gun lovers imply, gun control would not result in the number of deaths and injuries caused by other weapons rising to the level of damage caused by guns.) That is certainly something worth striving for.

It would be nice if we could take one action that would end gun violence once and for all but true panaceas of that sort are very rare. When it comes to the major problems that are plaguing our society today they really don’t exist-not for gun violence, not for domestic violence, not for rape, not for sexism, not for racism, not for mental illness, not for poverty.  The reason no one solution will serve as a panacea is that none of those problems are caused by only one factor. They are caused my a multitude of factors converging.

Our culture of toxic masculinity contributes to the gun problem- the kind of culture that causes boys and men to use big guns as compensation for small penises. Then there’s the culture of selfishness that leads those men to believe their right to have unrestricted access to high powered assault rifles trumps (pun intended) the right of others to remain alive and safe.  Those issues need to be addressed in addition to not instead of gun control.

We all need to do just do our best to help ourselves and each other, knowing that our best will not result in perfection.











via Daily Prompt: Egg

What came first, the chicken or the egg? I pondered that question as a child and came to the conclusion that the egg came first because the chicken evolved from another species. But what species did it come from? At what point did it cross over from that other species to chicken and what determined the transformation was complete?

That’s as far as I’m going to get in to eggsitential questions. My favorite part of the Starbucks protein pack that I get on a regular basis is the hard boiled egg, which I sprinkle with salt. There used to be one egg in the pack, now there are two. I was quite happy when Starbucks made that change. I only like eggs in hard boiled form. I find eggs in any other form nauseating. My mom says it’s ridiculous that I like eggs in one form but not others and that I used to eat eggs in other forms but now I won’t. What can I say, my tastes evolved, just like the species that preceded the chicken.

My brother likes scrambled eggs. One day when he was making scrambled eggs I ran in to the kitchen, poured fish food on his breakfast and shrieked “April Fools!” He looked at his ruined eggs in dismay and said “How is that even a joke?”

He felt that his fifth grade teacher resembled an egg. My mother said that was ridiculous, it wasn’t possible for a human to look like an egg. Yet after she attended a parent-teacher conference she had to admit that his teacher was indeed rather egg-like.

I hope you found this blog to be eggcellent.

Fuck Off, Forty-Five

Another day, another mass shooting, another idiotic response from forty-five. He ticked off pretty much every box in the gun crazy asshole’s guide to responding to a mass shooting.

*”Who would have thought something like this could happen?”

*”Now is not the time to talk about guns.”

*”A civilian with a gun is what saved the day.”

*”This is not a guns problem, it’s a mental health problem. It’s a mental health problem of the highest order.”

Gee,Charleston, Sandy Hook, San Bernardino, Orlando, Las Vegas and the countless other mass shootings, none of those gave you an inkling that something like this could happen? None of those shootings were the time to talk about guns either. When is the time to talk about guns? At a time when no mass shootings have happened recently? A time like that doesn’t exist in this country.

I’m pretty dubious of the claim that this tragedy would have been so much worse if a civilian with a gun hadn’t intervened. Even if it is true 26 is an unacceptable number of fatalities and the fact that he was able to kill 26 people shows that civilians aren’t all that effective at stopping people like him. Furthermore, a civilian never would have needed to stop him if a guy who assaulted his wife and child and was dishonorably discharged from the military hadn’t been given a gun.

This is only a mental health problem because the shooter was named Devin. If he was named Muhammad or Pedro, it wouldn’t have been a guns problem, it would have been a terrorist/immigration problem and we would have needed to talk about the terrorist/immigration problem right this second.

Of course this is a guns problem, you fucking moron.  YOU’RE a mental health problem of the highest order.



via Daily Prompt: Proxy

Proxy is one of those words I’m not sure how to use properly because I’ve never really heard it used aside from Munchausen by proxy. That’a a very horrible yet morbidly fascinating condition. I recently finished a novel that featured a mother and her children who were the victims Munchausen by proxy. It caused one of her daughters to become a murderer and the other one cut herself constantly.  Yeah, I can imagine being a victim of Munchausen by proxy would really fuck you up emotionally.

When I looked up the word proxy the example sentence was someone voting as a proxy.  There’s a state election coming up on Tuesday but due to my recent address change I’m not sure if I’ll be able to vote in it. The anniversary of last year’s dreadful presidential election is coming up soon and that makes me sad.

I’m going to end this blog now because I’m behind on the daily prompt blogs and on blog writing in general. Maybe I should have someone else write my blogs as my proxy. Did I use the word correctly there?


via Daily Prompt: Neighbors

My first association with the word ‘neighbors’ was not a good one. In fact it was preceded by the word ‘nasty’. My family referred to the next door neighbors at my first childhood home as the nasty neighbors. Before I was born my parents announced that they planned on building a fence on their property line. The neighbors responded by threatening to throw boiling water on them.

