Ten Things That Don't Look Like Writing But Are

 We've all seen the memes--Jim Carrey typing madly at the computer, looking possessed. The cat, paws flying, putting in that order for never-ending catnip. The old-style author, with the pipe and the whiskey and the old S-electric typewriter. Even the odd Shakespeare or Byron, with fingers stained with oak gall ink from the carved quill nub.

When people envision a writer at work, they envision some sort of industry. After all, writers are constantly whining about how hard it all is--shouldn't it at least look like we're working?

There's a word in this trade... fairly important... *snaps arthritic sausage fingers* What is it? Oh yeah.

Irony.

Ironically enough, some of the most productive moments writers have happen when it looks like they're doing something completely different. Here are ten things that it looks like I'm doing when I am, in fact, writing.

#10--Wandering around the house, talking to myself. My husband used to ask if I was yelling at him--or the kids--in my  mind when he saw me having an obviously intense conversation with someone who wasn't in front of me. "Nope," I'd say. "I'm writing." He was usually very relieved.

#9--Doing the laundry. A. It's so boring it feels like I should be doing something else productive while I'm doing it, and B. See Item #10. Wandering around the house with a laundry basket is a perfect opportunity in which to talk to one's self. True fax. 

#8--Doing the dishes. Yes, you may be sensing a theme here about housework. Before I make my list more than ten items I may as well add vacuuming, sweeping, and cooking to the list. But not organizing--organizing actually uses brain power for me, and I can't organize my house to clean it if I'm trying to have multiple conversations simultaneously in my head. Which is probably why my house is an epic disaster zone. 

#7--Walking the dogs. Yes, much of the time I'm listening to an audiobook or music, but there are times when I shut all that off because my brain is too busy. The fun thing about this one is that even though it's basically the same thing as wandering around and talking to myself, it doesn't look like it because there are dogs. Because there are dogs, it looks like exercise. Win/win.

#6--Taking a shower. I mean, we've all washed that shit before, right? And this way nobody can see that you're actually engaged in #10. It's like a little cubicle with relaxing warm water and good smells, all designed to send you to other planets where you can have intense conversations with the people in your head.

#5--Applying hand cream. Extra points if it's some sort of liniment for arthritic sausage fingers, because then it looks like self care, when it's really a chance to sit at my desk and talk to myself--although usually a fill-in-the-gap measure, for little sentences to get you to the next big exciting part.

#4--Cleaning the desk. Seriously--have you seen my house? Why would my desk be even close to clean if there wasn't some sort of underlying writing need behind all of that organization and dusting. Also, it helps to get the cat dander out from between the keyboard letters so it's not so hard to push down on them with my arthritic sausage fingers.

#3--Staring into space. This is really just wandering around the house talking to myself but sitting flat on my ass with my mouth closed.

#2--Getting a snack. Write write write! Pause, stare into space, put on some hand cream... transitional phrase! Now on to the next part but first... I need cheesy-poofs. Get up, get cheesy-poofs, and by the time I'm back, with a little detour to refresh my fizzy water and ice, I have the next exciting part ready to type out. See? It only looks like cheesy-poofs and no willpower, but in reality it's actually part of a much grander scheme.

#1--Napping. Or resting my eyes. Or, you know, staring into space with my eyes closed while imaginary people have conversations in my head about what they're going to do next in my book. You know. Writing but without the keyboard.

Yeah--I only wish I looked like the Jim Carrey gif when I was writing. Looking at this list, there is absolutely nothing to distinguish me from the everyday sort of chubby lunatic in a hoarder house full of yarn... except the book at the end.

The. End.

 The. End.

So, The Luck Mechanics, book 1, is complete and I'm super excited. Yes, because I love finishing a book but because my life exploded, and for a little while there I couldn't write. My brain was too overloaded with other things--not to mention my life was too busy with consequences of those things.

I was so relieved that, after life settled down again, the writing was there, waiting for me to come back to it, and it hadn't been stopped forever. What I had wasn't writers block, really--I knew where the book was going and what I had to do to get there--it was terminal distraction. I had good reason to be distracted, and I wasn't going to beat myself up for it, but to find that it wasn't permanent...

