MOOP!

Not quite often enough¹, I go down to MGH (a convenient ride on the red line, slightly less convenient but still doable on the green) and give blood at their donor center. Sometimes I get organized enough to bring other people with me, sometimes I just go myself, but at this point it's all pretty old hat: read the literature², explain to the nurse that I checked yes on heart problems because I had a PDA and it's been repaired³, hop in the chair, drink even more water than that, eat some snacks, head home. It takes a couple hours?

And over the 18 years I've been eligible to give blood, I've done so at lots of different places. Even now, I could keep my eyes open for closer blood drives than ~all the way at MGH~ --I mean, I know the armory does them sometimes, and that's just down the street! But I know the structure at MGH, I know where to go, I like the snack options, everything is no-nonsense and as enjoyable as it can be.

And MGH, unique to all other blood donor centers I've contributed at, will send me an email with the subject line "You Just Saved Lives!". Two or three weeks later, presumably when some amount of paperwork has been sorted out and tracked and etc.

Today I have eaten breakfast, and gone to a dull meeting, and worked with a bunch of students, and archived some emails. And saved someone's life. Helped another human who was at risk of peril, of death, of griveious bodily harm, and made it better for them.

It's a fucking fantastic email to get. It is something that I think will never _ever_ get old. What did you do today Kat? I saved someone's life. Bam.

Anyways, I'm eligable again in June so I'm probably gonna aim for that week of July where I'm not at Pinewoods. Anyone who wants to join me, drop me a line. I'm happy to hold your hand (metaphorically or literally) for any part of it you need. You too could save lives.

~Sor
MOOP!

1: Maximum is six times a year, optimal would probably be about four, I've never managed more than three times in the same calendar year, and in 2023 I think I only donated once.

2: WHICH HAS UPDATED TO BE GENDER NEUTRAL HOLY SHIT. I fuckin' _cried_ this most recent time because _they actually want my queer blood_.

3: This most recent time I learned that a patent ductus arteriosus repair is maybe the only heart problem that you *can* still donate blood after.

When it was time to bike home from dance, my brain presented me with the demand of "Coming Home", by Falco, as what it wanted to listen to. Okay, sure, that's a passionate-yet-tragic one, seems to match mood alright, fine.

And it did match mood! It was good and correct and a little wistful but like powerfully so. And then YouTube went ahead and spun over to a Falco song I don't actually know: The Sound of Music.

Well.
Well.

Like. It's a bop. It's a delight. It's rock and roll, it's Der Kommissar¹ at his best. And it took anything from the brain that wasn't working out and presented with a very simple set of demands: I listen to baller dance music from the eighties and nineties, and in exchange my brain would provide me with serotonin. The good stuff.

So from there we did Rock Me Amadeus and Shake and Egoist and closed with Jeanny. And it was great! It was a really marvelous bike ride! I was dancing and singing along and bouncing and it was so fun!

It is nice that I have access to joy, even when some parts of my world are simply not allowing it.

~Sor
MOOP!

1: you know, Falco. Der Kommissar! Falco!!!! (yes, I am quoting, no I'm not even sure what I'm quoting beyond "my mother" but I think it's an interview thing he did at some point, self-identifying thusly.)

Today has been a pretty good day!

I am in Providence for the weekend, more'n a month since the last time Tuesday and I got to spend any time together. So that's already very very nice, just being able to be warm and cozy with someone I love. We had exactly one plan for the entire visit, and we've already done it, so the rest of tonight and all tomorrow is just about hanging out together and doing lovely nothing.

The one plan was a ~gondola ride~. She won it from an event she went to: a two ticket private ride up and down the river that runs through the center of town. We packed a blanket and a charcuterie board and wandered down to the dock, holding hands as we walked through the streets. The weather was...not as perfect as hoped, but between the walls of the river and the blanket, we were downright cozy.

Gondola came with two gondoliers, who sang songs, shared historical information, and generally contributed to the overall positive tenor of the ride. It also came with yummy "wine biscuits", which were sweet little cookies, and a nice counter to some of the more salty/savoury cheeses and meats we'd packed.