When I was about four years old my mother heard what sounded like a cat meowing in distress coming from the home of the nasty neighbors. When she knocked on the door she encountered a putrid smell but got no response. She called the police who were also unable to get a response when they knocked. They broke in to the house and a few minutes later they emerged frantically crying out and scratching at themselves. They had been attacked by a swarm of fleas that resided in the house along with the couple’s 9 cats. The couple had been sitting in their bedroom watching TV the entire time.  They probably suffered from some kind of untreated mental illness.

The neighbors on the other side of us were pretty cool though. They let us play with their cats, who were flealess. They gave us rides on their riding lawn mower and Christmas presents. One year my brother opened up a package from them to reveal a pink tea set and I opened up a package to reveal a blue helicopter puzzle. My mother decided they must have inadvertently switched our gifts, intending to give me the tea set and my brother the puzzle. Having his pink tea set taken away from him caused my brother to have a meltdown of epic proportions. It was an honest mistake on our neighbors’ part though and it wasn’t their fault my mother enforced such rigid gender stereotypes.

The next house we moved to was next door to a small white house inhabited by seven Chinese men. They all worked at the local Chinese restaurant. We sensed their situation wasn’t entirely legal but we minded our own business. We knew next to nothing about any of our other neighbors. We weren’t the most gregarious, neighborly people.

At our third house my parents become involved in a war with the neighbors in back of us over Juniper bushes. It involved cursing, yelling, angry letters to the police, false accusations of rock throwing and actual throwing of dog poop.

Our neighborly relations there weren’t all bad though. We eventually became good friends with neighbors who for years we hadn’t known aside from one antagonistic encounter in the beginning.  About two years after we befriended them, they moved away. We lamented the fact that we had lived in the neighborhood for years without enjoying their pool friendship

About two years ago my mother and I moved to Illinois only to return a month later, as it had been the move from hell. There were various factors that made it hell. We initially thought our neighbors were great. We had moved across the street from family members of ours, expecting to enjoy warm, affectionate family relationships but we were soon beleaguered by family strife. We found we were visiting each others’ houses not to be one big happy family but to complain about each other.

We were quite touched when the girls who lived down the street knocked on our door to give us cards welcoming us to the town. We felt less welcomed by the next door neighbors who we suspected were either vampires or running a meth lab since they rarely came out and always had the curtains down. We were disabused of that notion when they introduced themselves to us and were proved to be nice, friendly people. Of course we had to act like all the information they told us about themselves was new to us and we hadn’t been stalking them on Facebook.

Then we found out the neighbor in back of us was a convicted pedophile. His name showed up on our Wi-Fi and that didn’t exactly inspire feelings of warmth and comfort. To be fair, the neighbors probably didn’t have a great impression of us either. In the one month that we were there, my mother had run through the streets screaming twice, disturbing the neighborhood peace.  A spider in the mailbox and a dog that’s suffocated on a chip bag are pretty valid reasons to scream though.

When my mom was telling friends the horror story of our move to the Midwest, I made sure she didn’t forget to mention the pedophile in the back yard. She agreed that the pedophile in the backyard had been a nice touch.

Our most recent move was to a retirement community. We moved there despite knowing that it would make us neighbors with a friend of my dad’s who has a tendency to be ..uh…socially inappropriate. He had humiliated me by pointing out in front of everyone that I was missing a tooth and asking if I was going to fix it. I enjoy our strolls through the neighborhood but in the back of my mind there’s always this fear that we’ll run in to good old Claude and he’ll point out that I still haven’t gotten my tooth fixed. Maybe he’ll also point out that I have a zit on my chin, my mother’s face is wrinkly and we’ve both put on some weight while he’s at it.

After the house had been purchased, it was a pleasant surprise to learn that old friends of ours would also be our neighbors. When we saw their son in the neighborhood he gave us some good advice. He said “A lot of the residents of this community are 80 or 90 years old so don’t get too attached to your neighbors.”



via Daily Prompt: Simmer

I don’t cook so my main association with simmer is the phrase ‘simmer down.’ There are times when I could stand to simmer down, there are times when we could all stand to simmer down. It can be hard for me to be control my temper when I’m upset and it’s gotten me in trouble. I regret some of the things I’ve said and done in anger. I feel bad about the hurt my angry outbursts have caused people I care about and the damage they’ve done to our relationships. When I look back at some of the things that triggered  my angry outbursts they hardly seem worth getting angry about. I guess in moments of rage I should ask myself if this issue is going to upset me so much a month from now and if it’s not going to upset me then, I shouldn’t let it upset me so much now.

