I dreamed last night you set yourself free
bursting through the door of your cage
(which had never been locked, only latched)
a phoenix rising from ashes to firestorm
and your glory melted that cage down to a puddle
so you could never be caught again.

Words Thoughts Fragments Ep. 13

Since we didn’t have time to film this week, today’s episode is comprised of snippets from other episodes. The topic is one very close to my heart – cat fostering. We have been fostering cats (mostly kittens) for about a year now and it’s been a challenging but very rewarding experience. If you have the time and space to devote to a foster of your own, please consider making that difference in an animal’s life. Or, if you can’t foster, consider donating money, food, or supplies to your local rescue or shelter. Every toy or can of food helps, and what might seem like a small gift to you may make all the difference to an animal in need.

Words Thoughts Fragments Ep. 12

For episode 12, we have something real special for you – actual, direct quotes from a county primary voters’ guide. Sound boring? Oh, just wait. There are some real doozies in here. Hope you like government conspiracies, bad puns, and pretend education!

Words Thoughts Fragments Ep. 10

Episode 10 is a doozy, folks! I talk tattoos, why throwing babies in wells is a bad idea (looking at you, Frollo), and wonder why Severus Snape doesn’t ever wash his hair. I mean seriously, just get a buzz cut if you’re that lazy, dude.

Want me to cover a topic? Leave it in the comments! Please. I’m desperate for validation.


“What do you mean, you’re not coming back?” Anna stopped cold in the corridor, staring after her girlfriend as if not quite believing what she had heard. Jessryn turned back to see she had stopped walking, then took hold of her robe and pulled her to one side. “Are you telling me are?” she whispered furiously, keeping her voice low so as not to be heard over the sound of students moving between classes. “Of course!” Anna made no such attempt. “We have to!”

“It’s not our fight, Anna,” Jessryn glanced around, but no one seemed to be eavesdropping on their conversation. She moved closer to Anna and lowered her voice further, just in case. “My family’s going into hiding once the school year’s over. They want to wait for things to calm down, or fall out, or whatever’s going to happen. It’s not safe here anymore, not at Hogwarts and not in this country; I doubt even this continent. I don’t know where we’ll go, but you can bet it will be far, far away from here.” She cupped Anna’s face in one slightly trembling hand. “You should come with us. You’d be safer.”

“I’m not running away like a coward,” Anna stuck her bottom lip out, a stubborn expression Jessryn normally adored – now it only made her go cold. “So I’m a coward?” she asked, dropping her hand. Anna’s mouth fell open. “No! No, I just mean… this is our school. It’s been like a home to us the last six years. If it comes to a fight, shouldn’t we defend it?”

“Not if it costs us our lives,” Jessryn turned away, desperate to end the conversation. They rarely quarreled, and never over anything this serious; neither of them was saying what they really meant, or how they really felt. “I don’t want to talk about this right now. We’ll be late for Potions.” And with that she stalked off down the hallway, willing herself not to listen to check if Anna followed.


Hi, friends. Let’s talk about body hair.

I find it both fascinating and infuriating that my genitalia somehow dictate where and to what lengths I may let my body hair grow. If I have a vagina, I am expected to grow out the hair on my head yet shave my legs and armpits (and possibly my arms), pluck my eyebrows, and wax my upper lip. However, if I have a penis instead, I can grow my body hair as much as I want as long as I keep the hair on my head short. Why body parts I keep covered 95% of the time have any control over my outer appearance I do not know, besides the usual arbitrary rules of “polite” society.

I’m going to be blunt here – I am one hairy, hairy lady. My father’s genes blessed me with the thick, dark hair of a proper Italian girl, and this hair is in no way confined to socially appropriate body parts. My eyebrows connect in a solid line if I don’t pluck them; I have a moustache pre-teen boys would die for; my leg hair is as healthy and hearty as an old-growth forest. My mother even took me as a baby to the doctor to ask about the fine carpet of hair I was growing on my back, wondering if something was seriously wrong with her little girl. But no, nothing wrong, per say… her daughter just happened to be almost as furry as the cats she’d soon pretend to be. I plant these somewhat unpleasant images in your mind to establish the soapbox on which I stand. I am covered in hair. Healthy hair. Hair that grows thick, grows fast, grows constantly.

