Trigger warning: Cutting

Until my body gets back to a pseudo-regular clock, my defenses are weakened. I know it'll pass, I know depression is a liar, and I know cutting does nothing to help. Well, from outward appearances. Shh, I didn't say that. 

I'm so muthafucken depressed I can't elucidate. Winter is always shitty in my head, January is always extra shitty, leading to a downright fugugly February. As this is my yearly schedule, I know the SADs will cease at some point. So that'll be nice. But on Day 19 of cabin fever, it'd sure be pleasant to see some butterflies. Or sun. Or a relative. 

It's the late night mind fuck here, though, with a near constant stream of berating as the finale warms up backstage: the Cutting Cacophony. They're the ones whispering sweetly of how, if I just get the blade, I'll be able to feel something. It'll all be okay. Just get it. 

But no, assclowns: I will not cut. Not tonight. Tonight is for one eyed cat cuddles. For Tom Robbins and Alobar. For Kudra, Wren, and Frol. Tonight is for safe escape in literature and purring. Le sigh; I do run on, don't I? Having just grenaded several toxic relationships, you'll hopefully forgive my ramblings, but if not? Incoming...

I kid, I kid. ❤️