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A Day of The Life of Lisa, as Written by Guest Blogger Jane Austen — December 28, 2010

A Day of The Life of Lisa, as Written by Guest Blogger Jane Austen

 

This basically happened like I wrote it except I needed to change the dialogue to the jist of what was said. Anyway, enjoy!Gane Austen
Jane Austen, celebrated early 19th century author, now guest blogger.

 

 

 

 

 

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a lady who wishes to send off an item bartered on eBay must be in want of packaging tape. Ah, this lamentably was the state of affairs and such a deprivation could not be borne.

Our lady, a Rubenesque spinster of three-and-thirty years, suggested to her mother a scheme of going to the shop down the way post-haste, for it was a week until Christmas and the best of couriers could not always send the required article in time. Fearing the wrath of an angry gentleman who had placed his custom and faith upon her, the lady commenced in her carriage, her good lady mother as chaperone. The mother, sullen, melancholy, and hinting  her disapprobation at her, said, ” Make certain, daughter, that you buy something sweet for the time we feel peckish.”

Our lady fresh from her visit to the Family Dollar

 

The establishment frequented by all the ton of the neighbourhood and surrounding villages was called the Family Dollar and carried sundry  items for sale. This mainly consisted of treasures imported from the orient, a plethora of genuine plastics molded into dishes and playthings for children, plus toiletries designed to cover smallpox scars and other maladies of ladies in need of the refinery.

The lady’s mother had her filial daughter go inside without her guiding  hand, confident that she would find no disgrace within its doors. Nay, no disgrace indeed as our lady meandered the aisles of the store plucking up the tape, chocolate mint patties, and some sort of Christmas mint that once dissolved took on a consistency like gum. Looking at the cookies without her mother to advise which to procure, as her mother’s dark mood seemingly prevented her from issuing any hint of preference, she selected a large package of vanilla sandwich cookies with cream.

Taking these items to the cash register, our  lady was assailed by the sounds of the music peculiar to certain sects of religion. This genre, aptly titled “Christian Pop,” seldom reached the tender regions of her soul as the lyrics and music intended. Instead of invoking all the comforts of religion, she oft, when not spared , chose to dissect the lyrics of such songs as though they were written by lovestruck poets for their would-be paramours. This song, however, was in a somewhat different strain, invoking the Lord thus:

Jesus is just all right with me, Jesus is just all right…

La! But an older lady, finding such a ditty insufferable, called attention to the young man attending the till. “I say, boy, this music you play upon yonder radio device, is that your personal preference?”

“Nay, madame,” said the young man. “Rather ’tis the preference of the lady proprietors.”

“I see,” spoke the lady with consternation. “You should play something soothing.”

“Ah, the ladies grew weary of the station that plays the Christmas music for the entirety of the season.”

“But that’s what the customers wish to hear whilst shopping, and they should think of the customers!” punctuated that lady.

You’d think they were playing the unexpurgated works of Eminem to hear her speak. A pretty thing this, thought our lady as she rushed from the edifice. She could not help, aversion to such music notwithstanding, how unpleasant were the manners of that lady.

An example of a carriage

 

Later, our lady and her mother arrived at the post office, and once more the spinster was left to her own devices as her mother waited. Soon our lady was amid a bustle of humanity all converging in a final frantic bid to send parcels for arrival by Yuletide.

She was waited upon by a lady who could be surly to some, but never to the spinster. “Is there anything fragile, liquid, perishable , or potentially hazardous inside, Madame?”

“Well…” said our lady, thinking back to a most helpful posting upon the wall sometime ago listing items that were foolhardy to send via courier, “the ___ has batteries inside.”

“No, ’tis fine and proper. What sort of ___is it?”

A ___ from the 80s, Madame,” said our lady.

“Oh, those I do recollect and my child possessed one that___.”

“Ah,  indeed! I mark those, though many a year has passed betwixt then and now.”

“Please tell your mother Merry Christmas from me,” said the lady post office attendant.

Our lady counted out the change from a purse and thought uncharitably, Nay, not I, not now as my mother has declared she hates Christmas,  which makes me hold the  hold the holiday with similar malevolence, The spinster, acting like a hussy, could maintain a strong petulance at times, a nasty flaw to her being a genteel lady.

