Author of bad choices (fictional and otherwise).

Zebra since birth, writer since '99, happily married, and sarcastic as hell. Chronic pain and heart issues? Just side quests. When I’m not writing dark romance with a twist, I’m probably rewatching Sons of Anarchy and Mayans MC—again. Cats trust me, people not so much. No politics here, just chaos, bad decisions, and plot twists that'll make you question your whole existence. 18+ only. Minors, move along! If you’ve never owned an original run Furby from hell or played music on HitClips...you’re too young to be here. I’m 38, and we definitely wouldn’t get along. Get off my lawn!

[mymuseisunmedicated]

Today I was literally diagnosed with PTSD. Not anxiety. Not being "dramatic." PTSD. An actual clinical diagnosis.

Part of it is from finding my neighbor's house on fire last year and genuinely believing I was about to lose my own home too. The other part is from April, when a young man was murdered in a drive-by shooting about 40 feet from my front door. I watched police lights flood my street. I watched crime scene tape go up. I listened to gunshots echo through my neighborhood. I watched a young man whose life had barely started be carried away in a fucking coroner's van to the morgue. That kind of stuff changes you.

So now I have an actual diagnosis. I'm terrified of fires. Loud explosions make me jump out of my skin. My nervous system is basically running on fumes.

And what happens tonight?

The IDIOT fucking neighbors from the known gang house, the very same house that was the target of the drive-by that killed that young man, decide it's a brilliant idea to start throwing firework mortars into the intersection about 20 feet from my house.

Not lighting fireworks normally. Not setting them up safely. No. They're literally lighting fucking mortar shells and throwing them into the street like they're hand grenades and letting them explode in every direction.

How unbelievably stupid can you possibly be?

Who looks at a neighborhood that has already had a fatal shooting and thinks, "You know what sounds fun? Random explosions in the middle of the street at 10:45 at night."

I don't even have my new medication filled yet. I spent today getting diagnosed with PTSD and tonight I'm getting treated to explosions outside my front door by people with the decision-making skills of a soggy cardboard box.

And this is exactly why I am leaving Memphis for Ohio.

I'm tired of living somewhere where I can't relax in my own home. I'm tired of feeling like I always have to be prepared for the next fire, the next shooting, the next emergency, or the next person making a reckless decision that puts everyone around them in danger.

I know every city has problems. I know nowhere is perfect. But I am done accepting that constant chaos, fear, and survival mode are just something I'm supposed to get used to.

I am tired of pretending this is normal. I am tired of hearing people say, "That's just Memphis," like that somehow excuses the violence, the recklessness, and the complete disregard some people have for everyone around them.

I am tired of watching tragedy happen and then watching people act like nothing happened.

I don't want to spend the rest of my life jumping at every loud noise and wondering what happened this time.

I want a home where I feel safe. I want peace. I want to be able to breathe.

I am done letting this city take pieces of me.

[mymuseisunmedicated]

All last week the heat index was in the 110s. The last two days it has been raining and in the comfortable 80s and lured me into a false sense of security. It was such a relief. But tomorrow will be a high of 95. 🤬

[mymuseisunmedicated]

I haven’t been updating everyone about our foster kittens for a very heartbreaking reason. The current litter in our care is believed to have been born prematurely, and unfortunately, fading kitten syndrome has become a battle because of that.

So far, we’ve lost two, saved three, and we still have one little fighter who is right on the edge. He needs constant warmth, frequent feedings, and around-the-clock care. We almost lost him yesterday, but he has shown a little improvement and we are holding onto hope.

I’m not sharing pictures right now because they are incredibly tiny preemies, and our focus is on giving them the best chance possible. We are working on getting their weights up, keeping them warm, and making sure they are fed and cared for.

I won’t lie, this has been the most stressful and heartbreaking litter I’ve ever fostered. Fostering brings so many beautiful moments, but it also means facing the incredibly difficult ones. We are giving these little ones everything we have and hoping for the best. ❤️

P.S. Before anyone starts leaving judgmental comments, YES, of course a vet is involved! We're following his instructions to the letter.

[goldensunset]

[mymuseisunmedicated]

I live in Memphis where our heat index hit 115 this week so this is appreciated. 👍

[catasters]

[mymuseisunmedicated]

I'm going to hell.

[mymuseisunmedicated]

I try to be eco-friendly and buy most of my books used from ThriftBooks, library sales, and secondhand shops.

...Sometimes you get some really weird shit. Especially from ThriftBooks.

I ordered Ann Rule's The Stranger Beside Me about the Ted Bundy murders, and when it arrived I found this lovely little notation scribbled in the back:

"472 summary of his murders/killing" "492–3 victims" "36+1 (?)" "599–600 victims"

What the actual fuck?

I'm going to tell myself this was just someone making absolutely unhinged (and inaccurate) notes about how many victims they thought Ted Bundy had, because every other explanation requires me to immediately become acquainted with several federal agencies.

Seriously, ThriftBooks... maybe flip through the books before you ship them. This is some unhinged-ass bonus content I did not order.

[animentality]

[mymuseisunmedicated]

A few weeks ago I asked someone when the Memphis Pride parade was. They said, "Let me chatGPT that." The answer was literally sitting right next to them on the cover of the newspaper. This is getting insane.

