Indigo jester

Take a person made by their very nature to hope and merge, and teach them
by tribulation after tribulation,
by one death after the other,
by killing their hope,
by crushing their dreams.
Teach them by branding them day by day
with the red hot iron of disappointment
that understanding is an illusion,
that there is no peace, except for the one they grant themselves,
and that there's no escape, nor any destination.
Keep doing that for four decades.
Do you know what you get?
The worst kind of holy warrior someone could have unleashed upon your sorry ass,
the kind of witch priestess who will spit her soul out before she yields, 
a jack of all trades killing with tales, her eyes dripping poison and tears in equal parts.
Me and my army of cats, dead and alive,
are still debating the wisdom of your tactics.

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I do it better than Daenerys

 

I have been dragging my feet, feeling sorry for myself.

Working in a job I hate does not help.

The tide floods me inside, red as my anger, pure wrath.

It withdraws and I am drowning in the mire of depression.

Anger, depression, anger, depression. A constant cycle.

It's completely useless and I know it. 

The only thing that helps is music.

Elizabeth shitborn of the house of psychotic ass-clowns, 

the last of her line, the loquacious, the unkempt,  

Queen of lost earrings and dead ends,

breaker of mugs, mother of cats,

rescuer of paper clips and rubber bands, 

redistributor of clothes and goods,

devourer of cake,

destroyer of mosquitoes, 

collector of cathairs and fountain pens. 

I'm off to go fuck myself. 

It should be fun.

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Same old, same old

Every fucking summer the same old. My blind tomboy died. I had found him last September, sick, blind, about a month old. I raised him, healed him, neutered him and turned him into a glorious five something kilo cat. He was striped, mostly black, silly, affectionate, smart, kind, and now he's gone. No reason, no explanation, just a few days of diarrhea that I tried (according to the vet's advice) to combat with very good quality, specialised food. One day he didn't wake up. And I'm fucking devastated, because I didn't expect it. My stomach feels as if I've swallowed a stone. I thought he'd grow old by my side and die when his time came. Not like that.

Everything tastes like ashes in my mouth, everything reminds me of him. I keep expecting him to show up and ask for treats. He had an excellent sense of smell, and whenever I was eating something tasty, he'd beg to be given a bit. I didn't find it in my heart to refuse him. I keep expecting to find him sprawled on my bed and wonder where he is, or see one of my two tortoise shells sleeping and for a moment I mistake them for him. Then I realise he's gone and my heart breaks. 

And I wonder if my poor, poor, blind boy will find his way to where he's supposed to go now. He didn't have eyes, my beautiful boy, and who will hug him now, and show him around? Who will guide him to where he's supposed to go? Is he perhaps still here, and wondering why I don't hug him and pet him anymore? Will his friend Louse be waiting for him, to take him safely Home?

Fuck summer. Fuck eclipses. Fuck everything. I've had enough of this shit. I don't even want to eat chocolate. Whatever fucking ever. Just leave me alone.

The unexpected visitor of Sadness

 

A few days ago, my kitten Louse got sick. It was a respiratory infection that goes around lately; causes fever, lack of appetite. Another of my cats also got sick with it and got over it. But poor Louse simply could not make it. I saved her life twice in the past, this time it was over in less than three days. 

I knew this cat would not live for long. She wanted to live and clung to life with a ferocity I've rarely seen. She was not growing up properly, she had a heart or lung condition and yet she ran around the house like no other kitten. She played constantly and pulled tricks on the other cats, driving them insane. She was the smartest cat I've come across, and she only lived for less than six months. I had come to accept the possibility of her passing away ever since the vet told us about her heart condition. So when she died, I did not cry. But today that I opened a folder in my PC and came across that photo of hers, I cried my eyes out. She looks healthy in that photo. Healthy, happy and inquiring as to what this stupid human (me) wanted from her.

I only wanted you to live for as long as you could, my sweet darling. And I am happy I offered you those six months. I wish I could have done more, but my hands were tied.

Please neuter and spay your cats. Louse was found on the street and I did the best I could for her. Most kittens born on the streets live in appalling conditions for as long as they live and die terrible deaths. There is too much misery in this world already. Don't add to it.

I hope you are happy wherever you are now, and run around, perfectly healthy and feisty and smart as a whip. Good bye, my darling; till we meet again.