I cannot contain my relief.

So for those who see a bit of a hole in my release schedule next year, you'll know why. For a moment, real life really did overwhelm me. And I can't promise this book won't need a shitton of paint, some screen doors and a bit of a makeover from the inside out to work.

But I'm proud of finishing--I'm SO proud of finishing. I've always prided myself on treating this like a profession and fulfilling the promises I make to my reader and my publisher, even when what I really want to do is knit and cry and watch NCIS (or whatever my hyper fixation at the time may be.)

I didn't do that. As soon as I could, I was back at the keyboard, even if I had to go gingerly because my arthritis had become a living breathing entity and not just a "some day when I get older" possibility.

I've been teaching a couple days a week for the past two weeks, and when I outlined ways for writers to help craft their stories I was reminded every time that I'd spent two and a half months writing a relatively short book and I wanted to cringe--and cry. But now I feel like I've lived up to those teachings, and that my professionalism has done me a service.

And I can sleep in, just a minute, before waking up to edit and submit.

And then I can start the next book (the Tech) because it's never "The End" when there's so much more to write.

Miracles and Whatnot

 Omg--I'm surprised I haven't told you all this already.

We cured the dog.

Okay--she wasn't sick, but I'm telling you, hauling that barking pack of Chi-who-whats through the park or through the neighborhood was starting to really wear at me. And we were the most hated dogs at the park. I mean, THE most hated dogs at the park. The lady with the boxer still curses our name whenever she sees us.

And then one day, I remembered the purple squirt bottle.

It's not much--small, meant for hair, fits in the hand. I bought it for this specific purpose, but I kept forgetting it and never used it and then, one day, I remembered it.

I swear, It took three squirts, maybe four, and suddenly...

We went from a rabid clatter of furry house demons to a... well, they're still the Chihuahua mafia, and they're still trying to carry out a hit on me and make my death look like an accident, BUT they haven't enlisted anymore homeowners or park walkers into their nefarious scheme.

In short? 

They all shut the hell up.

I'm boggled. 

I'm baffled.

I'm...

ELATED. 

Oh my God. Walking at the park is a joy again. I'm so happy. 

I haven't abused it, either. In fact, today I FORGOT IT. But it didn't matter. Literally a couple of squirts and Ginger and Carl have just remembered to shut the hell up.

It's blissful.

For the record? Geoffie? 

Has not. 

She thinks the water is just a happy little break from routine. Looks around, smiles, keeps on barking. But she still runs toward friends and rolls over to her back and exposes her stomach. I mean, Geoffie.

So there you go. A miracle. They're rare, but very satisfying.

And as for the whatnot?

I'm currently teaching my Crafting Category series in two places--one live, through the local junior college outreach, and one online, through the Paranormal Romance Guild. It's been a while since I gave classes--I'm sort of tickled. I gave my first live one in about two years, today, and they were super appreciative. I was so happy!

So, miracles and whatnot. 

You can't count on them, but they sure are nice when they happen.

Oops...

 So, uhm, recently I made a FB post about the analgesics I've been using to help me through the mother of all arthritis flares, and I have to admit--the CBD liniment has been a blessing. I'm not sure if it's the magic pot infusion or just the icy-hot coolness but it does have a certain immediate soothing quality--a quality of doing something for which I'm very grateful, particularly after I've been knitting in front of the television and then sit down to write. I mean there has been no "magic pill" so far-- Instaflex, Ibuprofen, analgesic cream, aqua aerobics, and sometimes, honestly, sitting an activity out or shortening my walk in lieu of the aqua have all gone into helping me to manage a situation that escalated more quickly than I anticipated.

But yeah. The cream helped.

Until today, when I learned a valuable esson.

I scooped out a bit much and was rubbing it into my hands, particularly around the knuckles, and I remembered my elbow joints were getting inflamed so I decided to put some there. Where the pain was. But first I did that thing women do when we're using moisturizer. You know, that thing where we rub the moisturizer into every bit of skin between point A and point B?

