Sometimes Madness is Wisdom…


Congrats! You are seeing this message because it has come to my attention that certain assumptions are apparently being made as to why I would disconnect, nay disown, my Simpson side of the family – parents included.

There are valid reasons on my side as to the specific disconnections that I have made. It’s rather interesting that it’s okay for others within this family to use or threaten disowning of others in the past for their own needs. Yet when I do it…

Actually, that’s essentially how it’s always been. Others can get away with bullshit. But I cannot. Others feel compelled to correct or discipline me or refuse to take me seriously. I’m done with it.

I’m surprised that no one appears to have yet wondered, “hrm, why would Kris do that? It doesn’t make sense. Surely, she must have a good reason as to why…what happened?” Well, no one, I’m glad you brought that up! Because there is!

In fact, I’ve kept much of this quiet since Halloween. Me, of questionable tact, general impatience, and stubbornly heeled, has not publicly shared what was sent to me.

My therapist has earned her keep.

For that matter, nor has anyone reached out to ask if I’m okay nor to find out what the hell is going on, which leads me to wonder if another story is traveling round (which may not be wholly accurate). Also, that my family doesn’t seem to know me as well as I thought they did.

Remember: my stubbornness kept me alive enough to fight Death and survive the odds. I will not bend.

It’s odd. Really odd. They all know my email address. I’ve had it for years, thanks to my spouse who has held me together for not only the years that we’ve loved each other, but most especially for these last four months where I debated my life because my family does not have my back after all.

I have brought shame, apparently. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time for me, now would it? The funny thing is that the idea of shame here? All illusion. It’s not mine.

So if anyone needs to know why I would do such a thing as to feel compelled to disconnect from a specific chain of the family tree, all you have to do is ask, instead of assume.

Green Beer and the Orange Man


This piece came from a free-write exercise with the instruction to write about a “non-human watching St. Paddy’s Day.”

So of course, I just had to envision Trump as the “non-human,” so to speak! I know it’s a bit late or a bit early for this particular holiday, but maybe it’ll give a wee chuckle!

“I think that St. Paddy’s Day is ridiculous! Just ridiculous!

You have these people on the streets, no good people, drinking and yelling in green hats! Like they’re those…oh, what are they called? Lepers…leprechauns?

Yeah…and they’re out all night! Just drinking! And yelling! And they break things! They’re always breaking things…Are they even Irish?

I was telling Melania, who isn’t Irish by the way. I’m not either…what are they doing? What is the point of that? There should be a law…

And they drink all day, this green beer…I don’t drink beer, even when it’s not green! But they drink it. They seem to enjoy it. They get so drunk that they’re just all over the place…in the roads, blocking people, yelling Irish things.

And they’re not even wearing all green! Does that mean they’re Irish? I don’t know. Do you have to be Irish to celebrate St. Paddy’s Day?

I think it’s ridiculous. Just ridiculous! How they carry on…SAD!”


What other holidays might he find ridiculous?

Congrats, you’re an arsehole…


This is the thought that flows through my head whenever it happens.

That moment stuns. Did they just…really?

They did.

They failed to excuse themselves. “Excuse me…” “Pardon me…”

None at all.

By all means, please go ahead and stick your arm in front of my face.

Or stand way too close to me. It’s a good thing that Rheumatoid Arthritis isn’t catching.

Oh yes, and nearly run me down with your cart because you can’t look both ways and yield before turning out from the side aisle into the main aisle.

I wonder how you drive…

It’s the same thing. Really wish grocery stores would install stop signs in aisles!

But then, they’ll probably just run right through them. Just like they do at the crosswalk in front of the store.

Or in your neighborhood.

Stop…and think.

But they don’t.

It seems to have worsened since 2017, hasn’t it? Hrm.

So on that note, I wrote a little ditty of frustration! Enjoy:

I hate people.

People suck.

They run around.

Drive me nuts.

They don’t stop

Or signal turns.

They don’t pardon

With proper words.

They suck.

They suck.

They suck.

I give up.


So, I see via my stats that this post is particularly popular.

Found it via Facebook, yes?

Why, you little stalker, you!

I have other posts of writings.

Please read them…

You might enjoy them.

And if you liked this little poem above, please let me know.

And use your turn signals.

Busy Bones


A macabre little free-write to share on a rather tense day:

She was running out of room.

Where could they go?

Her skeletons were all over the house! Pushed to the back of closets. Stuffed behind the couch. Hiding under beds and behind doors.

Was there anywhere else they could go?

The cellar long ago had ceased being an option.

That’s where she buried the bodies of her ghosts.It was packed down there, stuffed to the gills.

A festering tomb to behold.

No, the skeletons simply would not fit!

The attic was out too.

That’s where the ghosts liked to roam. Up in the cobwebs, whispering from corners.

They would resent the intrusion.

So many skeletons…yet no place for them to go!

Halloween was too far away to use as decorations.

If she put them out now, there would be questions…

Free Write: Afraid of Darkness

     Often when I participate in a local writing free-write style class, I find myself naturally writing in the manner below, especially at the start of the event. Meanwhile, others are writing in the style of a story scene with setting, action, dialogue, and tags. It’s as though my subconscious just wants to blurt out the truth of the subject being written.
     For this particular one, the theme was “What were you afraid of as a child?” We all listed off our own as we went around the table. I thought of a few, such as the bogeyman, walls closing in on me to the point of nothingness (a recurring dream theme as a kid), and my dolls coming to life during the night. I offered up my dolls as a writing sacrifice. Others shared that they were afraid of the darkness, whether in general, or in closets, or merely fearing what it hid.
     Given the opportunity to free write about another’s, I felt compelled to write about the Darkness. It spoke to me.
From 10/18/18:
     I am the darkness. Without me, there can be no Light. Only in darkness can Wisdom be found. The light at the end of the tunnel, it’s there, waiting way down deep beyond the grasp of your Hope.
     I hide in the Light. Not to be found so much as to linger.
     Do not fear me, for I am whole and full of life.
     The emptiness, a chasm, is mere illusion.
     I contain the parts that don’t show. I seem to consume, but really I only encompass what exists. I hold it in my grasp, wrap it around, and treasure what is visible.
     I am Life’s nest. Snug in the shadow of what lies beyond.
     Will you treasure Life? Or let it go?
     I will catch you as you fall into the end of time. Only I can comfort you as you journey Home, into the Light. I only seem like a dark and unforgiving hole into nothingness. But Life is there, on the other side.
     My silent partner. I am its grace, its companion, part of its soul. Together, we make the world whole.
     Day into Night. Dark into Light.
     Take the path that I reveal and follow it down to the end where Time is revealed.
     Only then, will you know.




I like to bury things. Deep inside my head. Behind my heart. I bury the thoughts and the words, trying to stuff them down underground, to forget. Instead, they betray me by growing up and out into weeds. All hope of blossoming is choked out.

I had some hopes for this year. I attended a year-long writing workshop with monthly meetings, focused on writing that first draft. Though it started last August, I had chosen the New Year for that fresh boost to sit down and finally fully bleed onto the page. I felt ready at last.

But as I sat down on the couch for a December session with my long-time therapist, she shared that she had some news to reveal for the next year. She was ready to retire by March. She would reach her 40th year working as a social worker/therapist. It was time. I understood. But I felt my hope, my focus crumble.

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