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Last exit for the Lost

That last exit for me is music. Writing presupposes some kind of coherent thinking, music needs less thinking. Screaming, for that matter, needs no thinking whatsoever. But since it is next to impossible to start screaming in a flat without drawing the wrong kind of attention, music and writing it is.

2018 is here and thankfully I am here too. I have an impressive frostbite on my right index finger, good music in my possession, a wound inside my mouth, lungs full of mucus and a half-insane mother because one of our cats is probably not going to make it. I am resigned. She is not, and she is making me crazy too because she needs company. Oh well.

First blog entry of the year and I set off on the wrong foot. Someone once told me that this blog is always complaining about something. He made me feel I should apologise for feeling the way I did. Then I remembered my friend Virve, the one who died. In one of her very last messages, she told me to keep writing regardless of who loved my writing and who hated it. She said that neither category had anything to do with my writing per se, but the person themselves. The reason this blog was created in the first place was to be an online diary. I won't censor myself. I guess no matter what you write about, someone will be displeased. Then again, there is always the option of not reading what makes you upset.

So I was talking about sadness. Sadness is not acceptable by society. Mourning is not trendy or productive. Being constantly positive is the latest fashionable prerequisite. Everything happens for a reason. Everything is a valuable lesson. Whatever does not kill you makes you stronger. And so on and so forth. Right?

Not everything happens for a reason. Most bad events happen because we are the most pig-headed and close-minded race of sentient beings I have ever had the unfortunate 'privilege' of coming across. There are less than five people I can talk with and not need to explain or be wary of their intentions. I survive by keeping a low profile and feigning ignorance. I survive by listening to music, reading, writing, and minimising the time I spend socialising. Which reminds me...

 

I've done a lot of socialising for my standards since October. Turns out the maximum amount of exposure to a large crowd (30+ people) I can handle is once every two weeks. I refuse to repeat it in a smaller amount of time. I simply get sick. Sore throat, cold, you name it. The funniest thing is that everyone who mets me regards me as super social and friendly. Low profile, remember? And to be honest, I do care about people. I am not friendly and kind towards them because I want to manipulate them.

Music is what makes our souls soar above the mud of existence. Man-made vibrations that express a multitude of feelings. Love is what makes our souls merge with something bigger, leaving behind us every smidgen of pretense and appropriateness. And to quote one of my most beloved heroes, "You don't choose the ones you love. What you do choose is the way you'll treat them".  

If I extend my hands left and right in this small room, crammed with books and CDs and personal items, and with a cat sleeping on my bed, I am alone. Right?

No. Because they open the door of my heart and out they come, one after the other, the ones I love, my characters and creations. The ones I brought here and gave them flesh and blood and other people who love them and hate them and want to see them dead. And together with them my books and my comics and my CDs and my old drawings secretly open too, and countless stories pour out, colourful strings of every conceivable hue. Everyone I've ever loved and hated is here with me, and what I need to do is close my eyes and will them out. Every story humanity has ever come up with, or at least one variation of it is here with me, together with every note and colour and tear ever shed. How can I be alone? I am not. I am never alone. Even in the most desolate, tiniest cell of the whole world I would not be alone. There is a richness inside beyond anything. It merges with me and makes me ecstatic, makes my eyes so full of beauty and wonder that this world will forever pale in comparison. And that is why I am sad. Because my eyes and mind and heart perceive the fullest potential in a world that has gone to the dogs. And the gatekeepers of this world hate my guts for it.

Should I really apologise for that? I don't think so.

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Tarot reading

This wonder of wonders is Louse. She is small, cute, stubborn and the Queen of mucus. This is why she is presently on my bed, on a small heating mat and on antibiotics. She was in the garden of my building, but she is too small to be able to survive winter outdoors. She got sick on top of that. Meh. Need I explain more? I think I don't. Wish me luck. I hope to find a home for her.

This was supposed to be a funny entry on tarot reading. I am not sure I can be funny at the moment. I can try.

As you may or may not know, I read tarot cards. I do readings for myself, my mother and some close friends. This isn't an entry for advice on reading. There are countless books and online sources on how to do it. I'm sure I don't have something new to add. I can tell you how I do it for the laughs though.

I always light a candle before reading cards. Fire and salt are the most ancient ways of purification. If you have some incense to burn, do that too. Fire keeps evil at bay, incense binds itself with the positive ions of the air and takes them out of the room if you have a window open. So don't be lazy, burn incense if you have it. It does what it says on the label.