Of course I’ve had instances of anger that I think were perfectly justified and I’ve gotten angry at people I really don’t like but some of the things I said in anger really didn’t do me any favors. They reflected badly on me and gave the other person ammunition against me. Being really angry can hinder my ability to be clever and witty. A clever, witty response is always better than a “Fuck you, asshole!”

On the other hand, telling someone else to simmer down is mostly just obnoxious. I saw a meme that said “Never in the history of calming down has telling someone to calm down worked” and it seems pretty accurate. Telling someone to simmer down is especially awful when it comes in the form of tone policing, which is an attempt to detract from the validity of a statement by attacking the tone in which it was presented, rather than the statement itself.

I see it most often in online debates about topics such as racism, sexism, ableism and homophobia. Discrimination, oppression and violations of human rights are things we should all be angry about it. They are things we cannot afford to ‘simmer down’ about and there’s no reason to play nice with or be polite to abusers, oppressors or those who support and defend them.  It’s also an example of sexism itself since women are told to simmer down much more often than men are.

A few months ago I was criticized on Facebook for my ‘unnecessary anger’ towards Nazi apologists and homophobes. Sorry, I have no plans to simmer down in that regard.

Daily Prompt: Mystery

via Daily Prompt: Mystery

To many people I am a mystery. From an early age I was a mystery to my own parents. They tried very hard to solve me. As the detective, the chief witness, the prosecutor and the defense in my case, my mother searched for clues, she did her investigations, she questioned the suspects and she presented the evidence to the professionals. She asked for their help in solving the mystery of me.

I was a difficult case to crack.  There were times when it seemed the mystery of me was close to being solved and times when professionals declared they had solved the mystery but in the end the evidence just didn’t fit together to form a satisfying conclusion.  The poor fine motor and visual spatial skills were offset by the advanced verbal skills. My disinterest in my peers and my apparent inability to form relationships with them were contradicted by the warm, affectionate relationships I had with my family. My failure to pay attention to instructions seemed at odds with my great memory for certain details.  My hand flapping, my failure to make eye contact, my talking to myself, made me seem as though I was off in another world but I could also express myself in a way that showed I was engaged in this world.

My mother was the chief witness in my case but there were other witnesses as well-my other family members, my peers, my teachers, my babysitters. Some of them had convicted me of various crimes in their minds- Of being rude, mean, lazy, indifferent or spoiled-those were the most obvious answers to the mystery of me.  Yet my mom suspected that perhaps I was not guilty of those crimes by reason of disability. The type of disability remained a mystery.

I was sometimes called forth to testify in my own case and solve my own mystery but I remained a mystery even to myself and other people were a mystery to me. I could not tell you why I had no friends or why I flapped my hands. It was a mystery to me why other people did not flap their hands, how they managed to get through life without feeling the urge to do something that was so intrinsic to my being.  It was a mystery to me how my peers seemed to make friends as easily and naturally as I flapped my hands, while I remained friendless. I did not know what I was doing wrong or how I could make things right.

Finally, when I was twelve a doctor seemed to solve the mystery of me. He came up with a diagnosis for me that made sense and matched up with the majority of my symptoms. It was a a little known or recognized diagnosis so it’s no wonder the mystery took so long to solve.

Yet the mystery of me had not been fully solved and my case was far from closed. It was a mystery what had caused my diagnosis and what could be done to help me, why some with my diagnosis fared better than me and others fared worse. Then there were the symptoms of mine that didn’t seem to be accounted for by my diagnosis. Perhaps another diagnosis would fit me better but then there were criteria for that diagnosis that didn’t seem to fit me.

The truth was my mom had given birth to a human being, not a diagnosis and not a mystery novel. My creation had involved the hands of fate, genetics and whatever other forces are out there. I had not been meticulously crafted in the mind of a writer with a clear introduction, plot line and conclusion. I’ve spent my whole life feeling like a square peg in a round hole and there’s no reason to believe any diagnosis could peg me perfectly. I’m a perfectly imperfect person who’s rough around the edges.

The mystery has continued throughout my life and continues to this day. When I started making friends it was a mystery to me why these people liked me so much because years of blame and low self esteem had made me suspect I was inherently unlikable. It was a mystery to me why I made such self destructive decisions. It’s a mystery to me why romantic relationships, employment and independence seem to come so naturally to other people but they just haven’t happened for me.  It’s a mystery whether they ever will happen for me.

It’s a mystery why I can easily tell you the name of the dog of that kid who sat in front of me in seventh grade math class but I can’t remember the password I created yesterday.  It’s a mystery why I take some things so literally and fail to pick up on things that others grasp naturally yet I’m also capable of thinking deeply and symbolically, of picking up on things that others fail to grasp.