She was so immersed in thought that our lady almost forgot to return appropriate holiday greetings herself. “Thank you, I shall tell her…Oh dear! And Merry Christmas to you, Madame. I fear that my mind is a soupcon addled today.”

It is perhaps diverting to look at our spinster and note that despite a peculiar air hinting at wishing to sink  into the floor beneath her rather than look another in the eye, she twice or thrice was complimented on her exceeding good manners in the past. It seems that some ladies and gentleman are taciturn when services were rendered inside the office. This compliment pleased our spinster in no uncertain terms.

The end of the day’s activities was nigh, but alas, the mother had lost her reading spectacles a couple of days previous and there seemed no way of finding the lost article. Despite her mother’s seasonal surliness, her most dutiful daughter did not wish to see that grand dame deprived of such creature comforts. Our lady bade the carriage to go to the shop where excellently crafted spectacles could be had, The Dollar General. As her good lady mother sought a perfect pair to match the strength of her weakened eyes, our lady perused the aisles, passing a gentleman in the stationary and place where books grace store shelves the final time.

Soon a young lady from that more southern clime came before them with a brood of children. The young lady spoke in the rapid tongue impossible to learn  in finishing school book or by her dear teacher originally from Philadelphia town. Suddenly the gentleman in the aisle with her growled in a low voice, “Speak English goddamnit.”

What a fine gentleman! our lady thought as she disembarked for home. Mayhap he is a lord or an earl. Such command that can even instruct mothers and innocent babes the correct dispensation of the queen’s English. No doubt a man of the best of stock whose kind manners condescended to make foreigners feel so at home in ours, the most welcoming of lands. Such a portly stature and the pungent scent of smoke from the best of cigarettes. La!  This is the sort of man I should wish to marry!

This delicate nicety, indispensable among genteel ladies when greeting potential suitors, is called "The Bird"

 



WORKING ON ULTIMATE BLOGROLL — December 27, 2010

WORKING ON ULTIMATE BLOGROLL

Trying to fancy up for the new year. Will have a blurb about everyone.  1 done. ADD. Just in case  it does take me a zillion years gonna ad justmakingconvo.com right now, so she may take her rightful place as Queen Humor Blogger and let her duke it out with King Zodi of Spain a la zodiblog.wordpress.com for world domination.

I want to show my love and appreciation to everyone. I love everyone’s blogs that I read too  and want to do some little thing to show my thanks, hence this. I’m going to be adding more people too of my fav’s that I haven’t blogrolled yet.

Does anyone not see him/herself on my blog who would like me to add him/her? No obligation to put me on yours,  I promise.  The problem with my blog for one is I don’t fall into a certain niche really and many folks extremely reasonably keep their blogroll to a minimum and in their niche,  so I seriously would understand. So don’t hesitate to ask. The worst is I’ll say no, which is kinda unlikely.

Anyway, hope everyone had a good Christmas or Solstice or whatever!

Lisa

OK, so I joined a Poetry Group on FB where they critique… — December 24, 2010

OK, so I joined a Poetry Group on FB where they critique…

Is this version of  Merry Holidays, Jesus! better than the original? They thought I   should cut out unnecessary words n’ crap…

Dear Jesus,

I think you should know,
some of your Father’s creations are a little slow.
Or is it me who’s a bit dense?
Not sure, but all this makes little sense.

It all has to do with a little word called ‘Christmas.’
Apparently there is a war on the word.
Have you in heaven heard?

As a mortal, this I can’t understand,
Did you actually make the demand
to nit-pick on a word not invented when you walked on earth?

When you were old enough to say it, did you cry out “Merry Christmas!”in Aramaic?

Do you spend time between listening to prayers despairing,
perhaps even swearing,
that ‘Xmas’ does not bear your last name?
Or are you in on the joke with the Greeks ,
using the ‘X’ as the abbreviation of Christ?

Is it really a vice to say “Happy Holidays!” a couple of times a year?
Or do you say, “Your inclusiveness should fry with you in the lake of hell?”
Is it bad for me to say “Merry Christmas” too?

Truthfully, Jesus, I’m in a stew,
so I guess I’ll leave it up to you.

Sybil Gone, Lisa is back… — December 20, 2010

Sybil Gone, Lisa is back…

 

Bad Sybil! Bad!