Next thing on the menu. Interpretation. I have this special relationship with my cards. I talk to them. Sometimes it works.

"What on earth do you mean?"

"Piss off! Don't act like you don't know!"

"Oh, that's reeeeaaally helpful now, reeeaaally clear, thanks for nothing."

"That's it. One of us here is pulling the other's leg, and you haven't got any."

"Are you on fucking drugs? I mean, seriously, are you?"

(Initially in a sweet voice) "Do you know what you need? Purification by fire. Unless you tell me, I'll use you for kindling, you useless piece of symbolic fluff."

"Oh yes, why don't you give me more people cards, I mean I need advice and I get every person in the tarot plus their close relatives and best friends. I thought this was a reading, but you seem to think it's a blasted wedding! Well let me tell you something, it's not a wedding, it's a funeral. Yours."

"Do you see these scissors? Huh? See them? Wanna take a closer look?"

"Oh for fuck's sake, you have one job."

"Are you giving me the lip now? Is that it? Feeling adventurous today, are we?"

"That's it. I am buying a new deck, and you are going into the spare box, together with the dust bunnies and your useless lazy sisters. Okay, half sisters. That's not the point."

Kidding aside, I've been using tarot cards since 1997. I have a lot of decks, yet this is my standard. It works spectacularly. Sometimes readings just don't work. The cards aren't to blame though.

(Having said that, once I got so mad with a set of clay runes that I pounded them to dust one by one, using a stone. Whoopsie).

The lousy Louse.

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Doubt

Ramsey Dukes rocks my socks. Open your ears and enjoy. He's amazing, and his sense of humour does not diminish the validity of his message. I wish I could be as clear, articulate, and at the same time as funny as he is.

Sorry for my absence. I have had cats run over, cats dying, cats run over but not dying, and the deluge on a daily basis here in Greece. I'm doing OK, thanks for asking. I have had interesting dreams too. Working on it. Kicking some ass, waging war, the usual.

Should anyone wish to help me with expenses during what proves to be a very challenging time, here is my Ebay page. See if anything catches your fancy. I'll add more items soon. Thanks in advance for looking! You're also more than welcome to donate using the ko-fi button on the top right corner. I feed more than 40 cats on a daily basis and I am still unemployed. Every little helps very very much. :) 1 euro= two cans of cat food. See how easy that was?
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Everyday madness

Art taken from here.

You wake up, after bad and not enough sleep, because the latest addition to your cat population is a completely blind and very sick kitten. He cannot see or smell his food, so when he's hungry he meows and wakes you up to feed him. You already have serious trouble sleeping and staying asleep and the kitten does not help. It's not his fault, of course. So antibiotics, eye ointment though he has two red holes where his eyes should be, mountain tea compresses for the eyes and the mucus crusted nostrils, the works. Blah de blah. Or bleurgh de bleurgh, depending on how sick and tired you feel. He looks like a very ugly blind fly with black stripes, and you want to cry for how pitiful the poor thing is. At the same time he's so happy to be safe and constantly fed he plays like crazy and knocks his head against various surfaces. Usually he's trying to locate a kitty tit inside your mother's hair or somewhere in the vicinity of her ear while she watches TV with him on her shoulder like a bizarre black-striped blind parrot.

The tiredness and heavy head persists throughout the day, the weather is hot and humid, you alternatively vegetate and snap, give photosynthesis a go and wish you could drop a silence bomb to make everyone around you shut up. In a typical ADD style you jump from one task to the next feeling sick of everything. People in Facebook have written you personal messages and you can't be bothered to read them, let alone answer them, and you eat lots of food and sugar. A small mountain of sugar in the hope you'll keep your head out of the muddy sea of static electricity that's covering you up to your ears and makes your surroundings incoherent and moving in slow motion. You can't think, can't concentrate, and wonder what would be better, shooting someone full of giant holes or putting a single bullet to your head and enjoying some good solid rest. 

Your social life is a thing of wonder. You meet up with people once every blue moon and either absorb the wrong type of energy and therefore spend the rest of the night farting, or your meetings develop into impromptu therapies. You pull out a magnificent variety of bullshit from people's (etheric) bodies, from nails, pieces of metal, rotten lengths of cloth, ropes, chains, vortexes, caves, statues, immaterial technological constructions that float on the astral level and get attached to the gifted ones when their defenses are down, to entities, thought-forms, demons, you name it. More often than not, you know it's futile. For every one thing you remove, three more come to take its place when that person is vulnerable, and there is no end to the work you do on yourself, or the excuses humans use to fuck up. But what can you do? Give up and go home? And do what? Once more fail to sleep? Har har har. 

