I am an aspiring recluse working full time at a comic book shop. The process of bagging and boarding is euphoric, and the smell of smoke-filled, pollen laced back issues make me want to clasp my hands together and shout with joy. I'm only partially kidding.


i think the worst part about ableism is how many times in my life my own internalized ableism prevented me from asking for the help that would have been the difference between getting better and getting worse.


I took my girlfriend to an improv show the other night and during intermission we were passionately arguing over whether half a 5 Hour Energy shot would give you 2.5 hours of energy or 5 hours of half-assed energy so we turned around to ask the opinions of the three people behind us and one of them said “Are all your arguments like this because we heard you in the lobby earlier fighting over the right way to pronounce ‘egg’?”

September 16th, 2014:


I’m making a to-do list in hopes that writing it on the internet will hold me more responsible. Logic.

  • Clean room;
  • Organize laundry;
  • Buy hair dye;
  • Use said hair dye;
  • Pick up more athletic wear;
  • Get caught up on current comics;
  • Art frame for Superman con piece;
  • Work one hour uninterrupted on Brynn’s Comic;
  • Take a selfie.

Well, I suppose I didn’t do too poorly. Actually, I did a lot better than I thought I would! I got my haircut, and bought the dye, but I don’t trust myself to do it alone, so I have to wait until I see my mom tomorrow.

For some reason, though, I walked right past Michael’s but completely forgot I needed a damn frame. I cleaned my room, bathroom, and kitchen, but seriously, fuck laundry, man. I took a gross, sweaty selfie, but I guess I’ll take a proper one tomorrow with my drastically different hair. 

I’m dedicating 10 p.m. to Brynn’s comic. Goddamn it, I will get this shit done before December. The sad part is I really love it, but I want it to be perfect. And wanting it to be perfect right from the start is really fucking me up. It’s, like, rule number one of what not to do when writing, but obsessive compulsive disorder is a beast, and I’ve started doing rituals before I write which can only be terrible because, guess what? Those have to feel and be just right, too. 

But, I’ve noticed that when I write later, especially if I’m sort of sleepy, I don’t think about it too much. I mean, it’s still there and gutting me, but I’m not as inclined to participate in the crazy swamp of control that is my mind. 

And, of course, thank you agent-hardass (seriously, how perfect is that name?) for the motivation. You’re a dear. 

Two other women, also breast cancer survivors, said their husbands left them after they were diagnosed. Both had to have mastectomies (in case anyone doesn’t know, this is the surgical operation to remove one or both breasts).

The first woman said her husband told her that he would rather see her dead than see her lose her breasts. The second woman had her operation and waited all day to be picked up by her husband, who never arrived. By nightfall, one of the nurses offered to give her a ride, and she came home to find the house empty.

Obviously, these are extreme cases of a man’s reaction to his wife’s breast cancer, but this is what I see when I see the “I ♥ Boobies” bracelets. I see love of the body parts, not the person being treated—not the patient, not the victim, not the survivor.