Okay then. The sun is out, it’s a new day, comments are back on, the toilet is flushed. I have simmered down from hating myself, just back to my normal ambivalence. Hope none of y’all are mad.  I have a little bit of a self-esteem issue, always have had one. Perhaps it’s the OCD, or folks in the distant past and what they said or did…my formative years were a tad odd, just a tad, as you may have surmised. Plenty of time to dredge that up later.

Anyway, I love you all and thanks. I just wanted everyone to know I’m OK now.

PS, I’ve been lax on comment replying and will reply to everyone today.

PS, PS, thanks for the very kind letter, Sheri. It made my day!

 

I fucking hate myself. (not my usual post if anyone’s visiting for the first time) —

I fucking hate myself. (not my usual post if anyone’s visiting for the first time)

What a smiley looks like when thinking of a di...
Image via Wikipedia

 

Dear Myself,

Did I ever tell you how much I hate you sometimes and how the world wouldn’t miss out on much if you were ran over by a bus? It isn’t all the time I hate you, but you know I’ve never been a fan of you. You disgust me in every way possible and you’re a terrible bitch. You destroy everything you put your hand to and it’s a pity you are alive.

But I know you better than anyone. Admitting you think this about yourself makes you worry God will grant your wish and you’ll die, so I can only surmise you don’t actually want to die. So I guess you will stay alive, but if it were a just world, your vile and disgusting tongue would fester and fall out of your mouth. Now that you say that, you’re a bit worried God will give you oral cancer as punishment for thinking it. I wish you’d make up your mind, stupid fuck. You can’t ever make up your mind about anything because you were given the brain of a goldfish.

This time I refuse to forgive you, Lisa, but when have I ever forgiven you for anything? You try to be a nice person, but if you were a nice person you wouldn’t get that angry at your mother. You only really get angry at her and yourself, but we all know it’s mainly it’s yourself you’re mad at. You try never to get angry, to always be good, and you fucking fail. FUCKING FAIL! I seriously hate you.

You always worry about saying or doing something  that will hurt people, but do you think your mom isn’t worthy of a similar fear? Lisa, you’re a terrible, fucking bitch for calling your mom one. I don’t know if she heard you call her a fucking bitch, she probably did, but even if she didn’t it’s irrelevant. She didn’t deserve it, you fucking bitch.

Look, Lisa, I know you’d never hit your mom or anyone else, that you’d never want to inflict pain on someone except yourself, but didn’t you mumble something like, “If I could smack you…” and I’m certain your mother didn’t hear it, but you still said it kind of, which makes it the same, and I refuse to forgive you. I hate you,Lisa. I seriously fucking hate you. She didn’t deserve to have a child like you.

So when your mother said she hated Christmas it was because of you, and  then you thought you hated Christmas too because you won’t be able to think of it without hearing her saying that BECAUSE OF YOU, you fucking fat fuck. I hate Christmas and I hate you even more, Lisa. And you start feeling mad at your Mom again for saying that, which is your own fucking fault, bitch. Bitch! Bitch! Fucking worthless bitch.

Regards,

Lisa

OK I feel better now. I just had to confess what I said today. It would seem dishonest if I didn’t tell you about how awful I can be. I have a terrible temper when it comes to myself screwing something up. It’s funny because people can do whatever they want to me and I take it as my due, my temper not flaring at all. But if I mess up, or perceive my mom is criticizing me it’s like I go into a rage because I’m trying so hard to do everything perfectly.

 

Three Christmas Poems: Depressing, Controversial, and Semi-Festive — December 17, 2010

Three Christmas Poems: Depressing, Controversial, and Semi-Festive

 

Hi everyone,

Combining http://magpietales.blogspot.com and http://thursdaypoetsrallypoetry.wordpress.com/ this week. The first poem is right depressing, so if you’re already in a depressed mode you might wish to skip it because it’s pretty dark. The second poem deals with the so-called “War on Christmas,” and I don’t mean to be sacrilegious. The third is my favorite poem, a slice of that tasty ghetto/trailer park-style pie some of y’all seem to like…Anywho, enjoy and comment, trash it, or ask questions about it as you may.

 

A Very Depressing Christmas Poem: Nola Leigh’s Christmas

Mary and Jesus


Nola Leigh, age 43, virtuous virginity.

It is Christmas Eve and she is alone,

She can’t bear to go home.