Forgetting, of course, that the skin on the backs of my arms is not in pain, and it's not inflamed and it is, in fact, quite tender...

And within a minute it was awash in the icy-hot flames of liniment vengeance as I tried to decide which sensation I hated most--the pain that was hindering my afternoon writing or the mentholyptic inferno that my skin had become.

I finally decided to just go nap. I could cover my arms with blankets to stop the icy-hot from enveloping my dermis and I could tuck my hands under my chin so the heat could ease up on the hand pain.

And I could resolve, ever so heartily, never to do that again.

When I awoke, the skin on my arms was back to normal--but so were my swollen joints. 

*sigh* I'm really learning to count my blessings.

Girl Scout Cookies

 

So, I don't know if I will ever talk about the thing.

I remember reading an essay of the Yarn Harlot's once--something had happened in her family that she didn't want to share--but she wanted to share the after-effect, which was simply, that for about two weeks, she was so heartbroken she couldn't even knit. There had been no death in the family, which she would have felt able to talk about, but that didn't mean there had been no grief. The essay detailed her and her husband going to the grocery store together because neither of them could think clearly enough for only one of them to go. "Our hearts were broken, that is all you need to know."

I'm going
with that approach.  Start with last Tuesday, the 10th, and our hearts were broken--and go from there. In the last two weeks there have been trips and visits and meetings to deal with what happened that day. There has been an attempt to fix the breaking, to achieve equilibrium, to ensure against further breakage. There has been suppressed anger (we're white people who eat our feelings--no cookie is safe)  and suppressed grief and mental and emotional exhaustion.

And a trip to the doctor's on my part that netted blood pressure medication and gel for my arthritis which is moderate--not mild--and currently kicking my ass. In the middle of all of the above vague posting, I couldn't walk for three days because my knee was threatening to go bone on bone. 

Ou.

Ch.

And in the middle of that, someone backed into my car at the grocery store.

And I don't know how to explain my stress levels this week except to say that the fender bender came up in conversation on Sunday night and the whole family was like, "What? Wait, what? You didn't even mention--wait--what?"

And I was like, "How important is the mildly munched door seam really?"

And the whole fam went, "Oh. Yeah. See your point."

I'm aware that none of this came out on social media, btw, not even the small things, or the arthritis or the medication or any of that shit, because it was SO SMALL in relation to the other thing that I didn't feel like I could talk about one without talking about the other because it was unbearably private. And NOT talking about something often make it even more stressful... like I said. No cookie was safe.

Which brings me to today.

Two packages arrived today. 

One had two skeins of absolutely stunning yarn which has, I think, been discontinued. Last Tuesday I started a project using this yarn having only one skein of it, and I realized that the skein wasn't going to create a shawl of the size I wanted so I found some at a small vendor and ordered it. 

The other package was a giant box of Girl Scout Cookies.  Four packages of Samoas at the least, Tagalongs, Lemon cookies... it was all there.

Mate didn't even bat an eyelash. 

"After last week, my stress buying amounted to two skeins of yarn and 10 boxes of Girl Scout Cookies. That's really not bad," I said.

"Nope." 

And then we both went back to trying to work. After he demolished a package of Samoas.

And for a moment, we're okay--the only cookies at risk have arrived by post, and really, they weren't long for this world anyway.

Banning Books

Ugh! Where to start, where to start, where to start...

It feels like all of my anecdotes have been told until they're ready to shrivel up and float away.  I'm going to start with one that happened when I was in about eight grade.

My dad worked nights, and there was sort of a revolving paperback library where he worked, and sometimes he'd bring the books home. He brought one home and put it on top of the refrigerator. I was five-foot-six at the time--not my actual adult height, but definitely big enough to figure out the top of the refrigerator--and I pulled it down because, hey! Book! Right?

Oh no... you mustn't read that book. That book was a mistake. Dad shouldn't have brought that home.

Oh. Okay. I had some Tolkien, some Piers Anthony, some Lloyd Alexander--who needed whatever the hell that was, right?

Until my stepmom told me to burn it. 

I was appalled, but she was like, "It's a super shitty book--and we don't need it floating around the house and the library won't take it. Just burn it with the rest of the burn barrel.

