Clearing the Air

It’s a Bitch Out There & a Bitch in Here


So. I have way too much crap I have to get out of my mind and on paper, so to speak. Much more than what I do on Facebook. I don’t spend a lot of time on Twitter. It’s way too cliquey to me.

So here’s the thing. I am full of disgust, anger, awe, selfishness, bitterness, cynicism, and just wee bit of hatred.

I’m not a knuckle-dragging moron like every single Trump supporter. I didn’t grow up with a fear-based emotionally-immature character bent on making other people miserable.

I’m not a dyed-in-the-wool robot follower of the Democratic establishment. I do not subscribe to their Follow-Me-Because-I-Said-So mentality.

I am an admirer of all those who fight for justice and equality, who believe our government is there to support us, not rule over us. I believe our government is there to give us everything we need to have healthy, productive lives and in return, we pay the taxes that furnish those things. What we don’t do is serve the greed.

At present, we do not have those things. We serve greed. We serve the dicks. We serve injustice. We serve the bullies. We. Serve. And we’ve been doing it in docile, selfish, distracted ways so long that we’ve become numb to the tyranny, the brutal, the death. Death on scale we’ve grown so used to that numbers fail to mean anything anymore. 3,000 deaths in 2001 has become 50,000 in 2020 (as of this writing; it’ll get higher).

I care. I am anguished. I am fucking pissed off.

The mob mentality Does Not Care. It’s been engineered that way since Woodrow Wilson and Edward Bernay, our creators of propaganda–who didn’t want that word associated with it so it became “public relations.” We’re supposed to be “consumers,” not citizens. And now, that’s bloody-well what we’ve become. For fuck’s sake, we have magazines with that in the title.

Let’s move on. It’s only the First post describing the point of this blog.

I am a rape survivor. I never got justice. But I’m not a facile wimp who never got justice in her own way. Basically, I kicked the crap out of him in a dark alley. I had help, but only as guards.

I am a 10-year veteran. Army medic and Radar O’Reilly type. Never saw a war. Saw no combat. Only pieced people back together after accidents and stupidity. I am a believer in a small military. You defend your own, but you stay the fuck home and keep your shit out of other people’s business. You do Not serve as an arm of greed. Unfortunately, that’s not who our military is. They’re a misogynistic anachronism used for bullying the weak. While I’m glad to have served, I’m not proud of it, given our record. I never did any harm (except to the rapist), and I tried my best to uphold justice. I would have been Chelsea Manning, had I been in her shoes.

I am a Wiccan. A witch. A pagan. Have been since I was 12, but I didn’t know what my beliefs were called. Didn’t find out until I was 30(1990), for fuck’s sake, when I found myself drawn to the local “new age” store in a mini mall. Bought a book: Celtic Magic by DJ Conway. And the veil was lifted. Went online 8 years later and bought another book called The Beginners Guide to Wicca by Scott Cunningham from a bookstore (at that time) called Amazon. Bought some other books about Southwestern Native American shamanism. I had decided to do a dual-pantheon. Irish Celtic and Native American. But there aren’t religious books out there on Comanche(not their real name) spiritualism, so I went with the Diné.

I am a writer. Fanfic writer. I don’t get paid (yet), and I don’t mean in a pro way. I mean that I have this idea (thanks to someone else’s imagination) for a Zine, but whenever I think about a story that’s worth paying $3.00 for, I just … freeze up. I write a page, then two, then four. But then … I just go back to the stories I’m writing that I post on my main site or on AO3 (Archive of Our Own).

What I write is called Slash. Gay fiction. Where I’ve taken two canon-hetero characters and decided they had enough chemistry to throw them together and, eventually, have hot sex. In the past I’ve detailed that in graphic fashion. These days, I have little patience for it so the hot sex gets dwindled to a paragraph or two. Sad. But I don’t feel it anymore. Maybe it’s because my libido’s dried up thanks to the stupid amount of meds I take. Fucking hell. But I won’t give up. I’ll keep plunking away until the ideas dry up. Or I’m dead. Whichever comes first.


Currently, I’m bored. I’m mad. And I have little. Nothing. But my cat and this PC. And my integrity, what little I’m allowed given all the corporations out there who fuck people over as they create monopolies we’re forced to deal with for literally everything we need.

And … I think I’ll go listen to a book and play a new puzzle game I found called Glass Masquerade.

About the author


Writer, Veteran, Wiccan, Artist, Progressive Pain in the Ass. The order of these titles changes at a day's whim, but the last one always stays put for emphasis.

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By Joy
Clearing the Air

“The most essential gift for a good writer is a built-in, shock-proof, shit detector.” ~ Hemingway

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Writer, Veteran, Wiccan, Artist, Progressive Pain in the Ass. The order of these titles changes at a day's whim, but the last one always stays put for emphasis.

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