You remember the conversation you had concerning an abyssal female creature not unlike Tiamat, part whale, part dragon, part what we later on came to call a mermaid. She is not a maiden with a fish tail any more than a hell-hound is a fluffy chicken. She is the size of a building, terrifying like a storm, as majestic and wondrous as a bottomless ocean. You called Her the other day because She was the one best suited to help in a therapy. The friend who's undergoing the therapy asked how you managed to get in touch with Her, and you wanted to ask that friend, what do you mean how? You just thought of Her, and She responded. You don't need to make a mirror from a special alloy the hour of Saturn using candles from pigeon fat and the blood of the virgins. Gods, demons and other entities reside within as much as without. You just give them a shout and they pop up for a conversation. More often than not, they're happy to help. It doesn't even matter if they are figments of your imagination or real. If they cause results, then they are as real as they can get.

Now, if only you had some idea what to do with the matter of finding a new job, everything would be peachy. 
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Busy, broke, chubby and strangely pleased.

Chris and Seth, founding members of Septicflesh (and their cute as a button daemon-familiar).

I've been trying to tie loose ends for the past two weeks. There are countless little chores I've been avoiding like the devil avoids incense (as the Greek saying goes), but they need to be done. So lately I've been tackling them. They aren't important, but completing them offers me a strange sense of accomplishment. They are boring and unpleasant and necessary, so every single one that gets out of the way is one boring task less. I'm mightily impressed with myself.

On the good news' side, I plan to do an interview with the extreme metal band Septicflesh. They are Greek, they are awesome, and I've been a fan for many years. If you aren't familiar with them and you love symphonic death metal, check them out. They are excellent and constantly evolving. I hope they'll agree to an interview. My blog isn't music-related; it exists to document my obsessions so that my psychiatrist can have a better clinical picture er... so that I can write about my interests. Yes, of course. I have already started sacrificing pizzas and ice-creams to darker entities (it's plenty dark inside my stomach, believe me) to make sure I land that interview. If I don't, I'll just increase the number of sacrifices, fart despondently and wallow in disappointment.

Psst. Let me tell you a secret. I hate all those metal bands. Well, 'hate' might be too strong a word. Almost without exception, members of those bands have longer hair than mine and about 2.345 more tattoos than I do. I am jealous AF. That without referring to the fact men with long hair and tattoos accidentally press a special button inside my brain. I start secreting ginormous amounts of saliva while staring at them, one eye rapidly blinking, drool running down my chin, moonstruck smile splitting my face in two. I'm usually fantasizing that I have then in my bed in full metalhead gear and I comb their hair. Oooh what pretty hair you have. Oooh let me comb it for you. Show me your tattoos. Oooh you bad boy you, all dressed in black and leather. And so on. Of course, any sane person that sees me during that phase is certain I am having a stroke combined with a psychotic episode, and slowly tiptoes out of my field of vision. I don't even realise, too busy combing imaginary hair. *Sigh* My chances of capturing one of those specimens to enact that bedroom scene are slim to none, especially bearing in mind two facts: 1) the unreasonable number of cats on my bed 2) my super audacious chubby tummy, blowing raspberry to possible suitors from under my (carefully selected) loose t-shirts. But one can dream, right?

 

Quiz: cats on my bed. How many can you count? Plus foot porn.

In other news, I am broke as FCUK. Therefore I have started selling things I don't need. Right now I have three stamp albums listed on Ebay, official products, sold out years ago and completely impossible to find under normal circumstances. If you want, please take a look. They are very reasonably priced and I'd love to re-home them and use the money to buy more urgent things.

Items I sell on Ebay are here.

I'll keep you updated on the interview. Now go out and be as naughty and impudent as my round tummy.
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At the borders of dreamland

Art by Natalie Shau. That's what my (beloved) demons probably look like.

Just a note before I close my eyes and drift off to dreamland.
Isn't it funny how you can spend your entire day busy and when the time for sleep comes, still feel that you've achieved nothing?
In spite of my tiredness, I presently resent going to bed. It means the day is gone and it is not coming back.
Time is slipping from my fingers again. 
The only cure I know for this ailment? Writing.
When I am writing, time ceases to exist.
What is your cure?
Good-night.
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The mortal remains

Smell no evil either. I wish.

