Coffee + Calculus.

Coffee + Calculus. Good way to start the day. 🙂

I'm up wayyy too late on a school night, but...

I'm up wayyy too late on a school night, but there are reasons. It's hard enough to stay on a schedule in general, but between a higher dose of Celexa, the feeling of possibly sliding into a dark place, and a neighbor yelling all night, I'm doing the best I can.

In other news:  We worked in the yard a little bit yesterday. Shadow spent the night with a friend after that, so I had dinner at Los Arcos with Shaun and then we hung out together. It was nice to have some "us" time. My schedule is busy and I feel like I mostly only see Shaun in passing these days. 😕

Other than that I did some Calculus homework. I will just say this:  I'm really glad that the test is not tomorrow. I haven't done nearly as much as I should have, unfortunately, but at least I know where I need some work. We are finding derivatives and I'm ok with some of it, but some of it - not so much.

Anyway. I'm getting ready for bed. I don't feel ready for Monday yet, but it's coming regardless. Guess I'd better try to sleep so I can be effective. Later, friends. ❤️

I'm on the couch with Midna in my lap...

I'm on the couch with Midna in my lap while the dogs chill and Nom bull-dozes the room. I don't think I'm moving anytime soon.

My bones are really starting to hurt. I've been lucky because even though I was unmedicated for PsA this year, I've been mostly fine. But now I'm feeling not good at all. I guess I need to try to see a doctor, but I can only probably get on methotrexate again without seeing a specialist. I don't really want to take that again. 🙁

On a related note, I think I'm about to start taking the full dose of Celexa this weekend. Pain doesn't exactly make it easy to not feel bad emotionally / mentally. I feel like I'm slipping. 🙁

Anyway. My nails are short and ugly, but I need to direct my energy towards studying, if anything at all. I have a Calculus test coming up and I'm not as comfortable with the material as I'd like to be. 

I hope you all have a nice weekend. I'm glad to not have work or class, but that's about all I can say.

I woke up with a teensy spider on my neck

I woke up with a teensy spider on my neck this morning. It tickled.

I touched Beyonce's butt last night. She didn't like it.

I've been ok all day, but I feel headache-y and nauseated now. 🙁

Calculus was fun, though.

How are you??

I promise this is directed at no one in particular...

I promise this is directed at no one in particular; rather, I have several friends who I hope will read this.  As the mother of a half-black son and a firm believer that we should all be treated the same regardless of skin color, this is important to me.  As my sweet child ages and ventures out into the world more and more without me, I feel the fear of him being targeted growing every day.

To anyone who disagrees with peaceful protests, I will leave you with this quote from MLK himself:

"Over the past few years I have been gravely disappointed with the white moderate. ... who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; who constantly says: “I agree with you in the goal you seek, but I cannot agree with your methods of direct action”; who paternalistically believes he can set the timetable for another man’s freedom; who lives by a mythical concept of time and who constantly advises the Negro to wait for a “more convenient season.”

— Martin Luther King Jr., “Letter From Birmingham Jail,” 1963

Kate Riffle Roper's text pasted here in case her post becomes unavailable:

"As a white mother of two black children, three white children, who all have a white father, I have something to say.

Racism exists. It is real and tangible. And it is everywhere, all the time.

When I brought my boys home they were the cutest, sweetest babies ever. Wherever we went, people greeted us with charm and enthusiasm. Well, not all people and not everywhere. But, to me, they were the “wacko” exceptions. I thought to myself, “Get over it.”

Now my boys look like teenagers. Black teenagers. They are 13. Let me ask you these questions. Do store personnel follow your children when they are picking out their Gatorade flavors? They didn’t follow my white kids.  Do coffee shop employees interrogate your children about the credit card they are using to pay while you are in the bathroom? They didn’t interrogate my white kids.  When your kids trick-or-treat in, dressed as a Ninja and a Clown, do they get asked who they are with and where they live, door after door? My white kids didn’t get asked.  Do your kids get pulled out of the TSA line time and again for additional screening? My white kids didn’t. Do your kids get treated one way when they are standing alone but get treated a completely different way when you walk up? I mean a completely different way. My white kids didn’t. Do shoe sales people ask if your kids’ feet are clean before sizing them for shoes? No one asked me that with my white kids. Do complete strangers ask to touch your child’s hair? Or ask about their penis size? Or ask if they are “from druggies”? No one did this with my white kids.

Did you tell your kids not to fight back because they will seen as aggressive if they stand up for themselves? Have you had to honestly discuss with your husband whether you should take your children to the police station to introduce them to the officers so they would know your children are legitimate members of your community? Have you had to talk to your children about EXACTLY what to say and not to say to an officer? Have you had to tell your children that the objective of any encounter with police, or security in any form, is to stay alive? It never occurred to me to have these conversations with my white children. In fact, it never occurred to me for myself either.

There is no question that my boys have been cloaked in my protection when they were small. What I did not realize until now is that the cloak I was offering them was identification with my whiteness. As they grow independent, they step out from my cloak and lose that protection. The world sees “them” differently. It is sweet when they are adopted little black boys so graciously taken in by this nice white family. But when they are real people? Well, it is not the same. And they still look like little boys. What happens to them when they look like the strong, proud black men I am raising?

The reason why the phrase All Lives Matter is offensive to black people is because it isn’t true. Right now, in America, my black children are treated differently than my white children. So when you say All Lives Matter as a response to the phrase Black Lives Matter you are completely dismissing the near daily experience of racism for those with pigment in their skin, curl in their hair and broadness of their nose.

I am posting this so you can see the reality I have witnessed and experienced, because, frankly, I didn’t believe it was true until I saw it up close, directed at two souls I love, over and over again. So, please, use this post as a pair of glasses to see the racism that surrounds you. Then we can actually make progress toward all lives being valued and cherished."

I just got poked on Facebook.

I just got poked on Facebook.  I totally forgot that was a thing because I quit responding to them (from the looks of my poke list) about 4 years ago.

Sorry, friends.  If I poke you back you're just gonna poke me again.  I figured out how that works.  😛  I apologize for being too old and crotchety to play along, but this is who I am now. 😂😂😂

My mom, y'all.

My mom, y'all. The most gleeful zombie I've ever seen. I love this photo!