The Madonna in Sorrow
Madonna in Sorrow Image via Wikipedia

All of her relatives are dead,

So she goes to the church instead.

Open door but no one here,

She looks to the window and sits at the rear,

Thin stain glass, the virgin and her baby as before in the past.

Mary is benevolent, Jesus is sad in his innocence, looking even then for divine penitence.

Nola Leigh, 43, virtuous virginity.

Mother Mary, where were you 40 years ago,

When Nola Leigh needed you so?

Sweet Jesus, did you not see your young servant in desperate need?

While you were in the glass, Nola Leigh just had no chance.

But that’s all in the past.

Nola Leigh, 43, virtuous virginity.

 




A Very Controversial Christmas  Poem: Merry Holidays, Jesus!

 

Is it just me or is the whole "War on Christmas" thing stupid on either side?

 

Dear Jesus,

I think you should know, some of your Father’s creations are a little slow.

Or is it me who’s a bit dense? I’m not sure, but all this to me makes little sense.

It all has to do with a little word called ‘Christmas.’

Apparently there is a war on the word. Have you in heaven heard?

Being a mortal, this I can’t understand,

Did you actually make the demand

to nick-pick on a word not even invented when you walked this earth?

When you were old enough to say it, did you cry out “Merry Christmas!”in Aramaic?

Do you spend time between listening to prayers despairing, perhaps even swearing, that ‘Xmas’ does not bear your last name?

Or are you in on the joke that the Greeks often use the ‘X’ as the abbreviation of Christ?

Is it really a vice to say “Happy Holidays!” a couple of times a year?

Or do you say, “Your inclusiveness should fry with you in the lake of hell?”

Is it bad for me to say “Merry Christmas” too?

Truthfully, Jesus, I’m all in a stew,

so I guess I’ll leave it up to you.

War on Christmas

 

 

A Semi-Festive Christmas Poem: Our Christmas Tree

 

 

Charlie Brown Christmas Tree

 

 

Oh Christmas tree, lovely Christmas tree!

Chopped down in a forest of plastic at a Chinese factory.

That year, 1987, was the first year your blessed bough  hung before us,

Joy to the World and the rest of the chorus.

That first year, do you recall?

We broke your stand and had to nail you to the wall,

tied with festive utilitarian string,

A live tree stand for a metal trunk is an interesting thing.

We Wish You a Merry Christmas and colored lights

Trying to put you up is liable to yoke a fight.

Complicated, lopsided, daring you to fall,

Well, we said, at least you’re tall.

Jingle Bells, dust, and left over tree icing,

Damn I wish it were spring and gifts weren’t so high in the pricing.

But I love your ornaments, indeed I do,

Even if you look like you were decorated by monkeys in the zoo.

Martha Stewart would cry if she saw this tree where ‘Taste’ goes to die,

But two ornaments per limb here means pleasures double,

Memories good and bad, triumph over trouble.

Gold garland and silver star, thoughts happy  do not  tacky mar.

 

 

Merry. Christmas.

 

 

Red Letter Days a la Norman Rockwell — December 11, 2010

Red Letter Days a la Norman Rockwell

Divine providence mandates that every year my mother’s birthday falls the same week as Thanksgiving, so that is where I begin this heartwarming tale.

I think this 400 mg of Luvox, 100 mg over the maximum dose for elephants, is helping me  in my excesses. I think. I know it can’t be I’m more sensible now, shit no.  Common sense and I have never been bedfellows, so I must believe this gigantic dose is keeping me from my usual holiday rituals of spending every damn spare penny on my mother. I love buying gifts: Birthday gifts, Christmas gifts, Kwanza gifts, Rosh Hashonah gifts  – I’m down for it. But by miracle or pharmaceutical, this year I decided I’d wait until the day before my mother’s birthday to buy for my mom in the idea of seeing what my budget will allow. Way too sensible for me.  Definitely the drugs or Jesus is about to gallop through on his white steed, take your pick. I’m more inclined to believe the former because I know me and my compulsive generosity, a good thing and a bad thing. Anyhow, my newfound austerity might have worked for our good if we didn’t need a damn car battery! Yes, our car battery decided to give up the ghost. We always end up at the pawn shop twice each month, three times if you count bailing my stuff out at the beginning of the month. Part of the money I got on a loan from my netbook went to pay for the car battery, around 90 bucks, plus we now contend with a $250.00 car payment since we had to get rid of the transmission failing ghetto van in September, around the time of the great kidney debacle. Anyway, poor mouthing over for a second or two, all I could afford my mom this year for her birthday was a $5.98 chocolate fudge cake from Wal-Mart.