The singing was an absolute highlight, especially because they kept doing it under bridges --the final song was under a long stretch of road, the only bit remaining from when PVD paved over its river, and there was something beautifully eerie about being in this dark space, between the water and the road, and hearing her voice echoing across and around us. Makes me want to write fae shit, mostly.

It had cooled down considerably by the end, so we thanked the gondaliers and scampered home, Tuesday wrapped in the blanket, me turtled into my hoodie. Once home we were able to do other plans, which meant mostly playing separate video games together (I learned I'd been ignoring a Very Important part of the Necrodancer lobby, which made beating stage 2 suddenly MUCH more possible, Tuesday successfully killed her dad in Hades). Eventually, we forced ourselves back towards being productive, working on or grading papers, as is our wont (it is not our want).

We got food eventually and I slept a bunch while Tuesday worked, and soon we will go to bed all snuggled up warm. I'm pleased with these plans.

~Sor
MOOP!

It's been a while since I did a con-report, so have a con-report of "My Memorial Day Weekend In Maryland But Not At Balticon", done in the it's-been-a-while "awesome/good/bad/ugly" style.

( Overall grade? A double plus even with the shitty parts! )

And it's not con-reportable, but it is good --I've finished a small amount of grading as I ride the train back home to Massachusetts. I am woefully underfed and still have plenty more to complete, but at least it is gradually getting done.

May you find joy in your life. I love you.

~Sor
MOOP!

Today I came out to a whole crowd of people on Google Meet --my NEST team, with the other teachers of English Learners, which is honestly such an incredible progressive and liberal team anyways, and I love them.

But I said, to sixteen faces on video, "I'm nonbinary and my pronouns are they/them" and was rewarded with...smiles! and clapping! and at least one person waving their arms in the air in excitement! I didn't cry, and I didn't even have to hide for very long but *wow* did I have the shakes after and _wow_ is it gratifying to have that kind of celebration be the response.

I don't want to do a giant schoolwide version of this thing, I don't want to send an Explanatory Email Updating Every Single Coworker, but in the spaces I work most frequently, it makes sense to do so from a place of truth, and it is phenomenal to have every reaction returned to be one of love and joy. (was it every reaction returned? I don't know, I can't look at sixteen screens at once, but every person who made a comment in textchat or said something aloud did so in love and support, so if I had any negative reactions, they knew to shut their fucking mouths about it.)

I have one more big public video chat come-out to do (Thursday, the math department, you know, the group that hired me) and one more really important email (principal, assistant principals, guidance counselors) and from there it can all boil down to case-by-case and pronouns in my signature and the endless series of little steps outside the closet, because "well you don't look"

I'm super lucky to be in the school district I'm in and to know the people I know. It is the dream job, every inch of the way.

I love y'all and hope you're doing well. I finally caught up with replying to comments from the last twenty entries of mine or so, which I hope means the next step is figuring out whatever mental block is keeping me from reading. I miss knowing what's up in people's lives.

~Sor
MOOP!

1 year ago today, I made a post about breaking my 12-day streak over on 750words. At that point, it had been the longest continuous streak of writing, every single day, that I'd had since 2016.

(The longest streak I'd _ever_ had, at that point, was the one I had that ended in February of 2011. It was about 220 days total. I'd never since broken 200, despite using the site off and on since I first joined, in March of 2010.)

I was sad, but I was resilient. I was coming out of a couple years of pretty bad funk, and I was ready to be present again, and start doing more of the work, and communicating, and coming back into my true self and power. I was ready to be writing, not stories necessarily, but notes and journals and reminders and a history of my life. So I grounded myself for the next day, picked back up, and started again.

And I said, in that post:

I think that's going to continue to be the punishment moving forward --if I miss a day of writing, I don't get to play with my toys the next. We'll see how long this pattern lasts. Hopefully, it will turn into just...me writing my words as part of my existence, rather than a weird yo-yoing back-and-forth of days where I can and can't log on.

And as part of being grounded, I gave the list of things that were allowed. Accountability, yanno? I'm a big fan of using other people to help hold myself accountable, and writing something on my journal means that it's real and stuff.