I was a good kid--I mean I tried to be a good kid. So I took it out to the burn barrel and threw the other stuff in and, well, sort of flipped through the book while I was burning everything else.

As an adult who writes adult books with sex in them, I will tell you right now that this one was the grossest sort of trash. I've read porn that left me a lot hotter and not nearly as soiled as this book. Racist, grossly pornographic, four-big-black-guys-in-an-anal-gangbang-without-lube sort of trash. 

Yes, I remember the scene almost verbatim. 

I, uhm, hadn't known a penis could go there until that very moment. 

I threw the book into the fire, feeling a little nauseous, and watched it burn, the edges turning black and curling, the center turning to a glowing furnace of pulp wood and glue.

It was the first time I got why people might want to burn books. I couldn't seem to shake those words. They'd burned themselves into my brain.

They followed me. Every sex scene I read as a young adult was compared to that one. Every time two people kissed or had a breakup scene or someone did something "beyond the pale" in a book I read, I'd remember that scene.

When I wrote books and love scenes, I endeavored with all my soul to not make a scene that would leave people feeling the way that shitty book left me feeling.

And here's the thing. All of that could have been avoided if my stepmom, whom I trusted, had merely said, "I'd not the sex--it's the fact that the sex is demeaning to everyone involved. It gave me the oogies--I just don't want you to feel that way." 

But no--I burned it. And in spite of seriously how bad the book was now I'm stuck with it burned in my mind.

So.

My feelings on the big book banning thing that's sweeping the South.

First of all, to the hysterical and ignorant parents driving this because you're afraid your precious straight white child is going to learn something you know nothing about: you filthy cowards. These aren't books that are trying to demean people, or trying to titillate them--they're trying to inform people on the diversity of American experience. Does this book make you feel bad as a white person? Well maybe try not to be such a shitty white person. Do LGBTQ folk scare you? Well maybe inform yourself about them by reading some of their voices and see that they are just people like you. Well, maybe not "you" as in the ignorant filthy racist extremists who think burning ALL THE BOOKS is a good idea. But they are people with compassion and fear and empathy, so they are people BETTER than "you" and I bet that's super scary too, right?

Read a book and get over it.

And second of all, you children aren't going to not read these books.

I guarantee your children will read these books. I read a tweet that said, "In sixth grade there was one copy of Forever that got passed around to every kid in the class." Yes. That. There was one copy of Forever, and one of Deenie, and if your parents bought you science fiction, you'd get to read Anne McCaffrey with gay couples and pregnancy surrogacy and "proddy green dragons" and there are a thousand authors out there that will write book your children will get their greedy little hands on and they will learn, and they will learn things that scare you and you will disagree with, and there's not a thing you can do to stop it from happening. 

So there.

Just remember, people like you are the ones who took your children to see ParaNorman because it was an "animated children's film" and after watching 95% of a film dedicated to showing people why witch-hunts were bad got all bent out of shape when the hunky male teenager told Norman's sister that she'd like his boyfriend and they should all totally hang out. I'll never forget those ragey letters to the editor btw. "I just wanted to watch a wholesome movie about how we're all different and there were GAY characters in it! How DARE they?"

They dared because film and literature are always trying to break the barriers that keep humans trapped in their own hearts. That's what film and literature do. And it's scary.

It must be scary, or you idiots wouldn't be trying to ban that from happening--but just because it scares you doesn't mean its wrong.

Now let's go back to that book I burned. The one I remember. The one that, as an adult, I can't believe was actually published and distributed. I was fired for giving a student a book, and nothing in my book was anywhere as gross as this book, that any kid could get in a library.

But frankly, most kids wouldn't.

Most kids would be reading Forever or Go Ask Alice or What About the Haynes Girl? or any of the books that covered real life problems and resonated with teenagers and expanded their world.

Kids don't like reading trash--and they know the difference. They know what engages their hearts. They know what expands their world. They know what literature is. 