It’s a mystery to many people why I flap, pace and jump, why I am the way I am. I can see the look of puzzlement on their faces. Sometimes they ask me about it but even though I’m good with words, it’s a mystery I don’t know how to explain to them.

Some mysteries are not meant to be unraveled or solved. They are meant to be accommodated, accepted and appreciated. I am such a mystery.

The First Time: Reflecting on the Journals of my Childhood

Editor’s note: I wrote this for a client that declined it, so now you can have it, WordPress.

These days most of my writing is done online. I have a blog that I use to share my thoughts, feelings and experiences with others. Such is the nature of our times. I came across a meme that said “People used to keep diaries and get mad when anyone read them, now we post everything online and get mad when people DON’T read it.”

I laughed because it’s so true. As a child my writing platform was a journal filled with paper and my writing tool was a pen. I stashed my journals away in my drawers and lived in fear that someone would read them. When my brother did read my journal I was mortified. Now I check the statistics on my blog and I’m happy when I see that a lot of people have read it.

Although I’ve moved on to writing through a digital platform, I still have a certain appreciation for my first writing platform and for the person who first led me to it. I feel especially appreciative around this time of year, when the school year is beginning.

I got my first journal when I was in third grade. Up until then my teachers had me writing in spiral and composition notebooks but when Ms. Eliot handed out the school supply lists at the beginning of the year she specified that those kind of notebooks would not do. In her class we would be using real journals for our writing.

I chose a suede journal with a purple floral design. As far as school supplies go, that journal was fairly expensive but what I got out of it cannot be quantified in monetary value. It was through that journal and that class that I developed writing skills and a love of writing. One of my first journal entries involved me imagining flying through the sky like a bird. Although my body would never sprout wings, when I wrote I soared to new heights.

By the end of the school year I had filled my purple journal up to the last page. As an end of the year gift Ms. Eliot gave all of her students new journals. Mine was red and had a design that brought to mind fire. Although I was no longer required by Ms. Eliot to write in a journal, I continued to do so because writing lit my fire.

As I progressed in school, I was fortunate to have other great teachers who encouraged and praised my writing. Some of them had me write in notebooks but none of them had me write in journals like Ms. Eliot did. Yet ultimately it was a teacher who once again put a journal in my hands. When I graduated from high school a beloved teacher of mine gave me a journal as a graduation gift. This one was white and brought to mind ivory. Writing had become as precious to me as ivory.

Two years ago I moved to a new house. While I was packing my belongings I came across that white journal I received as a graduation gift. A few months ago I moved again. While I was packing my belongings I came across that red journal I received at the end of third grade.

A few days ago I was complaining on Facebook that I felt motivated to write but my computer was broken. A friend pointed out that there’s always pen and paper. She’s right, there is always pen and paper. And there are always journals.


via Daily Prompt: Ghoulish

I knew today’s prompt would be Halloween related. I tutored today using Halloween related reading material and one of the vocabulary words I drew from it was ghoul. Don’t you just hate it when you look up a word and the definition you get is most unhelpful when it comes to understanding or explaining what the word means? Ghoulish is unhelpfully defined as “resembling a ghoul.’

One of the synonyms for ghoulish is ghastly, speaking of which, I can see that my blog is getting hits from a certainly ghastly internet forum.  It’s a spinoff board of the board that’s the subject of my When Online is Out of Line series. This ghastly forum is private so I can’t see what’s being said about my blog there but I have a feeling it’s not positive. Still, I should be tinkled pink that these people are visiting and linking to my blog because blog traffic is blog traffic. Bloggers love it when their blogs get a lot of traffic. I left the blogging groups I was a part of on Facebook because those people cared about blog traffic and only blog traffic.

My mom and I witnessed a car accident today. We stopped by the side of the road, not because of that ghoulish fascination with terrible accidents that causes bystanders to rubberneck but because we wanted to make sure the people involved in the accident were okay. Luckily the people did seem to be okay but their cars didn’t fare so well.

When I got home I heard about an automobile tragedy in Manhattan that was no accident. The perpetrator appears to be of Middle Eastern descent so I’m sure 45 will use the incident to spread hatred and xenophobia. He’s ghoulish. I’m glad some of his cronies were ghost busted yesterday.

I’m way behind on my reading challenge goal for this year but I finished a book today. Its subject matter was ghoulish

I live in a retirement community now so we didn’t get any trick or treaters and my mother wouldn’t even buy a bag of candy “just in case.” I learned that it’s been discovered that it would take eating 232 (or some such number) fun sized candy bars in one sitting to kill you. That was a rather ghoulish study to undertake.