(Warning: the following post will be unpleasant and disgusting. Continue reading at your discretion).

A few nights ago I went to the garden to feed my strays. There was a smell of something rotting, but I could not really place it, and it was too dark. The next night the smell insisted, and the next was even worse. So I looked with the aid of my nose and located the remains of a cat I used to feed. It was a black one-eyed feral cat, perhaps less than a year old, who always looked sickly and I took extra care to give him or her food separately. As it turns out, in vain. It had died on some old woollen clothes I had placed in a space protected from the rain for the cats to sleep on, behind an old motorcycle. So I was faced with an interesting question. How do you pick up the rotting carcass from the narrow space between the motorcycle and the wall?

I put a plastic bag inside another and tried to put the carcass inside without touching it. Oh goodness gracious, the smell. And just as I had managed to cover the body, wrap the bags around it, and raise it in the air to slip it inside the bags, I realised three things. One, the body was lukewarm. I think it has to do with decomposition. Two, I would be lucky if pieces didn't fall off, like a leg, or the head. Three and worst, it was raining maggots. Fat, long, writhing white maggots, that landed on my shoes and the ground and kept writhing. Great.

I managed to bag the dead cat, and then I was faced with the realisation that the old woollen fabrics were saturated with the decomposition fluids and consequently full of maggots too. Oh joy. So after I threw away the bagged carcass, I had to pick (very carefully, from the corners) the fabrics, the pillow, and everything else. Second trip to the garbage bin. The excitement was palpable in the air (in waves of eye-watering stench). But there was nothing I could do. If you feed them, then you should also deal with the less enjoyable tasks of spaying them, giving them medication, or disposing of their remains. It's in nobody's top ten of favourite things to do in their spare time. At least nobody I know personally.

Right now I have in my flat a blind black kitten. I think it is a she. Her mother gave birth to two. The other kitten, also blinded by the same infection, did not survive. This one might. I don't know how I am going to feed an extra mouth, but you can't leave a blind kitten in the garden with a busy road ten meters away. I don't think anyone with a conscience can. I will try to capture and spay the mother soon, to prevent her from giving birth again in the future. This world does not need more blind kittens. It really doesn't.

Sometimes I feel I need ten arms and six legs (and 48 hour-long days) to deal with everything. But that's life, or that's my life. What can you do? I've repeatedly tried to win the lottery, to replace my set of problems with a different set of problems. No success as of yet. I will inform you if that happens (probably by publishing a glowing and rapidly changing colour fluorescent middle finger as a blog entry, intended as a message to The Powers That Be). Until then, have fun and may Lady Luck abstain from placing decomposing cats on your path. Spirits of dead cats are fine, they give good advice and are very protective. More importantly, they don't reek.

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The pink stars are falling in lines

Had my heart broken twice in two days. I'll live, of course. I always live. 

The title I used is a line from Under the Dome, an excellent novel by Stephen King. I dove into it and finished it in three days. King knows his craft, and keeps the reader spellbound. It's quite sad to think I needed three days to finish what took him two years to write, especially since King is known to be a prodigiously fast writer. But that's part of the human experience. What matters takes time to be completed; months, in some cases years.

In the book King speaks about the arrogance and stupidity of  human race. He's excellent at describing how easy it is for people to turn into a mob and how they can be manipulated when they are scared. What I've more or less been thinking my entire life. But who cares what I think? Facts are facts. It's the reason I have the words Non Serviam tattooed on my right arm, to constantly remind myself that this world is run by fear. Fear of lack, fear for the future, fear of not belonging, fear of old age, financial insecurity, loneliness. I will not serve this world's madness, I will not submit to fear and paranoia. I will be human. Not a cockroach, not a sheep, not a rodent.

I'm not going to refer to my first reason for sadness. My friends know what happened. But I will refer to the second one.

As you know, I feed stray cats. I try to catch and spay them, but some are feral and it is not an easy job without a cat trap. Three days ago, a female gave birth to four kittens in some bushes. One by one, I found them dead. I'm not sure what happened. Maybe the cat didn't know how to take care of them. It was the first time she gave birth and kittens are very fragile when they are just a few days old. Maybe something attacked them. I did find one of them dead with its front legs missing and bloody, and I don't know if it happened while it was still alive. I hope it didn't. 