I’m also lazy. Very, very lazy. What to others looks like a stubborn feminist stance against makeup, leg shaving, and bra wearing is really just me not wanting to bother with such frippery. I have shaved my legs a handful of times over the course of my almost 28 years, and each time has been like the first time. If I don’t shave my legs on at least a bi-weekly basis, the hair returns like the thorns surrounding Sleeping Beauty’s castle – and is just as hard to hack through. My hair can dull a razor blade in a matter of moments and no matter how many times I shave, some hairs will always escape beheading to pop up mockingly.

If I sound bitter, it’s because I am – but not about my hair. I have nothing against my hairy legs or fuzzy arms, my downy lip or weirdly long eyebrow lashes. They’re just doing what hair does best, which is grow. No, I’m bitter because society has boxed me into a corner from which I can’t quite figure out how to escape. See, as a confident, stubborn queer girl living in a liberal state, I can get away with a certain amount of rule-breaking; I have a sidecut, after all, and let my eyebrows do their wacky thing. I’m quite open about not shaving my legs, too. But when it comes to showing off those legs in public? That’s where I falter. I wonder, what will my coworkers think? Will they talk about me behind my back? Will HR tell me I’m not being hygienic? Will I become “that girl”?

And then my inner feminist jumps in. You like being “that girl!” she says. You’re unashamedly “that girl!” all the time! And yes, that’s true. I do. I am. So why is this one rule so hard for me to break? Why can’t I walk into work in a knee-length skirt with the same swagger I felt when I walked in with my shaved head or new tattoos? Why, when I firmly believe that the only reason we vilify female body hair is because of societally constructed beauty standards, am I still so hesitant? I’m fiercely independent by nature, yet I allow myself to be cowed into covering a completely natural, harmless, inoffensive part of my body even in the hottest month of the year. My inner Luna Lovegood shakes her head in disappointment – but Luna was blonde, and I bet she wasn’t carrying a carpet around on her legs.

I’m not saying anything new and groundbreaking here, I know. Sometimes you just need to rant about the bizarre rules human society has constructed, rules with no basis in logic but which most people, even those who are highly logical, never question. I know we’ll get there one day – I just hope I’ll have been one tiny cog in that roll towards progress, and not one of the many wrenches.


If this is the apocalypse, it’s not so bad. Don’t get me wrong, I mean, the power’s been out for weeks now and the whole city smells like unflushed toilets and burning trash. Most of the defensible buildings and hiding spots have been claimed, boarded up, and packed full of whatever supplies and weapon-like objects could be lifted from the non-defensible buildings. The sky’s a uniform gray because it snows non-stop, or just about, and if you don’t watch your step you’ll break through snow and ice and fall down an entire subway stairwell – and that’s if you’re lucky. If you’re unlucky, you’ll step on the squishy flesh of a buried dead and it’ll grab your ankle before you can right yourself. They eat better than any of the living, these days. Except maybe the wolves.

So I mean, it’s not pleasant or anything. It’s just not as bad as I guess I always thought it would be. I holed up in some ground floor apartment in the university district, just one bedroom and one bathroom, and I share it with five others. We aren’t best friends, but we get along okay as long as no one tells the blond chick to stop being so bossy. The girls sleep in the bedroom, of course, and us guys on the cheap carpet in the living room. At night you can hear the dead shuffling around and you have to keep pretty quiet, but as long as you only light the one lantern, you can at least play cards.

That’s all beside the point, though, because what I really mean when I say it isn’t so bad is, well, her. Not the blond one, the other one, with the flaming red hair and the eyes that can be hard as steel when she needs. Man, that hair stands out like a torch when we’re out in the cold, gray city. You’d think that would make her a target, make her want to cover up, but no, she just stands there like some Amazon. If the dead could feel anything, I know they’d fear her. As it is, the living don’t mess with her much, and so they don’t mess with us much either. It’s nice. I mean, there’s nowhere to take a girl out now and where would it lead anyway, marriage? Yeah, we’re gonna settle down in a nice little place off the collapsed viaduct. Have an indoor pool and everything – you know, because the house is half under water.

So anyway, like I said before, it’s not great. I’m just saying I never woulda met her if the world hadn’t come crashing down around us all. Gotta find the silver lining in this sorta thing, right?