Here there be dragons. While the outside world struggled to heat itself up to the temperature at which water freezes, this little guy kept us at a balmy 38 degrees in the warehouse.
It’s just a word. One simple word; six letters, two syllables. But an ocean of depth underneath.
Nononononono!!!!!! Those words don’t belong together.
Stop saying them like that.
Glioblastoma. Longer word. More depth of meaning, or at least more specific meaning.
What do you do? What do I do?
My mother, the woman who gave me life and life lessons, is now going through the toughest fight of her life. This is one lesson she forgot to teach me. Maybe it can’t be taught. I guess we all have to learn this one on our own.
She’s not doing so well, at least not today, and the thousand miles of ground that separates me from her is almost unbearable right now. It’s not the end, though. She has fight in her. I know, because she comes from a couple of lines of stubborn, mule-headed folks. Both of her parents were stubborn, and her grandfather… well, let’s just say that the word “stubborn” is a pale word to describe that man. Yeah, Mom has some good, fighting blood in her. Still, I wish I could jump in this fight and throw some punches, too. Maybe I could hold off the enemy while she gets away safely.
I wish it were that easy. I’d take a bullet for her, but fate won’t let me take this on.
Mom. Tumor. Brain. Stage four. These words just don’t belong together. So why am I hearing them? Fuck. Dammit.
Earlier generations have weathered recessions, of course; this stall we’re in has the look of something nastier. Social Security and Medicare are going to be diminished, at best. Hours worked are up even as hiring staggers along: Blood from a stone looks to be the normal order of things “going…
|—||Salvador Dali (via awakenedvibrations)|
"GET OFF THE PHONE MOTHERFUCKER!" retro art (found at Born Free 5) featuring a very, very angry motorcyclist.