[mymuseisunmedicated]

I'm a full time wearer of glasses as of today. Great way to discover my husband has a librarian kink. 👍😂

[mymuseisunmedicated]

My hEDS gifted me naturally thin hair, so wigs and I are in a long-term committed relationship.

With that in mind, can we please stop using fucking filters in wig review photos?

I'm trying to see what the wig looks like, not what you would look like if you were a mystical woodland princess rendered by Pixar.

I need to know if the fibers look natural. I need to know if the hairline is convincing. I need to know if the part looks realistic.

Instead, half these reviews look like the wig was photographed through three beauty filters, a ring light, divine intervention, and the tears of an Instagram influencer.

I am shopping for a wig. I don't give a FUCK what YOU look like.

Show me the lace. Show me the flyaways. Show me the wig under the harsh lighting God intended.

Please and thank you.

[my-dailydreams]

[introvertsnation]

@introvertsnation

My Instagram | Youtube

[introvertsnation]

If you know you know @introvertsnation

My Instagram | Youtube

[my-dailydreams]

[mymuseisunmedicated]

And then it gets lost and just upsets my stomach.

[mymuseisunmedicated]

Being disabled and unable to work does not make someone a "housewife."

And those sanctimonious Tumblr posts insisting that no woman should ever be a housewife because her husband might die, leave, or murder her are toxic, ableist, and incredibly demeaning to disabled women whose spouses are quite literally their primary support system.

Not everyone has the luxury of choosing a career over disability. Some of us had careers. Some of us built lives, earned degrees, worked our asses off, and would give anything to have that independence back.

Also, if you're entering a marriage genuinely convinced your husband might kill you someday, that isn't healthy caution. That's a giant red flag that you either shouldn't be marrying that person or you need to unpack some serious issues. There is a massive difference between being aware of potential risks and assuming every man is a ticking time bomb.

I'm tired of seeing disabled women erased from these conversations and treated like we're failures for circumstances we didn't choose.

Thanks for coming to my TED Talk.

Now kindly fuck off with the toxic feminism and ableist garbage.

Signed,

A woman with three degrees, a former career, and a life she misses every damn day.

[mymuseisunmedicated]

Just sharing some of my handmade creations for sale on eBay. To be transparent here are the list of retailers and online stores where I source my components: Hobby Lobby (jewelry components, beads, most of my focal beads and charms, pen bases for beaded pens, UV DTF transfers), Temu (some of my charms and focal beads, packaging, a few UV DTF transfers), Walmart (jewelry glue, cups, vases, and tumblers), Dollar Tree (wooden beads and letter beads). None of my work should be for sale on Etsy (shut down my shop there to protest the site being overrun by drop shippers) or the Tiktok shop (I've never sold there). Please report if you see any of my work there.

https://ebay.us/m/v805bL

https://ebay.us/m/yhltNt

https://ebay.us/m/u3Vyud

https://ebay.us/m/5dsueO

[mymuseisunmedicated]

I got my abdominal ultrasound results back, and everything came back completely normal. No gallstones. No sludge. All my other organs look healthy too. Considering I take ibuprofen for pain like they're M&M's, I guess I should be grateful my liver is still hanging in there.

The problem is that none of that changes the fact that I'm still in excruciating pain in my upper right abdomen. I'm still dizzy. I still spend about 80% of my day feeling like I'm going to throw up. And I'm still having episodes of tachycardia that are bulldozing right through my metoprolol like it isn't even there.

My doctor still thinks my gallbladder is the culprit. The theory now is that instead of gallstones, my gallbladder isn't emptying properly, which apparently won't show up on a standard ultrasound and is a very common problem for people with hEDS. So she referred me to a gastroenterologist.

Cool.

The gastroenterologist can't see me until July.

So that's where we're at. The ultrasound says I'm fine, my body says absolutely the fuck not, and I get to spend the next month waiting for a specialist appointment while living in agony. Fuck my life.

[hypermobilesolutions]

Let’s clear up one of the biggest myths in the EDS world:

“If my genetic test was normal, I don’t have EDS.”

Not true.

Genetic testing is can be valuable — but only for certain types of EDS.

If your provider suspects vascular EDS or another rare subtype, testing is essential and potentially lifesaving.

But if your symptoms align with hypermobile EDS (hEDS), diagnosis relies on:

• Beighton score • Systemic features • Family history • Chronic joint instability • Exclusion of other connective tissue disorders

Many women pursue expensive genetic testing hoping for validation — only to feel more confused afterward.

Here’s what genetic testing cannot tell you: ✘ It cannot measure joint instability ✘ It cannot measure pain ✘ It cannot measure fatigue ✘ It cannot assess nervous system dysfunction

It identifies mutations — not symptom burden.

The goal of testing should always be clarity and safety, not validation alone.

If you’re considering testing, talk to a provider who understands when it’s appropriate — and when it’s not necessary.

Knowledge is empowering. But context matters.

Comment “TESTING” if you had a negative test.

[mymuseisunmedicated]

This is very, very true. I have hEDS and was diagnosed at two years old in 1990. Testing was around but not widely done at that time. They diagnosed me based on a physical exam and my family history because I had an older brother already diagnosed.