And I'll tell you something--if the grossest sort of trash had such a profound effect (even if it was by negative example) on my psyche because my mother made me burn it, imagine--simply imagine--what effect Maus or any of the other banned books that idiots are freaking out about--will do when kids get their hands on them. And they will get their hands on them.  They'll have Banned Book Clubs. They'll send each other smuggled .pdfs. They'll write their own fan fiction if they have to--but they will break out of the bonds imposed upon them by teeny tiny fragile minds.

Banning books is reprehensible. It's ignorant. It's a sign of a fascist government and a fascist population.

But nothing--and I mean nothing--will ensure the next generation will be more open minded, more liberal, more ready to change the world than telling teenagers what they can and can not learn. 

A book--bad or good--is so much more powerful if it is scary enough to ban.

And the people banning them--"Oh help! I'm such a fragile white person I don't want my kid to read Michele Obama's biography because my kid might learn class and education and we want to stay proudly trashy, thank you!"-- will never, ever, ever understand. 

There Will Always be Knitting

 

A couple of months ago, I started to put it together. I mean, for a while, I was puzzled. "How did I hit my finger? Why is it stiff and bruised? Wait, that's gone, but now my thumb hurts. Well, shit. I mean, I can still knit and crochet, but opening jars is sort of a job for someone else now. And seriously. The Advil bottle? Oh cruel, cruel irony. Cruel, cruel fate." 

Also, at night, when it's cold and damp, my fingers grow cold and stiff on the keyboard. Whatever digit or two that's feeling frisky that night complains loudly when used--and beating up my keyboard with passionate dialog isn't a good idea.

I started to worry. Oh Lord. My mother's family has suffered from arthritis terribly. My grandmother complained of it--not often, but we knew she was in pain. And about four years ago, I'd been diagnosed with it in my knees. My response had been to up my exercise regimen--and I stick to that--and to not take the gabapentin that was given to me in a giant bottle because the side effects were boggling.  For the most part that worked, but something about this stiffness in my fingers was terrifying.

A friend of mine--also suffering from arthritis--offered me her yarn, and while I am usually the "YES SEND IT ALL TO ME AND I SHALL HOARD IT LIKE THE DRAGON I AM!" friend, this time I... I hesitated. My fingers hurt. My thumbs hurt. And I was a little scared. I told her about another friend who knitted and suggested that she get this unexpected bounty. (She did, and she was very happy about it!)

And the repercussions of the refusal built up an awful panic. What if I couldn't knit? What if I couldn't crochet? Oh my Goddess, WHAT IF I COULDN'T YARN?

And Christmas was coming up. 

I mean, of course I could make stuff for Christmas, right?

So I made the gnomes. The silly, absurd, goofy little gnomes. And the baskets for fudge--and gnomes. 

I made some hats. Some keyhole scarves. Some hand warmers. Started on a shawl that I really love but I don't know who will get it.

I mean, I kept busy. 

There was stiffness in my hands--not going to lie. Bought some arthritis gloves--they help. Took some Advil. Also helped. Ergonomic crochet hooks--and sticking to crochet and small yarn--also helped. Kept crocheting and knitting and somewhere in that Christmas industry, I was reminded that it helped too. If I could get past the pain--and remember to stretch out--keeping my hands busy helped to keep my joints healthy.

Some of my panic receded.

I wasn't out of the game yet. I wasn't ready to start shipping all my yarn boxes to charity. I could still do this thing that has kept me sane since 1998.

Last night another friend messaged me. She had ordered some yarn that she really loved but she hated to work with. "Would you like this yarn?"

I pulled out a shawl that I was half finished working, done in this exact yarn. I adored it. "Yes! Yes I would love this yarn!"

And a part of me gave a tremendous sigh of relief. I was still doing this. It was still part of my identity. I was still in the yarn chain of give and receive, and I was still making things for people that would surprise them.

At the moment, I just need my husband to open the spaghetti sauce jars, that's all.

Someday, it might be different. Someday, I might not be able to work past the pain. But for now, there is knitting (and crocheting! Mostly crocheting!) and I am grateful.

The reminder to be grateful for the time I have with the activities I love--and the people, and the fur-babies, and the music and television and movies and audiobooks--has not been in vain.