“Could you put a rose on it, please?” I ask.

“What color?’

My mother is with me and she picks yellow. Later she says, “I wasn’t really thinking what color would be prettiest on the cake, just that I like yellow flowers.” Well, whatever works, and it looked pretty nice. Not Prince William/ Kate Middleton cake fit for royal weddings nice, but nice all the same.

Would you like something written on it?” asks the young woman running the bakery.

Eh, what the hell. ” Um, ‘Happy Birthday, Mom,’ please.”

When we get home, we hunt down leftover candles from the ghosts of birthdays past. ” One will be fine,” says Mom.

Oh helllll no. “No, one of each color,” I, Queen of Evening and Fairness Rituals, have spoken. Yes, it seems unfair to use only one, when there are other colors too.  But sparing the feelings of birthday candles is normal. Extra added bonus: Mom didn’t even burn herself when lighting the candles on the microscopic cake. I’m sure her wish will come true now!

Look closely and you might see my mom's birthday cake.

“Is that edible?” asks Mom, picking up a little square that has “fudge” written on it, or is it just advertising that the cake is made of something akin to fudge? I take the paper-thin square from mom and pop it into my mouth. Uh oh, it is a little piece of fudge and I feel a tiny pang of guilt go down with the tiny piece of chocolate,  Oh well, she gets the piece of cake with the rose on it.

And it’s a fine cake, extremely tasty, the best non-ice cream cake I’ve about ever had and officially I lost “The World’s Worst Daughter” award….until I woke up in the middle of the night with a craving and finished the cake for her. I’m the sort of person who will give the last of anything to my mom without batting an eye….BUT. But if it’s the middle of the night and I’m alone, buh-bye chocolate, hello gluttony.

Now for Thanksgiving. The day before, the kind woman directly across from us in the next building  asks my mother if she likes sweet potato pie, and Mom, without thinking, told her the truth.

“Oh,” replied the woman. As Mama continues her gardening, it suddenly strikes her that the woman wanted to make her a sweet potato pie. Uh oh, what now? So off she goes to the woman’s apartment and knocks on the sliding glass door. “Did you say sweet potato pie or sweet potato vines? I was thinking you said sweet potato vines and it occurred to me you might have said sweet potato pie.” Elegant save, Mom. Wonder if the woman believed her?

“I thought you might have misunderstood me,” said the woman.  Faux pas averted, though I was mortified by my mom’s mishap even more than she was. We came home from my therapist and it was time to collect the pie. I went over too. The therapist wants me to try to be more sociable, so this is a great opportunity to carpe diem or whatever.

I’m certain the woman thought, There’s that weird girl, but we made a quick and polite acquaintance, Mama only managing to embarrass me once. I recently noticed the woman and her husband’s friendship with a squirrel, which filled me with apprehension for both the squirrel and Phillippe, my cat. I wasn’t concerned for my other two cats, Oscar and Dondee are both a bit too small to catch more than a lizard or tiny bird if  they’re lucky, but Phil Jr. is an ardent squirrel eater, alas. I can’t blame him, but murdering beasties is his instinct, not mine. For instance, several days ago, Babee Dondee got out into the hall, went into the laundry room, and knocked over a water bug onto it’s back. Flailing and miserable, it couldn’t right itself and Dondee left it alone. No one to see me around, I gently tap it with my shoe until it’s turned over again. I hate those things but it wasn’t in my apartment and it can’t help it’s a water bug, can it? Blame Kafka or karma, but really, it’s one of my OCD quirks and I have no desire to lose that one.

My mother mentions the squirrel, whom the couple  named Charlie, and I’ll be damned if she didn’t start talking about Phillippe’s love of squirrels and eventually  ended the conversation with an “If Phillippe ever does get him please don’t kill our cat!” Basically, she said since Charlie was an older squirrel she doubted Phil could get him and how he refuses to be a house cat (Mom didn’t mention he vengefully pisses in her bed should he not be at liberty to come and go as he pleases 24/7), giving her request at the end to not murder the kitty.