So that's been the rule. Every day that I miss my words entirely, the next day I am grounded and I have to post an accounting of what my punishment is. It just makes sense, right? Surely I have enough self-discipline to keep doing that?

Well, it's been a year, and I haven't made any more accountability posts. Which means I'm distractable, and scattered, and can't hold on to the games I create to try and beat my ADHD brain into shape. None of this is surprising to me --I am, after all, very aware of my own damages, and one of them is a total lack of consistency and a desperate keening for novelty (despite how much I despise change).

...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...wait.

It's been a year and I haven't made any more accountability posts.

Because I have written 750 words --three pages-- every single day. Arisia, California, Pinewoods, Summer School, moving, visiting parents and hanging with friends and having dates. Yesterday, I called Austin over to witness me (shiny and chrome) as I hit refresh and the little counter at the top of the page clicked over to 365. Today will be 366.

All this entire year I've been looking at the numbers creep by. 2019 still isn't yet my _best_ year since starting the site, I had a year when I only missed four days total. But this is, easily, by _far_, by well over a hundred days the longest continuous streak of writing I've ever had. I started using this site 3,553 days ago, which means that this streak has been over a tenth of the time I've had to write. (It's almost a fifth of my completed days, if you ignore all those days I didn't write at all, or didn't write enough).

This all feels very clinical, very data-driven, facts and figures and no feelings at all. But it's...it's a hard thing to feel. Because the feeling that comes in if I let myself is pride, and it's such an utter painful sobbing thing for me to feel. I am proud of myself, I am _so_ proud of myself, I have written and written and written, and sure, half of it's probably absolute drivel but...

...it's there. It's real. It is, as I am fond of saying, opening the veins and letting the ink flow out like it's meant to and covering pages upon metaphorical pages of the noun-and-verb of writing, which is the verymost thing that keeps me alive.

This is not possible. It is just not possible for my _very_ ADHD self to commit to something that takes an enormous effort of focus, to say "I am going to make absolutely sure I do this, every fucking day, even if it is a bad idea." I have written a dozen words at a time, in fits and starts between hitting snooze on my alarm at two in the morning, trying to force myself done before I fell asleep for good. I have written quick and dull in the face of boring meetings or boring notes. I have written lesson plans and to-do lists and schedules.

It is not...good, in the aggregate. It is not worth having spent the time on, the energy, the stress. It is not worth ignoring pretty boys while they get ready for bed without me, it is not worth slipping back to my cabin early and double-checking my wordcount on the laptop then cheating an entry with quick copy-paste on my phone. The effort expanded here is not worth anything, because "I wrote three pages every day for a year" can only possibly be met with "why?" and I have no answer to that.

It is worth _everything_ to me. I use so many words to identify myself, and I know I can never have it real, because I'll never be published and I'll never have the time or energy or focus to finish any fictions, but damnit shit fuckitall, I am a writer by god. I know that word to the core of my soul, before dancer, before teacher, way before mathematician. I am a writer, and I write. I am a writer because I need to write. I need it like the moon needs the sun, like the tree needs the sky.

Why, because I can. Because I can because I cannot believe in any reality at all where I was able to make this happen, where I could do something --even something I _love_-- for every day, for every day for this long. Six am to six am means three pages and 750 words.

I am so proud (I am not allowed to be proud) I am so proud it aches. I cannot believe this is real.

I don't think I'll keep holding myself to this standard --at some point I will slip and miss a day, and that is fine, that is what will happen, and I'll write more again after. But the fact that I was able to do this, even just once, means maybe someday I can do it again. Or do something else impressive and long-lasting, steady and strong.

273,750 words. More, of course, because it's rare that I only exactly make count. Well done, little childe. I'm proud.

~Sor
MOOP!

I dreamed about spiders!

( happy details cut for the arachophobic )

~Spider Monarch
MOOP!

Gleep.