And when it's over, here's hoping I have wonderful friends to whom I can pass it on.

It would be wonderful if there could always be knitting.

Dear Uptight Woman...

 Dear uptight white woman who yelled at me from her driveway today as I passed with my dogs--

I hesitate to use the term Karen because I know and love several WONDERFUL women named Karen, and to call you "a Karen" would be giving you too much affection. 

But I think everybody gets the idea.

Anyway, I was carrying one of my dogs and keeping my other dogs off your lawn after you yelled at me from your driveway as I was passing by, and I didn't really assimilate what you were yelling at me about until after you huffed off.

So let me see if I can address your damage. 

First of all, I'm sorry your dogs bark and wreck your home when my dogs walk the sidewalk in front of your house. My dogs frequently bark at people from the house--the UPS guy, the Amazon delivery guy, cats coming in from the backyard--I usually make the assumption that this behavior is either the dogs' fault for being idiot dogs or my fault for not training the idiot dog well enough. I do not--repeat NOT-- blame the UPS or USPS or Amazon people, because they are just doing their jobs. Much like my dogs are just doing theirs when I walk them.

As a caveat here, I'd like to ask "You let them destroy the house?" I myself am not the most stringent of dog owners, but my dogs don't knock stuff over or tear apart the furniture when we get mail, so that really does sound more like a "you" problem than a "me" problem.

Second of all, no, I'm NOT CROSSING THE STREET when I come by your house. Sorry. Not gonna do it. I cross the street if there's somebody else with dogs coming near me, or a mother with a kid in a carriage because my dogs bark and that's more comfortable, but I'm not crossing the street because your dogs INSIDE YOUR HOUSE bark at them as we walk by. I bet you expect the rain to part for you as you walk under the clouds, too, don't you sunshine?

Third of all, after you huffed away, my daughter, who was a little ways ahead of me and heard the entire conversation, pointed out that the last time we passed your house was JANUARY 2ND, you cranky whore, so if you think my dogs have been making your dogs bark every day this week, you' re totally fucking wrong.

And last of all--and I hesitate to bring this up because this was my daughter talking and I think she might be the teeniest protective--I would like to add that I did talk to your husband that January 2nd walk. He was cleaning up Christmas lights, and he was totally pleasant. My daughter thinks you're feeling threatened by me, and while I'm very fat and sorta gray and not particularly fuckable,  you may rest assured that I do have a man of my own and do not need yours. Although if you're as unpleasant to him as you were to me today, I can see your worry.

So, let me see if I can restate the salient parts here: 

A. I'll deal with my dogs if you deal with yours.

B. I don't want to fuck your husband.

C. You were a total and absolute twat.

D. If you yell at me again my adult daughter may fuck you up--that's just a guess, but she was pretty pissed.

E. If you don't want your dogs to tear up your house, you should maybe tell them no. Hey--it worked for  us--Ginger finally stopped trying to find the vagina in all our blankets and hasn't fucked a pillow to death for over two months now.

Thank you so much for your time-- 

Sincerely,

The pissed off fat woman with all the fucking dogs

Dog Park

 Happy New Year!

Okay--so this blogging thing--still working on it a little.  Trying to find a balance between "Blogging is draining my soul" and "What is this thing they call blogging?" (after fifteen years of blogging!) is maybe not as easy as it sounds.

But our Christmas was lovely--frenetic, but lovely. Our New Years was quiet--the kids got sparkling cider and that's really all they've wanted out of the deal.

ZoomBoy has started work at Raising Cane's chicken fingers, and now he's brought home a fever and a cold--although I know it's not Covid because he heard we brought home Volkswaffle and practically booty-bumped two people and a cat in the hallway getting out to get himself one. Given that it was the only time he moved all day, I felt sort of proud of that.

Squish enjoyed Christmas--and is on a new medication regimen that seems to be working. I'm much relieved.

Chicken is looking for a new job because she's unsure of her financial aid status right now, and Rubio's is draining her soul.