Embarrass me! But it was promised the woman wouldn’t, because she’s afraid of cats. A cat chased her when she was a child and somehow her sister fell down the stairs we later find out. She isn’t the first person I’ve known scared of cats either. Ain’t phobias grand?

Who'd be afraid of this cat? "Take me to your leader, humanoid."

 

So, we have some sweet potato pie and it isn’t so bad at all. To me, however, sweet potato pie will remain pumpkin pie’s sinewy bastard cousin…but it is extremely appreciated all the same.

The next day is Thanksgiving, and it is decided we will have a picnic at the arboretum since we can’t go to The Golden Corral for Thanksgiving, which is a buffet.With what money we have left from having to get a damn car battery for the damn car, we get Swanson’s Hungry Man Turkey and Dressing  dinners. Lucky they were buy one, get one or we’d have to split one. We also got some cranberry sauce and a salad which was basically lettuce, cheese,  and salad dressing, hee.

A Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving

A Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving Slightly modified

We nuke ’em and pack ’em back into their paper boxes to keep ’em warm and over the river and through the woods to the arboretum we go (incidentally my grandparents are buried in a cemetery in walking distance  behind the arboretum). The weather was cloudy with a couple drops of rain here and there, but warm and we found a  small picnic table. As we ate two couples passed by our scene of Rockwellesque domestic tranquillity. I’m sure it warmed their hearts and I’m always glad to to be a help to  humankind. Soon we were reenacting the First Thanksgiving too and our Indian came to the table to share our repast.  Our Indian was a a little orange and white cat whose tag said “Monkey.” we were glad he came to visit, just like being home. He hopped onto the bench next to me and I petted him. I had done ate all my turkey, so my mom gave him a bit, to which he turned up his feline nose.  Afterward,  we walked the arboretum and their lovely rose garden, which is always blooming no matter what time of year, and past the Japanese-themed garden, whose miniature tea house a local mystery writer used as the murder scene in one of her novels (it was a good book too).

Then off home we returned, me driving, and I didn’t even run over anyone, go figure.

 

This is my favorite song to begin the holidays:



My 1st Videolog: A Birthday Cake, a Wayward Cat, and an Embarrassing Mom — December 9, 2010
Magpie Tales, Pre-Birthday Depression, and a Conversation with Myself — December 8, 2010

Magpie Tales, Pre-Birthday Depression, and a Conversation with Myself

Image is this past week’s Magpietales.blogspot writing prompt.There’s a door that separates you from them. It is a cold world outside, snow and ice. You want to go inside and you’re trying to turn the doorknob, but the door is locked, turn and pull as you may.  As though  God mocks you, there are glass windowpanes in the door. You see everything going on inside the illuminated room. But they can’t see you. You bang on the door and try to break  the glass, anything to make them hear you. You now feel as though you aren’t real. Are they a figment of your imagination or are you a figment of theirs, a random irksome  thought consigned to the dregs of someone’s mind soon to be forgotten altogether? Look at them, look how the beautiful people reside in there.  They are perfection, they are you if  you could stop being you. If you could have done anything you wanted, if you could have been loved…

 

“Oh sweet and gracious heavens! What is this crap?” asks Nervous Nelly, looking over your shoulder.

Pardon?

“You know what I mean. THIS IS CRAP!”

Well, crap seems a bit harsh. I was  trying for a delicate, sensitive piece about…

“CRAP!”

Um no. So I am feeling a bit down and thought I would impart my sorrows on my blog. That isn’t a crime is it?”

“It is when you write CRAPPP!  And W. T. F. is it with this writing in the second person  shit? You this, you that, YOU CRAP!”

Well, thought it would be different and doused in melancholy it would be poetic and….

Yeah, whatever, Sybil.

 

‘Oh, woe is me, I’m turning 33, and I still haven’t lost my virginity.

My life’s a mess, Oh distress!  Oh distress!

OCD and melancholy  in an ugly dress!

Even Jesus Christ, at age 33 could walk across the sea,

but alas not me, never me,

I haven’t saved anybody.”

I’m not that bad of a poet! You protest, but Nervous Nelly continues to  fuss about addressing yourself as ‘you.’

http://www.bartleby.com/123/62.html

 


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