This Weekend I Was Told A Story Which, Although I’m Kind Of Ashamed To Admit It, Because Holy Shit

the angel staying over at my house asked for a nightlight in their room and i told them buddy, don't you produce your own light? what're you gonna do with more? and they said they wanted to see why people like it so much. and also that the nightlight i own is blue and they're been trying to understand color. anyways i think they've stared at it for an hour now

Hey, so it turns out we’ve been living with two gas leaks in our house for an unknown amount of time and we need to replace our entire furnace unit. There are people coming on Thursday to do it.

We are taking out a line of credit to get it done because for our safety we have to, but the interest is significant.

I feel like I’m asking for a miracle, but if I can sell 2000 ebooks or 500 audiobooks of Hunger Pangs through my Payhip, that would cover it. You can also gift people copies through Payhip gifting system or by donating to the donate pile so I can run giveaways.

Payhip

Joy Demorra

Joy is a Scottish international best-selling author, editor, and disability advocate currently manifesting in the American Midwest with her

The water heater still needs replaced but that leak has been addressed safely and is no longer slowly killing us.

If you like what I do and want to support me in other ways I have a Patreon and a Ko-fi. (You can ignore the 18+ warning that comes up on my Patreon, they’ve had me wrongly flagged as an adult content creator for years.)

Please, I cannot stress this enough do not give money you don’t have. Even sharing this and telling people about my books is a wonderful help. I’m just trying to alleviate some of the financial strain from Mothman.

I’m going to have a lie down now in a well-ventilated space. Maybe have a soothing scream first.

Cold feet

King Arthur Baking

Tips for baking with arthritis and other hand-related chronic pain

With some changes to techniques, a careful selection of kitchen tools, and tips from fellow bakers, the joy of baking can live on.

I luckily haven't had to deal with much chronic pain or hand pain yet, especially with regards to baking (crochet is another story). That said, these look like some pretty solid tips! There's also some in the comments section.

I love this.

I've seen this before, but it's been years and it just came across my Twitter in its dying days. The words are from a favorite author of mine, Maggie Stiefvater, and they are the words I most need to hear when it comes to dealing with chronic pain and illness. I didn't need this the first time I saw it, six years ago. I need it now. Maybe you do, too.

Chaplin would approve, I think.

Matt McCreary

every single discussion about the fucking signal groupchat makes me feel so insane. "what a display of incompetence! what a failure! let's all make accidental groupchat mistake jokes now" what the fuck are you talking about. it worked. the fact that THIS is the conversation now is literally the point. jeffrey goldberg literally did it again. selling the bombing of the middle east to the public is the entire purpose of his career as a "journalist"

I read Stone Butch Blues when it was first published. I was 18, just barely out, and a sophomore at a liberal arts women's college 45 minutes from my parents' house. That would've been... 1993? Yup. 1993.

The book fundamentally changed my understanding of... pretty much everything.

My great-grandparents were all working class. On my dad's side (his parents were cousins), they were farmers. On my mom's maternal side, they were European immigrants and union bricklayers. On her paternal side, Jewish immigrants. Her dad and his sister were raised by their mom, who was not, I believe, religious, and didn't raise them in the faith. She was a shopkeeper.

My grandparents' generation were college-educated (possibly except for my dad's mom). My dad's father was a math teacher and my mom's father, educated at Caltech, was a civil engineer. My mom's mother ran my grandfather's business, including a real estate office for a while.

Both my parents graduated from Stanford and taught English (my dad, who had a Ph.D., eventually went into corporate management to make more money).

So... I grew up surrounded by both the privileged world of aspirational academia and the, much more resonant for me, family stories about immigrant lives, trade unions, and beautiful craftsmanship.

I can do the academic thing, and do it well, but I have always preferred making things to studying them. I have always felt a bit out-of-sync with my family’s "evolution" towards increasingly academic pursuits. I like using my brain, but I like to keep my hands dirty while I do it.

Leslie Feinberg's writing became, for me, the first place where my own queerness and my identification with my family’s immigrant and working-class roots, made sense to me as parts of a single whole.

The summer after my junior year, I went through a directory I'd gotten my hands on of lesbians working in the arts, and sent out letters to those who seemed interesting, compatible, and far enough away from my childhood in California to let me try my hand at becoming something more than my parents' daughter. I asked for an apprenticeship.

As such things do, the end result wound up being... very different from what I'd imagined. I got a gig in New Hampshire helping a musician and her trans partner, who made their living busking on hammered dulcimer. I was meant to go live in a tent on their land, help with the straw bale house they were building, help babysit their 3 year old daughter, and join the busking on my harp. As it turns out, I have absolutely NO musical improvisation ability and had no clue what to do when there wasn't sheet music. The harp spent the summer in its case. Also turns out that my social anxiety made not having my own, completely private, space to retreat to unbearable. I wound up renting a tiny apartment in a nearby college town. And then... well, it turned out that the weather wasn't great for house building, and my girlfriend, spending the summer outside DC with her parents, was miserable, and so she came to join me, and...

Well. Before my girlfriend arrived, I did a lot of hiking and lake swimming, went to Boston Pride and cheered on my busking "bosses," joined them and their friends for a summer solstice ritual at which I was introduced to the concept of herbed butter and the back-breaking problems of invasive blackberry, and rode in their decomposing old subaru wagon (it's fascinating to warch the road go by through clusters of tiny, rusted out, salt-holes in the footwell) all the way to New York, specifically to hear Leslie Feinberg speak.

I was the most awestruck, hero-worshipping baby dyke imaginable, the youngest person in the room by at least a decade, and I still remember the sensation of blushing for *three hours.* Because. I was. In. The. Same. Room. As. Leslie. Feinberg.

That summer broke me wide open. It was the first time I ever felt like I, as an individual being, might hold power, make something that changed things, in the world.

That feeling, of urgent, hopeful agency, swells and recedes in my life, but I never experience it without thinking of Stone Butch Blues and of Leslie Feinberg. And yes, I still blush. Every damn time.

Happy (early) Nov 15th! Remember that Stone Butch Blues is free now and always to read here

Leslie was a communist, a butch lesbian, a nonbinary and transgender activist, and the person who made me who I am today. Consider checking out Stone Butch Blues if you haven’t already 😘 Do it for Leslie, and for hir surviving partner, Minnie Bruce Pratt 💕

If you like frogs. Or possums. Or cool builds. Or happiness. This is the video for you.