That's just all I have to say. Gleep. You lot are amazing. jere7my wrote most of this post, but I'll stick some editorial comments in the middle via italics

***

jere7my here. I said the Katstarter / Kickstander / Katstander / Can'tstand'er (hey!) would end on Wednesday night, and here it is going on midnight, so I can happily announce the pledge total: $1035!¹ This is well over thrice the initial goal I set out, so wow. Thank you all for your pledges; I think this has demonstrated that people are awesome, that Kat is awesome, that bikes are awesome, and that bike thieves can suck it.

Here's the full list of donors, grouped by contact method. The initial rules were that everyone's pledges would be reduced proportionally to sum to $300, which in theory means all the pledges should be multiplied by 300/1035, or 29%. A number of people objected, saying they wanted to donate their full pledge regardless, so in the tally I've listed both the reduced pledge and, in parentheses, the full amount. Which you pay is entirely up to you -- Kat will be delighted with the reduced amount, the original pledge, or anything in between. She has posted details on how to get the money to her -- I will not actually handle any of the money, unless we happen to bump into each other. Or presumably, unless you wish to stay anonymous to me.

If I missed anyone's pledge, or got anything wrong, please correct in the comments. Two of the anonymous donors (Anon 3 and Anon 4) are anonymous only because they contacted me privately and haven't gotten back to me on whether they wanted to be public; feel free to out yourselves if you like. Thank you all again -- I am pleased to have had my optimism about human nature affirmed. Y'all are ridiculous. AND THE BEST PEOPLE EVER!

( List of donors and whatnot under the cut! YOU ALL WIN! )

***

And that's all of jere7my's part, so back to me. SERIOUSLY THOUGH! You people! I could just...hug the fuck out of every single one of you (unless you're not into that) and man, you are all the best! Gah! Flail! THIS IS AMAZING!

It is way way way more rad to sniffle about the fact that I am loved and know amazing people than it is to sniffle about the fact that some douchecanoe stole my bike. May all of you have a hundred shiny ponies prance around you for the rest of days, or, you know, just lots of good luck or something.

<3

~Sor
MOOP!

1: Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, OHMYGOD! You people! Just! WHAT?! All the love!

Every once in a while, something will happen in my private life, that I don't feel would be kind to share in the public journal, usually because it involves someone else, but occasionally just because I do have my own life (kinda) and a right to at least a little bit of privacy.

Of course, it being me, I immediately want to get the input of the world at large, for virtually everything that ever happens ever. Breaking up with Blue Canary is a prime example of this --the day it happened, I made a filtered post, to some of the people I was closer to at that point, and I didn't bother to tell anyone else until a few weeks later.

So yes. Something kindof completely unexpectedly sweet and mature and wonderful just happened, and I'm not gonna give you more details than that, nyah nyah. There is a reason I have a cryptic tag on here.

((Man, if you could tag twitter entries though, that would get waaaay more milage than over here. I use twitter as my immediate "THIS IS MY MOOD" all the time, which leads to a lot of crypticness.))

Semirelatedly, I'll never understand why I find it so awesome when people act like sane adults. I was clearly brought up by society to be cynical and emo or something, because it throws me for a loop when I *don't* get abused by the world sometimes. So yay?

*smiles like a ninny*

~Sor
MOOP!

Scene opens on a bake sale, a long table covered in goodies. Two women approach, one, older, dedicated to supporting the cause. The other, merely curious, trying to learn what's going on.

The girl behind the table turns to the younger. "Would you like anything? It's for a good cause!"

The younger woman stammers, blushing slightly "I'm sorry, I would, but I don't have my wallet..."

"What do you want?" the older woman asks, kindly. She is holding a five dollar bill, offering it to the stranger.

"What, really?" In response, the older woman nods. She was planning to give the money all to the cause anyways. What does it hurt her if fifty cents or a dollar get used on this lost little teenager.

The younger woman gets a slice of lemon cake. The older woman buys oatmeal raisin cookies, and pays for them both. "Keep the change" she says to the girl behind the table.

"Thank you." the younger woman says, taking her cake. The older woman smiles, and they part ways.

It's only later that the younger woman realizes just why she's so flabbergasted --she's spent so much time trying to be nice to other people, that she's forgotten what it feels like when someone's nice to her.