I accidentally broke up a raccoon versus kitty fight tonight.

I really wish I hadn’t.

The cat was in bad shape.

Raccoons are not built to offend, but their defenses are mighty.

When an animal larger than a raccoon attacks it, the raccoon typically rolls over and goes at all of its soft spots, and rips apart the abdominal area.

I saw it a gazillion times at the animal shelter.

He was a large cat.

I knew where he came from. I used to run into him on my way to work all the time.

I wish I’d had the strength to break his neck and put him out of his misery, like we would on the farm. I wish I could have summoned that girl who was ok with ‘ironing’ pigs.

Instead, I took him to his home.

He was gone.

A ‘goner’.

D took care of him. He put him down. We buried him.

I still have his blood on my hands.

And on my shirt.

I feel sick.

I feel useless.

I guess, if it was my cat, I would want to know what happened.

I really wish I hadn’t happened upon that.



Let’s talk about titties for a moment, ja?

I love boobs. I love that they’re soft, but tough. I love that they provide nourishment to our loin fruits (if we wish them to). I love that they’re safe haven for our loved ones to rest their heads against in times of need or just because. I love how they gauge the way we hug. I love how they’re sexual speed bumps. I love that they are confusingly utilitarian and pleasure centres allatonce. I love that their presence or lack thereof provides definition to all of the bodies I admire. I love that they come in so many shapes and sizes.

I have a special relationship with mine. I’ve named them: Betty (right) & Veronica (left). B&V were late bloomers. I was in training bras until I was about 15 when most of my lady friends were in full-on underwires and had bras for every activity in which they partook. At 16, B&V rather drastically became DD as my poor hormonal body shifted and changed and grew into amazionianhood.

And then I got my first real boyfriend. And he too loved B&V. He kissed and caressed and nibbled and introduced me to a whole new world of love for my tatas. He loved when I got the up and down checking out by others and the thumbs up that said ‘way to go’.

When we got knocked up, yet a whole other world of love for Betty & Veronica opened up. They fed our children, still acted as pleasure centres during sexy times and had the added bonus of being able to project milk at him from ten feet away.

I was promised they would shrink after the nursing tittie fairy left. They didn’t. I cried.

All this to say: I get the novelty, but they are NOT novelties.

Living with breasts is a bigger deal than it should be. Whether they’re DD or A, we cannot hide them. They are under constant scrutiny.

They’re always either too big or too small.

‘Anything more than a handful is a waste.’

‘I could use her as a boogie board, she’s so flat.’

‘I wish I had your boobs.’

‘I wish I had YOUR boobs.’

How is this kind of commentary acceptable?

This is not to say that talking about boobs is unacceptable. The sprogettes (my own and those who frequent my life) talk about tits all the time. One particularly busty friend of my sprogette and I exchange knowing glances of boob communication. My sprogette has vehemently stated that if she reaches beyond a C cup, she wants a reduction because of the HUGE BIG DEAL that is made of tatas.

I considered it myself as a teen. I was a contender.

That makes my heart crumble.

Kids want to permanently alter their bodies in order to escape every day scrutiny of biology.


Tits are parts of people. Wonderful parts of wonderful people. They are glorious. They are powerful and do powerful things just as legs and arms and hearts do. They are powerful parts of the amazing machine that is the body and mind they belong to.

Respect that shit.

And if you feel the need to comment on them, think about saying that comment to the powerful mind and body that is your mother/sister/aunt first.


Had a definitive depression recongnition moment earlier this week: I was listening to a song that I adore by a local musician whose show I attended back in June and found myself thinking ‘remember that, Mel? You had a great time that night. It’s been a while seen we’ve seen that girl.’

And it’s true. It’s not that I haven’t been socialising, I just haven’t been going out for my (usually) weekly steam-blowing sessions in which I generally talk to people outside my immediate circle of friends and listen to new music and remind myself that, hey girl, you ain’t so bad.

I’ve been in avoidance of it due to finances as well as avoidance of certain situations I knew I would run into that would act as triggers. So which is worse, right? Staying in and having too much time to lament the position or going out and risking a trigger. Fuck.

Trying to brush the dirt off my shoulders in either instance seems muddled and unclear. I find myself worried about things I never used to worry about.

What do I weeeeear? You guys, I love getting dressed up. Having a reason to wear things I can’t to most places.

Who will I talk to? My circles of friends tend to be about my age and either poor or in parent-mode. That only kinda sucks. I love going out by myself. I’m rarely lacking people to talk to and am quite comfy sitting at the bar with my thoughts or groovin’ on a dance floor by myself.

What if, what if, what if?

I never used to worry about what ifs. Now, I get anxious at all of them even though I know they’re unfounded.

It’s a strange feeling having to make all of these considerations for something as simple as going out and doing things you love. I’ll get there, though. I slowly am, bit by bit. I practice and do well for a while and hermit up again, but I keep feeling stronger each time.