Tonight that I went there to feed them, only one was left, and it was barely alive. The mother didn't seem to care, so I took it home. I knew it wouldn't live. Still I put it inside a small heating pad I have, cleansed its mouth from the dust and soil and gave it a bit of milk formula. It died after a couple of hours, but at least it died somewhere warm, with its belly full, and safe. My heart broke just the same, of course. Even when you do know, your heart breaks to see something so small struggling to draw breath.

Which takes me to the next subject. We believe we have our lives under control, yet in reality we're not very different from that kitten. People are cruel to each other even though they have no reason. Life is fragile and unpredictable, and they behave with abysmal arrogance. Why? I don't know. I honestly, really don't know. It's one of the reasons I want to bomb the entire dimension. Thankfully I lack the means to do so. 

Please do me a favour. Think before you act and speak. Don't let fear guide your actions. You can choose. Every moment of your life, you can change. You constantly choose and change in small ways. Be conscious of it. Be someone better than you were. This planet desperately needs it.

And do read Under the Dome if you enjoy horror that has both feet firmly on the ground and uses everyday life to show you just how disgusting and wonderful and unbelievable we are as a race. The series isn't good, but the book rocks. 
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Two cats on one lap

"What do you mean you want to check your Facebook? Surely you can fit us both on your lap while typing on the keyboard!"

Of course, they are not happy that they are BOTH on me, because each would rather have exclusive use of my lap/ boobs. So they are giving each other dirty looks.

  Aaaand there is another one on my bed waiting for her turn.

Life isn't boring around here, not ever. 

 Those two gray bumps are my boobs.
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Life

She is closing the shop. The sun has set. She looks at the pinkish-blue sky. There are five chemtrails from airplanes. No wonder, she thinks. Unless they keep spraying us, sooner or later they will have a full rebellion in their hands.

She is sweating, her heartbeat fast. She moves her hips to the rhythm of the popular song, alone in the night, happy. Her t-shirt clings on her, her smile wide, exuberant, unpretentious.

She is watching the second season of Daredevil. There’s a scene with Frank Castle in jail attacking other inmates who are trying to kill him. He is a sight to behold, a well-oiled, merciless, unstoppable killing machine. Every breath he draws and lets out is accompanied by a shower of blood, broken bones, maimed flesh, screams and gurgles. She watches mesmerised as he carves a glorious path of death amongst human scum. He’s a berserker unleashed to rid this world of filth, unshakable in his resolve. She wishes she could be like him.

Her cats have fleas. There are two solutions for fleas: spraying your cats (and learning to kung fu a frenzied cat that somersaults, hisses, scratches and does a kind of superspeed static run clawing with all four legs simultaneously) or buying Stronghold spot-on treatment. The second is too expensive, so kung fu it is.

She is muttering under her breath as she slips her fingers between her legs. She draws a symbol with blood on her forehead, heart and over her womb. She whispers the holy names and welcomes the familiar sensation of energy.

A customer at work apologises for something. She wonders why polite people tend to be overly apologetic while overbearing, rude ones feel so entitled.

She approaches a dog on the street. The dog is tethered outside a shop, its owner inside. She talks to it. The dog growls in response and starts barking at her. She turns her back and leaves. A part of her wants to kick it, to give it an actual reason for growling at her. Another part advises her not to take it personally. Most living beings are a direct result of their conditioning, herself included. I will break this conditioning, she thinks. I will make myself an exception.

She is taking a shower. There is very little shower gel left. She considers buying some more, but then she remembers the bank took all their money for this month because her mother owes taxes. With a sigh, she picks up the shampoo and uses that instead.

There is a mosquito buzzing around her as she types a sentence on Facebook. She shakes her head with disgust at the amount of human stupidity in social media. Moments later a meme makes her laugh so hard that she scares her cat. The cat hides under the bed. She shares a petition she signed and gets up to get a drink of water.

A customer at work gives her life advice. She wonders why others feel entitled to share their wisdom without knowing anything about her, or her life, or her situation. She wonders if she too does the same without realising it and shudders. She should refrain from giving advice. Maybe she should stop voicing her opinion altogether and see what happens.

She is still trying to find a way to stop caring, or cause spontaneous combustion to some humans. She can’t quite decide. For the time being she is just hanging in there.
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