Knocked Over By A Feather



My daughter sent me this webtoon yesterday because we have the same morbid sense of humor.

I’m so proud.


I hope you all are having a great weekend.

Devil’s Armpit Days


Where I live, air conditioning is a luxury, not a necessity.

Northeast Ohio has its fair share of devil’s armpit days. Like yesterday, we hit 90 degrees. This is a huge deal here, the weather people on the local news get really worked up over it.

The portable AC that our neighbor gave us last summer broke yesterday. We tried to troubleshoot it but whatever’s wrong with the damned thing is beyond our mechanical ability.

All I know for sure is that hot air shouldn’t be blowing out of its backside. The bedroom was hotter than the rest of the house. Not cool.

Our central air (the unit is an early 90’s model) is also DOA. It worked for our first 4 years living here and then kaplooey. It needs replaced but that is never going to happen.

Never, never, never!! (I’ve always wanted to write that.)

We use fans. Lots of fans. I missed my fans so much during the 2 hour power outage that we had last night, it was actually pathetic.

A grown woman shouldn’t be begging a Honeywell fan to blow on her.

I will gladly pay you Tuesday if you’ll blow on me today.

It was widespread through my county (say Cuyahoga, it’s fun) because of so many people running their air conditioners.


No, I’m kidding. That’s just jealousy talking. (The bastards.)

Sorry. (No, they can all kiss my rump.)

When I was a kid, we didn’t have air conditioning for one simple reason: we were poor. You just learned how to sweat and stay cool creatively.

This ancient knowledge comes in handy now. I can fashion a fan from an electric bill in under a minute, put a semi cool rag on my neck and wipe my forehead simultaneously, while complaining loudly that it’s just too damn sultry.

Under no circumstances do you sit on anything that will adhere to your skin.

When I got a bit older, my mom got a window air conditioner for our living room. She put up a giant blanket to keep the cold air in and closed the stairway door. If we kids wanted to sleep downstairs, we had to hit the floor. (My mom had the foldout couch, obviously.)

So we did. Without complaint, might I add.

Because here in Northeast Ohio, a furnace is a necessity. An air conditioner isn’t.

It’s a fucking luxury and that’s the way it has always been since I can remember.

How fast can you make a paper fan?

Guest Post: I Tripped Over A Stone

I’ve had the idea stewing in my brain on having a few fellow bloggers contribute now and then on KOBAF.

I’m currently undergoing a worsening of my fibro symptoms, as most of you guys are aware. My original goal of posting almost each day is just not possible right now. (I used to post twice. That was a long time ago.)

I love my blog and want to keep it active. But there are times when I have the intelligence and motivation of a wedge of iceberg lettuce.

So, I’m excited to introduce Kim from I Tripped Over a Stone. She writes without fear or restraint about her life with fibromyalgia and the inevitable mental health issues that unfortunately come with it.

I’ll be sharing a number of her posts over the coming month or so. I’ll stop blabbering now and let Kim take over.


Where did You Come From?

Hi, I am Kim from the blog, I Tripped Over a Stone. In my story, that stone is fibromyalgia. But since I’m here on Knocked Over by a Feather, I’m going to spill my guts. In my mind, I died on August 12, 1998. I was a passenger in a car accident. After that day, the Kim – I was – simply vanished and in her place, was this odd creature who was in constant pain! AND-I-HATED-HER!


The pain that I experienced intensified over a period of years … I lost everything. I lost my job, my fiancé’, my house, and eventually my self-esteem and will to live. I ended up living with my parents and had to be cared for. Fibromyalgia is an insidious disease. It comes at you in a gradual way, but the harmful effects increase with each passing day.


I was rabid as I tried specialist after specialist, physical therapy programs, medications, supplements, homeopathic remedies, steroid treatments, nothing was working… I ended up going to a psychiatrist. What good was I if I couldn’t work? If I was permanently damaged why even stick around? I was a burden to everyone, even to the damn United States government! I was dependent on disability! Screw this! This is why psychiatrists exist, thank God!


The first few years after you get a chronic illness you can think of nothing else but how do I find a cure? Everyone wants to help! Even nice people you meet on the street because you tell them your entire story! A simple, “how are you today?” will trigger diarrhea of the mouth. You are living your disease therefore everyone else should too.


One day you wake the hell up! You put a stop to the madness. You quit the B.S. treatments and stop bleeding money as you see doctor after doctor, hoping for a cure. You have a disease, you are not a disease. No one else can tell you what to do to make it better, you have to figure that out on your own. You are in the driver’s seat and what works for you is your destination.  There is no miracle cure for “chronic.” Chronic = forever, it is a damn love story and you are the main character. You better figure it out!


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In conclusion, there is not a happy ending to this story, but a purposeful ending. Due to the trauma you undergo, from disbelieving doctors, to family rifts and life as you knew it ending, you must look inward.  You must find that lifeless light that once burned bright and re-ignite it. You will grieve for a while, be angry for a while… but you will find purpose again. You will love and be loved. You will find a new you waiting to emerge and that can be a pretty spectacular awakening. Who else can claim they lived two lifetimes in the one we were given?


You can. I can.


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