Knocked Over By A Feather


Hey, Troll!

I’m never really sure how to react to a negative comment. I mean, should I shake my head, trash it and move on? Or should I flip on my bitch switch and tell them to kindly stick a broom handle up their ignorant caboose?

Or maybe write a post about it?

Let me make one thing clear…I dislike mean-spirited idiots. Intensely.

Whenever any of us write something and hit publish, we’re taking the chance of having some shithead read it and leaving a pissy comment. Thankfully, at least for me, it only happens occasionally. But when it does, it really gets under my skin.

I know that the current word used for people who enjoy raining on people’s internet parades are called trolls, but all I can picture in my head is an actual Troll doll.

Genital free since 1959.

This “troll” informed me that you’re never really “free” if you have kids.

In one paragraph, she tried (unsuccessfully) to make my heartfelt post about leaving an abusive relationship 15 years ago seem unimportant. I guess she never heard the saying, if you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all.

(Hey troll, if you’re reading this, you totally missed the point of my fucking post.)

I disagree with you. I have never felt tied down by my child. What I did was save myself and her from living with a piece of shit.

You see, I freed us both. I’m really sorry if you honestly think that having children makes you a prisoner, but taking a whiz on my post wasn’t cool.

My daughter is the best thing that has ever happened to me.

By the way, it felt fucking great trashing your comment.

Fifteen Years Free


On the 18th of February 2002, I took my 5-year-old daughter and a couple of garbage bags full of our stuff far away from my abusive ex.

We left that fucking monster for good.

We started over basically from scratch.

Makes me that much stronger
Makes me work a little bit harder
It makes me that much wiser
So thanks for making me a fighter
Made me learn a little bit faster
Made my skin a little bit thicker
Makes me that much smarter
So thanks for making me a fighter


With the help of my mom and my aunt, we moved into a small one bedroom apartment. It was my first time ever being alone.

But I wasn’t really alone, I had my young daughter with me.

I don’t need you to worry for me cause I’m alright
I don’t want you to tell me it’s time to come home
I don’t care what you say anymore, this is my life
Go ahead with your own life, leave me alone


People I didn’t even know gave us furniture, kitchen items, blankets…everything that we needed to start a new life.

We were finally safe and quite happy with our meager possessions.

Let freedom ring, let the white dove sing
Let the whole world know that today is a day of reckoning
Let the weak be strong, let the right be wrong
Roll the stone away, let the guilty pay it’s Independence Day

MARTINA MCBRIDE- Independence Day

I will never forget the date, ever.

Fifteen years free, my friends.

There is nothing better than freedom.

Living with Dust-Bunnies

This might sound completely quackers, but one of the things that I miss the most since the fibro got worse is cleaning my home. I really enjoyed it, the scrubbing, sweeping, dusting, vacuuming and whatnot.

Saturday was usually cleaning day, unless I was working weekends at the time. I wore an old T-Shirt and a pair of ratty shorts. I’d gather up all of my supplies and get busy. It would take me a couple of hours, but the satisfaction that I received from having a clean environment to live in was well worth the sweat and hard labor.

It’s all a part of my OCD, I can’t stand dirt and clutter.

My bedroom as a youth was always clean and tidy, whereas my brother’s room was a hot fucking mess. He had a yellow carpet, but you seriously couldn’t tell, he had that much junk on the floor.

That’s how my daughter is now. Her room is also a hot fucking mess. I do my best to avoid looking or going in there unless it’s an emergency.

Like so many aspects of my life that has changed within the last few years, living with dust-bunnies is something that I’ve had to adapt to. I’ve even named a few of my favorites, like Irwin here.

Aw, he’s trying to show off for you guys. So cute.

I do my best nowadays, but it just isn’t the same.

My mom had a plaque on the wall when I was a kid that said:

My house is clean enough to be home, but dirty enough to be healthy.

Or some kind of shit like that.

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