And Mate... well, he's sort of made me a basketball widow over the last two weeks. On the one hand, I can't blame him because the Kings are SO BAD this year, he's like, "It's a train wreck, but it's one I'm personally involved in and not only can I not look away, I want front row seats. I mean, I have to settle for what my season pass gives me, but still--if I've got the tickets I'm going to watch them self-destruct. It's intoxicating. Like heroin."  I've got no words for that, really--but it does make my thing with yarn a lot easier to understand. I hope anyway. "It's wool, and I just want to touch it. It's intoxicating."

Right?

Anyway--to get to the title of the post, we took the dogs to the dog park today, the one where they get to run around and play chase and act like dogs.

I was quite surprised, really. 

I'm pleased to announce that after a couple of those weird alien stretches Ginger does--and one time of peeing and showing the world she was not assembled correctly and has some odd skeletal glitches--she ran around and barked and chased other dogs.

As Chicken told me, "You can do this when your feet or knees hurt and you can't walk the dogs at the park."

It was a nice thought--and I'll keep it in mind. But remember Christmas? One of my gifts to myself was a pair of crocs. After giving myself fasciitis twice--once after Thanksgiving and once after Christmas Eve-I decided that I needed something on my feet if I was to spend the entire day cooking.

The Crocs arrived December 27th, and they may not change my life--but I'm impressed so far. 

But if they don't completely stave off the fasciitis flare ups, I've got to say it--Crocs. Who knew.

Venom and the Knitter

 So, Venom (1 and 2) is one of my favorite parts of the Marvel franchise. It deals with a lesser known character, the cast is small but stellar, the budget is limited so the action sequences are short but meaningful, and there is something about the dialog between Venom, the ultimate id, and his fragile superego, Eddie, that gets to me. Like really resonates. Like... like....like I've really been there or something. Like maybe Eddie and me have something in common.

Amy: *tremulously* Hello. Uhm, I'm Amy. And I have too much yarn.

MERINO (a giant monster made of expanding and contracting all wool fiber filaments that have merged with Amy's nerve endings and conscious thought): AND IF YOU TRY TO TAKE IT FROM ME I'LL CUT A BITCH.

Amy: No, Merino-- that's not true! The yarn problem here it's overwhelming-- people need a place to sit--

MERINO: THEY CAN KNIT THEIR OWN SEAT CUSHIONS IN HELL!

Amy: No! No! We have to clear a spot here--we need room for a Christmas tree!

MERINO: WILL PEOPLE BUY YARN FOR ME???????

Amy: We don't need anymore yarn!

MERINO: ALWAYS NEED MORE YARN!

Amy: We have other interests--books--

MERINO: AUDIOBOOKS ON YOUR PHONE SO YOU CAN KNIT WHILE LISTENING!!! YES! 

Amy: Family--

MERINO: FAMILY TO KNIT FOR!

Amy: They can't live on yarn alone--

MERINO: PEANUT BUTTER AND JELLY AND YARN!

Amy:   And we like the dogs--

MERINO: WE HATE THE DOGS! THEY WON'T LET US KNIT!

Amy: We knit around the dogs--

MERINO: WE WILL EAT THE DOGS! EAT THE DOGS, BUY THE YARN! EVERYBODY'S HAPPY!

Amy: Except the dogs, you psychopath!

MERINO: YOU CAN'T KNIT WHILE WALKING THE DOGS!!!

Amy: Well, some people knit socks while walking--

MERINO: KNIT A SACK TO CARRY THE DOGS IN!

Amy: Tempting, but no

MERINO: TIME TO KNIT!

Amy: We were going to take a nap--

MERINO: KNIT OR WE EAT THE DOGS.

Amy: Remember life before you were a part of me?

MERINO: NO. IT HAD NO MEANING. NOW KNIT!

Amy: Uhm, my name is Amy and... uhm... I have a yarn--uhm, passion. Not problem. Passion. It's all good. Just, uhm, move the yarn bags to sit. Uhm... Christmas is canceled this year. EVERYBODY OUT OF THE FRONT ROOM SO I CAN WATCH NCIS AND KNIT A SWEATER FOR THE HOUSE!

MERINO: DAMN. THAT BITCH IS HARDCORE.